Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

“It’s the game, Master Guest. Have you never played games?”

“Isn’t the object of the game to win?”

“Of course it is. But the object of the game is also to play. And while I knew that ultimately Nicholas would lose, it doesn’t diminish the sport of the game itself.” He shook his head and tsked. “I would have thought a man such as yourself would know that.”

“It’s important to have the advantage.”

“Yes, isn’t it? And I have that.”

“Do you?”

“You’re trying to stall. How amusing. Let’s play.” He jabbed forward with his dagger and Crispin leapt back. They circled each other. Crispin knew the man was older than him, but he didn’t seem to be tiring. It couldn’t have to do with that Elixir, could it? No! He refused to believe it. Piers was propelled by madness, nothing more than that.

Crispin made a lunge, but Piers stepped nimbly out of the way. Smoke surrounded them and both their faces were covered in soot, but Piers was smiling, his teeth bright.

He made a feint at Crispin and then swept his blade down the other way. It caught Crispin’s shoulder. A stripe of blood appeared beneath the tear in Crispin’s coat and then a sharp pain bloomed. He ignored it.

Piers smiled in triumph and took a swing with his blade at Crispin’s head. Crispin leapt out of the way but lost his footing on the slanted tiles. He was falling backward and reached out wildly, grabbing hold of Malemeyns’s cloak as he fell. He yanked the man with him, and they tumbled one over the other toward the roof’s edge, stopping short of the precipice.

Each tried to stab the other, and each fended the blades aside with their free hands clutching each other’s wrists. Piers gritted his teeth, smiling a rictus at Crispin. Crispin clutched the man’s dagger arm for all he was worth, forcing it back, trying with only one hand to slam it down against the tiles. Slowly, inch by inch, he managed to force it down until he gave the man’s arm a twist.

The dagger fell from his grip and hurtled over the side to the ground below.

Piers cried out in anger and used both hands to grab Crispin’s dagger arm.

Crispin rolled them both uphill, back to the fiery hole now licking its flames upward through the tiles amid black curls of smoke.

Malemeyns pushed, knocking Crispin back. Piers was suddenly free and he skittered across the rooftop back toward the chimney. He crouched and grabbed loosened tiles, hurling them one after the other at Crispin’s head. Crispin ducked and dodged them, feeling them crack painfully across the forearm he held up for protection.

The missiles stopped, but Piers was suddenly standing above him, and though Crispin tried to scramble to his feet, he kept slipping on the slick tiles. Swinging a flaming faggot of wood broken off from one of the rafters, Piers approached.

“I’m done with you, Crispin Guest. Quite done.”

He swung at Crispin’s head, but Crispin managed to duck. He jumped up and jerked backward away from the flaming wood. Malemeyns swung again, gritting his teeth.

Crispin fell to one knee, dodging it by leaning to the side. He twisted and shoved his knife upward … right into Malemeyns’s gut. He jerked the blade higher, relishing the tearing of more flesh, doing as much damage as he could before withdrawing the knife.

Shocked, Piers looked down at the blood spilling from the wound. A portion of his entrails dangled free. “But…”

Panting, Crispin watched as the man’s skin paled and his blood gushed. Piers doubled over. “Forever doesn’t seem to be as long as it used to be,” said Crispin.

With surprise still etching his features, Piers fell forward into the hole in the roof, just as a burst of flame erupted and swallowed him up.

Days shifted into weeks. Perenelle recovered from her ordeal, and they found new lodgings in which to complete their work. Avelyn visited Crispin many more times, spending long nights there, but when he awoke in the morning, she was always gone.

By the end of November, Avelyn brought a message from Flamel, telling Crispin that they were sailing for France.

He met them at Queenhithe wharf. They would take a skiff to the sea, where they would pick up a ship to sail the channel.

Their luggage was there, being loaded by wherrymen. Crispin bowed to Perenelle. “I suppose I am surprised you stayed this long.”

“I wanted my wife fully recovered. And yet, being so late in the year, we may be waiting at Dover for some time anyway.”

Crispin turned to Avelyn. She was looking at him fondly. “I am sorry to see you go,” he said to her.

She smiled and signed to him.

He laughed and stilled her hands, holding them in his. “I have not yet mastered your language. Now I never shall.” He touched her face, trailing his fingers along her jaw until he took her chin and tilted it upward. He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to her pliant lips. “I will miss you,” he whispered, and then he signed her name, making her smile.

“We shall not see you again, Maître Guest,” said the alchemist, moving between them. “How should we ever thank you enough? There is not enough gold in all the world. But here is a small token.” He offered a pouch, but Crispin did not take it.

“You already paid me, sir.”

“But you have earned more than that. Take it. It will be a cold winter in London, I fear.”

The news was still not good, and Crispin bowed to the wisdom of it. At least he and Jack would stay warm. Reluctantly, he cupped it in his palm. He was relieved that it felt like coins.

“Must you go? Must … Avelyn go?” He admitted, at least to himself, that he’d grown fond of her.

But Flamel, looking cheerful at last, shook his head and touched her long braid lovingly. “Oh, we couldn’t possibly leave her behind. She’s been with my family for years … and years.” He leaned toward Crispin and whispered, “You see, she was once my nursemaid.” He smiled and nodded before he turned to climb onto the boat, steadying it for Perenelle. He held her hand and would not let go until she was settled.

Crispin laughed. “You jest with me, sir. She’s far younger than you.”

Flamel cocked his head and smiled at Crispin. His eyes glittered mischievously. “Is she?”

Avelyn leapt onto the boat and turned to Crispin, giving him a wink.

The boat skimmed away from the dock, and they all waved back at him.

“Master,” said Jack at his elbow, “can that be true? Master Flamel did say that his grandfather had created a Philosopher’s Stone. Could she be-”

“Nonsense, Jack. Of course not.” Avelyn kept looking at him with a sly smile. “Let’s go home.” But even as they drew away, he turned back one last time to gaze at the young woman. She stood upon the deck at the railing, old eyes looking distantly ahead.

December arrived, and anxious over the tidings at court, Crispin drank too much at the Boar’s Tusk and listened, along with every other citizen in London, about Richard and his advisers and Henry of Lancaster’s commissioners. But it was never detailed enough, never full of the information he wanted to know. He wanted news of the commissioners. He wanted news of Henry.

But he did hear, along with everyone else, about the appeals of treason levied at the king’s closest advisers. Crispin had reluctantly sent Jack to loiter near the palace to get any news he could. The boy soon found himself a popular visitor to the Boar’s Tusk.

Jack sat by the fire, a beaker of ale in his hand. Crispin and Gilbert Langton, the alehouse owner, sat close to him as he sipped. “Just as you predicted, sir,” Jack said quietly, eyes darting here and there about the tavern. “I heard tell that Suffolk fled the country. And not only that, but the Archbishop Neville disguised himself and escaped back to his diocese at York.”