The Christening Quest

by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

  “Elixir of the gods, shall we say?” His Brilliance chuckled benignly. “You qualify. Enjoy it.”

  It was sweet and rather oily and went down smoothly. “Nice,” Rupert said. “Lovely goblets. Lots of nice glasswork in this region.” He had dozed fitfully for three hours in this room waiting for the High Priest. During that time, Brother Merryhue had kept the incense burning near his couch, which helped him relax, feel less upset about the situation, more willing to see the viewpoint of his hosts. He realized he had been rather selfish previously, insisting on having his own way. If it helped these people to worship him, who was he to deny them? On the other hand, part of him wasn’t willing to make any such concessions but wanted only to demand, “Just who and how many of your devotees am I supposed to sacrifice to myself?”

  “Crystal,” His Brilliance was saying. “We don’t make glass. We mine and carve crystal. It is useful for… holding things. And amplifying them.”

  “Amplifying?” Rupert asked, sipping.

  The High Priest shifted slightly in his seat, his half smile deepening into a sort of patriarchal contentment at being the holder and dispenser of wisdom. “How much magic have you practiced, my son?” he asked. It was neither an accusation nor an expression of awe, doubt, or fear. It was asked more in the tone of an innkeeper inquiring of another how many customers he had served.

  “Very little,” Rupert said. “My family has not, at least on my fathers side, bred magicians.”

  That caused the High Priests smile to deepen even more, which suited Rupert, who was beginning to think ever more highly of the man, of what an attractive person he was, of how comfortable this room was, this temple. All those nice little arched windows with the breeze from the river, the tinkle of chimes, the coolness of uncarpeted stone, the quartz tables, all very gracious, very distinctive.

  “You mustn’t apologize,” His Brilliance said. Rupert hadn’t realized he sounded apologetic. He hadn’t intended to. “I ask only to point out to you that you needn’t be anything more than you are to practice almost any sort of magic worth doing. Why, you could enchant rings around that slovenly girl you brought with you using the proper incantations, mordants, and agents.”

  Rupert’s head buzzed. He took another draught of the liquid to clear it. “Wait now. Incantations I’ve heard of. But mordants? Agents?”

  “You’ve encountered the agents already. They are the entities we will collect at the ceremony tonight for exportation. But first, in a separate set of bottles, we siphon the energy of the crowd—the fear, the anger, the blood lust, all of those wonderfully powerful feelings that, when bottled, add power to any incantation, any spell, making even the most minor of magicians able to work truly potent magic. Yes, indeed, it is the mordants and agents provided for us by the god you represent that bring us the prosperity and plenty we here in Gorequartz enjoy for the very nominal sacrifice of a few misfits and malcontents.”

  “Ah, prosperity and plenty. That is why the people don’t mind, eh?” Rupert slid down in his chair, most of him contented and wanting to smother with sleep the part that clamored against the inertia of his body, the lethargy of his spirit that made him listen so contentedly.

  “Why, they more than tolerate it, my son. They embrace it! My children love their God of Rainbows, his bounteous gifts of rain and sunlight that make the food grow, the mining easy, and the gold flow in from afar. The sacrifices add a little zest to life. Enjoy it while you can, you might be next, you see? And our system of selection does get rid of all of the scolds and rebels, the officious but inefficient official, the extra daughter, the unwanted relative. What other system does so much? Our ancestors, having a smaller population, were able to utilize the inferior folk they conquered in this region. Can you imagine a people so ignorant that they ignored the god in the bay, did not go near him? Instead, they worshipped some dingy woods goddess, a deity totally inappropriate to the climate and terrain, whom they credited with creating the crystal. The fools never even connected the rainbows or the crystal with the god, who was after all made of the stuff.

  “But we, who had for ages sacrificed to our battle god, Utur, saw him at once in the head in the harbor and embraced him. We decked him with flowers and fed him our enemies. He rewarded us, when we had discovered the secret of the pendant captured from the heathen witch, not only with victory, as your ordinary battle god might, but with an ongoing means of establishing a solid and flourishing economy, which is much rarer. No, no, my son, these people are not apt to return to the ways of darkness and dissidence for the sake of an unwanted relative or two. And the ceremonies themselves are such marvelous affairs. With your presence they’ll be that much more so. Why, using our enlightened process of collecting that wondrous energy obtainable only from those who die, not in battle or honorably or of old age, but deliberately, helplessly at the hands of their leaders under the eyes of their fellows, makes our ceremonies so much more fulfilling than they were. They were not so exciting before we discovered the use of the pendant and how it can be used to gather power in the person of the priest by channeling the storms’ power into him that he in turn may use it to set up the proper vibration in the bottles for sucking the spirits from the air, that he may meld them shut and seal them with the seal that binds them to service.

  “Now we can capture the screams, the pure elemental terror of the sacrificial delegate and use it productively to facilitate all manner of curses, spells, and enchantments, lending them power and weight not to be obtained in other times. I used just such a mordant to affect the spell on my dear Effluvia. I will use a similar mordant to release it, restoring her to her former beauty and grace. But you can see, it is a process to be proud of and one you may well feel privileged to be a part of. Why, the survivors of the delegates have often remarked to me what a comfort it is to know that no tiny portion of their contributing member’s Ultimate Ecstasy is going to waste.”

  Overhead the clouds had turned black. Suddenly a bolt of lightning cracked against the dome, flashing through the chamber with pure dazzling light before sheets of rain began rolling off the dome. The small part of Rupert that was not trained, not ensorcelled, not drunk, and no longer shielded from the force of the evil around him, stopped cowering for that flashing instant and cried out in protest, overturning the table and sending him lurching for the door. At that moment, someone called his name and a piece of the wall swung forward.

  The High Priest lunged for the door ahead of Rupert, but it opened before he reached it, and three lay brothers tumbled in. “Your pardon, Your Brilliance, but we had to report—”

  Carole and Jushia crowded at the entrance in the wall, beckoning frantically to Rupert, who tried to reverse course and stumble toward them.

  “We had to report that while trying to contain an outbreak of the marauding entities on the edge of the city, a group of palace guardsmen captured a band of thieves with the Princess in their possession. They have been taken to the holding tank for—”

  Carole ran into the room and grabbed Rupert’s arm, dragging him toward the secret exit while whistling a dance tune at the guards and the High Priest. Jushia pranced in the entrance, unable to resist the song. She dare not enter the room or be trapped but she was able to turn and set her dancing feet in the direction they wanted to go, to take herself out of Carole’s and Rupert’s way. She screamed, the pendant falling from her mouth to lodge in the scooped neckline of her gown.

  Carole and Rupert reached the exit just in time for Carole to switch her whistle back to the one that had tamed the monster originally. Slowly it uncoiled, swayed, and slithered back up the passageway. But too late. The High Priest and the lay brothers had freed themselves of the spell. It took only two of the brothers to subdue the drunkenly befuddled Rupert, while the High Priest sagely clapped a hand over Carole’s mouth, and the remaining brother caught Jushia with an arm around her neck.

  Chapter XIII

  The High Priest was aglow with the satisfaction of a day well spent. De
spite the sloppiness of the garlanding of the barges due to the interference of the escaped entities, this was sure to be one of the finest sacrificial ceremonies he had ever conducted. True, he would not be as prominent a figure as he usually was, but he felt that the splendor of the occasion was not entirely due to the presence of the young buffoon who so resembled the god. Effluvia cut a wonderfully awe-inspiring figure with the black cloak covering her hair and tail, blood-red roses crowning her as she stood beside the white and gold figure of the living god, who was duly propped up with an oar at his back.

  Though these two made a splendid spectacle, they were scarcely the most spectacular part of the ceremony. What the people who lined the rain-drenched rock of the cliffs had come to see was the parade of delegates, more than had ever been sent to the god at once since ancient times, when Gorequartz first was conquered. The bay was choked with boats and barges filled to the danger point with the privileged who paid for the honor of contributing to the mordant. Four barges besides the one containing the High Priest, Effluvia, the god, and the three women prisoners were filled with priests. Three more barges were crammed with delegates. The captive thieves alone filled two barges. The King and Queen rode in yet another, the baby cradled in the Queens plump arms.

  Overhead, the angry skies had given way—as the High Priest had compelled them to do when his magically charged presence passed between the spires and pools of the shrines— to dark blue sky, a brilliant if waning sun, and a rainbow of unsurpassed vibrance and clarity. In the bay, the rainbow crowned the crystal head with a halo of color reflected in every facet of the huge frowning face. The rainbow’s beauty was echoed in the barge filled with crystal bottles ready to collect the rich mordant that would come of this ceremony, much enhanced by the gang of thieves who would multiply the benefits of each death with a multitude of grieving. Another barge contained the bottles for collecting the agents that would be belched forth by the god.

  The crowds were gabbling with excitement and fear, for the escaped entities had been hard at work, systematically wrecking house after house, concentrating on only the nicest places. They were unable to touch the crystal, of course, but there were many fine articles made of other substances that had been lost forever. The High Priest had little fear that the entities would disrupt the ceremony itself, although the Mukbar bitch watched the occasional explosions of color spiraling above the rooftops with a smirk, her eyes narrowing vindictively at him if he caught her at it. Actually, he wished there were some way to lure the apparitions close enough. He knew they could be recaptured, if only they were not so afraid of being swallowed again by the god.

  While the lay brothers, clad in their golden ceremonial robes, rowed forward in their barge full of mordanting bottles and carefully began placing them on all but three of the god’s lower teeth and inside his mouth, between his tongue and teeth, His Brilliance debated about the order of sacrifices. In his sure-handed way, he decided after only brief deliberation that the witch should go first. For one thing, her own contribution to the mordanting would be small, since she was gagged and the only person who might presumably care about her was well-nigh oblivious to everything. Besides, who knew the full extent of her powers? Best dispose of her quickly, before she could cause more trouble.

  And though it was usual to take the men first, since they generally died less sensationally and without that lovely surge of lust that added such a fine edge to the mordant, he thought the Mukbar woman should go next. What if her relatives came sailing in on rugs to rescue her and spoil the story he planned that she had in fact never reached Gorequartz. After her, the male thieves. Sometime in the interim the Queen would respond to the bait in his opening speech by offering up the baby and he would expose her and break up the monotony of the long string of males by sending the god that particularly fat and regal morsel. Then the nurse and baby, perhaps. When the sacrifices were done, the Prince could make another little speech thanking everyone on behalf of the god. Now then, if only he would look properly impressive while His Brilliance introduced him to the buzzing populace, along with Effluvia, just to get people used to them as a pair, Gorequartz would have a rite unlike any it had ever seen before.

  Rupert felt violently ill. What in the name of the Mother’s right nipple had they given him to drink anyway? Whatever it was, it was wearing off at just the wrong time, while he was being rocked into queasiness in the middle of the bay. No doubt the effects were meant to last longer, but His Brilliance had not reckoned with Rupert’s sheer size—or maybe the High Priest just hadn’t had time to get enough of the cursed stuff down him before all the interruptions. It took a bit more than that to fell a Rowan, as a rule.

  As Rupert tried desperately to keep from embarrassing himself in front of all of Gorequartz, his relative sobriety was a mixed blessing. With no sword or shield or magical talent, what could he do to help anyone amidst this mass of hostile humanity? He wasn’t yet sure he could stand up properly. Still, he knew he would have to die trying. The entreaty in Jushia’s dark eyes unnerved him completely, as did the utter dejection in Carole’s when he caught her looking at him over the puffiness of cheeks constricted by the gag, her flower garland slipping down over her angry eyes. On the barge adjoining theirs sat that merchant who was supposed to be dead, and the fellow all but snarled at him.

  Inside the stone-bound body of his ancestor, the priests finished arranging the bottles, and Carole was plucked from the boat, hauled up to the giant mouth, and marched to the back of the tongue. The High Priest nodded. He and Effluvia took hold of Rupert on either side and helped him mount the wide ladder extending from the bow of the barge to the lower half of the crystal jaw. Rupert wobbled more than necessary, deciding it would not hurt to allow them to think him still under the influence of the drugged drink.

  As he faced the crowd, the chant that had begun in the background rose to a crescendo, mingled with gasps and an occasional cheer. He felt their fear and anger, their pulsing excitement as if it were his own. It surged through him, and past, stirring some deep response within him he could have done without just then. He felt naked without his shield. Where was it now? Not doing the child any good, that was for sure. The poor little tyke writhed below in her false mother’s arms. But he failed to see the shield.

  The crowd blurred before him. He turned to look at Carole. She was on her knees, looking down the giant’s throat. Already he felt her fear coursing toward him, passing him, through the High Priest, toward the bottles. Funny. He had not gained the impression that the mordanting emotions were so tangible, but he felt each of them, strong as his own pulse, Carole’s the strongest now. Fear, yes, and dread, but dismay and regret at her failure to save anything, to spare even the child, her despair at having to die so futilely after so much effort. On all sides, the crowd throbbed with movement, the bay brimmed with chanting bodies.

  The High Priest held his hand straight up, and stillness dropped over the crowd. “My children, the god has come among us again. He has been attended by enemies and ill-wishers and these he would have slain to his glory. He has been attended by liars, imposters so evil they lie even before they can speak, by women so debased as to pass off the get of foreigners for their own royal children, by witches and by thieves, but all of these shall be purified and utilized in his name to the greater prosperity of his people.”

  Though this was meant to be but a preview of events to come, it was spoiled by the King, who was gray with nervousness, and shoved the Queen and her baby forward, where they were handed along from man to man to the foot of the ladder as if they were no more than a child’s ball. “Hear me, Grand Prismatic!” the King cried. “The faithless woman was my wife, the brat no kin to me. Take them both and use them, for they are worthless as they are.”

  The Queen shrieked as she was hauled aloft and almost dropped the baby. “It was that wretched nurse! I am innocent! She took my son because I sent her lover to the god and she gave me this girl-child instead. I am innocent!”


  That gave the crowd something else to chant about, and Jushia was pushed forward, too. Rupert groaned as she was roughly hauled up the ladder and pushed down beside Carole. The High Priest groaned also. His predetermined order was being rent asunder by the untidy demands of the crowd. Still, they were generating the sort of excitement necessary for proper mordanting. He gestured. The tops of the giant’s teeth and the cavity between teeth and tongue where the first row of bottles sat was filled with water. He stepped into the mouth with his bare feet. The Queen was being bound hand and foot by one of the priests, the baby thrust into the arms of Effluvia, who held it out from her as if it were a snake.

  The High Priest would commence the mordant transferral at once, which would bind the crowd to his will again. He stood in the water, raised both hands and chanted, feeling the energy he had gathered join with that still flooding his veins from the ritual of the previous night. All before his eyes faded into one glorious prism of color and light and in his ears was a single roaring until everything had drained from him, into the bottle. But where was the rest of it? More of the raw mordanting emotion should be bleeding from the delegates, filling him from the crowd, but it was not. He opened his eyes and saw that the rainbow above him was hidden, the sky boiling with flashing clouds again. The crowd stirred and murmured as lightning forked closer.

  The King was the first to pick up on the disturbance. “Is something amiss, Your Brilliance? Have your incantations gone wrong? Or perhaps they displease the living God?”

  “Your Brilliance!” the lay brother whose duty it was to shove the delegates to their destiny cried. “Your Brilliance! The royal nurse—she has the pendant in her teeth.”

  At that the priest hopped, dripping from the water. Effluvia and Rupert were ahead of him, Effluvia holding onto the baby with one hand while clutching at the stone with the other. The nurse hung precariously over the back of the tongue, the chain of the pendant in her teeth, the long stone shimmering with movement and whining slightly. The High Priest felt his own excitement flow out of him and into the stone. The nurse’s face was grim, her teeth clenched, eyes shut, sweat standing out on her brow as the pendant swung back and forth over the dark hole.