Genevre momentarily turned her attention from the boy to Dracaen. She did not understand the decree. Though she knew more about alchemy and its dimensional laws than the average outside world scribe, she did not have the vast historical knowledge held by Dracaen and other Rebel Branch Elders, all of whom had nodded in agreement. She was about to ask Dracaen for clarification when Thuja stepped forward reaching for the boy.
“What are you doing?” asked Genevre, holding the boy closer to her chest.
“Larix and I will take the children to their chambers.” She noticed then that Dracaen had already let Larix take the girl, who reached out to her brother. Larix reined in the girl’s hand, attempting to quell her instinct to bond with the child in Genevre’s arms.
“Their chambers?”
“We took the liberty of preparing chambers for feeding and rest.”
“When? Why was I not consulted?”
“We chose not to distract you from your duties,” replied Thuja sweetly.
Genevre winced. She understood, hearing Thuja’s gentle tone, that the Elders expected her merely to acquiesce. She had played her role and was now to return to her regular scribal duties as if nothing had happened, as if she had not contributed her blood and essence to these young beings, as if she were not their mother.
“No. They will stay with me,” Genevre insisted.
“No,” said Dracaen. “They are best left with Larix and Thuja. You do not know how to care for them.”
Genevre felt stung. Thuja and Larix nodded, as the remaining rebels shuffled into the darkness and departed.
“They’re my children,” said Genevre. “Like any new mother, I will learn to care for them.”
“No, Genevre,” said Dracaen, “they are not your children. They are our children. They are children of the Flaw. And, as children of the Flaw, they will be raised by no one and by all.”
“Am I not one of the all?” she asked. “Or are you about to toss me back into the outside world without the children that you and I created?”
“Perhaps she could stay with them throughout the three nines,” suggested Larix.
“Yes!” replied Genevre immediately, though she still was not certain what three nines meant or what she could do between now and then to ensure a lifelong bond with her children.
“Are you certain?” asked Dracaen.
“Yes.”
“And do you agree to return to your scribal duties after the naming?”
“When is the naming?” she asked.
“Three times nine days,” Dracaen responded.
“Twenty-seven days? I have twenty-seven days to bond with my children?”
“You have twenty-seven days to nurture them, to meet their needs, to observe their development and their behaviours. Thereafter — after the naming — you must be prepared to let go, to return to your duties.”
Despite her hesitation ever to relinquish her children to Dracaen, Genevre agreed to his conditions. She would make the most of each minute of her twenty-seven days, and she would find a means to maintain contact thereafter.
“Fine,” said Dracaen. “You may stay with the children in their chambers.”
“Can they not . . .” she began, but she stopped herself upon seeing a flash of anger cross Dracaen’s face. “Yes, I will move for the three nines into their chambers.”
On the walk to the chambers, she held the boy in one arm, softly stroking his hair with her other hand. She smiled at the girl, who looked quizzically back at them from her position against Larix’s shoulder. But the girl did not smile in return; instead, she squinted her eyes and wrinkled her nose as if as uncertain as Genevre what the days ahead would offer.
To Genevre, the boy was as precious as the crystalline structure from which he had been born — beautiful yet fragile. The girl was quite the opposite — rough-edged and sharp, determined to succeed no matter what the challenge. Genevre had reached this conclusion by the end of the first day. A child born of the outside world would show little personality beyond its discomfort or contentment during its first few weeks. But an alchemical child — at least one born of the Flaw — developed at an astounding pace. By the morning of the second day, an outside observer would surely think the children were nearing three years old, though such an onlooker might wonder why they could not yet speak.
“During the twenty-seven days,” Thuja explained on the morning of the third day, “the alchemical child can develop to initial maturity.”
“Maturity!” Genevre exclaimed in response. She glanced at the children who sat across from one another, rolling the onyx egg back and forth. The girl laughed and squealed. The boy, head tilted, watched his sister as if wondering how she made her sounds.
“If all progresses as recorded in the most ancient Draconian accounts, after twenty-seven days, the child will have attained the physical age of five or six outside world years. Thereafter, once named and inscribed in the manuscripts, the child will age substantially slower. Of course, after thirty physical years, Dragonblood or Lapidarian Elixir can be ingested to halt aging to a virtual standstill — a much slower rate even than that of the Azoths.”
“Has an alchemical child ever moved through the orders to become High Azoth or Azoth Magen?” asked Genevre, now not only watching the children but imagining their lengthy and potentially challenging futures.
“According to Lapidis Philosophorum 8118, a textual ambiguity suggests the possibility that High Azoth Makala of the 5th Rebel Council may have been an alchemical child.”
“High Azoth Makala. I’ve read of her.”
“She is thought to be an original ancestor of the bloodline,” explained Thuja.
The bloodline. For as long as Genevre had known Dracaen, he had been enamoured of it, fixated on unearthing its descendants, re-establishing its lineage in the name of the plan. Aiming to reproduce the mutual conjunction of Ilex and Melia. Finally, Genevre believed she understood. Thuja had unwittingly provided her with the missing link: Makala. If indeed Makala had been an alchemical child, if indeed an alchemical child began the bloodline, Dracaen would need to produce an alchemical child for himself in order to bring his plan to literal fruition. She wondered in that moment what other partial truths he had told her.
“Genevre? How are you faring?” asked Fraxinus.
She had become lost in her reverie, barely registering that he had entered the room.
“Fine. I’m fine. I . . . I realized I need to ask something of Dracaen. Did he mention when he would come to see the children?”
Fraxinus and Thuja exchanged a glance, leaving Genevre worried that they too were now hiding something from her.
“He will not be joining us until the end of the three nines.”
“Why?” asked Genevre.
Fraxinus, normally forthcoming and generous with Genevre, lowered his eyes and waited for Thuja to respond. Clearly Dracaen, as High Azoth, had requested Fraxinus to yield to Thuja if Genevre were to question them.
“The High Azoth is observing ritual protocol as outlined in the Osmanthian Codex. He does not want to risk . . . contamination.”
“Contamination? Are the children infectious?” Genevre instinctively moved to where they played. She knelt down and placed a hand on each of their faces to gauge their temperature before Fraxinus responded.
“No, Genevre. But they are alchemical,” he reminded her. “As High Azoth, Dracaen must follow the protocols. He must avoid . . . connecting . . . with his progeny before the hour of maturity. Only at the end of three nines can the alchemical child be named and accepted by alchemists of the Rebel Branch, including Dracaen. He observes an ancient practice, replete with ancient laws, dating back to at least the 5th Rebel Council. Since you are yet unable to read the 5th Council script of the Osmanthian Codex, you must accept his word.”
“Perhaps, as an outside world scribe—” b
egan Thuja, but Genevre cut her off with a dismissive wave of her hands as she stood and faced the two Elders.
“Tell the High Azoth that his children await their father,” she said.
“The children themselves must obey alchemical laws and procedures during the three nines. Even you cannot control that process, no matter the extent of your love for either one.”
“Either one? I love them both equally,” Genevre assured them, though she allowed her gaze to linger upon the boy.
“Which of us would you prefer to assist with today’s feeding?” asked Fraxinus.
Though Genevre would have liked to nourish her children on her own, the complicated formula required the assistance of an Elder. On this day, she chose Fraxinus. She sensed that he sympathized with her plight, despite his allegiance to the High Azoth.
Thereafter, each morning of the three nines progressed as she anticipated. Fraxinus or Larix or Thuja would assist with the morning feeding — chanting the ritual words as Genevre spooned the porridge-like concoction laced with Lapis and Dragonblood into the children’s mouths. Within twenty minutes after the feeding, both children would be sound asleep, napping as they digested their alchemical nourishment. On the days that she was left alone with them, she would carefully observe their faces and small bodies for signs of change. Each day, an hour or so into their nap, if she watched closely enough, she would witness a specific alteration — the thickening of an eyelash, the extension of a nose, the deepening of the blush on a cheek.
In the afternoons, they would play. By the eighth day, Genevre had extended their toy collection to include not only objects of the Flaw dimension but also those of the outside world, which she had requested Larix to attain. Thus together, day after day, she and her children played with puzzles and blocks, balls and hoops, puppets and dolls. Though they could not articulate their desires and intentions in words, they could gesture with hands and eyes and voices. As she had learned from Thuja, language for alchemical children developed at a much slower pace than their bodies. Thus, as the days progressed, together the children learned to communicate in the absence of a spoken vocabulary. Though the children shared their toys, the boy seemed to have fallen in love with one particular doll. Fraxinus had handed it to him directly when he brought it from the outside world, and the boy had guarded it possessively ever since. Its head, including its molded hair, comprised painted porcelain: ivory skin with blushed-pink cheeks and blue eyes, black tresses and brows. Its body was soft and clothed in an exquisite cream gown of silk and lace. He would hold it close to him, stroke its head, and kiss its cheek — as if imitating Genevre’s own actions with each of her children. Twirling the girl’s hair along her finger, watching the boy’s love for his doll, she bathed in their literal and figurative softness.
On the morning of the twenty-fifth day, knowing that only a few days remained before all the rebels would take an interest in her children, Genevre began to grow anxious. She feared that her role in their lives would be supplanted by their role in the plan. Though she attempted to hide her worries from the children, her attempt appeared to have failed. The boy refused to eat when handed his formula. Meanwhile, the girl became ravenous, howling for more even when she had emptied both bowls. Fraxinus fetched Thuja to assist with creating more formula. Genevre attempted to coax her son to take even one spoonful from her, but he would not. She handed the bowl to her daughter, who quickly devoured its contents.
“We will try again later,” said Genevre to Fraxinus. “Surely, he will be hungry within a few hours. Perhaps after their nap—”
“No,” interrupted Thuja. “His return has begun. We must allow it to take its course.”
“The boy must eat, Thuja.”
“No. The course is now clear. Her essence will reign supreme.”
Genevre shivered. “Reign . . . what?”
“Genevre,” began Fraxinus. “You need to understand. The process is alchemical.”
“I know that the process is alchemical.” Genevre replayed the conversation. “What do you mean his return? What do you mean her essence?”
Neither Fraxinus nor Thuja spoke.
“Fraxinus! What is happening to my son?”
“He is dying.”
Words could not help her here. Like her children, she could respond initially only in gestures and intonation. She sank to her son’s side.
Finally, she yelled, “No! You cannot die! You must eat! You must eat!” She held him against her breast. Her daughter watched, holding the onyx egg to her mouth.
He could not die. She barely knew him.
For two days and two nights, Genevre held him to her, moving only when physical necessity required, leaving her daughter to be nourished continually by Fraxinus and Thuja. On the occasion that she would fall asleep, that her grip on her son would loosen for a moment, she would jolt awake with a cry and clasp him to her once again.
By the morning of the twenty-seventh day, her son had reverted to the size he had been when he first appeared to her. Her daughter, meanwhile, was strong and thriving. When finally satiated, she settled down and sat still with her mother and brother, watching as Genevre bathed her son’s face with cool water brought to her hourly from the cavern streams.
When the hour arrived, when minute by minute his breathing became more strained, when he breathed in one final time and exhaled with a rasping shudder, Genevre sobbed. Her daughter stood up and kissed Genevre on a tear-stained cheek.
“We must return him to the birthing crystals,” said Fraxinus gently.
When Genevre was ready, Fraxinus helped her to her feet. She held the tiny, fragile body in her arms as they progressed from the children’s chamber to the room in which they had been born. Fraxinus led the way. Thuja, holding the girl’s hand, followed behind Genevre. Genevre had expected all the Rebel Branch Elders to be assembled, but they passed no one on the walk, and only one person awaited them in the room: Dracaen. He must avoid connecting, Fraxinus had said. The reason was now clear. For one alchemical child to live, the other must die. For the alchemical child to live, a life must be sacrificed. Dracaen had not wanted to connect, to form an emotional bond with his two children because he had known that only one would be named.
In the place where the birthing alembic had stood was a hole — yet another absence within Flaw dimension. It had been carved out of the rock floor, sized for a tiny body to be laid to rest. Dracaen moved to take her son from her, to save her the required task, but she pulled back. The one who loved him would be the one to place him in his grave. As she lay her child down, Fraxinus, Larix, and Thuja chanted softly, joined for the final verses by Dracaen. Only then did Genevre notice the colourful pebbles gathered into large wooden bowls at the side of the room. Dracaen and Fraxinus carried the bowls, one by one, to the graveside. Recognizing their purpose, Genevre took a handful and placed the fragments over her son’s body. His crystalline birthing fluids had become his burial shroud. Dracaen followed her lead. Just as Thuja reached into a bowl, the girl reached up a hand and pulled at Genevre’s sleeve.
“Mother,” she said, startling everyone. Genevre stared at her. At first, she was too stunned by her daughter’s first word to notice what she held out to Genevre in her other hand. “Mother,” she said again, waving the object, gesturing towards the grave.
With a surge of love, Genevre could not have imagined being able to feel on this day, she held her daughter’s hand in her own. She took the toy her daughter had carried with her on their journey from the children’s chamber. Thus, under the crystalline pebbles, her beloved son was buried alongside his cherished doll.
The three nines completed, her son buried, her daughter now attended by Thuja and Dracaen, Genevre retreated alone to her designated quarters. She lay on the bed, silently observing the patterns of light and shadow dance across the ceiling. She longed to feel nothing at all. But she knew she must soon shake herself from this stupor a
nd find the strength to comfort her daughter. Yet she simultaneously resented that impulse. How could Genevre think of her daughter when she yearned only to hold her son? She wanted to go back in time, to give her weakest child all the strength she could gather from all the elements throughout the dimensions. She wanted to go back to the moment of her children’s births and observe herself through the entire three nines to understand precisely where and when she had gone wrong. She wanted to save her son. She needed to save herself.
When she finally fell asleep, one anxiety-induced nightmare followed another.
Upon waking, she waited impatiently for Thuja or Fraxinus or even Dracaen himself to bring her daughter to her. But no one did. No one even checked upon Genevre for hours. Though odd compared with mourning practices she had observed in the outside world, rebel absence during times of grief could well be a standard custom she had yet to observe. Death, after all, was rare among alchemists. She spent the remainder of the day in bed sipping water from a clay cup. She spent the evening crying until she fell asleep.
The next morning, hunger prompted her to leave the chambers. She wandered towards the dining hall. The corridors were unusually quiet, and, seeing no one on the entire walk, she began to wonder if she had mistaken the hour. The dark hallways offered no clue as to the time of day, so she took a detour to the anteroom of the gravitational timepiece and peered in the window: nine a.m. Where was everyone?
Distracted temporarily from both grief and hunger, Genevre began seeking out others. Hallway after hallway, chamber after chamber, room after room, she found no one. Even the gated cavern housing the Flaw itself was empty of rebels. After an hour’s search, she stepped into the lift and descended into the archives. Here she fared no better. No one wandered the corridors, no one worked at archival room tables. Not until she had opened every door to every library in the deepest archives, not until she crossed the threshold of the small circular room that held the Osmanthian Codex did she cross paths with another: Dracaen.
The Flaw in the Stone Page 7