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.
The magus stopped, seemingly at random in the middle of a thought, and asked
if anyone had a question. Half the hall rose. He looked nonplussed at the
response. Even the wyverns flying across the ceiling seemed to peer
bewilderedly down at him.
“I have as well,” the king said, quieting the hall again. “But perhaps
Mystes Ruxley’s thoughts on the matter will answer some of our questions.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” the mystes said with what sounded like equal
portions of indignation and relief. “And thank you, Lord Skelton, for a
presentation that was scholarly to the point of nebulousness.”
“You’re very welcome,” the magus said imperturbably.
“I’m sure the question uppermost in your thoughts is: Where should I look
for this vessel? In the sea? In the streets of Severluna? On a mountaintop?
Lord Skelton seems to think that it can be found only by not looking for it,
or only by those who have already found it. Some such. The vessel is formed in
the Severen; it might be somewhere along the river. Or at the estuary, where
the Severen meets the sea. There are, as well, references to the moon in her
aspects of child, queen, crone. The phases of the moon might suggest clues.
There is also a reference to Calluna’s cave. Perhaps there are ancient clues
on the walls of the cave, even an image of the vessel itself.” Lord Skelton
opened his mouth; the mystes lifted his hand. “Yes, yes, I know that every
scratch on the cave walls has been studied. But maybe that’s why the vessel
has not been found: Nobody would recognize it if they saw it. A cooking pot,
they might see. A simple drinking cup.” He paused, hearing his own words. “I
suppose,” he added reluctantly, “in that idea, Lord Skelton may be right.
Perhaps only the heart, not the eye, would recognize the power in it.”
Daimon, motionless in his chair, heard his mother’s voice again, on a noisy
street corner in Severluna, not far from where he had been born: Whatever
shape it has taken, you have the eyes, the heart to recognize it. Find it for
Ravenhold. Find it for us.
13
On the far side of the Hall of Wyverns, Pierce, sitting with a wyvern glaring
from the stones on one side of him, and Val in his formal black leather and
silk on the other, tried to render himself invisible. He was still in his
black server’s uniform; he would, Val assured him, be all but inconspicuous
wearing that among the knights. Two old men had been droning on the dais for
an hour, with the king between them. Pierce hadn’t heard a word they said. He
had taken one look at the king’s sharp, golden eyes, his strong, inscrutable
face, and his own head had tried to recede, turtle-wise, into his untidy
collar. He stared at his feet, waves of anticipation and dread rolling through
him, sweat running down his hair, down his back like brine.
Val turned to him once, his ice-blue eyes wide. Calm, they said. Calm. Pierce
swallowed dryly, kept sweating.
There was a sudden stir throughout the hall. Something had happened; knights
turned to speak to one another; others rose. Pierce jumped at the touch of Val
’s hand.
“We’re taking a break,” Val explained, and stood up. “Come on, let’s find
my father. Our father,” he amended, as Pierce stared at him incredulously.
“I can’t go out there among the knights. Not like this. If I even stand up,
I’ll melt into a puddle of kitchen-server black on the floor.”
His brother’s brows crooked. “You’ve come this far,” Val reminded him.
“Just a little farther—” Something in Pierce’s expression, his
inextricable huddle, made him relent. “Stay here, then. I’ll find him. Don’
t go anywhere.”
He shifted his way through knights down the aisle, then disappeared among
them. Pierce slid down in his chair a few more inches and closed his eyes.
They flew open again as a hand clamped onto his shoulder.
“What are you doing in here?” a voice barked indignantly into his ear. The
hand pulled him to his feet; by some miracle, he stayed on them. “You’re
that kitchen knight. You were on the field. You had no business there; you
have even less business here. Wearing black doesn’t make you a knight any
more than climbing over a wall to wave a knife around on the practice field.”
Pierce, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, gazed speechlessly at the
knight who had dragged him out of his chair. He wore his sandy hair in a
tightly shaped bristle that peaked down his forehead and along his ears like
spearpoints. Even under his quilted jacket, Pierce could see muscle. His long,
lean face was pinched with extreme irritation.