The First Stone

by Mark Anthony

  I spent much of my time wandering the manor, as if I were the ghost. It seemed I was searching for something. However, what it was I could not name, and I did not find it, though I looked everywhere for it. Everywhere, that was, except for one room. I would drift toward the library, as if compelled by an unseen force, but at the last moment I would pull my hand from the knob and turn away.

  Somewhere in the mists I remember men coming to the manor, dressed in the black frock coats of lawyers. They brought me papers and told me to sign them, which I did without reading, and when I was done they said I was now the lord of Madstone Hall. I asked Pietro what that meant, and he said not to worry, that the master had hired men in Edinburgh who would see to the legal and business affairs of the manor.

  “Your only goal is to continue your studies, Master.”

  “You should not call me that,” I said, and went to saddle Hermes.

  But riding my horse could not calm my mind, and I would go back to wandering the manor. However, as time honed the moon of October to a thin sickle, I realized I was not searching after all. Rather, I was waiting. Waiting for something to come. For someone.

  Then, on All Hallows Eve, which the folk of the villages still called the Feast of the Slaughter, they came. I stood at the window in the master’s chamber—I had taken to sleeping there, at Pietro’s request, though in my mind it was still his room— watching as the village folk set torches to great wooden wheels and rolled them down the sides of hills. The common folk believed that the borders between the world of the living and the world of the spirits grew thin on this night, and that demons and ghosts might slip through cracks from one realm to the next. Thus they lit great blazes to scare the spirits away.

  “Master,” Pietro said behind me. I had not heard him enter. “Master, they have . . . you have visitors. Shall I send them away?”

  I did not need to look at him to know he was trembling. Outside, the fiery wheels blazed down the hills. They looked like golden eyes, gazing at me from the night.

  “No, Pietro. I will meet them in the drawing room.”

  The old servant started to protest, but I turned and gave him a sharp look, and I could see the sparks of green reflected in his own startled eyes. He bobbed his head and hurried from the chamber.

  Standing before a mirror, I donned a coat of brown velvet, then bound my hair with a ribbon. My gold beard, thick and full, lent me years beyond the nineteen I possessed, as did the grim expression I wore, which to my amazement reminded me of his own. I looked lordly enough, and only hoped I could feel the same, that I might hold my own against them.

  When I stepped into the drawing room, a man and a woman rose from two chairs by the fire. They were not dressed in black, and the pair gazed at me with curious eyes of blue and brown, not gold. Such was my shock that I staggered, gripping the newel post at the foot of the stairs for support.

  “Hello, Marius,” the woman said. She was not young—near forty perhaps—and fine lines marked her face, but she was still handsome and lithe in her green gown.

  “You may address me as Lord Albrecht.”

  She winced, perhaps mistaking the sharpness in my voice for a note of authority rather than fear.

  “We are gladdened to finally have the opportunity to meet you, my lord,” the man said. He was much younger than the woman, though less handsome. He was tall but spindly, like a plant grown in a dark closet. All the same, his blue eyes were bright with humor, and his broad grin was genuine and infectious, putting me somewhat at ease.

  “And what was preventing our meeting before?” I said.

  They exchanged uneasy glances, and I felt my dread recede further. I was at the advantage here, not they. They wanted something—something the master had not granted them. And, now that he was gone, they thought they could get it from me.

  For some reason a boldness came over me, and I began a dangerous game. “I know why you’ve come.” I gestured for them to sit. They did, and I took a chair opposite them. Pietro had left glasses of sherry for each of us, and I picked one up. “In fact, I’m surprised it took you so long.”

  The man grinned at the woman. “It’s just as I said, Rebecca. He’s heard of us. I told you he would already know all about the Seekers.” He picked up his own sherry glass and took a drink.

  Seekers. I had never heard the word before, at least not in the sense that the man seemed to use it.

  “Hush, Byron,” the woman said, not touching her own glass. She turned her brown eyes on me. “So you know of us.”

  I shrugged, as if this required no reply, when in fact I was burning to ask questions. All the same, I was certain I’d learn more if I did not ask them. The man, Byron, seemed talkative enough, but I sensed the woman, Rebecca, would not be so easy to maneuver around.

  “I know Master Albrecht often went to London on business with the Seekers,” I said. This was a calculated guess; their accents were English, not Scottish.

  Byron laughed. “Well, his business was not so much with us as with the Philosophers, of course. They always keep to themselves. I’ve never even met one in person.” He winked at me. “We Seekers are just their lackeys, you see, and they don’t associate much with us mere mortals.”

  “Byron!” the woman said sternly, and his grin vanished as he sank back into his chair.

  The man’s words fascinated me. Who were these Philosophers he spoke of? By Rebecca’s tone, they were not people to be trifled with. However, I forced my expression to remain neutral.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” I said.

  Rebecca smoothed the green fabric of her gown. “I hope instead it is the opposite, my lord. I will be plain with you, for I can see there is no need for pretense here. We have never met, but we know a good deal about you. We know you have proven adept at the occult arts, and that you have certain other talents as well—skills our organization is in need of. Thus we have come to extend you an invitation.”

  This startled me so greatly I forgot to appear disinterested. “An invitation?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Byron said, and while Rebecca frowned at him, this time she did not preempt his words. “We’d like you to come to London with us, to join our order.”

  Realization came to me. “To join the Seekers,” I murmured.

  “Indeed, my lord,” Rebecca said, meeting my eyes.

  Speech fled me. I was right. These two had come to Madstone Hall seeking something of the master’s. Only it wasn’t a book or an arcane object. It was I they were seeking. But why? I was clever, I knew, but surely any talents such as I possessed could readily be found in London. I doubted they were forced to trek all the way up to the northlands for fresh recruits.

  They gazed at me expectantly now, but what could I say? Despite my little charade, I knew nothing of the Seekers, yet I dared not ask them about their organization now for fear I would be revealed. I knew I should tell them to be on their way, that I had no interest in their invitation.

  Only, little as I knew at that moment, I did have interest.

  You must beware, Marius. Once I am gone, they will come. You must not trust them. . . .

  But surely the master had meant the gold-eyed ones, not these two people. They were curious, to be sure, but not strange and forbidding as the three strangers had been. They were, as Byron had said, merely mortals. What harm could they bring to me?

  Yet surely, from all they’ve said, the ones with the golden eyes are their masters—these Philosophers they spoke of, the ones the master so often went to London to see, and who came once to visit him here.

  Which meant Master Albrecht himself had been one of them. Only what did it mean? He had said not to trust them, yet he was one of their kind. I needed more time—time to decide what to do.

  “It grows late,” I said. “You must be weary from your journey. I will have Pietro ready rooms for you. We can discuss this on the morrow.”

  Byron quaffed the rest of his sherry, his expression affable, but Rebecca gave me a co
ol look. “As you wish, Lord Albrecht.”

  I shivered, wishing I had not told them to call me that, and without another word rose and left the drawing room.

  “You must send them away in the morning,” Pietro said as he turned down the bedcovers in my chamber. His hands shook. “Please Mast . . . please, Marius. For him, you must do it.”

  “Good night, Pietro,” I said, and I did not look at him as he shuffled from the chamber.

  I did not undress and lie down in the bed. Instead I sat in a chair, watching as a beam of moonlight crept across the darkened room. Then, when I was sure midnight had come and gone, I slipped through the door and passed, silent as a wraith, down the stairs and through the manor’s main hall, toward a door at the far end.

  The library. Not since he died had I entered that room, but now I opened the door without sound, stepped inside, and shut the portal behind me. With my dark-adjusted eyes I could see all was exactly as he had left it. A thick shroud of dust covered the desk and mantelpiece. Even Pietro had not been in there.

  I dared to light a single candle, then sat at the desk. It felt strange to sit in his chair, yet not altogether wrong. I hesitated, then one by one opened the drawers of the desk. I knew not what I sought, only that it was there, and that I would recognize it once I found it. There were sheaves of parchment, feathered quills, a small knife for trimming pen tips, bottles of ink, and sealing wax. Mundane things. Then, in the last drawer I found it, just as I had been sure I would—a silver key.

  Standing, I gazed around the library. There—in all my visits to that room I had never seen it before. I suppose my attention had always been on him, but for the first time my eyes seemed to seek it out: a small cabinet lurking in a corner behind a globe of the Earth. I moved to it.

  The cabinet was plain, save for a single keyhole. The key fit, and I opened the doors. Inside were two shelves. One held a row of books. The other contained stacks of papers, as well as a small wooden box.

  The writing on the spines of the books made little sense to me, though it was clear from flipping through them that all pertained to various magical arts—with the exception of the art of alchemy. Interesting, perhaps, but they could tell me nothing that might help me just then. The loose papers were no more illuminating. From what I could tell they referred to various business dealings—deeds and notes and the like, that was all.

  My eyes fell again upon the box. It was small and quite plain, without latch or lock. All the same, for some reason I trembled as I lifted it, and I opened the lid with fumbling fingers.

  There were two things in the box, resting on a silk cushion. The first thing was a book. It was very small, like a personal prayer or chapbook, its brittle pages sewn together with gold thread. The second thing was a small glass vial. The vial’s stopper was made of gold as well, and had been wrought with great skill into the shape of a spider, its abdomen inlaid with a single ruby. I lifted the vial. It was filled with a dark, viscous fluid that I knew at once to be blood.

  I sat at the desk with the box and removed the little book. Clearly it was more ancient than anything else in the library. Its cover was made of a thin piece of yellowed wood, incised with strange symbols arranged in a circle; its pages crackled as I turned them, flecks of dust swirling up to glow like sparks in the light of the candle.

  As the hours of the night stole by, I pored over the little book. Its pages were filled with archaic words composed in a spidery hand, and my head ached as I tried to decipher what they meant. Unlike the others, this book was about alchemy, that much was clear. It seemed to be some sort of diary, written by a man early in the fifth decade of his life, telling the tale of his quest for the Philosopher’s Stone: an object that could transmute metals into their perfect state—gold.

  Only it was more than that. It was as my master had said; the Great Work was a story, a metaphor. From what I could make out, it was not simply base metals this alchemist sought to transmute. It was himself. The Philosopher’s Stone could bring anything to perfection— even human flesh.

  “Immortality,” I murmured. “He was seeking immortality.” But who was it who had written this journal so long ago? I turned to the last page, and there at the bottom was inscribed his signature. Breath escaped me as I stared at the words.

  Martin Adalbrecht, Anno Domini MDCVII

  No, it couldn’t be. This diary had been penned in 1607. Which would mean he was over one hundred years old when I met him five years earlier, though he had looked no older than forty. Only that couldn’t be so.

  My brain worked feverishly as I flipped back through the crumbling pages as quickly as I dared. There had to be answers within the book. The two Seekers had spoken of the Philosophers, and the master had been one of their order, of that there could be no doubt. The name the Philosophers gave themselves could not be a coincidence; surely there was some connection between them and the Philosopher’s Stone. But what was it? And what did it have to do with the island of Crete and the ancient palace of Knossos?

  A soft sound reached my ears. At once I blew out the candle. Silence, then came another noise: a soft thump, followed by a hiss of breath. Though it was dark, my eyes had adjusted, and I could see easily. I shut the book, placed it with the vial in the box, and closed the lid. Tucking the box in the breast pocket of my coat, I moved to the cabinet, locked it, then returned the key to the desk. I paused by the door of the library, listening, then opened it a crack and peered through.

  Two dark figures moved in the dimness of the hall, one petite, the other tall and gangly. So perhaps I was not the only thing they had come searching for after all. The two groped their way across the hall, moving toward the library door. I wondered if I should sneak past—I would be no more than a silent shadow to their senses—or if I should confront them.

  Before I could decide, a light appeared in the arched doorway at the far end of the hall, accompanied by the sound of shuffling steps. The two figures tensed, then darted through a side door and were gone. A moment later Pietro entered the hall, carrying an oil lamp. He gazed about, his dark eyes glittering with suspicion, then turned and headed back the way he had come. I took the chance to slip from the library and return to my chamber. It mattered not to me if the two returned to their late-night searching, for I was confident that I now carried in my pocket the very thing they had been sent to find.

  The next morning I met the Seekers at breakfast and inquired after the quality of their rest. The dark circles under their eyes belied their polite replies; they had not slept. Nor had I, but I felt strangely fresh and awake. I knew what I had to do. He had said not to trust them, and nor would I. But there was so much I had to learn, things he should have taught me himself. I savored the look of shock on their faces when I told Rebecca and Byron that I would accept their invitation.

  “I will journey with you to London at once,” I said. “We shall depart this very day.”

  The surprise and satisfaction on Rebecca’s face gave way to a look of perturbation. She knew her late-night wanderings had been detected, and she would have no chance to repeat them. All the same, a moment later she managed a smile that seemed not altogether counterfeit.

  “We are fortunate indeed, my lord.”

  “Call me Marius,” I said.

  Two hours later, I stood before the manor beneath a leaden sky, watching as Rebecca and Byron climbed into the waiting coach. The luggage was already strapped atop, and the driver was ready.

  “We shall await your return, Master Marius,” Pietro said. A chill wind howled from the north, and the old servant shook.

  I rested a palm against his withered cheek. “Dear Pietro,” I said, then climbed into the coach.

  The driver cracked the reins, and the coach lurched into motion. I turned in the seat and watched until the manor was lost from view. It would be many long years before I would return to Madstone Hall, and I never saw Pietro again.

  “This is all terribly exciting, Marius,” Byron said. The two Seekers sat on th
e bench opposite me. “You won’t regret joining us. There’s so much for you to discover.”

  “Yes,” I said, noticing Rebecca’s eyes were on me. “Yes, there is.”

  I am afraid I must now leap ahead in my tale, for it has taken me much longer to set down this account of my first two decades than I had imagined. However, I believe it was vital for you to see how I was made in my early years—for otherwise, when at last you reach the end, you might not understand why I chose as I did. Why I chose differently than Master Albrecht. And while I have had more time to pen this journal than at first I dared hope—it seems even eyes of gold do not always see clearly— the hour now grows late. Thus I will fly over those next years of my life, to a gray autumn day in London when once again my world was changed forever.

  The year was now 1679, and at five-and-twenty years of age I was a man grown into his full power, yet still filled with vigor and optimism that the harshness of the world had not yet had time to wear away. As an order, the Seekers were much the same. Founded in A.D. 1615, the Seekers—like myself at the time—were just coming into their own.

  The fractious early years, in which the order was little more than a motley collection of wild-eyed alchemists scrabbling for the secret of making gold in filthy, smoke-hazed dungeons, had been left behind, and already the organization would have been recognizable to a modern-day Seeker. The Age of Discovery and the Renaissance were giving way to an Age of Reason, and thus we chose a scientific approach.

  The ideas of transmutation and the Philosopher’s Stone—a mystical catalyst that could bring about the instantaneous achievement of perfection in anything it touched—were thrown in the dustbin along with the ashes of myth and superstition. The Seekers had undergone their own Reformation, and while the order was founded on a belief in the existence of magic—a core conviction we had not rescinded—it was agreed we would approach the subject not with flights of fancy, but rather with logic and cold rationalism. Evidence that pointed to an otherworldly origin of magical forces on Earth was already mounting, and by the time I entered the Seekers the order’s focus was steadily being directed toward a single goal: the discovery of worlds other than this Earth.