Black Magic: The Alchemist

[maderr]

part the last



Cerant entered the Church, curious as to why he had been so urgently summoned. “High Priest!” he called out in greeting, then realized he was kneeling before the altar.

The next thing he realized was that someone else was lying on the floor before the altar.

Not someone. “Neikirk!” Sprinting down the long room, Cerant dropped down beside the high priest, hand immediately moving to see that Neikirk was all right, noticing the tracks of dried tears. “What happened? Is he all right?”

“He is fine. No doubt he will wake shortly. As to what happened, I could not say,” the High Priest said pensively. “He said he came here out of curiosity but he was obviously troubled. We spoke for a bit, and then I offered to bestow a blessing. I told him to focus…the Goddess whispered that all would be well, and then he started crying out. He was obviously in a great deal of pain, but the Goddess bid me not stop. I called for you right after he passed out.”

Cerant nodded. He brushed strands of hair from Neikirk’s face and wiped away the remaining tears. “You said he was troubled?”

“Yes,” the High Priest said, concern mingled with faint amusement in his voice. “Your alchemist has apparently felt himself unworthy to be such.”

“Unworthy?” Cerant repeated incredulously. “By the Goddess, why would he think that?”

“A good question, Highness. You should ask him. I feel perhaps there is much you two have neglected to say to each other.” His eyes dropped briefly to the way Cerant had not stopped touching Neikirk. “You might also like to know that your secretary turned him away when he sought to speak with you, calling his requests trivial. I think it was that which drove him here.”

“I see,” Cerant said. “That will be dealt with. I thank you for your help, High Priest.”

“It is why I am here.” The High Priest smiled. “I think he is waking.”

“Neikirk,” Cerant said, moving forward and helping him sit up, letting the alchemist rest against him. “Are you all right?”

“Master?” Neikirk said, voice rough as he woke up. He rubbed his eyes and then looked up.

Cerant gasped and heard the High Priest do the same. He reached up unthinkingly to touch Neikirk’s face, stopping just short of actually touching his right eye. “Neikirk, my dear…”

“Something is wrong with my vision, Master.” Neikirk rubbed his eyes again. He frowned as he looked around the room. “Nearly everything in here is surrounded by a…haze. A violet haze.” He looked at Cerant. “Even you, though yours is darker than that of the High Priest…what is wrong with me?” His head dropped. “I should not have intruded here. I am sorry to have caused you trouble, Master.”

The High Priest stood. “I believe I’ve some work to do in the back, if you will both excuse me.”

Cerant smiled faintly and helped Neikirk to his feet. “It would seem, my dear, that you have been blessed by our Goddess.”

“Blessed?”

“Yes,” Cerant said, reaching to cup Neikirk’s cheek, thumb brushing the soft skin right beneath his eye. “Your right eye is violet now, my dear. The color of the Goddess. You say you see things strangely?”

Neikirk nodded and stepped away to look around the room, experimentally testing his eye, opening and closing it. “Yes. Everything in here carries a strange sort of purple haze around it. I cannot determine the reason for it, however. You say this is a blessing?”

“It is not one I have ever heard of, but yes, it is most certainly a blessing.”

“Yet I am not of the North. Why would your Goddess choose to bless someone who does not subscribe to your faith?”

“Rule number one, my dear, is not to bother questioning Her. The Paladins especially will tell you it is easier just to do as you are told.”

Neikirk blinked at him.

Cerant laughed. “Yes, as illogical as that sounds.”

Nodding, Neikirk continued to experiment with his vision, opening and closing his right eye, frowning as he tried to understand what had been done to him.

The contrast of his amber and violet eyes was fascinating, a touch of exotic to a man who strove constantly to be simple. Still experimenting, Neikirk reached into the black leather pouch at his waist and pulled out a handful of stones – charged stones, Cerant knew. He also knew how long it had taken Neikirk to charge some of them. The opal especially, charged with a lightning incantation Neikirk had helped to simplify the making of, had taken weeks of work.

Neikirk gasped, a soft sound Cerant knew to mean he had figured something out. Rather than interrupt, however, he watched as Neikirk began to wander, examining the herb-laced oil and candles on the altar, the crystals scattered around the church, rolling an amethyst in his long fingers. “Energies,” Neikirk muttered to himself. He turned back to Cerant. “I can see energies.”

“Energies?” Cerant asked, more interested despite himself in the way those eyes blazed with excitement – which reminded him forcibly that Neikirk was only here because he’d been unhappy.

Well, he would deal with that shortly.

“Yes,” Neikirk said. He held out the amethyst. “This is charged with a basic holy incantation. It carries the same haze as everything in this room – the oil, the candles. I think they are components of holy alchemy, though I used different things back home.” He held out his other hand, which held three jewels – amber, emerald, and sapphire. “Each of these holds a different haze, similar to the colors of the jewels themselves. My theory is that if I seek out known components of the respective alchemies charged to each stone, they will carry matching hazes.”

Cerant drew a sharp breath, surprised. Even he understood what Neikirk was saying. One of the most difficult and time-consuming parts of alchemy was determining the proper components. Hundreds of thousands of items must be tested to see where they fit in alchemy – some were obvious, such as using wood for fire. Once basics were determined, the experiments must begin anew to see what happened when different things were combined. Various combinations could completely change where things fit.

That was the very reason experimental alchemists existed – they spent their lives expanding alchemical knowledge, refining, improving, and discovering new things. If Neikirk could see immediately where things belonged, then all he had to do was actually combine things. The Goddess had somehow eliminated that first step – hours, days, of work could be cut from Neikirk’s experiments.

“I guess this means my expenditures will go down,” he said with a wink, but instead of responding Neikirk simply looked glum. Clearly it was time for their discussion. “Neikirk, my dear, what have I done to make you think I find you unworthy?”

Neikirk visibly cringed. “You have enough worries, Master. I did not mean to trouble you with mine.”

“Ridiculous,” Cerant said, closing the space between them, grasping Neikirk’s chin and forcing him to look up. “My other worries can wait – you are far more important to me. What have I done to make you feel as though I find you unworthy? Not once have I ever felt that way.”

“Yet with my every accomplishment, despite your praise, you seem to be dissatisfied. I took it to mean I was not meeting expectations.”

Cerant winced as he realized what Neikirk had been seeing and misinterpreting. He had always tried to bury his feelings, unwilling to approach Neikirk in such a way with the contract between them – of course the too-observant Neikirk had not only seen but completely misinterpreted what he’d been trying to hide. “It was not with you I was dissatisfied, Neikirk. I have been happy with you since I first saw you. My dissatisfaction is with myself. You, my dear, are probably wasted on me.”

Neikirk blinked slowly at him. “What dissatisfies you, Master?”

“That actually brings up a question I wanted to ask you. Initially I had thought to stay here a few months – if I was lucky – before going back South. Obviously that will not be happening now. I am certain you do not want to spend the rest of your life stuck here in the North. Though I know you think me somewhat lax on the matter of your contract, I know full well that this is grounds for nullifying our arrangement if you so desired. I would not keep you here unfairly.” Even if it would tear him apart to see Neikirk leave.

“It is true I would have an easier time of my studies back home, Master,” Neikirk said slowly, mismatched eyes focused on him. “However, I would prefer to stay here if it would not bother you for me to do so.”

“Truly?” Cerant asked, hardly daring to believe it. “I did not want to see you leave, my dear, but I would not force you to stay.”

“As you say, Master, the dictates of the contract leave me perfectly within my rights to nullify it and return home.”

Meaning that Neikirk was emphasizing that it was his choice to stay. Cerant felt something in him ease – even if it wasn’t necessarily for the reasons he would like, it was certainly good enough for the time being. “If you ever feel as though I am wrongly treating you, my dear, you must tell me so.”

Neikirk nodded. “Yes, Master.”

“Now, what is this about you being trivial? Did you come to see me earlier?”

“Much was discussed after I passed out. Your secretary, however, was correct. As king you are far too busy to discuss something as trivial as lists.”

Cerant debated the merits of telling Zaede to dismiss his secretary, but reluctantly conceded that was probably overreacting. He would, however, administer a stern warning to the man. “As I said before, I know you think I never read the contract…but I do believe there is a clause that says all your requests must be approved by me.” He smiled. “Besides, I am familiar with what sort of requests you make. By this point, if he has looked at your list, my secretary is most likely passed out on the floor. Next time – though there had better not be a next time – tell him to be silent and walk right past him.”

“Perhaps that is not the most diplomatic way to go about things.”

“You’re the royal alchemist – my alchemist. You only have to be as diplomatic as I say. Ignore him next time. I do not care what I’m doing – interrupt me if you feel the need. Understand?”

“Yes, Master,” Neikirk said, bowing his head. He hesitated.

“What is it, my dear?”

“Royal alchemist?”

“Of course. If you are going to be staying, and you belong to me, whatever else would you be?” Cerant smiled and held out his hand, urging Neikirk close. To be a royal alchemist back in the south was a high honor – though anyone who worked in the royal labs, or were part of the military technically belonged to the crown, only a select few men and women were actually Royal Alchemists – the highest in their fields. While it was hardly the same thing here, especially as Neikirk was the only alchemist, he knew the title would still mean a lot. Perhaps it would get rid of the notion that Neikirk was somehow ‘unworthy’ once and for all.

“Come, let us give the High Priest back his church and test out that eye of yours.”

“Yes, Master.”




It made him sort of dizzy, to see the hazes that surrounded everything now. It was like his vision had gone blurry in one eye – a very peculiar kind of blurry. As he passed them, nearly everyone held a purple sort of haze, marking them as users of holy incantations. Here and there, though, he could see hazes of different colors – blue and green, yellow and white. Occasionally he saw people that had more than one color. Among the various things he passed – woods, flowers, candles, metals, he saw a rainbow of colors.

He still wondered why it had happened, and how. A blessing… He was Southern, it made no sense…then again, he seemed to be the only one who thought it strange. Perhaps it was best simply to let things be. There were more important things to deal with, and whatever had happened to him it would help him get his job done.

Neikirk looked at the components neatly set out before him – myrrh, ashes, bone, and a single small silver jingle bell carved with runes. All carried the purple-black haze that he’d realized was the color of necromancy. He could, of course, do nothing with them – necromantic alchemy was beyond his power – but he could at least collect the components of it and perhaps find a way to create an incantation and teach Koray how to use it.

He attempted to focus on his work, but his own mind continued to distract him.

Royal Alchemist. Cerant had no reason to give him an actual title. He’d also said quite firmly that he was not dissatisfied with Neikirk.

Though Neikirk was still embarrassed by the entire affair. He disliked that he’d confessed everything so easily, and that his collapse – though unexpected – had forced Cerant into the situation. Still…he was now officially the royal alchemist. Cerant was not dissatisfied with him. The thoughts warmed him even as he tried not to let emotion cloud his thinking.

He was in lab, he needed to focus.

Neikirk stopped and rubbed his eyes, beginning to feel the headaches that came when he’d been working too long – and his strange new vision was weakening, blurring in a way that washed out the colors. His vision expended energy; he was learning more rest was required than before. Perhaps he should stop for a time, until he could actually focus. The very last thing he wanted to do was mess up and wind up wasting all the expensive components Cerant had ordered be purchased.

Decision made, Neikirk stood and began the careful process of storing his equipment and components. When that was done, he sat down to go over his notes, recopying them carefully into a journal exclusively for his experiments in the north – now his permanent home. Neikirk wondered why that fact didn’t upset him. There were things about the South he missed, but not enough that he wanted to go home. He felt oddly content about his decision to remain in the North.

Shaking his head, determined to think about it later, Neikirk bent back over his notes and meticulously worked at recopying them.

The sound of someone opening his door brought his head up, and he looked up to greet whomever it was – the greeting died on his lips as he took in the stranger, the thick, blood red haze that surrounded him. His eyes widened a moment later, and he threw himself off his stool just in time to avoid the dark spell thrown at him. He rolled on the floor and scrambled to his feet, lunging away from a second shot, ducking behind the second work table.

The stranger laughed, a cold sound that sent shudders down Neikirk’s spine. “So it is true that the prince brought back an alchemist. What a pretty one you are; perhaps I should keep you. Where is the ruby, pretty alchemist?” He laughed again when Neikirk did not reply. “You may stand; I won’t hurt you again…yet. I need the ruby. Is it in this box? Yes, I sense it is…”

Neikirk slowly stood up, fingers moving to the diamond around his throat, waking it gently, feeling the thrum as the stones in his pouch activated.

“Do not try anything, pretty alchemist,” the stranger said in a calm, cool tone. “I can strike you down faster than any incantation can reach me. Give me the stone and I’ll kill you painlessly.”

“I will not, sir,” Neikirk said calmly. “Nothing would be more painful to me than knowing I betrayed Master’s trust right before I died.”

The man laughed, it was a sound that Neikirk was beginning to hate. “You have never experienced the things a demon can do, boy. Open the chest.”

Neikirk paled at his words. This was a demon? He had never encountered one. Experimental alchemists rarely saw battle, and most encounters with demons were restricted to the Borderlands. He tried to still his sudden trembling as every story he’d ever heard flooded through his mind. “I will not.” His voice was not as steady as he would have liked. A sick feeling twisted his stomach as he realized he would probably never leave this room…never see Cerant again. That thought made everything worse.

That horrid laugh again. “I will give you one last chance to change your mind, boy. I can see you are starting to realize your predicament.”

“I will not give Master reason to be ashamed of me,” Neikirk said quietly, meeting the demon’s gaze, though it was difficult. Why did it look so human? Something about it was strange…he could not place what, however. He wanted Cerant. “If you want the chest open, you will have to find another way.”

The demon grinned, the expression as cold and nasty as his laugh. Neikirk stumbled back as the demon approached him, wincing and cursing his own stupidity as his back hit the wall. Then the demon was upon him, one cold hand wrapping around his throat, nails like claws, digging into his skin. He could feel blood begin to trail down his neck. “I can coax the answers from you, I think.” The red haze around him seemed to pulse, and Neikirk’s eyes widened as it…shifted, taking on an orange edge, and he realized in a flash that he knew what the demon was going to do.

Just in time he cast an incantation to counter the demon’s – ice to fire – and as the demon roared in surprise, he threw himself to the side and bolted for the door. Outside, he wasted no time in dashing down the stairs, calling out for the guards he knew were there.

He cried out in horror, covering his mouth to keep from retching, tears stinging his eyes – the men he’d slowly gotten to know over the past several days were dead, their throats torn out, eyes wide with surprise and horror.

Upstairs, he could hear the demon calling for him, tone furious – if it got him, Neikirk knew he could expect a slow, painful death.

“Do not think you’ll get away, pretty alchemist,” the demon said, and Neikirk scrambled back as he heard feet pounding heavily down the stairs. He started to call for help, but in his isolated wing there was no one who would hear him. Swallowing, carefully not looking at the bodies of the guards, he forced himself to calm, to think. He could do this.

The demon appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and he no longer looked truly human – his face a bloody mess from the combination of frost magic and his own rebounded fire spell. The skin around the wound was a dark, muddy brown. Eyes gleamed as red as the aura surrounding him.

The edges of the blood red aura took on a grayish haze, and Neikirk barely reacted in time, throwing out one of the only holy incantations in his pouch. He did not need to touch his stones to use them – he had only to remember what he carried, and that he could do.

Still the corrupted spell hurt, making his limbs weak and he dropped hard to his knees, gasping for breath, lungs suddenly reluctant to work. He clawed the stone floor, scrambling for strength and balance, closing his eyes as the demon approached.

Cruel laughter filled the hall.

No. Neikirk ignored it, focused on his incantations. He had something even a demon would struggle with – or so he’d always been told. It was a volatile incantation, but he would be dead even if he didn’t use it.

He wasted no more time deliberating as the demon drew close, calling up in his mind one of the opals in his leather pouch, speaking the words that helped him focus on the incantations within, releasing the lightning incantation that had taken him so long to build. He ducked and closed his eyes as soon as he released it, but still he could feel the heat and burn, the sizzling of flesh and scorching of stone as the incantation struck.

The demon roared, shocked, consumed with pain.

Neikirk opened his eyes, stomach sick as he realized the demon was not only alive but angrier than ever.

It was now in shreds though, entire body badly burned. Only a demon could have survived such a spell. He should cast the other two he had…but everything was starting to blur, the wounds on his neck stinging. Neikirk managed to get to his feet and stumble back while the demon struggled to regain his own footing.

“You stupid alchemist,” the demon hissed. “All you’re doing is making it worse.”

Neikirk said nothing, merely turned and ran again, though he hated to put his back to the demon.

Another flight of stairs, and he could hear feet pounding behind him and --- he crashed into something that was hard. Metal.

Arms reached out and steadied him, and as his vision cleared Neikirk realized he’d crashed into Sorin – who shoved him away as quickly as he steadied him, sword hissing against leather as he drew it out – and with a roar as eerie as the demon’s chilling laughter, the High Paladin threw himself at the demon who had suddenly halted in his chase after Neikirk.

Neikirk jumped, crying out, as hands landed on his shoulders. He turned around, tensed for trouble – “M-Master.” Neikirk tried to still his trembling. He was the royal alchemist; he should be calmer, more in control. There were more important matters than his being somewhat frightened by one demon. “You should not be here. It is not sa—” He never finished his statement, suddenly finding himself tightly embraced, pressed up against Cerant’s chest. Cerant was warm, solid, and Neikirk was clinging tightly to him before he realized it. “Master,” he said quietly, not certain what he wanted to say beyond that one word.

He stayed in Cerant’s arms until the horrible sounds of fighting ceased, leaving the tang of blood and magic in the air. Warily he pulled away enough to turn and see what had transpired.

The demon lay dead, Sorin standing contemptuously over the body.

“How did a demon get into the palace?” Cerant’s voice cracked out, sharper and angrier than Neikirk had ever heard it. It would have made him shiver, had he not felt so safe in the prince’s arms.

Sorin shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“The same way Rofell got out of the dungeon. Whatever that was,” Zaede said flatly from behind them. Neikirk jumped and twisted in Cerant’s embrace to see the Paladin who looked as furious as Sorin. “Lady’s Balls, what is going on?”

Cerant looked grim. “My brother escaped, a demon slipped in – all right in front of the High Priest and two Paladins, never mind hundreds of holy knights and priests! Find out what is going on in my castle!”

“M-Master,” Neikirk said, and frowned at the sound of his own voice. “He wanted the ruby.”

“The ruby?” Cerant repeated. “I wonder why.”

Zaede grimaced but said nothing.

Sorin sighed and sheathed his sword. “Let us discuss this somewhere else.”

Neikirk tensed, unhappiness washing over him again as he remembered the bodies upstairs. “He killed the guards, Master.” His vision blurred, eyes stinging, and he did not protest when Cerant tugged him close again, hearing only the murmur of the words as Cerant gave orders. He took a deep breath, slowly calming himself, and then finally forced himself to look up. “I am sorry, Master.”

Cerant frowned. “Whatever for, my dear?”

The endearment soothed, somehow, and Neikirk realized for the first time how much he’d always liked the way Cerant called him that.

“For being so weak and unsteady, Master. I should have been able to—” He was cut off by a thumb pressed gently to his lips as Cerant cupped his face.

“My dear, men twice your age and experience have cowered in the face of a demon and pleaded for mercy.”

Zaede moved to examine the corpse, whistling in appreciation. “He looks like he was put on a spit and nicely roasted. What did you do?”

“Lightning,” Neikirk said miserably. “It barely slowed him down.” He had always heard of how difficult it was to kill a demon, and everyone respected the war alchemists who had to face them…but actually facing just the slightest increment of what war alchemists fought…he shuddered again as he remembered the demon, being chased, the way it had stood even after being struck by a lightning incantation…

“Losing limbs doesn’t slow them down,” Zaede said.

“Zaede,” Cerant said sternly. “Enough.”

Making a face, Zaede nevertheless obeyed. He kicked the demon corpse with the toe of one boot, and started to speak – but a sudden shout had them all whipping around toward the source.

“H-H-Highness, the treasury! Rofell!”

Sorin and Zaede moved at the same time, bolting down the hallway and past Cerant and Neikirk, drawing their swords as they went, vanishing from sight as they raced off toward the royal treasury.

Neikirk unconsciously tightened his hold on Cerant. As silence fell in the hall, he slowly forced his mind to work. “Master,” he said, pulling away, surprised at his reluctance to do so, “you should not be out here. It would be best if you went somewhere safe.”

“I’m not the one bleeding, my dear,” Cerant said, slowly dropping the hand that cupped Neikirk’s face. “Come, we must get those wounds tended.” Instead of turning to lead them from the hall, however, he once more gathered Neikirk close, embracing him tightly. His voice was soft, and Neikirk was stunned at the unsteadiness in it. “I’m glad you’re alive, Neikirk. I saw the demon, and you bleeding…”

“Master…” Neikirk realized his own grip was just as tight. He remembered how he had felt back in his lab when he’d realized he probably would not see Cerant again. Relaxing his hold, he pulled back enough to look up. “Master, I—“ his words were cut off by Cerant’s mouth as it closed over his, and Neikirk’s eyes widened in shock. He started to pull away, surprised, but Cerant’s arms only tightened around him and after a moment the shock faded, leaving only a warmth that spread rapidly through him, seemed to settle, and Neikirk let his eyes slide shut as he began to return the kiss.

A moment later Cerant tore away, looking chagrined. “Neikirk – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

Neikirk stared up at him, and slowly blinked.

The corner of Cerant’s mouth tilted up in a familiar smile. “All right. I’m not sorry. Still, I shouldn’t have done it now. I swore I wouldn’t until you were no longer under contract.”

“Master?” Neikirk asked, blinking rapidly in confusion.

Cerant laughed softly. “We have much to discuss, my dear. I have poor timing. Come, you need to have those wounds treated and I need to see what has transpired in the treasury.” Holding tight to Neikirk’s hand, he finally turned and led the way through the palace halls.

When they reached the treasury, the entrance was crowded by a handful of holy knights – and Zaede, who was bellowing orders at the knights as loudly as he possibly could. “Dismissed!” he finally shouted, sending them all scurrying off.

“What happened?” Cerant asked, looking at his Paladins, who both looked somewhat worn.

“Rofell,” Zaede said. “Bastard was trying to steal the sword.”

Cerant’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Good question,” Zaede replied.

Sorin sighed. “We weren’t able to determine why, Highness – and before we could take him, he…vanished. I know not how.” Sorin’s shoulders sagged, the failure obviously weighing heavily upon him.

Neikirk frowned, confused. “Master, for what reason would he want to steal a sword?”

“Not just a sword,” Cerant said. “The sword in question is a royal heirloom. It has been in our possession for a very long time.” His words were soft, and grew softer as he spoke, trailing off as he exchanged a look with the Paladins, who had turned somber.

“Master?”

“An old, unhappy piece of our history,” Cerant replied. “I will relate the story to you later, if you like. It puzzles me that Rofell wanted it – and the ruby. To what purpose?”

Zaede grunted. “If we knew that, we wouldn’t have so many problems.”

“Have the castle searched, the bodies taken care of, and I want the castle sealed. No one goes in or out until I order them raised again.”

“I already saw to all that,” Zaede said impatiently.

“Then go find something else to do,” Cerant retorted. “Both of you rest; I can see you are exhausted.” He cut Zaede off when it was clear the Paladin was about to protest. “That’s an order, Paladin, and if you disobey me I will ensure you regret it.”

“Lady’s Teat, I’m not some green soldier who needs recovery time after a battle!” Sheathing his sword, Zaede stalked off in disgust to do everything except rest.

Cerant sighed and managed a smile as he looked at Sorin. “Go rest, so I can make you make him regret disobeying me.”

Sorin laughed. “Yes, Highness. I need to tend to a last few details, and then I shall gladly do your bidding. Shall we meet later to discuss everything? There are many questions still to address…”

“Yes,” Cerant said. “We’ll have dinner in my rooms.”

Sorin nodded, bowed, and then strode from the room. In mere seconds, Cerant and Neikirk were alone.

Neikirk finally voiced one of the questions that had been troubling him. “Master, how did you know I was in danger?”

“What?” Cerant asked. “Oh. We didn’t. A guard had reported the door to the dungeon was open, and we had gone to investigate that. We were coming to get you to see if alchemy was involved, and as we neared the Paladins suddenly felt the presence of a demon – though until then they’d felt nothing.”

“My lightning incantation probably broke whatever hid his true form from sight,” Neikirk said, thinking. “I did not think I would escape him.” Unconsciously he moved closer, and then realized Cerant had released his hand to wrap arms around his waist. Suddenly he felt shy. He wouldn’t, however, turn into a coward now. Forcing himself to look up and meet Cerant’s gaze, Neikirk suddenly realized he wasn’t certain what to say. “Master, why—“ he broke off, not quite able to voice the question he wanted badly to ask.

Cerant smiled and answered the unasked question. “I’ve always wanted to. I’ve long been dissatisfied that I could not, because of the contract between us…and you never seemed interested in being more than my alchemist.”

Neikirk blinked – then blinked again. “To make a choice, Master, one must first be presented with all the options.”

“Are you saying you would consider such an option?” Cerant asked, and that faintly unhappy look that had always lingered in his eyes sparked into hope. It made Neikirk’s breath catch, to realize why that dissatisfaction had always been there. “I never said anything because of the contract.”

“My contract has nothing to do with such matters,” Neikirk said. “Anyone who had read my contract would have seen the clause that says all such things are to be of my own volition and separate of all sponsor/alchemist relations.”

Cerant threw his head back and laughed. “Perhaps I did not read the contract as carefully as I should.”

Neikirk blinked.

“I did read it, thank you very much. Just not closely. I was more interested in looking at you.” Cerant chuckled and, still laughing, leaned down to kiss him.

This time Neikirk responded immediately, wrapping his arms around Cerant’s neck and holding on tight, amazed that it had taken him this long to realize how much he did, in fact, care about Cerant.

“Come on,” Cerant said when the kiss finally ended. “We can have a talk of our own before the meeting with the others.”

“Yes, Master.”