Kingfisher(44)

“‘The young god felt the year dying within him. Frost whitened his bones, his brows, his lashes. The dying leaves in their journey floated through his veins, blocking light, blocking warmth from his heart’s blood. The voices of the birds cried of the coming end. They sang cold; they warned cold; they flew away and left the god to die. The old moon, the withering crone, showed no mercy, only cold. Animals fled from her, buried themselves in the earth. The pale webs of spiders, their tales, turned to ice and shattered.

“‘The god began to turn to ice, began to die.

“‘In his despair, he called to the vanished sun. He summoned its warmth, its fires into himself. With his power, a great mountain burst into flame in the snow. Ice melted from the cliffs carved by the footsteps of the river god. Stone itself melted. Stars of fire blazed like jewels and fell into the icy waters, warming them. The river ran gold with molten light. The wild, swirling waters, freeing themselves from the prison of ice, spun and spun. They shaped and fashioned. They made a vessel of pure gold, brought it into light. The pale moon, now the full and barren queen, reached down with her fingers of icy light to snatch the vessel, to steal its warmth and beauty as it whirled in the flow of the god to the sea.

“‘The moon caught it, held it in her fingers of mist. But the river god pulled it down into its rapid, foaming waters, pushed it down deep, hiding the brilliance from her. Weighed with the god’s great power, the vessel sank, warming the waters as it drifted down, turning over and over in the flow, filling and emptying, gold warming god, gold burning water as the great river flowed to meet the sea.

“‘The new moon, maiden now, made one last attempt to steal the god’s treasure. Her face looked down; she saw herself reflected in the river god’s face. She snatched the vessel his power had made, hid it there in her secret place, her pool buried under the earth. But the god found it and took it back. And he took her, for she was rightfully his, part of his great and powerful godhead.

“‘He bore her with him to the sea.

“‘There in the fountain of the world, the great cauldron of life, the vessel floats and falls, filling and emptying. The moon still searches, walking the path she weaves in the dark across the sea. The sacred vessel is now lost, now found, full and empty, carrying sun and moon, the power of water, of gold and god. It waits to be found. It is never lost. It waits.’”

“Little of that,” the magus said, his gray head with its furry brows and long mustaches rising unexpectedly like a wayward moon from behind his podium, “makes any sense whatsoever.”

“I am aware of that,” Mystes Ruxley answered acidly, looking a trifle unsettled by the apparition. “But, confused as it may be, it is the first written reference to the sacred vessel holding the god’s power. It is the tale most learn first.”

“For most, the only version they know.” Lord Skelton brought up his collection from the floor and dropped it onto the podium with a thud that made the microphone ring. “The dying and reviving god is certainly the central symbol of the tale. But it would be ridiculous for the king to send his knights out in boats searching for a floating bowl of gold. For one thing, that much gold would sink like a stone.”

“It is also light,” Mystes Ruxley reminded him, restored to equanimity by his pun. “Granted the tale is already muddled by antiquity, but it is a place to begin the discussion. The vessel has been, from very early times, an astonishing source of power. And you have come to the conclusion that it exists. Today. In this world. It can be found. We could argue that it must be, before the evil represented by the moon finds it first. If it is not in water, then where should the knights look?”

The magus’s brows peaked; lines fretted his forehead. “That is the mystery. My search into the early myths, the tale of the vessel at once empty and full, lost and found, the great cauldron of life, brought me to unexpected conclusions. The vessel can only be seen through the clarity of understanding. It must be named in order to be truly seen. It can only be truly seen by those who, in the most profound way, already possess it.”

“There must be something wrong with your translations,” the mystes said with asperity. “It is sacred, yes, but it’s also a physical object. You have been pursuing it for years, and now you are convinced that it exists to be found. Yet you say that it only exists for those who can see it? That makes no sense.”

Lord Skelton gripped his mustaches with both hands, a sign of mounting exasperation. “And you call yourself a mystes.”

“My lords, please,” the king said. Both men started as though one of the painted wyverns had spoken. “I understand that if it were a simple matter, the vessel would have been found long ago. It might help us if you present your ideas about the vessel without interruption. You can argue later. Lord Skelton?”

The magus presented his views with many rustlings of paper, much riffling through pages of books. Odd bits of arcane philosophy, ancient names and poetry, folklore and allusions to the writings of the early mystica formed a roiling sea in Daimon’s thoughts, upon which the golden vessel floated aimlessly. “You must see with your heart. The vessel will find you. It will recognize itself in you. The vessel belongs to anyone who desires it, but no one can possess it. Its powers are as ancient as the world; it holds all the mysteries of the world.”

One of which, Daimon noted, lay hidden in his father’s expression; the king listened to Lord Skelton without a thought revealing itself in his face, while all those amorphous ideas of power stirred to life under his roof.