The Cup and the Crown

by Diane Stanley

  She’d never lied to Tobias before. She didn’t like to do it now. But she did.

  “We left Faers-Wigan and went to the town where my grandfather was born. It’s to the north and east of Austlind, and it’s called Einarstadt. We met my cousin Jakob there, and he agreed to make us a cup. But it took him several weeks, so we had to wait. Einarstadt didn’t have an inn—it’d burned down the year before—so we lodged with the villagers. I stayed with my cousin. You stayed with Richard Strange. We all became very fond of one another, and they decided to come back with us to Westria. Now we’re on our way home.

  “That’s what you will remember.”

  She gazed down at Tobias, deep in unguarded sleep, the little dog cradled in the crook of his arm and a small stone glowing on his forehead. He seemed at peace now, and she was glad, for those long days he’d spent in that tomb of a tunnel, alone but for Constance and the rats, digging his way out, fearing for Molly’s safety, knowing he was powerless to help her, had damaged him somehow.

  Now those memories were gone, and with them the pain. They were erased forever from his heart and mind. For good measure, just in case, she gave him one final gift.

  “You were helpful to everyone, especially to Molly. You said funny things and made her laugh. And the whole time—every single minute, waking or sleeping—you were happy.”

  There. It was done.

  As she sang the Song of Remembrance again, closing the loop and completing the enchantment, her voice broke; and she felt a wave of unaccountable grief pass over her. She didn’t understand it, but it had something to do with the sweetness of his sleeping face and the surety that nothing would ever be the same again.

  She removed the stones from his forehead and his chest. And then, impulsively, she leaned down and kissed his stubbly cheek. He sighed in his sleep and smiled.

  As the night drew on, Molly worked the same magic on Winifred, Stephen, and Richard, adjusting the story slightly for each one as needed.

  Mayhew she’d left for last. And as with Tobias, she gave him an extra gift: a vivid memory of a day he’d gone out riding in the countryside. He’d been restless hanging around Einarstadt while Jakob made the cup, so he’d gone down to the river and rested there for a while.

  Alaric had come into his mind then, and it had struck Mayhew suddenly, with the force of a blow, how very wrong he’d been about him. Yes, he was young and inexperienced in war, but he had a subtle mind and enormous courage. Mayhew might have acted as a father to the boy, supporting and encouraging him, helping him to grow into a great king. Instead, he’d schemed against him, mocking him behind his back and stirring up discontent among the nobles.

  Oh, the tragedy of lost opportunity! He would confess it all to the king as soon as he returned to Dethemere. If it cost him his life, so be it.

  Just then a fish had leaped out of the water, glittering silver in the afternoon sun—and Lord Mayhew had known, without the whisper of a doubt, that it had been a sign. Alaric would forgive him. They’d make a new beginning.

  Molly smiled as she gave him this memory. It would do a powerful lot of good. It hadn’t been part of the plan, and Sigrid might disapprove, but she didn’t think so.

  Now she sang the Song of Remembrance one final time. When she’d finished, Mayhew’s enchantment complete, she left him and knelt in the grass, one stone in each hand, palms toward the sky. As she said the Incantation of the Stones in reverse, they grew dull and cold, their magic gone. She put them back where she’d found them and went to sit beside her cousin.

  “Jakob,” she whispered into his ear. “Jakob!”

  “What’s the matter?” he said, startled.

  “Shhh. Don’t wake the others. I have something to tell you.”

  He rubbed his face, then sat up and crossed his legs.

  “The secret of Harrowsgode is safe now,” she said. “I laid an enchantment on each of them, removing all memory of their time in the city. They think we’ve been in a place called Einarstadt, in the northeast corner of the kingdom. Try to remember the name. That’s where we met you and Richard.”

  “They taught you that at Harrowsgode Hall—how to do spells and charms?”

  “No. I learned it from Sigrid tonight.”

  “Sigrid Morgansson? Of the Council?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she hiding behind a bush somewhere?” He smiled as he asked it.

  “No. She’s here. And here.” She touched her head and her heart, knowing that he would understand. “She guides me now.”

  “You are a true Magus Mästare, then, whether you’re in Harrowsgode or not.”

  “I’m more than that, as you shall hear. But listen, Jakob. Wouldn’t you like to see Laila again? See Sanna all grown up? Lorens, too—maybe in garnet robes next time? You might even find it in your heart to forgive your parents. I have.”

  “Don’t, Molly! Do you think it was easy for me to walk away from them like that, knowing I could never return?”

  “But you can—that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Something happened tonight that changes everything. Jakob, remember in the garden when you said Harrowsgode folk only clasped hands with those they love and trust?”

  He nodded.

  “You said it was because Harrowsgode folk reveal ourselves when we touch; and for those with the Gift it comes pouring out of us like —”

  “—water running downhill.”

  “—laying all our secrets bare. Well, tonight I’m like that water, so full of things to tell you that it wells up in me fit to bursting and must come rushing out. I ask you to clasp hands with me tonight, as cousins, with love and trust. And I will show you everything.”

  Then she reached out her hands, and Jakob took them.

  40

  The Cup

  THEY’D ARRIVED AT THE INN late that afternoon. Dinner was over now, the landlord had cleared away the dishes, and the others had gone upstairs to bed. Only the cousins had remained behind.

  Jakob held a plain wooden box. It had been beside him on the bench all during dinner. Now he handed it nervously to Molly, wishing there’d been time to commission a proper presentation case—something made of ebony, say, carved with initials or a coat of arms.

  She looked up at him and smiled.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Open it.”

  She took off the lid, handed it to Jakob, then lifted out the package that lay nestled inside.

  He’d wrapped it in layer after layer of silk, each of a different color, so that first there was emerald green, then scarlet, then saffron, then robin’s-egg blue. Molly admired each one—so lovely—but really, he needn’t have gone to all that trouble!

  The final layer of silk—cloud white—dropped into her lap, and at last she held it in her hands: the Loving Cup. And it was a marvel.

  The base, bold and masculine, was gilded and embellished with translucent enamels, pictures of delicate flowers and mythical beasts, framed in silver filigree. But the bowl of the cup was disarmingly simple, made of beaten silver. So perfect was its shape and size, so glorious its luster, that the base with all its knobs, and cartouches, and ornate decorations seemed to be reaching up in praise of the vessel itself, which was too perfect to require any ornament at all.

  Molly said not a word, just laid the cup in her lap and gazed thoughtfully at the fire. Jakob felt the waves of disappointment rolling off of her.

  “It’s not right, is it? There’s something wrong.”

  Still she was silent.

  “I tempered the metal with my blood, just as William did.”

  “It’s beautiful, Jakob,” she finally said. “A masterpiece. A fitting gift for the greatest princess in the world.”

  “But . . .”

  “That’s all it is. A sip from this cup will not join two people together for life.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “Jakob—is this the cup you saw in your vision?”

  “Yes. To the last detail.”

  �
��The inside of the bowl was silver, not gold?”

  “Absolutely. That isn’t what you saw?”

  “No. In my vision, it was gilded. It glowed like the very sun.”

  “I don’t understand that.”

  “Nor do I, but it has to mean something. You were supposed to make this cup, just as you saw it. And I was meant to give Alaric . . . a different cup. . . .”

  “No,” he said, “the same cup. It just—”

  “—isn’t finished!”

  “Yes. I was meant to do what only a silversmith can. And I did. I made the cup that was shown to me in my vision. But you saw the cup in its final form. Molly, we were meant to finish it together.”

  “But how?”

  “You’ll see,” he said.

  41

  Blood and Fire

  THEY SAT SIDE BY SIDE at a long worktable, each wearing a leather apron. They were in a famous goldsmith’s workshop that had served the royal house of Westria for many generations. But on this particular day the shop was quiet, the apprentices and journeymen off for the day and the doors shut to customers. Molly and Jakob were alone there except for the master goldsmith, who sat politely at the far end of the table and never left off watching them. They’d paid him handsomely for the use of his shop; but he didn’t know them, and he had a fortune in jewels and precious metals to protect.

  “In this bowl,” Jakob was explaining to Molly, “we have powdered gold. And in this one we have mercury.”

  “It looks like liquid silver.”

  “Yes. It’s called ‘quicksilver’ for that very reason. Now in a moment I’ll heat them both in the furnace. The gold will melt into a liquid, and the mercury will become thinner and more watery. Then I’ll mix them together—six parts of mercury to one part of gold.”

  “What am I supposed to do? We were meant to do this together.”

  “And so we will,” he said, pulling his knife from its scabbard and setting it down before her. “We’ll start right now, in fact—because there’s a third ingredient that’s not in the usual formula.”

  She cocked her head.

  “Blood, Molly—remember? And apparently it has to be yours. That’s why you saw gold inside the cup when I saw silver. The enchantment comes with the gilding.”

  She nodded, then studied her hand, back and front. At last she took up the dagger and made a neat slice, not too deep, right over a web of tiny veins near the spot where her thumb met the wrist. Holding her hand over the bowl, she watched the scarlet drops fall onto powdered gold. When she judged it was enough, she looked up at Jakob, who was ready with a strip of gauze to bind her wound.

  “Excuse me,” said the goldsmith, rising to his feet. “Why did you do that?”

  “Ah,” said Jakob. “We temper the metal with blood. An old trick from Austlind.”

  “Wouldn’t chicken blood do just as well?”

  “No doubt. I didn’t think you’d have any on hand.”

  “But the lady—”

  “The lady is fine,” Molly said.

  He sat down again.

  Jakob set the two bowls into the forge with tongs, then pumped air onto the coals with a bellows. When enough time had passed, he removed them again and set them on the table. Then he poured the molten gold into the bowl of mercury, raising up a cloud of smoke.

  “Now stir it with this,” he said, handing her an iron rod. “Faster. Mix it really well.”

  While she stirred, Jakob opened the box that held the cup. He made rather a ceremony of removing the silk wrappings, for the entertainment of the goldsmith, who was leaning forward now, curious.

  “Where did you get that, young man?” he asked.

  “I made it,” Jakob said, smiling at the man’s astonishment. “Now, I’ll need some aqua fortis, if you please, to prepare the cup for the gold. And a strip of chamois too.”

  When the inside of the cup was ready, cleaned of oils and dirt, the surface bitten by the acid in the aqua fortis so the gilding would stick, Jakob squeezed the mercury out through the chamois, leaving mostly gold behind. It was thicker now, the consistency of butter, and yellower than before; but it didn’t really look like gold.

  “Don’t worry,” he told Molly. “There’s still a lot of mercury in with the gold. We’ll burn it off in a minute. But for now we have a nice soft paste you can easily paint onto the cup.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. I’ll show you.”

  Molly worked with careful, patient strokes, smoothing out ridges, filling in any spots she’d missed. But it wasn’t perfect, and it didn’t look gold.

  “Well done,” Jakob said, making a few minor touch-ups.

  Once again the goldsmith interrupted. “Excuse me, young man, but I’m a bit concerned about your enamels. Might I suggest—?”

  “It’s all right. I have a solution. See what you think.”

  “What’s the matter with your enamels?” Molly asked.

  “We have to heat the cup to drive off the mercury. It’ll turn to smoke and fly off into the air, leaving just the gold behind. Normally we’d put the cup right into the furnace, but we can’t do that because I’ve already done the enamels; and since they’re made of glass, they’ll melt. But we can work around it. It’ll take a lot longer, and we’ll sweat like a pair of lost souls in hell; but it’s more poetic, I think. You shall hold the fire, and I shall hold the cup.”

  Jakob took a clean linen cloth and folded it, as though to make a bandage or a blindfold, and tied it around Molly’s mouth and nose to protect her from the fumes. Then he made a mask for himself. Finally he wrapped the base of the cup in many layers of wet rags to keep it cool and to protect the enamels.

  “All right, cousin,” he said, “I want you to take those tongs and find yourself a nice, hot coal. Good. Now hold it inside the cup, but try not to touch the surface of the gold. It’s not easy, I know. I’ll take a turn when you get tired.”

  It wasn’t easy, and it took hours. Their arms ached, the fumes stung their eyes, and the heat was almost unbearable. At one point the goldsmith offered to help, but Molly sent him away. And slowly, coal by coal, the mercury was driven off into the air, leaving gleaming gold behind.

  “What do you think?” Jakob said as he wiped the cup clean. “How does it look?”

  “It glows like the sun.”

  “Pick it up.”

  “I don’t need to. I already know the answer.”

  “Pick it up anyway. I want to do this properly.”

  “All right.” She stood and held the cup exactly as she’d seen him holding it in her visions, at about chest height, like an offering. “This chalice,” she said softly so only he could hear, “is not merely a beautiful work by a great artist; it is a true Loving Cup. It has the power to bind two souls together for life, to bless their children and their children’s children down through the generations. Thank you, Jakob.”

  While Molly was wrapping the cup in its silken swaddling clothes, the goldsmith came over to Jakob. “Are you a licensed journeyman, lad? I believe you must be, though you look quite young.”

  “I’ve served out my apprenticeship, but I left Austlind before I was able to prove my competence.”

  “Would you like to work for me? I’ll see you through the approval process with the guild. It should be easy. You have only to show them that cup, and they’ll grant you journeyman status right away.”

  “The cup is not available,” Molly said. “It’s a gift for the king.”

  “For the king! Well, I imagine he’ll be very glad to own such a beautiful piece.”

  “He will,” she said. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Then you’ll just have to make something new. I’ll pay you full journeyman’s wages, right from the beginning, even before you receive your papers. Watching you just now, I was most impressed.”

  “He isn’t interested,” Molly said, setting the lid on the box.

  “I don’t mean to offend, lady, but shouldn’t the young gentleman speak for himself
?”

  “I suppose. But I rather think he’ll be setting up his own shop. He’ll be coming into a lot of money soon. The king is famous for his gratitude.”

  “A partnership, perhaps. We might consider—”

  “Thank you, Master Goldsmith, for your generous offer. And thank you, Cousin, as well. But I’d rather wait a while before deciding what to do. I just might be going home.”

  42

  Once Again in the Garden

  THE GARDEN WAS FADING now. The roses and the lilies were over, and some of the beds were bare, the withered plants cut back to the ground. But the trees were bursting into autumn color. Red and yellow leaves covered the ground. As they walked the paths arm in arm again, Molly could feel the change. The world was shifting toward winter.

  Nothing in nature ever stayed the same. Not even Alaric. Not even Molly.

  “Stephen says you returned three days ago,” said the king. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I was up north hunting, if you can believe it, entertaining a pompous duke and a brace of arrogant lords.”

  “Did you kill anything?”

  “I did, much to the astonishment of my guests, who think me a pup and a weakling—though one could hardly grow up at King Reynard’s court, as I did, without learning how to use a bow.”

  “It was a success, then?”

  “No one pulled a dagger on me.”

  “Is it really that bad?”

  “No. I exaggerate. A little.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, thinking.

  “Molly, I had a private interview with Lord Mayhew this morning. At his request.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, I imagine you do—better than I, most likely. I should have been more forthright with you, about why I chose him to guide you into Austlind.”

  “That’s all right. I figured it out.”

  “You did?”

  “It wasn’t that hard. How did the interview go?”

  “I won’t reveal everything he said, though I doubt any of it would surprise you. He confessed things to me that he needn’t have, practically laid his head out on the chopping block and invited me to have the thing off. Pride, I suppose. He’s a man of honor, determined to take his licks when he feels they’re deserved.”