The Flaw in the Stone

by Cynthea Masson

  Sadira stood transfixed. Though she had been with the Council for almost a century, observing the Elders perform a ritual for the first time inevitably captivated her attention. On so many occasions over the years, even as she had moved through the Council Orders into the Magistrate, she had felt like a Junior Initiate first witnessing alchemical transmutation. Today was such an occasion. Always Sadira yearned to participate in the complex alchemy of the higher orders. Always she longed to discover the yet undiscovered. Even as an Initiate seeking escape, Sadira had become obsessed with learning everything she could about the complex maze of Council dimension tunnels. Of course, her primary duty over the decades had been to observe, to study, and, more recently, to teach. At rituals, she would chant and gesture and resonate, all in aid of those of the higher orders, those performing the intricacies at hand. Not since her first morning in Council dimension had she made what she considered to be a pivotal contribution — not since she had extinguished the fire left in the wake of Ilex and Melia. On many a day since, she had felt rather useless, necessary only as an instrument for the Elders, biding her time to play a more demanding role. Today, at least, her assigned task was critical.

  Today, every single alchemist of the Alchemists’ Council was necessary to the proceedings. All one hundred and one were required. Those in the protectorates had been called back home, even as the outside world began to wage its battles. Today, Azoth Magen Quercus and all the Council Orders from Azoths to Junior Initiates had been assigned a role. If even one alchemist were missing, if even one task were neglected during the ritual, all could be lost. Yes, the Azoth Magen could order the Council to begin the ritual again. But a mistake made once could be a mistake made repeatedly, and alchemical fatigue would thereafter set in. Another century or more could pass before the Azoth Magen would regain the strength to try again. Thus, as the Elders had made clear on each of the fifty-five days of preparation leading to this day, nothing less than perfection would be accepted. Every single alchemist, including Sadira, had been made to rehearse until no doubt — no room for error — remained.

  For three days, the skies will darken! For three days, we will call back the light! In the final hour of the third day, the grace of Final Ascension will descend upon us!

  Such was the chant that the Azoths had uttered in 8th Council dialect on the first day. Such was the chant that had echoed through the halls and chambers, that had moved over the lands from the courtyard to catacombs to the redwood forest on each day since the first. And now, here they were — here Sadira was — on the fifty-fifth day. Five and five: a symbolic conjunction of Quintessence. Yes, the outside world had suffered dire consequences from the moment the chant had first been uttered. Yes, the Vulknut Eclipse would be such a powerful alchemical phenomenon that its overwhelming effects would bleed through the dimensions on the first of its three days. The Council had timed the Remota Macula — the Removal of the Flaw — accordingly. Where its effects would be visible in the outside world, the people would presume a natural phenomenon, as they always did with so many matters of alchemical interference. But their eclipse would not portend the auspicious time the people of the outside world anticipated. No, the world would suffer immeasurably during the periods of both literal and figurative darkness. For three days after the five and five, the Council would be engaged with preparations for Final Ascension. The outside world and its wars were of little consequence, despite Council vows. All would be justified at the end — at the ultimate ascension. All would be well. All would be saved in the One.

  Sadira had to believe this promise. What did she have otherwise? What value was her life — what value had her life been over the years, especially in its currently extended form — if it were simply to end three days from now? Admittedly, doubt niggled her on the occasions that her defences were down and fear overshadowed her reason. What if the One failed to materialize? What if the One was as much of a myth as Aralia and Osmanthus? Or what if the One had been severed forever along with the Aralians and the Osmanthians? What if Sadira was about to die alongside her fellow alchemists? What if the people of the outside world were suddenly left without the Council? Thankfully, such moments of concern were not only infrequent but brief, easily resolved with a simple shift of perspective. All Sadira needed to do was search the faces of her fellow Council members for a reassuring glance. The Elders radiated serenity even amidst the monotony of the endless rehearsals for the ritual.

  As instructed, Sadira attempted to empty her mind, sitting in contemplation of the Lapis for the hour before the Remota Macula. The difficulty of one’s assigned task was relative to one’s Order of Council, with the Scribes being the exception. Scribes were required merely to stand as witnesses to the proceedings. All others were given words to recite. Accordingly, Sadira’s words and gestures were more difficult than those of the Initiates but less difficult than those of the Readers. The Order of the Ritual was also performed relative to the Council Orders, thus beginning and ending with the Azoth Magen. Though the opening of the ceremony was straightforward, the closing was extraordinarily complex — half an hour of tongue-twisting chants to be performed solely by Azoth Magen Quercus. With each rehearsal, Sadira came to admire Quercus more and more. During the Remota Macula itself, within five minutes of Quercus’s chant, Sadira found herself tearing up. Her ritual performance over, her tears could not affect the outcome, but she had to will herself not to sob audibly. How could she accept that mere days from now, if the Lapis absorbed the Gift of the Magen, Azoth Magen Quercus would literally dissolve into dust?

  Flaw Dimension — Summer 1914

  Eight months had passed since Dracaen had confessed the truth to Kalina. Though she had gradually come to accept the reality of her alchemical origins, she continued to question her existence. Her image, reflected back to her from the cavern pools, was as misleading as she felt her body to be — an illusion temporarily revealed by a trick of the light and the elements. The time had finally come. No more delays. No more excuses. She needed to leave Flaw dimension. She needed to take time to process outside Dracaen’s realm of influence. She needed to consider the ethics of creating — manufacturing — a child of the cause, to reach a decision about her role in his plan. She wanted to find Genevre and tell her what she knew: that Dracaen had lied to them both. Though she understood that his intention had been to protect her — to protect both mother and child — she could not reconcile Dracaen’s apparently selfless gesture with his concealment of truth over the decades.

  Which of his roles was his true self: the saviour or the liar? He had protected her. If Dracaen had not brought her into the relative safety of the Rebel Branch, the Alchemists’ Council may have found her and claimed her as their own. But would the Council have harmed an alchemical child? Perhaps they would have dissolved her into the elemental particles from which she had been born. Ultimately, Council sought to deny free will; Kalina existed as the ultimate expression thereof, as the physical manifestation of the choice to transmute the elements into a human being, into life itself. In that sense, Kalina was the Flaw incarnate. Would the Council not seek to eliminate her along with the fissure that made her conception possible? Or perhaps the rebels had painted the alchemists as the life-threatening enemy only as a means of training her to fear the other. She no longer knew what to believe.

  Thus Kalina had resolved to seek out Genevre, to get to know her, to learn of the role she had played in her creation, to confront her, to ask her if the freedom to choose included the freedom to act as gods. There are no gods, Dracaen used to say to her, only beings who invent gods.

  Why? she had asked him once. She had never forgotten his answer: To explain their lack of choice in their world. She did not know whether inventing a god was better or worse than acting as one. She did not know whether engineering a child in an alchemical vessel was better or worse than procreating one in a womb. Either way, what choice did the created being have in the act of its own creation? No
choice at all. What then did the Flaw in the Stone offer? Perhaps free will itself was a mere illusion to those whose choices were made amidst lies — lies masked as truths fabricated in the name of an ideal realized only by the chosen few. Her anger at Dracaen simmered as she reached her decision to leave Flaw dimension to seek out Genevre. She recognized her hypocrisy. How could she be angry with Dracaen and yet accept Genevre as her — the word still felt foreign to Kalina — mother?

  As she walked through the corridors towards the portal, unwavering in her intention to depart, Kalina silently rehearsed phrases she might soon utter aloud: I know who you are to me. I know you are my mother. I know I am your daughter. I need an answer to one question: Why did you abandon me?

  “Do not—” Dracaen began when he spotted her.

  If he said another word, Kalina did not hear it — a thundering crack suddenly resounded through Flaw dimension. She could hear nothing at all in the immediate aftermath of the disturbance. Neither could she see beyond the thick mists, now churning and billowing like dust clouds in a desert storm. She could barely breathe. She fell to her knees winded, fearing for her life. And then, nothing: no sounds, no sights, no mists, no movement of air or dust. Even the wooden chimes were silenced. She shook her head to reorient herself. She rose to her feet and stared at Dracaen. He appeared stunned, unable to move.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  And then the shriek: Thuja, screaming in one, long continual note, a siren wailing through Flaw dimension.

  Dracaen came back to life, turned, and moved swiftly towards Thuja’s cry. By the time he and Kalina reached the Dragonblood chamber, Thuja stood silent, amidst dozens of rebels who had answered her cry. Kalina blinked — something was wrong, but she could not process the altered reality; her brain could not quite catch up to her eyesight.

  And then the shock: beyond the gathered rebels, in front of Thuja, behind the wrought-iron barrier lay absolutely nothing. The Alchemists’ Council had finally succeeded. At last the Aralians had won the Crystalline Wars. They had removed the Flaw in the Stone.

  Sundsvall — Summer 1914

  Jinjing sat at a small table running a finger over a section of gold leaf in an illumination of a glorious peacock — its plumage inscribed in jewel tones and precious metals. The texture beneath her fingertip brought her comfort. So did the very fact of the text: its illicitness in particular. For all intents and purposes, she had stolen the manuscript. As Keeper of the Book of both the North Library and the Qingdao protectorate, her manuscript privileges were extensive, but she certainly was not permitted to remove one — no matter how small — from Council dimension without permission. Temporary relocation of a manuscript to a protectorate was permissible on occasion; she had herself once transported two volumes of the Rosarium Philosophorum for Azoth Ailanthus to the Vienna protectorate. However, she knew that a request to bring a manuscript to this isolated location would have been denied. So, she had hidden it under the folds of her coat before meeting Obeche in the portal chamber. If Jinjing were fated never to return to Council dimension, she would keep a piece of it with her. At the height of the five and five, Council would not miss a single volume amidst thousands. Besides, she rationalized, no alchemist would require a manuscript after ultimate Final Ascension since no alchemist would exist outside the One. And if those who resided in the outside world were not, despite Council assurances, likewise absorbed into the One, then Jinjing wanted physical proof of the alternate world she had once called home.

  Obeche had volunteered as the Elder to accompany Jinjing to the Swedish outpost and ensure that she was safely ensconced. That was a week ago. She had not heard from him since. His habit of abandoning her had unnerved her. He had promised her that they would see each other again once they co-existed within the One. But that assurance had not prevented her from holding out hope for a final exchange in the outside world as two individuals. She should have known better. After all, she knew this to be the final week of preparation of the Remota Macula. Removing the Flaw had been Obeche’s obsession for so long that in all likelihood he had not given her a second thought since leaving her here. Like the manuscript, her absence would not be noticed. She no longer mattered to him or to the Council. She closed the tiny, ornate cover of the Tinctura Universalis and peered out the window, debating whether to venture out to the bakery down the street. What would the local people of this outside world town think of her, such an obvious foreigner? Where are you from? she imagined someone asking. Another dimension that you could not possibly understand, she imagined herself answering. You would not even understand the words I speak to you now without the benefit of Lapis-induced Musurgia Universalis. She imagined her anger turned to bravery in what might be the final days of her existence. But she then opted not to be lured by her desire for Swedish pastries.

  Why could the Council not let the Lapis be, leave it untouched, Flaw intact? She had tried to understand the explanation of the sacrament over the years, but she was never able to fully appreciate it. In all honesty, she did not care. For most of her tenure with Council, she had no reason to believe the Remota Macula would ever take place. The ritual had reportedly been attempted on occasion over the centuries, but it had never succeeded. Council records of such attempts included detailed rationale for failures. The aftermath of each attempt meant a redoubled effort at rebalancing the elements both of Council dimension and the outside world. Azoth Ailanthus once told her that Council neglect during an attempt at Remota Macula had been responsible for the Mongol Conquests. Jinjing had doubted the veracity of the claim until a few weeks ago. The reports of the outside world conflicts since the Calling of the Chant terrified her; she now feared what would happen if the 17th Council failed. Would millions die once again in the pursuit of an unattainable goal? Of course, Jinjing understood that the Council could not stop now — not now that they had started, not now that they had neglected the outside world just long enough for it to have begun its descent into a corruptive and destructive abyss. Now the Council must make the attempt — not for the sake of One, but for the sake of all.

  Yet if the Elders truly had faith — full confidence that the Remota Macula would succeed — why had they stationed her at the outpost? Her duty after the five and five was to observe and transcribe the effects over the three days of the Vulknut Eclipse. She must do so from a vantage point that coincided with the outside world’s solar eclipse and note Lapidarian effects, to determine whether or not the Vulknut Eclipse even occurred as a phenomenon in the outside world. She had been furnished with spectacles that would allow her to look directly at the sun without being blinded. The lenses had been crafted from crystals mined from the deepest wells and coated with alchemically enhanced Elixir. Jinjing herself had been given a concentrated dose of Lapidarian honey as a precautionary measure against retinal damage. If she was worried how the townsfolk would react to her request for a pastry, she could barely fathom what they would think of her later today: a spectacle-laden foreigner standing in the middle of the town square staring up at the blood-blackened sun.

  Council Dimension — Summer 1914

  Saule watched the Azoth Magen’s face as he moved his hand over the smooth surface of the Lapis. He walked slowly around its entirety, bending and stretching to adjust the angle of his vision. Though the light in the room had diminished, it remained sufficient for assessment.

  “What say you?” Quercus asked the Azoths.

  As slowly as Quercus had done, both Ailanthus and Kezia made their inspections.

  “What say you?” Ailanthus asked the remaining Elders, who one by one walked the circumference of the Lapis.

  When the final Elder — Novillian Scribe Esche — had made his inspection, he nodded his agreement to Rowan Kai, who nodded her agreement on behalf of all four Novillians to the Rowan Badara, who nodded his agreement on behalf of both Rowans to Azoth Ailanthus.

  “I concur,” said Ailanthus.

 
; “I concur,” said Kezia.

  Together, gripped with anticipation, they all waited — the newest Initiate to the eldest Elder — to hear the pronouncement of the Azoth Magen. Quercus shook visibly as he held the Azothian sceptre aloft.

  “The Lapis is perfected. So say we all!” said Quercus.

  “So say we all!” echoed the entire Council, and a cheer resounded.

  Saule shuddered. Sadira reached for her in response, clasping Saule’s arm in eagerness. But Saule knew that neither Sadira nor anyone else who had noticed her trembling fully understood the extent of her alarm. Azoth Magen Quercus, Azoths Ailanthus and Kezia, Scribes Ruis, Obeche, and even Ravenea — everyone whom she could see from her position in the Scriptorium, everyone whom she had known for decades upon decades — appeared content. If they were trembling, they were doing so out of exhilaration. For the Alchemists’ Council, their sacred goal had been met. The goal had been met by this Council on this day. And Saule had borne witness.

  The transmutation had already commenced. The sky, visible through the east window, had begun to darken. The Vulknut Eclipse was underway. Would perfection for all in the One follow in its wake? Or would the eclipse drape the outside world in metaphorical darkness for years to come — years during which the Council would be distracted with recovery from failure? They would not conclude that ultimate Final Ascension had been a mythical construct. They would instead be motivated to rationalize its failure. Instead of maintaining elemental balance, they would spend their time placing the blame on the rebels, on the traitors, on the unfaithful, or on the unorthodox. And in the process, they could well discover that one pesky discrepancy in the complex interplay of alchemy, bloodlines, and deception — the role she had played in helping Ilex and Melia to conceive a child and escape on the wings of a bee.