Vol 6, Chapter 18

◆ Eagle's Cliff, Alchemist's Apprentice Keo's POV. ◆


"Sample number forty-five shows the greatest effectiveness. All colonies have died," Keo concluded and touched the protruding pin of the magoscope. Cores had to be conserved.

The device went dark. In the laboratory, instead of the faint hum of a magical field, there was the sound of water trickling. No longer bound by magic, the liquid pooled at the foot of the instrument.

"Are you sure? Last time we had to recheck the whole batch because of you," came a voice from the next room, accompanied by the soft clinking of glassware.

"I sneezed just once! How was I supposed to know it would affect the water lenses?" the young alchemist protested for the hundredth time, but just in case, he took more lenses from the shelf and began preparing a second sample. It would need to be checked on another magoscope… just to be safe.

Nothing changed. Keo opened the thick journal and carefully filled out the protocol. Then he spent several minutes flipping through pages, comparing results and times. It seemed this sample really was the best.

So, they had achieved their goal.

Would this tedious routine finally end? At first, it had been interesting to fuss with mold, but by the end of the first week the research had become monotonous. What kind of research was it if nothing burned or exploded? The only respite was practice at the local manufactory, where something exploded on a regular basis.

Shuffling steps sounded behind him. The laboratory's overseer had returned.

"How fares the special mold?" the meister asked the assistant.

"Dying, even after placing a core near the dish. For it to grow, something stronger is needed," his colleague replied, shaking a vial.

"Hm. Meister Orin, please take a look," Keo called to the elder.

The old man shuffled over to the magoscope. He didn't even bother to turn it on, merely glanced at the sample and reached for the journal.

"Which sample?"

"Forty-five, master."

"Hm. Where's it from?" the old man asked, squinting at the protocol.

"From some village near the Goblin Forest. I can check…"

"No need. Well then, it seems this is the best we have. I'll issue an order today to begin mass cultivation of this strain."

"So, we're finished?" Keo asked hopefully.

"Oh, not at all. This is only the first stage. The sample produces the required substances well enough, but it is still an entire mixture, containing both what we need and what is harmful. We must find a way to purify it, and for that we'll use everything: freezing, sublimation, distillation, filtration, and of course… centrifuges." The last word the meister pronounced with reverence.

Keo's spirits sank. It looked like he'd be stuck with this muck for months more.

"But if that doesn't appeal to you, there's good news. The Lord plans to sharply increase the production of percussion caps and is opening a manufactory in Reikland. He needs alchemists to prepare the explosive mixture. If you want…"

"Of course I want!" the young man interrupted.

"Good. Pack your things and take a carriage to Ligrad."

"Why not directly to Reikland?"

"I'll explain…"

***************************

◆ Ligrad, Railway Station, Alchemist’s Apprentice Keo’s POV. ◆

The road was long. All along the way repairs were underway. Drainage ditches were being dug, the roadbed covered with gravel and sand. At times, the wagon had to cross ditches or leave the road altogether to avoid blocking the workers.

He arrived in Ligrad, a small but cozy town, early in the morning. Luckily, in the morning. Had it been night, Keo might have thought he was still dreaming.

What else could he think when a multi-meter-long steel caterpillar thundered past, puffing steam and smoke, clanking with its metal joints?

Frightened, he staggered back, nearly knocking over a short, stout merchant dressed to the nines.

"My apologies," Keo said quickly.

"It's nothing, I shouldn't have been standing behind you. The first time, I was nearly trampled. People scattered in every direction!" the merchant smiled, turning his gaze after the train.

Keo followed his example, reluctant to admit that the only reason he hadn't run was because he'd tripped over the merchant.

Now the steel monster didn't seem so terrifying, since it wasn't moving straight toward him. But the amount of cargo it carried… that was terrifying. Railcars filled to the brim with gravel, each the size of a decent hut. Neat rows of wooden posts, soaked with something like tar, leaving behind a strange, alchemical smell. Steel rods as thick as an arm… By the way.

Waiting until the monster had gone far enough, Keo jumped down from the platform. Gravel rustled angrily underfoot, unable to pierce the wooden soles of his boots. A quick kick!

Clang.

Indeed, metal. Not just his imagination.

The metal bars stretched in an endless line toward the mountains, as far as the eye could see. He ran one way, then the other, but saw no joints. Keo turned to the merchant, who watched his investigation with a sly twinkle in his eye.

"They've thrown so much iron right onto the ground. Aren't they afraid it'll be stolen? Or that it'll rot away and crumble with rust?" Keo asked him.

The merchant spread his hands.

"Perhaps, but if you looked deeper, you'd realize it doesn't matter."

The young alchemist gave a thoughtful look. Looking deeper—that was his specialty!

"They won't dare steal it, because it's guarded by that smoking monster?" he guessed.

The merchant laughed.

"No… Didn't you see what that train was carrying? It delivers the materials for its own road. The workers need only lay them down, so the construction happens right before your eyes. I admit, it was… shocking. And that's despite the fact I had already seen how quickly they can build here!""

Keo shrugged and climbed back onto the platform. What struck him more was the sheer amount of metal poured into the monster and the rails it slid upon. Surely, if that much had been forged into swords, an entire army could have been armed. He even found it strange that the merchant seemed indifferent—shouldn't merchants be the first to think of such things?

The merchant laughed again at his unspoken question.

"No… You simply don't understand what you've seen."

"Something like an iron golem pulling cargo for an entire caravan?" the boy tried to guess the merchant's logic.

He shook his head.

"Not quite. It's a river."

"A river?" The young alchemist smiled politely, beginning to suspect that the plump fellow's mental health wasn't entirely sound. If there was one thing that thing didn't look like, it was a river!

"Since ancient times, trade was carried out by rivers. It was safe and, most importantly, cheap. A barge could carry enormous amounts of cargo with almost no effort. Of course, if you're trading in something light and valuable, you can hire caravans, but goods like timber or ore depended heavily on rivers. Sometimes so much so that trading them became unprofitable. The Commonwealth understood this well—their land is crisscrossed with artificial canals. Here, only the Fourth Duke invested in building artificial rivers. Even then, it was extremely difficult and costly. Digging a ditch is easy, peasants can do that, but ensuring it carries enough water so the canal doesn't shallow, dry up, and remains navigable—that is another matter. But now… now a steel river can be laid anywhere." The merchant gazed dreamily toward the horizon, where black smoke still hung.

"Do you deal in ore?" the alchemist tried to understand his joy.

"Oh, no. I grow cotton and make cloth. The finest cloth." He tugged at his suit. "But perhaps I'll branch out. The Lord wants me to build a weaving mill right here, to avoid hauling orders across half the country. But alas, cotton loves warmth. It can't be grown here in the north. And hauling raw cotton here… it's more profitable for me to transport finished goods."

"I see…" the boy murmured.

"I can tell your clothes are flax. You're probably about to say something like, 'But you could grow flax or hemp instead,' aren't you?"

The young alchemist nodded helplessly, though he hadn't thought of anything of the kind. The merchant's talkativeness was beginning to wear on him.

"And you'd be right! Indeed, I could buy up fields, retool the looms, but the fabric… the fabric would be worse. My reputation as a seller of the best cloth would suffer. And reputation in our trade is precious. Of course, if production—"

"Ahem, sir. I see you know a lot. Could you tell me where to find a carriage to Reikland?"

"Oh, that's a bad idea. The land around here is still quite wild, there are beasts along the roads. You must travel only with guards or in a caravan. But caravans are slow to gather, and judging by your appearance—you can't afford guards. But there is a way. When the train heads back, you can ride it. They don't take just anyone, of course, but I can vouch for you."

"I already have a letter of passage," Keo said glumly, instinctively checking to see if Meister Orin's letter was still safe.

"Then what's the problem?" the merchant asked, surprised.

Keo only waved his hand. So, he wouldn't escape the fate of climbing into the monster's maw.

"I wonder where they get so much gravel?" the boy asked awkwardly, trying to change the subject.

"Oh, Reikland is full of the stuff. I even heard they plan to bring down an entire mountain… By the way, the train just left, so it won't be back for a while. Come, let's have some tea. I wouldn't advise eating much—an empty train rushes so fast it can make a newcomer sick to their stomach!"

"Save me, One," the boy sighed heavily and followed the merchant.

********************************************************

◆ Capital of the Theocracy, Grand Temple, First Prince's POV. ◆

"Bless you, Your Highness. Such grim tidings on the eve of so great an event…"

"Thank you, Your Excellency," the First Prince bowed humbly. "If possible, I would like to be excused from today's ceremony. I must reflect and honor my father's memory."

"We shall hold a prayer service…"

"No. I wish to do it myself."

"Very well, my prince. Any small altar will be at your full disposal. I will inform the Council of Bishops of your absence. They, too, have much to consider."

Folding his hands in prayer, the High Priest left the narrow cell, leaving the prince alone. The stone door shut, and now only the endless ringing of bells seeped through. They had tolled without ceasing for more than a month. And they would continue until the Holy See was filled once more by one worthy to claim it.

The tiny cell could have been mistaken for a prison. In fact, some prisons were more livable. Thick walls of hewn stone, close enough to touch by simply spreading one's arms; a wooden bench, long enough only for a dwarf to lie upon; an icy floor, its chill restrained by nothing but a meager rug. It seemed terrible, yet in truth it allowed one to relax and quiet the mind. The room was not a cage, but a shelter.

The Prince rose from the bench and, with effort, pushed the stone door aside. Like everything else around him, it was sturdy and immovable.

Through years of meditation, prayers, and rituals, the Prince's inner clock had become flawless.

He knew precisely: it was noon in the outer world.

Beyond the cell stretched eternal night, and emptiness.

Only floor candelabras cast their timid light, faintly illuminating the endless darkness. They served as islands, landmarks. Yet priests and monks strove to avoid stepping into the light… they moved between, in the darkness.

The people of the Kingdom considered the great temple in the capital vast. And it truly was: gold, stained glass, vaults soaring dozens of meters above the ground. It rivaled the Royal Palace in size and awed every believer. Anyone entering it seemed like an ant…

But only a chosen few had the honor of comparing it to the Grand Temple of the Theocracy: the Temple of the Holy See. And those who had, no longer considered the capital's temple anything remarkable.

The Grand Temple of the Theocracy was not merely great; the word was inadequate. The surrounding darkness made it endless. One could run for hours in any direction and encounter only identical candelabras and flickering firelight. The sense of space and direction vanished… distant flames seemed like stars, leaving east and west indistinguishable.

Even the act of moving toward the Holy See, the Altar at the temple's center, was already a pilgrimage. Tiny cells built along the path were a refuge from the infinite void reigning around. Neophytes often collapsed in exhaustion soon after entering. Their restless minds conjured monsters hiding in the dark, driving even calm souls to hysteria.

Yet here there was only emptiness.

If some mage were to launch a fireball straight upward… even assuming he could manage it without collapsing the moment he crossed the temple's gate… it would fly and fly until it dissolved in the dark, never meeting a ceiling.

From outside, the temple appeared as a colossal man-made mountain, hollow within, a cyclopean construction whose peak drowned in clouds, hidden from sight. Only those who climbed it knew just how high it truly stood.

It was impossible to fly to the summit. Any magical being lost strength and suffocated the moment it drew near. The slopes were strewn with dried bodies of pilgrims who had failed their climb. Legend claimed that one who reached the top could touch the One Himself.

But that was false. The Theocracy had built the Grand Temple for thousands of years, coming closer to the One than any other… yet even that was not enough. Thus every pilgrim carried with him a thrice-blessed stone, to add his share to the endless construction. He strapped it to his back, hoping to climb as high as possible…

After tens of minutes of walking, the Prince felt his way to a small altar. It stood alone in the dark, far from the candelabras. With his robe he wiped away the dust, drew a ritual dagger from its sheath, and sprinkled the stone with blood.

He prayed for hours for his father's soul, that it might cease its wandering through worlds and become one with the One. For that was the only path, the only way to break the endless circle of suffering. He prayed for his Second Brother, betrayed by greedy mages; for his mother and stepmother; even for the Fourth, though he had never followed the path. For all of them, and for himself.

But not for the Third. Or rather, not for what he had become.

The First Prince did not know how long it lasted. Time flowed differently in the absolute void. Minutes felt like days, and days like minutes.

There was only him and the altar glowing softly with the light of his blood.

"My prince." The High Priest's voice broke his trance.

"Yes?" His dry lips barely moved, as did his swollen tongue. His eyes stung as if filled with sand.

Or perhaps it was from the unbearable brightness of countless torches?

Crowds of people surrounded him. Too many… so many that even the darkness had retreated timidly beyond sight.

"The gathering is over. The Council of Bishops has reached a decision. Are you prepared to undergo elevation and take the Holy See?"