The Marechal Chronicles: Volume V, The Tower of the Alchemist

by Aimelie Aames

  Then without warning, smoke sifted upward from the spot of light's core just before orange flames followed.

  Bellamere rushed forward and swatted at the fire with the book still in his hand before turning his astonished face back to the Alchemist.

  “A bubble. Ha! This is what is known as a lens, my boy, but created like none other in the world.”

  The young man nodded again and said, “I see.”

  The truth was he did not see, really.

  “A perfect lens is what is needed to capture and focus the light of the sun. Therein lies the key to the next puzzle. How to harness enough power to achieve my life's work?”

  The Alchemist gestured to the array of books and papers strewn in all directions.

  “My research is at last bearing fruit. Never have I been this close to deciphering the old formulae of my elders. And most of them never drew so close as I do now.”

  Still unsure as to just what the old man was saying, Bellamere decided to remain quiet and shuffled his feet instead.

  It was only then that it appeared as though the Alchemist had truly noticed the young man before him and the book in his hands.

  “Ah. And how did you find the legend of Xavier Le Grand?”

  “Oh, it was quite good. Very good really. Even if it all seemed a bit far-fetched at times,” Bellamere replied, relieved that the subject which mattered most to him was at hand.

  “Yes, of course. Far-fetched, indeed. Still, it might be in the tales of people and things too fantastic to believe that we might sieve out a few essential truths,” the Alchemist replied as he came back from the window.

  “Take you, for example. I have given some thought to your supposed madness and have begun to believe you might not be mad at all.”

  “Really?” Bellamere blushed despite himself. None of the people he considered his friends ever made reference to his supposed imbalance. Still, he knew that the Alchemist meant no offense with his direct manner of speaking.

  “ But what makes you say so, Maitre?

  “Yes … well, ummm ...” the Alchemist murmured, then peered through the lens at Bellamere.

  “Is he here now? Your little friend?”

  The alchemist’s face grew very large and round from behind the lens he held, and Bellamere resisted the urge to lift his arm and shield himself from the old man’s piercing regard.

  “Harki? No, Maitre,” he said, instead, “Generally speaking, he seems to find something else to do whenever I come to the tower, but most especially once I'm inside.”

  “Yes, of course,” said the Alchemist as he lowered the lens and set it aside.

  “Of course, what?”

  “Well, it may well be that he is exploring as his people are wont to do. You see, it is their love of stonework that may explain it.”

  Bellamere shook his head, not following the Alchemist at all.

  “Stonework? What?”

  “In my most recent studies, I came across a few selected accountings of a strange little people known to one of my ancestors.

  “Normally, I would have passed over the tales as mere superstition or local folktales and little more, but as I have been learning, therein might hide some hidden, half spoken phrase that could prove of more worth than its author had ever intended.

  “So, I took the time to read these tales over and it would appear to fit, if only one finishes by wondering why.”

  The old man steepled his fingers as he watched the smith’s son think over what he had just said.

  “What?” said Bellamere, his exasperation growing as he tried to follow the strange meanderings of the alchemist's thoughts.

  “The Laminak, boy. That's what.

  “They are the fae spoken of in the oldest of Euskaran legends. The females were said to live separately from the males, preferring their company, one would presume, solely in matters of procreation. In any case, they are depicted as beautiful maidens who affectioned hidden away forest springs or grottos in the mountains. There they are said to have awaited the unwary traveler and to do him some mischief unless they are caught out first by the duck-like feet hidden under their overly long skirts.

  “However, it is the male Laminak who is pertinent here. These are depicted in nearly every tale as being rather diminutive whenever they deigned to show themselves, yet their small stature is in no way related to the considerable force they possess.

  “For they are described as extraordinary masons, drawn to stonework as bees to sweet nectar. One could imagine in admiration, or, perhaps, base jealousy. The accounts are not clear.

  “However, they were known for being far more mischievous than their female counterparts, and this because they often had occasion to involve themselves in the affairs of men.

  “One tale describes a poor farmer who offended one of their number in some way. The very next day, he arrived at his fields, ready to harvest whatever it was in them only to find enormous man high blocks of cut stone scattered across the field.

  “Naturally, the farmer was devastated and obliged to make peace with the Laminak, although I found nothing more on the subject.

  “Another story is that of a man who out-tricked a Laminak at his own game.

  “A bridge was sorely needed to span the river Licq. But it would have required enormous effort by the local men of the region, and no one seemed willing to undertake such an arduous task.

  “Then, one day, the local baker had finally become terribly exasperated, for he was obliged to go two hours out of his way to buy flour on the other side of the river, but had no shorter way of going along the Licq until he could find a crossing shallow enough to ford.

  “He decided the time had come for someone to do something about it, so he waited until midsummer's eve and went to a meadow in a nearby wood rumored to be the dancing ground of the Laminak for very special occasions.

  “Once he arrived, he did not see them as he hoped, however, since he had made the trip, he spoke into the darkness to describe his admiration for the craftsmanship of the Laminak and the great works of which they were capable.

  “He went on at length in this way until he said that he supposed it was beyond even their prowess to erect a bridge over the Licq in a single night. Not even the mighty Laminak could do such a thing, he said.

  “That was when a small voice answered him at last.

  “It said that the bridge would be but a trifle, a next to nothing at all, hardly worth the effort for the great people known as the Laminak.

  “The man's reply was that he understood. It was wise of them to not attempt something no one could do, and if it made them feel better, he did not mind that they pretended it was not worth their time.

  “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 co
lumns.

  “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.”
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  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.