Only In Dreams Did He Dream Of Other Shores, And Only Awake Did His Courage Awaken
Dirant left Sored University wiser and more confused than ever, the complete higher education experience. Did everyone know about class priesthoods except him? No. Kelnsolt had not. Even the caretakers and curators knew Holzd had something to do with Ritualists but not what. Did nobody know? Tanseliaf Hellons did, but not his readers. Did people not actually read or listen to other people? Ever? A bold conclusion to say they did not, but it seemed likely. He had sky-high Receptivity and only now was he really starting to pay attention. Speaking of which, had not Holzd also said something about what Receptivity actually covered? Perhaps he ought to have mentioned that to the professor.
“It refers to the capability to receive and use energy, if such a broad term for a breadth of phenomena is permissible, not produceable by humans, whether transmitted by us the gods or radiating from external sources. Receptivity is what as an example Symbol Knights require to bridge the gap between signifier and signified. I tell you all that by way of a present to celebrate the successful completion of your sacred duty, though the truest reward for it is felt by you who at last did something to justify your place as my priest.” There on a fence perched Holzd, his arms hanging as he looked down on his Ritualist.
Dirant looked around to see if anyone would hear a response if he made one. He conjectured whether Holzd was audible to a general audience depended on the god's will, but he had no such convenient powers. Seeing no one closer than on a thoroughfare that crossed his current street some way ahead, he thought himself free to respond until he realized he had no idea how to speak to a god despite his experience in it. The sensation that each one of his internal organs demanded his attention simultaneously perhaps hindered his eloquence a bit as well.
“I, ah, thank you, great one? For your instruction. Might another question be entertained by you?”
Holzd reached up past the clouds, pulled down a fruit unknown to Dirant or any man which banished all hunger, fatigue, and illness by its miraculous qualities anyone could perceive merely with a single look, and began to peel it. “If it bears on no simple matter, you may, and moreover with this assurance that my priests and all others are allowed to say my name, for it is as holy to speak and to hear at a minimum as anything else in this world. Although the occasional epithet is not without its appeal.”
“Then . . .” Dirant paused and tried to rearrange his words with the aim of reduced simplicity. “Variously fingered Holzd, is it true what it seems I should have thought possible all along that every class, Zero excepted, is truly a priest as has been confirmed on each occasion I had the chance to confirm it on account of humanity winning the favor of the gods above other living things?”
The god began to cut the fruit into slices. “It is true, but what has been forgotten by scholars such as Tanseliaf Hellons, who is a favorite of mine as all Ritualists are but more than most of them, is that the things of this planet came together rather to beseech our aid and not at a command of ours for some means with which to resist the monsters, the Omega Masters, the Oblivitarch, all those troublesome things that you may well imagine to be stronger than any number of Zeroes and be correct in so imagining, the result of that entreaty being that only humanity so far as you know on this planet understood and accepted classes and the importance of advancing therein. Foxes never figured it out, and never will they.”
“It is a flaw of mine to be so ignorant, but what are Omega Masters? And the Oblivitarch, you said?”
Holzd wrapped each slice in part of the peel and popped them all in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “There's no call for you to worry about that. Rejoice!” He disappeared before the sound of his farewell did, which somehow stayed in the air, not as an echo but as a word Dirant heard when he put his ear close. He stepped away, stopped hearing it, stepped forward, and heard it again.
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That was enough for Dirant, both of Amlizen and of theology. It was one thing to question the very existence of gods while he studied subjects of such great importance as the history of ritualism, the cultural expression of ritualism, the economics of ritualism, and the ethics of ritualism. That last course, the most valuable, offered excellent advice on ways to avoid blame. Never make any promises as to what results a particular ritual will have, but only that you are capable of performing it as described. Always demand your employer acknowledge the results are his responsibility. Something in writing is preferred.
“It is an insult to this region for me to reminisce so heavily when there is beauty all about me,” Dirant reminded himself as he rode east. It was the same sort of beauty as what he had seen during every other leg of his trip, and “beauty” was perhaps a bit much for endless farms, but the basic concept of storing up memories for days when the snow or rain conspired with the fireplace to imprison him seemed correct.
He passed through towns and stayed in a few where he heard talk of the Wessolp situation, if not a great amount. For Kelnsolt Aradetnaf to succeed again was a commonplace, and the way he did so rarely left much to discuss. Observers blamed Patkaodotenlilk more for hiring an unexciting condottiero than for bringing war against Wessolp with such a poor justification, as the one expanded the topics bystanders could discuss while the other closed them off. As to the fate of the conquered, Lord Mayor Odinol Emmofoken and Aomag Aomalptig celebrated a lovely wedding which the bride's father did not attend on account of a sudden though not serious illness; credible speculation that the bride told him not to bother showing up failed to make the broadsheets for legal reasons. Wessolp also paid a hefty indemnity to the victor. The total number of fatalities in the Engagement War ended up as zero, much to the displeasure of critics specializing in condottieri affairs who declared the best possible number to be one. They considered anything either higher or lower an indictment of the captains involved.
Dirant Rikelta liked that the number of fatalities equaled the number of times he heard his name mentioned in breakfast conversations and especially loud discussions on street corners. If neither reporters nor rumor-mongers pegged him as involved, nobody would. Normally one expected a condottiero to pick one of two courses: take all the credit for himself or embellish the strange adventure to the utmost. Kelnsolt and his 8 Panache evidently had chosen a third course of saying nothing about how precisely he stole into the city. Therefore it was with an untroubled mind Dirant went to sleep in a hotel of Snetilp, a town only hours out from Fennizen at his pace, and awoke rather farther away.
He had never seen an interior so blue in all of Greater Enloffenkir. To have the tapestries set in wall niches he had also never seen, though it seemed an arrangement decorators might appreciate. The gong set in a framework resting on the floor, three-quarters of a Silthree in size, he was not sure would ever catch on. All in all, his surroundings disturbed and discomfited him except for one thing. The floor, wooden rather than stone, brick, or cement, hosted strange shapes formed by the sun as a result of the intricately barred windows above. As long as he was in some temple of Holzd, he thought his situation not too surprising.
A door opened, one of four according to his count. Beyond that was another chamber rather than the outdoors. Dirant felt proud that he retained enough composure to notice that and not just the man who came through, for all that the arrival deserved attention. The most important points were the thick, one might say lush, green scarf wrapped around his neck and that his coat that was so extravagant in its fleeciness as to give the impression its wearer had woken up that morning and decided to put on an entire sheep. The rest of Dirant's impressions were accompanied by a sense of how chilly he was as he stood there in his nightshirt.
The warm-looking man had tied up his gray hair that might have reached his shoulders if allowed into a knot atop his head. He was shorter than Dirant even counting that, but it was a respectable effort. His wrinkle density put him likely somewhere in his 50s, and he smiled wide with more wrinkles becoming visible as a consequence when he looked on Dirant with bright blue eyes. “Thank you for accepting this invitation, my colleague. The ritual I employed does not require acceptance of course. I do consider that a flaw in it. Nevertheless, let's go on with me thinking you would have accepted if asked.” He chuckled. Dirant relaxed, since he supposed no Ritualist who had a sense of humor about kidnapping someone in the middle of the night could be all bad.