The Tower's Alchemist (The Gray Tower Trilogy, #1)

CHAPTER NINE

  I made it past the city gate just before curfew began. The bells of Notre Dame clanged in a crescendo that reverberated throughout the town, and the smell of the murky Seine filled my nostrils. William the Conqueror had burned much of the town to the ground a few hundred years ago. Yet, that didn’t stop it from being rebuilt. I supposed that spirit of tenacity inspired people like Mathieu to join the Resistance and keep fighting. Though I knew I could find him in this town, I didn’t know which house or building he broadcasted his nightly shows from. I had no friends or contacts in this city, and worst of all I just realized that I had lost my knife back at the university.

  I could still do magic without it, but my knife was a ritual tool, a conduit of energy and concentration. I had specifically requested that it be made of gold because the types of alchemical spells I liked to cast flowed with more power and harmony when I used the precious metal. The Gray Tower gave it to me as a parting gift when I left.

  “Excuse me.” I slipped past a woman and her child and snaked my way through the small crowd. I arranged my clothes and smoothed my blonde wig, all the while thinking of where I would hide if I were Mathieu.

  Some people headed toward the church, while others approached the shops begging for scraps. A few of the town dwellers ushered some of the refugees toward their homes. Some rushed inside their buildings, locking their doors behind them. A tall woman stood outside the local inn, handing out cups of water to those who needed it. I approached and accepted a drink.

  “I’m sorry this is all I could offer.” She took the cup when I finished, and gestured toward the partly open doorway. “The inn is full.”

  “Thank you.” I turned and headed in the direction of the church, ignoring the hunger gnawing at my stomach. The drawn faces passing me, looking like those of ghosts, and the energy of this town, writhing with tension, made me feel like I wasn’t in the Mantes I had known. It all certainly changed from when I had first arrived, fresh out of college, and met the wizards who invited me to join the Order.

  Brande would annoy me whenever he tried to turn a conversation into how I should return to the Gray Tower. Sometimes I suspected that he only visited me because they sent him directly. Now, having seen what alchemists like Heilwig could do, perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  I had joined the Order partly out of curiosity, but mostly because I wanted to explore these abilities I had been born with and to participate in my father’s legacy. Within my first month of testing, they had placed me as an alchemist, and I learned body magic along the way.

  “Inside, everyone!” An older man stood at the foot of the crowd, waving his arms, while a boy pointed toward the trekker approaching town.

  Everyone rushed to wherever they could, so they’d be out of the way. I wasn’t too keen on breaking curfew either, so I continued making my way toward the church. I paused when I spotted the woman and child I had seen earlier. Some creep walked a little too closely behind them and grabbed the woman’s bag, nearly ripping her arm out as he wrested it from her. The woman protested and he knocked the little girl to the ground as he darted in my direction.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I growled through clenched teeth as I caught his arm and tripped him with my right foot. He stumbled to the ground and I grabbed the bag. He looked ready for round two, but the look in my eye told him that he’d better not try.

  “Thank you...thank you.” The woman cradled her daughter in her arms and accepted the bag from me.

  “Let’s get into the church.” I ushered her along when I saw the familiar glare of the trekker’s headlights. Two SS officers jumped out.

  We rushed up the church steps, and as I entered through the west doorway, I could smell the sweet scent of incense burning and see the flicker of candles in one of the apses. The stained glass windows grew dimmer with the progressive sunset, and as I made it further into the church, I noticed that the altar lay bare. A long white banner that hung across the sanctuary quoted 1 Corinthians 2:16: For who hath known the mind of the Lord, that we may instruct him? But we have the mind of Christ.

  The Order of Wizards promised to protect the Mind of God, or the Akashic Record... whatever one wanted to call it. We believed this was the Knowledge of the Universe, and only the most powerful wizards had limited access to it. The coven of Black Wolves lusted for it, but the Order stood in its way because we knew that full access to the Akashic Record would bring disaster on both the wizard and humanity as a whole.

  This was why Drifters, wizards who could drift in and out of time and access the entire Akashic Record, were considered illicit by the Order. Personal virtue didn’t matter—if you were a Drifter, you were anathematized and as good as dead. Not even being a member of the Order protected you. The Gray Tower executed the three last known Drifters a long time ago.

  I quietly made my way past a handful of refugees who gathered in the church. For these people, the war was as real to them as it was to me. I couldn’t imagine the devastation of my home being destroyed and being left with nothing. While many cities escaped bomb drops and gunfights, sadly, not all did. It looked like the parish priest had no problem welcoming people in from the chaos. The refugees slept in pews, prayed, or sat and conversed in hushed voices.

  I caught the eye of a young priest who emerged from the sacristry. He probably thought I had been harassed and beaten by the SS, because he eyed me with a mix of pity and horror. He approached and instructed me to join him in a secluded corner.

  “Are you hurt? What happened to you?”

  Though I doubted any Gestapo agents lurked among the refugees, one never knew. “May I make a confession, Father?”

  He nodded slowly and pointed toward the nearest confessional. I went inside and waited, clearing my throat and trying to think of what to say. I wasn’t a Catholic, so it felt odd to me sitting in that small private space. Anyhow, I wasn’t really there for a confession. I needed rest, and my next lead to finding Mathieu Perrine.

  “May God, who has enlightened every heart, help you to know your sins and trust in His mercy.” He patiently waited on the other side of the screen.

  “Father, I need help. I have to find Mathieu Perrine.”

  There was a long pause. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Noelle.”

  “No, who are you? In the sight of God and within the protection of the Seal of Confession, tell me who you are.”

  I didn’t know why, but I shuddered. “I’m...a lost person, trying to find a way to help right some wrongs.”

  He said nothing for a few seconds. “And that is all we are asked to do, one step at a time and one day at a time. Why do you need Mathieu?”

  “Because I need his help.”

  “How can I trust whether or not you have good intentions?”

  “You can’t...but don’t you believe in having faith?”

  “I also believe in responsibility. I have a responsibility to my parishioners and those refugees.”

  I sighed. “I’ve read about that Polish priest sent to Auschwitz for his defiance...and the Dutch Carmelite too. Sounds like those men were willing to not only speak about faith, but also do something.”

  “True.”

  “And the codeword is destiny, Father.”

  “Thank you, I was wondering when you were going to get around to that.”

  “Look, why don’t you just point me in the direction of one of his relatives’ houses?” This guy was as evasive as any spy I’d ever met.

  “That would be difficult, young lady.”

  “Why?”

  “Mathieu has no living relatives in this town.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Anything that could lead me to him, Father.”

  “Do you know his real name?”

  “No.”

  “Then let me properly introduce myself. I am Father Alexis, also known as Mathieu Perrine.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh, or to just get up and walk out. “Father...”

 
“The decision to believe me is completely yours to make,” he said in that voice that was familiar to me and to so many others. If he wasn’t Mathieu, he was damned good at imitating him.

  “Well, Father...it’s good to meet you. Now, do you have any food?”