The Question Which Inevitably Claims The Attention Of Every Student Of Myth Is Whether, Their Accuracy Conceded, One Would Not Be Doing Wrong To Worship The Figures Depicted
Fashion was different everywhere, but no human anywhere in the world was wearing a purple coat over which arrows of other colors raced vertically, upward on the left side and downward on the right, or so Dirant thought until he looked again and discovered it to be the other way around. Was it not? Actual colors actually moving, not an impression that tricked the eye caused by clever tailoring. Even the most implausible rumors about the Yean Defiafi fashion scene never claimed miraculous textiles like that existed.
Aside from clothing materials, while there may have been unfortunates who had four fingers on one hand and six on the other, they were incapable of switching which was which as this creature did. His skin, or its, or perhaps his after all, glistened like steel, and his eyes resembled spinning plates, one of gold and the other black chased with silver. As for size, he looked much smaller than any person allowed to run outside that late in the evening, and yet there was the sense about him that he could no more be removed from that boundary marker without his cooperation than a mountain range could be marched into the sea to clear more land for agriculture.
More than that, the internal knot Dirant had felt previously only when a successful ritual undid it seemed then to be tied tightly around his organs. No precedent allowed him to interpret whatever his Ritual Judgment wanted to tell him. The sole conviction he drew from the circumstances was that politeness was indicated. “Every day we end alive is a good one, or so the sages say, sir.”
The strange stone-sitter opened his lipless mouth and said, “What you may not have been told by people too accustomed to notice or too intimidated is that yours is a face that converts pleasantry into something suspicious by its habitual hint of smugness. The sincerity of your courteous small talk is obvious to me, your god, but others may misunderstand.”
The sensation spreading through Dirant's body, and some in the past might have said his very soul, resembled an impulse he once had as a boy to dash out of the house during a rainstorm to feel the gale-driven rain which was prevented only by his mother's intercession. He had since come to agree with her on the advisability of such behavior, but he had evidently not become immune to exhilaration.
The parts of him that retained their rationality placed the probability gods existed at a low number and the chance one would appear before him lower still, and yet both estimates must have been far higher than odds of meeting a human who looked like that. Perhaps that sort of appearance was more common among gods. While the paintings and sculptures he knew depicted something quite different from this entity, artists could not be trusted. They often flattered their patrons or made caricatures of those the crowd disliked, after all. Still, he considered the likeliest scenario to be that a monster was about to eat him.
Politeness continued to be an advisable element of a comprehensive defensive strategy. “Sir, doubtless my ignorance of theological matters alone permits me to say this. It is my impression that gods do not normally appear before humans. Furthermore, the exclusivity implied in 'your god' is contrary to religious practice. Am I misinformed, or?”
“The rules so delightful to me in their subtleties and perennial misuse that have been developed in an attempt to codify logic may be of use here to suggest this must perforce not be a normal circumstance. To your other doubt, an incorrect statement would declare me to deserve your exclusive reverence, yet nevertheless my place when you serve a meal to the gods ought to be above all others. For I am Holzd.”
That pronouncement struck Dirant like the lightning amid the rain, and the creature's words grew in power though their volume remained constant. “Under the names Mitistiggefokand and Paznitiklesdharbdigeng does the Adaban tribe worship me, but even more when you say bolsadi [complicated] or bolsatetli [overcomplicated], for in those words you remember my name and my province as he who yearns for complexity, and because of that I permit you to put those little tails on the Bs as some writers do. They pray to me in everyday speech, the common man does, and the pious in formal liturgies, but from you is the sincerest adoration felt, for every ritual is a prayer in the form I love the most, and through them I work miracles for the good of my little Ritualists who are my priests, as your status clearly indicates.”
Though by this time his body trembled with religious awe, Dirant's mind maintained its composure sufficiently for him to ponder whether what was happening to him might be the effect of some monster's special powers. He was taking a mental inventory of his defensive tools starting with the knife he kept in case of sudden meal opportunities and ending with the Lightning Ritual he saved through his Ritual Delay ability when that last claim jolted him. He checked his status from top to bottom but saw nothing about priests or Holzds. “What is that indication? It is too clear for me perhaps, and that is the reason I see nothing of it. It is the same with untinted mabonnpaper.”
Holzd leaned forward a degree or two and smiled, if gods or monsters had the same expressions as men. “Warranted by my unquenchable curiosity is how we will label an investigation of this phenomenon, since an abnormality in status has behind it an explanation so convoluted, if real, that I want to learn about it more than anything. Present your status. The top third alone will suffice, or the head as Adabans call it.”
Immediately tasteful white letters and numbers appeared in the air beside Dirant. He had obeyed the command to flash his status before the cultural revulsion Adabans held for showing off one's numbers in public caused him to hesitate, and he wondered at the power of the creature's compulsion.
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> Ritualist
>
> xxxxxxxx
>
> LV 6 650/1000
Skepticism backed by evidence began its counterattack against superstitions that depended on human credulousness. “It is some fault of mine I am sure, but I see nothing about any priesthood there. It is of course good to be sure of our facts.” Perhaps it was unwise to permit himself any smugness in an interaction with an entity that, whatever it was called, likely could kill him easily, but then again, he might as well entertain himself before the encounter had its conclusion he was without means to avert.
Holzd tilted his head left, did a handstand to take a look from a different angle, returned to a seated position, and tilted his head right. “That is very curious, since as you must know, every class excepting only that peculiar Zero class possessed by those who have not yet attained level 1 derives its power from a god and is a priest thereof, yet here we see no . . . Is that a smudge? Stay still. I will answer your unspoken prayer by cleaning your dirty status forthwith.” Holzd licked a finger on his right hand, four-fingered at the time, and extended his purple-sleeved arm far beyond the length it possessed a moment before so that it reached several feet from the boundary marker all the way to the Ritualist's status suspended in the air, visible but intangible as all knew. While Dirant watched, as discombobulated as he had ever been since first Mr. Donnlink told him there were no other rituals that needed performing that day, the moistened finger rubbed away the xxxxxxxx and left this:
> Ritualist
>
> Priest of Holzd
>
> LV 6 650/1000
And in addition, there was this:
> Ability Class Perception (Divine) gained.
The notice appeared to him alone. He checked his full status (without displaying it of course; he was still an Adaban) and saw he had indeed gained said ability, the description of which promised the user henceforth would be able to discern hidden elements within a status display, whether his or those belonging to others. All such revelations would be presented in orange for his convenience just as “Priest of Holzd” was just then.
Holzd's smugness matched Dirant's and surpassed it by as far as gods surpassed humans, or as humans the beasts of their flocks and dinner tables. “Rejoice, my priest, rejoice, for I have come in answer to your silent prayer that you be given a task worthy of a Ritualist, and by your impressive Receptivity, the stat which governs a human's capacity to receive and channel power from beyond your world, you perceive now my glory that before was hidden. If you reach level 11, the ability to request a divine mission at any time will become available, but if we compare whether the level system or I is the more solicitous of my little priests, I refuse to be the loser. Today you made a delivery. Too simple. Read this.”
The god, as Dirant faced increasing difficulty not considering him, produced a small box from nothing, shook a scroll out of it, and offered that with the six-fingered hand. His Ritualist unrolled it, more used to the archaic format than members of most classes on account of the unsuitability of codex pages for holding ritual instructions, and was advised by his Ritual Judgment that he indeed looked at instructions for a legitimate ritual. Even in those circumstances fraught with divine significance, his professional detachment cultivated over years of study took over and allowed him to analyze the scroll's contents. “Hm. A non-simple unaccented third-course standard-tool Aemuiaxan monotone permissive idyllic ritual. The desired effect is not described.”
“If ever any man or god is moved to question why my little Ritualists are loved by me so, the answer is there between 'a' and 'unaccented,' for what other class, describing its own operations, finds 'simple' and 'complex' insufficient and must invent the risible term 'non-simple?' Let us not pass over 'Aemuiaxan.' No slighter a term could bear the weight of expressing the concept of a chant comprising sounds but not words. Sublime.”
“Such terminology is required in order—“
“Heed now the mission contrived for the satisfaction of your devotional impulses, to say nothing of a yearning for non-commercial activity often experienced by the salaried employee. In the city of Wessolp, capital of the state of Wessolp which is not alone in being a member of Greater Enloffenkir, there is a temple of mine where the caretakers hold to the venerable custom, little observed today, as part of which they take a likeness of me in my aspect as Mitistiggefokand and bathe it once every 22.3 years in a body of water determined according to a method of no importance for the present.
“This was last done earlier this year in the Ontoffemmiror River that runs, I need not tell you but will, through Fennizen and many prosperous places other. The washer this time the blessed river favored by carrying away the icon in its mighty current. He went away pleased as the unlearned in proper ceremony never would be, for the only better sign than that is if the likeness is restored to the temple within a number of days equal to the phase of the moon when the thing was lost (a waxing moon being represented by 2 as an example) multiplied by the age of the washer in months, 364 in this case, divided by the number of fingers he used in the washing. That was the full ten, giving us somewhat over a month left before my faithful in Wessolp have a replacement carved, which is no great imposition but one that can be avoided. For you see, the icon washed ashore near Fennizen and was carried away by an otter to its holt.”
“And this ritual, then . . .”
“As you guessed, it is an Otter Holt Blessed by a Sacred Statue Location Facilitation Ritual.”
Since Holzd seemed more godlike with every intricate sentence, Dirant began to hope he would live. The relief helped his brain start working again, and it made some connections. “And the company which employs me was founded by my father, who was inspired to feats of entrepreneurship when he saw an otter drop a fish only for it to be stolen by an eagle. That woeful spectacle demonstrated to him the importance of reliable transport.”
“These facts may not be unrelated, just as you guessed, unlike earlier when I suggested you guessed the name and purpose of the ritual as a joke between us. I charge you to find my icon and deliver it to my temple in Wessolp. You may carry it in this box. I permit you to take the further step of cleaning the place up a little upon your arrival which a realistic assessment prevents me, ever a truth-teller, from calling assured for the reason that you may have some difficulty gaining entrance to the city on account of the war. Rejoice and pray, little Ritualist!”
“Nothing about a war involving Wessolp has been reported,” Dirant objected, but to no one. Holzd had disappeared, and along with him went the pressure his purported priest had felt, replaced by a suspicion he had somehow been had. But then, Kitslofers always felt that way.