Using her two hands to illustrate her point, Ocyrhoe said, “The man is nothing alone, and the cup is nothing alone, but when the man works with the cup”—here she brought her hands—palms up—together, interweaving her fingers—“it is as if there is a...” She searched for the right word, and found one, floating there in her head as if it were waiting for her to latch onto it. As if whispered from someone else’s lips directly into her ear. “An alchemical change. They become more than the sum of their parts.”
Frederick sat back in his chair, his expression both piqued and hooded. “An interesting word choice, my young friend. Not the sort of explanation I would expect from a poorly dressed street rat.” His lips quirked around a smile. “Take no offense, please,” he said, anticipating her reaction. “Given the overbearing reach of the Church within Rome’s walls, it is surprising to find someone who knows of the concepts of al-kimia.”
He pronounced the word differently than she had, and instinctively she knew he was referencing an older tradition, much like the cloth merchants in the market would assess the quality of each other’s wares with cryptic references to the source of the materials. There was a light dancing in his eyes now, a flame of mirth that he was trying very hard to tamp down.
“It would seem remarkable how similarly our minds work, wouldn’t it?” he asked. “But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” Clapping his hands together between his knees, he leaned forward. “Answer me this, then: why is not everyone affected by it? That is the part I cannot make sense of.”
“I think it has to do with any given person’s nature,” Ocyrhoe said. She suddenly felt shy. Answering the catechism of his first few questions had been awkward, but not entirely uncomfortable; now, something had changed in his demeanor, and his questions had a new intensity. He actually wanted to know her opinion, and she found the onus of providing useful information intimidating. “Perhaps in these days of such upheaval, when there is no Pope, when there are terrifying stories of invaders from the east, there are some people who wish to have an apparent savior appear, and so given the chance to believe they have seen one, they will believe.” She raised her shoulders. “Others do not.”
“I agree with that, but I cannot imagine anyone alive right now not wishing for some kind of savior to appear,” Frederick argued. “I wish it myself, and I’m the most dedicated atheist alive.”
“It... it isn’t about faith,” Ocyrhoe offered. “Consider this: Ferenc is absolutely devoted to Father Rodrigo; he loves him dearly, and he would believe anything the priest told him. But was Ferenc entranced by the cup? Even when Father Rodrigo brandished it?”
Frederick shook his head.
“Maybe, to him, it is just a cup. Maybe, it hasn’t occurred to him that such an object would be anything other than what it appears to be,” Ocyrhoe offered.
Frederick grimaced thoughtfully, looking at her, nodding slowly. “That is it,” he said conclusively. “Thank you. Such pure and clear understanding.” He sighed, and looked away from her for a long moment, staring out into the avenue where the life of the tent city continued to stream past. “Such maddening cleverness,” he said quietly, speaking not of Ocyrhoe but of someone else who was not present.
But who had been. Recently, Ocyrhoe suspected.
Eventually he turned back to look at her. “Given all this, then, would you take the cup away from the priest?”
Ocyrhoe frowned. “I already told you I will not steal it, not for the Church and not for the Crown. I don’t see how this conversation changes that.”
He held up a finger to his lip. “Soft, girl. Listen to me. I am not ordering you as a ruler. I am suggesting that you do this as a favor to the boy and to the priest himself. No good will come of that poor madman wandering through the wilderness, occasionally turning heads. He will inspire enough people that they may be moved to take action and raise arms against the Mongols. But—”
She raised her hand to protest, but he reached across the table and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her toward him. His pale blue eyes flared almost green.
“But,” he repeated in a low, intense voice, “and this is the most important but that you are going to hear in your young life, so listen to me. But he will not raise enough of a force to be effective against the invaders. If the Grail were truly some kind of holy relic, and the entire population of Europe really was moved to rise up against the Mongols, that would be one thing. But the fucking thing does not have that power. It is an illusion. The number who will be moved will be just large enough to convince themselves they are strong, but they’ll be wrong, and they’ll be slaughtered, and their families will be bereft. That is what will happen if Rodrigo keeps hold of that goddamned cup. The man and the cup must be sundered. It is the kindest thing that you can do for him. And for scores or maybe hundreds of families whose paths he is about to cross. Take the cup away from him.”
He stared into her eyes, and she saw sweat forming on his brow. He was barely controlling his breath. She realized, with shamed amazement, that he was speaking not as a conniver or controller, but as a ruler concerned about the well-being of those he ruled. A ruler who feared he, himself, was not strong enough to perform this task.
“Yes,” she said, suddenly frightened. “I will.”