him again, Fantin drew in a deep breath of pleasure and joy. The stale, earthy smell of the below-stairs chamber tinged his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply, drawing its energy into his being.
’Twas not a pleasant smell, that of brewing leaves, burning flesh and molten metal, he allowed—in fact, it was enough to curdle one’s belly—but God had put it on His earth apurpose. Every aspect of His creation, every being, every creature served a role in God’s world…and Fantin himself served the greatest of these.
He smiled, thinking on that as he returned to the table where the last task he’d been involved in—crushing the smooth, silky bark of a birch tree with flakes of silver and bronze metals—remained half-completed.
For years, he’d sought the secret of the Grail: perfect combination of chemistry that would create the substance whose mere touch would give him Immortality. It would change any metals to gold.
It would create for Fantin a life of power under which to serve God.
He sought and studied and prayed to determine the exact amounts of each element that would be required to complete the ancient process. Metals, wood, earth, water…fire…all or some of these elements would someday cohese, forming that miracle which Fantin sought—that miracle which had been promised him by his bloodline: the miracle of the Holy Grail and what some called the Philosopher’s Stone.
Next to the bowl with curling birch bark and metal flakes, the corpse of an adder oozed blood into another bowl—a metal one, to hold the rich, wine-like liquid without absorbing its essence. Another element added to the mix…mayhap, it would be the answer this time.
The adder, Fantin reflected wisely, was the symbol of Eve’s temptation, and a fitting conduit in his work bent on purification and transfiguration.
His laboratory, dug beneath the stone floor of Tricourten’s Great Hall, had been Fantin’s refuge and salvation since he realized he was God’s chosen, and most especially since the loss of his beloved wife and daughter. Three long tables lined the chamber, which had more generous lighting than the hall above, due to fifty pitch torches lit by Tavis every morn and kept burning until late in the night.
Neat stacks of bowls—of every type of wood, rock, and metal—heaped at the end of each table. Goblets, skins, boxes, knives, pincers, spoons…all rested in the spot allotted to each of them, always arranged in a manner that would be most pleasing to God. Jars and pots of calendula, rosemary, woad leaves, belladonna, bergamot essence, dog’s grass, ragwort, and hundreds of other useful plants sat on shelves against the large stone wall near the metal chains and restraints. He had taken care that the shelves remained well out of reach of the unfortunates who might make use of those chains—he did not wish to have his herbalry dashed to the floor by a disturbed or frightened guest.
Fantin used a stick to prod the small fire burning in a large metal cauldron set into the wooden table. The bones of the hare he’d skinned earlier had turned to ash among the sticks from an apple tree, and the charred wood glowed a wicked orange on the underbelly of the pot.
“My lord.”
Fantin looked over at the berobed priest, who had just emerged from the tiny chapel built into the corner of his laboratory. His breathing quickened and sweat dampened his palms. He moved from the table toward the monk. “Father, have you word?”
Father Rufus, slender and thin-fingered, bore a sober look upon his narrow face. Weariness lined his cheeks, and the pasty whiteness of his skin bespoke of his many fortnights below-ground. “I’ve prayed long and hard and have at last received the answer which you seek.”
Fantin gripped the stick, his fingernails digging into his callused palm, his breathing quick and shallow. “Aye, Father, speak! What is it that I must do to bring God’s blessing upon me and revive the Philosopher’s Stone?”
“You must continue with your work,” Rufus told him. “God will not make clear the way until you have shown you are indeed fit for the deed. You must practice your work, you must continue to rid the world of its evils and temptations. You must study the writings of the ancients and you must continue to seek purification and transfiguration.”
The dry wood cracked in Fantin’s hand. “Is there naught more you can tell me, Father? I have been working for nearly twelve summers. Twelve summers, I have known I was the one chosen…and yet, I have not attained that promise. When shall I complete my life’s work to be pure and holy and one with God?”
“Twelve summers, my lord, is naught but a drop in the sea for our God,” the priest admonished him.
Fantin struggled with his rising impatience. He swiped the long sleeve of his robe over the perspiration that dampened his forehead, then folded his hands, once more, inside the sleeves of his robe. “Nine priests I have had, and not a one of you can interpret God’s message.”
“My lord,” the priest replied in a voice raspy with disuse, “do you not fret. There is more. Prithee, you must show some patience. All good rewards from Above will come only to those who show patience and servitude and humility. Our God will send you a sign. A sign to show you the way. ’Twill appear very soon, mayhap this se’ennight. It is your duty to recognize the message, and follow the direction thus and the difficulty of your journey shall ease.”
He stared directly into Fantin’s eyes, and Fantin felt himself beginning to calm, to find clarity in the vision before him. The red light that had colored his world receded. Aye, the father had the right of it. He must watch for the sign. He must pray long and hard. He must continue the work of purification, the task he had been set to years before.
“Aye, Father…you have great wisdom,” Fantin responded in his warm, smooth voice. He added a smile that, although it moved his face, did not reach completely within. He must remain patient, yet he felt his frustration…his need…growing stronger each day. The red light edging the corners of his vision threatened more oft than not as of late.
If only he need not rely on the priest and could pass his own days with prayer, mayhap he would understand sooner, mayhap he might more easily learn what he sought. Yet Fantin did not have the time to spend in prayer that must be spent, for he must manage his lands, and work his formulas, and conduct those other tasks that befell him as a mere mortal man.
The image of Gavin of Mal Verne slipped into his memory, suddenly, disturbing the calmness he’d managed to attain. Aye, at the least that task was complete. At any moment, he expected word that Mal Verne had indeed met his demise—left wounded and far from help, where Fantin had last seen him.
It might not have been a direct order from God to send Mal Verne to hell, but Fantin knew it was what he must do. Mal Verne sought to disrupt his own work. He had taken Gregory from him, and Nicola—and if Fantin did not remove the man from this world, Mal Verne would continue to seek his own revenge upon Fantin. God helped only those who helped themselves.
Indeed, and ’twas surely a test of his mettle that Fantin had failed so many times during this journey. But the end was in sight, according to Rufus.
Fantin praised his God for sending him the skinny priest only three months earlier—for Rufus, more than any other, understood his task and his purpose, and acted as a holy conduit between Fantin and the Lord of All.
And when he completed his tasks as set by God, Fantin knew he would be graced by the formula for the Philosopher’s Stone.
Fantin’s hands no longer shook. He and the priest both would watch for the promised sign, and he would act accordingly. And God would find him worthy.
Four
She was in the garden when they came for her.
After two fortnights spent trying to banish him from her memory, Madelyne sensed his presence even before she heard the clink of sword against his mail chausses.
A shadow, long and heavy, fell across her lap where she was forming rose beads. The black mush of stewed rose petals covered her hands and arms and spotted an old gown. The air was heavy with the scent of the flowers, nearly as smothering as the weight that settled over her when she realized he’d come.
And yet, at the same time, a rush of something else flooded her when she looked up into his grave face. ’Twas almost welcome, seeing him again, feeling the command of his full strength as she had not when he was ill.
