Chương 88: Chapter 85 – Blessed be the beer

The temple did not do small. Alric had noticed that the moment they passed through the outer gates, but it became increasingly difficult to ignore the deeper they went. Stone gave way to more stone, but of a different kind. The outer walls were solid and practical. The inner halls were carved, polished, and arranged in such a way that every step felt like it was supposed to matter. It was a place built to impress gods. Or perhaps, more accurately, to remind people that someone had once tried.

The outside had a distinctly gothic feeling; it was grey and imposing. Inside was much the same, but significantly lighter. Two holy knights escorted him in silence. They were not the kind of silent that came from calm discipline. It was the kind that came from having been told not to speak under any circumstances and deciding that this instruction would be followed with the enthusiasm of a man who had been given a hammer and told that nails existed. Their armour was ceremonial. It shone.

Not in the practical sense of being well maintained, but in the excessive sense of being polished to a mirror finish that suggested someone else did the polishing and resented it deeply. Each piece bore engraved lines that caught the light, forming symbols that likely meant something important, though to Alric they mostly meant that the wearer would be extremely visible in any situation where visibility was an issue. He glanced between them as they walked.

"Am I under arrest?" he asked, but neither answered. That was answer enough. They passed through a set of doors that required four men to open and another two to stand nearby and look like they were contributing. Beyond them lay the offering hall. Alric paused. It was vast. Calling it a hall felt like calling a lake a puddle that had gotten ideas above its station. The ceiling rose so high that it seemed to forget itself halfway up and become sky.

Light filtered down from openings that were not quite windows and not quite anything else, illuminating rows upon rows of stone. Ten statues stood at the far end, each representing one of the gods. Nine of them gleamed. Gold, silver, inlaid gemstones, polished surfaces that caught the light and threw it back in a display that bordered on competitive.

Each statue seemed to insist that it was the most worthy of attention, the most deserving of offerings, the most likely to notice if someone was being particularly devout. A wide bowl rested below each of them. The tenth stood among them and did none of that. It was stone. Plain stone. Grey in a way that did not so much absorb the light as quietly decline to participate in it. Where the others shone, it remained. Where they reflected, it endured. There were no adornments. No offerings at its base.

No recent attempts to make it more than it was. It was not neglected. That would have required someone to care enough to neglect it. It simply… existed. Alric's gaze lingered on it for a moment longer than the others. He had spoken to his staff about the other gods and recognized the dull statue as Fate. There were many gods and not everyone could name them all, none had heard of creation. Then he was moving again. The crowd came into view next. He had expected a handful of clergy. Perhaps a few observers.

Enough to make a point, not enough to make a spectacle. Instead, the hall was full. Full in the sense that someone had decided that if there was space for a person, it should contain one. Rows of seating stretched out on either side of a central aisle, all of it occupied. Beyond that, people stood. They leaned. They craned their necks. They whispered. It was the sort of gathering one might expect for a royal wedding or an important execution. Alric was not entirely sure which this was closer to.

The murmur of voices filled the space, rising and falling in waves that never quite settled. Curiosity, more than anything else. There was no anger or outrage here. Not yet. Just the restless energy of people who had come to see something happen and would be disappointed if it did not. He was led down the aisle as eyes followed him. Some were curious, others were amused. A few were openly hostile.

A cluster of men in the middle rows nudged each other as he passed, their expressions just a touch too coordinated to be natural. Tavern keepers or innkeepers, he guessed. Or at least men who had been told that they were, for the purposes of today. He reached a podium. The podium had been set up at the centre of the space. It was simple compared to everything else. Functional. A raised platform with a flat surface and enough space for a man to stand and be seen from every angle. Chains hung from one side.

Manacles, polished and ready. They were not used. That, more than anything else, felt deliberate. He was not a prisoner, but he could be. The knights stepped back, taking up positions behind him. Not close enough to be immediately threatening. Close enough to remind everyone present that they could be. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. The only priest not sitting within the U but standing in one of the corners cleared his throat.

Alric suspected he was the master of ceremonies. He had the look of a man who had spent a great deal of time practicing the act of clearing his throat in a way that conveyed authority. It was an impressive throat. One that suggested years of careful use and a diet that avoided anything that might compromise its performance.

"Let it be known," he began, voice carrying easily across the hall, "that this inquiry has been convened under the authority of the temple, for the purpose of clarification and understanding." Alric did not listen. Not fully. He caught words. Phrases. Enough to understand that the priest was explaining what everyone already knew. That this was official. That it was calm. That it was procedural. That nothing unusual was happening. The clergy were arranged in a wide U around the podium.

Rows of robes in varying shades, each indicating rank or role or perhaps just preference. They watched him with expressions that ranged from mild interest to practiced neutrality. Behind him, the crowd shifted. A cough here. A whispered comment there. The sound of someone adjusting their seat in a way that suggested they intended to be there for a while.

"Alric," the priest said, finally reaching the part that mattered.

"You have been called here to answer questions regarding your recent activities." Worried his voice might betray his nervousness, he opted to nod instead. There was an expectant pause.

"Uh..." Alric cleared his throat, less impressively.

"Yes." The priest blinked, as though he had expected resistance and was now faced with the inconvenience of having to proceed without it.

"Very well," he said.

"Let us begin." The questions came. They were not aggressive. They were careful and measured. Each one framed in a way that suggested it had been discussed, refined, and approved by at least three people who enjoyed that sort of thing.

"You have made alterations to your brewing process?"

"Yes."

"In what manner?" Alric explained. Water first. Always water. Where it came from. How it was treated. The importance of consistency. He spoke of steaming casks, of cleaning them not just when they were visibly dirty but when they were not. He described batching. Timing. The way small differences could become large ones if left unchecked. He spoke of spoilage. What caused it. How to prevent it.

The ways in which it could be slowed, mitigated, or avoided entirely if one was willing to be patient and, more importantly, consistent. There was no mysticism in it. No defensiveness either.

"Enough! None of this answers why the gods do not accept your beer!" came a voice off to his right.

"I do not know why that is, though," he said, looking for the voice. A man made a tsk sound, but Alric couldn't be sure it was the same one.

"Continue. Describe what else," the throaty priest acting as master of ceremonies said with a nod. Alric noticed another priest off to his left frantically writing things down. Occasionally, he would nod.

"And this prevents spoilage?" another asked.

"It helps," Alric said, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Cleanliness does most of the work." A ripple moved through the clergy.

"Cleanliness?" the first priest repeated.

"Yes," Alric said, nodding.

"You are suggesting, then, that other establishments suffer spoilage due to a lack of cleanliness?" Alric considered this and decided his foot needed to go in his mouth enthusiastically.

"Yes." The ripple moved through the crowd, and the state became something sharper.

"You accuse the taverns of this city of being… unclean?"

"I didn't say all of them, but you can ask the high priest to compare," Alric said, gesturing with his chin.

"What he says is true. His… workshop, if you would, is spotless. You could eat off the floors. I'm not sure the temple is cleaner. The spoilage is not what is important as much as why the gods do not accept it," Donovan said to the crowd at large. A chorus of nods went through the crowd.

"Preposterous!" another priest said, with the confidence of a man who had reached a conclusion and was now working backwards to justify it.

"So little spoilage? Such results cannot be achieved through mundane means alone."

"That is not important, Gorac, as we just stated. Why the gods will not take it is," the most senior member in the centre explained calmly. Alric couldn't help but notice he had a kind voice.

"I… have a theory..." Alric began. He wasn't about to lie exactly, but omit details.

"I believe we use a divine ingredient." For a moment, there was silence. Then the laughter started. It began with the clergy. A few of them. Enough to make it acceptable. Enough to signal that this was, in fact, amusing. The crowd followed. Not all of them. But enough. The same cluster of men in the middle rows were particularly enthusiastic.

Their laughter was loud, a touch too loud, and just slightly out of sync with everyone else, as though they had been given instructions on when to laugh and were doing their best to follow them. The priest's expression tightened.

"You must understand," he said, voice still calm but now carrying an edge, "that such claims have implications."

"I do understand this," Alric agreed, pushing his lips together.

"And yet you persist in making them."

"They're true." He had filled the foamy casks just yesterday. Another pause. This one lasted longer. The laughter took its time. It rose, peaked, and began to taper off, leaving behind the faint echo of amusement and the stronger impression of something forced. A priest leaned over to his neighbour, repeating the phrase "divine ingredient" as though it were the funniest thing he had heard all week. Alric waited. The priest allowed it to settle before speaking again.

"A divine ingredient," he repeated.

"Yes."

"And what, precisely, is this ingredient?"

"Beer," Alric said.

"We use one beer to seed another. Any tavern keeper can tell you this."

"Preposterous! You cannot…" came from the priest who seemed to have found a new favourite word. Alric had him in his mind now as the preposterous priest. He was cut off, however, by the man in the centre, who had raised his hand.

"We can test this easily enough. Bring forth the crown," he said, nodding to a junior, who left the hall through a side entrance.

"While we wait, Mister Brewer, I must say I like the beer you make for the adventurers very much." Alric was struck dumb. Of all the places to have small talk.

"Uh... thank you. It is one we are very proud of," he stammered out, stealing a line from Seren.

"Hmm. I do look forward to having it again." He said this with a nod that had his enormous hat bobbed dangerously. Nearby priests glanced at it warily.

"Ahh, the crown," he said, smiling and gesturing with his hands. A pair of attendants moved forward, carrying something between them. It was a crown. Not the kind worn by kings. This was older. Smaller. The metal was dark, worn smooth in places by time and use. It did not shine. It did not need to. There was a weight to it that had nothing to do with its physical presence. The crowd quieted. Not completely. But enough that the shift was noticeable. The crown was placed on a pedestal beside the podium.

"This artifact," the throaty priest said, voice taking on a different tone, "has been used to detect divine influence for generations." He looked at Alric.

"If your claims are true, it will show us." Alric nodded. A small cup was produced and beer was poured. The liquid caught the light as it settled, golden and clear. The cup was placed beneath the crown. Nothing happened. Alric's heart skipped a beat. Then the metal shifted. Not physically. Not in a way that could be pointed to. But something about it changed. The air around it grew… denser. The light bent slightly, as though it had encountered something it had not expected. A faint glow appeared.

Neither bright nor dramatic but it was undeniably present.