Chapter 26
Information and its Sources
Desdemona rode in through the gates of heaven. When she had gained enough altitude to separate her from mortal concerns, her horse transitioned the planes to the god's realm. Great bronze giants guarded the gates, their axes held high in eternal vigilance. No sign would they give of their disapproval until they struck. Certainly her demon parentage was clearly evident to them, let alone the full demon blood of her horse. But she had the blessing of Grania, and they should know that. Even so, she always felt uncomfortable beneath their axes.
She landed just through the gate, and left her horse to feast on Demara's gift in its steel mesh nosebag. There were many more guardians in the lands. The giants obeyed the will of the gods. The rest had some element of will themselves, and were more prone to be biased by her origins than her mission. It was just simpler to move on herself.
Great amber fields lay resplendent ahead of her. They grew without weeds and without tending. There were, though, people scattered throughout them, harvesting by hand or by tool. The labor was not one of necessity, but one of devotion. The work was not hard, the good grain came away effortlessly and there was never any rot or worm. As she progressed inwards she passed great threshing stations, where many more worked their ritual devotions, singing hymns to Grania.
Many times, when her messages were not urgent, Desdemona joined in. But not today. Her message was too weighty and the discussion with Demara echoed in her head as she walked. Were these eternal souls here for their benefit, or for the gods? Was the mana they generated by their devotions freely given, or extracted. She supposed the test for that would be if one wished to stop. Would they still be tolerated in the divine realm? But that was a pointless question. Those that were here were here because of their adoration of the goddess. The same for each of the other realms. They would never wish to stop because this was the culmination of their life's hope.
But what of those who were not so devout? There was penance for some, until they mended their ways. The truly unrepentant were often traded to the demons. Was this just deserts, or an intricate selection process?
Desdemona was now passing the mills. Great windmills turned some, waterwheels others and some were driven by oxen. Everywhere the piles of grain heaped up going in, and sacks of flour leaving. Wheat, barley, rye, oats, millet, and other varieties that she didn't have the training to distinguish. All grades, as well, were there. From coarsely rolled to finely crushed.
The sentinels stationed there gave her wary looks, but did not stop her. There was much more of a commotion here. Heaped tables extended in all directions. The flour was joined by produce and goods of all kinds from other areas of the realm. A great number of people bringing things to set out, and taking things away. And, yet, it was quieter than a mortal marketplace. What was missing was people hawking their wares. All here was freely produced, and free for the taking. Nothing ever spoiled. Nothing ever wasted.
Was this not perfection? Everyone's needs were met. Both the need to consume, and also the need to produce. All did so willingly, and no one was left out. No one was worried about their next meal, the size of their coin purse, if they'll have to sell everything before it rots, or even what time of day it was.
It was simple to say this was the same world that those with the New Magic sought to make. With enough power from whatever source they could probably use their magic to create such a thing. In theory. But would they, in fact? In her childhood she had seen plenty of human spite and small mindedness. She didn't trust that they would keep to their ideals. Some would reap the rewards, others would suffer the consequences. Maybe heaven was a dictatorship. If so, it was a benevolent one. Their origin didn't matter. The gods were a different order of being than the rest. They didn't have to compete with their subjects. So there was no scope for abuse. And strict custom kept them from competing with each other. It had to be a better choice. It was a better choice.
She had arisen from the forum up the steps past the terraces of bakeries. She smells of cooking drifted up, an offering in and of itself. She followed it to the colonnaded wings of the temple palace. The guards here were much sterner as she greeted them formally. But they knew her, expected her, and after their ritual exchange, she was allowed to pass. She passed several more as she made her way inwards, through more magnificently appointed porticos and rooms until she stood on the threshold of Grania's antechamber.
The final guardian had none of the martial trapping of the previous ones. She was a tall, matronly woman dressed in brown livery holding a sheaf of wheat.
“Sir Desdemona,” she said in greeting. “You return from your travels.”
“Greetings Dowager,” said Desdemona, bowing deeply. “I have done my lady's bidding and return to report. At her pleasure.”
The Dowager nodded slightly. She consulted her sheaf of wheat. “Please take your rest,” she indicated a nearby set of plush chairs and tables overflowing with food. “She is engaged right now. But I do not think she will be long.”
Desdemona bowed deeply again and retired to the chairs. She composed herself. Technically she had failed in her mission to return Demara to orthodoxy. However she felt that Grania did not actually expect her to succeed, and the message was merely a formality. It was to set the stage for whatever disciplinary action was to follow. Grania was a fair god, not given to the whim of changing moods. Desdemona did not fear being dealt with harshly. She reviewed her actions, and felt she had done her honest best. She became at peace.
“Sir Desdemona,” the Dowager called, not long afterwards. Desdemona stood and approached her. It seemed that the summons into the divine presence only came when she was ready for it. Briefly she wondered if the waiting had less to do with the god's schedule and more to do with her mental state.
“I thank you, my lady,” said Desdemona. The Dowager nodded and looked critically up and down Desdemona's tabard. Finding nothing amiss, she nodded to her. The doors opened to some unseen signal, and Desdemona approached the presence of her god.
The throne room was wide and circular. The main structure was made of brown stone marbled with white veins. Two pairs of columns held up the domed ceiling. The very top was pierced with a circular opening through which shafts of light came. Courtiers in blue and white stood in various positions, with small tables, chairs and couches of blue velvet and silver wood around the room. Small steps lead up from each circle of columns, and a final one to the dais in the middle. Desdemona stopped and kneeled at each one.
On the dais was a massive throne of the same brown marble. A larger than life woman sat in it, swathed in blue robes with a white belt and hem. Her skin was nearly as brown as the sheaf of wheat she held. She had golden hair, blue eyes and a kind face. Desdemona kneeled one last time before her and did not get up.
“Rise, my knight,” said Grania in a clear voice. “Let me look into your eyes.” Desdemona obeyed and the goddess's gaze held her a while. “How do you fare?”
“My heart has been troubled by my conversations with your priestess Demara,” said Desdemona. “But it is at peace once more in your realm.”
“I am glad you are at peace,” said Grania. “But, my priestess, she is still troubled?”
“Alas, my goddess,” said Desdemona. “She is still committed to her dissent.”
Grania sighed. “That is unfortunate.” Her fingers stirred her sheaf of wheat idly. “Did she speak of what troubled her most?”
“She wonders why, if the gods and men have the same goals, that there must be war,” said Desdemona.
Grania smiled. “She is very plain spoken. And very direct.” She sighed again and looked about her court. “Is this what troubled your heart as well?”
“Yes,” said Desdemona. She had full trust in the goddess and did not hesitate to hold anything back. “But when I arrived back, I was reminded of the good works of the gods and how they care for their own. This, in turn, reminded me of the works of man, and how they do not
. Men may profess the same goals, but their methods are otherwise and, I fear, they are not equipped to achieve them.”
Grania nodded, a bit distracted. “I am glad you are at peace,” she said again. She sighed again. “You visited her in one of the Romitu camps?”
“I did,” said Desdemona.
“How did you find it?” she asked.
“They were suspicious, but courteous,” said Desdemona. “They were not armies I had dealt with before, and were unfamiliar with me. But they offered me no harm, and stood to guard my steed while I did my business.”
“Which armies were there?” asked Grania.
“The 22nd and 31st,” said Desdemona, after a pause. “The Orcish and Amazon army.”
“Two armies?” said Grania. “That's quite a force. What appeared to be their primary activity?”
Desdemona paused again. “I believe they were building a sea wall. To protect the poorer quarters of the city.”
Grania nodded. “Were they full strength armies? Or have some of them stood down.”
“I,” said Desdemona hesitantly. “I am not sure. I did not look closely. Was my mission to deliver a message or to reconnoiter the camp?”
Grania sighed and paused a long time. “When I meet to pay homage to Hearth Mother she will ask of me what I know of our enemy's strengths.” She looked to her sheath of wheat again and searched amongst the stalks. “She will wonder why I tolerate my errant priestess so long, if not to use her for insight into our enemy.”
“Is it not enough that my lady is being gracious to her to encourage her back to orthodoxy?” asked Desdemona.
“Not for Hearth Mother,” said Grania. “I know she will not return, but for her own reasons.”
“Then why did you send me?” asked Desdemona. “If you knew she would not listen?”
“I am sure she listened,” said Grania. “And she may think more of it later. But she will not change her mind. Not right now. For she is right.”
“Right?” said Desdemona, taken aback.
“From her own world view,” said Grania, looking right at Desdemona and holding her gaze. Then she looked away. “She reminds me a lot of myself when I was mortal.”
Desdemona regained her composure. And, after a time, said quietly. “Will Hearth Mother not understand that? She is mother to us all.”
Grania shook her head. “Her thoughts are on much more lofty affairs. She does not remember when she was mortal.” She went back to looking into her wheat. “Someday when I attain such a refined state, I, too, will have my thoughts so elevated and not remember my days as a mortal.”
Desdemona looked down, not knowing what to say. Briefly her mind drifted back to her childhood. Before her taint became obvious. Running barefooted in the sparse grass of the rocky island her fishing family called home. She looked up she saw Grania was watching her.
“Hold on to your happy memories of home,” she said. “They will be an anchor for you when you have to make difficult decisions.”
Desdemona nodded. “What will you tell Hearth Mother?”
“I have come about some other information of Romitu and their plans. By other means that would not be politic to reveal.” She looked off into the distance. “If she brings up the subject of my priestess I shall inform her of what I know. I think it would be of sufficient interest to her to distract her. She can draw her own conclusions as to where the information came from.”
Desdemona looked upon her apprehensively, and then kneeled again. “And what would you have your servant do?”
Grania took a moment to notice. “Return to the world. Go home if they would welcome you. Or serve the needs of any of my temples. I will summon you when it is time.”
“As you wish, may it be so.”