Black Magic: The Alchemist

[maderr]

Edited by Tygs and Wobbly. I would have harassed Sammikins and Ki-chan but they have both been busy and I'm trying hard not to distract Sammikins from her writing because she distracts herself enough. What? I didn't say anything *angel*

Zaede belongs to wobblygoblin and much love and affection to her for letting me borrow her char to incorporate here. He is fun to abuse play with. <3

In three parts, b/c the beast is 48 pages.



Black Magic II: The Alchemist

“You do not look as though you are going home, Master.”

Cerant smiled faintly and turned away from the sea to address the man who’d come up quietly beside him. “That is to say, I look as though I’m going into battle?”

“That would be correct.”

“You’ve never met my brother, Neikirk.” Cerant said. “He won’t be happy I’ve decided to come home.”

Neikirk nodded. “So you’ve said before. However, presenting yourself ready for a fight only ensures you will engage in one. Should you not present yourself as peacefully as possible?”

Laughing softly, Cerant reached out and flicked Neikirk gently on the nose. “As I have said, you have never met my brother. It is best to be braced for the worst…and out here at sea, who knows what we may encounter? I wear my sword as much for that as anything. Are your trunks still safe, in the hour since last you checked them?”

“They are well enough, Master.” Neikirk wrinkled his nose. “I do wish the sailors would not get so angry with me. Do they not understand the importance of what they carry? Much of it I will not be able to duplicate in the North. The books are by far the most valuable thing upon this vessel.”

Cerant turned his gaze back to the ocean, which was still hazy and gray in the early morning. “Are they?” he asked softly, mostly to himself.

“Master?”

“How many times must I say that you need not call me that, Neikirk?”

Neikirk gave him a calm, composed look, blinking slowly in that way that said he was being slow to accommodate the lesser intelligence of his companion. “You are my Master, Prince Cerant, as I have oft reminded you. Therefore, it is the most proper form of address.”

“I have not forgotten you are mine, Neikirk,” Cerant said, fighting a smile, ignoring the pang that came with his own words.

Among his things was the contract that said Neikirk was his property. Technically, that Cerant was Neikirk’s sponsor. In the South, however, that amounted to little more than slavery.

Those with any amount of real talent were immediately thrown into school to master the arts of alchemy. It was expensive work though – years of study, a constant need for ingredients and supplies, countless books, paper and ink to record new discoveries and incantations – the southern word for spells – and of course the space to work. All of this required sponsors, people willing to foot the expensive bill, for alchemists could seldom afford to do it all themselves.

So anyone with alchemical talent was bought by the government, taught the ways of alchemy, and those not kept to work for the government were auctioned off.

A year or so after his arrival in the south, Cerant had been dragged along to a private auction by one of his new acquaintances. He’d been informed almost from the moment he’d arrived that it would be best if he had one – it would show his affluence, his status, to have an alchemist of his own.

Cerant had wanted no part of it. Personally, he thought that if the Goddess knew how far from the path her children in the South had strayed, she would roast them all on a spit. However pushing his “old fashioned religious notions” would have accomplished nothing, and it was vitally important he get along with the South. So he’d dodged their urges that he buy one and kept himself too busy doing other things until the night a friend finally managed to drag him to auction. Even then, he’d only planned to observe. He’d had no intention of actually buying an alchemist.

Then he’d seen the young man with the blazing amber eyes, standing as still as stone, dressed in the deep green tunic worn by all alchemists. His hair was dark blonde, ever so slightly curly despite an obvious effort to comb it out straight and smooth…the sort of hair that look best thoroughly mussed, preferably in Cerant’s bed.

A situation that wasn’t unheard of – far from it – between alchemists and sponsors. Whether the alchemist was a willing participant…

Cerant wouldn’t do it, couldn’t do it – but that hadn’t kept him from purchasing the slender, handsome alchemist with the blazing eyes. Neikirk had cost him more than he liked to admit, for he knew good and well it was the pretty face that he was paying for, as at the time he’d had no real idea what alchemists could do. North and South generally preferred to leave one another alone, except at the Borderlands where the two mingled peacefully enough.

It hadn’t taken him long to care about far more than a pretty face.

Neikirk had proved to be the exact opposite of those blazing eyes. Serious, calm, methodical, and precise in all things. Riling him was nearly impossible, and he remained unmoved by all of Cerant’s attempts at friendship. Only in recent months had he begun thawing enough to tease and jest in his own quiet fashion.

His life was alchemy, however. Cerant wondered if he studied and practiced in his sleep. All Neikirk did related to his experiments, to improving himself and his knowledge that he might move on to greater experiments.

Sighing at himself, Cerant forced his thoughts away from the man who was both near and far and instead turned it toward home. His brother would be furious he’d returned without permission, but Goddess grant him peace he wanted to be home! He wasn’t in exile, Rofell needed to stop treating him as though he were. At least with the element of surprise, he would have a few days at home before his brother shipped him off again.

“You look troubled, Master.”

“I am wondering if perhaps I should don my armor before we reach home.”

Neikirk drew closer as the breeze picked up, somehow managing to appear so still despite the way the sudden wind tore at his hair and dark tunic. “It would not like the sea air…and I feel that perhaps the crew would be less than pleased at having to fetch it from the hold.”

Cerant lifted a brow, never quite able to tell when Neikirk was being serious and when he was making one of his quiet jests. This must be a jest. “Less than pleased? You’ve a gift for understatement, my dear.”

“Instead of dwelling on the upcoming interview with your brother, Master, perhaps you would tell me more of those things that make facing your brother a worthy trial?”

“My friends, for one,” Cerant said. He smiled ruefully. “Though after seven years I wonder…I do seem determined to dwell on dark thoughts today, don’t I?”

Neikirk’s lips twitched, but the smile couldn’t win against his habit of remaining composed. “Today, Master?”

Cerant grinned. “All right, always. So I’ve a gloomy turn of mind. That’s why you’re here, to distract me. Please do so. What are you planning to do once we are settled? I suppose that entails finding you proper quarters…” Cerant frowned in thought, drumming his fingers on one cheek. “Would you prefer I obtain you rooms in the castle? Or would you be more comfortable in the city itself?”

Blinking slowly, Neikirk replied, “As my Master is a man of some importance whose presence in the castle will oft be required, I am inclined to take rooms there if it will not inconvenience anyone.”

“You’re being clever,” Cerant said, laughing. “There goes that gift for understatement again. I wonder how many people ever notice what you’re actually saying. I warn you, though, that living in the castle is a noisy business.”

Neikirk merely blinked at him and said nothing.

Cerant chuckled and rolled his eyes. “You’re right. Nothing could possibly be louder than the farewell to which I was treated.”

“You will be missed.”

“I know, and I’m not wholly adverse to going back…but I would like to be home for a time.” He once more turned to face Neikirk. “Thank you for coming with me.”

“It is my duty to follow my Master wherever he chooses to go.”

Cerant buried his unhappiness at the levelly spoken words. “I offered to free you,” he reminded gently.

Neikirk smoothed his hair as the wind finally died. “Freedom would have necessitated full time work, which would have interfered with my experiments. It most suits my goals to remain with my Master. That aside, Master, you are rather interested to see what effect I will have on your brother and fellows.”

“Perhaps,” Cerant conceded. “Any other motives, oh wise one?”

“Master?” Neikirk said, the ghost of a frown appearing. “Your tone implies there are other motives.”

“Never mind,” Cerant said with a sigh. “What experiments do you have planned for once you are settled?”

Neikirk was silent, though his bright amber eyes were fastened intently on Cerant.

Cerant smiled. Even after all their years together, Neikirk was still always surprised at his interest in the never ending experiments. He shouldn’t be surprised really – it had taken him the better part of that first year to get the man simply to converse. Neikirk had seemed dead set on working diligently but silently.

The one thing no one had bothered to fully explain to him until after he’d begun bidding on Neikirk was that the young alchemist was what they called an ‘experimental alchemist,’ the most prized – and therefore most expensive – of the wide variety of alchemist. He prescribed to no particular alchemical type, but instead mastered all of them in order to constantly test and improve what was known about each and about alchemy in general. Alchemists like Neikirk were often sold in private auctions to which only the most affluent were invited – and only to those who had close ties to the government, so that the alchemist was never far from watchful eyes.

To say they hadn’t been pleased he took Neikirk home with him was an understatement so vast it made the ocean look like a puddle. There was nothing they could do about it though, the South had all but turned contract writing into an art form. Neikirk belonged to him, and he could do as he pleased.

Were he a lesser man, he would have done precisely as he pleased a long time ago.

Sadly, he liked to think and act as though he were a better man.

Perhaps the change in location would loosen Neikirk up, and incline him toward wanting his freedom – then Cerant could perhaps, finally, do exactly as he pleased.

“Master, if you keep gazing out at the ocean that way, the crew will believe that you want to throw yourself overboard.”

Cerant let out a surprised laugh. “Do I really look so gloomy?”

“Does something more than the matter of your brother upset you, Master?”

“Isn’t that enough?” Cerant said, dredging up a smile. He motioned out to sea. “Looks like there’s a storm coming upon us, my dear.” He winked. “Better go make certain your trunks are suitably strapped down for rough weather, eh? I would hate to think what might happen to some of that stuff if we should spring a link or something…”

Neikirk blinked, and Cerant knew he wasn’t fooling the younger man. It seemed, however, that he would be indulged, for Neikirk merely sketched an elegant bow and then turned sharply around to go and speak with the Captain – who was already waiting in resignation to be harassed once again.





Seeing the look on the Captain’s face, Neikirk took pity on him and simply asked several questions about the storm, bowing low when there was nothing left to ask and he’d reassured himself his trunks would in fact be safe in the midst of a storm.

He made his way back to Cerant’s side, walking slowly so that he could steal a few seconds to look his fill.

Broad-shouldered, strong from hunting and constantly honing his swordsmanship, eyes the very color of the ocean they traveled, clad in understated dark blue, Cerant was every inch what Neikirk thought a prince should be. Not like the indolent, silk-clad figures that stuffed the royal palace back home. Cerant didn’t need those things to be a prince – his bearing said everything, and none of those things was arrogance, or laziness, or selfishness…or a desire to control and misuse.

The sort of man who could have anything or anyone he wanted – including the alchemist of his choice. Yet he’d settled on a fresh-from-lessons experimental alchemist.

He hadn’t even realized Prince Cerant was going to be at that auction. All the alchemists up for bid that night had been informed of the attendees, which had been a collection of wealthy merchants, lesser nobles and a handful of higher nobles. No one had bothered to tell them of the Prince’s attendance. When it was his turn to go up for bid, and the clamoring over one of the bidders let him know who that particular bidder was, Neikirk had wanted badly to turn and run.

Running was out of the question of course, ands so he’d stood silently as the bidding was rapidly concluded. He’d learned later the Prince had barely even looked at the other, far more impressive, offerings. Several had tried to talk him out of his purchase, both during and after the auction, but for reasons unknown the prince had remained adamant. In the end, Neikirk decided he could do nothing but strive to make himself worthy of having Prince Cerant for a sponsor.

He tried and tried to make himself useful, important…and in the South he’d thought he had been doing well. Over the past few years he’d done a great deal of work to improve the casting speed of all manner of elemental incantations – including frost, one of the trickier. His reputation as an expert had been growing, and he’d even been asked to assist a couple of the more proficient alchemists in the palace.

Only necromantic alchemy completely eluded him. He’d even mastered a few of the lesser holy incantations, which was almost as rare as necromantic alchemy, and while they were nothing like the magic he knew Cerant could use…he’d thought his efforts were most impressive.

Cerant had never seemed displeased with him. He’d even taken pains to understand what precisely Neikirk did, about alchemy in general. Not once did he question the things Neikirk requested, more than once simply handing over the necessary gold and bidding Neikirk do as he please. When he heard of his accomplishments, Cerant never failed to praise him, ask questions, and encourage him to continue.

Yet Neikirk constantly had the impression Cerant wasn’t entirely satisfied, as if Neikirk always fell short of expectations.

He wasn’t sure what else to try – he’d slowly and steadily built a reputation as a well regarded experimental alchemist, sponsored by a foreign prince, had achieved much in that field, his marks in school had been all but perfect…and no one could fault his manners and behavior.

Still Cerant never appeared content.

Perhaps he’d never be good enough – yet what could he do but keep striving toward perfection? At least Cerant had not set him free as he’d offered. Eventually though, if he didn’t manage to become good enough, Cerant would force the issue and get rid of him.

On top of all that, now he had to make himself worthy of Cerant in a foreign country. Completely out of his element, away from what he knew…and up against people Cerant had grown up with, people he knew well. All manner of people he would have to struggle to stay even with, and impress, if he wanted to be deemed worthy of being Prince Cerant’s alchemist. Still, alchemists strove constantly for perfection. He would do so, and someday perhaps Cerant would be pleased with his purchase.

Stopping just behind and to the right of Cerant, who was again gazing out at sea – and the coming storm – Neikirk spoke up quietly, keeping his voice even, relaxed. “The Captain says we would be wise to seek our cabin.”

“Just what I want,” Cerant said, "to spend hours getting knocked about my cabin like a stray potato at the bottom of a cart.” The prince smiled softly in the way he always did when dragging himself from his perpetually gloomy thoughts. Honestly, Cerant seemed to delight in depressing himself. “Captain said your trunks would be all right?”

“He assured me that should the ship flip upside down my trunks would not budge from their straps.”

“Let us hope we do not have to see his words proved true,” Cerant said, making a face.

Neikirk perked up at the words, and wondered that he didn’t think of it sooner. “Shall I cast a weather incantation, Master? It wouldn’t require more than a few of the basics I keep on my person, and I should be able to tell you how bad the approaching storm will be. This close there is very little room for error.”

“If you want,” Cerant said, and Neikirk stifled his disappointment. “It shouldn’t be necessary though. Better to save everything you’ve got until we can be certain of having ways to replace them. Doesn’t weather incanting require those leaves…what are they called…I know they don’t grow in the North, except maybe along the Borderlands…”

“Dried whisper-leaf,” Neikirk answered, and conceded that of course Cerant was correct. How sloppy of him not to recall that he needed to conserve all his supplies – if he hadn’t been in such a rush to impress…Stifling a sigh, he moved to his small bed and sat down, picking up the book he’d been reading, a collection of reports by an experimental alchemist who had focused all his efforts on holy necromancy.

“We’ll have to see what it’s called back home.” Cerant smiled at him. “Then you can cast every weather incantation you like – perhaps even outstrip the priests’ ability to foretell the weather. Which isn’t saying much, for they’re not very good at it and I’ve seen your weather incantations before, my dear. You’ll outstrip them easily.” Cerant started to say more, but was suddenly pitched forward and fell hard to the floor when the ship jerked roughly to the side. “Looks like the waters are finally turning rough.”

Neikirk set his book aside and stooped to help Cerant up, barely managing to keep his expression blank. “Master, perhaps you should sit before the floor attempts to renew your acquaintanceship.”

“What a cute way to say ‘before you fall on your face again,’ my dear.” Cerant sat down beside him, the old bed creaking. “Perhaps I should have chosen full pomp and splendor for the journey home after all.”

For reply, Neikirk only looked at him, blinking slowly. Cerant said he did it every time he thought someone was being stupid, and he’d tried to break himself of the habit…but Cerant always grinned when he did it. He couldn’t even remember when he’d acquired the habit.

Cerant laughed. “You’re right. I would have hated it.”

That was the other reason he didn’t lose the habit – Cerant always heard what he wasn’t saying. It felt like maybe he had some chance of eventually being good enough, if Cerant understood him even when he wasn’t speaking. Like maybe Cerant had seen potential in him, and Neikirk had only to live up to it.

At least he hoped that’s what it meant, because try as he might he could find no other reason that Cerant would have picked him that night. He was an excellent alchemist, but he knew the auctioneers had anticipated selling him to one of the wealthier lesser nobles, easier for the government to watch and control. No one that night had thought Prince Cerant would want him.

“What are you reading?” Cerant asked, reaching across him to snag the book from where it lay on Neikirk’s pillow. “Still pushing holy alchemy? Oh, I see…” Cerant fell into nonsensical muttering as he perused the book. “I think you’ll have an easier time of this when you’re where the word ‘holy’ actually means something.” He winked and handed the book back. “Though I warn you now, if you someone manage to show up the Paladins, they won’t be very happy with you.”

“Paladins?” Neikirk asked, then made himself stop. This was the first time, in the years he’d been with Cerant, that he’d mentioned the most legendary part of his homeland. Men who it was said wielded the power of the gods, dared to say they understood the gods…the Goddess, as Cerant was forever saying. Neikirk had always wondered what it really was that made Paladins as powerful as they were rumored to be.

“Yes,” Cerant answered. “I’m sure Paladin Sorin will be more than happy to help you, as will the High Priest for that matter. Perhaps I can teach one of you silly southerners that there’s a lot to be said for faith.” He reached out and flicked Neikirk’s nose, a gesture Neikirk had never once understood.

He wrinkled his nose to get rid of the weird feeling left by the flicking. “You imply that there is something wrong with alchemy.”

“Alchemy has no heart, no soul, it often seems. Many incantations you cannot master come naturally to those of us who swear by the Goddess…does it not make you think?”

So he had no heart? No soul? Neikirk struggled for something to say, fighting to keep his level tone. He would not succumb to emotion and let it cloud his thinking. “Perhaps alchemy is what calls to my heart and soul, Master.”

Cerant frowned. “I’ve upset you.”

“No, Master. You know I do not understand your devotion to your Goddess. The south is a land of alchemy. I make a poor conversant on matters of faith. My apologies.”

“I did upset you,” Cerant asserted. “Neikirk, I did not mean to imply that you lack a heart and soul. Never that. I should – and do – offer my apologies. I’ve seen you at work in your labs, my dear, you put more heart into your work than anyone I’ve ever met.” He flicked Neikirk’s nose again, smiling faintly. “If you did not have a soul, you would hardly be sitting in front of me trying not to pout.” He winked, then stood up and stumbled over to his own bed, hitting it with a hard thump as the ship rocked violently again. “I guess we’re not getting our evening meal for some time, if at all.”

Neikirk set his book back down and lay down on his bed to better reach beneath it, sitting up again with his knapsack in hand. From it he pulled out two red apples, and tossed one over to the prince. He set the other one aside to give him later. “I am certain the storm will abate before too much longer. Despite the rocking, it does not seem to be especially bad.”

“Meaning I won’t starve to death, so stop whining.”

“I neither said nor implied any such thing, Master.” It would be futile. Cerant was always hungry, though Neikirk didn’t know where he put it all. He’d seen Cerant devour banquets of food and yet he never seemed to gain anything but more muscle.

Cerant snickered and winked. “It’s what you meant, all the same.”

Neikirk said nothing and went back to his book, pouring all his energy into the experiments so meticulously recorded, noting flaws, changes he could make, further experiments he could do, not looking up until Cerant spoke again.

“I think the storm is abating.”

Blinking as he shifted his thoughts from alchemy to Cerant, Neikirk looked across the small cabin to where Cerant was stretched out on his own bed. He was just the slightest bit too big for it, though if it bothered him he had not mentioned it, and at some point he’d discarded all but his breeches, shirt, and boots. “The captain said he would inform us when all was clear and we were free to return topside.” He reached down and snagged the second apple, tossing it over as he sat up.

He ran his hands through his hair to make sure the wretched curls were still smoothed out. It was bad enough he was eight years younger than Cerant; when his hair curled he looked as though he should still be taking lessons. Most vexing.

Cerant stood up and restlessly paced the small space, moving to the porthole to look at the waters. “It’s gotten dark,” he said, “so we probably shouldn’t go out again anyway.”

Neikirk ducked his head until he could restrain his smile, but he couldn’t resist a gentle prodding. “I am certain, Master, that it would be just as easy to contemplate your thoughts in here as it would be out there.”

“Yes, Neikirk,” Cerant said, and turned to grin at him, “but I like looking at the ocean while I sulk and brood.”

“I did not say—” Neikirk was cut off by a knock at the door, and a moment later a handful of sailors entered bearing a table followed by several trays of food.

“From the Captain. Says you’d best keep to quarters,” one of the sailors said gruffly. “Storm is gone, but more are coming.”

“Thank you,” Cerant said, smiling at the sailors, and Neikirk wondered if he ever noticed the effect his smiles and manners had on people. Truly, Cerant was a prince in every sense of the word.

Stowing his book, smoothing out his rumpled tunic, Neikirk moved to the table and sat down to eat, though he knew he’d spend most of the meal watching Cerant, who seldom noticed anything once there was food to be devoured.






“Home again, by the grace of the Goddess,” Cerant murmured as they finally disembarked. “I guess I’d best procure us transportation.”

Neikirk blinked at him.

“Yes, I know I could have had everything waiting right here for us. I should make you Prince for a day, then we’ll see how much you blink at my preference for remaining anonymous.” He grinned when Neikirk only blinked again. “Let us move quickly, before I come across someone who recognizes me, hmm?”

“Prince Cerant!”

Cerant groaned. He watched in resignation as a handful of soldiers came running towards him, wearing the gold-trimmed silver armor and violet tunics of the Holy Knights. “You—we did not expect you so soon!”

“Expect?” Cerant frowned. “Why would you be expecting me?” He held up a hand before they could speak. “Let us take this elsewhere, we’re drawing a crowd.”

“At once, Highness!” The knights snapped sharp salutes and quickly ushered him down the street to their harbor barracks.

“Hold a moment,” Cerant said.

“Highness?”

He motioned to the ship, to Neikirk. “This is my companion, Neikirk St. Silver. He’s brought six trunks with him. Their contents are of the utmost importance. Make certain they’re well-secured for the journey to the castle, and have them taken to a large, unused room. If anything is damaged between here and the castle, I will hold you men accountable. Understood?”

“Yes, Highness!” Two of the four men immediately dashed off to follow his orders, and Cerant finally allowed the other two to drag him away.

Once he was safely ensconced in the office of the barracks, Cerant finally returned to the matter at hand. “Now, I took pains to ensure none knew of my return home. What is all this about expecting me?”

Before anyone could reply, though by the sudden pallor of their faces Cerant wasn’t certain he wanted to know, a knock at the door cut them off.

His brows went up. “You’re a fair ways from where you should be, Paladin Zaede.”

“Sorin missed me.” Zaede, the Paladin of one of the more distant Southern provinces, was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing his armor with ease. Dark, slightly curly hair framed his face, drawing attention to his green eyes. He had the strong, proud bearing shared by all Paladins, those who wielded the power of the Goddess and obeyed Her will. They answered first to her, secondly to the King. If Sorin, the High Paladin, had called in Zaede…something was wrong.

“That I doubt.” With a motion, Cerant dismissed the other soldiers, but he grabbed hold of Neikirk when the alchemist tried to leave. “Stay,” he said softly before redirecting his attention to Zaede. “At least I know my brother isn’t dead, as—”

“Yet,” Zaede interrupted, and the cold expression on his face brought Cerant up short.

“As I was saying,” Cerant continued, “at least I know my brother isn’t dead, as they would make certain not to send the most tactless knight in the country to where he might be the first to encounter me.”

“I’m not tactless,” Zaede corrected. “I don’t waste time blathering like the rest of you fools.”

Cerant pinched the bridge of his nose and slowly let go of Neikirk’s wrist before he accidentally hurt him. “Paladin. Explain to me why I am expected when I sent no word that I would be returning.”

“Four weeks ago Sorin sent out a missive that you should return home. Immediately,” Zaede said, arching one eyebrow slightly.

“I must have left right before it arrived,” Cerant said with a grimace. “Continue.”

Zaede nodded. “Your brother is under arrest for the murder of a palace servant and a priest.”

“A priest?” Cerant repeated.

“He killed Alfrey,” Zaede said, voice as gentle as the blunt knight could be.

Cerant closed his eyes. “You know this for fact.”

“Sorin hired a necromancer," the word was said with some distaste, "to search out the truth when all other efforts failed. The necromancer’s investigation led him straight to the King. By the power of the Goddess Sorin compelled Rofell to Speak and admit all.”

“By the Goddess…” Cerant said, finally allowing the shock and disbelief to wash over him, chilling him. “Rofell, what have you done?” he asked his absent brother. “Did he say why?”

“Never explicitly, but his confession leads us to believe he was angry Priest Alfrey was in love with a seamstress and was planning to run off with her.”

Cerant leaned forward on the desk and buried his face in his hands, letting the emotions wash over him until he could regain control of himself. “Take me home,” he said at last.

“Oh, there’s more.”

“More?” Cerant asked. “What else could my brother have possibly done?”

Zaede smiled grimly. “You didn’t ask how he killed them.”

Cerant took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t want to know, but I suppose you should tell me.”

“He tortured the girl. The necromancer says she bled to death – Rofell kept her hidden in the old dungeon.”

“Merciful Goddess…” Cerant whispered. His fingers tightened on the edge of the desk, and he jumped when a slender hand landed lightly on his shoulder. Turning his head, he looked up at the solemn face of Neikirk and dredged up a small smile of thanks, touching his own hand to the one on his shoulder before turning back to Zaede. “And Alfrey?”

“The body was a mess,” Zaede said flatly. “The method of the killing wasn’t the real problem, as it turned out. When the necromancer arrived, he said there was no ghost though there should have been. Rofell somehow managed to ‘steal’ the ghost – but he’s no necromancer.”

“Necromantic alchemy,” Neikirk said, voice full of shock, even awe.

Cerant frowned. “Impossible. No one in this country knows alchemy.”

“He sold his soul to a demon in exchange for full alchemical knowledge,” Zaede told them. He narrowed his eyes at Neikirk. “Who are you to speak so casually of alchemy? Your accent marks you Southern…” Zaede trailed off, looking to Cerant.

Cerant stood up, wishing that he could hold fast to the hand that slid from his shoulder. “He is with me,” he said firmly. “Paladin Zaede, I make you known to Neikirk St. Silver, a good friend and talented alchemist. Neikirk, meet Zaede, Paladin of the Goddess and by far the most obnoxious of that lot.”

“They’re jealous of my talent,” Zaede answered. “You brought home an alchemist? That might not be the brightest idea you’ve ever had.”

“See what I mean?” Cerant said, smiling at Neikirk’s carefully blank expression. “Obnoxious. Zaede, arrange for me to be taken home.”

“At once, Highness…Majesty…” Zaede bowed and left, barking orders before he’d closed the door behind him.

“Majesty,” Cerant echoed. He laughed weakly. “I hadn’t even thought that far.”

“Master?” Neikirk asked, but Cerant knew he’d already made the realization himself.

“When I said I didn’t want to be a prince, I didn’t mean I wanted to be a king. I cannot believe Rofell would…” Cerant scrubbed at his face, his every joy at being home fading away beneath the weight of all he’d just learned.

He’d come for a break, to see old friends…not to see his brother executed for murder and himself made a king. Spares were supposed to be nuisances to their brothers, not actually have to take the throne.

By the Goddess, what was he going to do? He couldn’t spare his brother – not for two murders, one of them a priest . What had Rofell been thinking? Why? To sell his soul? Kill a priest?

“Master, I think more will be accomplished at the castle than sitting in here.”

Cerant managed a smile. “You’re right, of course. Better to brood in the comfort of my own rooms. What a welcome…I had hoped to give you a better impression of my home.”

“I would be a poor alchemist if I was content after one trial, Master. I cannot hold against you events beyond your control.” Neikirk met his gaze levelly, as implacable as always.

He wanted badly to just lean in to Neikirk and just stay there awhile, breathe in the faint smell of herbs and metal that ever clung to him, make Neikirk focus on him, comfort him until he felt ready to deal with his wretched homecoming.

Stifling a sigh, Cerant finally moved to the door, but it swung open before he could touch it, Zaede’s form filling the open space. “Waiting for you.”

“Learn some manners, Paladin,” Cerant replied. He shoved Zaede out of the way – ignoring the grin that said Zaede had let himself be shoved aside – and motioned for Neikirk to follow. “I assume you’ve sent someone to inform the castle of my return?”

Zaede’s answer was a grunt.

“Master…” Neikirk said.

Cerant smiled as he mounted the horse that was led over to him. “Your trunks should be well on their way, my dear. Never fear.”

Neikirk blinked at him. “In light of recent events, Master, I do not think my trunks bear consideration. I was going to inquire as to the wisdom of my accompanying you. If, as the Paladin said, the King employed alchemy in the committing of the murders, then it would not be well-looked upon if the new King were to arrive with an alchemist at his side.”

“You can stay in town if that’s what you want,” Cerant said unhappily.

“It is not my decision to make, Master.”

Cerant motioned for him to mount the horse a guard held ready and waiting. “You’re coming with me, Neikirk. If they don’t like it, they can discuss it with me and I’ll tell them too bad. Besides, my dear, if alchemy is involved your expertise will be needed.”

“Yes, Master.” Neikirk bowed and then mounted his horse.

“Lady’s Teat, Cerant, why does he call you ‘Master’?” Zaede demanded as they rode off. He motioned absently for the other knights to assume a protective circle, the men in the lead calling out to warn people to get out of the way.

Cerant didn’t reply, frowning as he ordered his thoughts. “Do you know anything about alchemy, Paladin?”

Zaede snorted contemptuously. “I am blessed by the Goddess. I have no need for chemicals and books.”

“Yes, you never could be bothered to read more than the names of the taverns,” Cerant replied, fighting a smile. “Though I seem to recall a few occasions where our instructor made you read the laws aloud.”

“For hours on end,” Zaede said with a grimace.

Cerant chuckled.

“So answer the question,” Zaede pushed, looking impatient.

Sighing, Cerant finally obliged. “Alchemy is a difficult craft, and an expensive one. It requires constant study and practice, and great quantities of ingredients and equipment that are neither cheap nor easily obtained. To give them the time and supplies they need, as well as to regulate all who practice alchemy, alchemists are contracted to sponsors – usually nobility but also anyone of the middleclass wealthy enough to manage it – who in return for the money and shelter they provide alchemists are given leave to employ their skills however they see fit.”

“So you have a slave who’s good with chemicals.”

“Neikirk is not a slave,” Cerant snapped. “I purchased his contract because it was what I was encouraged to do to better fit into the southern culture. When I offered him his independence before I left, he chose instead to come with me.”

“So you have a loyal slave who’s good with chemicals.”

“Zaede,” Cerant said slowly and carefully, eyes glinting in warning.

“That Southern climate has drained your sense of humor.”

Cerant’s anger fell away, replaced by weariness, his hands tightening on the reigns he held. “I haven’t exactly had a splendid welcome, have I?”

Zaede said nothing, merely nodded and looked away – about as close to an apology as the blasted Paladin ever got.

Several minutes later the castle came into view, and Cerant wished he could be happy at the sight. Only an hour or so ago and he would have been. The news with which he’d been greeted had ruined any chance of that. He looked at Neikirk, who drew up beside him as they paused before the gates.

“Open the gates,” Zaede roared. “Make welcome for his Highness Prince Cerant!”




Neikirk was having that panicking feeling again. Except this was even worse than when he’d realized who was bidding on him.

Cerant was going to be King.

He wasn’t fit to belong to a Prince, never mind a King…

Neikirk mentally gave himself a shake. He was being selfish. Right now, he was irrelevant. Cerant was what mattered. He kept his gaze on the prince as they walked through the halls, making note of the whispers that chased them but not really focusing on them.

Even for a man given to brooding, Cerant looked miserable. Understandable, of course, but Neikirk worried…he’d seen Cerant upset before when reports of demon attacks came in, but never quite this bad.

The King, his brother, was a murderer. Two people…and Neikirk wondered silently if they’d inquired as to other killings. Given the brutality the Paladin had briefly related, he thought the question a valid one. How did one bring that up, though?

It might not really matter…except of course to those who loved the ones who had been slain. However, King Rofell was most likely to be executed, unless there was some special circumstance – but to judge by the closely guarded expression on Cerant’s face, Neikirk didn’t think that was the case.

They were ushered quickly through the halls until they finally reached what turned out to be a meeting room of some sort – to judge by the massive table in the center, the maps on the wall, the books on a shelf against one wall…a war room.

Interesting.

Far more interesting to him was the pair waiting by the table, lost in some quiet conversation. The taller of the two – by at least a head – was dressed much like Zaede, except that he wore full chest armor rather than simply the shoulder pieces. He had blonde hair and clear blue eyes, and an air about him that reminded Neikirk of the strange…something that seemed to surround Zaede. So he was most likely another Paladin.

Next to him was a shorter, more slender man in long, violet robes. Neikirk tried not to stare, but the man was fascinating to look at. His skin was pale, dark hair oddly streaked with gray and white. The scent of myrrh drifted on the air as a breeze blew through the open window, and he realized suddenly who – rather, what – the slender man was. A necromancer. A real necromancer. Neikirk started to ask if he was correct in his assumption, but was cut off as Zaede began to rattle off introductions.

“High Paladin Sorin, this is Cerant’s slave—“

“Zaede,” Cerant said, his tone of voice definitely less than pleased.

Neikirk waited silently at Cerant’s side as the prince took over. “Sorin, it has been a long time. I am happy to see you again. This is Neikirk St. Silver, a friend and noted alchemist.”

“And slave.”

“Zaede!” Sorin snapped. “You are quickly making me forget why I asked you here to help.”

Zaede grinned, no small amount of smugness in it. “Because when I tell everyone to start moving, they take off at a run. With me in charge of the guards no one will do anything stupid, and you can handle the political idiocy.”

A soft, contemptuous snort came from the slender man at Sorin’s side. “Yes, oxen are better at being put to grunt work rather than trusted with those tasks requiring thought.”

“Better an ox than a thorn bush requiring constant upkeep,” Zaede said, sounding almost cheerful as he delivered the insult.

Cerant’s look rendered them all silent. He turned to the man standing beside Sorin. “From what little Zaede has told me, I take you to be the necromancer invited here by Paladin Sorin.”

“Yes,” the necromancer said, shifting uncomfortably. “He asked for a necromancer to solve the riddle of Alfrey’s death. He also asked that I stay until we managed to free his trapped spirit.”

“Trapped spirit?” Cerant’s brows went up.

Neikirk spoke before he thought to stop himself, startled. “He encased the spirit? Do you mean a ghost? How is this possible? Necromantic alchemy eludes even the most skilled of alchemists. Why has he encased a spirit rather than an incantation? In what is the spirit encased? How was it accomplished? Did he leave any tools or ingredients behind? Any gems which might point to the power he employed?”

“Cerant, tell your slave to make sense.”

Slave. Neikirk dropped his eyes and fell silent. He wasn’t a slave. Still, he should not have spoken out of turn.

“You’re upsetting him,” Cerant hissed. “Be silent until I give you leave to speak, Paladin, and cease upsetting my guests.”

"Yes, Highness,” Zaede said, voice tight. "But I won't be held responsible if that damned necromancer insults me again."

"You insult yourself by speaking, ox."

"Keep pushing, necromancer. I'll trim your thorns and --"

“Enough!” Cerant snapped, slamming one hand down on the table. “We are not children. Neikirk, you were asking important questions. Clarify for all of us what you mean. Necromancer – I have yet to learn your name.”

“Koray.”

Cerant nodded and turned back to Neikirk. “Explain to us what you meant, my dear. While you’re at it, you may as well explain alchemy.”

Neikirk nodded and took a deep breath. “Magic as I understand it is an excess of certain energies in random individuals. Master often has told me it is power granted by the Goddess. In the south, no one possesses these excesses of energies in sufficient quantities to perform magic as you know it. We have instead learned how to supplement the limited energies we do possess with various items – minerals, plant life, and many other such things. This is alchemy – the combination of energy and raw materials.

“Alchemy is divided into seven branches – Elemental alchemy, itself divided into wind, fire, water, and earth. Animalistic alchemy, or incantations concerning animals. Natural alchemy, or all alchemy concerning plants. Holy alchemy, or all manner of incantations concerning healing and repairing. Necromantic alchemy involves all incantations related to the dead. War alchemy is the utilization of the aforementioned branches for the purpose of battle and other hostile situations. The last branch is experimental alchemy, which is mastery of all of the above for the purposes of improving them.” He gave a short bow as he concluded the short lecture, and looked to Cerant, who nodded for him to continue.

Neikirk returned the nod and resumed speaking. “Of all these branches, necromantic alchemy is the hardest for us to understand – to date no one has been able to understand it.” He dared a glance at Koray, who was watching him intently, a pensive frown on his face. “Yet you say your former King used necromantic alchemy to bind a spirit. I would know how he managed such a thing, if you do not mind telling me.”

“We would if we knew ourselves,” Sorin said. “Rofell said it would take another alchemist to free the spirit…yet from your words it sounds as though you cannot.”

Fighting the despair that threatened to take hold at finding that when his help was needed he could not give it, Neikirk struggled to grasp what he could do. “I do not know until I try,” he said, proud he had kept his level tone. “Often a puzzle is solved by gathering the pieces and discovering the pattern into which they fit…but occasionally a puzzle must be solved by looking at the whole and taking it apart.”

“There he goes not making sense again,” Zaede groused.

Cerant looked at him coolly, then turned to smile at Neikirk. “He is saying that maybe he can figure out how it was done by examining the trapped spirit.”

“Yes, Master.”

“So what manner of alchemist are you?” Sorin asked curiously, then grinned briefly. “It seems to be the time for learning new things. First I was given a lesson in necromancy, and now it seems we will be learning alchemy.” He laughed. “We have been rather confused, actually, as to how we were to obtain one. It never occurred to us that his Highness would bring one back with him.”

“I don’t see the point of corpses and chemicals,” Zaede said in disgust.

Koray’s smile was all teeth. “That’s because they are crafts requiring intelligence, and we’ve already established that you are good only for being led around by your divine leash, barking mindlessly at other idiots.”

“Again, necromancer, I would rather be a dog than a filthy rat.”

Sorin scowled. “Leave him alone.”

“Sorin, I know you have better taste than that spitting alley cat.”

“Zaede!”

“Paladins,” Cerant said, and Neikirk could see he was fast losing patience.

“Master,” he said into the silence, “your words of conversations past led me to think otherwise of these men who stand before me.”

Cerant snorted. “Most Paladins are mature and hardworking and thoroughly devoted to the will of the Goddess. These two are devoted…but to trouble as much as to the Goddess.” He sighed and this time Neikirk could see he was fighting a smile. “Paladins, I demand to know more of this situation I find myself in…and at some point I will have to speak with my brother.” He turned to Neikirk. “Your trunks should have arrived by now, my dear. I have no doubt you are eager to begin work on your puzzle.” He motioned to Sorin. “Take him and find his trunks, ensure that he has all he requires.” He turned back to Neikirk. “I will have a bedchamber prepared as well, never fear.” A wink.

Neikirk bowed, and started to leave, but hesitated.

“What is it, my dear?”

“Master, by your leave…I would like to carry my jewels.”

Cerant looked at him, startled. “Of course. You need not ask my permission for that. I would know why you desired to do so, however, for it concerns me you feel the need.”

Neikirk blinked slowly. He wondered, sometimes, how thoroughly Cerant had read the contract before he signed it. That aside, did the man not understand the obvious danger he was in? Did none of them? A King held his position not simply by right of birth – it took supporters. To assume that no one would be upset that one King had fallen to be replaced by his brother…he blinked again. “My contract stipulates, Master, that in such times as these I should take all necessary precautions. It is true that my specialty is experimental alchemy, yet I would make the poorest of alchemists if I could not employ my skills to protect you.”

"The Prince doesn't need your damned tricks when we're here to protect him!" Fury flashed in Zaede's eyes. "He's not in any danger, you insolent fool! His paladins are more than capable."

“Paladin Zaede,” Cerant snapped, nearly shouting. “Curb your tongue. If you insult my alchemist one more time, I will send you back to your southern province. Am I clear?”

Zaede looked like he wanted very much to argue, but nodded curtly and settled for folding his arms across his chest and glaring at Koray, who snickered quietly a moment before being shushed gently by Sorin.

Neikirk looked at the floor, struggling to remain composed and unaffected. He had not meant to imply…he’d wanted only to offer his assistance. Every contract held a standard clause of protection. It was his duty, and far more than that – he wanted to protect Cerant, to help him…to prove that he was worthy of being his alchemist.

Yet already he had somehow erred, and after only a few hours in the North. He dared a look up, meeting Cerant’s dark eyes, feeling another guilty twinge at the unhappiness so apparent in them. Cerant already had enough burdens. He did not need a bungling alchemist added to them. “Master…by your leave, I will go and arrange my laboratory now. I apologize for upsetting the Paladin Zaede.”

“You did nothing wrong, Neikirk.” Cerant glared at Zaede. “The Paladin makes a habit of letting stupid things come out of his mouth. Of course everyone here is more than willing and able to protect me – the necromancer excluded, for I would not hold him to such obligations, though I am grateful for the help he has offered so far.” He smiled. “Go tend your laboratory, my dear. Perhaps later you can demonstrate for the Paladin how fit you and your stones are.”

“As you wish, Master.” Bowing low, Neikirk nodded to the others and then followed Sorin from the room.

“You did nothing wrong,” Sorin repeated quietly as they walked through the halls. “Do not let Zaede push you around.” He smiled, and Neikirk thought that for all the High Paladin possessed rather an intimidating presence, he also seemed somehow kind. “Whatever assistance you can offer, alchemist, we will gladly accept. I profess I am curious, if you do not mind indulging me.”

Neikirk nodded. “Provided I know the answer, I am more than happy to give it.”

“You said you were an experimental alchemist?”

“Yes,” Neikirk said. “In my early studies, I displayed an aptitude for all fields of alchemy – more importantly, an aptitude for studying them, seeing where changes could be made.”

Sorin nodded. “What did you mean about wearing your jewels?”

“That is how incantations are stored until they are required. Incantations can take mere minutes to create…but many take hours, some even days. This, obviously, is not terribly practical in the field. Incantations are stored in vessels until they are needed – gems have proven the most effective receptacle.”

“I see,” Sorin said, frowning pensively. “So that’s why Rofell locked Alfrey’s spirit in a ruby.”

“Ruby?” Neikirk asked.

“Is that bad?”

Neikirk’s brow furrowed in thought. “Merely odd. However, it would be illogical to assume that someone of the north, even with the knowledge he wrongly obtained, would know the proper stones. An educated guess would be that the ruby in question held some significant personal value to him. A proper alchemist – ignoring the fact he would not have encased a spirit – would have used onyx.”

“Why is that?”

“The answer is quite practical, actually created with soldiers in mind. Suppose two alchemists are in the field, and one is injured to the point he cannot help himself – and his companion’s incantations have been depleted. To use the injured alchemist’s stones, his companion must know what they contain and that takes time for someone to detect.”

Sorin grunted. “So certain stones get certain spells. As you say, quite practical.” He smiled suddenly as they stopped in front of an open door, their walk having led them through a castle and up two flights of stairs, to a room that seemed far removed from the rest. Pushing the door open, Sorin motioned for Neikirk to follow him. “I am making a guess as to where they would have put your things, but it seems I guessed correctly. This room has not been used in years.”

Inside the room was a pair of dusty but otherwise sound tables, each shoved under one of the two windows in the room. Beyond that, the only other things occupying the room were his six trunks – large, made of oak, wrapped in thick straps of leather to ensure they did not open, locked securely. It would require both the keys on his belt and an incantation to open them.

A not insignificant fortune had gone toward paying for the contents of those trunks. Neikirk didn’t doubt that even Cerant had winced at the total sum. Squaring his shoulders, more determined than ever to do his best, he strode toward the nearest of the trunks and reached beneath the collar of his tunic to touch the teardrop shaped diamond hanging from a short silver chain. Touching the fingers of his opposite hand to the trunk, he whispered the activating words of the incantation. One by one the leather straps fell open, the metal buckles clinking against the wood. Pulling a small ring keys free of his belt, he unlocked the trunk and swung the top up.

Methodically he began to unwrap the dozens and dozens of bundles, slowly revealing their sparkling contents.

“By the Goddess!” Sorin exclaimed from just behind him, making Neikirk start. “I do not think the royal coffers are this well stocked!”

The briefest of smiles flickered unseen across Neikirk’s mouth. He reached into the trunk and ran his fingers over a velvet-lined tray filled with shining white pearls. Another was filled with rubies, still more with emeralds, sapphires, onyx and countless other jewels of various size and shape. “Many of these were acquired as reward, both for accomplishments in my studies and for winning mandatory duels while I was still taking lessons. These are all empty.”

“You mean you haven’t put spells…incantations in them?”

“Precisely,” Neikirk said, and moved several trays aside to reach into the bottom of the trunk, at last standing with a large leather pouch in hand. Pulling it open, he pulled out three stones – an opal, an emerald, and a piece of amber. “These are charged stones, and to what I referred when I asked Master’s permission to wear my jewels.”

Sorin nodded. “You cannot wear them ordinarily? Sort of like not being allowed to wear a weapon in certain places or under particular circumstances?”

“Not exactly.” Neikirk swept his arm to encompass the trunks. “Your sword, while no doubt fine, does not come close in value to the contents of these trunks. With most sponsors, it is the weighing of whether or not the expenditure is worth while. If I use the incantations charged to these stones, I will have to recharge them. The price for that is great.”

“I see,” Sorin said, smiling. “His Highness must think highly of you, not only to pay for all this but bring you home with him. I would love to stay and ask more questions, alchemist, but his Highness no doubt is missing my presence – if only to help keep Zaede under control. If you require anything, you’ve only to speak with the guards at the bottom of the stairs. I will bid them do as you ask.”

Neikirk bowed. “I thank you, Paladin.” He waited until Sorin had departed, then turned back to his trunks and began the long process of setting up his laboratory.