Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

“I still do not see how you think these things have truck with my Perenelle?” The alchemist’s sudden words in the relative peace and calm jarred Crispin’s senses.

Crispin rubbed his chin. The stubble was as pronounced as when he woke in the morning. But of course, it was nearly morning again. He realized if he wished for truth from Flamel, it was time to share some of his own. “On the day we left the ransom,” he said quietly, “the earl of Derby was there. He seemed to know of the exchange. Do you know Henry Bolingbroke?”

Flamel’s eyes were haunted, but there was no deception there. Only bewilderment. “No. I do not know this Henry Bolingbroke. Why did you not say anything of this before?”

Crispin did not look at Jack, but he felt the boy stir, sit up taller. “He is the duke of Lancaster’s son. And … I am acquainted with him and his family.”

Flamel staggered to his feet, his horn beaker falling to the floor in a splash of wine across the hearth. “Lancaster,” he breathed.

“Master Flamel?”

“These names,” he said. The effort it took to control his outburst was written on his face in strained lines and pronounced veins at his temples. Slowly he sat again, stroking his gown in a futile gesture of calm and looking for his wine. Avelyn fetched the cup from the floor and filled it again. She pressed it into his hand. “I … get them confused sometimes. There are similar lords in the court of France.”

Crispin drank a dose of wine while studying the man over the rim of his cup. He set the wine aside and licked his lips. “Can you tell me, then, of the Philosopher’s Stone? May I see it?”

The alchemist froze. Only his eyes moved, darting from here to there, terrified. Slowly he recovered, even tried to chuckle. “Silly. You misunderstand. The Stone is not a real object, Maître Guest. It is the alchemist’s quest to attain purity of the soul.”

Crispin cocked a brow. “Is it? And have you found it? Purity of soul, that is?”

“It is an endless search. A lifetime’s worth.”

Crispin set the parchment down and rose. He sauntered toward him and looked down at the shorter man with his thumbs fitted in his belt. “Harken to me, sir. There is no use in denying it. I know you have it, or think you do. Show it to me. Or I shall walk out that door.”

Flamel stammered and tried to look away, but in the end he raised his face to Crispin with a mixture of fear and a good dose of amazement. “How … how did you know?”

Crispin threw back his shoulders with a haughty tilt. “I am the Tracker, sir. I am paid to discover the truth.”

The man inhaled a shaky breath and slowly got to his feet. “Very well. You have earned the right to see it.”

Jack canted forward, looking at Crispin with wonderment.

Flamel shuffled to that same ambry that held the broach. But as his hand slid along the side, another hidden drawer popped open. Shadows surrounded him and Crispin could not see clearly what he was doing, but he brought forth a small glass phial and held it gingerly, walking with care when he returned to the fire. He held it up. The phial was no more than two fingers wide and was made of crystal or clear glass, like a reliquary. Inside was what looked like another piece of amber glass, but as Crispin drew forward and peered more carefully, he saw that the amber lozenge was rough on one side, like something hewn from a rock, but the rest was like a crystal: clear, smooth, and unblemished. It was only the size of a small parsnip and shaped very like one, too.

“This,” said Flamel with a hint of awe in his voice, “is the Philosopher’s Stone. I was able to re-create it from my grandfather’s notes and from the papers given to me by an old Jew I met once in the Holy Land.” He turned it and the firelight caught its facets, shooting bright pinpricks of light outward to dazzle Crispin’s eyes. The man smiled, gazing at it. “From this small stone, I have been able to transmute simple metals into gold. Mere playthings.”

Crispin suddenly remembered the odd collection of gold objects with which Flamel had paid his fee, objects that still sat in his scrip.

No, this is not possible. “You … made this?” His hand came near it, whether to touch the phial or to snatch it, he did not know.

But Flamel pulled it away, his fingers covering the small object. “I did. Years ago. And it works. It is the crowning achievement of my life.”

“And the Elixir? Have you … have you made that?”

He raised the phial again, unable to look away from it, turning it, letting the firelight play off its surface, first the rough side and then the faceted side. “No. Not yet. My permutations have been unsuccessful. My wife and I were close to achieving it. Very close.” His fingers closed over the phial, and he lowered his hand, hiding the Stone from view in the drapery of his gown. “You see, Maître, ” he said quietly, as quietly as the soft crackle of the flames or the caress of the wind against the shutter, “alchemy is more than science, more than the transmuting of one element into another. It is Humanity itself, the spiritual progress that transforms us. I was not far wrong when I spoke of it as a metaphorical quest. For it is that and more. When you create, when you use such Prima Materia, you begin to understand the intricacies of Life itself. How can you not?” His face darkened. “But it is not a plaything for the greedy, a toy for the bored nobleman. Instead, it is a sacred duty, a keen responsibility for the initiated, and I take that responsibility very seriously. I would never share this knowledge with just anyone. Oh no. And surely you, Maître Guest, covet your knowledge the same. For I cannot imagine that you would share your art with one who was not a worthy apprentice.”

Jack squared his shoulders and raised his spotted chin. Crispin gave him a glance and a soft smile. “I may be a skeptic as to the veracity of your claims about the Stone itself, Master Flamel, but I can understand your sentiments as concerns your work.” He bowed. “Can you tell me, then, who is it that wants this Stone? Surely you must have an inkling.” Crispin’s gray eyes met the pale blue of the alchemist’s.

“I have many acolytes, Maître, as you might have surmised. But many enemies as well. Greedy men, men with no fortitude, no scruples, who would use the power of this Stone for selfish ends. It is not to be trifled with. So many vile men I cannot count them all, have tried to wrest this Stone for themselves. But they will not have it!”

“Is that why you put the false ransom in the bag?”

“Yes, yes. I knew it would buy us time, for he would think it was the Philosopher’s Stone. You see, no one knows what it truly looks like. No one … but the four of us here … and my wife.” His eyes tracked from face to startled face. Only Avelyn showed no signs of amazement at all.

“And if what you say is true concerning these signs and sigils,” the alchemist went on, “then my wife’s abductor must be an alchemist himself … or he is using an alchemist for his ends. In which case, more than my wife will be in danger. You must solve this, Maître . You must get my Perenelle back in all haste. We must not let him get the Stone.”

Crispin and Jack made it home before the market bells rang for the start of the business day. Wearily, they stumbled into the room. Jack sank onto the stool. He yawned loudly. “I’m bone weary, Master. I can’t think no more.”

“You can’t think any more,” Crispin corrected absently. “And neither can I.” But thoughts of the Stone played in his mind like a minstrel’s song, tumbling over and over again in an endless refrain in his thoughts. He dug into his scrip and pulled out his money pouch. He untied the string and poured its contents onto the table beside the chessboard. Out spun silver coins of various sizes, the image of the king imprinted upon them. But also there were the gold key, spoon, and nail. He picked them up, having forgotten all about them, and examined each of them carefully.