Kitabı oku: «The Alchemist's Daughter», sayfa 2

Isidora had to force herself not to jump up and run off to hide in the house—just to avoid losing control and slapping him. But she would not give Lucien the power to affect her so, or give her father cause to either worry or question her actions.

Chapter Two

L ucien came every day after that. He spoke but little as he sat and waited for her father to emerge and accept him as a student of the Work. At first his friends accompanied him to the gate. But as time passed and he still made no progress, one by one they fell away, until he remained alone.

Leaving his sword in Marylas’s charge, he would bow to Deogal but say nothing. His request did not need to be made out loud, for it seemed he was asking with his whole being.

Day by day his face lost some of its air of ruddy confidence. But he had a presence that seemed to take up more space than he did physically. He wore sumptuous clothes and his surcoat of raw, red silk and fine leather boots added to his princely air.

Despite Lucien’s silence, or perhaps because of it, Isidora wanted to know everything about him. Where his home was and what kind of life he led there. But she could not bring herself to ask him directly.

He was quiet, but seemed bigger than life—as though his skin couldn’t quite contain him. He made her nervous, and he might mistake her inquisitiveness about the rest of the world for a personal interest in him.

Each day she offered him unleavened bread, dates and butter, figs and honey and wine, which he occasionally accepted. But of course that was only a matter of courtesy on her part, not concern.

Lucien was polite, without ever paying her enough attention that she might engage him in true conversation. His mind was always upon his goal. He would not endanger it by “bothering” her, she was certain. But she was also just as certain that eventually he would tire of waiting and leave them in peace.

But one day Deogal emerged from the workshop, his blue robe sooty and smelling of sulphur. “Tell me again why you want to partake of this Work, boy.”

Lucien jumped to his feet. “Because I must, sir. It holds the greatest fascination for me. I sense…I know—that there are worlds of knowledge waiting to be discovered through the arts of alchemy, through the patience and persistence of those who dare venture past the mundane and into the arcane. I cannot believe that my life’s achievements are only meant to be what my father envisioned—nothing but breeding and a series of acquisitions by force of arms.”

Deogal looked down his aristocratic nose at Lucien. “You are dissatisfied with your lot? With your enviable position of privilege, rank, honor and wealth?”

Lucien gazed at Deogal and spread his strong, lean hands. “I am not ungrateful, Master Deogal. I simply cannot bear to accept that I might miss something else, something so huge and divine and all-enveloping that I cannot see it without the guidance of a man like you. Beyond that, I cannot put it into words.”

Deogal raised one shaggy gray brow. “And what makes you think I have the means to guide you? Why should I be anything other than a bad-tempered old fool puttering with substances better left alone?”

“I have heard talk…but beyond that, I felt it, from the moment I stepped over your threshold. This is the place I belong. And you are the one to teach me.”

Isidora had to hide her amazement. This cool, aloof young man had such eloquence, such passion? Only for the Work, she reminded herself.

Deogal let a smile spread across his face like the slow rising of the sun. “Then so be it, Lucien de Griswold. You will take the oath revealed to Isis and swear by Tartarus and Anubis and Cerebus and Charon and the Fates and Furies. You will do as I instruct you, and you will go to your grave with the secrets I reveal—”

A numbing cold spread through Isidora, freezing her lungs, her heart… To see her father smile like that—to hear him offer his trust, his sacred knowledge, to this stranger who had only waited a fortnight for what she had waited her whole life—it was beyond bearing.

After all that had happened, how could he trust someone who might turn out to be another Kalle—perhaps even worse than Kalle? Then the numbness gave way to a fury she did not know she possessed. To a shameful jealousy, unworthy of her.

It took her off guard, like a blow from behind. Kalle’s apprenticeship had never produced such a reaction. He had never won her father’s love.

Isidora’s body shook, she could barely breathe, and she was possessed by a sudden, dreadful hope that Lucien would collapse in fits from the glare she bestowed upon him, before leaving this house for good.

Did he not deserve it, for reducing her to such a wretched, despicable state? But he never saw her daggered look. His eyes were shining with joy and his full attention remained on her father, waiting for him to finish.

Deogal frowned at Isidora. “You, child, should not be here listening! Go to the scriptorium and find something to copy!”

“Father…” she whispered before her throat tightened beyond words. She refused to look any longer at Lucien. The hateful usurper! Her face burned as if she had scrubbed it with nettles. Yet again she was banished from all that was important to her.

But she loved her father, no matter what, and would serve and protect him as long as he needed her. Whether he wanted her to or not.

“Excuse me.” She stood and forced herself to walk slowly, with decorum. But once out of sight, she grabbed her skirts and ran through the house, up the stone stairs and into her haven. In the tiny scriptorium, a sense of calm gradually enveloped her. Here was her Work.

Isidora blinked, sniffed, swallowed, and as her heart slowed its wild beating, she regained the control that had long stood her so well. She looked at the scrolls and piles of parchment on the shelves, the bowls and bottles of colored inks that she mixed herself, from oxgall and ground lapis and all sorts of ingredients, both rare and common.

She had produced ornate manuscripts and painted portraits that had been purchased by princes and bishops and satraps. She wrote letters for those who could not do so themselves. It was how she best helped her father, for ingots of silver and vials of mercury did not come cheaply. Nor did the gold leaf or vellum she used in her finest scribing.

Isidora slipped onto the wooden seat behind the slanted table and reached down to open the small cupboard behind it. She felt for the folio inside and brought it out into the light of day. Carefully she opened the heavy leaves.

A painting of an exquisite face smiled at her from the calfskin surface. Luminous brown eyes, skin like the petals of a dusky rose, jet hair peeking from beneath a silken veil.

Here was her treasure…an image she had created, of Ayshka Binte Amir. Of her mother, as she had once looked. Before Kalle FitzMalheury had begun her death… Before her father had completed it…. Isidora swallowed the tears that threatened.

Unlike the fabled Elixir, her art was real. People could see it and feel it. It had meaning and value. Creating it was a solitary occupation, by its very nature, but such was her lot in life. Like Marylas, who had lost everything, to hope for more, for a loving father, much less for a loving husband, or children, was to ask too much.

She had seen the suffering of the truly unfortunate. What she had should be enough. Aye, she should be grateful for the bounty she possessed. Her sight, her limbs, her very life. Enough to eat and a place to sleep…even alone. It was best that way.

Why think twice about a man like Lucien? So what if Deogal wanted him to stay? So what if he brought Deogal some companionship in his labors—was that not a good thing?

Nay, not if it is at my expense!

But it was wrong to think thus.

She had her path and Lucien had his. They would be parallel for but a short time. The inevitable divergence would come, no doubt when al-Kond Herri called the knight back into service, and she would be rid of his enviable presence.

Isidora rested her cheek on the cool surface of the table and gazed out the window. Just beyond the walls of the city, the sea glistened as the afternoon waned. The sail of a returning fishing boat slid by, gilded and backlit by the sun.

Isidora gave thanks for the beautiful sight and made up her mind to banish all selfish thoughts. Her father was getting old; he needed help with the Work. God had sent him Lucien, and whether she liked it or not, she had to accept it. Just as most women had to accept so many things.

She thought of her once-beautiful mother, Ayshka, ravaged by disease and now dead. The unwelcome tears stung her eyes at last. She knew passion was possible, that true love existed. Even after banishing Ayshka, Deogal had loved her with an unseemly desperation, and that was what had fueled his love of the Work. That was what still fueled his guilt.

The Work had been his lady-wife’s last hope for a cure, short of a miracle or the touch of a saintly king…. The Work could provide the Elixir, and the Elixir could cure all ills. Even the worst—that which had afflicted her mother.

A dread disease that carried with it a terrible stigma of implied dishonor, which tainted the whole family. Indeed, it might be the real reason no man had ever asked for Isidora’s hand.

For her mother, shamed by one man and turned out of her home by another, had been visited by God’s cruelest wrath of all…leprosy.

Chapter Three

Acre

The palace of Henry, al-Kond Herri, King of Jerusalem

High summer, 1197

“M y lord Henry…can you be serious? To ally yourself—a bastion of Christianity—with Sinn, the heathen Grand Master of the Assassins? It is unthinkable!” Kalle’s fist thumped the table.

The company of Henry’s knights and noble advisors stirred, murmuring their disapproval of this outburst. Lucien remained silent, as he had throughout the meeting, but narrowed his eyes as FitzMalheury took a visible grip on his temper. “Surely it is not necessary for you, appointed as regent here by Richard himself, to make a pact with such a one?” Kalle asked.

Henry leaned back in his great chair and stared at Kalle. “You of all men should know the value of an alliance with them. They are deadly, but capable of reason, for they pay the Templars to leave them alone—and you should have seen what took place during our conversation at al-Kahf. Sinn demonstrated his power—he ordered two of his men to leap from atop the fortress. They did so without an instant’s hesitation and fell to their deaths upon the rocks below. I had to beg him not to repeat the spectacle…but I will ask you, Kalle—would you have shown me such unswerving loyalty?”

Henry tilted his head and did not wait for a reply. “Sinn offered me another sample of his skills…he thought surely there must be someone I would like them to murder.” Henry leaned toward FitzMalheury and smiled good-naturedly. “I declined, but of course, dear Kalle, you came to mind as a first candidate, being commander of the garrison as well as my closest rival.”

At this the company roared with laughter, but Lucien saw that Kalle’s mirth did not reach his eyes. The knight cleared his throat. “You flatter me with such a designation, my lord. But how you came by this opinion is quite beyond my understanding.”

He then gave Lucien a direct look. One that pierced him with its enmity and stirred his own desire for revenge. “There are other candidates for elimination. Indeed, there is a man present who spends so little time amongst his own kind, one wonders whose side he is on,” Kalle said softly, still looking at Lucien.

Lucien replied, his voice as velvet as Kalle’s, “And there is another present who gives his personal ambitions priority over the interests of his lord.”

“Enough,” Henry said firmly. “Sinn is someone I want to be close enough to that I may keep an eye on him. I need not adopt the ways of the Assassins, only learn what I may about them, to ensure the safety of others.”

Kalle stood and bowed. “As you will, my lord. I am yours to command, as ever.”

At Henry’s nod of dismissal, the group began to break up. Lucien was halfway to the door when Kalle stopped him.

“Never challenge my honor like that again, Lucien, or I will make you sorry you were ever born.”

Lucien squared his shoulders and looked down at Kalle. “Just be advised, my lord, I am loyal to Henry, and he knows it. And just because you have made an enemy of Deogal does not mean he is anyone else’s enemy.”

Kalle’s smile struck a perilous chord in Lucien. The man was like a rabid dog. And should be dealt with as such.

Kalle continued, “I shall have to pay the old man and his daughter a visit one of these days, hmm? See what progress he has made with the Work? Or perhaps you’d like to tell me yourself and spare him the pain?”

Lucien bristled. “Stay away from them. I will cut you to pieces if I catch you.”

Kalle laughed. “Of course. If you catch me. A very small likelihood. But nay…the thought of playing inquisitor with you appeals to me much more. After all, Deogal would not last more than a day or two as my…guest. And what Isidora is likely to know is hardly worth the sweat of finding it out…whereas you, Lucien, could prove entertaining, indeed. So have a care, the next shadow you see might not be your own, eh?”

Isidora wondered at the change in Lucien when he returned from the court of al-Kond Herri…his somber moods, his rude questioning of her servants about who they saw and to whom they spoke from outside, his pacing and restless nights….

His evident distraction even caught her father’s notice. “What is wrong with him?” Deogal frowned as he dipped a piece of bread into his bowl of sauce.

Isidora shrugged. “Perhaps he is ready to move on, at last. Perhaps he longs for home.”

“He cannot! Not at this stage of the Work. We are just purifying the red essence of— Never mind. Just tell him I want to see him after vespers.” Deogal pushed his half-eaten food aside and stalked back to his quarters.

Isidora stared at the carved marble bowl her father had abandoned and worry yet again twisted within her. He ate less and less, looked more and more haggard. She felt so helpless. How could she stop his decline? He paid her no attention, found her concern an annoyance.

“Isidora?”

That smooth voice, from behind. Lucien. She closed her eyes and did not move. She could not quite face him with her fears still so evident. “Aye? There is food left, should you want it.”

“Has all been quiet? Nothing amiss?”

“Nothing.”

“Why do you keep your back to me? What is wrong?”

At last she turned around. His beautiful face was limned by the golden glow of the oil lamps, accentuating the hollows of his cheeks. He, too, was in a decline. “Why don’t you tell me? You are the one who knows what is going on, Lucien. You have known for months and are making all of us miserable as a result.”

Lucien put his hand to his brow and pinched the bridge of his nose. His fingers quivered, and her alarm grew. “What is it? What has happened?”

He met her gaze. “Tonight you will hear a clamor, for the city will be in mourning, as soon as word spreads. Henry is dead.”

A sense of cold struck her, as if she had jumped into the winter sea. “What? How can this be?”

“He fell to his death…from a window in his palace. Kalle FitzMalheury has taken charge, only until a succession is sorted out, or so he says. I have little hope that this was an accident, Isidora. You and your father are in danger with Kalle now free to run wild.”

“He is no threat to us. We have friends more powerful than he, and well does he know it.”

“You do not know what he has become, Isidora. He is growing inside of himself, like an abscess of pride and corrupt power.”

“Then lance him,” she replied, shocked at her own bluntness.

Then Lucien shocked her even more when he caught her shoulders in a firm, warm grip. Her surprise kept her in place, as well as the dizzying effect of his nearness.

“Do not speak so,” he said. “I expect better of you. I would like…” His voice trailed away and the muscles in his jaw clenched as he searched her eyes.

Her belly tightened in an unfamiliar way. She felt an in visible pull, as if from his body to hers, and the tension grew until it was all she could do not to either break from his grasp and run or throw herself into his arms. “What would you like?” Isidora prompted, and yet held herself still and stiff, and closed her eyes against his gaze.

His voice emerged in a low growl. “I’d like to be finished here. Done with this place. I need to go home.”

Isidora’s cheeks burned as though he had slapped her. Why did she take his remarks personally? She did not care. Indeed had she not been looking forward to the day this troublesome knight left at last? But she had more than herself to consider. “You cannot go. M-my father needs you still.”

“Look at me, Isidora.” When she was focused on his flame-lit, blue eyes, he continued. “We are close to the Elixir. Very close. But the slightest mishap could make us have to start all over again. I am but trying to protect him, and the Work…and you. Should anything befall him, or me, all will be lost. Indeed, I cannot think why he has not included you, to ensure preservation of our progress, but I am sworn to secrecy and must respect his wishes.”

As she allowed the truth to rise within her, Isidora began to tremble. “You know, Lucien, he chooses to believe my mother yet lives…that he can still restore her to health with the Elixir. That desire is all that keeps him going. If one day he wakes up and remembers that she is dead, he, too, will die.”

Then the unthinkable happened. Lucien drew her close, wrapped his arms about her and held her to his chest, as if she were precious to him. “I won’t leave, unless you command me to go.”

Here was the moment of his obedience…she could tell him, right now, to be gone from her home, her life, her heart. But instead she replied, “You have our thanks, sir. My father is too proud to say it, but I say it on his behalf.” That was all there was to it. All there would ever be. Her father and his needs.

Lucien eased away from her and bowed, his bright hair gleaming. “I will go once more and find out the state of things in the city.” Shouldering his sword, he disappeared out the door into the darkness. He did not return that night or the next.

Weeks passed, then months…her inquiries met with no results. It was as though he had been swallowed up in the ensuing maelstrom of grief and confusion that whirled through the streets after Henry’s death became known. Perhaps Lucien had decided to go home, after all.

But Isidora knew that was not the case. And she had a good idea of where to go to next for answers.

Chapter Four

L ucien de Griswold, knight of the realm—sovereign lord of the village of East Ainsley, he reminded himself—and now prisoner of Kalle FitzMalheury, lay on his back in a dungeon of Acre. A Christian knight, in a Christian dungeon, in a city that lay months from home.

He squinted as a shaft of light penetrated through the wind hole, far above. Its feeble rays made his eyes ache. He had been here for what felt like forever, and time had lost all meaning. His capture had been the result of a fleeting slip of his attention…and a solid blow to his head.

What mattered now was the constant gnawing of his stomach, the thirst that made swallowing difficult, and the deep ache of his battered body.

It had been days since anyone had thrown him anything. Indeed, it had been days since he had seen or heard another human being. He wondered if Kalle had forgotten him.

Or perhaps some wild shift of fortune had caused the city to return to Muslim hands and the Saracens did not know of this small, isolated hole in the bowels of the keep? The place was like a rabbit warren of ancient tunnels and chambers, and he doubted if any one man had ever explored all its secrets.

But he would rather suffer repeat questioning than be abandoned. FitzMalheury had not been able to beat any information out of him. He was but a student of the Work, not an adept. He was not privy to magic keys or unfailing methods of turning lead into gold. Now, silver into gold was another matter, but unlike Kalle, Lucien believed all that to be secondary to the true Work, not its goal.

Lucien forced himself to move, to raise his throbbing head and sit up. But the resultant swaying of the world forced him to seek the wall for support. And, in addition to his hunger and weakness and pain, he was so filthy he could barely stand himself.

They had doused him with latrine water to wake him up when he passed out. Apart from the murder of Palban, that indignity alone made him hate Kalle enough to kill him.

But he had to smile. Aye, even now, had he a bowl of water, he would save a bit of it to wash with. So he could not be all that close to death. When he cared no longer, then he would worry.

“Lucien?”

Footsteps on the stone floor. A feminine voice. A familiar accent, part French and part Arabic.

“Isidora?” He strained to see. There came a rustle of fabric. She peered over the lip of the pit. A thick strand of glossy black hair had escaped her veil and hung in contrast to the paleness of her face.

Her eyes widened. Warm, brown eyes that needed no kohl to enhance their luster. “Oh, Sir Lucien! What have they done to you?”

It was Isidora. At this moment, the most welcome, beautiful sight in all creation. She lowered a basket to him and he amended his thought. Nay, this was the most welcome, beautiful sight in all creation….

He tore into the treasure and put the first flask to his mouth. Pomegranate juice…the potent liquid ran down his parched throat in a stream of pure bliss. A lemon, apples, figs, dates… Lucien paused in his ravishment of the fruit and frowned. “What are you doing here? How did you find me? You should not have come!”

“Do not eat it all at once, you’ll make yourself ill, sir. And you will need your strength if I am to get you out of here.”

“Out? How?”

“Never mind. Just catch hold of the rope and climb up. I have tied it to a ring set in the wall.”

His mouth crammed full, Lucien could not immediately respond.

“You’ve had enough for now, you must move quickly!”

He eased himself to his feet. “Take the basket up first.”

“I can get you more food, just come!”

“Nay, take it. I’ll not have it go to waste.”

“You are as maddening as ever, my lord!” she complained, but retrieved the basket on its tether.

Lucien caught hold of the rope and hoped his body would not fail him. But it was all he could do just to hang there, much less haul himself up hand over hand.

“You’re not a side of mutton. Walk up the wall, Sir Lucien.”

Her tone was light, but he heard the undercurrent of urgency in her voice. It was like a breeze that cleared the fog from his mind. She had risked her life to come for him. He had to get out, as much for her sake as his own.

He renewed his grip and put his bare feet to the cold, gritty stones of the wall. With agony chasing each increment of ascent, he climbed. As he topped the edge, his hands began to slip. “I can’t hold on…”

Isidora caught the clothing at the scruff of his neck and pulled until she fell backward and Lucien landed on top of her, his face resting cozily on her bosom. For a moment neither of them moved.

Oh, God. What a time and place for such a happen-stance. She had revived him with her basket of fruit. Only too well. She smelled clean. Like freedom. Like a woman. For one delirious, beastly instant he nearly moved against her. But even if he stank, he wasn’t an animal. Not yet.

“Lucien!” She shook him as best she could. “Get up!”

He opened one eye. Of course, he had almost forgotten. She had made it clear that she wanted no part of him. He eased himself off of her and immediately wished he could lie down again.

“Oh, Isidora. I’m going to be sick.”

“Not now. We have to go.”

Taking command of himself, Lucien agreed. “All right.” He grimaced and sat clutching his stomach.

“Here, put this on.” She unfolded a garment from the bag she carried and helped him pull it over his head.

“Oh, my God.” His hands smoothed the red cross sewn over the breast of the white surcoat. “Templar’s garb? Where did you get this?”

“It is my father’s.” She hurriedly scrubbed at his face with the cloth from the basket.

“But—”

“There is no time, sir! Just do as I bid you!”

He stumbled and lurched down the corridor, sucking on the lemon as he went.

“Sir Lucien, you will have to straighten up and walk properly. If anyone sees us, keep going, as if your business is done. If they question you, just freeze them with an arrogant gaze—you are quite good at that. I will follow behind you, as a servant might. Now go left, then take the first right turning and then right again, and I will show you the passage.”

The merest breath of air announced a side opening. With that hint of freshness, for the first time, Lucien began to believe this scheme might actually work. He forced himself straighter, composing his face into what had once been a habitually haughty expression, as Isidora had so kindly pointed out. But no more.

“How know you this way, Isidora?”

“Shh! I am privy to a few things worth knowing.”

Lucien’s mind churned. The Templars had more secrets than the Pope had ducats. So a hidden passage was not surprising. But her father, Deogal the Learned, his teacher of the arts of alchemy—was a Templar? An ex-Templar, no doubt. All that mattered now, Lucien thought, was that he had a chance to see the full light of day once again.

“Where are we going?”

“Your place is arranged on a ship to Cyprus, then to England, once you are out of here.”

He paused in astonishment and turned around to face her. The expense should have been far beyond her means. “How?”

She gave him a shove. “Never mind! Just go! Get as far away from FitzMalheury as you can.”

“What about you? I think I have proven myself worthless to him, but you—”

“I am staying here with Father.”

A lump formed in Lucien’s throat. “I will send you compensation, Isidora, as soon as I may. But I do not want to leave—”

“You must. Your family is powerful. They can help you. Father is not well. There is nothing left for you here.”

Lucien came to a halt and caught her hand. It was compact but strong, her skin soft except where her pens and brushes had calloused her fingers. “How so?”

She pleaded with her dark eyes. “Lucien, what does it matter? I can help you, now, in this moment only. You can do nothing to help him, ever. So go while you can. It is what he wants. It is what he commands.”

Nothing? Ever? A command to go? With the bitter finality of those words, all Lucien’s other troubles faded. His studies under his beloved master were at an end, just when he might be close to the knowledge he sought…to the cure he sought…for the agony he had caused his mother…for the agony inflicted upon her long-lost daughter, his own beloved twin, Estelle. He had failed to protect her, just as he had failed to protect Palban—though at least Brus had gone home with both legs intact.

There had to be a way to find the Elixir, even if it meant struggling on his own the rest of his life. Or so he still hoped. Slowly he let go of Isidora’s slim fingers and returned to trudging up the corridor.