Selections

"My life is over!" A mad-drunk Kistur tore into the ribs Taylor had hoped to save for breakfast. "What in Ashnut are you drinking?"

"Small beer. Well, barley tea, basically."

"More like barely beer. Don't you have anything stronger?"

"Not when you're already drunk."

Kistur glared at Taylor and kept eating. "You know who got a class? That miller's girl I saved from this pig." He dropped the meatless rib and grabbed another. "The Giver passed me over and gave a class to her. Milling! That's her class! Milling! What a waste."

"It's not a waste. There's a good reason Knexenk doesn't only give out combat classes. Imagine a world divided into gifted fighters and everybody else. No scholars or farmers or anything. I think she tries to keep a kind of balance."

"Ballance. Sure." Kistur chugged what beer was left in the pitcher. "Do you think it's true you can take someone's class if you kill them? Maybe I can force Miller into Swordmaster."

Taylor stared at Kistur, while Kistur stared at his ravaged plate as if he could will it to produce more food.

"I think that's the most unworthy thing I've ever heard you say. And you can't blame it on a curse."

"But what if you could? Take someone's class. You find someone bad who just got a class, and take it from them. I don't care what it is. If I had one, I could make it into what I want."

"That's the same as ignoring the class and developing innate skills instead. If you're going down that path, you might as well skip the murdering part."

Kistur's frustrations were churning under his skin, clenching his muscles and scrunching his brow.

"The murder scheme wouldn't work, anyway. Classes are blood-bound so they can't be stolen. You'd have to keep your victim alive, indefinitely, and transfer their blood to your veins. Forever. But you'd still have to find a way to steal their class first. It's not something I can help you with."

"Right. Because you're the nice one. There has to be something you can do. You know things. Weird things." Kistur laughed mirthlessly. "You have a house full of gods and your favorite is Shitukan."

"What makes you say that?"

"It's not hard to figure out, Bilius. He has the dominant spot in your favorite room. The library."

"Fine. I won't deny it. But I don't know if I can do anything about your situation." His heart went out to his frustrated, talented friend. He was far from perfect, but he was the only person who came around on a regular basis when he didn't have to. Kistur wasn't an employee nor did he have a duty towards Taylor. He just came to spar and hang out afterward, and he stayed until the curse started to annoy him. It worked.

"I don't know what I can do, but I can try some things. You're going to put on tea and sober up. I'm going to look at books. We'll leave here after midnight."

The Knexenk situation was tricky. The Church of Divine Gifts was the state church of the Gordian Empire, and they worshiped her as their primary goddess. But she wasn't a goddess at all. She was a construct, put in place to guide people to achieve greater power so they could thrive. He knew this because he'd lived in system worlds before, and the class systems he knew were definitely not gods. If they seemed intelligent, it was because someone or something acted through them.

The gods wouldn't answer his questions about Knexenk, except to confirm they were the ones who made it. According to his older, Arcaic texts, when never-before-seen classes or skills were created, it was probably the gods at work. For reasons Taylor didn't understand, gods were limited in how they could act in the mortal realm. If access to Aarden's system was relegated to a rare few, and all of them were human, then the gods had a very narrow window to work through.

None of which made it Taylor's problem to care about. As far as the gods were concerned, mortals like him were just ants in a sandbox. They might take an interest in the odd mortal now and then, but they expected mortals to die. It was only a question of how and when. But the gods cared very much about the sandbox. Hence Taylor's current worry.

If the gods created Knexenk, they did so because humanity (in the larger sense, including Beastkin, Elves, etc) needed it. It was a necessary part of the sandbox. But the empire was throttling the distribution of classes, probably to prevent the rise of competition and keep the Arcaics from gaining too much power. It was likely why the Gordian Empire was shrinking: they didn't have the strength to fight off all the monsters anymore, but the rifts between races made giving them classes a terrible risk.

But, if Taylor did figure out how to get a class for Kistur, there would be complications. Authorities would want to know how it was done. It could cause trouble for Curator Jane, and Jane would immediately suspect Bilius.

Then again, if several people got classes, including non-combatants who could help Mourne, and he was nowhere near when it happened, Jane wouldn't think it was him. Or, she'd know for sure it was him but have plausible deniability.

Taylor started pulling books, everything he had about Knexenk that wasn't vacuous praise. The Church of Divine Gifts printed a yearly roster of everyone with a class. Taylor had last year's copy, and a quick sampling showed about ten percent of granted classes were combat-related.

The selection rituals varied from one part of the Empire to the next. In some provinces, people massed together on special days to test all the children who turned twelve over the previous year. In others, it was a private affair with only family and a priest in attendance. In all of them, a priest invoked the goddess' name in prayer while the supplicant put his or her hand on the statue's feet. The words of the prayer didn't seem to matter. However, the priest mattered a great deal.

Taylor found Kistur banging kitchen cabinet doors, looking for something to add to his tea.

"Who performed the ceremony today? Was it the usual priest?"

"They brought in some guy from Bostkirk to do it."

"Is he still in town?"

"Are you kidding?" Kistur slammed the cupboard doors shut. "He shot out of there by fast coach. Couldn't get away from us fast enough. Are you seriously telling me your cook doesn't keep a secret stash somewhere?"

"Stop that. In fact, forget about staying awake. Go to sleep in the room next to mine. It used to be the nursemaid's, but Chambers keeps it clean."

"What happened to setting out after midnight?"

"Cancelled. I'm setting out now. If this works the way I think it does, you need to be awake early tomorrow to get your class."

"You're joking! You figured it out?"

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

"Possibly. If I'm wrong, I'll think of something else."

"Let's finish this tonight! Right now. I'm coming with you."

"You are not. I need you to stay out of this part of it. Just like I need to not be there when you get your class."

"I know what you're doing. You're just getting a class for yourself!"

"Kistur," Taylor said empathetically. He reached up to hold the taller boy's shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. They stood like that, in silence, one expecting the other to speak.

"What are you doing … " Slow to catch on, Kistur learned what it was like to be targeted by a sleep spell.

The church was easy to find, as it was the tallest building near the center of town, one block away from City Hall. It was the only church in town, overlarge for little Mourne, shaped like an auditorium big enough to seat the entire town and all the surrounding hamlets, with room left over for visiting relatives. Only the granaries were taller, but nothing else in town was as grand.

Technically, the church was open all day, every day, so parishioners could come whenever they needed to. That's not to say a priest would be on duty to welcome them, but the gods were always there, and candles were always burning. Taylor slipped into the empty church wearing dark clothes and a dark mask.

Knexenk stood over the pews, ten feet tall and bursting with gifts, mainly in the chest area. She looked a little bit like Pachemani, Goddess of Nature. But if that was the sculptor's intent, then he'd never met her in the void. The other gods, the ones he knew, were relegated to less-than-lifesized, mid-relief carvings behind the busty Giver.

Taylor threw some mana at the idol, which it drank up eagerly. He tried speaking to it in Mi'iri. "Knexenk, show interface."

Class Station EfMourne Locked.

Enter Passphrase.

The words appeared in mid-air, in an old mode of Orlut, visible to anyone in the room. Since Taylor hadn't let the class system inside his head, Knexenk couldn't talk to him or display screens that only he could see. He looked over his shoulder, to make sure nobody else had wandered in.

The priests who managed the granting system probably didn't think anyone would come along and know how to mess with it. Most priests didn't have classes and couldn't control mana, so they lacked a way to activate Knexenk. That was why Mourne had to bring in a priest from Bostkirk to do their selection ceremony. The priests who performed the ceremonies all had classes and could enable the statues with a thought, without anyone else seeing the control screen. Taylor guessed that, outside of specially blessed priests, few people knew the Giver statues were just praxes for a bundle of class-management spells.

He could probably find his way through the system if he could get past the initial security. He could try the usual passwords everyone used when they thought their systems were safe. Or, he could cheat. Taylor happened to know someone with much higher access than he did.

"If you don't mind," he said to the wall of gods, leaning to get a view of them around Knexenk's endowments, "I'm going to use the universal default password. Here we go."

He thought the Mi'iri characters for solid, liquid, gas, plasma, thought, and mana. The ideograms combined to form one giant character that meant 'everything' or 'the universe'. It was a kind of Mi'iri joke. What's the password? Every word that exists.

Class interface: inactive

Classes available: 0 / 100

"Add a little mana …" Taylor gently pushed mana at the statue until he was satisfied, and enabled the interface.

Class interface: active

Classes available: 4 / 100

"Knexenk, hide interface." The window disappeared. Pleased with himself, he said a prayer of thanks to the gods of Aarden before leaving.

And was promptly dragged into their void.

"Are you sure you don't want a class?" All of them were present now, in the void with him, more than he'd ever seen at one time. But it was Strife who spoke. "It would be easy."

"I'm not twelve yet, so it would be highly suspicious. More suspicious than I am already. Jane is watching me. And I haven't forgotten Ophelia and her furball friend." There were questions he wanted to ask, but none the gods would answer. What was the deal with his curse? Could it be undone? Could Arcaics not get classes, or was the Emipre suppressing them? Why did the gods bring him to Aarden?

"Taking a class would speed your growth, and you could seize the answers to all your questions." Their anticipation pressed on him. While his spirit was in the void, his mortal body was sweating through his clothes. This wasn't a hint. The Gods of Aarden wanted Taylor to take a class. Tonight. Maybe he should, since he would probably take one eventually. It would make things easier. People would respect him more.

But systems had a way of railroading people. Knexenk would present him with quests and skills related to what he'd done so far, without regard to his unexplored wishes. A few steps too many in the wrong direction, and he'd end up with a log full of regicide quests and nothing else. He didn't want to spend his time worrying about how to optimize experience point gains. Taylor was freer without a system constantly trying to shape him.

The longer he considered, the more the gods' wills pressed him. They said that he could be himself, the first time they met, and he didn't like this sudden heavy-handed treatment. Teaching him weird chess was one thing, but this wasn't what they promised. They were trying to take his choices away from him.

"No," he denied them on principle. "Please return me to the mortal realm."

He staggered into a pew on cramped legs and tried to catch his breath. The first predawn light was creeping in the windows. They'd kept him for a long time. Was Strife trying to get him in trouble? Or was he messing with the mortal just because he could?

As soon as he could stand, Taylor slipped from the church and ran for home. He had come by foot because it was quieter than being mounted, and someone might recognize Ted. He regretted the decision, now that Strife had a go at him and took up all night. But that's what body enhancements were for. He avoided the few other people he saw in town, saw nobody on the road, and ghosted into the mansion before the servants came to work.

"Get up! It's bath time!" Kistur woke with a start where Taylor had left him: in the parlor, on the floor, with a pillow and a thin blanket.

"Will there be hot water?" groaned his guest.

"No."

"Then I'm going back to sleep. Wake me when Chambers makes some hot water. And breakfast. Lots of breakfast."

Taylor hit him in the head with a throw pillow. "You're getting a class today. But not until you take a bath and we've talked." That woke him up.

"You will pick three people you know in town. All humans. No demis. You will tell them you had a dream or an inspiration or a message from the gods. I don't care what, as long as it does not involve me. You will take your three friends to the church to witness you getting a class. Touch the statue's feet, call her name, and plead for a class. Do not demand a class. If you did that and the church found out, they might kill you."

They sat on stone benches in the center of Blake's garden, surrounded by fragrant herbs, tall trellises of beans, and the occasional decorative flower bed. Taylor had ordered Blake to give them privacy, and the other servants were in the house. They were unlikely to be overheard.

"That's it?"

"No, that is not it. After you, each of your witnesses will do the same, and they will also get classes. Probably production classes of some kind, but that's great for Mourne. We can use them."

Kistur's eyes went round. Four classes. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything. You showed up last night, drunk and angry, raving about how you didn't get a class, ate my food, drank my beer, and talked yourself to sleep. While you were sleeping, you had your inspiration. I have a dozen gods in the house, so it's believable. I woke you up and made you take a bath because you stink. You told me about your dream (or whatever), asked for my advice, and I told you to leave and follow up without delay. And here we are."

Taylor made him repeat the instructions three times and then sent him down the drive without breakfast. "You're following an invitation from the gods," he told the grumbling quester, "eat when you're done."

But Taylor's attempt at tough friendship was ruined by Chambers. She ran out of the house with Kistur's breakfast wrapped in flatbread and pressed it into his hand.

"Come back soon," he called to Kistur's back, "we have stuff to talk about!"

Kistur waved goodbye and stuffed a third of the wrap into his mouth on the first bite.

"Chambers, I was attempting revenge on him, for keeping me up last night. You interfered."

"I noticed, Young Master. But we couldn't let a guest leave the house hungry. Not with her watching us." She glanced through the open door into the entrance hall where Bona's Moya stood in her welcoming glory.

"For Moya then." Taylor clapped his hands at the idol and offered her a serving of grudging respect. They had a point. Even annoying guests deserved some hospitality.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.