The Marechal Chronicles: Volume V, The Tower of the Alchemist (7 page)

“The voice replied, in great anger this time, and said that the bridge would be built before the night's end, only to fall into ruin at first cock's crow.

“The baker left that very instant, for it would not be long before that day's bread making would begin.

“And as he passed close to the village nearest to the river Licq, he saw stonework flying into place, columns descending from midair to bury their feet in the stone-covered bottom of the river.

“He smiled then went to his shop wondering if perhaps the stones would still be there the next day, even if fallen into ruin, perhaps then the village could be persuaded to build the bridge at last.

“He bent to his ovens and lit their fires, then desiring a bit more light for his work, he lit a lantern and placed it upon a windowsill.

“In that moment, the night still black as coal, a cock crowed thinking that morning had come with the light of the lantern in its sleepy eyes.

“There was a great cry and a crash in the distance followed by all the villagers pouring out from their homes, torches and lit lanterns in hand.

“And to their great surprise, there stood the bridge that spans the Licq and still stands to this very day.  And when the river water runs clear enough, one can make out a void at the base of one of the bridge's foundation columns.

“For it was there that the Laminak had been about to place the last stone to finish the bridge's construction, only to be fooled into thinking they had failed to finish before daybreak by an idiot cock's crowing.”

The old man went silent and looked at Bellamere to see if the young man was still listening.

The truth was that he had been, but he found his attention wandering as the Alchemist spoke while thinking over that little Harki might actually be real and not just a figment of his imagination.

“ … curly mustache,” said the old man.

“I'm sorry, what?” replied Bellamere.

“Pay attention, boy.  I asked if your invisible friend sports a long and curly black mustache.”

“Oh,” Bellamere said, “He doesn't have a mustache.”

“No mustache?  Not even a little one?” asked the alchemist, visibly puzzled, “The tale was quite specific about the Laminak's love of twirling their mustaches.”

“No, no … none at all.”

But, then in a flash of inspiration, Bellamere said, “But he does have suspenders, Maitre.  In fact, he seems rather proud of them.”

“Ah, suspenders in lieu of mustaches … I suppose it could be.  Fashions do change over time and all that.”

“Is there anything else?” asked the alchemist.

Bellamere nodded.

“Well, as I've said before, he tells me all kinds of stories, some of which he has repeated many times before to the point I already know them by rote.  Only he ends up changing the details and the names, and it feels like he's just talking to hear himself talk instead of telling me real, true stories.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, no, not all.  There is one thing that he says all the time and that bubble … erm, I mean, lens that you made just now made me think of it.

“He says it often, but most especially at night, or at the end of his longer stories most any time at all, but the most interesting part is he never varies how he says it.

“'There is no light so sublime as that of the abyss overhead … the subtle light of darkness.'”

The Alchemist moved away from the smith’s son, murmuring, “Yes, yes … subtle … abyss …”

The Alchemist examined the bubble he called a lens, and Bellamere knew that the time afforded him was growing short.

Without thinking, he blurted, “Sir, you know that I appreciate very much that you explain so many interesting things to me.  I was just thinking that maybe …”

Bellamere shuffled his feet, suddenly uncomfortable over what he wanted to say.

“Maybe you could take the time to explain them to Etienne, too … sir.”

“Eh?  Etienne?  Don't think I haven't.  I have and then some.  But he is as stubborn and mule-headed as anyone I've ever known.”

Bellamere persisted.

“It's just that … sir … it's just that I think he would rather you spent more time with him instead of with all these books … sir.”

The Alchemist frowned.

“Ah.  So that's it, is it?  Of course. It always is.  When it comes down to it, it is always a question of time and how to spend what little remains to one.

“But, and this is the most important facet of the equation, if I am to reach my goal then I must spend time in these books.  Then, and only then, with my success, will there be time enough for Etienne and me both.  Time enough for all that there is to say and do, and still there will be time left over.

“He must wait, and it is a hard thing for a young man like him to understand.  And even more so when he refuses to understand the essentials of the problem.

“Do you see?” the old man asked.

Bellamere shook his head, although the Alchemist did not seem to notice.

“One must search for that part that cannot be divided further.  The heart, the center, the essence that cannot be refined beyond what it is already.  The truth of refined existence that has bared all to your scrutiny.

“Do you understand?”

Bellamere shook his head and replied, “No, Maitre.  I'm afraid I don't.”

“Not to worry, my boy.  One day you will.  All of you will.

“Now be off with you.  I've work at hand and more than enough books to keep me from the likes of young men such as you and my son.”

“Yes, sir, of course.”

Bellamere turned to leave, then thought better of it.

“Oh, but there is just one other thing,” he said, turning back to face the alchemist, “Is there anything you can tell me about the Black Boar of Summer?”

“Ha! The Black Boar,” the old man chuckled, “Have the folk in the village dusted off that old saw again?  Let me guess, young lovers fraught with spring fever are running off and people try to explain it all away with stories of monsters in the night … ?”

The old man took Bellamere's surprised face for his answer.

“Just a moment.”

He went across the room and lifted the corners of several old tomes, looking for something, before changing his mind to rifle among those at another table.

Finally, and it seemed rather by chance, he found what he was looking for.  It was a small book, bound in black leather, that he slapped down before Bellamere.

“There! That will tell you all there is to know about the Boar if you so desire.  And as for your little Laminak, my advice would be to discover
his
essential truth. 

“Why has he seized upon you of all people, my boy?  Find that out and we might discover what
he
is all about or, even more importantly, what he
will
be about.”

With that, the old man turned his back upon him and Bellamere knew that he had been dismissed. 

But as he took the stairs that would lead him down and out again, he clasped the book to his chest. 

At least there would be something to read, and that was a treasure indeed.

Chapter Three

Etienne moved quickly.

Whatever else she was, the woman could not run without leaving telltale tufts of grass that laid over when all the rest stood up straight in the afternoon sun.

Nor could she avoid breaking a twig here or there as she pushed past thick bushes before entering the forest that surrounded the tower on all sides.

She was fast, but she was no ghost or anything else that old folk pretend to know as magical foolishness, otherwise known as wastes of time.

Etienne could see she was fleet of foot, but he was faster and stronger than she.

Sooner or later, he would overtake her and then the reasons for her spying on him would be laid bare.

He rounded a large oak, its sides well covered in moss but for a small, scuffed smudge at hand's height.

And then he drew up short and did not take a single step more.

Before him lay a narrow brook that ran slow and quiet under the canopy of leaves overhead.

And in its waters, a woman stood with her skirts hiked high upon her thighs.  She reached down to cup fresh water in one hand and then splashed it down one long, creamy pale leg.

Her back was to him, and it was if she did not have the least care in the world as she washed her legs while humming a sweet melody in a voice that could have been none other than the one Etienne had heard laughing just a short time ago.

Her hair was long and of such a dark chestnut brown that it verged upon black, and he knew without ever having seen her that her eyes would be a bright azure blue like that of the
bleuet
flower, the one that young men in love wear to see if it would fade and know that their love would not be returned to them.

She stopped moving, and the light melody she hummed fell silent.

It seemed even the brook slowed as all grew hushed in expectation and Etienne realized he had forgotten to breathe.

She turned her head to look back at him over her shoulder, and her blue gaze held him frozen while rich red lips kept their next smile to themselves.

“Alexandre,” she called out as she turned away from him, “Come closer so that I might see you better.”

Etienne startled, and despite himself, he coughed as he drew his next breath.

He looked hurriedly about him but saw no one else there.

With a shrug of his square shoulders, he strode right up to the water's edge.

“I believe you speak to me, however my name is not Alexandre.”

She did not turn to look at him as she replied.

“Oh, yes it is.  That is to say, it was meant to be your name, and it might well be yet one day for it was your mother's dearest wish.”

“My mother?” he asked in a low voice.

In less than the span of thirty heartbeats, she had surprised him twice.

“I do not know who you are, but I do know that you know nothing of my mother, nor do you know my proper name.”

She did not reply, only drawing her skirts a bit higher and resumed washing her legs.

Etienne took a step back. 

It was unheard of … and unseemly.

“Stop that at once, m'Lady,” he said, no longer certain of his footing or of his own words, then nearly bit his own tongue when he realized how he had addressed her.

Her answer was a very unladylike snort.

“'M'Lady'?” she said, the sarcasm in her voice quite clear, then turned at last to face the man standing over her … a powerful man who seemed at a loss for what to do next.

“I have been called any number of things, but never that,” she said as she waded toward him.

A patch of sunlight filtered down from above, and by chance or by design it fell upon her up-tilted face.

And it was all the more perfect for the smile that Etienne saw there, although he was still uncertain if it was in mockery or simple humor.

“Of course, you are right,” he said, “A lady would never be found doing what you are doing.  Or spying on others, for that matter.”

She stepped up upon the brook's embankment, forcing Etienne to take another step backward as she brushed by him.

The scent of her was as before, only so much closer, so much fresher than it had any right to be.

He clenched his jaw and tried to clear his head as she answered him.

“Oh, I don't think I'd call it that.  It was more observation than outright spying. And as for ladies, I do believe they positively revel in such intrigue as spying.”

She had brushed past him and kept her back turned as she walked on, then said over her shoulder without looking at him, “Come along, Alexandre.  There are things to discuss.”

“Stop calling me that,” he said, but his tone was quiet and, despite himself, he followed her.

They took path after meandering path that led ever further into the forest until it had gotten to the point that Etienne was about to object.

Then, before he could utter a word, they came to a bright meadow and as they stepped free of the shadows, it was like breathing again after holding one's head under a heavy blanket for too long.

With a sweep of her hand, the woman gestured to one corner of the meadow and like glistening jewels strewn amidst the verdure, Etienne saw strawberries.

“Tempted?” she asked.

Once again, he startled.

“No … yes, I mean, no … not at all,” he replied.

He had heard the question within the question and resolved to gather his senses.

“I can see where some might be,” he said, “But, when in doubt, I prefer not to follow where others have tasted before me.”

“A pity,” she said, then looked up from the strawberry patch and straight into Etienne's eyes.

“A pity that they lie there like so many jewels and you have only to stoop down to pick them up.  Yet you refuse.  Does that mean you will refuse me when everything, the wind, the stars, the whisper beyond hearing, shall tell you that you must not … yet will you?”

Etienne shook his head slowly from side to side.

“You're completely mad, aren't you?”

Bright blue transfixed him, and he could not look away as she answered.

“Some might say it is the mad who answer questions with questions.  But to be clear, I tell you that no, I am not mad.  Rather, I know of the unseen world and have been told to seek you out because of it.”

With a jerk of his head, Etienne broke away from her gaze, and his voice held undisguised disgust as he spoke.

“If not mad, then you are a deluded fool.  There is no such thing as magic.”

Blue eyes flashed and met his once again, their hold upon his own intensifying.

“That is where you are woefully wrong.  It winds its threads around all that we do, all that we see … it is the law which binds the unrelated, the orderly structure hidden in chaos … it is the skein of fate from which none of us can ever hope to escape.”

Etienne set his jaw and replied.

“The only magic I know of is the strange coincidence that two people in the space of an hour speak to me of things that exist only in their minds.  If there is such a thing as magic, you can pretend it is that while I name it for what it truly is.  Coincidence and foolishness, nothing more.”