“‘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?”