by Wade Ebeling
A small pillar, which Marcus had fabricated and shaped like a mushroom to be more comfortable, served as a stool in front of the worktable. Catherine sat upon it like a trespasser in a foreign house. She looked over the clutter more closely this time, trying to understand how it was that she had survived. A small wave of embarrassment passed over her when she remembered all the things that had been admitted to about her past. Most of the sordid details that spilled out during what, at the time felt like a deathbed confessional, Catherine never had any intention of uttering to anyone, let alone the man she wanted to love her forever. Just thinking about all that she had said made some of the horrors feel recent. Memories of physical and mental abuse were never shucked off easily, but the amount of curiosities on the table helped to refocus her.
Casting a quick glance over her shoulder, Catherine felt comforted by Marcus’ presence. Not just because he was there, as she could not even fathom what it would have been like to wake up here alone, it was because he obviously felt secure enough to fall asleep. This implied that he knew they were safe, at least for the time being, and that he believed her to be on the mend. Fighting the urge to go look at his unshaven face and the following desire to kiss him awake, she turned back to the mystery of how he had managed the impossible.
The loose papers yielded little. They were obviously used to help produce a potion or potions. As to which ones, she did not know. Based upon some of the ingredients, Catherine guessed them to be healing tonics or antiseptic creams. The possibility that Marcus had produced more than one formula was very real, as his knowledge of alchemy surpassed even that of the professors who taught the courses. The lengthy timetables involved on some of the pages gave the impression that this was done out of desperation. Hours were needed just to separate an item back into its base elements, then hours more to condense and purify the required ingredient. These were not the acts of a well-funded alchemist in a pristine laboratory. This table told the tale of a man grasping around in the darkness for a few tenable straws hidden amongst a pile of unusable hay, all with the added hindrance of having to fashion his own tools from scratch.
It was while reading the runes within Marcus’ journal when most of Catherine’s questions were answered. It was also where she learned just how close to death she had come, and the extents Marcus went to in trying to keep her alive. His notational system of writing was really nothing more than brief thoughts and reflections spaced by wide voids, where she assumed he intended to go back later and fill in further remembrances. Some of it made little sense, like the brief passage written about a river crossing, which was a strange mix of a fable about stranded fisherman and of how he learned to float and propel manipulated stone. Some made perfect sense, allowing her to deduce that they were inside a Newburg cemetery crypt with two caskets somewhere beneath them.
Following a blank page, there were a few lines about possible sources of sulfur bordered by scribbles outlining the process of how he had elementally broken limestone. After a few words about how absolutely tired he was, Catherine came across the two words that answered almost everything in front of her. In amongst a longer rambling about concerns and possible solutions to acquiring a heat source hot enough to process raw sulfur into pure flowers, namely his idea about using a coal fired, forced-air forge, were the words Aqua Vitae.
Catherine was in awe. Marcus had managed to make a monumentally difficult potion under the most rudimentary of circumstances. More so than just the task itself, which most Builders would scoff at if told, assuming a tale that tall must be fabricated, it was that he had done it all for her. Some small part of Catherine felt it was a gift that she did not deserve. How could she ever repay such an act of selflessness? Life itself had been returned to her. Would she ever be able show Marcus how monumentally appreciated this was? Catherine made a promise to no one and everyone, even if it took the rest of her natural life, she would prove herself worthy of the second chance.
The feeling of insufficiency that Catherine suffered from did not last long. As she continued reading, Marcus laid bare his thoughts on the matter. Surprisingly, they were not at all what she believed them to be. In his musings, he wrote numerous praises about her. “… braver than anyone he knew …” and “… tough as nails to be smiling after enduring atrocities that would have broken most men.” were just a couple examples of this. Most of these lines were written during the longer phases of the potion making, so one section would be lavishing her with admiration or a listing of concerns about her health, the next would be his bemoaning of the various difficulties that he was trying to overcome.
A few short sentences that were followed by a large space, like he intended to fill the area in with numerous details later, chilled Catherine to the bone. Marcus wrote, “Bloody Crosses set a trap for me at the apothecary. Doctor and woman (wife?) found dead. Captured the snake. Told me everything.” Without knowing the context behind the words, she was a bit shaken by the knowledge that they had been followed all the way here. The vague way he had written this portion left several questions unanswered, so she could not help but wonder about the possibility of there being more Deacons roaming about the town.
Past a nearly blank page, the journal ended with one line. Obviously written in haste, it stated: “Master Grenaldt saved us twice!” Confused by this, Catherine quickly flipped through the remainder of the journal, frantically looking for some form of clarification. Finding nothing, she placed the book back down on the table, leaving her right hand on top of it. Checking the area where the crossbow bolt had entered her flesh, making certain that this was not all a dream, she patted the leather-bound journal, almost as if to thank it. In truth, she was wordlessly expressing her gratitude to Marcus, for all he had done to save her, good and bad.
Shifting around the barricade of the blazing fire to illuminate the untidy table better, Catherine began consolidating the loose pages. She was looking for anything that might have been missed which would shed light on the strange reference to Master Grenaldt or to how Marcus, who had just graduated, albeit with top marks, managed to create an eternal flame. Under a detailed illustration of the round forge, she found a folded note marked with a scrolled ‘3’.
There had been several conversations about the information already shared by Master Grenaldt. This caused the speculations about the contents of this last bundle to get ever more fantastical. Now that she held it in hand and could see that it had already been opened, Catherine refused to wait any longer. After easing the folded papers out, she took a deep breath and commenced reading.
Marcus-
I hope one day you and Catherine will be able to forgive the burdens that I have bestowed upon you.
I have seen much in this lifetime, and it has become increasingly difficult to focus on the positive aspects of such. Long before I came to the Americas, I met the most wonderful girl while I apprenticed under Master Uldan Hofstadter in a small Austrian town just across the Bavarian border. What he lacked in table manners were more than made up for with a genuine kindness towards his fellow man. He showed me what a contented life ought to be. With the abundance of strength and vast knowledge that he possessed, to show a know-it-all puissant like me patience and compassion - Well, let us just say, these particular attributes were something that I was sorely lacking in. You see, this girl that I met, Helga, was his daughter. If it were not for the innumerable lessons of that great teacher, I never would have striven to be better than I was or believed myself worthy of her.
We shared many fine years together, Helga and me. It is with the greatest of ease that I say this: her agreeing to be my bride counts as my greatest accomplishment. Without Helga by my side, I never would have had the fortitude to come to the colonies, nor would I have ever believed myself grand enough to start a college. You must understand that I was much happier then. I know, difficult to imagine, yes? But, hard as it is to believe, I was not always the angry shell that you see today. So totally in love was I, and so powerful were the emotions
than coursed through my body during this time, that I was able to discover how to make the eternal flame. As you know, this proved, once and for all, that the ancient stories about them were true.
You, of all people, know me and my books. I kept every scrap ever found that even hinted at the Builders, or I made faithful copies of the tomes when those in possession of them did not want to part ways. In all those volumes, most of which are from different cultures and languages, I have only read eight references to the eternal flame. Of these, none disclosed how to create such a thing.
The key, my good fellow, is love. Love is the only emotion that our power can bind to stone, holding it there for the entirety of one’s life. A man is not a man until he will sacrifice all for another and do so willingly. The way you look at Catherine and her at you, I do believe this sentiment will not fall on deaf ears soon enough. Please excuse me if I misunderstand the situation between you. While it might not be obvious to the two of you, it is very much so to everyone else. I have experienced my fair share, remember? As I have seen your potential and felt the warmth of your friendship, I do hope this information will find a way to benefit you on your journey through life.
Now, my young compatriots, I feel I must apologize. You see, I have been using your skills to exact a revenge once thought no longer attainable. I owe an inescapable blood debt to the Camaraderie, one that I have been shamefully letting you two pay off. While you, Marcus, seemed to have weathered the horrendous tasks asked of you, Catherine wears a brave mask that I cannot yet see through, nor will she share with me where life has taken her this past year. Please tread carefully when dealing with her, there is a sadness in her eyes that was not there before. I know I will never be able to properly atone for what I have done, but perhaps a bit of clarification will help you both understand why I chose to do what I did.
It was decades ago, during the peace talks between the Assembly and a reformist Cardinal, who counted the entirety of the new world as his archdiocese, when Helga returned home to visit her parents. It was to be a long trip and even longer stay. Being that I was acting as a broker of sorts between the two parties, conveying messages and the like, I stayed behind. This is something that I have regretted the rest of my life. Unbeknownst to us, the Cardinal, Pfaff was his name, was negotiating without the consent of the Basilica leadership in England. He had complete autonomy over the colonies and was trying to do something good with it, making it hard to fault the man during the coming events.
Peace had come to America and shows of good faith abounded. To this end, I let Cardinal Pfaff build a church over the entrance to the Sanctuary. Thankfully, I knew enough not to mention the secret entrance in the staircase out of New London. Many jubilant weeks passed. The bonds of friendship took root over shared drink and food. The Builders helped complete numerous projects for the Church, the results of which became some of the most beautiful buildings to be built outside of the old world. They, in turn, gave our brethren legitimacy, allowing us to take part in the planning of cities and bolstering infrastructure where we deemed it necessary. The Assembly still wanted to operate with a modicum of anonymity. Their thinking being that a slow trickle of information coming out about us might help endear the populace more so than a sudden revealing of our existence, especially if they viewed our acts as magnanimous. There are just too many examples of people reacting poorly to a sudden change in their belief system, to do otherwise would have been an affront to the past.
The months passed quickly while I kept busy trying to be everything to everyone. My futile attempt to keep from fixating on Helga’s absence, I suppose. Things did not settle down for months after this. The school had benefited greatly from the added publicity amongst the Builders, and I soon found myself thrust into a new role. Where I once taught every class personally, I now had three permanent teachers, a staff to cook and clean and over a dozen students who were gladly paying a fine tuition. I worked tirelessly to expand the Sanctuary into what you see before you today. Night and day, I toiled to polish this or perfect that. I did it all so that when Helga returned she would be proud of me. The months turned into countable seasons, and still she had not returned.
By this time, word had gotten back from the old world that no such peace accord had been struck there. Overt malice began to spread across Europe, each example worse than the last. The entirety of a Builder conservatory would be massacred one week, followed by the toppling of a stone church full of parishioners the next. Stories like these were all too commonplace, each senseless act of violence seemingly justified by the blind desire for retaliation. Still, the tenuous truce that had been agreed upon in the colonies withstood all of this. We had learned our supposed foes names and dined with their families. Despite the tension, no one represented his or her side in a way that would ignite this land once more. We had come to know peace. This meant it would not be relinquished frivolously. The American armistice held even though, an ocean away, others were trying to inflame emotions.
It was during this climate of uncertainty and fear that I finally learned the fate of my beloved Helga. A mason visiting the Sanctuary, a none to uncommon occurrence, was speaking about the current situation that our brothers across the sea were enduring. Apparently, the Camaraderie’s latest tactic was to capture a Builder and torture them for information that would lead to higher ranking members. Once they had a target identified, a cadre of spies would follow them, sometimes for weeks, trying to locate more potential subjects, as well as their places of business and households. While the traveling Builder spun his tale to rapt students and staff, he explained that this new approach had worked so well that a High Wizard sitting on the old Assembly had been ensnared by it. As the story went, the man fought ferociously to protect his wife and daughter, so the invaders used braziers and bellows to pump toxic gasses into the homes basement during the night, since this is where the family was believed to be hiding. The following morning, the bodies were pulled out of a short tunnel system and dragged through the town behind horses while the Deacons celebrated their cleverness. Somehow, deep in my soul, I knew my wife was gone even before the mason let slip the family’s surname as being Hofstadter.
A great sense of impotence took hold of me. I believed there was nothing that could be done, yet I felt I needed to do something. Others saw this conflict brewing within me and feared that I might seek revenge, which would certainly bring conflict to these shores. I wallowed in self-pity for nearly a year, too ashamed to show my face at any events. The Builders dug in across Europe and adopted hiding as their way of life once again. While in the colonies, a significant distance grew between the Church and the Builders. As it always has been, the world became a confluence of ‘us and them’. This unspoken ceasefire has lasted all these years.
I eventually resigned myself to a fate that no man dares think of in better times. However, I did not rest on my laurels. I slowly changed the curriculum to better prepare my students for what I knew was inevitable. The addition of venoms and defensive staunches to the potions class was the first of many steps. I added the range and made armament training a mandatory elective. Charms class was subtly altered as the emphasis morphed from what is helpful to what is useful. I purchased land far to the north where summers could be spent out in the wilderness. Even went so far as to bring in natives to teach skills like how to fox walk while hunting and how to skin and cook your catch. I know that you personally preferred the tutorials on plant identification, but even one must admit that far more than that was learned out in those woods. All these riggings were put into place slowly to not raise the suspicions of the Assembly. No one knew that I had begun training the student body for war.
Now it has come to this, proof that I have sacrificed all for my arrogance. Everything that was good within me has died. The way I have treated the two of you proves this succinctly. My life was over long ago. What remains in this aged, wrinkled body offers itself to you. I will collapse the Sanctuary from within, taking as many of those bloody cr
osses with me as possible. Let this last act of mine go down as testament to the fact that I have finally learned my last, most valuable, lesson. Do not make the mistakes that I have made. Understand what is important in this world and fight to the death to protect them. Indeed, it was the misconstrued notion that there is something bigger than my own family that has led me down this lonely road. There is nothing greater than love, Marcus. Society will keep asking of you until you have given everything, including your wife and unborn child, like it did to me.
Alas, dear friend, I fear that I must ask even more of you, despite all that you have done to quell my bloodlust these past months. What I require is that you ensure something of my legacy lives on, for everything that I hold precious these days is bequeathed to you. Continuity requires that knowledge cross the generations freely. Those who come after us must be allowed to stand on the shoulders of those who came before them, as this is how advancement takes place, whether it be in cognizance or pragmatic matters. To this end, I have always allowed unfettered access to my library. I beg you do the same.
You and Catherine make for Fort Shirley, but this is not your ultimate destination. Not too long ago, a small subsect of Builders broke ranks from the Assembly and headed out to the west. What they went in search of is freedom from those who would rule over them. This group, who wanted nothing more than the ability to decide what, if anything, was worth fighting for, was led by one of the shrewdest men I have ever known, Jonathan Halsworth, Catherine’s father. I, myself, would have followed him, had I not been tethered by other obligations and cursed with knees that accompany old age. Calling themselves the Independent Order of Architects, they have found a most surprising refuge near Detroit, deep within a monumental salt deposit. Mineral rich, the salt, being naturally dry and warm to boot, is easily manipulated, meaning some quite impressive constructions have already been built. I have it on good authority that the crystalline structures, when properly lit, are quite beautiful to behold.
