Wherein ritual, such as it is, is observed (Ch. 13)

Heat and light streamed in torrents through the great library. Straining his ears, Hailey reached for the sound of birdsong. Instead, the gentle strumming of harp and guitar that permeated the hall engulfed him in serenity. The acolytes were doing wonderfully, he noted with satisfaction.

He might have been dismayed at the evident truth of Dolstoy’s warnings, but he tried to ignore such things. Instead he let the beauty and truth of the afternoon study engulf him.

Dolstoy found no such peace in the ritual and comfort of the familiar. Every letter read, every message received, every string plucked, and every discussion held was to him but a sign of the degradation of the point. He’d thought the veil was lifted; the obvious rot known to all. But the library was as calm and defanged as ever, as if a week had not passed since the pilgrims should’ve begun pouring in. He stared at the letters, the scholars, the teachers, and the holy men. What did they think these reports meant? What truth did they believe these letters held?

The many eyes of the factions of the point hid in the crevices between wood and parchment and paper. Their designs varied, but not so much that Dolstoy took an interest. To him it seemed that each was as the next: functional, boring, known. So much should’ve been possible with Heave, but it seemed no one knew to tap into it. He pondered whether perhaps he was as complacent as the rest of them: had he tried to utilize the creature? Had he used his knowledge to create a hex of any interest? Or had he taken the path of least resistance, slumping into the patterns of life at the point?

He opened another letter. The man who passed it to him was of no interest, though doubtless he believed himself superior to Dolstoy on account of the Ranger brown of his cloak. Dolstoy ruminated on the thought, at the perceived slight, and found himself justly angry at a man he could not even put a face to. As he’d done a hundred times, he wished the destruction would come sooner.

The letter pertained to some business or other of a northern warlord. The veracity of the information was doubtful, as was its source. Supposedly only those selected for the lifelong goal of keeping the point informed could send letters via the pigeons. Dolstoy knew from his travels that the bored children of aristocracy found the dissemination of false information to be a marvelous pastime. So, was this the doing of a bored adolescent or the faithful report of a devoted scribe and watchman? He looked for signs in the language and the letterings, though the clearest indicator was simply the nature of the information. He read:

“A Danubian unit 1700 strong was dispatched to the village of Herota. There they stayed for five days preparing defenses and dispersing the populace. As the village is primarily agricultural and the harvest was in, they were unsuccessful in their task. The Northern army came with the dawn, and the defenses and defenders proved no match to them. The harvest was raided, and the homes vandalized. The populace and defenders were slaughtered, until a cessation to arms was somehow arranged. The Danubian general, along with his aide met with the raiders’ commander and a northern Shaman from his retinue. I know not what was said, but the remaining soldiers and citizenry were allowed a day to escape east. Whatever this raiding army may be, they seem to respect the sanctity of the Pontiac’s eyes and ears throughout the land. In total, some four hundred defenders and citizens died. The northerners suffered minimal losses.”

Difficult. The information was vague in all the specifics that could point to an accurate assessment of veracity. And yet, nothing outstanding or bombastic had been stated either. Thinking back to his training, he traced the steps and methods of determining the veracity of a report. Dates, names, numbers, events, emotions… Ah! An obvious clue, so obvious that embarrassment at having missed it so far trickled through Dolstoy. The report failed to note the strength of the northern army, yet the strength of the Danubian army was the first thing to be mentioned. So, why? It stank of something with the hint of truth, though what exactly eluded Dolstoy. What was real of it, and what was fake? Tracing the steps he’d learned as every boy who came to the point did, he started from the top. The unit of Danubian soldiers was probably real. It had probably even come to Herota, as much as that was only barely under Danubian jurisdiction. Hadn’t it been the base of operations for some warlord or another just a year past? So that at least was telling. And a northern army, how could the scribe know it was that? Ah, the Shaman. But how had he known of the Shaman and the meeting? Shouldn’t the scribe have contained a brief description of his own part in the turmoil? It was a matter over which great debates had been held. That no meaningful reform ever came of such debates only made them all the more frequent.

The games of recitation were well underway in the upper nooks of the great library. The narrowing form of the building lent these reaches a certain exclusivity, if only for the physical exertion needed to climb the ladders and wriggle between the shelves and beams. Hailey was known to say he was too old for such things, and yet he showed up to the games every day. The strangest thing was that none of the younger preachers and librarians could recall every seeing Hailey’s slightly rotund form making the climb. This pleased Hailey greatly, for it lent him an air of mystique and gravitas he’d otherwise lack. As always, light came in from the great window. Sitting in a circle around the hatch that all believed to be the only way up to so high a level, prophecies and interpretations were recited in rhythm to the games. The games varied wildly in nature, from contests of trivia to complex webs of strategy marked with dozens of pieces and markers strewn across the floor, across playing boards, and even stretching to the bookcases and ledges that made up most of those upper recesses. Hailey played a game involving the matching of cards to unfulfilled prophecies with a young preacher who’d just stumbled upon the loft. To no one’s surprise, Hailey was winning, and rather candidly at that.

Dolstoy tore through letter after letter. Some were interesting, though most spoke of the banality of life in some hunting village around Meyrkopp or fishery disputes in the Gelton Isles. Their veracity was uninteresting, though perhaps a more careful examination could reveal the truthfulness of the reporters if nothing else.

As the late spring afternoon faded to twilight, Hailey rose from his game to get the holy girls ready for the recalling ceremony. As a parting shot, and a show of his retained mastery over the games, he pointed out the hidden positions of traps and points of the new player. All were much impressed with this feat, as the new player was surprisingly adept, and had hidden a piece in another’s discarded shoe. Hailey chose to descend via the known exit, so as not to give any clue as to how he got up to the loft in the first place. Some of the deeper crannies, overlooked and cramped by shelves of ancient musings, had already had the small light emitting hexes attached to each shelf twisted. The strange blueish white light these hexes emitted made the twisting labyrinth of the deeper library an otherworldly place. Finally, Hailey pushed his way through the back entrance and made his way round the library to where the holy girls were supposed to be gathered. Unsurprisingly, only a third of the girls were there. The small courtyard should’ve been brimming with life and vigor. Instead, a stoney and slightly scared silence prevailed. At the very least, the assembled girls seemed to be in good health. At a snap of his fingers, the girls formed into the traditional three files, though their meager length frightened him. The procession headed towards the cookhouse first. There they recited chants in language archaic enough to seem ancient yet modern enough to be comprehended by any who’d care to actually take note of the daily service. Hailey himself let the words slip through in vague unreality. As always, a miracle occurred: light and warmth emanated dimly from the walls of the cookhouse. The dull orange glow lent the place the homely feeling that so many Rangers would remark upon with their return from missionary duties. It should’ve been a marvelous moment, the daily moment of connection to the Goddess given form in the light of her blessing. Instead, those few cooks and diners only looked on scornfully at the pitiful assembly of holy girls left.

“I think Clarina is ready to jump.”

The statement was spoken innocuously, as if Jen had not just informed him that a girl was contemplating suicide.

“Clarina is ready to jump, and I don’t know what I can do about it anymore.”

Jen was not asking for help. She was simply stating that things were going to get worse. Could he see pain streaking her face? A twinge of guilt, of sadness, of melancholy in her voice? He searched the gruff girl, the self-appointed first among equals, and found only resigned coldness. He did not answer, for he did not know if he could.

The procession trunched through flaking ground and dusty streets, fountains and benches were attended and whispered to by indvidual girls. The soft orange spreading through the city almost mirrored the stars as they began their nightly dotting of the sky. A breath of warm air almost brought peace to Hailey. In that one breath, perhaps he imagined that this was the way things should be. The way things must be.

Street after street, public building after public building, light flowed through the point like a cool breeze. Perhaps a cool breeze too would not be seen amiss, but the Point had not been so vigorus as to supply such amenities in a long time.

“The Pontiac is going to be a mess tommorow Hailey. We’re going to get another portend of doom. And it’s going to be real this time, not something you can explain away.”

Jen had pulled back towards him, sitting on the fountain adorning the central square, just to say this. A face of granite and voice distant, the other girls feared to encroach upon this space that Jen had carved out. It was as if by standing besides him in his weariness she laid some special claim to his attention. As this simply would not do, Hailey rose with a grunt, and, ignoring his wettened clothes, replied only in tangent.

“A truly holy man explains nothing, he only elucidates that which was always there. A true holy women brings out that truth that only a holy man can eludicate.”

An eyebrow dared to climb Jen’s face, but as incredulity would be rather unbefitting one as odius as Jen, it must’ve been some other emotion being conveyed. Quite what remained unclear.

“Hailey, she’s going to prophecise about the comet. I know she will, all the signs point to it. And since Wicker’s gone and Ruthela’s all but comatose, there’s no one left to distract the hexmistresses from fussing over the Pontiac.”

She waited for a reply which would not come. Should he have replied, Hailey’d have said something sardonic about old crones needing better hobbies than needling and wheedling their most promising young proteges. And since this was about the extent that Hailey was willing to divulge on the matter, he preferred to remian stoically silent. Perhaps Jen and the holy girls would think him wise for that.

Jen found him asisne and boring, quite the platonic ideal of a stuck up adult who’d forgotten the world could still flex. Had Hailey known this was how Jen and most the holy girls saw him, he’d have spoken his mind in a heartbeat.

The girls gathered round Hailey and headed off to cap their nightly patrol; they headed towards the library.

Dolstoy sat by a mound of opened letters. A series of glowing hexes lit a large grid at which he tapped away with some vigour. The grid rather densly overlaid a map of the central plains, from Pontiac’s point at the very edge of the map, past Kadyp to Netk, and east almost to the Caspian, stopping short for reasons none seemed to know. Dolstoy should’ve reprimanded himself for a certain lack of curiosity as to the mechanism behind the map and its logical deductions. Had he but taken an interest, he may have discovered many fascinatingly irrelevant details of much interest to historians and purveryors of techincalities. He may have also discovered the nature of the coming fall, but since he’d basically figured it out anyways, he saw no need. Instead, he poured over his notes, offical review of the day’s letters, and doused it all with a hefty sprinkle of intuition and half remembered rumors from his years of travel. The result was a complex series of stabbings and glowings on the map. While Dolstoy knew exactly what each meant, color and shape of the glowing stones encoding details of armies and spies, merchants and warlords, to an outside observer it’d look like little more than a very elegant mess.

The map, being no such outside observer, knew exactly what Dolstoy wanted from it. The scholars around Dolstoy and the map ignored him with some mild disdain, their opinion of his overly complex stabbings plain from their acid attitude. The disdain suited Dolstoy much finer than rapt attention, though the subtle fear that he was somehwhat of a laughing stock tickled at the back of his mind.

He needen’t have worried: the piece of paper lit up with words predicting the exact course of earthly matters for the next decade. Content that he knew the future, as all good servants of the Pontiac surely did, he hastily swept the stones away, gathered his notes, and headed out. Mel would have to listen this time.