Black Magic: The Alchemist
Oct. 27th, 2006 06:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrPart the second
Cerant sat silently, processing all that Sorin and Koray told him – supplemented by Zaede’s colorful opinions.
There was simply too much to process in one night. One lifetime. He turned his head to speak to Neikirk – then recalled for what must be the twentieth time that his alchemist was not there.
He hoped all was going well for Neikirk, and smiled briefly – if something had been wrong with the contents of his trunks, he would have been certain to tell him by now. So Neikirk must be well for the moment.
Sighing heavily, wishing he could simply crawl into bed and forget everything for awhile, Cerant forced himself to his feet. “I must speak with my brother.”
“Perhaps that would be best saved until tomorrow,” Sorin said, frowning at him. “You do not look terribly steady, Highness.”
Zaede snorted. “You’re going to fall over.”
“I will be fine,” Cerant said, glaring at them both. “Take me to my brother.”
“Yes, Highness,” Sorin said, clearly wanting to do anything but. He turned to the man at his side and spoke quietly for a moment, their words inaudible. Cerant watched them, intrigued by the almost possessive way Sorin hovered over the frail-looking necromancer. That Zaede was glaring at the necromancer only piqued his curiosity further.
He said nothing though, merely waited until Sorin had finished. “Highness,” Sorin said finally, and motioned for Cerant to precede him out the door.
“Zaede does not like your necromancer,” Cerant said.
“Zaede does not like that he is my necromancer,” Sorin, smiling ruefully. “Rather, that I wish he was mine. Things progress slowly.” Sorin paused. “Your alchemist seems quite devoted to you.”
Cerant smiled. “He was well on his way to being top in his field when I decided to leave, and he is loyal enough that he rejected my offer of freedom. I can only assume he thinks to further improve himself here.” He frowned as a sudden thought struck him. “Though I had naturally assumed my brother would banish me back south – I did not come home expecting to be King. I shall have to speak with him again on the matter.”
“Hmm…” Sorin said noncommittally as they reached the locked door of the abandoned dungeon. Pulling a heavy key from a ring at his waist, he unlocked the door and led the way down the shadowed stairs.
The darkness was broken intermittently by torches, though they seemed to encourage the gloom rather than deter it.
“Why is he being kept here?” Cerant asked. “A fitting punishment?”
“That, and it ensures no one else has access. The lock above was spelled by the High Priest – if any but he and I touch it, the entire castle will know.” He flicked his eyes toward Cerant. “We will of course add you to that.”
Cerant shook his head. “No. If you weave me into the spell, it will leave an opening for my brother should he make it as far as the main door. I will come to you should I need to see him again after this.”
“As you wish.”
They fell silent as they continued along the dark and twisting dungeon, designed specifically to make it hard to get out. Sorin’s steps slowed as they reached the furthest set of cells. Cerant found his own feet suddenly growing reluctant to press forward but with a stern, silent reprimand he made himself do so. “There is no light.”
“He does not deserve it,” Sorin said, voice level but with an underlying edge that said the words did not belong entirely to Sorin – though the Paladin would do as he bid, as Rofell had bid, he and all the other Paladins served the Goddess first. “I will bring you one, wait one moment.” Without waiting for a reply, Sorin retraced his steps and took a torch from the wall, bringing it forward and handing it to Cerant. “Did you want my company, Highness?”
“Yes,” Cerant said with a sigh, “but I had best speak with him alone.” He grimaced. “I will tell you if he says anything of importance, though I doubt he will.”
Sorin bowed and withdrew to wait patiently.
Swallowing another sigh, willing the knot in his stomach to untangle, Cerant pressed onward. He fumbled briefly with the torch as he tried to settle it in a sconce near the last cell. Deep in the recesses of the cell he could see movement, and a moment later Rofell moved far enough into the weak light that Cerant could see him.
What he saw was barely recognizable as his brother – clothes covered in grime and filth, stripped of the signs of his office, hair and beard untended for weeks now. The man before him was disgusting and pathetic looking.
Except for the anger and hate that poured from him, made his rust-colored eyes spark. “The shining star returns at last,” Rofell said contemptuously. “Has so much time passed already?”
“Why?” Cerant asked, unable to say more for fear of giving his own feelings away. He had always tried to get along with his brother, but all to no avail. Rofell had never forgiven him for being the one to take after their father – in appearance, in skill, in the way he simply seemed to draw in people. Rofell had taken after their mother, who though kind, had been plain in appearance and remarkably shy. Sadly, Rofell had inherited her looks and girth but not her kind smile and gentle ways.
It had been whispers that Cerant would make a better king that had driven Rofell to send him to the south.
“Why, why, why. Everyone wants to know why.” Rofell sneered. “It hardly matters as the deed is done. He should not have rejected me. Have you tried the crown on yet? Tested the throne?”
“I never wanted the throne,” Cerant said quietly. “You should know that better than anyone.”
Rofell laughed coldly. “All I never heard was the whispering of your name. ‘Cerant this, Cerant that,’ every time they thought I could not hear them. I think even if I had not killed our cousin, they would have laid the crime upon me to finally put you on the throne.”
“If you did not want me to have it, brother, you should not have killed two people. Tell me why you did it!”
“Alfrey was mine,” Rofell said shortly. “He should not have rejected me in favor of that wench.”
A chill spread through Cerant at his brother’s word. “You brutally killed a man and trapped his spirit in a gem because of jealousy.” It made him wonder what Rofell would have done to him, had he not thought simply to send him away.
Rofell laughed again. “You say it so disbelievingly. Let us see what you do, someday, when you see the one who matters most to you run off with someone else.”
The thought of Neikirk leaving had been tearing at him since he realized his alchemist would probably not want to live in the North forever. He did not want to let Neikirk go, ever, but… “I would let him go,” Cerant said. He returned his brother’s cold stare. “Your behavior is beyond anything. It is a wonder to me the Goddess has not struck you down where you stand. By Her grace you were born to be king, made to serve Her by leading Her people, protecting them. Instead you let your jealousy get the better of you and murdered two of her children!”
Silence reigned as he finished, and Cerant waited for his brother to say something – anything – to redeem himself. When Rofell remained silent, he reluctantly continued. “I cannot prevent your execution. Murder is too high a crime, and that you killed a man who was both holy and family cannot be forgiven. You will be hanged at the end of the month.” Another long silence fell, and Cerant wished desperately that his brother would fill it. “Have you nothing to say?”
“I hope you fail abysmally.” Turning away, Rofell vanished back into the dark recesses of his cell.
Cerant tried to call after him, but the sudden lump lodged in his throat made it impossible.
Turning away, Cerant took the torch from the wall and strode back to where Sorin patiently waited. “Who is the stranger that has replaced my brother?”
“I do not know,” Sorin said quietly. He held a hand briefly to his chest, as if soothing some ache. The gesture was a common one among Paladins, who lived constantly with the power of the Goddess within them, expressing Her feelings, directing the Paladins on how to obey her will. “I wonder, sometimes, if we ever knew Rofell at all. If what we saw was the stranger and this is the reality…” He held out a hand. “I am sorry.”
Cerant gripped the offered hand with his own and allowed Sorin to draw him close for a brief embrace. “Thank you,” he said as he stepped away. “I guess there is much I need to do.” He led the way out of the dungeon, mind flooding with what seemed thousands of problems and duties – announcements to be sent out, a coronation to be arranged…Rofell’s execution…so many things he had to do now, when all he’d wanted was to ease his homesickness.
“Is there anything I can do, Highness?”
“You’re like Neikirk, my friend. You need not be so formal, yet I know you will persist in it.”
Sorin laughed. “I am the High Paladin, Highness, I must set the example.”
“Is that why you’re keeping the necromancer so close?” Cerant asked. “To set an example?”
“I hope the fact that the High Paladin keeps company with a necromancer helps to change the way people perceive them, but that is not why I keep him close. It is far more than the will of the Goddess that bids me do so.”
Cerant nodded. “I think I will take myself to my brother’s…to my offices and begin to better a quaint myself with my new position. Would you mind having someone bring me dinner later? Also to Neikirk, he is bad about eating when he gets caught up in his experiments and I have no doubt he’s already set to work on the puzzle of the trapped spirit.” He forced himself not to think of the possibility that Neikirk might someday be going back the South. “Make it known he is to be treated as my guest, and therefore granted every privilege and honor. Whatever he needs, see that it is given to him.”
“Of course.”
“Is the necromancer – Koray – being treated well?”
Sorin grimaced. “Certainly he is being better treated than when he arrived – it helps that I and the High Priest hold him high in our favor. With your support added, I think we will begin to change things.”
Cerant silently added the issue of the necromancers to his list – that would take years. He was still trying to wrap the concept that they were blessed around his own mind. “Where is the stone that imprisons the spirit of Alfrey?”
“Koray has it, as I figured such a thing would be best left to the care of a necromancer – and no one would be willing to steal from one.” Sorin grinned briefly.
“That is certainly true,” Cerant said, returning the grin with a smile of his own. “Though it will have to be given to Neikirk at some point.” He paused as they reached an intersection. “I will leave you to your duties, Paladin. Should anyone need me, I will be buried under the mountain of work no doubt awaiting me…send a bottle of wine along with dinner, hmm?”
“Of course. I am glad you are home, Cerant, all this aside.”
“I will be too, eventually.” Turning away, Cerant strode down the hall toward his offices.
Neikirk started to run a hand through his hair, then remembered he hadn’t yet washed it. The last time he’d been that careless – while still taking lessons – he had unintentionally dyed his hair green.
Frowning, he forced himself to stand, legs protesting the movement after too many hours of idleness and moved to the wash basin tucked into the far corner of his laboratory.
For days now he had been attempting to isolate what components had an affinity for necromancy, what might help to understand the one branch of alchemy that had always eluded alchemists. If he could isolate which raw materials tended toward that branch, he had a stronger chance of finally blending them with his energies.
Yet none of his tests had yielded results. Even here in the North, where necromancy was common, he could not seem to land upon the raw materials that tended toward it.
It was poor consolation that he was isolating components to build incantations in other fields – already he had found replacements, even better materials, to build elemental, animalistic, and natural incantations. Page after page of notes detailed his new discoveries, and he had run nothing more than the first few stages of testing.
Locked away in a small box on his second work table was the ruby in which the spirit was trapped. He could sense there was something inside, but nothing more than that – it felt nothing like holding his charged jewels. Those were always warm to the touch, and seemed to vibrate ever so slightly with the power of the incantations they held. The ruby only felt cold, still. Like a dead thing.
Which made sense, but it was useless knowledge.
“You look troubled, alchemist.”
Neikirk jerked his head up. “Necromancer.” He stood up and bowed in greeting. “Did you require something?”
“Sorin keeps yelling at me to help you,” Koray said, glowering at the absent Paladin. “Though how I can help an alchemist, I do not know.”
“You’re a necromancer,” Neikirk said eagerly, looking around before snatching up a blank piece of paper and pencil. “I have been wanting to ask you many questions, for it would help me immensely in my studies, but I was loathe to bother you and did not know the proper etiquette…”
“Etiquette?” Koray snorted. “Where I am concerned, people seldom bother with etiquette. They seldom bother with anything but threats.” He shoved back his hood, strange, black, gray and white hair spilling over his shoulders. “Necromancers are, to most people, something best left to rot.” He hesitated, then made a face before striding further into the room. “Ask your questions; I seem to answer a lot of them these days.”
“I did not mean to cause offense.”
Koray shook his head. “You didn’t. Have you learned anything?”
“No, I have not. Necromantic alchemy eludes even the master alchemists in my country. The problem is that we cannot find the correct components to channel our energies in that direction.”
Something resembling amusement flickered briefly across Koray’s face. “By energies, you mean the power everyone uses for magic, yes?”
“Yes,” Neikirk said. “Alchemy is merely combining those energies with the proper components to create various incantations. We learned long ago that different materials – be they plants, metals, incense…all manner of things, have different ‘affinities’. That is, certain things will create certain incantations. Like wood and ash are used to make fire incantations, and water obviously would be used for water incantations. Some are less obvious, like using whisper leaf in weather incantations or violets in holy incantations. It can take a lifetime simply to master all the components and various combinations, and alchemists have devoted their lives to discovering new ones.”
“The violet is the Goddess’s flower,” Koray said. “I think your flaw, if you do not mind me saying, is that you assume – as does everyone – that necromancy uses the same energy.”
Neikirk stared at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“It seems he was right after all,” Koray muttered, mostly to himself, then sighed and sat down in the spare seat at the second worktable. “Necromancy is unique among the Goddess’s gifts in that it draws directly upon the spirit, rather than the energy that all other magic-users employ. I literally draw upon my spirit to communicate with ghosts and do my work.”
Eyes wide at what this new knowledge revealed, Neikirk bent over his paper and began writing furiously. “So only necromancers can do this? But how do you learn to do this? Why does no one else do it?”
“It is unique to necromancy,” Koray said, voice growing tight. “It is not learned, so much as…brought on by tragedy. Necromancers become so by enduring and overcoming some tragedy.”
Neikirk stilled and slowly looked up Koray. “I apologize profusely for my behavior, necromancer. I did not mean to act with such insensitivity, nor would I have purposely dredged up such a painful subject if I had known.”
“You could not have known, being from the south,” Koray replied.
Nodding, but still feeling horrible, Neikirk returned to his notes. “So I cannot tap into the necessary energies, which means discovering the proper components is a useless exercise.”
“Do you have no necromancers in the south?”
“None. The art was long ago lost to us.”
Koray winced, and Neikirk swore that pale skin lost turned even whiter. “I would hate to see the number and type of ghosts that must inhabit your country. Is there much fighting in the south? General unhappiness? Places that seem…cursed or poisoned?”
Neikirk tilted his head in thought. “I do not know if it is what you mean, but there is a field behind the hall where I first began learning alchemy…it is a beautiful place. Wild roses grow there, and ivy covers the boarded up well at the center. There are many signs that a cottage was once there. It is the perfect place to study or rest, to practice field incantations or duels…yet no one ever uses it. I noticed the anomaly and pointed it out to several people. Still, none of us ever did anything about it. We always had something else to do.”
“That is precisely what I mean,” Koray said. “I would say at least one violent ghost lurks there, and his malevolence drives people unconsciously away. Without necromancy to drive such spirits away…”
“Interesting,” Neikirk said, and jotted down more notes, hand flying, writing everything in shorthand, to be more fully transcribed into his notebooks later. “I have never heard such theories.” He frowned. “This persistence in the belief that your Goddess drives everything, however…”
“Ah, yes,” Koray said. “The south lost their faith a long time ago. It will certainly make it difficult to understand necromancy – and other things here – if you do not believe in the Goddess.”
Neikirk frowned. Why did everyone say that was a failing? Was it not more foolish to believe in something that did not exist? Or…did it exist simply because they believed it did? In the end, perhaps it did not matter.
Figuring out how to tap a different sort of energy would be difficult, if what Koray said was true – and he had no reason to believe he would be mistaken about necromancy. He stared pensively at his notes, slowly shifting through what he’d learned, solving those problems he could solve. “So the energies employed by necromancers are inaccessible to me…but if I can find the proper components to create an incantation, then perhaps I can arrange it so that you can use that incantation.”
“Why can’t I simply take him out of it?” Koray asked, obviously annoyed by the problem. “I knew the moment I touched the ruby, felt his spirit trapped inside, that I could not free him.”
Neikirk thought how best to explain. “It is not something you would know how to do. It is much like being told to make a sword when your whole life has been spent making bread. Between us, however, I feel we can probably pick the lock on the ruby.”
“Pick the lock?” Koray asked, but held his hand up when Neikirk started to explain. “I believe I understand what you mean, or well enough anyway. So far as components go…” he reached into his robes and after a moment of fumbling set a thick belt strung with pouches down on the table. “Necromancy uses several things to help communicate with and control ghosts. Priests and the like use incense, chants, but they do not rely on tools as heavily as necromancy. Their work is not nearly so intricate; it relies more heavily on raw power.”
“Necromancy has similarities to alchemy, then, though you do not need them to cast your incantations.”
“No. In theory I could do all of it without them…but they help.” Koray’s fingers strayed to his hair, twining around a long, gray strand.
Though he wanted badly to ask the reasons behind Koray’s strange hair, Neikirk sensed the answer would not be a pleasant one for Koray to give. Stifling his curiosity, he focused on what mattered. “What items and tools do you use?”
“Myrrh is the most important – it helps to draw ghosts in, sort of…focuses them. It also has a calming effect, important when dealing with violent ghosts. Bells help control them or put them to rest.” As he spoke, Koray began drawing the named items from the pouches around his waist, carefully setting them on the table. His manner was hesitant, and he kept flicking uncertain glances when he thought Neikirk was not looking.
Neikirk politely ignored Koray’s discomfort, as he seemed to prefer, and focused on what was being set out. There were two sets of bells, gold and silver, the bells small and delicate-looking, arranged in a circle with a clear space for gripping. He shook them experimentally, frowning when they produced no sound.
“Only the dead and necromancers can hear them,” Koray said.
“How are they made?”
“They are not specially made,” Koray said, “merely spelled after purchase to serve our purposes.”
Neikirk nodded and set the bells aside, examining the incense – myrrh. Even in the south, where men were used to paying a great deal for alchemical purposes, myrrh made them cringe. It had been considered as a component of necromantic alchemy before, and he had a small amount of it carefully stored away, yet it had been rejected because all the tests had come up false. If the flaw was in the energy, however, then it was entirely possible that it was in fact a necromantic component.
Not that it mattered, until he could figure out how to tap energies closed to him. Assuming he did that, he still would have to test many other components to discover what else could possibly be inclined toward necromancy. Such testing could take days, weeks, or even months, for after determining which components were suited, he would have to test combinations, develop formulae, and test them over and over to get them right before attempting to unlock the ruby and free the spirit. That would drain his resources as well as his source of energy – which most likely would be Koray, which also added the problem of obtaining his permission for a long string of experiments that would most often prove frustrating. If only there was a way to cut out all the early testing. The hardest part was simply in determining which components were usable, or which ones needed to be combined to create something usable.
Problems and more problems, but he would have to overcome them. He was Cerant’s alchemist, he refused to disappoint him. More selfishly, if he could do this then maybe Cerant would finally feel he had lived up to the potential the prince had first seen in him.
He wanted to be good enough, to be worthy. He would be.
First, however, he had to speak with Cerant. The list of things he required, and would possibly require, was not cheap – it could not simply be handed over to one of the guards with a request to see they were obtained. The myrrh especially…
Neikirk drew his attention back to his laboratory and the man sitting patiently across from him. “I thank you, necromancer, for the knowledge you’ve imparted and the assistance you have given. There is a very good chance I will require further help from you in the future, if you do not think it rude of me to ask, nor are unwilling to give it.”
“No one else here can do what I can,” Koray replied. He shrugged and stood up, stowing his things and replacing the belt around his waist. He hesitated a moment, then shrugged again, a faint scowl on his face, as if he were arguing with himself. “It seems interesting, though I have no desire to be an alchemist.”
“Nor I a necromancer,” Neikirk said. “Again, I thank you. My impression so far in the castle is that my presence is not looked upon with much favor.” Quite the opposite. Aside from the guards who obtained what he needed and brought his food to him, he had not spoken with anyone and the few times he had tried – often to ask for directions – their manner and tone had not been especially friendly, though they were always respectful.
It didn’t help that he hadn’t seen Cerant for the past few days either. Most of his time had been spent in his lab, and the few times he’d inquired as to where Cerant was, he had been informed the prince was quite busy – the implication being that Neikirk should not bother him.
“If you do not need me further for the moment, I will be going. As my stay here is indefinite, I have been working to get rid of several of the ghosts lurking about.”
“I must go and speak with Master, so I thank you for your assistance once more and hope your work goes well.”
Koray watched him for a moment, an almost confused look on his face. At last he shrugged, and muttered something Neikirk didn’t quite catch. “Have a good day, alchemist. May the Goddess watch over you.” Not giving Neikirk a chance to reply, he strode from the room.
Confused, Neikirk shoved it aside and gathered up his list and the notes he’d made as to why he needed certain items, bundling them neatly before fetching his tunic and slipping it back on. Smoothing his hair, checking that all was as it should be, he retrieved his bundle of papers and locked the door behind him as he left.
Nodding politely to the guards at the foot of the stairs, he made his way through the maze of hallways and to Cerant’s offices.
His steps slowed as he entered the front room, slowing further at the disapproving frown on the face of the man sitting behind the table in front of the doors that led to where Cerant worked. “I beg your pardon, sir,” Neikirk began politely. “I was hoping to speak with my Master for a few minutes.”
“Prince Cerant,” the man corrected coldly, “is quite busy at the moment. What did you need?”
“I wanted to consult with him before I purchased several costly components.” He presented his papers, hoping they would help, though in the South it would not have been necessary.
The secretary looked at the papers as if not believing they were the reason he was being bothered. “Prince Cerant is far too busy to look at lists. If you leave them here, I will see the matter is dealt with accordingly.”
“I understand Master is busy,” Neikirk said, keeping his voice level, bowing his head politely to acknowledge the man’s words. “I am more than happy to come back at a later time, if you feel it would be best for me to do so.”
“I have said I will deal with the matter. I realize you are the prince’s guest, but you must understand he will soon be king and therefore does not have time for such trivial things as looking at lists and discussing what you may or may not purchase. Leave it with me and I will deal with the matter.”
Too busy. Trivial things. Neikirk tried to accept the words calmly, logically. Yet he could not help but remember how often Cerant had asked after each and every item he had requested in the past – from willow bark to whisper leaf to rubies and pearls. All of it. As busy as he often was in his role of ambassador, he had never seemed to mind conversing for what could turn into hours about alchemy and what Neikirk required.
However – that was as an ambassador. Cerant was mere days from being crowned king. Of course he was too busy now to discuss such things as myrrh, precious metals, and flowers. “Of course. I understand.” Why were the words so hard to say? It should not bother him this much. He was the alchemist of a king now. That was quite different from being the alchemist of a foreign prince. Slowly he set the list down on the table, then bowed and left the room.
Outside in the hallway Neikirk felt lost. He didn’t know where to go. Back to his lab? There was nothing he could accomplish there for the moment, not until he could contrive how to obtain Koray’s energy for the purposes of experimentation – and he would need at least a larger quantity of myrrh since that was the only material he had that he could confidently consider a necromantic component.
Cerant was too busy to speak with, which meant he did not know when – or if – he would get the supplies he needed.
He did not want to go back to his room.
Perhaps some fresh air would clear his head. Turning sharply to the left, Neikirk made his way through the halls with his head down, ignoring everyone he passed, not slowing until he reached the main courtyard.
It smelled like sunshine and warm stone, horse and the tang of metal. A place people used often, though at the moment it was strangely deserted. Neikirk didn’t feel like stopping there and so continued to walk, wandering aimlessly, uncertain as to where he should go. He had been so wrapped up in his work that he had never explored the castle and its surroundings. The air was different here; drier, lighter. He wondered what it would be like in winter, recalling the stories Cerant had occasionally told of how deep the snow could get.
Eventually he broke from his thoughts to see his wandering had brought him to a building nearly as impressive as the castle itself – the church.
The windows were made of colored glass, set into stone that seemed to have shards of crystal within it. Feeling like an interloper, for he did not think he would ever understand the Goddess and everyone’s devotion to her, he nevertheless could not resist his own curiosity and slowly climbed the steps.
Inside the church was simple but beautiful – the colored glass created rainbow patches across the floor and walls, and sunlight caught crystals that were strung from the ceiling, fastened to braziers, attached practically everywhere. It was like being caught within a piece of crystal.
“You are the alchemist about whom I’ve heard so much,” a voice said quietly, though in the large space it carried clearly and loudly.
Neikirk started and directed his gaze to the far end of the room, where a tall, stately-looking older man was arranging several candles on an altar covered in dark violet cloth. “I apologize, sir, am I interrupting?”
The man smiled, reminding Neikirk of a teacher he’d once had who had been remarkably kind where all his other teachers were so harsh. This man had the same air – kindness, patience. Something about him…soothed. “You are most certainly not in the way. All are welcome here. What brings you to the church?”
“I was wandering and thinking,” Neikirk answered, “and when my thoughts broke off I found myself here. Master speaks often of the Goddess, as do the few others I have met in the short time I have been here, and my curiosity got the best of me.”
The man beckoned him closer. “Come, come, you need not stay all the way back there.” He stepped down from the altar dais and sat down in the first pew, indicating Neikirk should sit next to him. “I am the High Priest of the Church of the Goddess. Your name I have heard, Neikirk St. Silver, and I am happy to finally have a face to match to it.”
“It is an honor, sir. I hope I am not taking you from your work.”
“My work and pleasure is to serve all who come here,” the High Priest said with another kind smile. “You looked unhappy when you first came in. If you are comfortable doing so, perhaps you will tell me what troubles you.”
Neikirk hesitated, torn between his habit of keeping his troubles to himself and the compulsion to tell this kindly man everything…though why he felt so compelled, he did not know.
“Are you unhappy being here in the North?” the High Priest prodded gently.
“No,” Neikirk said slowly. “The North is quite different, but it is merely that – different. It would be more accurate to say that I am uncertain of my place.” His hands tightened unconsciously in his lap. “I would like to be worthy of my Master, yet I feel that will not be possible.”
The High Priest’s brows went up. “Worthy of Prince Cerant? Whatever makes you think you are not?”
Neikirk said nothing.
“Has he said you are unworthy? Unfit?”
“No…” Neikirk said. “He does not need to.”
“Hmm…” the High Priest murmured thoughtfully. “Yet if you do not ask, you cannot say for certain.”
“He will soon be king,” Neikirk said, looking at his hands, forcing them to relax. “It is no doubt unseemly that he has an alchemist at all, and I am not even able to solve the one problem he has trusted to me.”
The High Priest covered Neikirk’s hands with one of his own. “That hardly makes you unworthy. If you do not ask Prince Cerant, you cannot be sure. You should keep in mind that he brought you home, has trusted a great task to you, and has commanded that the entire castle treat you with every privilege and honor. That does not sound as though he finds you unworthy.”
Neikirk nodded, but could not believe the words when he remembered that faint shadow of discontent that always lingered in Cerant’s eyes. As if Neikirk was lacking something.
Trivial. Too busy.
His shoulder sagged slightly as the thoughts overwhelmed his control.
“You are deeply troubled.”
“I want to be worthy,” Neikirk said to his hands, unable to look up, “yet I fear I have instead become trivial. It is only logical, of course. As a king, Cerant hardly has time to be a sponsor. I should have thought of that. The Southern King’s alchemists are all tended to by various officials, depending on which branch of alchemy they practice. He does not tend to them personally, so of course such would be the case here. I should have thought of that, instead of foolishly assuming I could simply walk in and speak with him of trivial matters.”
The High Priest did not immediately reply, and Neikirk inwardly cringed. He should not have come here to complain to a stranger. Of course he was being silly, and the High Priest was no doubt trying to figure out how best to tell him so. He started to rise when the hand on his tightened and the High Priest finally spoke. “I think, Neikirk, that you worry for nothing. If the prince has brought you here—“
“He offered to let me go,” Neikirk interrupted guiltily. “I refused.”
Laughter filled the church, and Neikirk dared to look up to see the High Priest shaking his head in amusement. “I think you should speak with his Highness, Neikirk. It is obvious you care deeply for him, and I would not be surprised to learn he cares about you just as much. Though I am curious – what makes you think you have become trivial?”
Too startled by the High Priest’s words to refuse, Neikirk told him of the conversation he’d had with Cerant’s secretary.
“That is a matter that will be addressed,” the High Priest said, a hint of steel appearing in his voice. “I suggest that for the time being, you go back and insist upon speaking with the prince. If he still attempts to turn you away, come back to me or find Sorin. He will set the man straight. The prince has said you are to be treated with full honor – that means you may see him whenever you desire.”
Neikirk nodded, barely listening, mind replaying over and over what the High Priest had said. Cared about Cerant? Of course he did; how could you not care about someone after working so closely for several years? He and Cerant had always gotten on well together. Yet…he’d never thought about it in quite those words. Cared about.
What, precisely, did that mean?
The High Priest’s soft chuckles broke into his thoughts. “You look more lost than ever. I fear I may have only added to your burdens rather than easing them.”
“No.” Neikirk shook himself. “I thank you for listening to me, and for your advice.” He ducked his head, voice dropping in volume. “You have given me much to think about.”
“So long as there is no more of this ‘trivial’ and ‘unworthy’ nonsense.” The High Priest stood. “Come, I will give you a blessing for strength of spirit. Yours, I can see, is worn – no doubt from all these worries that have been weighing it down.”
“A blessing?” Neikirk asked, standing reluctantly. “I am not a follower of your faith. Would that not be an impertinence?”
“Just because you do not believe in something,” the High Priest said with a gentle smile, “does not mean it does not believe in you. Obviously you have doubted yourself for some time, but the prince clearly sees something in you or he would not have brought you here.” He held up a hand to forestay Neikirk’s protest. “If he had not wanted you here, I assure you he could have found a way to break the contract. Now come.”
Uncomfortable but unwilling to protest after the kindness the High Priest had shown him, Neikirk did as he was bid and moved to stand at the bottom of the altar steps. He bowed his head, not certain what was proper, as the High Priest murmured softly to himself.
Two fingers touched his forehead, and Neikirk could smell pungent herbs and saw that the High Priest now held a small bowl full of oil mixed with herbs he did not recognize. The scented oil was warm on his forehead, though it felt strange and Neikirk had to resist reaching up to wipe it away.
Northerners were strange, but he would not be rude. It would do no harm to go along with the blessing, surely.
“Blessings work better if you have something upon which to focus them – in your case, perhaps something which would inspire your spirit to recover from its weariness. Perhaps focus on something you wish to obtain, as reaching that goal would ease your spirit.”
A wish? That was simple enough. His wish never changed. He wanted to be worthy – to be an alchemist of exceptional skill, to solve the puzzle of the ruby, to be worthy of belonging to Cerant.
Chanting floated around him, echoing in the vast halls of the church, and mingled with the herbs Neikirk swore he could suddenly smell violets.
Suddenly he felt hot, like he had been taken by a fever. He hissed in surprise as pain suddenly ripped through his head and settled somewhere behind his right eye. More pain shot up his legs and Neikirk realized he’d fallen to his knees.
The pain flared up and Neikirk’s hands shot to his right eye, attempting to find the source, to stop it. The pain peaked and he cried out, tears streaming down his face as the agony tore through him.
Then nothing.
Cerant sat silently, processing all that Sorin and Koray told him – supplemented by Zaede’s colorful opinions.
There was simply too much to process in one night. One lifetime. He turned his head to speak to Neikirk – then recalled for what must be the twentieth time that his alchemist was not there.
He hoped all was going well for Neikirk, and smiled briefly – if something had been wrong with the contents of his trunks, he would have been certain to tell him by now. So Neikirk must be well for the moment.
Sighing heavily, wishing he could simply crawl into bed and forget everything for awhile, Cerant forced himself to his feet. “I must speak with my brother.”
“Perhaps that would be best saved until tomorrow,” Sorin said, frowning at him. “You do not look terribly steady, Highness.”
Zaede snorted. “You’re going to fall over.”
“I will be fine,” Cerant said, glaring at them both. “Take me to my brother.”
“Yes, Highness,” Sorin said, clearly wanting to do anything but. He turned to the man at his side and spoke quietly for a moment, their words inaudible. Cerant watched them, intrigued by the almost possessive way Sorin hovered over the frail-looking necromancer. That Zaede was glaring at the necromancer only piqued his curiosity further.
He said nothing though, merely waited until Sorin had finished. “Highness,” Sorin said finally, and motioned for Cerant to precede him out the door.
“Zaede does not like your necromancer,” Cerant said.
“Zaede does not like that he is my necromancer,” Sorin, smiling ruefully. “Rather, that I wish he was mine. Things progress slowly.” Sorin paused. “Your alchemist seems quite devoted to you.”
Cerant smiled. “He was well on his way to being top in his field when I decided to leave, and he is loyal enough that he rejected my offer of freedom. I can only assume he thinks to further improve himself here.” He frowned as a sudden thought struck him. “Though I had naturally assumed my brother would banish me back south – I did not come home expecting to be King. I shall have to speak with him again on the matter.”
“Hmm…” Sorin said noncommittally as they reached the locked door of the abandoned dungeon. Pulling a heavy key from a ring at his waist, he unlocked the door and led the way down the shadowed stairs.
The darkness was broken intermittently by torches, though they seemed to encourage the gloom rather than deter it.
“Why is he being kept here?” Cerant asked. “A fitting punishment?”
“That, and it ensures no one else has access. The lock above was spelled by the High Priest – if any but he and I touch it, the entire castle will know.” He flicked his eyes toward Cerant. “We will of course add you to that.”
Cerant shook his head. “No. If you weave me into the spell, it will leave an opening for my brother should he make it as far as the main door. I will come to you should I need to see him again after this.”
“As you wish.”
They fell silent as they continued along the dark and twisting dungeon, designed specifically to make it hard to get out. Sorin’s steps slowed as they reached the furthest set of cells. Cerant found his own feet suddenly growing reluctant to press forward but with a stern, silent reprimand he made himself do so. “There is no light.”
“He does not deserve it,” Sorin said, voice level but with an underlying edge that said the words did not belong entirely to Sorin – though the Paladin would do as he bid, as Rofell had bid, he and all the other Paladins served the Goddess first. “I will bring you one, wait one moment.” Without waiting for a reply, Sorin retraced his steps and took a torch from the wall, bringing it forward and handing it to Cerant. “Did you want my company, Highness?”
“Yes,” Cerant said with a sigh, “but I had best speak with him alone.” He grimaced. “I will tell you if he says anything of importance, though I doubt he will.”
Sorin bowed and withdrew to wait patiently.
Swallowing another sigh, willing the knot in his stomach to untangle, Cerant pressed onward. He fumbled briefly with the torch as he tried to settle it in a sconce near the last cell. Deep in the recesses of the cell he could see movement, and a moment later Rofell moved far enough into the weak light that Cerant could see him.
What he saw was barely recognizable as his brother – clothes covered in grime and filth, stripped of the signs of his office, hair and beard untended for weeks now. The man before him was disgusting and pathetic looking.
Except for the anger and hate that poured from him, made his rust-colored eyes spark. “The shining star returns at last,” Rofell said contemptuously. “Has so much time passed already?”
“Why?” Cerant asked, unable to say more for fear of giving his own feelings away. He had always tried to get along with his brother, but all to no avail. Rofell had never forgiven him for being the one to take after their father – in appearance, in skill, in the way he simply seemed to draw in people. Rofell had taken after their mother, who though kind, had been plain in appearance and remarkably shy. Sadly, Rofell had inherited her looks and girth but not her kind smile and gentle ways.
It had been whispers that Cerant would make a better king that had driven Rofell to send him to the south.
“Why, why, why. Everyone wants to know why.” Rofell sneered. “It hardly matters as the deed is done. He should not have rejected me. Have you tried the crown on yet? Tested the throne?”
“I never wanted the throne,” Cerant said quietly. “You should know that better than anyone.”
Rofell laughed coldly. “All I never heard was the whispering of your name. ‘Cerant this, Cerant that,’ every time they thought I could not hear them. I think even if I had not killed our cousin, they would have laid the crime upon me to finally put you on the throne.”
“If you did not want me to have it, brother, you should not have killed two people. Tell me why you did it!”
“Alfrey was mine,” Rofell said shortly. “He should not have rejected me in favor of that wench.”
A chill spread through Cerant at his brother’s word. “You brutally killed a man and trapped his spirit in a gem because of jealousy.” It made him wonder what Rofell would have done to him, had he not thought simply to send him away.
Rofell laughed again. “You say it so disbelievingly. Let us see what you do, someday, when you see the one who matters most to you run off with someone else.”
The thought of Neikirk leaving had been tearing at him since he realized his alchemist would probably not want to live in the North forever. He did not want to let Neikirk go, ever, but… “I would let him go,” Cerant said. He returned his brother’s cold stare. “Your behavior is beyond anything. It is a wonder to me the Goddess has not struck you down where you stand. By Her grace you were born to be king, made to serve Her by leading Her people, protecting them. Instead you let your jealousy get the better of you and murdered two of her children!”
Silence reigned as he finished, and Cerant waited for his brother to say something – anything – to redeem himself. When Rofell remained silent, he reluctantly continued. “I cannot prevent your execution. Murder is too high a crime, and that you killed a man who was both holy and family cannot be forgiven. You will be hanged at the end of the month.” Another long silence fell, and Cerant wished desperately that his brother would fill it. “Have you nothing to say?”
“I hope you fail abysmally.” Turning away, Rofell vanished back into the dark recesses of his cell.
Cerant tried to call after him, but the sudden lump lodged in his throat made it impossible.
Turning away, Cerant took the torch from the wall and strode back to where Sorin patiently waited. “Who is the stranger that has replaced my brother?”
“I do not know,” Sorin said quietly. He held a hand briefly to his chest, as if soothing some ache. The gesture was a common one among Paladins, who lived constantly with the power of the Goddess within them, expressing Her feelings, directing the Paladins on how to obey her will. “I wonder, sometimes, if we ever knew Rofell at all. If what we saw was the stranger and this is the reality…” He held out a hand. “I am sorry.”
Cerant gripped the offered hand with his own and allowed Sorin to draw him close for a brief embrace. “Thank you,” he said as he stepped away. “I guess there is much I need to do.” He led the way out of the dungeon, mind flooding with what seemed thousands of problems and duties – announcements to be sent out, a coronation to be arranged…Rofell’s execution…so many things he had to do now, when all he’d wanted was to ease his homesickness.
“Is there anything I can do, Highness?”
“You’re like Neikirk, my friend. You need not be so formal, yet I know you will persist in it.”
Sorin laughed. “I am the High Paladin, Highness, I must set the example.”
“Is that why you’re keeping the necromancer so close?” Cerant asked. “To set an example?”
“I hope the fact that the High Paladin keeps company with a necromancer helps to change the way people perceive them, but that is not why I keep him close. It is far more than the will of the Goddess that bids me do so.”
Cerant nodded. “I think I will take myself to my brother’s…to my offices and begin to better a quaint myself with my new position. Would you mind having someone bring me dinner later? Also to Neikirk, he is bad about eating when he gets caught up in his experiments and I have no doubt he’s already set to work on the puzzle of the trapped spirit.” He forced himself not to think of the possibility that Neikirk might someday be going back the South. “Make it known he is to be treated as my guest, and therefore granted every privilege and honor. Whatever he needs, see that it is given to him.”
“Of course.”
“Is the necromancer – Koray – being treated well?”
Sorin grimaced. “Certainly he is being better treated than when he arrived – it helps that I and the High Priest hold him high in our favor. With your support added, I think we will begin to change things.”
Cerant silently added the issue of the necromancers to his list – that would take years. He was still trying to wrap the concept that they were blessed around his own mind. “Where is the stone that imprisons the spirit of Alfrey?”
“Koray has it, as I figured such a thing would be best left to the care of a necromancer – and no one would be willing to steal from one.” Sorin grinned briefly.
“That is certainly true,” Cerant said, returning the grin with a smile of his own. “Though it will have to be given to Neikirk at some point.” He paused as they reached an intersection. “I will leave you to your duties, Paladin. Should anyone need me, I will be buried under the mountain of work no doubt awaiting me…send a bottle of wine along with dinner, hmm?”
“Of course. I am glad you are home, Cerant, all this aside.”
“I will be too, eventually.” Turning away, Cerant strode down the hall toward his offices.
Neikirk started to run a hand through his hair, then remembered he hadn’t yet washed it. The last time he’d been that careless – while still taking lessons – he had unintentionally dyed his hair green.
Frowning, he forced himself to stand, legs protesting the movement after too many hours of idleness and moved to the wash basin tucked into the far corner of his laboratory.
For days now he had been attempting to isolate what components had an affinity for necromancy, what might help to understand the one branch of alchemy that had always eluded alchemists. If he could isolate which raw materials tended toward that branch, he had a stronger chance of finally blending them with his energies.
Yet none of his tests had yielded results. Even here in the North, where necromancy was common, he could not seem to land upon the raw materials that tended toward it.
It was poor consolation that he was isolating components to build incantations in other fields – already he had found replacements, even better materials, to build elemental, animalistic, and natural incantations. Page after page of notes detailed his new discoveries, and he had run nothing more than the first few stages of testing.
Locked away in a small box on his second work table was the ruby in which the spirit was trapped. He could sense there was something inside, but nothing more than that – it felt nothing like holding his charged jewels. Those were always warm to the touch, and seemed to vibrate ever so slightly with the power of the incantations they held. The ruby only felt cold, still. Like a dead thing.
Which made sense, but it was useless knowledge.
“You look troubled, alchemist.”
Neikirk jerked his head up. “Necromancer.” He stood up and bowed in greeting. “Did you require something?”
“Sorin keeps yelling at me to help you,” Koray said, glowering at the absent Paladin. “Though how I can help an alchemist, I do not know.”
“You’re a necromancer,” Neikirk said eagerly, looking around before snatching up a blank piece of paper and pencil. “I have been wanting to ask you many questions, for it would help me immensely in my studies, but I was loathe to bother you and did not know the proper etiquette…”
“Etiquette?” Koray snorted. “Where I am concerned, people seldom bother with etiquette. They seldom bother with anything but threats.” He shoved back his hood, strange, black, gray and white hair spilling over his shoulders. “Necromancers are, to most people, something best left to rot.” He hesitated, then made a face before striding further into the room. “Ask your questions; I seem to answer a lot of them these days.”
“I did not mean to cause offense.”
Koray shook his head. “You didn’t. Have you learned anything?”
“No, I have not. Necromantic alchemy eludes even the master alchemists in my country. The problem is that we cannot find the correct components to channel our energies in that direction.”
Something resembling amusement flickered briefly across Koray’s face. “By energies, you mean the power everyone uses for magic, yes?”
“Yes,” Neikirk said. “Alchemy is merely combining those energies with the proper components to create various incantations. We learned long ago that different materials – be they plants, metals, incense…all manner of things, have different ‘affinities’. That is, certain things will create certain incantations. Like wood and ash are used to make fire incantations, and water obviously would be used for water incantations. Some are less obvious, like using whisper leaf in weather incantations or violets in holy incantations. It can take a lifetime simply to master all the components and various combinations, and alchemists have devoted their lives to discovering new ones.”
“The violet is the Goddess’s flower,” Koray said. “I think your flaw, if you do not mind me saying, is that you assume – as does everyone – that necromancy uses the same energy.”
Neikirk stared at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“It seems he was right after all,” Koray muttered, mostly to himself, then sighed and sat down in the spare seat at the second worktable. “Necromancy is unique among the Goddess’s gifts in that it draws directly upon the spirit, rather than the energy that all other magic-users employ. I literally draw upon my spirit to communicate with ghosts and do my work.”
Eyes wide at what this new knowledge revealed, Neikirk bent over his paper and began writing furiously. “So only necromancers can do this? But how do you learn to do this? Why does no one else do it?”
“It is unique to necromancy,” Koray said, voice growing tight. “It is not learned, so much as…brought on by tragedy. Necromancers become so by enduring and overcoming some tragedy.”
Neikirk stilled and slowly looked up Koray. “I apologize profusely for my behavior, necromancer. I did not mean to act with such insensitivity, nor would I have purposely dredged up such a painful subject if I had known.”
“You could not have known, being from the south,” Koray replied.
Nodding, but still feeling horrible, Neikirk returned to his notes. “So I cannot tap into the necessary energies, which means discovering the proper components is a useless exercise.”
“Do you have no necromancers in the south?”
“None. The art was long ago lost to us.”
Koray winced, and Neikirk swore that pale skin lost turned even whiter. “I would hate to see the number and type of ghosts that must inhabit your country. Is there much fighting in the south? General unhappiness? Places that seem…cursed or poisoned?”
Neikirk tilted his head in thought. “I do not know if it is what you mean, but there is a field behind the hall where I first began learning alchemy…it is a beautiful place. Wild roses grow there, and ivy covers the boarded up well at the center. There are many signs that a cottage was once there. It is the perfect place to study or rest, to practice field incantations or duels…yet no one ever uses it. I noticed the anomaly and pointed it out to several people. Still, none of us ever did anything about it. We always had something else to do.”
“That is precisely what I mean,” Koray said. “I would say at least one violent ghost lurks there, and his malevolence drives people unconsciously away. Without necromancy to drive such spirits away…”
“Interesting,” Neikirk said, and jotted down more notes, hand flying, writing everything in shorthand, to be more fully transcribed into his notebooks later. “I have never heard such theories.” He frowned. “This persistence in the belief that your Goddess drives everything, however…”
“Ah, yes,” Koray said. “The south lost their faith a long time ago. It will certainly make it difficult to understand necromancy – and other things here – if you do not believe in the Goddess.”
Neikirk frowned. Why did everyone say that was a failing? Was it not more foolish to believe in something that did not exist? Or…did it exist simply because they believed it did? In the end, perhaps it did not matter.
Figuring out how to tap a different sort of energy would be difficult, if what Koray said was true – and he had no reason to believe he would be mistaken about necromancy. He stared pensively at his notes, slowly shifting through what he’d learned, solving those problems he could solve. “So the energies employed by necromancers are inaccessible to me…but if I can find the proper components to create an incantation, then perhaps I can arrange it so that you can use that incantation.”
“Why can’t I simply take him out of it?” Koray asked, obviously annoyed by the problem. “I knew the moment I touched the ruby, felt his spirit trapped inside, that I could not free him.”
Neikirk thought how best to explain. “It is not something you would know how to do. It is much like being told to make a sword when your whole life has been spent making bread. Between us, however, I feel we can probably pick the lock on the ruby.”
“Pick the lock?” Koray asked, but held his hand up when Neikirk started to explain. “I believe I understand what you mean, or well enough anyway. So far as components go…” he reached into his robes and after a moment of fumbling set a thick belt strung with pouches down on the table. “Necromancy uses several things to help communicate with and control ghosts. Priests and the like use incense, chants, but they do not rely on tools as heavily as necromancy. Their work is not nearly so intricate; it relies more heavily on raw power.”
“Necromancy has similarities to alchemy, then, though you do not need them to cast your incantations.”
“No. In theory I could do all of it without them…but they help.” Koray’s fingers strayed to his hair, twining around a long, gray strand.
Though he wanted badly to ask the reasons behind Koray’s strange hair, Neikirk sensed the answer would not be a pleasant one for Koray to give. Stifling his curiosity, he focused on what mattered. “What items and tools do you use?”
“Myrrh is the most important – it helps to draw ghosts in, sort of…focuses them. It also has a calming effect, important when dealing with violent ghosts. Bells help control them or put them to rest.” As he spoke, Koray began drawing the named items from the pouches around his waist, carefully setting them on the table. His manner was hesitant, and he kept flicking uncertain glances when he thought Neikirk was not looking.
Neikirk politely ignored Koray’s discomfort, as he seemed to prefer, and focused on what was being set out. There were two sets of bells, gold and silver, the bells small and delicate-looking, arranged in a circle with a clear space for gripping. He shook them experimentally, frowning when they produced no sound.
“Only the dead and necromancers can hear them,” Koray said.
“How are they made?”
“They are not specially made,” Koray said, “merely spelled after purchase to serve our purposes.”
Neikirk nodded and set the bells aside, examining the incense – myrrh. Even in the south, where men were used to paying a great deal for alchemical purposes, myrrh made them cringe. It had been considered as a component of necromantic alchemy before, and he had a small amount of it carefully stored away, yet it had been rejected because all the tests had come up false. If the flaw was in the energy, however, then it was entirely possible that it was in fact a necromantic component.
Not that it mattered, until he could figure out how to tap energies closed to him. Assuming he did that, he still would have to test many other components to discover what else could possibly be inclined toward necromancy. Such testing could take days, weeks, or even months, for after determining which components were suited, he would have to test combinations, develop formulae, and test them over and over to get them right before attempting to unlock the ruby and free the spirit. That would drain his resources as well as his source of energy – which most likely would be Koray, which also added the problem of obtaining his permission for a long string of experiments that would most often prove frustrating. If only there was a way to cut out all the early testing. The hardest part was simply in determining which components were usable, or which ones needed to be combined to create something usable.
Problems and more problems, but he would have to overcome them. He was Cerant’s alchemist, he refused to disappoint him. More selfishly, if he could do this then maybe Cerant would finally feel he had lived up to the potential the prince had first seen in him.
He wanted to be good enough, to be worthy. He would be.
First, however, he had to speak with Cerant. The list of things he required, and would possibly require, was not cheap – it could not simply be handed over to one of the guards with a request to see they were obtained. The myrrh especially…
Neikirk drew his attention back to his laboratory and the man sitting patiently across from him. “I thank you, necromancer, for the knowledge you’ve imparted and the assistance you have given. There is a very good chance I will require further help from you in the future, if you do not think it rude of me to ask, nor are unwilling to give it.”
“No one else here can do what I can,” Koray replied. He shrugged and stood up, stowing his things and replacing the belt around his waist. He hesitated a moment, then shrugged again, a faint scowl on his face, as if he were arguing with himself. “It seems interesting, though I have no desire to be an alchemist.”
“Nor I a necromancer,” Neikirk said. “Again, I thank you. My impression so far in the castle is that my presence is not looked upon with much favor.” Quite the opposite. Aside from the guards who obtained what he needed and brought his food to him, he had not spoken with anyone and the few times he had tried – often to ask for directions – their manner and tone had not been especially friendly, though they were always respectful.
It didn’t help that he hadn’t seen Cerant for the past few days either. Most of his time had been spent in his lab, and the few times he’d inquired as to where Cerant was, he had been informed the prince was quite busy – the implication being that Neikirk should not bother him.
“If you do not need me further for the moment, I will be going. As my stay here is indefinite, I have been working to get rid of several of the ghosts lurking about.”
“I must go and speak with Master, so I thank you for your assistance once more and hope your work goes well.”
Koray watched him for a moment, an almost confused look on his face. At last he shrugged, and muttered something Neikirk didn’t quite catch. “Have a good day, alchemist. May the Goddess watch over you.” Not giving Neikirk a chance to reply, he strode from the room.
Confused, Neikirk shoved it aside and gathered up his list and the notes he’d made as to why he needed certain items, bundling them neatly before fetching his tunic and slipping it back on. Smoothing his hair, checking that all was as it should be, he retrieved his bundle of papers and locked the door behind him as he left.
Nodding politely to the guards at the foot of the stairs, he made his way through the maze of hallways and to Cerant’s offices.
His steps slowed as he entered the front room, slowing further at the disapproving frown on the face of the man sitting behind the table in front of the doors that led to where Cerant worked. “I beg your pardon, sir,” Neikirk began politely. “I was hoping to speak with my Master for a few minutes.”
“Prince Cerant,” the man corrected coldly, “is quite busy at the moment. What did you need?”
“I wanted to consult with him before I purchased several costly components.” He presented his papers, hoping they would help, though in the South it would not have been necessary.
The secretary looked at the papers as if not believing they were the reason he was being bothered. “Prince Cerant is far too busy to look at lists. If you leave them here, I will see the matter is dealt with accordingly.”
“I understand Master is busy,” Neikirk said, keeping his voice level, bowing his head politely to acknowledge the man’s words. “I am more than happy to come back at a later time, if you feel it would be best for me to do so.”
“I have said I will deal with the matter. I realize you are the prince’s guest, but you must understand he will soon be king and therefore does not have time for such trivial things as looking at lists and discussing what you may or may not purchase. Leave it with me and I will deal with the matter.”
Too busy. Trivial things. Neikirk tried to accept the words calmly, logically. Yet he could not help but remember how often Cerant had asked after each and every item he had requested in the past – from willow bark to whisper leaf to rubies and pearls. All of it. As busy as he often was in his role of ambassador, he had never seemed to mind conversing for what could turn into hours about alchemy and what Neikirk required.
However – that was as an ambassador. Cerant was mere days from being crowned king. Of course he was too busy now to discuss such things as myrrh, precious metals, and flowers. “Of course. I understand.” Why were the words so hard to say? It should not bother him this much. He was the alchemist of a king now. That was quite different from being the alchemist of a foreign prince. Slowly he set the list down on the table, then bowed and left the room.
Outside in the hallway Neikirk felt lost. He didn’t know where to go. Back to his lab? There was nothing he could accomplish there for the moment, not until he could contrive how to obtain Koray’s energy for the purposes of experimentation – and he would need at least a larger quantity of myrrh since that was the only material he had that he could confidently consider a necromantic component.
Cerant was too busy to speak with, which meant he did not know when – or if – he would get the supplies he needed.
He did not want to go back to his room.
Perhaps some fresh air would clear his head. Turning sharply to the left, Neikirk made his way through the halls with his head down, ignoring everyone he passed, not slowing until he reached the main courtyard.
It smelled like sunshine and warm stone, horse and the tang of metal. A place people used often, though at the moment it was strangely deserted. Neikirk didn’t feel like stopping there and so continued to walk, wandering aimlessly, uncertain as to where he should go. He had been so wrapped up in his work that he had never explored the castle and its surroundings. The air was different here; drier, lighter. He wondered what it would be like in winter, recalling the stories Cerant had occasionally told of how deep the snow could get.
Eventually he broke from his thoughts to see his wandering had brought him to a building nearly as impressive as the castle itself – the church.
The windows were made of colored glass, set into stone that seemed to have shards of crystal within it. Feeling like an interloper, for he did not think he would ever understand the Goddess and everyone’s devotion to her, he nevertheless could not resist his own curiosity and slowly climbed the steps.
Inside the church was simple but beautiful – the colored glass created rainbow patches across the floor and walls, and sunlight caught crystals that were strung from the ceiling, fastened to braziers, attached practically everywhere. It was like being caught within a piece of crystal.
“You are the alchemist about whom I’ve heard so much,” a voice said quietly, though in the large space it carried clearly and loudly.
Neikirk started and directed his gaze to the far end of the room, where a tall, stately-looking older man was arranging several candles on an altar covered in dark violet cloth. “I apologize, sir, am I interrupting?”
The man smiled, reminding Neikirk of a teacher he’d once had who had been remarkably kind where all his other teachers were so harsh. This man had the same air – kindness, patience. Something about him…soothed. “You are most certainly not in the way. All are welcome here. What brings you to the church?”
“I was wandering and thinking,” Neikirk answered, “and when my thoughts broke off I found myself here. Master speaks often of the Goddess, as do the few others I have met in the short time I have been here, and my curiosity got the best of me.”
The man beckoned him closer. “Come, come, you need not stay all the way back there.” He stepped down from the altar dais and sat down in the first pew, indicating Neikirk should sit next to him. “I am the High Priest of the Church of the Goddess. Your name I have heard, Neikirk St. Silver, and I am happy to finally have a face to match to it.”
“It is an honor, sir. I hope I am not taking you from your work.”
“My work and pleasure is to serve all who come here,” the High Priest said with another kind smile. “You looked unhappy when you first came in. If you are comfortable doing so, perhaps you will tell me what troubles you.”
Neikirk hesitated, torn between his habit of keeping his troubles to himself and the compulsion to tell this kindly man everything…though why he felt so compelled, he did not know.
“Are you unhappy being here in the North?” the High Priest prodded gently.
“No,” Neikirk said slowly. “The North is quite different, but it is merely that – different. It would be more accurate to say that I am uncertain of my place.” His hands tightened unconsciously in his lap. “I would like to be worthy of my Master, yet I feel that will not be possible.”
The High Priest’s brows went up. “Worthy of Prince Cerant? Whatever makes you think you are not?”
Neikirk said nothing.
“Has he said you are unworthy? Unfit?”
“No…” Neikirk said. “He does not need to.”
“Hmm…” the High Priest murmured thoughtfully. “Yet if you do not ask, you cannot say for certain.”
“He will soon be king,” Neikirk said, looking at his hands, forcing them to relax. “It is no doubt unseemly that he has an alchemist at all, and I am not even able to solve the one problem he has trusted to me.”
The High Priest covered Neikirk’s hands with one of his own. “That hardly makes you unworthy. If you do not ask Prince Cerant, you cannot be sure. You should keep in mind that he brought you home, has trusted a great task to you, and has commanded that the entire castle treat you with every privilege and honor. That does not sound as though he finds you unworthy.”
Neikirk nodded, but could not believe the words when he remembered that faint shadow of discontent that always lingered in Cerant’s eyes. As if Neikirk was lacking something.
Trivial. Too busy.
His shoulder sagged slightly as the thoughts overwhelmed his control.
“You are deeply troubled.”
“I want to be worthy,” Neikirk said to his hands, unable to look up, “yet I fear I have instead become trivial. It is only logical, of course. As a king, Cerant hardly has time to be a sponsor. I should have thought of that. The Southern King’s alchemists are all tended to by various officials, depending on which branch of alchemy they practice. He does not tend to them personally, so of course such would be the case here. I should have thought of that, instead of foolishly assuming I could simply walk in and speak with him of trivial matters.”
The High Priest did not immediately reply, and Neikirk inwardly cringed. He should not have come here to complain to a stranger. Of course he was being silly, and the High Priest was no doubt trying to figure out how best to tell him so. He started to rise when the hand on his tightened and the High Priest finally spoke. “I think, Neikirk, that you worry for nothing. If the prince has brought you here—“
“He offered to let me go,” Neikirk interrupted guiltily. “I refused.”
Laughter filled the church, and Neikirk dared to look up to see the High Priest shaking his head in amusement. “I think you should speak with his Highness, Neikirk. It is obvious you care deeply for him, and I would not be surprised to learn he cares about you just as much. Though I am curious – what makes you think you have become trivial?”
Too startled by the High Priest’s words to refuse, Neikirk told him of the conversation he’d had with Cerant’s secretary.
“That is a matter that will be addressed,” the High Priest said, a hint of steel appearing in his voice. “I suggest that for the time being, you go back and insist upon speaking with the prince. If he still attempts to turn you away, come back to me or find Sorin. He will set the man straight. The prince has said you are to be treated with full honor – that means you may see him whenever you desire.”
Neikirk nodded, barely listening, mind replaying over and over what the High Priest had said. Cared about Cerant? Of course he did; how could you not care about someone after working so closely for several years? He and Cerant had always gotten on well together. Yet…he’d never thought about it in quite those words. Cared about.
What, precisely, did that mean?
The High Priest’s soft chuckles broke into his thoughts. “You look more lost than ever. I fear I may have only added to your burdens rather than easing them.”
“No.” Neikirk shook himself. “I thank you for listening to me, and for your advice.” He ducked his head, voice dropping in volume. “You have given me much to think about.”
“So long as there is no more of this ‘trivial’ and ‘unworthy’ nonsense.” The High Priest stood. “Come, I will give you a blessing for strength of spirit. Yours, I can see, is worn – no doubt from all these worries that have been weighing it down.”
“A blessing?” Neikirk asked, standing reluctantly. “I am not a follower of your faith. Would that not be an impertinence?”
“Just because you do not believe in something,” the High Priest said with a gentle smile, “does not mean it does not believe in you. Obviously you have doubted yourself for some time, but the prince clearly sees something in you or he would not have brought you here.” He held up a hand to forestay Neikirk’s protest. “If he had not wanted you here, I assure you he could have found a way to break the contract. Now come.”
Uncomfortable but unwilling to protest after the kindness the High Priest had shown him, Neikirk did as he was bid and moved to stand at the bottom of the altar steps. He bowed his head, not certain what was proper, as the High Priest murmured softly to himself.
Two fingers touched his forehead, and Neikirk could smell pungent herbs and saw that the High Priest now held a small bowl full of oil mixed with herbs he did not recognize. The scented oil was warm on his forehead, though it felt strange and Neikirk had to resist reaching up to wipe it away.
Northerners were strange, but he would not be rude. It would do no harm to go along with the blessing, surely.
“Blessings work better if you have something upon which to focus them – in your case, perhaps something which would inspire your spirit to recover from its weariness. Perhaps focus on something you wish to obtain, as reaching that goal would ease your spirit.”
A wish? That was simple enough. His wish never changed. He wanted to be worthy – to be an alchemist of exceptional skill, to solve the puzzle of the ruby, to be worthy of belonging to Cerant.
Chanting floated around him, echoing in the vast halls of the church, and mingled with the herbs Neikirk swore he could suddenly smell violets.
Suddenly he felt hot, like he had been taken by a fever. He hissed in surprise as pain suddenly ripped through his head and settled somewhere behind his right eye. More pain shot up his legs and Neikirk realized he’d fallen to his knees.
The pain flared up and Neikirk’s hands shot to his right eye, attempting to find the source, to stop it. The pain peaked and he cried out, tears streaming down his face as the agony tore through him.
Then nothing.
