The Legacy of Gird (36 page)

Gird stared at it. He had slept fireless in winter before, and he had food and ale, but how was he going to get back to his troop? He had expected to spend some days in the town—to leave with enough food to reach the next town—and then to return, with a guide, through three different bartons. He had come to the town from the south; now he was east of it, in a country he had never seen, which was rapidly disappearing under snow. Snow in which his tracks would be all too obvious, in which he could not hope to travel unnoticed. In which he could starve, or die of cold. Beside him, the old man snored, the easy sleep of the old.
He
was warm enough, and unafraid—and what did he have to be afraid of, if he could heal himself of such wounds as Gird had seen? If they had been real.

Gird reached out and pulled the sack of food to him. Don't look too far ahead, his Da had said. There are times to plan for planting and harvest, and times to eat the food at hand, and be grateful. Inside were bread, cheese, a slab of bacon, an onion. He looked at the sleeping man, and sighed, and put the sack aside again. They could share it when the old man woke.

As it happened, the old man woke before he did; Gird had not meant to fall asleep, but the silence and monotony had done it. Outside the shelter was dark, cold, and the silence. Within, the old man had made light, and radiated warmth like a hot stone. He was holding his finger—his
glowing
finger—to a ragged chunk of bacon, which sizzled and dripped onto bread beneath it. It had been the smell of cooking bacon which roused Gird, and it was the sight of it cooking at the old man's touch which sent him out into the dark and cold in one panic-stricken rush.

"Come back!" the old man cried. "I was cooking it for you!"

Gird crouched in the snow, uncertain, shivering . . . half with fear, and half with the cold. Snow caressed his head, his cheeks, his arms and hands, icy kisses like those of the snow maidens that lived in the far north. The old man's head poked out of the shelter.

"It's all right. It won't hurt you. I promise." What good was the promise of someone who could cook bacon with his finger, and make light out of nothing? What good was the promise of someone who could change faces? But the smell of the bacon went right to the pit of his belly; his mouth watered. A lump of snow fell on his head, and he shuddered. Fear and warmth and food, or cold and hunger and—more fear. He was moving before he knew it, back to the shelter, praying fervently to whatever gods might be out this dark night to protect him from one old man.

Once face to face with him again, Gird could find nothing specific to fear. His hands were the gnarled and bony hands of any old man, holding out now a chunk of bread with a chunk of hot bacon on top. Gird looked at the food, but did not take it. "We must share," he said hoarsely.

"I don't like bacon," the old man said, almost wistfully. "A slice of a lamb roast now, or even beef—but I never could eat bacon without trouble. Go on, you take it."

Gird looked him in the eye. Could he not know the customs of Gird's people? Were their people so different? "We must share," he said again. "I cannot take food from you, if you do not take it from me." Or rather, he thought to himself, I
will
not take it and put myself in that kind of relationship.

The man shrugged. "It was yours to start with, I merely cooked it. You don't prefer it raw, do you?"

Gird sighed. Either he was ignorant, or he was being difficult. His head ached, and he didn't want to explain it, but he was going to have to. "It's important," he said. "You cooked it; that means you have the hearth-right, the fire-right. I cannot take—no, I
will
not take your food unless you take some from my hand, because that would mean you were my—you had the right to give or withhold food, and I needed your protection."

"Oh." The old man looked surprised, but drew his hand back. "Is
that
why your people first brought food to ours when they came?"

"Did they?" Gird had no idea what had happened when the lords first came. "What did your people do?"

"Made a very large mistake, I think," said the old man, as if to himself. "What should they have done?"

"Were they seeking aid in hunting, or against an enemy? Or were they starving?"

"No—at least not as the chronicles tell it."

"Then if they wanted an alliance of hearthings, they should have offered food of their own, and all shared."

The old man pursed his lips. "And what would it mean to you, if they ate the food offered, but offered none."

"That is the way of accepting the giving hearth as the leader—as the protector."

"Could they offer something else, in exchange? Arms, protection?"

Gird shook his head. "No—what protection could someone without food offer? The strong hearth has food to offer; the weak accepts it, and gives service for protection. If they wish friendship, it is as I said: food shared, both ways. Or more, if more than one are meeting. Famine rule, that can change things, but not always."

"Famine rule?"

"In famine, all share equally, without obligation, even if only one provides. But it must be declared, and accepted."

"This is worse than I thought," said the old man, grimacing. "We were so
stupid
!" He put the bread and bacon down, and said, "Will you take something from the sack and share it with me?"

"I can't cook it," Gird said, frowning. It didn't have to be cooked food, of course: bread was already cooked, and cheese was cured. But he had not actually provided this food—it belonged to the sier, who was an ally of the old man. Some people might argue about that. "Do you accept it as my food?"

"Yes."

"Then I offer this cheese and bread, my hearth to yours." Gird set the bread and cheese between them, then broke a piece from each and held out his hand. The old man took the pieces gravely, and offered Gird the bread and bacon again. This time Gird took it, hoping the bacon was still hot. But he waited until the old man had taken a bite before taking one of his own. The old man had not said the ritual words, but he was sure of the intent, and between only two, that was enough.

The bacon was still warm, and succulent; the grease-soaked bread made a comfortable fullness in his belly. Gird ate quickly, wasting no time, but his mind was full of questions. As soon as he had gulped down the last bite of bread, he turned to the old man.

"What did you mean, your people had made a mistake?"

The old man, eating more slowly, had not finished; he swallowed the cheese in his mouth before answering. "Gird, among my people the customs differ. Offering food is the sign of subservience: servants offer food to masters. I'm afraid when your people came bringing food, my people thought they were acknowledging their lower rank."

Gird sat quietly a moment, thinking this over. The food-bringers, food-givers, ranked
lower
? When everyone knew that those who can afford to give without taking in return are the wealthy and strong? It was backwards, upside down, inside out: no one could live with a people who believed that. They would kill each other. They would believe—that the strong and wealthy are those who can take without giving—He found he was saying this aloud, softly, and the old man was nodding. "But that's
wrong
," he said loudly. His vehemence was swallowed in the snow, lost in that white quiet. "It can't work. They would always be stealing from each other, from everyone, to gain their place in the family."

"Not quite," said the old man. He sighed heavily. "Then again, maybe that's part of the reason why things have gone so badly up here. Back in Aare, there were reasons for that, and safeguards. At least, I think so. It had to do with our magic, our powers."

"Like the light. And cooking with your finger?"

"Among other things, yes. Among our people, rank came with magic—the more magic, the higher rank. One proof of magic was the ability to take, either by direct magic, or by compelling—charming—someone to offer whatever it was as a gift."

Gird thought carefully around that before he let himself answer, but it was the same answer that sprang first to mind. "But how is that different from the bullying of a strong child, who steals a weaker's food, or threatens him into giving it up? It is stealing, to take like that." And it was precisely what the lords had been doing, he thought. What they had always done, if this man was telling the truth.

The old man also waited before answering, and when he spoke his voice was slower, almost hesitant. "Gird, our people see it as the natural way—as calves in a herd push and shove, seeking dominance, as kittens wrestle, claw and bite. Yet this doesn't mean constant warfare in a herd, only a mild pushing and shoving: the weaker ones know their place, and walk behind—"

"But men are not cows!" Gird could not contain his anger any longer; he felt as if it were something physical, bright as the light he still did not understand. "We are not kittens, or sheep, or birds squabbling in a nest—"

"I know." The old man's voice, still quiet, cut through his objection as a knife cuts a ripe fruit. "I know, and I know something has gone very wrong. But in our own home, in Aare, that sparring for dominance among our folk had its limits, and those limits were safe enough to let our people grow and prosper for many ages. We were taught—
I
was taught—that with such power comes great responsibility—that we were to care for those we governed as a herdsman cares for his herd—No, don't tell me, I understand. Men are not cattle. But even you might use that analogy—"

And he had, the night before, talking to the sier. Gird shivered, not from cold, when he thought of it. No wonder it had gone home, if the man thought of his common folk as cattle already.

"I still think it's wrong," Gird said.

"It may be. But right or wrong, it's the other way 'round from your people, and that means my people didn't understand them from the beginning. We assumed your people intended to submit, agreed to it without conflict: that's what our chronicles say. So whenever your people resisted, our people thought of that as a broken contract—as if you had gone back on your word."

Gird tried to remember what he had heard of the lords' coming. Very little, though he had heard new things from the men he had been training. Most of the stories began after that, with the settlements growing near the new forts and towns, with the "clearing" of old steadings, the forced resettlement of families, the change in steading custom to conform to the new village laws. Everyone had thought the lords knew they were unfair, knew they were stealing—but had they not known? Had they thought that all they did was right, justified by some agreement that had never been made?

"Not all," the old man said. "Some things were forbidden in old Aare, which our people do here. The worship of the Master of Torments, for example: that they know is evil, and those who do it are doing it knowingly against the old laws. A contest of strength or magery is one thing, but once it is over, the winner has obligations to the loser, as well. But the basic misunderstanding, Gird, I believe I discovered tonight, from you. Your way seems as strange to me, I confess, as mine must seem to you—but strangeness is not evil. What we do with it may be evil."

"When you offered me that food," Gird said, "were you then declaring yourself lower in rank? Or were you trying to fool me into thinking that's what you were doing?"

The old man started to answer, then stopped, then finally said, "I thought—I think I only meant to calm you, to make you think well of me. In one sense, that is claiming a lower rank, because it means I care that you think well of me—in another—I don't know. I didn't think, I just did it."

"I felt," Gird said carefully—carefully, because he did not want to hurt this old man, even now, "I felt like a stubborn animal, being offered a bait of grain if it will only go through the gap."

A grin, across that close space. "You are stubborn; you would not deny that. I did not mean you to feel that, but given what your people think about offering food, wouldn't anyone feel so in such a circumstance? Have you ever—"

"Yes." Had the men he had fed felt that way? Demeaned, degraded? But it was not always so; he had taken food himself, gladly, acknowledging temporary weakness. Sick men had to be fed by healthy men, children by adults, infants by mothers. Was milk from the breast demeaning to a baby? Of course not. Yet—he worried the problem in his mind, coming at it from one side then another. The old man sat quietly and let him alone. "There are times," he said, "when it is right to be the one fed. Times no one minds. If someone's sick or hurt—or children—but grown folk, healthy grown folk—they feed themselves. In a way, living on another's bounty is like being a child again. Maybe that's why it means giving obedience."

"Probably." The old man nodded. "It's interesting that you have the importance of having food to give, but absolute prohibition against taking it by force from each other. The force is used against the land, I suppose, in hunting or farming."

"Not against," Gird corrected. "With. To help the land bear more. Alyanya is our Lady, not our subject."

"So you see even the gods as those who can give, not those who take?"

"Of course. If they have nothing to give, they are not gods, but demons." Gird nodded at the cold dark beyond their shelter. "As the cold demons steal warmth, and the spirits of night steal light from the sun."

The old man smiled. "This day is stealing my strength, Gird, and I cannot hold this light much longer. Not if I'm to have warmth enough until dawn. But before the light goes. I have an apology. I have withheld the courtesy of my name, although I knew yours. I am Arranha, and I am glad to have you as companion in this adventure."

Gird turned the name over in his mind; it was like nothing he had heard. "I thought the lords had many names—four or five."

"So they do, but priests have only one, and mine is Arranha." With a last smile, Arranha let the light fail—the light Gird had yet to understand, and the cold, snow-clean air gusted for a moment under the shelter. Gird felt Arranha curling up in his leafy nest, and thought of walking away. But he could not blunder through a wood in the dark and snow, not and hope to live until morning. With a silent but very definite curse, he lay down, wriggling his way into the leaves until he was curled around Arranha. His back was cold, but Arranha, protected on the inside, was warm as a hearth. Gird was sure he could not sleep—then began to worry that they might sleep their way into death in the cold—and then slid effortlessly into peace and darkness.