The Flaw in the Stone

by Cynthea Masson

  “Perhaps we’re not alchemists,” suggested Ilex. He laughed.

  “Perhaps not for much longer,” responded Melia. She wanted to cry. Her fears inevitably led to discussions about the future. You are of the bloodline, they recalled Dracaen saying before their conjunction. So too would be their child.

  “My love, forgive me for what I am about to say,” warned Ilex before speaking words that startled Melia. “But I must say it now, before I retreat again into the shadows.” He paused. “We cannot keep this child.”

  Was Ilex proposing an alchemical solution to terminate the pregnancy? Melia could not bring herself to respond or question. She simply did not want to know his meaning and was thankful in that moment that they could not hear each other’s thoughts.

  “If this child survives its birth,” Ilex clarified, “which it may well not, we cannot keep it. We must assure we give birth secretly — outside Council dimension. And we must thereafter disassociate ourselves from our child. Otherwise, the bloodline trials on the innocent babe will be endless — exponentially worse than our own. We cannot subject a child to such barbarity.”

  Bloodline trials. Bloodline trails. Trails of blood. Melia shuddered. She could not help but picture their child covered in blood. Perhaps she and Ilex could escape altogether, hide away not only for the birth but so that no one would ever find them. As they had done years earlier before their conjunction, they began to contemplate fleeing to the outside world. Could they survive if they were to cut all ties with the Council? How long could they live without Elixir? Perhaps Saule could supply them with Lapidarian honey and find adoptive parents for the child, who would thereby never be found even if the Azoths located its escapees. She spoke aloud options as they occurred to her. Together she and Ilex hypothesized various scenarios until exhausted.

  “Perhaps years from now, when the child has matured . . . perhaps then, we can be reunited,” suggested Ilex. This possibility gave Melia a flicker of hope. Unlike in her most dreaded scenarios, she need not abandon her child for eternity.

  A bee landed on Ilex and Melia then. They stood, and Melia gently shook their robe to encourage it to fly away. But it stayed put, and another soon joined it. And another. Ilex suggested taking the robe off. Melia lay it over a low branch of the tree, careful not to trap the bees. Unharmed, they flew from the robe and landed on Ilex and Melia’s cotton shirt. Others soon followed. Melia had counted eighteen before so many arrived that she could no longer keep track. Ilex suggested they run for the portal, but Melia saw no sense in such a gesture. She was not about to leave the ancient garden and emerge from the portal with bees clinging to their clothes. Ilex began to argue, but soon after the point was moot. Melia closed their eyes and knelt to the ground. Within moments, hundreds of bees had landed upon them. Melia could no longer physically see them, but she could sense their bluish-green Lapidarian tinge, could feel it in their vibration. She could hear them humming a deep, dark tone that gradually moved Melia into a meditative state. She could no longer sense Ilex at all.

  The first sting surprised her. It did not hurt her at all — no more than a light pinprick. It had simply been unexpected given the maturity of their Lapidarian pendant. The dozens — hundreds perhaps — of stings that followed were almost soothing. A light sensation of prickling moving across her body. Her body. She could feel every inch of it — every inch as her body alone. No Ilex. No child. Her body alone. She knew the bees were injecting something into her with their stings. But if a venom, it resulted in no apparent toxicity. Indeed, she felt better than she had in years, better even than when immersed in the catacomb waters. What good had the catacombs done to heal her? None whatsoever. They merely led her to the knowledge she would eventually have gained by natural means.

  Natural means. None of this process was natural. Or perhaps all of it was. Perhaps alchemy is the most natural process of all. Perhaps we should all be given the opportunity to completely transform ourselves and the worlds in which we thrive.

  Melia fell into a sleep-like trance. She dreamed vividly — flashes of insight that she would later struggle to remember, the sound of wooden chimes calling her to Flaw dimension, mists moving across the Dragonblood Stone, bees appearing and disappearing. She felt trapped. She felt free. She could taste both bitter vitriol and golden-sweet honey. A boy. Ilex presenting a pendant chain to a boy. Their son? No. Yes. She could not be certain.

  She awoke. She could not move her body. Had the bees drugged her? She felt her child stir within her. She felt Ilex stir. He was trying to move their left foot and ankle, attempting to free it of the shackles that were keeping Melia immobile. She struggled then too. She helped Ilex, accomplishing only the slightest movement at first. A foot, then a leg, then part of the torso: free. They were encased in something. Melia felt as if she were hatching from a shell, pecking away at it bit by bit, picking the hard casing away from its inner fluid. But when she and Ilex had finally freed their hands and arms completely, when they were finally able to sit up and clear the remaining debris from their eyes, Melia realized the material was not shell. They had been swathed in honeycomb, complete with wet golden nectar. The bees had disappeared — flown away, their work completed. Or they had hidden away to die from stinging and exhaustion.

  “Did they help or hinder the child?” asked Ilex.

  “Helped,” replied Melia. “I am certain.” She felt invigorated. The Lapidarian bees had somehow infused her, Ilex, and the child with their essence. Had they been injected with the bee-venom equivalent of Lapidarian Elixir? Could it sustain them? Could Ilex and Melia now survive without Elixir in the outside world thanks to these tiny alchemists?

  Three weeks had passed since Melia had made her revelation in the catacombs to Saule. Saule gradually understood that, in all likelihood — though they had no precedent for confirming the mechanics of the matter — the night of intimacy she had shared with Ilex and Melia had resulted in the pregnancy. With that knowledge, Saule felt not only involved but responsible.

  “Have I fathered this child?” she had asked one evening.

  “I believe you were the conduit for conception.”

  “But how? Did I somehow transfer—”

  “No! Not physically. You know as well as I that alchemists cannot become pregnant. If we existed as two separate bodies, Ilex’s seed would have been deemed an invader, like a virus, readily quelled by my Quintessence. The only explanation is alchemical — a phenomenon of mutual conjunction we’ve yet to understand,” said Melia.

  “Yes, but if I hadn’t entered you—”

  “Saule! You are certainly under no obligation to take responsibility as a parent — whether mother or father.”

  “I’m both perhaps,” replied Saule.

  “Or neither,” responded Melia.

  “Don’t push me away,” implored Saule. “I may not be a biological parent to this child, but I certainly played a role in the alchemy of its creation. And I could well be your only friend and, more importantly, your only ally if you intend to carry through with your plan to leave Council dimension for the outside world without consulting the Elders.” She had dropped her voice to a harsh whisper.

  Melia lowered her head. “I apologize, Saule. I’m tired. And I’m scared. And I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what is best for us. And I most certainly don’t know what is best for the Council.”

  “All that matters in the immediate future is what is best for you and Ilex and the child,” affirmed Saule.

  “And how am I to determine even that?”

  Thus, the conversations continued along these lines whenever the opportunity arose for time alone. In particular, whenever possible, Melia and Saule would sit together after the evening meal in the wisteria tree. Ilex had retreated further into the shadows since the bee incident, emerging for only a few minutes per day, and the bees paid Melia no attention whatsoever thereafter. Melia and Saule would often cha
t late into the night, the apiary perpetually moonlit after sunset. Rumours began to spread as a consequence. No one suspected the truth, of course. How could they? Conception was, as it were, inconceivable since it had never before happened to a member of the Alchemists’ Council. Instead, their conjectures revolved around sexual or romantic liaisons between Melia and Saule. Ravenea was the one who finally made them aware of various fragments of gossip: Melia and Saule have fallen in love. Melia is no longer faithful to Ilex. She is now truly an alchemist like the rest of us. I haven’t seen Ilex in weeks — Saule must have scared him away. Imagine the surge to the Quintessence if all three were to—

  “Stop!” begged Melia.

  “Is any of it true?” asked Ravenea. She had taken it upon herself on that evening to join Melia and Saule in the ancient garden to confront them directly.

  “Yes,” lied Melia. Saule started slightly.

  “I do not believe you,” replied Ravenea. She knew Melia too well. “You are hiding something. And I am disappointed that you have not yet confided in me.” She turned and walked away from the wisteria tree, back across the field to the portal.

  “What if she takes her suspicions to the Elders?” asked Saule.

  “She won’t,” said Melia. “She may be disappointed in me, but she will not betray me. Besides, what would she tell them? All she could offer would be mere speculation. She knows we will turn to her when necessity requires.”

  Over the weeks, despite uncertainties about the future, Melia and Saule were occasionally able to take a few minutes of those hours spent in the wisteria tree to relax completely: to watch the Lapidarian bees move from one blossom to the next, to enjoy the evening light through the flowers and branches, to pretend momentarily that nothing was out of place despite the weight bearing down on them both — on them all, including Ilex and the child that he and Melia carried — with each passing day. Sometimes they could forget; yet no matter what fleetingly distracted them, they were inevitably brought back to their reality.

  “It seems always to be spring here,” observed Saule on one such evening. “Nothing ever changes — perpetual beauty. As beautiful as I remember it to be, surely the outside world pales in comparison.”

  They were thus distracted.

  “Such is the alchemy of the ancient garden,” said Melia. “I have often wondered how the Lapidarian bees fare in the outside world upon their first encounter with seasonal shifts — the highs and lows in light and temperature that they would never have encountered here.”

  “As I wonder how you will fare, Melia.”

  They were thus brought back.

  Melia smiled despite the emotional twinge of pain. “Your concern is valid, Saule. We must be sure to choose a temperate climate as our destination.”

  They joked on this particular occasion, but such practical considerations were indeed of importance as they worked through the details of the plan, such as it was. Early in her discussions with Saule, Melia had contemplated confessing the truth to Quercus. Repeatedly, Saule offered her advice: You cannot take a child conceived in Council dimension into the outside world; you must remain here among alchemists; you must remain in proximity to the Lapis. Despite her earlier conversations with Ilex, Melia had initially agreed with Saule, in theory if not in heart. But a more recent discussion with Dracaen, which she had taken upon herself late one night without Saule’s knowledge, had convinced her otherwise.

  “A child conceived through mutual conjunction is a miracle of the bloodline. You know this to be true, Melia. As such, the child belongs to the Rebel Branch,” Dracaen insisted.

  “As such, our child belongs to us — to Ilex and me,” Melia snapped. But she knew even then that her retorts against the High Azoth were weak. Melia, in agreeing to take the Sephrim years ago, in attempting and succeeding at mutual conjunction with the assistance of the rebels, now felt like a mere vessel, like a human alembic whose sole purpose was to incubate and then deliver a miracle child — one who would be sought across the dimensions, fought over at best, destroyed at worst.

  “Consider the future of the Alchemists’ Council,” Dracaen had said.

  In Dracaen’s view, even before the child was born, it had already become a symbol of possibility: a means for the Rebel Branch to enact its ultimate goal. The child would be the One to perpetuate the bloodline and, thereby, to ensure free will for all through a return to mutual conjunction — for mutual equivalency between the rebels and the alchemists. He did not see the pressure such hope put on the child and Ilex and Melia themselves. Did Dracaen expect them simply to relinquish the child to his care? Did he expect them to allow their child to become a victim in his obsessive and seemingly unending search for a means to preserve the bloodline?

  “For the child’s safety and for your own well-being,” Dracaen assured her. “I offer you the better choice.”

  “The Council will inevitably hear that the Rebel Branch is raising a child. They will find a means to investigate.”

  “We will hide the child, as you yourself would do. We will watch it from afar, protect it. We will refrain from making direct contact until after it has reached an age when initiation to the Rebel Branch would not be questioned.”

  Melia determined on that night that she must not grow attached to her child. She must not. Yet how could she not? And what would Ilex think? He now emerged only on occasion, and he seemed as indecisive as she was. You must decide, my love, he would say, before falling swiftly back into the shadows he was forced to occupy as the child inside them continued to mature.

  The child was indeed growing. Melia could feel it. But thus far they showed little visible sign of pregnancy, especially given the ample nature of Council robes. Still, she knew that no matter the length of gestation — which she assumed would be slowed substantially, given the Elixir that had flowed through their veins for decades — eventually she would not be able to hide their physical circumstance. And even if they could hide their physical form with the help of their most generous robes, they certainly would not be able to hide the birth or the child itself once it had been born. Melia had concluded weeks ago that they could not deliver the child in Council dimension nor, as Dracaen would prefer, in Flaw dimension. Thus, she needed to accelerate her plan for their permanent escape to the outside world. Once the child was born, once Ilex had returned from the shadows, they could consult with Dracaen together and decide whether or not to seal their child’s fate.

  A full two months had passed before Melia’s final week as a member of the Alchemists’ Council arrived. When the time had seemed right, Melia had chosen to trust Ravenea to help — a decision Saule initially questioned. But Ravenea had proven herself more than worthy over the years and was, Melia convinced Saule, their only conceivable ally on Council. Though she had been both shocked at the news of the pregnancy and angered at Saule and Melia’s extended silence on the matter, Ravenea had eventually agreed to assist them for both personal and pragmatic reasons.

  “The suffering must end,” said Ravenea. “You and Ilex have been through enough tribulations.” She paused and smiled. “Besides, alchemists have little patience for children. Imagine if your child got loose in the Scriptorium!”

  “Thank you, my beloved friend,” Melia said, embracing Ravenea.

  “Of course,” continued Ravenea, her tone serious once again, “all ties between us will thereafter be severed. My path towards Azoth must remain clear of trespass.”

  Melia nodded, tears welling.

  “I, on the other hand, have no such Azothian ambitions,” said Saule.

  “Regardless,” responded Melia, “you’ll have ventured enough by assisting our escape. I cannot ask you to risk erasure through continued contact.”

  “You have not asked. I chose to love you, no matter the risk.”

  Tears had flowed freely in that moment and many times thereafter until the final hour.

 
Now they waited together beside the wisteria tree, about to embark upon the first precarious step in the plan: an unorthodox departure from Council dimension. Departure via the main portal or even the cliff face would leave a transport signature that could easily be used by the Elders to track Ilex and Melia’s destination in the outside world, so Ravenea had suggested a radical alternative. Like the bees of the ancient garden, Ilex and Melia would enter the outside world through the fissure in the wisteria tree. Such a move was unparallelled, of course. But so was mutual conjunction, so was an alchemist’s pregnancy, and so was escaping without a trace. You will be carried on the wings of the bees, Ravenea had explained last month after hearing Melia’s tale of their protective venom. Saule had shaken her head in bewilderment, hands covering her face. She knew that Ravenea was a skilled alchemist — one who had far exceeded others of her order at each rotation. But surely even one so skilled in manipulating elements could not succeed at magic.

  “It is not magic,” Ravenea assured them. “It is blood alchemy.”

  “Blood alchemy?” repeated Melia and Saule simultaneously.

  “Blood alchemy is the ancient practice of manipulating elemental cohesion with the Elixir-infused blood and Quintessence-infused breath of an alchemist.”

  “‘The ink and the words are the blood and the breath,’” recited Melia, remembering a fragment of a text she had studied over a century earlier.

  “Like the sacrifices of old,” continued Ravenea, “pure blood alchemy was abolished from official Council doctrine after the First Rebellion — its power more feared than revered. And with each Final Ascension of an Azoth Magen, more knowledge of blood alchemy has been lost to us. Now early Council doctrine is ancient history relegated to the deepest archives.”

  “Yet you have somehow managed to unearth this alchemical art from the archives?” asked Melia, the anxiety in her voice tinged with skepticism.