The Alchemist: Dawn of Destiny

by L. A. Wasielewski

  “Ummm, Ryris? You forgot your mold…”

  ~~~

  Ryris soaked in the warm water.

  He never expected such a small inn to give him a bathroom with a proper tub, but here he was, submerged up to his neck in suds. The burn on his chest stood up on his skin, a stark reminder of how close he and the boys actually came to death that afternoon. He ran his fingers over the raised, tortured flesh, wincing at the sensation. In all the times he had used his magic, the amulet had always warmed up—but never had it burned him. He let his eyes flutter shut as he watched the snow fall outside the bathroom window.

  Awakened by the sudden coolness of the water around him, Ryris shivered and realized he had fallen asleep. The soapy bubbles had dissipated, the water taking on an icy chill. His teeth chattering, he climbed out of the tub and wrapped a towel around his waist. He stopped to scrutinize his burn in the mirror, moving his talisman aside before applying a small amount of salve. The ointment felt soothing on his battered skin, cooling the still angry wound almost instantly. Maxx would surely give him grief if he ever saw the inevitable scar.

  The chill of the room air assaulting his exposed body, he hurriedly threw on a pair of woolen pajamas and thick socks. Wishing he had a mug of that delicious drinking chocolate he sampled the day before, he settled for a cup of tea. He pulled the only chair in the room close to the hearth and hung the kettle from a hook. As he waited for the water inside to boil, he decided to do some reading. Ryris rummaged through his luggage until he came across the book from his grandmother. He hadn’t really given much thought as to why he brought it along. He just figured it might be fun reading material for long, lonely nights spent in foreign towns.

  How wrong he was.

  Setting the book on the bed, he carefully poured his now hot water into a mug and dropped in his tea ball. Taking the cup with him, he set it on the nightstand and waited for his drink to steep. He crawled into the cozy bed, layered with several blankets. The topmost quilt was down-filled, and he wrapped it around his body in an attempt to rid himself of the bathwater’s lingering chill. He leaned forward and grabbed his book. Leafing through the pages, he was determined to find out something—anything—about what he had witnessed today. It had been years since he looked through the tome, and even longer since he had seen or heard the ancient language contained inside. The better part of an hour passed, Ryris drinking his tea as he tried to make heads or tails of the foreign tongue.

  Gradually, he began to remember what his grandmother had taught him, he could almost hear her voice speaking the lost language. His fingers drifted over the pages, tracing every line. Little by little, everything came back to him and before long; he was able to read without hesitation. He was amazed by his retention of the language, even after so many years of sitting idle in his mind.

  He read aloud in a hushed whisper, the words of a bygone era tumbling from his lips with ever-growing ease.

  “Ix partha madala su exparthis. Rylenta ai fracturno ex marchinata. Ello thia sarlokis pur aphlicanto…” He kept reading into the empty room, his words falling upon only the ears of the furniture and the fire.

  “Never forget our faithful warriors. Revere them, for they have given us everything. In return, they asked for nothing. No payment, no spoils of war. Only to be remembered with dignity.”

  Remembered.

  Ryris was disgusted by the ignorance of the world. They hadn’t been remembered, they had been forgotten. Tossed to the winds of time. Disrespected by those who promised to keep their memory alive.

  He flipped ahead through the book, coming to a stop when a colorful picture caught his eye. He instantly remembered it from his childhood. Chuckling softly when he noticed the crinkled page, he recalled a time where he would beg his grandmother to tell him this story, letting him sit on her lap so he could see the image better.

  Dozens of warriors stood battle-ready. Their crystalline armor and weapons depicted in all their glory, even though the painting was old and weathered. Their story was one of bravery and honor, the battles they fought bloody and brutal. Not all survived, and the warriors who emerged from battle unscathed had the duty to inter their fallen comrades, so they might go on to the Gentle Reach.

  Ryris marveled at the story, suddenly wanting to know much, much more. He remembered asking his grandmother about the Old War, but she would never tell him anything more. She said it would scare him. When he asked her why, she would just shake her head and let her shoulders slump.

  “War is war—and this one was no different.”

  Now, as an adult, here he was with the book in his hands, the story of the war literally at his fingertips. No Gran to change the subject, no Maxx to pull him away and into the shop to learn the trade. Feeling like a naughty child, he turned several pages until he came to the telling of the Old War. The very first image he saw sent chills up his spine. An undead soldier, rotting flesh falling from exposed bones, the decaying, haunting eyes staring back at him from beyond. Ryris slammed the book shut, realizing exactly why his grandmother had refused to enlighten him about the conflict.

  Taking a calming breath, he drank the last of his now-cold tea. The visage of the zombie warrior was horrifying. Not wanting to delve into history any more that night, he set the tome on the nightstand and extinguished the oil lamp. The flames in the fireplace had died down significantly, staying just warm enough to make him comfortable while he slept.

  Laying there in the almost-darkness, his exhausted mind began to wander. His brain wasn’t going to let him sleep—yet. He thought back to the cave, the secret chamber, and the mysterious woman. If he hadn’t been so concerned for the boys’ well-being, he probably would have stayed the night. It had been difficult to leave. He desperately wanted to know more about her. When he first laid eyes on her, on the treasures contained within her room, he knew he had stumbled onto something truly incredible. This was his chance to prove what his grandmother had so fervently believed in. Waking the warrior up, he mused, would satisfy his appetite for information. The knowledge stored within her memories must be immense. Wars, soldiers—history. The thought of everything he could learn from her made him borderline giddy.

  But, then he relented to the more practical side of his psyche. He had no idea who or what he would unleash into the world if he woke her up. Perhaps she was sealed for a reason. Maybe no one talks about the myth because it shouldn’t be talked about.

  Sighing in the darkness, he refused to believe the latter idea. Not after what he had seen in the book, not after looking upon her with his own eyes. Ryris decided right then and there, lying in a bed that was not his own in a strange village far from home—that he would take history by the horns and rouse the crystal warrior. He didn’t know if it was for his own interests or to prove—something—to whomever cared. But the winds of time had forgotten about this woman for far too long.

  Ryris let sleep take him, drifting off as the image of the beautiful soldier danced on his dreams.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Am I really going to do this? This machine is basically screaming at me not to mess…but I just can’t help it. If I read up enough on the mechanism, I can decipher the instructions…I think. I hope I’m not about to make a huge mistake…

  --Journal entry, Ryris Bren, 96th Autumn, YG756

  Being snowbound for nearly three days in the small hamlet of Hewe, Ryris couldn’t contain his inquisitiveness any longer. He had spent the better part of his snowy incarceration poring over Gran’s book, hoping there was something that would give him insight into how to wake the sleeping beauty. Coming up empty, Ryris convinced himself he needed to utilize the books within the mystery woman’s chamber.

  The trip up the mountain would be treacherous with the fresh blanket of snow. He knew there was a chance he could run into another saberstrike or be blown off the paths by the ferocious alpine winds. There was the very real possibility he wouldn’t be successful in his endeavor, and she simply wouldn’t come back. In the end,
his curiosity won over sensibility and he packed up his belongings. Leaving in the pre-dawn hours, mostly to avoid the boys seeing him depart, he checked out of the inn. The owner had begged him to stay because of the weather. Ryris lied to her, telling her he needed another ingredient that was almost past its harvest point, and if he didn’t leave now there would be no way to obtain it this season. She gave him a sandwich, wished him well, and reluctantly sent him on his way.

  Bundling himself up against the cold, he hitched Ass of the East to the wagon and slowly made his way up to Mount Nevet. The wind screamed eerily, and he was reminded of how the mountain range had earned its name. The light of the lantern swinging from his cart barely shone through the blowing snow.

  The sun had just risen as he entered the area he believed the cave to be. Ryris thought he recognized a rock formation, one Alix had commented looked like a turtle, and decided to stow his wagon there. Pushing it as far into the underbrush as he could, he took what belongings he could carry and covered the cart with the tarp. He was fairly certain there would be no foolhardy travelers on the mountain in these conditions, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

  The climb took longer than he remembered. Granted, last time he had guides, the snow wasn’t a quarter as deep, and he wasn’t dragging Ass of the East behind him. By the time he arrived at the cave mouth, he was frozen to the bone. He wanted so badly to rush into the secret chamber and begin working, but he knew if he didn’t warm up, there was a real possibility he could die from exposure. He was shivering so violently he wasn’t sure he could even crawl through the entry hole. Telling himself she wasn’t going anywhere, he maneuvered his horse around what was left of the oinox carcass and found a suitable spot for a campsite. As he moved further in, he gagged slightly at the sight of the incinerated saberstrike. He hitched Ass of the East to a large log sitting on the floor and began to gather kindling. Knowing no one was around and with hands too cold to strike a flint; he quickly brought flames to his fingers and started a blazing fire.

  After a quick snack huddled by the campfire, his shivering had subsided. Becoming antsy just sitting around, he made his way toward the back of the cavern, giddy with excitement. Ryris took a moment to remove the makeshift barrier from the entrance to the chamber. He easily scrambled through the much larger hole, the saberstrike having done all the hard work of excavating for him. Ryris found himself silently thanking the cat for its effort.

  He hurried over to the sarcophagus. After removing the dried flower arrangement and setting it on the floor, he used his sleeve to wipe the dust from the lid. There she was, just as he left her. He studied her face, taking in every detail, every contour, every blemish. When he was in the company of the Lythe boys, he didn’t really want to linger. But now, all alone, he could take his time.

  Her skin looked like porcelain, her hair as gold as flax. Her beauty was unmatched, but she still had hero’s look about her, represented by the scar bisecting her right eyebrow. Ryris surmised it to be a battle wound, but until he asked her personally, there was obviously no way to be sure. Her eyelashes were long, almost touching the skin of her cheeks below the closed lids. Her expression was one of peace; as if she were enjoying the most content sleep she had ever experienced. Ryris let his eyes wander down her body, noting how the crystalline armor hugged her physique. It was obviously handmade to fit only her. Sharp angles melded with soft curves to form a beautifully intricate pattern of crystal plates. It was impossible to tell how the suit of armor was held together, hinting to Ryris that the craftsmanship was unmatched. Although it looked to be very fragile, Ryris figured if they made armor from it, it must be extremely resistant to damage. The breastplate was scratched, a gouge directly over her sternum. Her left gauntlet bore a jagged slash mark, as if an enemy had attempted to sever her hand. The other gauntlet appeared charred, the fingers scorched and ashen. Pockmarks, possibly from arrow strikes, dotted the entire suit. Shining greaves covered her legs, a crystal cap resting over each knee. Her boots were dainty, yet hearty and war-worn. He couldn’t wait to ask her about the action she had seen in wartime.

  His interest turned to the weapon clutched in her hands. A bow, made of the same material as her armor, rested diagonally across her body. The bowstring seemed to also be made of crystal; something Ryris didn’t think was even possible. Ornate swirls were etched into the material, the grip leather-wrapped and embossed with the same whirling pattern. Looking over his shoulder, the alchemist noted the other weapons in the room had similar markings.

  Reminding himself he needed to get to work researching the apparatus in front of him, he ran his fingers along the seams, trying to find some sort of pivot point. Moving around the head of the coffin, he slipped his hands in-between the box and the cave wall, feeling for any hardware. He smiled when his fingertips came in contact with rigid hinges. At least now he knew how it opened. He moved back to the foot of the container and pulled his small journal from his jacket pocket. Quickly sketching a picture of what he believed to be the operating mechanism, he made sure to get every detail down. Ryris tapped his hands on the glass lid with a hopeful smile.

  “Don’t run off…”

  Ryris grabbed as many books from the shelves as he could carry, hoping that at least one would have some semblance of instructions. Making his way back out into the cave and to a blazing fire, he got to work. Snacking with one hand and turning pages with the other, he sat for hours trying to make heads or tails of the ancient texts.

  ~~~

  Ryris stood at the foot of the sarcophagus, his journal and one of the old books balanced on the lid.

  After four hours of reading and note-taking, he believed he had decoded enough of the ancient instructions to safely open the apparatus. He stood there for a moment, contemplating the finality of his decision. Was he really ready to do this? Was she going to survive? If she survived, would she be kind—or cruel? He had never really stopped to think that she may have been interred as punishment. But after looking around the room—at the discarded floral bouquets from the lid, the treasures stored within—he figured no one would go to this much trouble for a convict.

  Convinced he was doing the right thing, Ryris began the work he hoped would disarm the mechanism. He chewed his lower lip as he worked, pressing each colored crystal button in sequence. Taking quick moments to periodically check both his notes and the original text, he labored on. As each differently-hued button dimmed in order, the machinery got quieter and quieter. He scribbled notes as he observed. Ryris’ hands began to shake as his finger hovered over the last glowing orb. This was the point of no return. If he pressed the button, the sequence would be complete and, in theory, the sarcophagus should open. Taking a deep breath and holding it, he lightly touched the button but did not press. He said a short prayer to Oleana and closed his eyes.

  His finger depressed the button and the machinery went silent.

  The lavender light dimmed and then snuffed out completely, leaving him in darkness. A momentary wave of panic swept over him as he began to run horrible scenarios in his head. Had he broken the entire mechanism? Would he be trapped in the room? Had he tripped a self-destruct contingency? Was he going to be killed? He began to breathe erratically, his nerves getting the better of him, as he contemplated making a blind dash for the exit.

  Then, all in unison, the wall sconces lit themselves, an eerie illumination emanating from the crystal shards within the lamps. The room was immediately bathed in clear, white light. Ryris allowed himself a relieved sigh as his eyes adjusted to the new brilliance. Training his attention back to the sarcophagus, he placed his hands gently on the still-closed lid. He peered in, noting the sleeping woman did not stir. Unsure of what to do next, he just stood there, tapping his fingers impatiently on the glass.

  Without warning, the seals on the lid popped, and a hiss of perfumed air rushed out as the sarcophagus began to open. Ryris jumped back, inhaling the aroma of flowers as fresh as if they had been picked that morning. The lid
rose on its own, moving back and sliding down behind the coffin and out of sight. His journal and the book fell to the floor. The alchemist sidled back beside the sarcophagus, peered over the lip, and held his breath in anticipation. He watched her like a hawk, not wanting to miss any signs of life. She did not stir. Ryris told himself not to worry, this process probably took time. It was easier said than done, however, and he found himself nervously chewing on his thumbnail. He wanted so badly to touch her, to make sure she was truly real.

  Suddenly, she took a gasping breath, mouth agape as she drew in air for the first time in centuries. Her fingers twitched around the magnificent bow clutched at her bosom, her eyes still fused shut. One breath became two, and before long her lungs had fallen into a normal rhythm.

  Ryris contemplated reaching out to make physical contact, but stopped himself short when her eyes began to flutter. In an instant, they shot open, revealing ice-blue irises. They sparkled in the clear light of the room. She sat up with a start, her bow falling to the side. Her armor creaked as it moved, crystal-on-crystal joints grinding up against each other. Not seeming to notice him, she hung her head between her shoulders and moaned, letting out long, labored breaths. Ryris wondered if she was in pain. Not able to help himself any longer and concerned for her well-being, he gingerly extended his arm and wrapped it around her back. He knew she wouldn’t feel the heat or gentleness of his touch through her mail, but he hoped the sentiment came through nonetheless.

  “Easy now. Just breathe deep and take it slow. I think you’ve been asleep for a very long time.”

  The crystal-clad warrior didn’t acknowledge him. Instead she bent her knees and turned on her bedding, in an attempt to exit the coffin. Her eyes were vacant, and she seemed to look straight past Ryris. Her hands shook, her body shivered. He tried to assist her as she swung her legs up and over the side, sitting momentarily on the edge before sliding out. Unsteady on her feet, her leg muscles atrophied from centuries of disuse, she crumpled to the floor with a pained grunt. As the woman tried to get up, her legs buckled again and she slammed into the side of the sarcophagus. She leaned up against the crystal container, laying her cheek on the shimmering material. Ryris tried to ease her discomfort as best he could while she sat there, encouraging her with gentle, reassuring words.