The Marechal Chronicles: Volume V, The Tower of the Alchemist (13 page)

The Alchemist reached out and without thinking, Etienne took his hand as the old man got unsteadily to his feet.  He could feel the way his father’s entire body still trembled and it was a long moment before he shook off his son’s grasp and began to speak.

“The time had come for a proofing of the method.  The texts of the ancients described their mastery over light and the need for absolute control in the procedure.

“I was so sure that I had found the means.  Everything had been calculated to the finest degree.  My lenses are of a quality surely unequaled in all the wide world.”

The Alchemist paused as he surveyed the destruction surrounding them, then continued.

“My lenses
were
the finest ever made, of that I have no doubt.

“The first light of day, I was sure it was the key, for the texts hint that it is all a question of the quality of the light.  Too little and there would be nothing for the lenses to focus ... too much and the mirrors and liquid distillations through which the focused light would pass would simply boil away in an instant.

“But, first light ... that should have been the answer. For what other quality does it have than to be gentle and bright with promise, lighting the way without the heat of midday?”

Etienne roused himself to speak.

“And you thought to test your theory without me?”

The old man nodded.

“Of course I did.  I know how little value you place on my work.  I also know the state you’ve been in recent few days. At every opportunity you wander off into the forest for hours only to return looking as if you’ve run a hundred leagues.

“Whoever she is, I see fatigue in your eyes, my son, and I thought it better that you rest a bit longer while I worked toward inevitable success.”

Etienne shook his head.

“This is not what I would call success, Father.”

“No ... it is not,” the Alchemist said as he looked about him.

“When I brought all into alignment, the light broke through the room in a many splendored prism of a thousand colors.  It was like seeing a paradise that is not made of the material world, but another place created from bright swaths of exquisite color that were so beautiful nothing more is required.

“Then I heard a sizzling sound like rashers of bacon frying just before the air around me rushed inward toward the center of my lenses’ focus.  I could not breathe and I felt everything trembling in high-pitched vibrations, when without warning, all of it burst outward and I was lifted up upon a wind I was helpless to resist.

“The next that I knew, I was clinging for dear life at the window ledge and I could breathe again.  And my first breath was to call out for you, my son. A moment longer and my feeble strength would not have held.”

Etienne’s eyes burned as he spoke his next words.

“Oh, Father. Can’t you see?  Can you not see now that you pursue folly and ruin?”

The old man said nothing and simply hung his head.  Etienne watched his father walk unsteadily away from him, then he went to join him as they both descended the tower stairs only to return with brooms and begin sweeping the broken shards of an old man’s life’s work out the windows to fall down so very far below.

In the days that followed the explosion, Etienne helped his father in the laboratory until all was swept and nothing remained of the failed attempt.

But no amount of cleaning could sweep away the hollow look that had crept into his father’s eyes, and when Etienne saw him begin again the fabrication of lenses and the distillation of filtres that would, in turn, yield colored liquids of the purest quality, he could only shake his head.

At the unasked question, the Alchemist simply shrugged and turned away, saying, “What else is there for me, Son?  What choice do I have?”

Etienne had no answer for him.  The choices his father had made were long since decided, he knew.  Nothing would change that now.  Not even the most obvious of failures that had fairly cost the old man his life.

The two of them passed each morning in this manner, and then each afternoon, Etienne found some reason to stroll out and into the forest.

And sooner or later, as he knew he would, he would hear a quiet rustle of leaves or the faint sound of a twig breaking and then he would feel the feather light touch of a graceful hand slip under his elbow.

The scent of her was just as intoxicating as the first time they had walked through the forest together and if there were times when they were content to simply walk, not speaking, then these were moments of grace that the alchemist’s son had come to treasure despite his misgivings, despite what the young woman represented for him.

This day his father had resumed his work in earnest.  Etienne had come to recognize the febrility of his movements, the posture that straightened his old man’s stooped back when he had decided to fully take up his useless pursuit once again.

Thus, it had been an easy decision to leave the tower, walk past the forgotten stones lying in wait for him and his hammers, and pass into the dappled light of trees on the path to his heart’s desire.

He was not disappointed.

“Are you real?” he asked in a murmur.  He meant it in jest, but felt a tickle of fear that kept his voice low in anticipation of her answer.

The light grip at his elbow tightened momentarily, then relaxed.

“Of course I am.”

Her hand had appeared as if from nowhere and the scent of her, fresh and clean, lifted the corners of his mouth just as a good morning kiss might have done.

Etienne stopped and turned to look down at the woman at his side.

“I would so like to believe you.  So very much.”

She nodded, then reached out for his hand to take in her own.

Then she lifted it and placed his hand upon the center of her chest, his palm down and between her breasts.

“Then feel me, Etienne. 
This
is real.”

He heard the meaning of what she said.  She spoke of herself and she spoke of them.

Like a young stallion balking before the danger it sensed, Etienne changed the subject.

“Where do you go each night, Myri?  I find myself lying awake safe and warm in my father’s tower, and I can’t help but wonder about you.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled with the smile she gave him then and it was a thing just as intoxicating as the perfume of her presence.

“Why, each night the spiders come by the hundred and they weave for me a downy berth upon which I might lie.”

Etienne frowned, then could not help but smile as she went on.

“I have the stars overhead for my roof and if the air is too chill, then weasels, rabbits, and badgers make a truce between their nations and come to nuzzle against me to keep me warm until the night is done.”

Etienne felt her lean closer to him.  Her movement was subtle, yet the touch of her body against him was like fire.

“And should the clouds come to fill the starry sky and loose fine rains upon me like tiny jewels pouring down from faraway kingdoms, then all the owls for one hundred leagues round come to shelter me with their great wings, and they whisper to the rabbits at my side that they need not fear for this night they are as safe as I am.”

He reached for her chin with his free hand and tipped her head up to look at him.

Eyes of azure looked steadily back into his own, and Etienne could imagine that what he felt then might have been like what it is to drown.

“I would shelter you, Myri,” he said as he put his arms around her.

“I would keep you warm.”

He bent to her, and she did not turn away.

The taste of her was sweeter than any fruit.  Her lips were softer than he could have ever imagined.

“The rains would not have their way with you in my embrace,” he murmured, the sensation of his lips brushing against her lips as he spoke a velvet touch that deepened his breathing and made his heart pound.

Myri’s hand lifted up to Etienne’s chest in a gesture to mirror his.

And then she pushed him away from her, her eyes never breaking their hold, filling all his vision even as she forced him away.

“Yet I must ask myself,” she said, “And the wind, the trees, or anything else that would hear my words other than you, how can this beautiful man break my heart and deny all that is proof to the contrary of the ways of the world?  How can this man who would steal my kisses tell me that no magic exists in this world?”

Myri dropped her gaze, lowering her head as if bowing to his inevitable reply, and Etienne felt the strength of her obstinacy lessen in the face of what he might say next.

“Perhaps, then I must admit at the last that I have been mistaken.”

Her breath caught as she looked up. 

What she surely saw in his eyes was what he felt.  Open, honest sincerity.  She searched his face and he did not flinch from her regard.

“I do not lie to you, Myri.  What is more, I pledge to you that no lie shall ever pass my lips with you before me.”

She shook her head, disbelief plain in her eyes.

“You do not mean this.  You say that you would keep the rain from having its way with me, but the truth is you tell me anything so that
you
might have your way with me.”

Etienne sighed.

“Perhaps, perhaps not.  For this, you must trust me.  But, I repeat that I know now that I have been in error and while I still doubt the kind of magic of which you speak, of another, I am quite sure.”

Myri’s eyes widened as she heard the truth in his words.

“And what is this magic that you have come to believe?”

He did not hesitate to answer her.

“It is the magic of two souls that join.  It is the magic of the heart that fills me with such fire that I cannot sleep at night.  It is the magic that brings me to my knees before you, beautiful woman from the wild.”

Etienne dropped to his knees then and looked up to her.

“I speak of the magic that no one can deny once they have felt its touch.  I speak of love.”

Myri stepped close to him, then took his bowed head in her hands and clasped him to her belly.

“Etienne, do not jest.  Do not make of me and what I feel for you a game.”

The alchemist’s son dared not breathe.  He felt it as surely as she did, they had come to a pivot point from which neither of them could ever return unmarked.

And then she was sliding down his body, her hands moving to his shoulders.  Her breasts pressed against his chest as she went to her knees with him, a willing reflection of the man before her.

He looked at her steadily and murmured, “I would not dare, Myri.”

And then her mouth was on his, hungry, strong, almost violent. She reared her head back in an instant and he saw her blue eyes flash.

“I dare.  I cannot help but chance the danger you represent.”

Etienne did not understand what she truly meant, but he understood the message of her hungry mouth all too well as she went to his lips again.

All their hard words washed away from them.  The tension that had been building flowed down their arms and into hands that deftly undid Etienne’s buttons and untied the sash at Myri’s waist.

They were like those lost in the desert, the answer to their thirst within reach and they both seized it as they seized one another, in desperation, with a primal need from which all logic fled and they became savage things that cared nothing for the reasoning of men.

And then, as the thought of what they were about to do penetrated their mutual haze of lust, they became a man and a woman once more. 

The rhythm of their movements slowed as they forced themselves to savor the moment, to taste to the fullest an experience that they would always remember.

Myri’s skin was unblemished.  Pale, creamy flesh that yielded beneath Etienne’s hands.  She was soft yet he felt lean, corded muscles within her lithe body in the same way he saw stiff determination barely hidden in her azure gaze.

If her eyes softened then as she watched him spread his shirt out upon soft ferns for them, he could not forget the force of her, the power she seemed to have over him, telling him all the while that he had been wrong.

But for this, he knew there was no mistake.

He could never regret the truth that burned in him then. 

The woman who slipped the tunic from her shoulders at that moment had magicked his heart away from him, and all that he saw in her was a reflection of the same.

She burned for him as much as he did for her.

Etienne admired the nuances of the woman before him.  Her lips were a rich, deep red, while the nipples upon her breasts were of the palest rose, a delicate color that aroused him more than the sight of any woman ever had.

“Your beauty ... “ he began to say before she interrupted him.

“ ... is at your disposition,” she finished.

He nodded, and it was not with regret as he understood that neither of them would turn back from what they were about to do.

Etienne watched as Myri stood up and then pushed her tunic the rest of the way off her body.  The movement was slow and deliberate and as it slipped over her hips, the alchemist’s son forgot to breathe.

He leaned forward and reached out to her.  A hand that was so familiar with the hard realities of heavy hammers and stubborn rock, that same hand touched her with infinite tenderness.

He spread his fingers wide and pressed his palm against her belly.  Her skin was soft with fine, downy hairs that were practically invisible trailing from her navel and on down to the dark velvet at the juncture of her thighs.

There was musk in the air and when Etienne looked up at her, Myri turned her head shyly to one side.

“No man has touched me the way you do now, Etienne.  No man has seen me bared heart and soul such as I am before you.”

The alchemist’s son caught his breath, then let it out very slowly before answering her.

“You mean to say that I would be your first?” And then, before she could reply, he asked, “Are you sure, Myri?  Are you sure of what you do?”

Her timid gaze came back to him, then she dropped back down to her knees.  She stared back at him, unblinking.