The Curse of Chalion - Lois McMaster Bujold [225]
It was not just the learned theologian talking shop; Cazaril saw the flash of fathomless god-hunger in the Roknari’s gray eyes. Do I look like that, when I speak of Her? No wonder men look at me strangely.
Cazaril told the tale, starting from his precipitate departure from Cardegoss riding to the royesse’s ordering. Tea arrived, was consumed, and the cups refilled before he came to the end of it. Daris hunkered in the doorway, listening; Cazaril supposed he need not ask after the ex-groom’s discretion. When he tried to describe his gathering-in by the Lady, he became tongue-tangled. Umegat hung on his halting words, lips parted.
“Poetry—poetry might do it,” said Cazaril. “I need words that mean more than they mean, words not just with height and width, but depth and weight and, and other dimensions that I cannot even name.”
“Hm,” said Umegat. “I tried to recapture the god with music, for a time, after my first…experience. I had not the gift, alas.”
Cazaril nodded. He asked diffidently, “Is there anything you—either of you—need, that I can command? Iselle has yesterday made me chancellor of Chalion, so I suppose I can command, well, rather a lot.”
Umegat’s brows flicked up; he favored Cazaril with a little congratulatory bow, from his seat. “That was well done of the young royina.”
Cazaril grimaced. “I keep thinking about dead men’s boots, actually.”
Umegat’s smile glimmered. “I understand. As for us, the Temple cares for its ex-saints reasonably well, and supplies us all that we can presently use. I like these rooms, this city, this spring air, my company. I hope the god will yet grant me an interesting task or two, before I’m done. Although, by preference, not with animals. Or royalty.”
Cazaril made a motion of sympathy. “I suppose you knew poor Orico as well as almost anyone, except perhaps Sara.”
“I saw him nearly every day for six years. He spoke to me most frankly, toward the end. I hope I was a consolation to him.”
Cazaril hesitated. “For what it’s worth, I came to the conclusion that he was something of a hero.”
Umegat nodded briefly. “So did I. In a frustrating sort of way. He was a sacrifice, surely.” He sighed. “Well, it is a particular sin to permit grief for what is gone to poison the praise for what blessings remain to us.”
The tongueless man rose from his silent spot to take away the tea things.
“Thank you, Daris,” said Umegat, and patted the hand that touched him briefly on the shoulder; Daris gathered up the cups and plates and padded off.
Cazaril stared curiously after him. “Have you known him long?”
“About twenty years.”
“Then he was not just your assistant in the menagerie…” Cazaril lowered his voice. “Was he martyred back then?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Oh.”
Umegat smiled. “Don’t look so glum, Lord Cazaril. We get better. That was yesterday. This is today. I shall ask his permission to tell you the tale of it sometime.”
“I should be honored with his confidence.”
“All is well, and if it’s not, then at least each day brings us closer to our god.”
“I had noticed that. I had a little trouble tracking time, the first few days after…after I saw the Lady. Time, and scale, both altered out of reckoning.”
A light knock sounded upon the chamber door. Daris emerged from the other room and went to admit a white-smocked young dedicat who held a book in her hand.
“Ah.” Umegat brightened. “It is my reader. Make your bow to the Lord Chancellor, Dedicat.” He added in explanation, “They send a delinquent dedicat to read to me for an hour a day, as a light punishment for small infractions of the house rules. Have you decided what rule you mean to break tomorrow, girl?”
The dedicat grinned sheepishly. “I’m thinking, Learned Umegat.”
“Well if you run out of ideas, I will harken back to my youth and see if I can’t remember a few more.”
The dedicat tipped the book toward Cazaril. “I thought I would be sent to read dull theology to the divine, but instead he wanted this book of tales.”
Cazaril glanced over the volume, an Ibran import