The Marechal Chronicles: Volume V, The Tower of the Alchemist (6 page)

And these were bright shiny valves and wheels with spigots the Alchemist called
robinets
and said that the height of the tower itself was necessary for the system to work.

Whatever their function, Bellamere was glad of their mere presence as an excuse to stop and admire their strangely intricate design while he caught his breath and stoked his own resolve to keep going.

Of course, he knew that he must if he wanted a chance at more of what he considered the true treasure of the tower.

Bellamere had no interest in the jewels that were likely stocked somewhere within, nor did he care about the strange substances the Alchemist made from the stones his son broke and ground down for him.

He could not care less about the mysterious liquids that rose up in the pipes that followed him ever upward to be drawn off at various heights according to the alchemist’s most recent calculations.

What he cared about … almost all that he cared about was the treasure trove of books within the alchemist’s seemingly endless library.

The old man had told him it had been amassed by several generations of St. Lucq and that it could never be read through by a single man in a sole lifetime for many tomes had been gathered by the generations of alchemists who had travailed within that tower.

The idea of so many books one could never read them before dying of old age gave Bellamere a thrill like no other.

When he had been a child, he had chanced upon the few books belonging to his father and had worked out for himself what the letters meant and then, in time, what the words they formed meant.

It had been dry reading, discussions of metal working techniques and the like, but every so often, there had been, like nuggets of precious metal waiting to be discovered, brief stories included among the texts.

Nothing ever so fantastic as what he had read since then in the alchemist’s collection, nor so wondrous as the stories Harki was apt to tell. 

Still, they were a start, and the awkward boy that he had been felt a little less out of place, not quite so fat and clumsy as when he lost himself between the leather-bound covers of a book.

The staircase wound ever upwards and through floors that were mostly bare until, at last, Bellamere came to a doorway that barred what remained of the way upward.

He did what he could to calm his rapidly beating heart but knew that he would pant for a while longer as he tried to catch his breath before, finally, giving up and knocking upon the door.

There was no answer.

He listened, waiting for some sign, anything at all that he could enter and when there was still nothing, he resolved to enter anyway.

After all, he was obliged to return the book he clutched protectively in his hands, if nothing else.

 Bellamere took a deep breath and hoped that the Alchemist would not be too angry over his letting himself in.  With a quick tug upward, he lifted the door's blocking arm from its sconce and let the door swing wide.

What he saw next blew all the breath back out of him again.

The Alchemist was across the room from him.  The round walls of the tower rose up on all sides, but they were pierced through with large cutouts in the stone walls.  In these same were fitted frames of metal with clear glass pieces arranged in numerous strange yet oddly organized patterns.

The effect was that the room was positively bathed in rich bright sunlight shot through with glowing lines and flower-like patterns that ran over everything within the room.

The effect was, indeed, breathtaking, but Bellamere had seen it all before.

Rather, what had left him frozen and slack-jawed was the Alchemist himself.

The old man stood directly opposite Bellamere, and in one hand he held a large loop of yellow metal that looked suspiciously like gold.

However, the most surprising thing was that the round metal loop held a shimmering curtain of liquid that bowed out into what was surely the largest bubble Bellamere had ever seen.

Maitre St. Lucq's face was bright red and his cheeks were puffed out, and with a frantic glance from his eyes, Bellamere understood that the old man was in need of help.

He bustled over as best he could.  There were low tables everywhere that held bottles and jars that held, in turn, vividly colored powders, or liquids that gleamed as bright as polished silver.

Bellamere made his way carefully to the Alchemist and saw that the fellow was near to apoplexy when the old man let out a single gasping word through his pursed lips.

“Blowwww … “

He did not hesitate.  Bellamere took a deep breath and began to blow against the bubble.

It had been shimmering, probably on the verge of breaking when he had arrived, and the Alchemist took a long, shuddering breath, before speaking again.

“Gently, boy … gently.”

Bella nodded, then stopped himself when he saw the bubble begin to hang over at the bottom.  He blew steadily as the Alchemist reached carefully for something with his one free hand.

His breath nearly done up, Bellamere could feel his own face begin to turn red.

“Just a little more, boy.  Give it just a touch more.”

Despite having climbed all those stairs, Bellamere did his best and blew out just a little harder.

From the corner of his eye he saw the Alchemist nod.  Then the old man flicked a single grain of dust from his fingertip at the bubble.

Instead of breaking with a terrible plop, the shimmering liquid froze perfectly solid in an instant.

“You can stop blowing now, boy,” the old man said and patted Bellamere upon the shoulder.

The young man sagged and then took his own shuddering breath while he watched the Alchemist turn the metal loop and the frozen bubble this way and that to examine it from every angle.

Oddly, Bellamere felt no cold from it, nor was it frosted in any way.  It was just as it had been, only it no longer shimmered while still perfectly clear.

“Ah,” said the Alchemist, “The very best of Amurianum could do no better and that with all the ovens of the isle.”

Bellamere had no idea what he meant, but that was not that unusual.  More often than not, the old man forgot that the people around him were not privy to the multitude of facts that he himself was.

The fat young man nodded as if he understood anyway.

“You see,” the Alchemist continued, “Glass can be blown but it cannot be done with precision, nor can its inherent impurities be discounted.  What was needed was a pure liquid charged with so much essential crystal carefully dissolved until it could hold no more … and then forced to take just a bit more anyway.”

The old man walked away, still talking, taking the solidified bubble closer to one of the nearest windows.

“That was the key.  Filling up the liquid until it could hold no more and then give it a crystal seed at precisely the correct moment.”

The old man turned the clear bubble in the sunlight and it gleamed brightly, and even Bellamere could see that it appeared to be absolutely, perfectly transparent.

“Yes, Maitre,” the young man said, “And a very fine bubble it is.”

The Alchemist looked sharply up at Bellamere with a frown.

“Bubble?  This is no mere bubble, my boy.”

He turned it to catch the light from the window more directly, then Bellamere saw with surprise a spot of very bright white light appear upon the floor.

It moved as the Alchemist moved the metal loop and the bubble it held.

The white spot lifted up to a sheaf of papers on the corner of a table, and Bellamere had trouble watching it for as white and bright as it became.

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.