The Marechal Chronicles: Volume V, The Tower of the Alchemist Read online

  The broken tower that stood hundreds of years in the past lies before Melisse like a curse long since uttered and forgotten.

  She is a low born woman struggling to come to grips with the fire burning in her heart and the magic she holds in her hands.

  Yet she has come to the Tower of the Alchemist in search of the missing past that once belonged to the Marechal de Barristide, a man who hunted her, then saved her as only a hero could.

  In return, she would use her power to aid him and find the memories he has forgotten. Little did she realize that she would find so very much more and that it truly is the kind of knowledge that cuts like knives no matter who dares to seek it out.

  The tragic past of the Marechal unfolds before her like phantoms resurrected and in the end she is faced with a choice more bitter than any she could have ever imagined.

  This is Volume V of the Marechal Chronicles, a tale of dark fantasy and magic, a story of passion and of love so strong that it sunders a hero’s heart forevermore.

  The Marechal Chronicles: Volumes V, The Tower of the Alchemist

  (An Erotic Fantasy Tale)

  By Aimélie Aames

  Copyright 2014. All Rights Reserved

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  I hold it true, whate'er befall;

  I feel it, when I sorrow most;

  'Tis better to have loved and lost

  Than never to have loved at all.

  --In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 27

  By Alfred, Lord Tennyson 1809–1892

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Other Fiction by Aimélie Aames

  About the Author

  The Marechal Chronicles, Volume V: The Tower of the Alchemist

  Melisse watched the man's lips move as he spoke.

  His mouth had the same full shape as that of his son, only deep lines ran from the corners. Whether they came from more than a lifetime of frowns or smiles was still uncertain as he began the story that she would later come to think of as “The Tale of the Black Boar of Summer.”

  And around them the dread, barren landscape appeared to rouse itself as his words floated in the air. Not so much as in echo, but in answer. It was as if his voice drew shapes and forms of people from far away in the past, a time when the tower still stood and the countryside around them was as verdant as any other in the land. Perhaps even more so.

  Soon enough, she was sure of it. Magic rose around them and the bleak browns and greys surrounding them dissolved into vivid colors, and Melisse no longer heard the voice that sounded so much like the one she had come to know over the past months.

  Instead, the scenes he recounted swirled around her, and it was as though she floated behind ghostly images that told the story she had longed to hear.

  Then, as if reaching some critical point of momentum, the colors and sounds came to occupy everything, as if it had all been but an empty carafe waiting for this moment to fill itself in, greedy to tell its tale and push back the curtains of death and time that covered all in hues of barren desolation.

  It did not take long, and Melisse could believe that it was she who had become the phantom rather than the tale itself, and she lost herself as the enchantment took hold, apparently determined to recount all that there was to be told in a way that revealed everything to the last detail.

  Chapter One

  The hand holding hers was warm and firm.

  In his grasp, she knew that he would not let her fall should she miss her step under the dark roof of leaves in the forest.

  It was close to midnight. A time for magical things. A time for frightening things.

  But Catherine knew no fear as her lover drew her after him to the clear meadow that had become their place.

  She had hated Jacq from the moment she had first met him. His dark brown eyes sparkled with a humor that she did not share as he stared back at her each time they crossed paths after her return home.

  The truth was, they had always known one another, but when Catherine was of age, she had been sent away for proper schooling … the kind of education one could never have in a place such as Urrune.

  Two years later, she had returned to find that her family had fallen upon hard times, the auberge they owned was then almost always vacant and the reason that she had been called back from school apparent in the sad eyes of her father and her mother.

  Soon after her return, Catherine joined the other washerwomen at the communal lavoir. It was terribly hard work and she spent most of her first days there pounding wet clothing with a wooden baton, or when too tired to continue, she would be put to twisting trousers and shirts dry.

  It was necessary, and the few sous she earned were barely enough to keep the family in simple food and, when very lucky, to pay for meat when chance smiled upon them and brought them the rare, hungry guest to the auberge.

  One day the stink of smoke at the lavoir had been too much for her. The wind could not make up its mind as wood was burned just next to the washerwomen. They used wood ashes mixed into water for whitening the clothing of the most fortunate clients of Urrune. After, they would boil soapwort root and soak the clothing in the resulting melange. The process was long and laborious, but for those who could pay for it, they would wear whitened and softened shirts rather than the stiff and yellowed affairs of the less fortunate.

  Catherine's eyes had fairly streamed with tears as if the outrage of her sort had mingled that day with the wayward smoke until, finally, one of the elder washerwomen with pity in her eyes sent the young woman off on the pretext of harvesting more soapwort.

  The season for its flowering was upon them and when in flower, the plant was far more effective.

  Whatever the reason, she was not sorry to quit the lavoir, if only for an afternoon with her woven basket and a hand trowel for digging.

  Quickly, and without meaning to, Catherine found herself upon dim, narrow paths that threaded their way through great trees.

  And in that forest, she came at last to a meadow. At one end, the ground was soft and wet and was densely ringed with the telltale violet flowers of five petals.

  Catherine remembered she had sighed as she went to her knees, ready to begin the dirty travail of unearthing the thick, bulbous roots of the plants.

  That was when she heard as much as felt a hulking presence at her back. Before she could spring up, startled with her heart hammering in her chest, the shadow dropped down to become more human in size as that presence went to its knees then reached around her and held her hands still with a warm, strong grasp.

  Catherine twisted her head around to see Jacq calmly staring back at her, his visage as serious as ever.

  “Stupid boy. Let go, now. I've work to do and no time for your foolishness,” she said then tried to twist her hands out of his.

  His only answer was to pluck the trowel
out of her hand, then he released her and set to digging up the soapwort plants without saying a word.

  She jumped to her feet in a huff, then saw how filthy her skirt was at the knees and brushed futilely at the dirt there.

  “Stop it, Jacq. I need those roots and the plants are not easy to find. Go find your own and leave me be.”

  Only he stayed where he was, his back turned to her as he resolutely went about digging up the patch of soapwort.

  She waited for him to say something … anything. Instead he kept digging while she grew angrier and angrier.

  “I said stop it …. “

  But then cut herself short as she watched him bunch the plants tightly together into bundles then place all of them neatly into her basket.

  He looked up at her, and she no longer saw his dirty hands or how the sweat ran along his jawline.

  All that she saw was his calm face ever so serious as he studied her in return.

  “You didn't have to do that,” she said uncertainly. Catherine did not want to admit it, but the annoying young man named Jacq had surprised her.

  He nodded ever so slightly then got to his feet.

  Suddenly a thought dawned on her and she said, “Did something happen to you, Jacq? While I was away at school, did you get hurt … or something? Is that why you can't speak?”

  She had tried to ignore him since her return, telling herself each time he looked her way that no one would take interest in a washerwoman. A well schooled young woman, perhaps, but never a poor soul whose family had taken a wrong turn to the poor side of life and who would likely never be free of hard work to earn just enough to eat and little else the rest of her days.

  His constant staring … so serious and unflinching … had bothered her ever more in the time since then.

  It was only now that Catherine realized she had not heard him speak a word since she came back.

  She looked carefully at him and then he nodded, as solemn as ever.

  “You did get hurt, then?”

  He nodded again, then slowly lifted his hand to point directly at her.

  Catherine did not understand.

  Then, Jacq brought his hand to his chest and pointed to his heart. Carefully, he lifted his other hand to join the first and together he made a pair of fists side by side then snapped them down and apart as if he had just broken an imaginary branch in his hands.

  “What?”

  Her question was soft as a whisper as she watched him point to her again.

  You ….

  Then point to his chest.

  My heart ….

  Then his fists snapping down hard, almost violently.

  Broken ….

  “What?” she said again, then took a step backward from him.

  His meaning could not have been any clearer, but Catherine refused to believe him.

  Jacq bent down to pull up a tuft of soft, dried weeds and rubbed the dirt away from his hands. When he was done, he closed the distance between them and Catherine felt herself trembling all over as he came so close to her, their bodies almost touching.

  “But … “ she began, but Jacq shook his head then brought a finger to her lips the way a mother might to quiet her child.

  I don't understand, she wanted to say. But the finger that silenced her was still there, then his hand reached down to find hers again and the warmth of his grasp took the last of her words away.

  He led her away from the patch of soapwort and to the far side of the clearing. There he stopped, then, as solemn as ever, he placed his hands upon her shoulders and turned her gently around to face away from him.

  “I didn't know … “ she stammered, still unsure of what to do.

  He still said nothing as his hands fell away from her shoulders. Catherine could not have said why, but she remained where she was as she listened to the faint sounds he made as he moved away from her.

  She strained her ears, wondering what he was doing, and had the impression that he was down on the ground again. Her curiosity grew and just as she decided she would play this game no longer, he came back to her.

  Catherine felt the heat of his chest as he leaned close to her, his body against her back. She felt his arms reach around her with one hand lifting to her eyes.

  “Wait,” she said, “This is ridiculous … “

  But she made no move to push his hand away. Instead, she closed her eyes and his hand covered her vision more fully.

  The touch of his palm against her face made her shiver.

  The sensation she felt was so very strange. He was so warm, as if he was fevered, yet his presence made her tremble as if she was chilled.

  Then an aroma that could have been spring roses mingled with rich sugar came to her nose followed just as quickly by the touch of wild fruit at her lips.

  Catherine could not help but oblige his unspoken offering and opened her mouth wide around her own bright smile.

  Strawberries.

  The rich flavor of early summer fruit, so rare in recent times, so jealously guarded by those lucky few who knew its secret whereabouts.

  The berry Jacq had placed between her lips was large and succulent, with flavors that had fully developed in the way they only can when blessed with warm mornings and shining blue skies overhead.

  “Oh,” she said, then grinned more widely as he turned her around then pointed behind himself.

  There, just beyond a patch of ferns that grew tall enough to hide them from casual view, was a veritable treasure trove of fruit that shined like rubies with what remained of that morning's dew.

  “Jacq, your mother is going to kill you for showing me this,” she whispered, then pushed past him to see better.

  “I don't care if she does.”

  Those few words hung in the air behind her as Catherine whirled to face the young man.

  “You … you! You can speak … !” Catherine felt all of the anger that had been dampened come raging back in all its force.

  “I can,” he replied, “But I was afraid of spoiling everything with a misspoken word from my poor farmer's mouth. Not around you, an educated lady.”

  “Don't call me that. I'm a washerwoman and that's all … “ Her voice trailed away and what she said next was less than a whisper. “That's all I'll ever be.”

  “You're wrong. What you are is perfection, Catherine, and it was only when you went away that I knew it for sure.

  “That's why I've shown you this.”

  “I don't … understand,” she stammered.

  “Well, you're right. My mother would kill me if she knew I'd shown you her strawberry patch. She found it when she was younger than we are now and it's never failed to produce year after year.

  “The problem, though, is that I am a poor man who would give you your every heart's desire. Except that these are the only jewels I have to offer the woman I love. The woman I have always loved, even if she is an educated … beautiful … washerwoman,” he finished.

  Catherine wanted to turn away from him then. She wanted more than anything to refuse him and all the rest of it.

  But with each word that passed his lips, Jacq had moved closer to her until his nose nearly touched her own.

  Then his mouth was on hers and Catherine let fall her anger over the life that fate imposed upon her rather than the one she had hoped for as much as her family had.

  Lips glided across one another and their kiss tasted of strawberries and of a fresh young man and woman in the burgeoning of their adult lives.

  The ferns were soft beneath them as they fell down together in a tangle of arms and legs. Their breathing came heavy and rapid and they both trembled with what they meant to do, yet had never planned to do in their most wild dreams.

  Neither of them spoke, yet their eyes said volumes as Jacq leaned back from the trembling woman beneath him and took her hand in his own.

  Her fingers clasped his, then he untangled himself from her and pressed her palm to his chest and whispered, “Do you feel this, Catheri
ne? My heart is pounding like I just ran a hundred leagues, and it's because of you.”

  She shook her head as she felt the hammer strokes of his young heart beating under her touch.

  “Every beat,” he said as he leaned back down to her, “ … is for you.”

  Catherine shook her head slowly, then said, “You lie. Like you did when you pretended you couldn't speak, Jacq.”

  “No, I would never lie about this,” was his response.

  “Then promise me. Never ever lie to me again, Jacq. Promise that you will always be true.”

  Without hesitating he said, “I promise, Catherine. With all my heart and soul, I promise that no lie will ever find its way between us. I promise that my love for you will always be true.”

  She nodded, sagging back from him. Then, her voice suddenly urgent, she asked, “Is it true, Jacq? Do you really love me?”

  His serious eyes never flinched from her gaze as he looked steadily back at her.

  “I do love you, Catherine. I do.”

  Then she nodded once again before whispering as if she was afraid the forest around them could hear. “Then love me, Jacq. Right now.”

  He did not hesitate as his hands went to her bodice to undo the laces that held her full bosom in check.

  Then, they both laughed as he pulled one of the laces in the wrong direction and the nicely tied bow collapsed into a knot.

  Jacq tugged at it, his grin lopsided and slightly hopeless, before Catherine shooed his fumbling fingers away and undid the mess he had made.