The Flaw in the Stone

by Cynthea Masson

  “The bees from the primary Council dimension apiary — the lavender fields. They have been released, most likely in an attempt to save the world,” Melia explained.

  “I don’t understand, Melia.”

  “Do you remember years ago, in the aftermath of the original time transmutation in Qingdao, when Ilex and I began to separate, when we were gradually restored by the Quintessence-laden ink of the Lapidarian manuscript bees?”

  “Of course.”

  “We would otherwise have died,” acknowledged Ilex. “The time transmutation overwhelmed us — the conjunction of one time and another was too much for our mutually conjoined nature to bear.”

  “At first, we merely siphoned the ink of the bees who followed our queen,” continued Melia. “We were grateful for the influx of Quintessence. But later Azoth Fraxinus convinced us to begin repopulating the lavender fields. As you know, each bee inscribed within a Lapidarian manuscript simultaneously appears in a Council dimension apiary. Likewise, each bee erased from a manuscript disappears from its apiary. Fraxinus suggested we replace the bees that had migrated from the Council manuscripts and apiaries to our manuscript.”

  “Replace them with what?”

  “With other bees — bees that fed on our blood.”

  “Fed on your blood? Bees don’t feed on—”

  “These bees did,” admitted Ilex. “They were alchemically transformed by Fraxinus for that very purpose.”

  “To what end?” asked Genevre.

  “The bees were alchemically enlivened not only to feed on our blood but, when deemed necessary, to infuse another alchemist with it, to ensure that another alchemist carried forth our bloodline by your side, should Kalina be unable to do so.”

  “Why would she be unable to do so?”

  “No one could predict what would happen, Genevre,” said Ilex. “The bee-infused bloodline was Fraxinus’s contingency plan. He did not yet know of Arjan.”

  “You had your plan, Genevre. And we had ours,” confessed Melia. “We could not be certain that any one of our coalition would survive, including you. We had to protect the bloodline at all costs.”

  Genevre stared. “Fine. You had a backup plan to protect us all. That doesn’t explain what is happening now. You’re trembling. Something is clearly wrong.”

  “Yes. Something is wrong. The bees have been released.”

  “How do you know? And what do you mean?” Genevre asked. She looked out the window half-expecting to see a gathering swarm.

  “They carry our blood. We can feel its essence has shifted — it has shifted in them and, consequently, in us. The bees who survived the transfusion are flying through the outside world.” Melia inhaled deeply after she had spoken as if she had used up their remaining breath.

  “The transfusion? What are you saying? Has an alchemist already been transfused with your blood?”

  “Yes,” said Ilex.

  “Who?”

  “We have no way to know.”

  “How then? How was the blood transferred?”

  “The bees would have had to sting someone — an alchemist who could survive the after-effects. Someone—”

  Ilex and Melia stumbled forward. Genevre reached out to steady them. She attempted to lead them back to the bench, but they refused to move.

  “Genevre. Stand back. The transmutation of both time and blood together was clearly too strong for us. We are separating.”

  Genevre stood still in shocked silence. She knew instantaneously that Melia was not exaggerating. The trembling had been swiftly supplanted by a vibration that appeared to be radiating from the very core of their being. One moment, Genevre stood before her parents watching a single, solid being. The next, she appeared to be watching a transparent projected image, one that flickered rapidly due to faulty technology. Within minutes, the flickering image became two. A moment later, Melia and Ilex stood next to one another, their individual solidity apparent once again. They turned to look at one another. They smiled and exchanged a kiss.

  “How?” whispered Genevre.

  Neither Ilex nor Melia responded. Instead they embraced her — first Melia and then Ilex. “Your separation cannot be the responsibility of the bees alone,” said Genevre.

  “No. I suspect the transmutation of time and the mutual conjunctions of our grandchildren played their roles. Perhaps the dimensions are incapable of sustaining mutual conjunctions across time or across the generations. We can only hope you will determine an explanation one day.”

  “You can help me. We’ll determine an explanation together.”

  “No, Genevre,” said Ilex.

  “Yes!”

  Neither Ilex nor Melia spoke.

  “What are you saying? What are you not saying?” Genevre looked from one to the other.

  Melia then reached out to Genevre, brushing a strand of her hair off her forehead. Genevre longed to touch Melia in return, to tell her she understood all the questionable choices she had made, forgave her all the power and compulsions she had passed along to her child through the bloodline.

  “Like mother, like—”

  Right then, without warning, Ilex burst into flame. Genevre stepped back, startled. Melia reached for her, clasping Genevre’s hands in her own. Seconds later, Melia dissolved into water, surrounding Ilex’s fire in a wave of motion. Then they were gone, save tiny embers sizzling in a small pool.

  Genevre knelt to the ground. Hands still dripping with Melia’s essence, she cradled the embers. They did not burn her physically, but they singed her heart. Her tears fell, mingling with her parents’ remains. She cried until distracted by unexpected movement. She watched the multiple ember pebbles liquefy, merge, and then solidify in her hands. She held the resulting conjunction of water, fire, and tears to the light: a pendant of honey-coloured amber.

  Epilogue

  Santa Fe — 2014

  “I am here for sanctuary and for assistance with a manuscript.”

  Cedar stood on the doorstep looking at her friend. Genevre had aged somewhat but was still as beautiful as she had been all those years ago when they had first met. Cedar awaited Genevre’s assurance that she was welcomed and that all would be well. Now that she had lost everything — even if the loss was only temporary — she needed someone to reassure her. She doubted Genevre, even with her best intentions, could reassure her with more than a hopeful prediction for the future. Indeed, she had doubted whether to seek Genevre’s assistance at all. Yet here she stood by necessity, requiring both answers and assistance.

  “For all intents and purposes, I have been erased from Council dimension.”

  “Come in. Explain everything.”

  “I need to know you’re willing to help me.”

  “Of course I’ll help you if I can.” She held out her hand to Cedar. “Come in. Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”

  Cedar stepped from the bright moonlight of the yard into the dimly lit entranceway in Genevre’s home. She was ushered into the living room where they sat together on a small sofa.

  “What do you mean you need sanctuary?”

  “I need a place to stay — an actual physical location to live for the foreseeable future. I’d prefer to stay with you rather than find a place on my own — rather than be by myself. It should be only for a few months, though I can’t be certain.”

  “You are welcome here. You’ve always been welcome here.”

  “Thank you,” said Cedar. She tilted her head back and sighed. “I didn’t know what to expect under the circumstances. I’m no longer certain who you are to me.”

  “Yet here we are together now, like no time at all has passed. I’ve barely aged thanks to the Lapidarian honey.”

  “But so much has changed.”

  “An understatement if Council has decided to erase a Novillian Scribe. Let me make us some tea, and then y
ou can start from the beginning.”

  Cedar nodded again. She was not certain whether she would be able to pinpoint the beginning. How could one fragment in time be chosen as the beginning? She watched Genevre moving about in the kitchen, graceful even at the most basic of tasks.

  After Genevre had served the tea, and Cedar had taken a few sips, she began. “Earlier when I said that I no longer know who you are to me, I meant that I’ve learned something about who you are. I’ve learned you are not the person I thought you were or, more accurately, you’re a different person than I’ve always believed you to be.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve learned the truth, Genevre. Or part of it.”

  Genevre stared, saying nothing.

  “My preference would be for you to tell me the truth — the whole truth,” said Cedar. “But I know enough to know that you would not risk revealing your remaining secrets to me until you believe the time is right.”

  “What is it then? What is it that you now know?”

  “The name of the child you created with Dracaen — the name both you and Saule chose to hide from me years ago: Kalina.”

  Genevre turned her gaze to the door.

  “Do you care to guess how I arrived at this realization?”

  Genevre responded, “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “Did you know that Kalina conjoined with Sadira?”

  “What—”

  “Then Initiate Arjan conjoined with High Azoth Dracaen. Two mutual conjunctions between the Alchemists’ Council and the Rebel Branch that I had no knowledge were about to occur. And, more to the point, the repercussions have only just begun — ripple effects are now cascading through the dimensions. And I appear to have become an early, if inadvertent, victim of one such effect.”

  “Explain.”

  “Saule spoke to me.”

  “Saule? What?”

  “She spoke to me. Saule spoke through me. I looked into the mirror the other day, and Saule suddenly appeared. And she spoke to me. Kalina is Genevre’s daughter, she said. And Arjan is—”

  Genevre leaned forward, waiting.

  “That was all. That’s all Saule managed to say. She was unable to complete the sentence before she vanished. She hasn’t reappeared since.”

  “How . . . how odd.”

  “Odd? Is that all you have to say? Can you not at least tell me whether it’s true or a figment of my imagination?”

  “How am I to know whether Saule actually appeared to you?”

  “No, Genevre! Is Kalina your daughter?”

  Genevre nodded. “Yes. Yes, Cedar. Kalina is my daughter.”

  “Did you know she would conjoin with Sadira?”

  “I . . . I knew she would conjoin someday. But I didn’t know when . . . or how. In recent years, she has purposely kept me in the dark. We had a . . . falling out, and she broke off all but essential communication.”

  “A family trait, it appears,” responded Cedar.

  “What?”

  “Like mother, like daughter. You also kept me in the dark.”

  “No. Yes. We . . . I couldn’t risk . . . Cedar, Kalina is my daughter — an alchemical child. My child mattered more to me than . . . than us. As you know, as we discussed years ago before conceiving our own child together, sometimes such decisions of secrecy must be made . . . for the sake of . . . those we love.”

  “On that point, we can agree.”

  Genevre nodded. “Good.”

  “But the time has come for the truth, Genevre — the entire truth. And I also need your assistance with a manuscript.”

  “What manuscript?”

  “Just before my erasure, I learned that Council Scribes were in the process of creating a manuscript — they plan to send it into the outside world. Its purpose is to attract potential Initiates to Council dimension. If one destined to Council learns to read between its lines, learns to perform its rituals, a portal will open and initiation will begin. We must create another — you and I. We must create an alternate manuscript, one to attract potential rebel initiates to our cause: to maintain the Flaw in the Stone.”

  “A Rebel Branch Initiate’s Guide?”

  “Precisely. Will you help me?”

  “How can I refuse such a passionate plea?”

  Progress was slow at first. Despite, or perhaps because of, their combined multitude of years of scribal experience, Cedar and Genevre could not simply compose the contents of a book-length document and send it on its way to the outside world. Together, they had to create a manuscript infused with alchemical potential. They had to write and rewrite and rewrite again. They had to inscribe and erase and re-inscribe. Every day, for weeks on end, they had to distill both Dragonsblood and Lapidarian inks from the minute shavings of Lapis and Dragonblood Stones that Cedar and Genevre had surreptitiously sequestered. To have its desired effect, one manuscript illumination in particular required an influx of Elixir, which neither Cedar nor Genevre possessed beyond the traces that remained in their bodies from their years with the Council. Genevre resisted gently when Cedar suggested mixing some of her own blood with the ink to ensure its effectiveness.

  “You now reside in the outside world, Cedar. You must conserve your Quintessence.”

  “I am and always will be an alchemist, Genevre — with or without the Council.”

  “And without the Council, you no longer have access to the Lapis or Elixir.”

  “Regardless, the ink requires an infusion of Elixir, and my blood is the only way,” Cedar insisted. “Don’t fear. I’m not about to slice open my wrist, Genevre. What good would such a dramatic move make to this project?”

  Genevre stared blankly in response. “Don’t joke about such things, Cedar. Too much is at stake.”

  “And those stakes are the very reason I make this proposal. I am suggesting merely a drop or two of blood from my fingertip. No more than a few pinpricks will be required.”

  “Fine,” said Genevre. “Wait here.” She left the room, returning with a sewing needle and Lapidarian candle in tow. She lit the candle and held the tip of the needle in its flame.

  “You don’t need to sterilize the needle. My veins still flow with Elixir. It will counteract any negative . . . intruders.”

  “I, on the other hand, am not so certain.”

  Cedar misunderstood at first. She thought Genevre was uncertain of the strength of the Elixir in Cedar’s blood, which Cedar knew beyond doubt would remain powerful for many years. But upon removing the needle from the flame, Genevre held it above her own finger, evidently prepared to offer her own blood.

  “Hold the bottle,” she instructed Cedar.

  “What are you doing?”

  “How much stronger will the ink be if infused with blood from each of us?”

  “You are not an alchemist of the Council, Genevre. Your blood does not course with Quintessence.”

  Genevre smiled. “You’d be shocked.”

  Cedar laughed.

  “You think I’m joking, but I’ve never been more serious. Before our time together reaches its end yet again, I need you to hear my confession. You requested the truth from me. I offer it to you now.”

  Cedar leaned back in her chair, hands clasped beneath her shawl.

  “My blood is responsible for the mess we’re in. In fact, if you were to follow my steps one by one from the day I enlivened the Osmanthian Codex, you might even argue that my blood is responsible for your erasure.”

  Cedar shook her head. “I don’t understand. What’s the Osmanthian Codex?”

  “An ancient manuscript containing, among its rituals and chants, the formula for the creation of the alchemical child. My blood enlivened it. You said you were no longer certain who I was. But the fact of the matter is that you’ve never known who I am.”

  “Is that so? Tell m
e then, Genevre. Who are you?”

  “Daughter to Ilex and Melia.”

  Cedar sat up straight. “Daughter? Ilex and Melia had a daughter?”

  Genevre nodded, saying nothing. Cedar was left to assemble the pieces: Ilex, Melia, Genevre, Kalina. Finally, she thought of Arjan. Cedar could still hear Ailanthus’s voice ringing through Azothian Chambers: Who were your grandparents? From that moment onward, she had known Ilex and Melia to be Arjan’s grandparents. But she would not have dared suspect that Genevre was their daughter. She and the other Elders had assumed Ilex and Melia were Arjan’s grandparents merely in name — a lie made up years ago to keep outside world folk from questioning their maturity or appearance relative to Arjan’s. Now her suspicions and resulting suppositions ran wild.

  “Do they have other children?” she finally asked.

  “No. I’m their only child. My understanding is that they wanted no others.”

  “Did they create you in an alembic as you and Dracaen did with Kalina?”

  “No. I’m their biological child.”

  “How? How can you exist? Alchemists cannot—” Cedar stopped herself. Clearly these alchemists could do what other alchemists could not. Clearly Ilex and Melia were the exception in more ways than one. “And Arjan? Is Arjan another child of Dracaen’s that you decided to hide from me?”

  Genevre remained silent. She closed her eyes. “No,” she finally said.

  Cedar could feel herself trembling.

  “Saule—” said Genevre.

  “Saule played a role in the creation of Arjan?” responded Cedar. She paused before adding, “That must be what she’d wanted to tell me.”

  “Y-yes. It . . . must have been,” replied Genevre. “I know you must be angry—”

  “No,” said Cedar. “I only wish I’d not failed you when we created our child.”

  “You’ve not failed me, Cedar. All will soon be revealed. I promise.”

  Cedar nodded. In that instant, her earlier doubts about seeking sanctuary with Genevre dissolved. She ran her fingertips across a page of the manuscript.

  “Your blood must be infused with powerful Quintessence. No wonder your scribal powers have always seemed so much more enhanced than those of other outside world scribes.”