Metatron was clever enough not to ask any further. Since Amon had said he was a divine artist, then a divine artist he would be—a mage's identity was not the sort of thing to be discussed in the open anyway. He poured Amon several more cups in a row, then watched him with pleading eyes, waiting for an answer.
The dwarf tribe's wine was brewed from wild fruit gathered in the mountains: a little sour and astringent on the tongue, cloudy to the eye, but sipped slowly it had a very particular sweetness and fragrance, a flavor no other wine could match. When Amon had drunk about enough, he finally asked, "Metatron, your great-grandfather was a priest of the Marduk Temple, and yet his deathbed letter ran counter to the temple's decrees. What do you make of that?"
Metatron thought it over very seriously before answering, "In the temple he received that power the god bestowed, and with it he was able to study divine arts and become a sixth-rank divine artist. The temple's oath and the harsh training were what he paid; in return he won achievements and comforts far beyond those of ordinary men. If a god like Marduk really exists, then the god owes him nothing—he already got exactly what was due him."
Amon's expression was intent. He asked, thoughtfully, "Who said that?"
Metatron said, "My grandfather told me. It was what my great-grandmother said to comfort my grandfather whenever he was bitter about it. She said that if the great god Marduk had saved my great-grandfather, then my great-grandfather ought to be especially grateful; and if he hadn't, then a man should simply face everything he goes through—that's only natural."
Amon nodded. "Your great-grandmother was truly a person worthy of respect. Your grandfather losing the right to inherit the priesthood was indeed a little unfair, but your great-grandfather's fate has nothing to do with Marduk—if such a great god Marduk really exists. ...Studying divine arts privately breaks the law. What do you think about that question?"
Amon was a mage himself, and he genuinely wanted to know what Metatron, who likewise wanted to study divine arts in secret, thought of the matter. Metatron grinned, lowered his voice, and said softly, "You saw those big iron-armored beasts when you rescued me. From birth they can use a power like divine arts—maybe the gods gave it to them. But which temple's permission did they ever get?"
Amon smiled too. "The first divine arts Mr. Nietzsche learned came from your ancestor's deathbed letter, so he ought to be grateful—and his gratitude is my own. It isn't that I can't teach you divine arts, but you're already a mid-rank warrior, and the first thing awakened in you was the power in your bloodline. You know as well as I do that divine arts and combat arts can't be cultivated at the same rank."
The moment Metatron heard the opening in Amon's words, he stood up and bowed again. "I know all that, of course. But I'm already a mid-rank warrior, so in theory I can undergo the ceremony to awaken the power one more time—there's a chance it might awaken the power a god bestowed. Even if I only learn some simple low-rank divine arts, that would be enough. Then later, once I've become a high-rank grand warrior, I can—"
Amon cut him off. "Future matters can wait for the future. I want to try a special method to awaken your power. For a mid-rank warrior that may be rather troublesome. If it really succeeds, you may have to go through all sorts of trials from the beginning again, and for a long time your combat arts won't be able to advance any further."
Metatron answered without a moment's hesitation, "As long as you'll teach me divine arts, anything goes!"
Metatron had come to the wrong man and the right man at once—in any case, a pair of muddleheads had found each other. In the temples of the various kingdoms on the Celestial Pivot Continent, only divine artists of at least fifth rank were allowed to perform the ceremony to awaken the power for someone, and performing a second awakening ceremony for a mid-rank or high-rank warrior required a grand divine artist!
As for Gabriel awakening the god-granted power for Maria back then, that was a special case. Maria was a candidate for holy maiden and had received the Tears of the Gods, and Gabriel, a grand warrior, also commanded mid-rank divine arts himself. A situation like that was all but impossible for anyone else; no one had ever heard of a second-rank divine artist performing a second awakening for a fourth-rank warrior.
How would Amon know any of that? The Old Madman had never told him, and Metatron, who had no right to study divine arts, didn't know the finer points either. But what Amon had in mind was not the sort of ceremony they held in temples—he didn't know those anyway. He was only thinking of starting from knowing nothing at all, and awakening for Metatron a power that is one body with two faces.
With that in mind he said slowly, "I can try my best with my own method. I can't promise it will work—after all, very few people can awaken that 'power bestowed by the gods.' Give me a few days. I'll come find you once I've thought it through."
Metatron was overjoyed, nodding again and again. "If you're willing to try, I'm more grateful than I can say. And if it truly doesn't work, that only proves I didn't have the luck—and I can put the whole idea out of my head for good."
The Old Madman had told Amon that he might as well test the methods he knew, or was still only guessing at, on other people. Under ordinary circumstances Amon would never experiment on just anyone, but Metatron had come to his door and volunteered—no harm in trying. What Amon didn't expect was that once he had his first "test subject," a second would follow very soon.
After all that, Metatron still didn't leave. With a somewhat awkward smile, he braced himself and said, "Respected divine artist, the dwarves here take you for a messenger of the gods, and Chief Link told me he's willing to give you any help you need. Since you've agreed to teach me divine arts, Link wants to learn too—what terms would he have to meet for you to teach him?"
Metatron was quick-witted: he hadn't asked "may he," but "what terms." One sheep or a whole flock, it's all herding—Amon thought about it and answered, "I can try with him too. But I need to speak with him myself. Bring him here."
Link had been waiting right outside the door; at Metatron's call he came in beaming. By now the jar of wine was empty, and no one had noticed when the plate of meat disappeared. No telling how Schrödinger had managed to eat it, or how he kept from burning his paws on the hot stone. Amon sent Metatron off to rest and kept Link behind alone. They talked about how things stood in the tribe, and Amon dimly sensed that this tribe and its chief just might have some tie of fate with him.
This was a large tribe of several hundred people, holding this stretch of highland mountains all to itself and enjoying the thickest forests and the hunting grounds with the most game. No other tribe nearby could stand against them. One of the most important reasons was that this tribe knew how to smelt iron ore—there were several smelting furnaces in the caves in the cliff face.
The smelting craft had been handed down through the generations. It was said the first to learn it was Link's grandfather's grandfather's grandfather, who learned it from beyond the mountains. That ancestor had been taken captive in a tribal war and then sold far away to a large town outside the mountains as a slave, where he mostly did the opening mines, mining and smelting, under terribly harsh conditions.
He stayed in that town for twenty years and learned a great deal—he even worked his way up to being a minor foreman at the mine, overseeing other slaves—and in the end he found a chance to escape, fleeing back into the deep mountains with seven or eight cave-dwelling wild folk. The tribe's refined iron smelting technique had been passed down from that time. But the tribe had only a spoken language and no writing; even the chief was illiterate, so there were no detailed records.
At that point Link asked uneasily, "Messenger of the gods, can someone who can't read still learn divine arts?"
In a temple out in the world, the answer would of course have been no, but Amon thought for a moment and said, "Learn it you can—it's just a great deal more trouble. From now on you'd better learn to read as well."
At those words Link nearly jumped for joy, but he hastily flung himself down in prostration and said, "Then you've agreed! Thank you, messenger of the gods! Whatever you command, I'll summon the whole tribe to serve. And if my people ask me which god gave me this power, I'll answer without fail: the god Amon!"
Amon was startled. The Old Madman's charge to unlock the secret of the gods was still nowhere in sight, and here this dwarf chief had casually plopped a "god Amon" hat onto his head with a single sentence—what a cheap way to become a god! Amon waved a hand. "There's no need for that. I can't guarantee it will work either; it depends on you. Since I've agreed with Metatron, I may as well agree with you. But I get the feeling you already know a little divine arts—what you're holding there is a divine artist's staff, isn't it?"
Link lifted the beast-bone staff in his hand, set with a godstone. "This is the chief's scepter. I do know a little of what you call divine arts—it's passed down by word of mouth from chief to chief. Only those who learn it are fit to be chief."
Link did know a bit of simple, scanty divine arts—earth elemental divine arts, among the most basic and simplest of their applications. He didn't even know what earth elemental divine arts were, much less know the whole of them; with no written records in the tribe, of course there was no way for him to know their specific origin.
And so Amon settled down in the cave-dwelling wild folk's tribe. As a messenger of the gods, the courtesy he received here came close to that shown a god himself, and he taught two students along the way. After pondering for several days, Amon took Metatron and Link to a quiet spot and spoke to them privately—
"Whatever you've learned before, now I want to begin with the very first ceremony. Especially you, Metatron: don't think too much about what kind of power it is that gets awakened. Never mind whether it's power bestowed by a god or power sleeping in your bloodline, and don't think of it as a second awakening ceremony. Treat everything as if you were starting over from the beginning.
"Awakening the power also awakens desire. It's hard to say whether that desire comes from the body or the mind—it was one body with two faces from the very start. You must learn how to face it without being dragged around by it. The first thing you have to learn is how to bring your spirit into a state of concentration, turning inward to examine your own body and mind. Pray to this Eye of the Earth. I'll lend it to the two of you for now—one day each, taking turns.
"Link, remember this: train your body the way the tribe's warriors do, or simply learn combat arts skills from Metatron. And Metatron, you must forget what divine arts are and what combat arts are. You are awakening a power, but you don't know which god bestowed it. Such prayer may be very hard—you have to reach that state of concentrated introspection."
Link obediently piped up, "Not hard, not hard—it's the god Amon!"