The throne room had always mesmerized him. Instead of windows stained with color, the first of Larynth’s settlers had chosen to leave the lengthy windows open, free to the balmy wind. If you squinted through the light, you could see the port on the southern coast, the ocean sparkling in the sun, sails billowing in the seabreeze. He stands next to the man with the leviathan tattoo, who is removed of his usual gown and dressed in a plain, worn tunic and breeches.
The High Alchemist had boarded a Denand merchant ship with the Guard the day after his capture. The journey was as long as he remembered it, but the skies were clear throughout, and Nathis spent his days watching Lark and Anarah train on the deck of the ship, their swords ringing. There was something curative about the sea, but the hull’s persistent rocking had turned his stomach. He hadn’t had a drink in a week, and pain remained his constant companion. Upon their arrival at the port of Erah, the group had disembarked, a little unsteady on their feet and sporting a deepened tan. Drair had not been with them.
This morning, Taeg holds court in the throne room, the sides of the great hall filled with spectators both noble and common. Nathis, fully armored and grateful to be in clean underclothes, has his hand around the arm of the alchemist, whose skin is cool to the touch, the two standing in the middle of the marbled walkway facing the king. Anarah and Lark stand guard at the doors behind him, and Tygoh stands to the king’s left, his armor sleek in the sunlight streaming through the southern windows.
It still felt foreign to look at Taeg and think him King. The sovereign's face is clean-shaven and bright, his green eyes shining beneath inky black hair, his usual look of disinterest weighing down his dark brows. He wears a gold-threaded black doublet over a tunic the color of spruce needles. Nathis could remember him as a boy, under the feet of his father’s council table, playing knights with just a carved wooden horse and his imagination. The man who sits the throne before him is still that little boy, somewhere under the crippling weight of the Crown.
Behind Taeg are his lords, the few of them that are left. Nathis finds the slim face of Tygoh’s father, Lord Dacre, and the tousled blonde locks of Lark’s father, Lord Bennet. Beside him is Lord Feyor, the small-framed vassal from Nelivian who had housed them during their journey to Denand. The elders of the king’s council are scattered throughout.
When Taeg speaks, his voice carries.
“The Crown and its court are here today to determine the fate of the man before me, the High Alchemist of Tauris, for inciting a genocide of the Xelani people and the subsequent murder of hundreds of Xelani kidnapped and transported to Izevel for sacrifice.” Taeg swallows hard at the last word, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
Those in the audience who had presumably followed the crowd for the sake of gossip can be heard murmuring to one another. The rest are there for a conclusion to their fathers’ and grandfathers’ war, the war they’d only heard about in stories.
There are a few Xelani waiting in the crowd, including Orain, who had ridden the merchant ship across the southern ocean with the Guard. In her time at the castle, she had become a steadfast teacher of her culture and a valuable ambassador for Xelani desires. The small group is standing tightly knit near one of the rear windows, far from the rest of the crowd shirking murderous glances in their direction.
“Three months ago, my Guard apprehended a Denand scout caught surveilling the castle grounds, and his interrogation revealed rumors of a Lynac user within my own castle, of which Queen Silon was hunting. At the time, we didn’t know her reasoning, but we found these claims to be true. A member of my own Guard was incarcerated for what the council deemed to be treason: infiltration of the capital with the intent to seek revenge for the Xelinac War.”
“Death to the Lynac!” comes a man’s poisonous cry. The crowd’s volume rises, and hushed curses are slung towards the group of Xelani.
Taeg raises his hand. “I will not have my guests abused,” he condemns, eyes gliding over the people of Erah. “We were wrong.”
The crowd hushes.
“Our grandfathers were wrong. The Xelinac War was a manipulation crafted by the man who stands before you as a means to erase evidence of his failed experiment from this world,” Taeg snarls. “His creation, the Lynac, manifested in the people you see to my left, those you’ve so heinously aimed your venom towards, those who had no choice in the matter.”
Nathis feels a pulling in his abdomen, the familiar, unwanted hug of his disease. His shoulders, pulled back in the presence of the king, feel stiff with arthritis. He looks down at his weathered hand gripped around the arm of the captive, skin sallow against the pale of the alchemist.
“High Alchemist, please tell the court what alchemy is,” Taeg says, nodding to the man with the leviathan tattoo.
The captive straightens. “Alchemy is multi-disciplinary.” His voice is calm, the voice of a man accustomed to being the centerpiece. “Our sect focuses mostly on the transmutative aspect of alchemy, which is the process of converting one material to another. Though this is most often done with inorganic substances, we’ve begun to dabble in the pursuit of human transmutation.”
“And what does that entail?” Taeg asks for the fidgeting crowd.
“It entails drawing energy from an equal and opposite source of power to fabricate the desired effect.”
“In layman’s terms, please.”
The alchemist takes a breath, his eyes glued to the king. “To create the Lynac, it required the sacrifice of human flesh. The magic must take its power from somewhere. Unfortunately, the exchange was miscalculated, and the result was gruesome, taking from those with the weakest constitutions. Alchemy was not as precise a process then as it has become.”
“Kelo,” the king says calmly.
From behind Nathis comes the skeleton boy, the cartilage of his nose missing, his bony hands peeling from beneath his robe, and his irises devoid of color. He looks nervous, but his hands remain at his sides. He’d changed into a well-made robe of the darkest blue.
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The congregation recoils. Ladies dressed in their tailored gowns grasp the arms of the men next to them, their eyes wide, hands trembling. The men, mouths agape, place their hands to their hilts, readying for the execution of the creature before them, should it show any sign of aggression. Curses explode from the masses like sparks from a forge.
Kelo paces past Nathis to the king’s side, his eyes never leaving the dais, and turns to face the crowd.
“Silence.”
Taeg waits patiently as the crowd hushes, yet each lady clings still to their prospective saviors.
“Kelo is the son of my mother, Vilania Kerrich.” Taeg’s voice cracks, and the tear in his composure is enough to hold the crowd’s retort.
“A bastard son!”
“Beast!”
“Sullies the king’s name!”
Nathis watches as his king grapples with the outburst, eyes cast downward to the floor of the dais, knuckles white around the throne’s armrest. He tries to make eye contact with Taeg, but the young king looks over at his brother instead. Kelo gives him a nod, a small smile curving his pale lips.
Taeg continues, ignoring the crowd’s protest. “While he is my older brother, Kelo has declined my offer of kingship, and has dedicated his time to the Church in the pursuit of a cure for his affliction, the same affliction that arose as a result of this man’s greed.” He raises a hand to the High Alchemist, bangles clinking softly. “There are hundreds of people aggrieved with similar conditions, many of them children, who still remain in hiding from the disgusting insults and judging eyes I see you now directing towards my brother.”
His voice raises at the last part, and the crowd quiets. Nathis feels a bead of sweat making its way down his forehead.
Taeg speaks to the captive in Nathis’s grip, who begins to fidget in his irons. “Human transmutation led to the Lynac, correct? Did the first alchemists achieve the power they were trying to create?”
“They did.”
“Who did they give this power to?”
The alchemist swallows. “Our alchemists performed the first transmutations on the most destitute inhabitants of Izevel.”
“How did these people end up in Xelinac?”
“After a few rounds of testing the Lynac’s efficacy and its probability of inheritance, it was determined that the Lynac’s area of effect was too great a risk to be kept nearby. My forefathers knew the western portion of your continent was barren, and so the remaining hosts were sent to populate there.”
“What happened that prompted you to eliminate your own creation?”
“The hosts revolted against us. They began to study their own ability to perform alchemy, actively protesting the creation of magical hosts, and we determined that it was a threat to our livelihood.”
Taeg allows silence to pass between them, and Nathis’ feet begin to ache. He releases his hold on the alchemist’s arm, shaking the tension from his wrist. He looks up at Tygoh, whose hazel eyes are pinned to him, skin wrinkled between his dark eyebrows.
“The Crown will host both parties, the Xelani to my right and any of those afflicted as my brother, should they need asylum,” Taeg begins again. “The Church has been directed to halt any studies concerning magic and will pivot towards looking for a cure.”
“Your Grace, were not the magical studies intended to put magic in the hands of the lordship? Why halt its progress now?” Lord Feyor, the tiny vassal from Nelivian, speaks from behind the throne, one finger pointed to the ceiling.
Taeg blinks slowly, and Nathis can feel waves of irritation rolling off the king’s countenance.
“I understand the lordship has felt slighted in the past, as it does not have access to the Crown’s Mark for its own armies. Lord Feyor, the Mark has always been reserved for members of the Royal Guard alone, and my Guard have undergone extensive training to earn that honor. If you are prepared to undergo the same regimen, you may receive the Mark under contract of the Royal Guard as recompense.”
The little lord’s mouth opens and closes, his hand dropping to his side. He straightens his spine, brushes his hands along his sky blue doublet, and bows his head. “Your Grace,” he says, shuffling back into his position.
“Today, I will pass judgement on the man before you,” Taeg announces, making eye contact with the alchemist beside Nathis. “I hope that the alchemist’s own confession has humbled those of you who sling your barbarity toward the victims of these crimes.”
Taeg pauses, and silence fills the room. Nathis begins to pray. In the past, his visits to the Church consisted of uncomfortable health checks deemed necessary by the Crown and the rare occurrence in which he sat heavy in the pews just to revel in the silence. Maybe that was a kind of prayer, hearing the silence. Now, in the great hall of the castle, he is surrounded by people stunned into reticence, the world they knew ten minutes ago in tatters.
So Nathis prays for the king, that he has the courage to step away from tradition. He prays for Anarah, that she comes to see her life as something meaningful, in whatever way she defines that. For Kelo, that the boy finds solace in the life he was given, despite what was taken. For Lark, that she someday learns of the tears that stained her father’s face when he spoke about her. And for Tygoh, peace above all else.
“While I would generally discuss this outcome with my council,” Taeg begins, shaking Nathis from his thoughts, “I have instead sought advice from my Guard, the very people who apprehended this man. In fact, I’ve appointed General Nathis Stoles,” he points, and the crowd’s eyes follow, “as Grand Master to the Crown for his long years of loyal service.”
Polite applause seeps from one end of the onlookers to the other. Nathis bows his head lightly, wishing he could disappear into the barracks with the swords and helms. His gut aches.
“We have concluded that the High Alchemist of Tauris, rector of the most powerful ring of alchemists known to our time, will be given two choices for atonement. One, he will serve his sentence in aid of the Xelani people and under the supervision of the Church, where he will assist our priests and priestesses,” he smiles at Anarah, “in formulating the cure for the affliction his forefathers have caused and that which he has sought to eliminate by human sacrifice. His knowledge will be recorded for our libraries, and if any remaining Xelani wish to learn alchemy, they will be welcome to such knowledge. During this time, he will remain a prisoner of Larnyth, and this sentence shall remain until his death.
“If the High Alchemist declines this sentence, he shall be exiled to Xelinac, where he will be placed under the supervision of the very people he has harmed, with no access to anyone or anything outside the country. The Xelani people will decide his fate.”
Nathis can hear the alchemist’s breathing accelerate.
“In both instances,” Taeg continues, “his followers still residing in Tauris will be disbanded and relocated to serve in areas of the surrounding countries that are in need of education and medical care.”
The man with the leviathan tattoo bows, keeping his eyes on the king. “I will serve the Church of Larynth,” he concedes.
Taeg, his council silent behind him and the crowd’s cursing hushed, nods once. Nathis, bowing his head, takes his captive’s arm again and leads him from the great hall, the scrutiny of the people landing hot on his back.
