Genevre herself was not certain of the truth of her intentions. With the Flaw safely re-ensconced in the Stone, why not simply assist the Council in their repair of the world? The people of the outside world could certainly use the help. And doing so would in no way harm Dracaen’s plan for mutual conjunction, which still required a variety of alchemical alignments alongside another century of outside world time. When Cedar first offered to take her through the Santa Fe portal to Council dimension for training, Genevre relished the opportunity. She could meet others. She could distract herself from thoughts of her art, and the war, and her daughter, and her continual yearning for a sibling for Kalina, someone to help her fulfill the alternative plan that she could sense, though not yet fully articulated, prickling under her skin, awaiting her conscious and reasoned scrutiny.
Though both Cedar and Gad had described it to her in detail, Council dimension was much airier and brighter than she had expected. She could not help but compare it to Flaw dimension. In place of caverns were gardens. In place of stone walls and hard-packed soil were vibrant murals and tiles. Genevre liked the glittering beauty of the Amber Garden best of all. Something about the movement of the light reminded her of her own garden in Santa Fe.
As her weeks of training passed, she worked alternately with Cedar, Saule, and Amur. Each Council Scribe worked with her on honing one specific skill. Amur was particularly gifted at gilding. Thus while working with him, Genevre also got to work with alchemically transmuted gold leaf, applying it onto manuscript folios or covers with Azadirian embellishment tools. These efforts were purely decorative in function. She most certainly would not be inscribing world-altering manuscript illuminations alongside the Lapidarian and Novillian Scribes. With Saule, she would work on transcribing copies of manuscripts, primarily for classroom or archival purposes. Genevre longed for the opportunity to speak with Saule privately; she wanted to converse not only about Kalina but also about Ilex and Melia. But someone was inevitably in close enough proximity to overhear. Coll, the other outside world scribe who had come to train alongside Genevre, was of particular annoyance — always present and working and seeming to outdo Genevre, despite her extensive Rebel Branch training. She grew increasingly suspicious of him as the weeks progressed, especially when he trained alone with Ruis, who clearly preferred him. She knew Ruis longed to perfect the Stone once again. Coll would learn of only one side of the story if Ruis were the only alchemist with whom he spoke.
Genevre came to enjoy her sessions with Cedar best of all. Though a Scribe, Cedar worked with Genevre on scribal concerns only part of their time together. During the final half hour of each lesson, Cedar taught Genevre how to read, interpret, and pronounce 5th Council dialect. Of course, Genevre recognized 5th Council script primarily from her transcription and study of the Osmanthian Codex. However, beyond brief phrases she had memorized for her wedding with Dracaen and conception of Kalina, she had never been effectively trained in the dialect’s pronunciation. Now Genevre found herself purposely completing her daily inscriptions in rapid time in order to allow additional time for dialect practice. Skilled knowledge of 5th Council dialect pronunciation could prove far more useful to her future than gilding or transcription. Within a few weeks, pronunciation drills became the most cherished part of her entire Council experience.
Pointing to an alchemical symbol or series of characters, Cedar would phonetically pronounce the corresponding 5th Council word or phrase.
“Po-LEMINK-a man-a-tore-us tear-ATUNE-um,” Cedar would say.
“Polem-INKA man-A-torus tear-A-tunim,” Genevre would reply.
“No. Try again. Po-LEMINK-a.”
“Po-LEMINK-a.”
“Good. Man-a-tore-us.”
“Man-a-tore-us.”
“Tear-ATUNE-um.”
“Tear-ATUNE-um.”
“All together,” Cedar would then say.
“Polemica manatorus teratunum,” Genevre would reply.
“Excellent! Now, translate it.”
“Controversy binds the world.”
And so on. Day after day, week after week, the lessons continued until Genevre could read aloud and understand full pages of text and, when prompted, conduct a rudimentary conversation with Cedar. Occasionally an evening lesson would progress much longer than scheduled, and Ruis would barge into the tutorial room requesting Cedar retire for the evening. On one such evening, Cedar wrote three 5th Council words onto a slip of parchment and passed it to Genevre before wishing her a good night.
“Ilus min enkalios,” Genevre read aloud after Cedar had left the room. “He is jealous.” Genevre smiled, though she was not certain in that moment of what specifically he was jealous. Not until months later, after witnessing the propensity of alchemists to have romantic liaisons with each other regardless of gender, did she realize what it was that Ruis suspected. All was innocent, of course. Genevre had no intention of pursuing sexual relations with Cedar. Nonetheless, on that particular night, she found herself imagining being intimate with her. And this line of thought led Genevre to conceive of a new possibility. Cedar was a powerful alchemist who knew 5th Council dialect and could surely recite the ritual words accurately. What if Cedar could help her conceive another alchemical child? What if Genevre could convince Cedar of the child’s importance to the future of the Council? Ferreting for clues as to Cedar’s alliances thereafter became Genevre’s mission between lessons. Basic questioning did not take her far. A strategy would be required if Genevre were to progress at all.
As it happened, Genevre’s emerging skill as a specialist in 5th Council dialect proved useful as a step towards her goal. One afternoon when Ruis and Cedar were conducting a joint inscription lesson with Coll and Genevre, Coll asked a question about the Flaw in the Stone. Ruis began to recount aspects of the ritual that had led to its successful removal.
“You will try again soon, I presume?” questioned Coll.
“I will succeed again soon,” answered Ruis.
Cedar then did something that Genevre found extraordinary. She replied to Ruis’s comment using 5th Council dialect: Tutee scala ralinquin hin encanitorum questus, mina eros. Coll clearly had no idea what Cedar had said. And Ruis had no idea that Genevre could understand. He assumed the words Cedar had spoken were understood by him alone. But Genevre did comprehend, not just the words but the underlying message. Cedar had purposely provided Genevre a hint at her allegiances. Now Genevre merely needed to figure out how committed Cedar was to her sacrilege: You must relinquish this foolish quest, my love.
Flaw Dimension — Winter 1915
Jinjing had listened to Dracaen’s proposal for a chemical wedding in early summer, had accepted it by midsummer, and had prepared herself for the intricacies of its rituals during the transition from summer to fall. At first, she marvelled at her ignorance — the wedding and its repercussions had been merely the stuff of legend from the perspective of a Keeper of the Book of the Alchemists’ Council. But as the weeks progressed, whenever she officially attained a few hours or days extended leave from Council duties, Jinjing was schooled on the rituals by Azoth Fraxinus. She devoured the lessons and continued her studies during leisure hours. On the day Fraxinus called her exceptional, Jinjing beamed with contentment. The Elders of the Rebel Branch clearly respected her abilities and intelligence far more than the Council Elders had. Why would they otherwise have chosen her as the spouse of the High Azoth, as the mother of his children? Here Jinjing was embraced, not abandoned at a distant outpost.
On the crisp fall evening that Jinjing and Fraxinus carried the children from the pebble-like remains of the birthing alembic to the prepared chambers, she could not have felt prouder. As they walked, she admired the golden locks of her daughter’s long, damp hair cascading over Fraxinus’s shoulder. Her daughter looked like a miniature version of Kalina. And since Kalina shared no physical characteristics whatsoever with Dracaen or Genevre, Jinjing had not expe
cted her son to have hair the colour and texture of her own. As he slept, she caressed his head, running her fingers through the dark and shiny tresses.
When both her son and daughter died in her arms the next day, Jinjing was inconsolable. Dracaen immediately suggested they try again, but Jinjing vehemently refused. She could not put herself through such anticipation and heartbreak again. At the depth of her anguish, she could not even recall the reason she had agreed to assist Dracaen in the first place.
But time passed, and eventually she agreed to assist Dracaen again. He convinced Jinjing that she must have mispronounced certain words of the ritual, thereby negatively affecting the elemental and chemical balance within the birthing alembic. Practice will ensure perfection. Our children will save the world, he insisted. So Jinjing rehearsed until she knew by rote both the diction and rhythm of her brief but crucial parts. Thus, when the Rebel Elders chanted the ritual from the ancient text, her responses were flawless. Yet her next child had not even matured in the alembic before the waters blackened and stagnated. We must have combined the wrong ingredients, said Dracaen. So they tried again. The elements misaligned, he said as his next excuse. And they tried again. You must desire success as much as I do, he insisted. On that occasion, the twins emerged from the alembic physically conjoined and died within an hour. Thus passed the months of winter.
After five attempts, Dracaen concluded that the repeated failures were the fault of Jinjing alone. Her status as outside world scribe and Keeper of the Book was simply not enough. Her blood was not pure.
“You are not of the bloodline.”
“I never claimed to be,” Jinjing responded quietly.
“Azoth Fraxinus must have made an error in the reading.”
“Regarding my suitability?” she asked.
“He claimed you were of the bloodline, but it appears you are not. I suggest you refrain from these visits until I next call upon you to return and assist,” Dracaen concluded.
Jinjing found the remark callous. She was ashamed of herself in that moment — not because she had failed Dracaen as a chemical spouse, but because she had agreed to his demands time and time again rather than voicing her opinion in the matter. She left Flaw dimension that day intending never to return.
Council Dimension — Winter 1916
Genevre persevered, biding her time. Over a year had passed before she finally trusted Cedar enough to believe a proposal for a chemical wedding would at least be met with due consideration. She and Cedar had become close friends during their months of working together. Additional war measures instigated in reaction to the outside world crisis had made their work even more intense, especially of late. Between tasks, they often spoke at length about the Flaw in the Stone. Though Genevre refrained from admitting to her rebel training, she acknowledged her sympathies with certain aspects of rebel philosophy. And though Cedar showed no interest in supporting Rebel Branch control over the outside world, she nonetheless made her desire to maintain free will within the Council abundantly clear. Indeed, at times Genevre was convinced Cedar wanted Council to gain even more control over the outside world than they already possessed. She therefore could not reveal her entire plan to Cedar. Instead, Genevre would have to frame her intentions prudently.
As they neared the end of the year, Genevre began to rehearse her proposal. She needed to convince Cedar that an alchemical child could help strengthen the Council, and could help provide a means of mutual conjunction within Council dimension, which would thereby provide alchemists a means to control more aspects of the outside world. Genevre saw no need to reveal that she and Dracaen had already married and created an alchemical child, nor explain that Kalina was to play a key role in Dracaen’s ultimate plan for ensuring free will for all, including those of the outside world, through a conjunction of Alchemists’ Council and Rebel Branch. Genevre need not explain any detail beyond those immediately necessary.
Guilt over these planned omissions occasionally surfaced. Genevre rationalized their necessity not only with her internal refrain — for the good of the plan — but also with sheer practicality. After all, if Cedar accepted her proposal, they would require months to prepare for the ceremony. Genevre would therefore have plenty of time to assess the situation and provide additional details to Cedar as required. For now, Genevre merely needed to make an official Gift of Proposal. She knew from her first wedding that a proposal could not be made, let alone sealed, without an object of significant symbolic and emotional value being offered. Dracaen had given her a feather, its shaft beaded with garnets, turquoise, and silver. He had found the feather in the outside world on the same day he had first met Genevre. Dracaen himself had crafted the beadwork casing. The feather had thereafter been housed on a shelf in his main chambers, used regularly during ceremonial events to direct the mists or smoke over the ritual objects. Knowing the value of the feather to Dracaen, Genevre in turn appreciated the significance of his proposal.
When the appropriate day arrived, Genevre walked arm in arm with Cedar to the Amber Garden and presented her with the bee-embossed copper coin detached from Kalina’s braiding dress. With the exception of her braiding ring, the coin was Genevre’s most cherished object. What better gift to present to the person with whom she hoped to conceive a second child?
“What is this?” asked Cedar.
“A Gift of Proposal. A symbol of my commitment to you,” Genevre responded. “I propose a chemical marriage for the purpose of creating an alchemical child.”
Cedar appeared perplexed. Several awkward seconds passed.
“The coin is beautiful,” responded Cedar finally. “But I don’t understand. A chemical wedding? An alchemical child? Genevre, I’m flattered you would consider me as your chemical spouse, but . . . the homunculus is . . . the homunculus is little more than an ancient fable, lost centuries ago along with the bloodline.”
“No,” said Genevre. “We don’t need the bloodline. I found a ritual in a 5th Council manuscript. It makes no mention of the bloodline.”
“Perhaps you have misread—”
“No. The manuscript is clear. We represent opposites — an alchemist and an outside world scribe. Together we can produce an alchemical child who, in turn, will reconstitute the bloodline. We must try, Cedar. Our child will ensure the survival of both Council and Rebel Branch, of both Lapis and Flaw. We can be heroes.”
Observing the way Cedar caressed the coin and glanced up at the glistening amber, Genevre understood that she had firmly implanted a seed. Heroes had clearly struck a chord. Cedar merely required time to contemplate Genevre’s proposal. And time was one element Council dimension had in abundance. Thus when Cedar departed that evening, promising they would begin studying the manuscript together within a few days, Genevre could not have been more pleased. How could she have known that her days with the Alchemists’ Council were numbered?
“Where have you been?” asked Ruis.
“Where have I been?” Cedar replied, annoyed by his tone. “Working.”
“On what in particular?”
“What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong with me. I asked you a simple question.”
Cedar stared at him, wondering momentarily if he had overheard her conversation with Genevre. “I’m a Lapidarian Scribe. An outside world war is underway. Work takes priority in times of crisis.”
“Don’t lie to me, Cedar.”
“What part of that—”
“You were with her — again! With Genevre.”
Surely he would not have purposely eavesdropped. Yet he clearly suspected something to be amiss.
Cedar enunciated her reply carefully. “As I said, I am a Lapidarian Scribe. Genevre is an outside world scribe. Of necessity, we work together for the good of the Alchemists’ Council.” She paused awaiting a reply, but he only glared at her. “If I didn’t know you as well as I do, I’d swear you were jealous
.”
“Sometimes I wonder if I know you at all.”
Perhaps this argument had nothing to do with Genevre. Perhaps Ruis had somehow learned of Cedar’s alliance in the Third Rebellion. She decided to shift tactics.
“Do you remember Oren?”
“Oren? From the Vienna protectorate? What does he—”
“We shared at least a month of intimacy, and yet I remained committed to you. And what of Coll? You’ve not mentioned the time I spend with him.”
“Coll regularly spends time with both of us together. I know him. Genevre prefers to spend hours upon hours with you alone. She fawns over you in a way Coll doesn’t.”
Actually, he does on occasion, Cedar longed to admit, but she thought better of it. She crossed her arms and observed Ruis closely for a few seconds. “My point remains the same, Ruis. The time I spend with outside world scribes shouldn’t matter a jot. My commitment is to you.”
“And mine to you. I trust you, Cedar. My suspicions do not stem from jealousy or lack of trust. They stem from . . . concern. Based on my observations of her behaviour over the past year, Genevre is unlike Oren or Coll or any other outside world scribe. She wants something from us — from the Council. She . . . she’s too . . . advanced — too knowledegable about alchemy.”
“Too knowledgeable? You see this trait as a threat to the Council?”
The Flaw in the Stone Page 21