“Yes,” He said simply. The room fell still again, the dark tinging the edges of her vision. It was unnerving to watch him speak, mask unmoving. It gave his voice a strange sense, as if it came from every direction at once. “I did release them. The Way of Shina is objective; in acts of war, and conquest, and wealth, we take no sides. The reason we let the intruders leave is the very same reason we allowed you to stay, knowing that you are wanted by Prince Bal’Szukin. Shina was and is a hand of the universe; monarchs and noblemen mean nothing to her, and so us.” Mel felt his words wash out with the sureness of a swelling river, wearing the edges of her anger away until it was smooth and harmless. She remembered River’s whispered words, and the sureness she had felt, but it was like another person’s memories; like something she dreamed once, long ago. “I understand you have come a long way looking for Calcifer, and you have spent years with the weight of lives on your back. I will enlighten you.”
From the folds of his robe, a delicate pink hand emerged, lowered to the candles around him. With a swift movement, he snuffed the majority, leaving only a handful of strays to burn out alone. Then he stood, the nest of his cloak unfolding, revealing to Mel a rather slender figure. Watching the cascading fabric made her feel almost underdressed. He stepped over the boundary of the smoking ring, leading with that delicate hand. He pushed open a door that Mel had hardly registered in her two visits to the chamber, letting a much brighter room of light spill into this one. Then he was gone. She followed.
The room appeared to be Gallant’s private quarters. It was similar to her own dorm, only three times the width. On one end, a stiff, narrow bed; on the other, a small fireplace, generating most of the room’s light, bar a few wandering candles. Above the fireplace was a corkboard, on which an array of keys hung, each neatly labelled with titles and numbers. There were two plush chairs facing this fireplace, their backs to a wooden cabinet full of bottles.
“The drinks are for special occasions,” Gallant said, noting the direction of her gaze. “Sit. It is a lovely collection; if I may not enjoy it, you certainly should.” She sat in the chair facing the door, where she let the fire ease some of the creeping cold that had made permanent residence in her bones. He sat across from her, in the second chair, and held out a small glass of a dark brew, which she found no choice but to accept.
“Thank you,” She nodded, taking the smallest possible sip from the drink. It tasted violently of cinnamon. She placed it on the small table at her side.
“Well, then. Calcifer. Where should I begin?”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Julius felt his faith beginning to wear thin when the clouds overhead, a black curtain over the stars, opened up, sending a shrieking deluge of icy water down over the forest. He was grateful for the canopy of bare branches, which caught much of the rain, but as it began to pool and turn snow to slush, he found even that blessing a bit lacking.
“I hope we’re close, Fido––I’m drowning back here,” He complained. The dog, his thick coat of fur soaked with water, showed no signs of hearing him. They had been travelling through the wood for the better part of an hour, sometimes for long stretches on overgrown paths, sometimes looping around on old territory once or twice. On a memorable occasion, Fido showed impressive restraint against starting a knackeral hunt, giving them only a curt volley of warning barks. Then they were off again, into the wet murk.
As the moon began to reach for the summit of the sky behind its cover of clouds, Fido led the pair into a clearing, settled on a small hill. The rain poured down with its full fury here, but the incline of the ground kept most of the water running off into the woods, and so puddles were scarce as they scurried into the open ground, Julius with his arms raised over his head.
The center of the clearing was marked with a small stone structure, hard to make out in the scarce light. As they approached, it looked like some kind of well; then, it was a shed; finally, Julius realized it was just a pillar, in the middle of a stone circle. Through the snow, he could make out intricate swirls and lines in the cobbled stone. The pillar itself was geometric, a sloping prism with a pointed tip. It seemed like there were once markings on its face, but when Julius ran a numb hand over them, they were flat with age and weather.
Fido barked, drawing his attention. Julius turned and saw the dog standing in the far part of the stone circle, pawing at the ground. He dodged the pillar and came over, crouching to see what the canine was after. He didn’t see much; the cobbled floor of the monument, its edges wet with slush. Fido continued to dig at it until it clicked––he was trying to dig.
The first stone was hard to pry out, as all the edges were suctioned into the mud. But after it came out, Julius pulled the surrounding pieces easily. As soon as the stones were clear, Fido lunged in, paws flinging muck under and around the dog’s stomach. Slowly his front end began to sink into the earth, where the rain formed a small puddle. Julius helped out by flinging the water out in her cupped hands. Together, they unearthed a small, rectangular object, caked with mud and frozen solid.
He looked to Fido. “Is this it, boy?” Fido waggled his back end and barked at Julius, indicating that this was indeed the treasure they had come to unearth. But he didn’t bask in the victory for long; he started back off into the woods immediately, towards the Monastery. Julius started to follow, scraping mud off the object’s top––or bottom, it was impossible to tell. There seemed to be a pattern engraved on the top, and he felt compelled to reveal it, to pull some worldly meaning from it.
Finally, the dirt gave away in cold chunks, revealing the curvature of the pattern, which Julius realized were letters. They spelled out two words––a name;
‘Aspen Calcifer’.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“The physician Calcifer is actually the second of his name to grace the Monastery,” Gallant thrummed, mask turned impartially towards the fireplace, his robes nestled around him again. Mel worked to keep the same level of detachment, her eyes on the fire, chancing only sidelong glances at the man. He maintained an unsettling stillness, even in the trembling firelight. “The first Calcifer was an alchemist here decades ago, when Amora was still a kingdom and the Walls hadn’t gone up yet. I am told he was a wondrous physician; I unfortunately did not have the honor of meeting him myself. He supposedly had a mind like no other; every case he’d ever seen was stowed away in there somewhere. He could recite entire chapters of books, and often did, without prompting. That, I can testify, is hereditary. Every word from the man’s mouth was an innovation; a new method of insulating the fortress walls; a better way of storing the food. I’m told he even wanted to start a proper garden inside the Monastery. But I suppose you can’t be an alchemist without dreaming.
I have read your mentor’s correspondence; he expressed particular interest in the ‘Sleeping Mountains’ incident––entire villages of people, caught in a perfect sleep, for weeks and weeks. That was half a century ago, my records tell me––and yes, I do keep my own set of records, just like the alchemist. The first Calcifer was the one to deal with that epidemic, and in order to do so he designed the centrifuge that his son would inherit and enhance. I am told it is an incredible piece of machinery; I wish I could’ve seen it myself.” Gallant stood, and Mel chanced a look at him. He was surprisingly lean without his nest of robes; otherwise, she could gleam very little. “Perhaps this is an occasion after all––a good story and a strong drink are special in their own way.” He passed behind the chair, to the cabinet. She didn’t follow, instead looking into the fire once more. She was placated by the content of the story, which lived up to the mythos her heart had whispered for their entire journey. If she hadn’t been, she may have followed his movement, seeing him take a glass from the cabinet, with a cautious glance over his shoulder.
“The Calcifer I knew,” He continued, cracking open the bottle, “was just as meticulous about his studies, but much more secretive. I dearly wish I could’ve know
n him better in the time he was here.”
“You speak of him like he isn’t coming back.”
“Oh, I am sure he will come back,” Gallant assured. He filled the glass to its lip with the warm, cinnamon-rich drink. Then, with careful fingertips, he lifted the clay mask away from his face, placing it gently on a wooden stand on the cabinet, the vague form of a man’s head looking up at him. He and the mask took each other in; expressionless white clay, and young, almost feminine curves. He tipped the drink back, draining its content in one gulp. “But I fear our relationship will not be exactly the same. He left in bad tidings.”
“There was an incident?”
“Not exactly.” The man, his eyes set deeply with dark bags, placed the glass down silently. Then he turned around, back to the plush chair and its swooped curve, revealing only the top of the doctor’s head––a scruff of curly blonde hair, not unlike his own. “He left in the middle of the night, with hardly a warning one way or the other. I worry for the old man. To this day, I’m still not sure exactly why he left, or where he went.”
“That’s… disappointing, I admit.” Mel said, dejected.
Morgan stepped closer, once, twice, until he was just behind the chair. His hands, gloved and delicate, reached out and found her neck. “I’d have to agree, doctor. Disappointing.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ASPEN CALCIFER. THE NATURE OF LIES.
After making the executive decision to inspect the box more closely before bothering Mel, Julius ducked into the entryway of the Monastery, peeling and bundling layers of sopping wet clothing. On the trip back he briefly worried about Fido finding shelter from the torrent of numbing water, but as soon as the hoary stone fortress came into view, the dog disappeared into the murk. He shrugged––Fido knew better about surviving out there than he would.
He gently pushed open the door to his dorm, minding the hour, then flung his wet clothes into the corner. His unease about the Monastery was creeping back in; the only thing holding it back was his sword, still strapped to his hip.
The box was bone-white under the layers of flaking mud; Julius had worked away most of the dirt over the long walk back, revealing its plain wooden surface. It was small, only the width of his fist and twice as long, with the rusty face of a bronze lock opposite a set of equally rusty hinges. But his eyes couldn’t wander far from the name carved into the lid, flourished with careful skill, letters blackened with trenches of soil. ‘Aspen Calcifer’. He lit the candle on his bedside table and set next to it, on the floor.
Julius pulled at the leather cord around his neck, freeing the bronze key Aspen had given him. It was warm he could still feel its imprint next to his heart, which tried desperately to make sense of things. If Aspen was Calcifer the physician, someone had to be lying; either Aspen had been to the Monastery much more recently than he had let on, or Gallant was covering up Calcifer’s absence for some reason––to keep them there, maybe, while the Lhord’s Army crept up from behind, or from the mountains, or––
He stopped himself from spiraling too much further into the future. There’s no point until the box is open, he thought. Not until I know what Aspen hid from the Monastery.
It took three attempts for the bronze key to fit, and even then, it took some forcing. Dirt and ice had snuck into the mechanism and jammed things up. But eventually it did fit, and a solid click released the lid from its partner, revealing a crumpled mess of wax paper. Julius removed the layers with the cautious dexterity of a jeweler, careful not to disturb whatever was contained below. He remembered Aspen talking about Calcifer’s––his?––centrifuge, and how it used an array of glass lenses; that seemed like something worth hiding. But then, the old man could’ve hidden rare teabags in the damn thing for all Julius knew. He felt an inkling of sour betrayal start to collect in his stomach.
The box contained neither of these things. Beneath the last layer of wax paper was a leather book, unassuming but heavy––a combination Julius was beginning to associate firmly with Aspen Calcifer. He lifted it with the same slow care as the wax, turning it over and over a safe distance from the candlelight. As he did so, a folded piece of paper fell from the front cover, sealed in red wax. A voice whispered to stop, to present the entire contents of the box to Mel instead, and see what she thought about the whole thing––surely her judgment was better in a case like this? She knew much more about Calcifer, and the Monastery. All he had done since arriving was sulk in the forest, waiting for the alchemist to make himself known so he could pester the man about a foxtail drought––and here too, the sourness began to collect.
Heart twisted with annoyance and the beginnings of real anger, Julius pried the wax seal off the letter and unfolded it, the greatest depths of his caution expended. Holding the sharp black letters up to the candlelight, he read.
Friend,
If you are reading this, I have ended my tenancy at St. Shina’s Monastery, for one reason or another. I can think of many; the cold has finally worked its way to my joints; the sound of the kennel has robbed me one too many nights of sleep; and I have always fantasized of a great solitude. Regardless, the importance is in the fact of my absence, not my reason.
I have dismantled the centrifuge and burned my original diagrams, along with most of my notes regarding the operation of the device. Copies of both are contained in my journals––but they are useless without this book, which acts as a cipher for the rest. I do not fancy myself a machinist––only an alchemist, which is enough for one man, I think––but I see too in the lenses of the centrifuge; prodigious medicines, but also terrible poisons, borne through the air, invisible to the eye and tongue, identical in every way to the common ointment. On a common morning, I could think of an entirely new way to poison a whole village before lifting my head off my pillow.
So I burned the damn thing. Some young mind will come along and reinvent the thing, of course; but I will let them, poor soul they’ll be, bear the burden of showing the world. I have seen enough sin for my years, living in a convent and all.
Only Gallant, the Head of Acolytes, knows of my leaving. I have confided in him this, and the care of my closest friend, Demetre. I trust him implicitly––there is a reason he is being groomed to replace the First Adherent. If I have imparted to you the location of this letter, and you still need answers, go to him. He is the only person in the world who takes more painstaking records than I––if he cannot solve your query, I am sure his books can.
And if I have lied to you, for which I have an awful streak, I am sorry. Knowing myself, I am sure I thought it was the right thing to do––however, right and kind are not always the same thing.
–A. Calcifer
Julius set down the note. He felt conflicted. For a while, it felt as if Aspen’s deep grandfatherly rumble had been in the room with him, speaking the words to him, like a long-forgotten bedtime story. He knew the exact cadence he would’ve used, even the spots he would stop and drink hot tea from his porcelain cup, watercolor rabbit racing across its glassy face. He sensed these things in the same deep, hidden chamber of his heart that he found in the woods, when there was no sound to push aside the veil of silence. He remembered the fondness with which he had left the old man, resolving to someday brave the seas in a sailboat of his own, dodging glaciers and sea dragons until he found that old abandoned library again, a cold shell with a warm heart. It felt like a string, red and fine in his chest, tangled with a knot of bitterness like steel wool.
He realized there was something else in the box. Lifting the leather journal away, he saw a strip of white fabric, bisected by a flat square of metal. It was a dog’s collar. Bringing the old tag close to the candle, it was still possible to read the name etched on its face––‘Demetre’. Julius thought of Fido. Although it was painfully difficult to do so, he let the bitter knot in his chest begin to loosen.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“Mel,” Julius whispered into the door of her dorm. The hallwa
y was dim, lit only by a circular window of clouds. There was no response. He tried again, this time with a gentle knock, and got nothing. Looking around, he risked a third knock, this one firmer than the other, but for the third time, received no response.
Slowly, he twisted the doorknob, easing the door open. He knew Mel would understand when he explained the circumstances. “Mel,” He said again, into the dark.
The bed was empty. He felt a rush of anxiety, and checked for her travelling things; namely her knapsack and jacket. The latter was missing, but the bag was tucked under the bed, where she kept it during the day. Maybe she’s out on a midnight walk, his brain tried, but the thought was lost in the tide of anxious conclusions, pools of unease bursting into sprawling geysers.
“She’s not here,” A voice said from the doorway. It was the woman who had guided them to the First Adherent’s chamber and to Netsa. She was wearing a night gown, her long dark hair shrouding her shoulders in softly glowing waves.
“Where did she go?” Julius said, restraining his anxiety.
“I was talking to her earlier,” The woman replied, “Then she went to see Gallant.”
“Earlier today?”
“Just this evening.” She stepped back into the hallway, gesturing for Julius to do the same. “I suppose she’s still there.” Then she sensed his frantic energy, and added, “Do you know the way? I can take you if you–”
“No, I know how to get there,” He said, starting down the hall. He suspected their stay at the Monastery was coming to an end.
It took less than ten minutes to find the door again––the past week had seen much exploration of the abandoned parts of the fortress, and the colossal doors of the Meditation Hall stood out in his memory. He planted himself in front of the smaller red door opposite and knocked twice, harsh and confident. Then he waited, an unknowing mirror of Mel’s own actions. It didn’t take long for the door to swing open; this is where the reflection of events ended.
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