The Flaw in the Stone

by Cynthea Masson

  Flaw Dimension — 1800

  The following week, Melia learned that the Rebel Branch, like the Alchemists’ Council, had also maintained archival libraries through the generations. From one such chamber had come Chimera Veritas. The archives were housed deep within the Flaw dimension — seemingly farther beneath the surface than the catacombs in Council dimension. Though accessing them by a series of staircases was possible, the time needed to descend and, worse, ascend was prohibitive for daily work. Thus the rebels, so long ago that even Dracaen had no living memory of the event, developed a lift of sorts, manoeuvred by a series of chains and pulleys.

  “After you,” said Dracaen.

  Melia stepped into the small wood and metal chamber with trepidation. What if the cables were to break and she were to plunge to the archival depths? Would immersion in a catacomb alembic suffice to revive her?

  “Do not fear, Melia,” Dracaen advised. “The system is well maintained by our miners — outside world workers who help us with dimensional maintenance.”

  “Trustworthy in their duties, I presume?” She peered through the metal bars surrounding her into a dimly lit abyss.

  “Of course. As are your labourers in Council dimension — the gardeners, the cooks, the librarians.”

  “Keepers of the Book,” replied Melia.

  “Yes, as trustworthy as Keepers of the Book.”

  The lift shook and began to descend. Melia grasped onto one of the bars, trying to convince herself she was safe. “What do your miners mine?”

  “Nothing — so to speak. Generations ago, they were employed to clear this area. They mined the rocks and minerals to create nothing — a space for our archives. You must recall, Melia, that nothing is indeed something in the Flaw dimension. Nothing is the Flaw. Our realm exists as the opposite of yours — as a necessary coincidence of opposites that must be maintained for both dimensions to survive.” The lift creaked and groaned so loudly that she had to strain to hear Dracaen. “The Alchemists’ Council revels in forgetting that detail; thus, they aim to destroy us. The Rebel Branch, on the other hand, knows that in destroying the other we would destroy ourselves. Our goal is and always has been co-equivalency, mutual conjunction for all.”

  “And yet you appeared to have forgotten that mutual conjunction was possible. You seemed as surprised as Ilex and I were by the Chimera Veritas.”

  “The Rebel Branch has never forgotten the possibility of mutual conjunction. We simply had no means to reproduce it, to enact it, to ensure it. We knew the missing . . . ingredient, so to speak, was blood from the conjoined bloodline — blood that combines the rebel and the alchemist, blood of our primordial ancestors. We have tried to recreate the blood chemically — alchemically. But the tincture we developed, Sephrim, proved only to increase one’s chance of victory in conjunction rather than to ensure co-equivalency.”

  The lift came to a screeching halt, and Melia released the bar. Her hand ached.

  “But you and Ilex appear to have confirmed it again for us, Melia. Your bloodline will enable our future.” Dracaen opened the lift’s sliding door and gestured for Melia to step out.

  “It’s too dark,” said Melia.

  “Your eyes will adjust as the luminescence lanterns guide our way,” replied Dracaen.

  He was correct — again. Her vision grew accustomed to the luminescence. She required only a few minutes before the cool temperature and soft lighting relaxed her. By the time they crossed the threshold into the archival room, Melia felt completely calm for the first time since the day Ravenea had told her about the conjunction. High Azoth Dracaen was not to be feared. Melia believed his intention in helping her and Ilex was for the greater good.

  Two other rebels awaited them in the room. A variety of scrolls, manuscripts, and papers was spread on the table.

  “I am Larix,” said the one with the lighter hair. “Senior Reader of the Rebel Branch of the Alchemists’ Council. I have carried my Dragonblood pendant for two hundred and three years.”

  “I am Thuja,” said the one with the darker hair. “Senior Scribe of the Rebel Branch of the Alchemists’ Council. I have carried my Dragonblood pendant for two hundred and ninety-four years.”

  “I am Melia, Novillian Scribe of the Alchemists’ Council. I have carried my pendant three hundred and sixty-two years. On the final day of the Aurora Consurgens of the 17th Council, I am to conjoin with Ilex.”

  “Three weeks from now, I understand. What a glorious day that will be,” said Thuja.

  “Provided your bloodline and our alchemy coincide as predicted,” added Larix.

  “With your permission,” said Thuja, “we will subject you to a series of trials today.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To ascertain the validity of your bloodline,” explained Dracaen. “Larix and Thuja will conduct the same tests on Ilex tomorrow. If the results are as predicted, you can both begin ingesting the Sephrim within a few days — well in advance of the conjunction.”

  “You said the Sephrim didn’t work the way you intended,” said Melia.

  “It did not work as intended on those outside the bloodline. On those within the bloodline, we are anticipating a much superior outcome.”

  “An outcome,” added Thuja, “that may well change the future of both the Rebel Branch and the Alchemists’ Council.”

  Larix pulled a chair away from the table and gestured for Melia to sit. He then handed her a small scroll and asked her to read it aloud. As she unfurled it, she inexplicably felt her fingertips go slightly numb. The lettering on the scroll appeared unfamiliar to her — she assumed it to be an early alchemical script of the Rebel Branch that she had not had the opportunity to study within Council dimension. She shook her head; she could not comprehend the scroll’s content.

  “Tilt back your head,” said Thuja. She approached Melia holding a small bottle.

  Melia looked at Dracaen. He nodded his approval. She tilted her head back and allowed Thuja to place a few droplets of liquid into each eye. She blinked and pulled herself upright.

  “Try again,” said Larix, pointing towards the scroll.

  Melia tried to focus. “Now I cannot make out the letters at all — they are blurry. Before the eye drops, I could at least see, if not comprehend, them.”

  “Patience,” advised Dracaen.

  Yet again, he was correct. Within a minute, the letters not only became clear on the page but comprehensible to her mind. She read several sentences aloud before Larix indicated she could stop. The passage itself — an alchemical recipe involving copper and salt — seemed irrelevant. The fact that the eye drops had changed her vision so drastically that it had affected her ability to understand a language inaccessible only minutes earlier seemed fantastical. Surely an alchemical concoction, even one distilled in the Flaw dimension, could not infuse one with new knowledge.

  “How is such a transformation of my vision possible?”

  “The drops contain a diluted form of Sephrim. It did not transform your vision. It allowed alchemical knowledge lying dormant in your blood to be reawakened. You have passed the first test.”

  The afternoon proceeded with a series of similar tasks, the majority involving manuscripts featuring images of the chimera — some visible merely by adjusting the viewing angle; others transformed by the addition of a few more drops of Sephrim to her eyes.

  “Why not simply have me drink the contents of the bottle?” asked Melia after the third infusion.

  All three rebels laughed.

  “Sephrim, even in its diluted form, has been known to result in unpleasant side effects. We’re merely taking precautionary measures,” explained Larix. “Though our tests indicate that you are indeed of the primordial bloodline, we can only hypothesize rather than know with certainty how your body and mind will react to such a powerful drug.”

  Melia momentarily worried
that the negative effects of the Sephrim would manifest in her later, perhaps after she returned to Council dimension. But to calm her fears, she simply reminded herself that the potential conjunctive results were worth the risk. Thus, after a few hours of testing and one additional hour of precautionary observation by Dracaen, Melia stepped onto the lift and ascended out of the Rebel archives with a contented smile. She was certain in this moment that all would be well, that she and Ilex would indeed be mutually conjoined for eternity. Only then, and only briefly, did she allow herself a moment of concern about the extent of eternity.

  Council Dimension — 1800

  Three weeks later, on the final day of the Aurora Convergens, Ilex and Melia stood at the cliff face listening to the ritual chanting of the Elders. Melia could feel Ilex trembling. She understood his concern. She had attempted to comfort and reassure him repeatedly the night before. Knowing that regardless of the conjunctive outcome their final night together would be their last as separate entities, their sexual intimacy was more passionate than ever before, even their earliest days of love.

  “You will never be inside me again,” Melia had whispered.

  “I will forever be inside you,” Ilex had replied.

  Their laughter had been immediately followed by tears. Their sorrow now was as intense as their sexual passion had been the previous night. Their recent intimacy would soon seem a distant memory. She looked at Ilex and he at her, both uttering “I love you” as the Elders began their chanting.

  The pain was sudden, harsh, and almost unbearable. Melia felt as if she would lose consciousness. The sensation of falling into an abyss initially startled her, yet she relaxed shortly thereafter, allowing herself to savour the peacefulness that accompanied a gentle descent into nothingness. Ilex, she called out to him. Ilex! But he did not respond. Perhaps he is gone, she thought. Perhaps I am alone now. For as much as she loved him, for as much as she would mourn his loss for an eternity, in that brief period of feeling utterly alone, she was surprised at her contentment.

  The stabbing pain that jolted her from her reverie must, Melia realized instantly, be the Sword of Elixir wielded by Azoth Magen Quercus. Based on everything she knew of the Sacrament of Conjunction — from early Initiate lessons to the multitude of pairings she had witnessed herself — the piercing of the sword brings forth the Rebis. She expected a brilliant flash of light, the removal of the sword by the Azoth Magen, and a return to solid form at the cliff face. Despite their weeks of preparation with Dracaen and the rebels, she expected to stand alone and victorious. Of course, she should have realized her conjunction with Ilex would defy expectations.

  Various Elders had voiced their concerns during the months leading to the conjunction: You two are in love. Conjunctions of love are unable to bind. Council archives record four precedents of such failure. And so on and so on. Even after the Azoth Magen condoned their conjunction based on Elder Council proceedings, the caveats continued. Indeed, the most grievous was uttered to Melia by the Azoth Magen himself during a private conversation after the Sealing of Concurrence.

  “The dominant element in your essence is fire, Melia,” Quercus had said. “Ilex is water. Fire and water cannot conjoin. Thus, I advise you to prepare for failure. Though I have officially sealed this conjunction out of respect for the Elders and the manuscript prophecies, I cannot help but wonder if we have been misled. Manuscript manipulation is well within the repertoire of certain rebels.”

  “Accomplishing the seemingly impossible is well within the repertoire of certain alchemists,” she said to reassure both the Azoth Magen and herself.

  “Regardless, be cautioned. Success entails its own dangers. Water can drown fire.”

  “Or quench its thirst.”

  But now she was gasping — not as she had while falling into the abyss, not as she had while being pierced by the Sword of Elixir. No. Now, she gasped for breath. Instead of standing on the earth, solid in her victory at the cliff face as she had anticipated only moments ago, she flailed in the sea — literally. All she could see was water, all she could feel was water, all she could taste was water, its saltiness pungent and callous in her throat. She was drowning.

  Ilex! She cried from within, not able to vocalize. Ilex! Stop!

  But the waters swelled, engulfing her, pushing her beneath their raging depths. She could no longer see. Darkness prevailed. She longed in that moment not for earth or even air, but for light. She screamed for light. And in doing so, she reignited her essence, lighting the spark that was to become her salvation. She imagined herself as a flame — at first only that of a Lapidarian candle. But her fire grew, from candle to campfire, from campfire to bonfire, from bonfire to forest fire, from forest fire to volcanic lava, destroying everything in its wake. And the waters receded.

  Melia cried out in victory across the parched seabed until her rage subsided and she bore witness to the power of her own essence as she struggled to rein in its fires. All that remained of the waters was a small vibrant pool of aquamarine — liquid crystallized against annihilation. Ilex, she whispered. Ilex! Transforming herself out of love into a single flame, she knelt beside him. I . . . I did not mean . . . I did not know my own strength. And she wept. She wept and wept until her flame turned to tears, until her tears fell onto the pool, until the crystalline waters absorbed the molten fires, and the two became one ever after.

  Against all predictions of failure, Ilex and Melia had succeeded. Victorious before the Elders, before the entire Council, they stood together mutually conjoined. They had conjoined despite their love and despite their elemental opposition. Or, as they would come to explain their circumstance over the years to anyone questioning their conjunction within Council dimension, they had succeeded because of their love and elemental opposition. Though they were elated in their success, the alchemists surrounding them in the immediate aftermath of the ritual clearly were not. Rather than raising their voices in congratulations, which would normally cause a ripple effect of cheers throughout the orders, the Elders standing directly in front of them simply stared agape. Instead of seeing one alchemist reigning in victory, they saw two alchemists alternating dominance within one body. No one knew what to do or say since no one had observed such a spectacle within Council history — at least not within living memory of Council history.

  “Who are you?” asked Azoth Magen Quercus finally.

  “I am Melia, Novillian Scribe of the Alchemists’ Council. I have carried my pendant three hundred and sixty-two years. On the final day of the Aurora Consurgens, I conjoined with Ilex.”

  “I am Ilex, Lapidarian Scribe of the Alchemists’ Council. I have carried my pendant three hundred and forty years. On the final day of the Aurora Consurgens, I conjoined with Melia.”

  Beyond the sounds of the forest — the crows and toads of the ritual — the cliff face was silent. We will wait, Melia said to herself and, she hoped, to Ilex. But he did not respond to her words — at least not in any perceivable way. She had heard his voice only when he had spoken aloud. She knew he was there. She could feel him — acutely aware of his presence and emotional state — but she could not hear him inside; she could not read his thoughts beyond their intensity. She thus assumed they would have to speak aloud to each other to communicate details. But she certainly could not speak aloud the words she would like to say to him right now: We are as Dracaen promised we would be — the Chimera Veritas made flesh. She simply stood silently waiting, refusing to say another word even to the Elders until the Azoth Magen gave his directions or verdict. Ilex likewise remained silent.

  Meanwhile, as they waited, Melia experimented physically. She shifted her body from side to side, acclimatizing to her new form. The sensation was unusual, to say the least. For as much as she had known Ilex in every conceivable way, and for as much as she longed for mutual conjunction, being one with him — one with his body — was unsettling. Traditional conjunction would have been much easie
r. Within less than a minute, she understood that the most disconcerting aspect was not the sensation of Ilex’s body in and of itself, but the continual shifting between the conscious sensory perception of parts of her own body and the perception of parts of his. A few seconds would pass in which she would feel completely herself in every physical aspect; a few seconds later, she would feel some aspect of her body was not herself — the twitch of an arm muscle, the movement of fingers, a slight arousal in sexual organs not her own. Or were they? Were his now hers? How would she adjust to these fluctuating sensations? It then occurred to her that she was not the only one experiencing these shifts. She could sense Ilex’s feelings. Though she could not know his precise thoughts, she could tell that he too was unnerved.

  “Do you not see?” called Ravenea into the silence from her place among the Elders. “Do you not see the glorious phenomenon before our eyes?”

  Everyone began to murmur, no one completely sure what they were witnessing. Though individual voices were not distinguishable, Melia sensed through their intonations a mixture of excitement, fear, and anger. “Erase them!” someone suggested loudly. As her anxiety heightened, she felt Ilex’s right hand reach over to hold her left. The gesture comforted her, prompted her to focus not on the threat of erasure but on their exceptional physicality. How would they coordinate physical movement? How would they manage the walk back to their chambers? And to whose chambers? Concentrating on the minutiae of practical details allowed her, temporarily, to suppress her fear.