Chương 86: Chapter 83 – Silence from above

T wo days prior, in the divine realm. The weather was being indecisive again. A warm breeze drifted through a light snowfall under a perfectly clear sky, none of which seemed especially concerned with the contradiction. Various plants grew here. They grew because they were meant to, because they could, and occasionally because the god in charge of this place had not yet told them to stop. At first glance, this realm looked like a farm. A second glance did not improve matters.

Pineapples grew in neat rows beside wheat that bent heavy with grain, while potatoes pushed up through the same soil as spring berries, none of them appearing to find the arrangement unusual. The seasons had either been carefully layered or entirely ignored. At a rustic outdoor table sat the lord of this place, the god of harvests, also called Vorkan. Although only the humans called him that. To the other gods he was Barry.

Opposite Barry stood a very pregnant woman, sometimes called the Goddess of Fertility, other times Minerval. To her fellow gods, she was Riah.

"I've told you before, I cannot make pickles overnight," Barry explained calmly.

"It will be at least a month, by which time—""I'll be craving something else," Riah said with a huff. The gods had existed when the world was created, but belief gave them form. The Goddess of Fertility had always been depicted as a pregnant woman, nearing the end of her term, cradling her belly. This had created a new problem for her. She had been pregnant close to term. For well over a thousand years. The rest of the pantheon admired her dedication but also avoided her, as she was known as 'the grouchy one'.

Barry nodded sympathetically before moving over slightly and gesturing to the seat next to him. Riah took it, glancing around, hoping to crave something easily available just as a dull boom could be heard.

"Ah..." was all Barry said, settling in to wait. Valgrath, the god of strength, was on approach. Both settled in to wait. They didn't have to wait long, as the strides of the eleven-foot god were long indeed. Getting him to stop, however, was another matter. Both gods watched him carefully as he began slowing. None of the gods would have called Valgrath stupid. He was merely slow, any information having a considerable distance to travel before it could be considered.

Valgrath, the god of strength, was a man assembled in the general shape of excess. Muscles layered over muscles with the sort of determination usually reserved for siege works, each one competing for prominence and refusing to concede. He looked less like a being and more like the final argument of a gym that had quietly lost all its other members to more sensible pursuits. The lost members had also clearly left their protein powder behind.

"Hail!" boomed his voice, which caused Barry and Riah to check their hearing.

"Hello, Fleximus. Everything okay?" Riah asked gently. Fleximus was the nickname the other gods had given him. When he was out of earshot, it was often 'Fleximus Maximus'. There was a considerable pause.

"Got a problem! Thought Barry could help!" he boomed with a smile. Both waited for him to describe his problem, but Fleximus merely stood there smiling and flexing.

"What's the problem, Fleximus?" Barry asked.

"Got weird beer as an offering," he said simply, and smiling.

"Weird beer?" Riah asked. He nodded after a pause.

"You got the same? Beer from 'her'?" Barry asked probingly, which got another nod.

"Her?" Riah asked.

"Creation," Barry said, which caused Riah to wince. Fleximus continued to nod, although it was difficult to say if he was nodding from the greeting earlier.

"Don't overthink it, Fleximus. We don't want to mess with Creation. Do what I did and don't touch it."

"Don't touch?!" he boomed again.

"Yes. If anyone asks, don't comment, don't take it, just ignore it. Just to check, it had her divine signature all over it?" Barry asked, which got him a nod.

"Did Creation send an avatar? She's never been involved before," Riah asked, shifting her weight and settling. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. Barry nodded and shrugged.

"She did, but pretend she didn't. I wouldn't get involved. We all know… rather, we all don't know what happened to Fate when he went to see her." They all nodded, thinking deeply.

"I'm serious though, Fleximus. The safest answer is no answer. If you acknowledge it, it will become yours," Barry said, driving the point home.

"Thanks, Barry! I ignore!" came from Fleximus as he turned to leave, his purpose served.

"I must go too—""Riah, don't. This isn't gossip. You won't be offered alcohol, but don't look into this. Just ignore it. Pretend it's not happening," Barry explained, lifting a hand. Riah's shoulders slumped and she pouted.

"If you want to do anything, go tell everyone else just to ignore it. Don't get involved. Don't answer anything," Barry said to her as a compromise.

"Fine, I'll do that and get the gossip that way," Riah said with a smile as she too left. The offering hall was currently host to a large array of confused priests, among them Donovan the high priest and Brother Caldus.

"Strength accepted our other offerings but did not touch the beer either," came the voice of a senior priest. Donovan let out a sigh. This seemed to please Caldus. Several high-standing clergymen nodded at the sigh, as though it confirmed something they had already suspected about the situation, Donovan, or both. The ceiling above rose high enough that sound softened before it returned, voices losing their edges somewhere among the arches before settling back down into something more respectful.

Tall columns ran the length of the hall in two ordered rows, each one carved with scenes of devotion, harvests gathered, children born, wars won, storms survived. Light filtered in from high windows, falling in long pale bands that shifted slowly across the stone floor as the day moved on, though nothing else here seemed inclined to hurry. Along the central aisle stood ten altars, each set before the statue of a god.

Currently, the offerings that had been made to the god of strength had been accepted, except for the beer. The tankard was untouched.

"It was not just Strength," another priest added carefully, looking down at the tankard.

"We rotated the offering." Donovan blinked.

"Rotated?"

"Yes, Father. Different shrines. Different priests. Different hours." He hesitated slightly.

"We believed it may have been some mistake on our part."

"It was not," Caldus said. He noted how everyone was delicately avoiding words like heresy or unholy.

"No," the priest agreed and began counting on his fingers.

"The grain was taken. The fruit was taken. The wine was taken. In one case, the entire plate was reduced to ash." The gods, it seemed, retained their usual standards, with one very specific exception.

"And the beer?" Donovan asked. The priest glanced toward the altars.

"Remained." There was a pause, not of confusion, but of alignment.

"We repeated it," the priest added.

"To be certain."

"Usually, if a god rejects an offering, Brother Donovan, there is a sign of some kind," Caldus said helpfully. The statues were not arranged by importance. That would have caused arguments. Instead, they were placed in a careful symmetry that suggested fairness without committing to it. Each altar bore the marks of use. Burned offerings, ash gathered and cleared, small scratches where metal had met stone too often.

"This is not a failed ritual," said an older priest from further back, his voice measured.

"They are aware. They are choosing not to respond." No one contradicted him.

"So what do we do?" Donovan asked aloud.

"Typically, the high priest would go into a communion to seek answers. One so pious as yourself should find it easy, I'm sure," Caldus said with a smile, which caused Donovan to scowl. A senior priest knelt before the Goddess of Light, her statue emitting a faint glow. Metal sheets, shined to a polish, were focused on her statue. Nearby fires were lit, directing as much light onto the statue as possible.

The arrangement suggested a firm belief that if something did not happen naturally, it could be persuaded with sufficient enthusiasm. The statue began to give its own internal glow.

"She has answered!" was shouted at the back of the procession. This was considered a good sign, and more importantly, a familiar one. The choir began a higher chant, a song celebrating the light. Nearby priests lowered their heads and hummed a baritone. The statue's light flashed. The priest kneeling in front of it slumped down. Light moved from the statue, raining down upon the priest, his hands nearly slipping from the offering bowl.

"This is normal?" Donovan asked with the cautious tone of a man who strongly suspected the answer might involve him.

"Yes, Father. We have not communed with Solenne, may her light guide us forth, in some time, however," Caldus said with just enough venom to be annoying without getting fired.

"And this lasts for..." he asked again.

"A bell, give or take. We must respectfully hold our positions, Father. Do not look upon the light," came the voice of another nearby senior priest. Thankfully for Father Donovan, they did not need to wait that long. Where the light in this ritual would slowly fade, instead it pulsed twice before shutting off entirely. The choir faltered. The priests humming the baritone stopped, and silence spread in waves, followed by a low murmur.

"What happened? Wha?" asked Father Donovan, but the priests nearby were rushing to the fallen priest who had knelt before the statue. He had rolled onto his back, his vision and voice drifting.

"Give him room!" came from the back. A priestess who specialized in healing knelt next to him, looking around the room for guidance.

"Heal him!" came from a senior priest.

"But... has Solenne, may her light guide us forth, rejected him? Is this the will of...?" came from the distraught priestess kneeling next to the man. His head rolled to the side. This was not a question anyone present was eager to answer incorrectly. All eyes glanced around the room before settling on the high priest, awaiting an answer. Authority, it seemed, was most visible when it was required to produce something. He faltered, his mouth opening and closing.

"If Solenne, may her light guide us forth, had rejected this man, we would need a broom. Heal him," came the calm voice of Brother Caldus. The priestess nodded and began a low chant as her hand glowed with a low green light. She passed it over the man, but never quite touched him. Caldus stared at the high priest for a long moment before saying, "We should take him to his room, let him recover." The man's eyes began to flicker.

"I… I saw her... Solenne... May her light..." Then he began to cough.

"The beer, man! What did she say about the beer?" the high priest shouted, pushing people out of the way.

"She... said nothing... I asked... and she just faded away," he said. The collective murmur moved through the room with growing intensity.

"How is nothing an answer?!" came the voice of the high priest.

"Nothing is the answer," was the bored reply from Brother Caldus.