The Marechal Chronicles: Volume V, The Tower of the Alchemist

by Aimelie Aames

  “There, where there are no more defenses, no means of escaping the demand to bare one’s heart before the victim’s most beloved, the Watcher drinks down their souls like wine from the carafe, and in perfect irony death becomes a thing far more preferable than the fate of its embrace.

  “So I allowed it and watched as your friend, the smith’s son, came to speak to you. Very well, for who would not love that kindly young man? Then came your father. Of course. He would be the one you care most about. A son’s love for his father is like no other, yes?

  “However, the Watcher had still not gone far enough and what did I see then? Why, none other than my own daughter, come as the last, the one person for whom you care more than any other ... more, even, than for yourself.

  “And when she would have taken your life, you would have allowed it and the Watcher would have drunk its fill.

  “There was no choice. I could not permit this for the hatred my daughter would then bear me would endure all her days, and you are not alone in your love for Myri. My own future is a short road now. I have seen that what lies before me draws to a close in but a year’s time, for a gnawing sickness devours my body from the inside out. Myri does not know, and what time I have left with my child must not be tainted by bitter remorse.”

  Etienne shook his head as he spoke.

  “You are mistaken to spare me, for I cannot love a woman who used me as she did before showing herself for who she really is ... a thief.”

  The voice upon the wind rose in anger.

  “You do my daughter an injustice.

  “Even now she hunts the Boar, for it was the beast that stole the Tear from your tower, not her.”

  The alchemist’s son shrugged at the reproach he heard in that voice. Any fear that he might have felt had been throttled out of him.

  “And that is meant to placate me? That she hunts for it so that she might take the stone for herself or for you?”

  Leaves fluttered down with a sighing sound.

  “Alas. If only that were her intent. Would that it be so, for I could have allowed the Watcher to destroy you and let your bones lie to moulder there where you now stand.

  “You fool. She hunts the boar so that she might bring the Tear back to you and your father. She would prove herself to you that she is not the thief you believe her to be.

  “I’m afraid she cannot catch the Boar. Already, she tires and the beast has swallowed it down such as a bezoar stone. Even if she could come upon the creature, she could do nothing other than slice its belly wide in order to recuperate the Tear.

  “Even if she did not pity the beast such as she does, she could not do it. Not now. Already the stone imparts its power to the Boar, and my daughter is not equal to such a task.

  “I forbade that she use her magic in your presence for if she did, the result would be unpredictable. As it is, the paradox of casting about in the murky waters of the future has perhaps had its way, even, with me.”

  Etienne frowned at what he heard as the wind spoke on.

  “I sent my daughter on the trail of the Boar, knowing that it would lead her to a man whose mother had wished to name him Alexandre. But now I wonder if it was not the Boar who had followed my daughter in search of the man who should have borne this name, and that the beast knew she would lead it to you and thus to the stone.

  “What’s done is done. For now, the stone remains out of reach of those beings who would have used it in ways far more destructive than anything the Boar might devise. In this, I must be content.

  “As for you, be warned that calamity still frets and capers in your shadow, alchemist’s son. Return now to your father’s tower and await my daughter.

  “Her failure to recapture the stone will bring her to you. Do not be harsh with her when she does, or I shall I know of it ... as will the Watcher.”

  The leaves fell down in silence as Etienne spoke.

  “And what shall I do if she does return? How shall I find sweet sentiments that do not come truly from the heart?”

  “You do not mean what you say,” the voice upon the wind replied, displeasure evident in its tone, “Yet, if you find but hard words for her when next you see her, then send her back to me. I have feared to look too closely at what lies ahead for her, and my vision is clouded by my love for my daughter, but there is a perilous turn to come should she remain in your company, and I will not see her lifeless body slip from my worst dreams into waking day.

  “Send her to me, before there are no more choices left to you.”

  Etienne backed away from the thing still standing motionless before him, then turned away from it with a shudder.

  The voice of Myri’s mother still echoed in his ears, a voice spoken with the sound of wind through the leaves, and he knew that the only path remaining to him was the one leading back to the tower.

  He hefted the hammer and set it over one shoulder then began the long way home.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The thicket of trees swayed with a wind that could not be felt. There was no sound of air whispering through the branches.

  Then, with the quivering hue of a midsummer heat mirage, a shadow rippled into view in that quiet place like a banner blown by nothing more substantial than desperate words whispered in difficult times.

  A woman clothed in darkness stepped free from that shadow and her chest heaved as if she had just run one hundred leagues.

  Her blue eyes flashed as she looked around herself, then the force, or focus, that animated her appeared to drain away and she sagged upon her own bones.

  A pale hand lifted to her brow and red lips trembled as her resolve crumbled where there was no witness.

  She sat down without bothering to look where might be best then bent to place her head in her hands.

  Her body shuddered with her silent misery when a small voice spoke from nowhere.

  “I appreciate the company of shared failure.”

  The woman sat upon the ground and next to her was a rotting stump upon which a tiny man shimmered into view. He wore a pair of red trousers and nothing else, much less a smile to show that he spoke in jest.

  “Of course, I have never claimed to be of a noble nature, so one cannot blame me.”

  Myri shook her head.

  “Speak again, little buffoon, and I shall strip the skin from your flesh with my answer in a language you have never heard.”

  The little man sighed, then dared her anger anyway.

  “You cannot, and I have heard such words of power. I’ve heard them all over the span of my miserable life and while you possess magic, witch, it is not yet filled with enough desperation to make you truly strong.”

  She gritted her teeth at what he said, then spoke in a hissing voice.

  “Power is as power does and I have enough at my disposal to do away with you if I were willing to bend my will to it. For now, I have other matters of greater importance and I would rest a moment ... in silence.”

  The little man did not relent.

  “These other matters are of what I would speak, in truth,” he said, then cleared his throat as if it helped him seize his courage.

  “You care for him too much. Turn your course and return to your homeland now, before it is too late.”

  Her blue eyes widened.

  “What do you know of it? My sentiments for the alchemist’s son are no concern of yours.”

  “You are wrong,” he said, “You do not think of it this way. Of that I’ve no doubt, but you have not seen the ravages of love and broken hearts. I have. I have seen the power of this agony and what it can force people who name themselves lovers and loved to do.”

  “Hold your tongue, little fool,” she said, “I see now that the smith’s son was the staunchest of any of us if he had to endure your ridiculous prattling for years on end.”

  The little man was not dissuaded.

  “So you say, but when the heart breaks, the puissance of the folly that ensues cannot be underestimated. Even such as yo
u ... you might be capable of things that defy the imagination when despair slips its bonds and becomes your master.”

  “Stop it, I say. I will not have it. You have no right to make such pronouncements.”

  The tiny man who wore red pants looked up at Myri, and she saw the tears that gathered at the corners of his eyes.

  “Dismiss my words at your peril.” His small voice had become rough and worn.

  Myri could not help but be moved at the emotion brimming over in eyes that stared back at her in supplication.

  “So, after all this time, you abandon your only friend, the blacksmith’s son,” she said, her voice softening, “Might I ask why?”

  The little man shrugged and looked away.

  “The confounded old man gave him a book to read, and in that book he learned the story of the Black Boar and something more ... he learned of me. When he spoke to me next, doubt hung upon his breath and the wards that guard the tower against those that might abscond with its treasures closed against me. For years, I was able to enter upon the heels of the fat boy that grew to be a fat man. He saw me as a true friend and thus a friend to the St. Lucq. So it was that thegeas did not bar my way until the very last time.

  “I barely escaped as ancient sorcery closed around me. I did not understand why or how until I saw the smith’s son next and he questioned who I am.

  “Imagine how bitter it is for me, this news of the Boar and the theft of the Tear. I spent years searching the darkest corners of the tower’s foundations, all of it a labyrinth that no St. Lucq has ever dared explore more fully than me. And there it was ... a treasure just lying in the open for all eyes to see. Hidden in plain sight, and I was too blind and passed it by in my ceaseless avarice for the secrets that the tower might hold.”

  The little man’s voice shook as he continued.

  “My people were lost when she forgot us. The castle under the mountain closed its gates to us and our sole hope was to recover the Tear one day. With it, we might have opened the castle once more, my people returned to their ancient home and the power of the stone safe forever more from the ilk of such monsters named Goblin in the tongue of man.”

  “They will not wrest it from the Boar, little man,” Myri said, “Of that you can be sure. His power grows and he grows with it. Soon he will pass behind the layers of creation and walk among the halls of gods and devils.”

  The next moment saw both of them fall silent in contemplation until the witch spoke again.

  “What shall you do now?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps I shall return to the mountain and gaze upon its closed gates for a time. Afterward, I cannot say.”

  Myri nodded, then spoke once more with a gentle voice.

  “I am sorry for what I said earlier. All of us have felt pain as the Boar pursued its true intent.”

  The little creature beside her did not move nor speak for some time ... long enough that Myri thought he had forgotten she was there before he spoke at last.

  “If I abused the friendship tendered me by the blacksmith’s son, then perhaps I might undo some of the hurt I caused him in aiding the man he named friend.”

  “Do you mean the alchemist’s son?” Myri asked.

  “None other. Listen closely. He and his father go to their deaths in this moment. They seek to break or bend the laws of life and death, and it will doubtless mean their destruction.”

  “What is this folly? What do you mean?” Myri said, horror rising in her voice.

  “The old man has devised a method that he believes will endow him with life unending. His son shall assist him.”

  “But this cannot be,” she said, her expression grave, “They will not succeed, for the laws of creation will not permit such a thing. The equilibrium of existence ...”

  “... the equilibrium of existence cannot be defied, yes,” Harki finished, “Yet they make the attempt and in so doing shall certainly destroy themselves. Unless ... “

  “Unless I go to them at once and stop them.”

  The woman’s voice had been quiet and low, and she said nothing more.

  Harki clutched his own sides with his arms. He did not bother looking to see if the witch was still there.

  He only wished that she had not already forgotten the first of his warnings in the face of the second.

  He had seen the ravages of love and loss. Soon, so would she, and he doubted she would fare any better than the goddess named Lys.

  He hugged his own sides and wept, alone, before fading from view to never again be seen by the eyes of men.

  Chapter Fifteen

  He found his father where he knew he would.

  The laboratory door was not closed, and Etienne walked through it without knocking.

  At first he did not see his father. Instead of books and papers scattered as if a minor cyclone had passed through the room, there was no sign of anything other than the array of mirrors and lenses placed carefully in a myriad of positions throughout. Each had been covered in its own dark velour cloth, and the scent of fresh, clean air filled Etienne’s nose.

  Then he spied his father near one of the windows farthest from him, not with his head bent down to peer at old words in a book but with his arms held up before him and, in his hands, a series of small lenses mounted to a slender board.

  The Alchemist nodded to his son.

  “Come, Etienne. Look through this.”

  He went to his father’s side, taking care to avoid bumping or otherwise upsetting the careful adjustments his father had already made to the many instruments in the room.

  “What is it?” he asked as he took the object his father gave him.

  “I call it an aerial perspicillum. It allows one to look great distances and my own components have eliminated a need for occultation along its length. Errors of color have likewise been dispensed with due to the exceptional quality of my crystalline lenses.”

  Etienne held it up to one eye to see the first golden loop holding its lens before him. Quickly, he adjusted his grip to center the other lenses positioned down its length, one within the other in concentric circles.

  “Ah, and what do you see, son?”

  Etienne scanned the bright sky before him, sweeping the instrument from one side to the other before lowering it.

  “I looked to where I saw you looking, Father, and there is nothing at all to see. Only bright blue skies ... “

  His father nodded.

  “Yes, that is right. Not even a bird to trouble the view for there is no breeze and no thermals for raptors to climb while waiting for their prey to show themselves.”

  Etienne heard calm satisfaction in his father’s voice.

  “And this pleases you?”

  “It does. Conditions have come to alignment, my son, and this night will be a moonless one with the stars as abundant as they can ever be. No ill wind shall trouble the view with the gauze of clouds, unless my instruments have decided to lie to me for once and all.”

  He did not doubt his father. Etienne knew that he had spent years working on various devices that would predict the weather. They were strange things with a strand of hair strung between dials that would in turn displace a fine needle like a clock’s hand whenever the weather was about to take a turn for the better or for the worse.

  There was also another device of an entirely different make. It was made of thin tubes of glass filled with a highly refined oil. The amber fluid would rise or fall according to unseen energies his father once described as forces that weigh upon all things in the world, even if no one was aware of them.

  It made little sense to Etienne, but of one thing he was sure. When the dark amber began to climb up its glass prison walls, then dark skies would soon follow, and before long the heavens would open up once again in a vain attempt to wash away the sins of the world.

  If his father said the night to come would be one of fair weather, Etienne did not doubt him.

  Then he saw his father looking at him and he wore a frown as he d
id so.

  “Etienne ... what is it, my boy? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  The alchemist’s son shrugged, then stared off into the endless blue horizon.

  “In a manner of speaking, I have, Father. You are a sight for sore eyes.”

  The frown did not leave his father’s face as he said, “I don’t understand what you mean, but I don’t recall if I’ve ever seen you so shaken.”

  “My hunt for the object was in vain. And in my pursuit, I discovered certain errors in my comportment with those closest to me ... errors due to my own arrogance.”

  The Alchemist studied his son for a time.

  “Etienne,” he said, “This is the way of life. We suffer through our mistakes and can only hope to learn from them and do our best to not repeat the same errors again and again. That, above all, is key. We must not continue in the error of our ways.”

  Then, as if the sunny skies outside had at last found their way to the somber man standing before his father, Etienne smiled.

  “You are right, Father. And it begins here. I tell you now that I will no longer turn my back upon what you do. I have seen things that have made me understand how much you mean to me and if it is in my power to aid you now, I shall not rest until the thing is done.”

  His father looked away from him then.

  Etienne waited, his resolve firm.

  And when his father turned back to him at last, he saw eyes that shined in an old man’s lined face.

  “Long have I hoped to hear such words from you, Etienne,” he said, then reached forward to pat his son’s shoulder before clearing his throat.

  “The objective is to stop the march of time and bring Death itself to its knees,” his father said.

  It was as if Etienne’s promise undid a barrage that had held the old man mute until then. His words came in a flood.

  “But how?” the Alchemist asked, then continued on in a rush without waiting for his son to respond.

  “As you know, I have studied the texts of our forebears and considered the subject endlessly. I have come to believe that as we age, some vital component within our bodies becomes polluted, impure. This impurity accumulates until infirmity comes at the last and we are reduced to doddering old fools, weak in mind and body, easily swept away by some malady as trifling as a sniffly nose.