The Alchemist's Daughter. Elaine Knighton

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