Amon was received by the cave-dwelling wild folk tribe with the highest honors they had to offer, lodged alone in the biggest, tallest thatched hut in the village; even Schrödinger got a soft grass nest with a leather pad laid inside. That night, while Amon rested, Chief Link and Amon's new friend Metatron stayed awake, talking something over privately in the great cave where the fire burned.
Link said, "Brother, ever since you came I've kept you fed and wined, and I told my people you're a friend of the gods. The moment you were in danger, I gathered every brave in the tribe and went to save you..."
Metatron waved a hand. "Hold it, hold it. Don't bring that up—mentioning it just makes me angry! Just say what you want. Is there something you need from me again?"
Link's expression turned oddly bashful. He leaned in and lowered his voice. "I promised to trade you all the horsehide steel our tribe produces, and I sent my people searching high and low for those ancestral ruins you described. You promised me that once we found them, you and I would gain the power of the gods together. But years have passed, and I daresay you know in your heart how hard they are to find. You've carried off every last one of the finest refined iron blanks in this tribe, and yet the goods you promised in exchange..."
Metatron cut him off again. "Link, are you settling accounts with me? I haven't stinted on what I've given you, have I? Whatever I owe your tribe, I'll bring it all next time—when have I ever gone back on my word?"
Link hastily shook his head. "No, no, that's not what I mean. Aren't you searching for your ancestral ruins precisely so you can master the power the gods bestowed? And your friend... he plainly has it. Why don't you ask him to teach you? If he agrees to teach you, put in a word for me as well—you and I agreed long ago that we'd learn it together."
Metatron was too embarrassed to admit that he had only met Amon by chance on the road, and that all Amon had done was save his life; yet he would not lose face before Link, so he fudged. "Amon teaching me is no problem at all—he and I are friends who've been through death together! But on what grounds would he teach you?"
Link said, thick-faced, "Well, I'm begging you, aren't I? You and I have been through death together too! If you agree to this, then in the future our tribe..." He stopped there. The implication was that there would be no shortage of benefits—and at the same time he was hinting that Metatron still owed the tribe the goods he'd promised in trade.
Metatron was rather at a loss. He knew very well that out in the wider world divine arts could not be studied freely: only nobles who obtained the temple's permission were qualified, and no divine artist would teach them to the chief of a wild-folk tribe. To do so would break one's oath in the temple and bring down severe punishment.
Fretting over it, he suddenly remembered why Amon had come, and had an inspiration. "I'll tell you this much. Amon is looking for something—something the gods are said to have lost here. If you can send your people to help him find it, I may well find a way to beg him to teach you how to master the power the gods bestowed."
Link's face lit up. "What is it that the messenger of the gods is looking for?"
Metatron put him off. "I'm not clear on that myself, but I can pass your words along and make your intentions plain. Then you go ask Amon yourself."
Link promptly stood up. "Then what are you waiting for? Go!"
Metatron stood up too and spread both hands. "In the middle of the night—you can't expect me to disturb the man empty-handed, can you?"
Link nodded again and again. "I understand. There's still wine in the tribe. I'll send someone to fetch it at once."
Metatron clapped him on the shoulder. "Where has this chief of ours hidden all the wine? I'll come with you to get it."
At the mouth of the cave Metatron asked, as though casually—or perhaps not: "Do you really believe Amon is a messenger of the gods?"
Link's expression turned a little sly. "Didn't you say he's a divine artist? And I'd guess the ancestor you're looking for was a divine artist too? I understand now what a divine artist is. The people here take him for a messenger of the gods, so a messenger of the gods he is—isn't that so?" He thought a moment, then added with a very grave face, "That this messenger of the gods truly commands the power the gods bestowed—of that there is no doubt whatsoever."
Metatron curled his lip. "You don't even know what sort of god that man believes in!"
Link pointed behind him. "Still better than a pile of firewood, isn't it?"
Metatron was amused. "You can only say that to me—you couldn't breathe a word of it in front of your own people."
Amon sat in the hut in quiet meditation. He raised a hand, and a light suddenly appeared before him; the light became a tongue of flame hanging in the air. This was the fire elemental divine art he had only just begun to practice. Unlike when he first learned water elemental divine arts, he could soon summon a flame directly without the aid of his staff. Any other second-rank divine artist who saw Amon work it so effortlessly would have gaped, mouth hanging open.
Amon's staff was formidable, and whether he used it made an enormous difference. His habit was to master and familiarize himself with a divine art the quickest way possible, then train and deepen his feel for it the hardest way. The flame he summoned out of empty air was rather fun—it looked like a little glowing man dancing—but Amon didn't dare make it dance about freely; he was afraid of burning somebody's house down.
He watched the flame and turned his own affairs over in his mind. This tribe's settlement stood very high; if he remembered rightly, he had passed through three layers of cloud wrapped around the mountainside on his way up here—exactly the kind of place the Old Madman had said he could stop and stay. He needed to practice low-tier divine arts on a mountain like this, and keep watch on the eastern sky.
Amon had been worrying about where to settle; the food he carried was running low, and he had never expected to run into a tribe like this. Good food, good drink, good hospitality—there was no better place to stay and cultivate divine arts. He wouldn't have to hunt for himself or go looking for shelter. It was because he had this in mind that he had put on that little display of divine art before the bonfire; he had the Old Madman's reminder to thank for it.
Just then Metatron's voice came from outside. "Honored divine artist, are you resting? It's Metatron, come to bring you fine wine, and your cat a delicious roast."
Schrödinger came tumbling out of its grass nest in a roll. Amon flicked a finger and snuffed the flame, then called out, "I haven't turned in yet. Come in."
Metatron pushed the door open and came in, followed by two small, slight dwarf women—one carrying an earthenware jug, the other holding a wooden platter laid with slabs of shale, on which fresh meat sizzled and spat fat on the red-hot stone. The dwarves set down their burdens and withdrew. Metatron placed two stone cups on the wooden board; one was empty, the other held animal fat with a dried grass stalk stuck in it and lit—the oldest kind of candle there is, and the most extravagant lighting the tribe possessed.
Amon blinked. "At this hour, you've come to drink with me?"
Metatron shook his head. "No, no. I come on behalf of the tribesfolk, to present fine wine to the messenger of the gods." As he spoke he lifted the jug, poured a cup, and set it reverently before Amon.
Amon gave a light sniff and knew at once that this wine was really not up to much. He didn't drink often, but there was a drunkard of a father at home, and the wines the merchants hauled into Duke Town were all fine stuff. Amon could tell good wine from bad by smell alone, but that there was any wine at all to be had up in this high-mountain wild-folk tribe was a feat in itself.
Amon extended a hand. "My thanks. Sit down and drink with me."
Metatron hastily waved both hands. "Honored divine artist, outside the mountains I ought to call you 'my lord.' How could I presume to drink at the same table as you?"
Amon laughed. "We're inside a dwarf tribe now, aren't we? You bring wine and meat in the middle of the night—how could I sit here and drink it alone while you watch?"
Metatron promptly nodded. "Then I'll keep you company over a few cups." He ran to the door and called out, "Bring another cup!" From the look of it he'd been wanting a drink himself—otherwise, a moment ago, he'd have said "I can't" instead of "how could I presume."
Amon had him sit and drink, and Metatron was secretly delighted, muttering to himself that his plan might well succeed. This divine artist was very young, looked like nothing more than a boy in his teens, and had none of the lofty airs of the great men in the temples; he was easygoing and easy to talk to. Plainly his standing wasn't high.
Then again, for a divine artist like this to be sent to such a place was unmistakably a punishment and an exile. Surely his family had fallen from power and he had offended some high priest in authority, who couldn't deal with him openly and so found an excuse to cast him out of the temple to live or die on his own. And to look for something out here in the mountains—where on earth is he going to find it?
In that case, his own scheme might not be hopeless after all. Link wanted to learn divine arts; Metatron wanted it even more, or he would never have risked going deep into the jungle in search of his ancestor's remains. If a man met a divine artist under ordinary circumstances, there was no chance that artist would teach him on his own authority. But here—well, Amon seemed like someone who could be talked around.
The two drank and chatted, and Metatron, as though casually, began to speak of his own history—
His family had once been prominent. His great-grandfather had been a priest of the Marduk Temple in Barron City, a sixth-rank divine artist only a step away from becoming a grand divine artist, but he had the misfortune to be wounded in a war and fled the battlefield on a precious flying divine art scroll he carried. Perhaps the scroll's mana ran out, or perhaps his wounds were too grave: Metatron's great-grandfather fell in the deep mountains and forests near the Yudi River valley.
After his great-grandfather vanished, the family came close to ruin and was left with a crushing debt. Just then a stranger from far away saved Metatron's great-grandmother and grandfather—a hunter from Assyria who, while hunting in the Yudi River valley, had chanced upon the body, the belongings and the last letter of Metatron's great-grandfather.
Following the letter's instructions, the hunter buried his great-grandfather and carried the belongings to Barron City. They were worth a great deal; the staff alone, inlaid with two godstones, was enough to clear the debt. Later, though the widow and orphan kept the family lands, they offended some highly noble lord of those parts, and when Metatron's grandfather came of age he lost the right to inherit the priesthood—on the grounds, no less, that he was unsuited to learning divine arts, since the power the gods bestow had not been awakened in him during the ceremony.
That was a pure pretext. Plainly there were men who were no divine artists at all and yet still enjoyed the title of priest in name.
Be that as it may, life was hard for a widow and orphan, and there's no need to rehearse the family's tale of woe. This was a declining noble house, thin in sons, all but forgotten in Barron City. By Metatron's generation they had lost even noble status and were ordinary commoners, nothing more. When people spoke of the old days, they even mocked his grandfather for being useless, so that his descendants had sunk so low.
The hunter had also relayed Metatron's great-grandfather's dying words. It was said that the sixth-rank divine artist had not died on the spot when he fell into the deep valley; in his agony he prayed and pleaded to the great god Marduk for seven days and seven nights and at last despaired. So he wrote down everything he knew of divine arts in a cave, hoping that whoever found his body would bury it and carry his belongings home. And in the end that hunter fulfilled his dying wish.
As he spoke, Metatron kept watch on Amon's face, for he had now touched on offense against the gods, and his great-grandfather's conduct had also violated the temple's teachings. But Amon showed no anger, nor any sign of wanting to rebuke him; he looked grave and was listening very intently. Only then did Metatron cautiously continue—
When Metatron was small he heard the legend of his great-grandfather from his grandfather; it was the family's secret, not to be mentioned to outsiders. By the time he grew up he had already lost the right to learn divine arts, so he learned combat arts instead, and just past twenty he became a fourth-rank warrior. But he was never willing to accept it; his life's wish and dream was to learn divine arts.
In Barron City that was impossible. No one would teach him; for a man of his standing to study divine arts privately broke the law, and whoever taught him would be punished just the same. And so Metatron thought of his great-grandfather's story. Were the divine arts written down in that cave where his great-grandfather fell still there? If he could find the place, perhaps he could cultivate divine arts on his own.
On that slim hope, the young Metatron went deep into the river valleys and high mountains along the border between Barron and Hatti, bent on finding his ancestor's remains. But he had no detailed map, only a rough idea of the area, and finding it was next to impossible—though he did get to know a dwarf tribe in the mountains well.
Here Metatron explained uneasily, "Honored divine artist, it's because I count you a friend, and because you saved my life, that I'm confiding a secret like this to you. I don't want to become a mage. My ancestor was a divine artist, and by law I should have inherited his standing. But he gave his life for his country in battle and was jeered at as a deserter, and his descendants were treated unfairly. My one aim is to restore my ancestor's honor—and to prove that I am every bit as qualified to inherit that honor."
When he finished he waited a long while and heard nothing from Amon. Uneasily he raised his head for a glance, and froze. A moment later he seemed to come back to himself; he stood hurriedly, backed away several steps, and knelt. "Heavens, how can there be such a coincidence in this world? What you're holding is Mr. Nietzsche's token!"
In the candlelight Amon was holding something: a small golden tablet with an emblem on each face, one inscribed in cursive script and one in blade script, like a seal and like a temple's nameplate. While Metatron had been telling his family history, Amon had already confirmed who he was—the descendant of that divine artist who met his end in the Yudi River valley more than a hundred years ago, the one the Old Madman had found.
When that divine artist's widow saw Nietzsche off, she had a golden tablet made specially for him, and said that if trouble ever came, he might send someone bearing this tablet to her family. The tablet later became Nietzsche's token; the Old Madman carried it with him all over the continent, and on the night before they parted he gave it to Amon, telling him to keep it safe—it might be of use one day.
More than a hundred years had passed, and Amon could not be sure Metatron would still recognize the token, or whether the widow's words had been handed down at all. So he brought the tablet out to test him; if Metatron hadn't recognized it, he would have let the matter drop. But Metatron recognized it at a single glance!
Amon stood up. "So I wasn't mistaken. You know Mr. Nietzsche's name—but why are you speaking to me on your knees?"
Metatron answered, "It's our family's dying instruction. Mr. Nietzsche is the benefactor who saved our family; he selflessly carried my ancestor's precious belongings a thousand li back to Barron City. To see this token is the same as seeing Mr. Nietzsche—one must bow and greet him, and help him in every way one can. I've known the emblem on this token since I was a child, and I used to dream of meeting Mr. Nietzsche himself, or his descendants."
That was the plain truth. Metatron knew that Nietzsche was a mage who had studied divine arts privately, and that the divine arts he practiced came from his great-grandfather's last letter. If he met Nietzsche, there was a chance to learn the divine arts his ancestor had left behind. It was one of Metatron's childhood fantasies, which was exactly why the emblem on the token was branded so clearly in his memory.
Amon said, "You didn't tell me the whole truth just now. Mr. Nietzsche was a mage, and you called him only a hunter."
Metatron hastened to explain, "Yes—and you know as well as I do that a mage's identity can't be made public, so before an honored divine artist like you I didn't dare let it slip. …May I ask, Mr. Amon, how do you come to have something of Mr. Nietzsche's?"
His belongings? Metatron had simply assumed that Nietzsche was no longer alive—it was, after all, a matter of more than a hundred years—and that the Amon before him must be his descendant or his disciple. Otherwise he could never have produced that tablet at the very moment Metatron told this story; he hadn't said Nietzsche's name even once.
"This is indeed Mr. Nietzsche's token. He put it into my hands himself. What a coincidence, that we should meet here! But on reflection it isn't without cause: you came to these parts searching for your ancestor's remains, and I ran into you here. …Get up. Let's go on drinking. You suddenly told me all these private family matters—not without a reason, I think?" Amon went over, pulled Metatron to his feet, and sat back down at the crude plank table.
Metatron's face flushed red with excitement. Gripping his stone cup in both hands, he leaned forward. "Mr. Nietzsche put the token into your hands himself? Then he's still alive? He must be a grand mage by now! Can I meet Mr. Nietzsche? Can you take me to see him?" The questions came in a torrent; in his excitement he was almost incoherent.
Amon waved a hand. "Metatron, calm down first. I'm afraid I can't take you to see Mr. Nietzsche, and I can't tell you where he is either—your family's dying instruction doesn't cover that, does it? …You still haven't answered my question. Tonight, coming to me all of a sudden with your family's secret history—what was it for?"
Only then did Metatron come to his senses, remembering that the family's instruction was to help the bearer of the token with all one's might, not to start making demands the moment one met him. He took a deep breath and finally said, "Actually, I want to learn divine arts from you. The reason I want to meet Mr. Nietzsche is that I want to learn divine arts too. …May I ask, Mr. Amon, are you also a—"
Amon cut him short. "You want to ask whether I'm a mage too? Mr. Nietzsche was a mage in those days, but that doesn't mean he's one forever. It isn't hard for a grand mage to obtain the qualifications of a divine artist—and don't forget, more than a hundred years have passed." He did not say whether he himself was a mage or not, but sidestepped the question vaguely.