The Flaw in the Stone

by Cynthea Masson

  Kalina sighed and walked away from Dracaen. She met eyes with Saule and then with Dracaen before saying, “Then choose wisely. Choose someone over whom Saule would be sure to dominate essences.”

  “Yes, of course. Of course, we will attempt to assure Saule’s victory,” conceded Dracaen. “At the very least, she will be supplied with Sephrim.”

  No one other than Saule understood the bitter truth of this moment. He had uttered what she too had initially assumed. But since discussing the manuscript line and its repercussions with Genevre, she had understood otherwise. Saule knew that she would not be the one to take the Sephrim. She knew that she could not be the victor, that her involvement in the plan to manipulate the manuscripts had not been undertaken solely for the purpose of this particular conjunction. In consultation with Genevre, Saule had agreed to play the sacrifice when the time arrived. She had done so out of loyalty not only to Genevre but to Ilex, Melia, and Payam. Saule understood that she must conjoin with one person specifically: Cedar. She knew not only that she would have to inscribe the manuscripts to replace Sadira’s name with Cedar’s, but she also knew that Cedar would have to be assured victory. She knew she would give Dracaen’s Sephrim to Jinjing who, in turn, would offer it to Cedar. And worst of all, Saule knew that she would have to conjoin with Cedar without ever being able to explain the truth to her beloved Sadira.

  Santa Fe — 2008

  Within minutes of reassuring Ilex and Melia that he would supply Saule with Sephrim to ensure her victory, Dracaen had relaxed enough to accept Genevre’s offer of a small meal: bread, honey, cheese, dates, and spiced wine. They had agreed to gather again to discuss strategy regarding Kalina, Dracaen none the wiser regarding the end game.

  Genevre had known long ago this day would come. But decades ago someday remained myriad years away. She would not have thought the years would progress so rapidly, especially since leaving Council dimension permanently more than sixty years ago. Yet now here they were. The day had arrived as if the intervening years had never happened. Her long-held secret must be revealed. She had worked to change Dracaen’s plan without his knowledge. In its stead, she had — quite literally — conceived her own plan. To Cedar, she had lied directly. To Dracaen, she had lied by omission.

  Genevre exchanged charged glances with Saule during the meal. Like Ilex and Melia, they also regularly looked to the door. He would be arriving soon. Dracaen remained silent as he drank his second glass of wine, clearly ruminating on how to proceed.

  “Onward!” he said suddenly, marking an end to the respite. “We must find a compatible conjunctive partner for Saule and then determine how and where to inscribe revisions. Of course, eventually, we must also ensure that inscriptions conjoining Sadira and Kalina are easily made visible to Council Readers.”

  “I mean no offense,” began Melia, “but how are we to accomplish either of these tasks — let alone both? Dozens of manuscripts will inevitably be affected. Saule cannot simply abandon her regular Council duties to work around the clock on revisions. Yes, Ilex, Genevre, and I can help, but our manuscript access is limited at best. Could anyone else be brought onboard — other Council dimension scribes with rebel tendencies?”

  “Cedar and Jinjing seem the obvious choices,” suggested Kalina.

  Genevre glanced at Saule. “No,” said Genevre. “Jinjing, yes. But Cedar must remain . . .” She struggled for the appropriate words.

  “Removed,” offered Saule.

  “Yes,” continued Genevre, “Cedar must remain removed from manuscript manipulation regarding conjunction.”

  “Why?” asked Dracaen. He sat up straight, clearly recognizing in that instant that he did not know all that they knew.

  “Because she’s the one with whom I must conjoin,” revealed Saule. “If she were to inscribe her own conjunction, the Elders would recognize her Novillian signature.”

  Dracaen placed his hands flat on the table and leaned towards Saule, who sat directly across from him. “Again, I ask why?” When neither Saule nor Genevre responded, Dracaen furiously pushed himself up from the table, causing his chair to fall back and crash loudly onto the floor. “Tell me now what you have obviously been keeping from me!”

  “Cedar and I conceived an alchemical child together,” announced Genevre.

  Dracaen slammed a hand against the wall.

  “I . . . I have a . . . sister?” asked Kalina, for Dracaen’s sake.

  Dracaen turned.

  “No,” said Genevre, “your sister died.”

  “And the alchemical twin?” asked Dracaen.

  “The twin survived,” admitted Genevre. “Kalina has a brother. Cedar doesn’t know of him, but she is nonetheless integrally connected to us all.”

  At that very moment, as if on cue, a knock at the door rang through the room. Saule stood to answer, resisting Dracaen’s attempt to dissuade her. Everyone, including Dracaen, stared at the handsome young man in the doorway.

  “Come in,” said Saule.

  He walked directly to Dracaen and bowed, wrists crossed in front of his chest.

  “Who are you?” asked Dracaen.

  He uncrossed his wrists and brushed his long dark hair away from his face. “I am Arjan.”

  Council Dimension — 2009

  Saule stood beneath her favourite tree in the Amber Garden contemplating the approaching conjunction. Only two days remained. Two days remained until she would no longer be herself, no longer be herself alone, no longer be alone with Sadira. Jinjing had, months ago, supplied Cedar with the Sephrim. Of course, Saule did not know whether Cedar had ingested the compound. Only Cedar herself knew what ethical lines she was willing to cross. Only Cedar herself knew what burden of guilt she could bear for eternity.

  “I don’t want to lose you.”

  Saule turned quickly. Sadira had startled her.

  “Nor I, you,” she replied.

  In that moment, Saule no longer thought of Cedar’s guilt. Instead, she recognized her own. She had not lied outright; she honestly loathed the thought of losing Sadira. Yet she had lied to her beloved indirectly. After all, Saule had volunteered to carry the knowledge of the bloodline, of the alchemical children, and of her role in their creation to her virtual grave. She had agreed to act as a human vessel entombing the secrets in the act of conjunction with Cedar. How could she not? She had been the conduit for the conception of Genevre. In that sense, Arjan and Kalina were her grandchildren as much as they were Ilex and Melia’s. She must protect them from the Council for the sake of Genevre’s plan, no matter what or whom she must consequently leave behind.

  “You’re supposed to reassure me,” complained Sadira. “You’re supposed to tell me that you’re certain you will be victorious in the conjunction, that you and I will walk through the upcoming centuries together.”

  Saule stared up into the branches of the tree. The amber leaves glistened, clicking lightly against one another in the breeze. She felt her own tears begin to well. Sadira put a hand on Saule’s shoulder and kissed her cheek.

  “My request was selfish,” said Sadira. “I apologize, my love. I shouldn’t ask or expect you to console me at this difficult time. I should be the one reassuring you. Have no fear. Conjunction is not dependent on the Orders of Council. Essence is all that matters. And your essence is strong, flowing as a swift current through your veins. Victory over Cedar will be yours — essence for essence, blood for blood.”

  Saule sighed. She longed to fall to her knees and weep. But she did not. She longed to cry out the truth, to curse all those responsible for the creation of the alchemical children. But she did not. Instead, she turned and faced Sadira.

  “Thank you.”

  Those were the last words Saule said to Sadira. Within the hour, both she and Cedar were sequestered in Azothian chambers, counting the final hours until their conjunction. Whenever possible, without seeming too conspicuous, Saule
watched Cedar, observed her gestures and expressions, all in an attempt to glimpse a sign that she had ingested the Sephrim. None occurred until the moment of the conjunction itself.

  Thus two shall be one, the Elders declared.

  The chanting slowed, transformed momentarily into a cacophony of individual voices, and then progressed to the harmonious yet nearly inaudible intonation of the “Sol und Luna.”

  Saule emerged from the trees and moved past the Elders towards Cedar. Cedar turned, placed her palms against the cold rock face. Saule stood behind her, exhaling warm breath against Cedar’s cold neck. She could no longer hear the chanting. Then, sudden and harsh, Saule felt her essence begin to merge with Cedar’s. They struggled until the darkness of the cliff turned to the light of conjunction — of sulphur and mercury, of red and of white. Cedar’s cry of anguish — I’m sorry! I’m sorry! — rang through Saule as the ineffable presence of self rushed out, purified in its escape. And thus Saule knew in that final moment, alongside those words of atonement, that Cedar had succumbed to temptation.

  Council Dimension — 2011

  How could she expect Ruis to understand? Cedar barely understood herself. Perhaps the Sephrim had affected her conjunction with Saule in unpredictable ways. Or perhaps the rebel who had supplied the Sephrim had neglected to explain its side effects. Side effects — Cedar shook her head. Even she must admit that such a striking shift of emotional and physical affections could not merely be attributed to side effects. She was dealing with primary effects — unforeseen consequences of decisions she had made over the last few years, which were about to change her life and the lives of others.

  Cedar also had to admit that blaming the Sephrim or the conjunction or Saule was an evasion of the truth. Yes, she had once been deeply in love with Ruis, had once longed for nothing other than to steal away with him into the lavender fields of the apiary. Yes, she had once been thrilled to hear him quote to her from outside world poems — especially on the occasion that he would utter something new to her, words that from that moment on would be part of their shared repertoire, words they could utter to each other while working among various Council members without anyone understanding the precise implications even if a phrase was recognized by a listener as some outside world allusion. Yet, after a few centuries, even such exchanges had become commonplace, at times no more than a game based in nostalgia, fun in its way, even poignant on occasion, but no longer thrilling. Perhaps the truth of the matter was as straightforward as the passing of time, of dwindling affection for one person — as important as that person might have been or might still be — and growing affection for another.

  That too took time — Cedar’s nascent affection for Sadira — to grow and to be recognized. After all, she had known Sadira for many years, had worked with her on various Council duties and missions prior to envisioning what it would be like to kiss her. She remembered the day though — the very moment that their collegial relationship had shifted in Cedar’s mind to something beyond what she would have expected even days earlier. A few months after her conjunction with Saule, Cedar had been assigned to work with Amur on the restoration of a recovered 14th Council manuscript. An outside world scribe had found the yet-unnamed manuscript during his training as Keeper of the Book in the Vienna protectorate. He had observed what he thought to be the blue-green tinge of Lapidarian ink on an elaborately detailed illumination of a hummingbird. Linden had confirmed the scribe’s suspicion and brought the manuscript back to Council dimension for confirmation by the Elders and, once confirmed, for restoration by the Scribes. On this particular day, Cedar had been working late, matching green inks for the restoration of the fourth folio, and Sadira had wandered into the Scriptorium. She had heard about the manuscript and hoped to see it, to watch the Scribes engaged in the restoration. Cedar had gestured for Sadira to take a seat on the bench beside her.

  She had assumed Sadira would watch for only a few minutes, but she remained transfixed for more than two hours.

  “Let’s break for tea,” Amur had suggested.

  “Or wine,” Sadira had responded. “We are nearing the end of the day.”

  Cedar had smiled. A while later, they had sat on benches in the Amber Garden with other Scribes who had been working in the Scriptorium that day. They had sipped plum wine and talked and laughed and enjoyed the glistening of amber in the rustling leaves.

  “I am surprised that the restorations interest you so much,” Cedar had said.

  “Not these restorations in particular,” Sadira had explained. “I’m intrigued by the process, by the way that a Novillian Scribe inscribes.”

  “And do I inscribe as you expected?”

  “You hold the pen differently than I’d imagined you would. Your hand moves so subtly and gracefully. I was entranced.”

  “You were watching my hand?”

  “Yes.”

  Cedar had not known how to respond. She had not been able to look at Sadira directly. Instead, she had stared at Sadira’s pendant, which caught the late afternoon light. All future plans had shifted right then — that moment when Cedar had not been able to move her gaze away from the pendant. She had longed to take it in her hand and bring it to her lips and feel Sadira’s Quintessence through it. But, of course, she would not have dared make such a bold move — certainly not there in the Amber Garden among their peers.

  During the weeks and months thereafter, Cedar took any opportunity she could to work with Sadira. Often weeks would go by when she would see her only at Council meetings. After all, few projects brought Scribes and Magistrates together. But at other times, like when Sadira required the advice of a Scribe for one of her classes, Cedar would volunteer, and they would spend several hours together in a single day working on a future lesson plan or manuscript preparation. And Cedar’s affection for her grew to the point that she could barely think of anything else. Even on the nights that she invited Ruis into her bed, she would spend the time before falling asleep imagining herself with Sadira. For such indiscretions, she felt guilty in the morning.

  Meanwhile, Ruis had begun to weary her. Every day, he would say something exasperating — usually having to do with decreasing the Flaw or attaining Azothian status or aspiring to be Azoth Magen. She would listen to him, and she would nod or shake her head or express her honest opinion on the matter or lie outright. And afterward she would wander the paths alongside the channel waters or through the Amber Garden and think about the ways in which their figurative paths were veering apart, whereas she appeared to be walking side by side with Sadira. And on the occasion that she literally crossed paths with Sadira on one of these walks, Cedar would revel in the coincidence and again imagine kissing her as she continued along her way.

  So here she sat on this night awaiting Ruis. She felt nervous and thus silently reprimanded herself for reacting as if she were three hundred years younger. She laughed at that thought before falling back into nervousness at the sound of a knock at the door.

  “I am surprised to have been summoned this evening,” said Ruis. “You usually prefer to be alone on nights before long Council meetings.”

  “We need to talk,” she responded, immediately regretting the cliché of the phrase.

  “Sounds dire,” he laughed.

  “Sit down.”

  “What is going on?”

  “Ruis . . .” She shook her head. “Ruis . . .”

  “Cedar! What is going on?”

  “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

  “That seems of little consequence.”

  “Ruis . . . I can no longer be with you.”

  “In what manner?”

  “I can no longer be your lover.”

  “So what has happened this time? Another crush? Another scribe of the outside world? Just have your fling like last time, and we will continue on together when you return.”

  “No. It’s not
like the last time. I’m in love. And she’s not of the outside world.”

  “What? Who? Please tell me she’s not an Initiate!”

  “No, she’s not an Initiate. But I’d rather not reveal her name to you now since she and I have not consummated our relationship.”

  “Consummated your relationship? Cedar! For the sake of the dimensions, you’re an alchemist, not an outside world civilian! If you want to have sex with her, just tell her. Or let her hold your pendant and read your desire for herself. She will understand, as will I, that monogamy simply is not your preferred state of being.”

  “No, Ruis. You’re not listening. I love her, and I want to be with her and her alone.”

  He paused then as if the truth of the matter finally manifested. “I . . . I do not understand. Why? Why after all these years?”

  “Because . . . after all these years, I must . . . take a different path.”

  She saw him then — saw his face, saw the aging that even Elixir could not stop in that moment. She had hurt him. She had hurt her beloved Ruis. Though she had imagined on many occasions how betrayed he would feel if he ever learned of her goal to increase the Flaw, his reaction in her hypothetical scenario of revelation had always been one of anger. She had never imagined the reaction she witnessed now: grief.

  “But I still . . . love you,” he said.

  “And I still love you. But I also love her. And I need to be with her.”

  “And she loves you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve not yet confessed my feelings to her. I wanted to speak with you first. I needed to speak with you first.”

  “What are you saying, Cedar? If you’re not certain that your feelings for her are mutual, then why are you putting me through this? You may be back in my arms by tomorrow!”

  “No, Ruis. Even if my feelings are not reciprocated, I can no longer be your lover.”