Atheism

"Craftsman? Lokos welcomes craftsmen, we can assure you of that. We respect those who possess skill; Lokos will always be the finest place for craftsmen to display their talents," Dameks said.

"Then, Mors, is this boy the sacred child of legend, come down from the mountains?" He looked toward Peturabo.

Before Mors could say anything, Peturabo stepped forward half a pace himself.

Enemy blood still stained his collar. Beneath the torn, bloodied cloth was fresh, delicate skin. Neither the dust on his cheeks nor his damaged robes diminished his appearance.

His calm composure, along with that faint, unaccountable scrutiny in his gaze, were all proof that he was extraordinary.

No one could deny what an exquisitely unparalleled creation Peturabo himself was. That was an objective fact.

"I do not know whether I came from the mountains, nor do I know whether I once killed a beast in Cadisia."

"Do you truly not know?"

"I do not remember. Those memories are not in my mind."

Peturabo lowered his head and looked at his hands. The skin of his palms still carried a reddish tinge from blood beneath.

He recalled the many failures he had suffered under Mors these past days: the carvings that had failed time and again, the talent stripped from him, his weakness and impulsiveness, his repeated defeats, and Mors's cold gift.

Was this the person who had once come down from the mountains and left a name behind in the mortal world?

Mors had sneered more than once that, after losing his abilities, he was as weak as any ordinary mortal.

He clenched his fists and lowered his hands to his sides.

"But I am not a sacred child."

A small disturbance broke out among the crowd. The soldiers remained motionless as statues, while the courtiers began whispering among themselves.

Guess what they're saying? They're saying you won't even call Dameks Your Majesty.

Peturabo went along with it and looked Dameks straight in the eye. "And you are not my king. I belong to no one."

A high-ranking courtier spoke up for Dameks. "How can you be so rude?"

Dameks adjusted the scepter across his knees and gently raised a hand. "No matter. If he remembers nothing, how can we demand that a guest observe our rules of etiquette? We have not established lessons in manners and invited our god-descended boy to attend them, have we?"

"I am not a god-descended boy either." Peturabo corrected him without yielding an inch, the resolve in his words harder than steel.

He looked ahead. "I do not even know what a god is. I know neither the Alka nor Anuinkai you mentioned."

The courtiers spoke louder. This time, Peturabo did not need Mors to relay their words telepathically; he could hear their arguments himself. Nothing more than tired phrases like "arrogant and rude," "ignorant and uncultured," and "blasphemy against the gods."

He let those words enter his ears and found that he did not even feel the anger of blood rushing to his head.

Peturabo examined his thoughts and ran through several hypothetical scenarios. He discovered that even if these people cursed him outright, the irritation he could feel would not amount to a tenth of the annoyance caused by the simplest mocking curl of Mors's mouth at one of his stone carvings.

He roughly banished Mors's pale face from his mind and continued facing Dameks directly.

Dameks's scepter turned in his hand. Peturabo knew that every minor movement the man made was a signal of authority.

The king began explaining the existence of the gods. "The gods dwell above the mountains, amid the layered clouds. They are the creators above us, beings who look down from the peak of Mount Terra and judge all things and all living souls. They are holy gods beyond the reach of ordinary men, beyond the defiance of mortals, beyond the rejection of the people."

The tip of the golden scepter pointed toward one side of the throne. "The twin god-kings grant authority to the rulers of city-states. These are the images of Gozk and Kalafais."

I thought those were things like Anubis. Their skin looks awfully dark, and the design is so retro it goes straight back to before the Common Era.

Mors's cold voice, with its ever-present edge of mockery, slithered past Peturabo's ear.

The last time we came into the city, I should have asked more about their legends. Then I could have used them as your bedtime stories.

Peturabo suppressed the urge to turn around and glare at him, returning his attention to the conversation with the people of Lokos.

"Have you seen these beings, tyrant?" he asked.

The tyrant's scepter struck the armrest with a crisp tap.

"I have not had that honor," the tyrant said.

"Then has anyone seen these beings?" Peturabo pressed. He needed no superfluous gestures; his words alone carried enough force.

Among the courtiers, another figure in splendid robes squeezed out from the colorfully dressed assembly. Peturabo saw his smooth, shaved head and the ceiling lights reflected in beads of sweat atop it.

A priest, perhaps, or a cleric, or a stargazer—Peturabo did not know what he was.

"How could we possibly behold the august forms of the gods?"

The newcomer's voice was shrill and piercing.

"Mortals are not part of the gods' great design. The gods reside beyond the celestial spheres. We may only glimpse their glory through the many reflections of their mercy within worldly life. How can you question them so? Is your soul so filthy and closed that it has never received the calling of divine enlightenment?"

He had received only the creation of one maker and the torment of one mad craftsman.

"All human knowledge should begin with experience," Peturabo said.

Before he spoke, countless thoughts automatically wove themselves into ropes and cables, forming an orderly interlaced net within the vast space of his mind. He let language travel along that net.

"No knowledge can arise before experience. From the representations cast by an object's stimulation of all our senses, we connect and distinguish the object's essence, turning sensory cognition into knowledge of the object. Understanding, sensibility, categories, time, space... Can you find clear evidence of the gods' existence in any experience?"

"Of course we can!"

The priest's fury used the little energy left in his frail body as wick and wax, burning in his clouded eyes. "Look at all the coincidences and fates in life. Are they not enough for us to comprehend the radiance of the gods?"

"All coincidences have causes and consequences. Things are inevitably interconnected. When you acknowledge coincidence, you deny the causes beneath appearances. You place the conclusion within the premise, refusing to obtain confirmation from experience."

"Things naturally have their connections. That law was established by our gods."

"I doubt it," Peturabo said bluntly.

"I do not accept such metaphysical assumptions about sensation, nor the assumption that some objective entity exists behind sensation. Therefore, I doubt it. Yet you never use reason to reflect upon your own speculations."

The priest sucked in a sharp breath and nearly choked on it. He violently pounded his chest with his fist until his face returned to its normal flushed color.

"What right do you have to doubt us? Can you prove that you have the right?"

Peturabo no longer concealed his mockery.

Tap.

The golden scepter struck the stone chair.

Dameks stared at Peturabo, a slight smile appearing on his face. "Child, tell me your name."

"Peturabo."

"Does it have any meaning?"

"I will give it meaning."

Dameks's smile widened. "Peturabo, forgive my courtiers. Perhaps at this moment, there truly is no more effective way to persuade them than proving your identity."

Peturabo looked at Dameks until the other man could no longer maintain his false smile. They both knew Peturabo had won one victory, and they both knew Peturabo would not be satisfied with merely one.

"You want to test me?"

"If you are willing."

"What will I gain?" Peturabo said. "One offering for one reward. What are you willing to exchange with me?"

"That will depend on the circumstances. I am not an unreasonable man. If you pass the test, make your request. I will not be stingy," Dameks promised.

Peturabo nodded. "Tell me the terms of the test."

Dameks raised a hand as he explained, "We will provide you with the finest forge, the best bellows and quenching pool, the newest anvil, and the finest steel."

The doors along the side of the hall opened at the king's raised hand. Someone was about to carry the tools into the hall on the spot.

Peturabo's nails dug crescent marks into his palms.

See? You brought this on yourself. Mors said, lounging in a wicker chair with one leg crossed over the other.

Peturabo finally turned and glared at him. He had no desire whatsoever to know where Mors had produced that wicker chair from, or how he had made the entire hall ignore him slumped in it and swaying back and forth.

"I cannot begin forging now," the boy said stiffly. Fortunately, he disguised his confidence well enough. "As I said, I am not god-descended. I need to learn."

"How long will you need to learn?" Dameks's expression remained unmoved.

"One day will be enough."