The Alchemist's Daughter. Elaine Knighton

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