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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