The Marechal Chronicles: Volume V, The Tower of the Alchemist
Read The Marechal Chronicles: Volume V, The Tower of the Alchemist Online
Authors: Aimélie Aames
Tags: #Fiction and Literature, #Romance, #Sword and Sorcery, #Dark Fantasy, #Gothic, #fantasy
The broken tower that stood hundreds of years in the past lies before Melisse like a curse long since uttered and forgotten.
She is a low born woman struggling to come to grips with the fire burning in her heart and the magic she holds in her hands.
Yet she has come to the Tower of the Alchemist in search of the missing past that once belonged to the Marechal de Barristide, a man who hunted her, then saved her as only a hero could.
In return, she would use her power to aid him and find the memories he has forgotten. Little did she realize that she would find so very much more and that it truly is the kind of knowledge that cuts like knives no matter who dares to seek it out.
The tragic past of the Marechal unfolds before her like phantoms resurrected and in the end she is faced with a choice more bitter than any she could have ever imagined.
This is Volume V of the Marechal Chronicles, a tale of dark fantasy and magic, a story of passion and of love so strong that it sunders a hero’s heart forevermore.
The Marechal Chronicles: Volumes V, The Tower of the Alchemist
(An Erotic Fantasy Tale)
By Aimélie Aames
Copyright 2014. All Rights Reserved
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Newsletter:
I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
--In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 27
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson 1809–1892
T
ABLE OF
C
ONTENTS
Other Fiction by Aimélie Aames
The Marechal Chronicles, Volume V: The Tower of the Alchemist
Melisse watched the man's lips move as he spoke.
His mouth had the same full shape as that of his son, only deep lines ran from the corners. Whether they came from more than a lifetime of frowns or smiles was still uncertain as he began the story that she would later come to think of as “The Tale of the Black Boar of Summer.”
And around them the dread, barren landscape appeared to rouse itself as his words floated in the air. Not so much as in echo, but in answer. It was as if his voice drew shapes and forms of people from far away in the past, a time when the tower still stood and the countryside around them was as verdant as any other in the land. Perhaps even more so.
Soon enough, she was sure of it. Magic rose around them and the bleak browns and greys surrounding them dissolved into vivid colors, and Melisse no longer heard the voice that sounded so much like the one she had come to know over the past months.
Instead, the scenes he recounted swirled around her, and it was as though she floated behind ghostly images that told the story she had longed to hear.
Then, as if reaching some critical point of momentum, the colors and sounds came to occupy everything, as if it had all been but an empty carafe waiting for this moment to fill itself in, greedy to tell its tale and push back the curtains of death and time that covered all in hues of barren desolation.
It did not take long, and Melisse could believe that it was she who had become the phantom rather than the tale itself, and she lost herself as the enchantment took hold, apparently determined to recount all that there was to be told in a way that revealed everything to the last detail.
Chapter One
The hand holding hers was warm and firm.
In his grasp, she knew that he would not let her fall should she miss her step under the dark roof of leaves in the forest.
It was close to midnight. A time for magical things. A time for frightening things.
But Catherine knew no fear as her lover drew her after him to the clear meadow that had become
their
place.
She had hated Jacq from the moment she had first met him. His dark brown eyes sparkled with a humor that she did not share as he stared back at her each time they crossed paths after her return home.
The truth was, they had always known one another, but when Catherine was of age, she had been sent away for proper schooling … the kind of education one could never have in a place such as Urrune.
Two years later, she had returned to find that her family had fallen upon hard times, the auberge they owned was then almost always vacant and the reason that she had been called back from school apparent in the sad eyes of her father and her mother.
Soon after her return, Catherine joined the other washerwomen at the communal
lavoir
. It was terribly hard work and she spent most of her first days there pounding wet clothing with a wooden baton, or when too tired to continue, she would be put to twisting trousers and shirts dry.
It was necessary, and the few sous she earned were barely enough to keep the family in simple food and, when very lucky, to pay for meat when chance smiled upon them and brought them the rare, hungry guest to the auberge.
One day the stink of smoke at the
lavoir
had been too much for her. The wind could not make up its mind as wood was burned just next to the washerwomen. They used wood ashes mixed into water for whitening the clothing of the most fortunate clients of Urrune. After, they would boil soapwort root and soak the clothing in the resulting melange. The process was long and laborious, but for those who could pay for it, they would wear whitened and softened shirts rather than the stiff and yellowed affairs of the less fortunate.
Catherine's eyes had fairly streamed with tears as if the outrage of her sort had mingled that day with the wayward smoke until, finally, one of the elder washerwomen with pity in her eyes sent the young woman off on the pretext of harvesting more soapwort.
The season for its flowering was upon them and when in flower, the plant was far more effective.
Whatever the reason, she was not sorry to quit the
lavoir
, if only for an afternoon with her woven basket and a hand trowel for digging.
Quickly, and without meaning to, Catherine found herself upon dim, narrow paths that threaded their way through great trees.
And in that forest, she came at last to a meadow. At one end, the ground was soft and wet and was densely ringed with the telltale violet flowers of five petals.
Catherine remembered she had sighed as she went to her knees, ready to begin the dirty travail of unearthing the thick, bulbous roots of the plants.
That was when she heard as much as felt a hulking presence at her back. Before she could spring up, startled with her heart hammering in her chest, the shadow dropped down to become more human in size as that presence went to its knees then reached around her and held her hands still with a warm, strong grasp.
Catherine twisted her head around to see Jacq calmly staring back at her, his visage as serious as ever.
“Stupid boy. Let go, now. I've work to do and no time for your foolishness,” she said then tried to twist her hands out of his.
His only answer was to pluck the trowel out of her hand, then he released her and set to digging up the soapwort plants without saying a word.
She jumped to her feet in a huff, then saw how filthy her skirt was at the knees and brushed futilely at the dirt there.