The Alchemist: Dawn of Destiny Read online

  The Alchemist:

  Dawn of Destiny

  Book One of the

  Alchemist Trilogy

  L.A. Wasielewski

  Copyright ©2018 by L.A. Wasielewski

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced in any way without the express permission of the publisher or author.

  Cover design by Bobooks.

  Find me on:

  Twitter @AuthorBebedora

  Facebook: @LAWasielewski

  Website: lawasielewski.com (Including exclusive color maps, extra web content, and much more!)

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to everyone who has encouraged and inspired me during this journey. First, to my husband and son, for their support and love even amidst writing tantrums. More thanks to hubby, for being the most incredible and honest editor and sounding board. My test readers, Quinn Fitzpatrick, April Lewis, and Philip Milbrath. Your feedback was essential and so very appreciated. Thank you for taking so much of your time to help! Chris Lewis, the grooviest map guru around! Sean R. Frazier, all-around rad guy, advice-giver extraordinaire, and the source of most of my twitter-related fits of uncontrollable laughter. Buy his books! Also to Betsy Fong, Natali Heuss, Robin Janney, Katie Masters, and Rob Nugent for their awesomeness in various fields of expertise!

  For the Saurus

  PROLOGUE

  The jeweler’s hands were steady and precise.

  A white-haired man sat hunched over the well-worn workbench, the dim light of a single lantern the only illumination in the tiny workshop. Thousands of pieces of jewelry had been crafted at this very station, precious gems and gold transformed from raw materials into works of art.

  He heated a thin silver rod in a tiny forge, just enough to make it malleable, before bending the glimmering material into a swirling setting. He worked for the better part of an hour, re-heating and twisting the metal until he was happy with the design. Finally satisfied, he quenched the piece one final time in water, steam billowing up around his face.

  The village outside his window was quiet, sleeping as peacefully as they could as war ravaged their country. Frost covered the corners of the thin glass panes. He heard movement behind him—a pained grunt—but did not turn to make sure his guest was alright. It was clear the man was injured when he knocked on the door in the middle of the night, but the jeweler’s assistance had been dismissed. Instead, the traveler merely handed him a large handful of coins and beseeched him to craft an item of great importance. Who it was for, he refused to say.

  Anyone else would have been unnerved by the presence of a mysterious warrior behind them, observing every detail of their work. But the jeweler was confident in his talent and experience, and was unfazed by the scrutiny. He had a job to do, and he was damn sure going to make it perfect—even if his visitor was bleeding all over the floor.

  The figure behind him moved closer, leaning over his shoulder. The smell of blood and sweat was overpowering. The jeweler tried not to gag as he offered the piece for inspection. After a moment, the visitor sighed in relief and produced a small pouch from within his cloak. As the leather cinch was opened, the goldsmith felt a tingle up his spine that made his hair stand on end.

  “Take it. Please…”

  The man’s words were pained and desperate. Accepting the stone from the shaking gloved hand of his guest, the lapidary immediately noticed the snow white cabochon shimmered from the inside, emitting its own soft light. He had never before encountered a stone like this. The instant it touched his skin, warmth seeped into his flesh and began tracking up his arm. The power that surged from the gem was intoxicating.

  The jeweler curled his fingers around the bauble, welcoming the sensation streaming through his veins. Flashes of energy streaked past his eyes. Power, magic, good and evil—eternity. All floating within the gem. Nothing mattered to him in that moment—except the stone.

  He snapped himself from the feeling of ecstasy, hurriedly placing the stone on a small velvet cloth. He suddenly felt cold and weak, the aura around him dissipating rapidly. Even though he had enjoyed the feeling of elation and strength, a powerful presence had crept in on his vision, and a haunting voice had projected directly into his mind, sternly telling him to let the gem go. It was not meant for him.

  “Please hurry…”

  For the first time in his career, his hands shook. He missed the power surging across his nerves. Quickly making his final measurements, he heated the thin silver filaments one last time, and nestled the gem in the setting. He suddenly wanted the newly-crafted amulet—and his guest—as far away from him as possible. The jeweler handed the piece to his visitor, hoping it was the last time he would ever have to touch it.

  The soldier lifted the talisman from wrinkled hands and held it close to his face. Only then did the goldsmith turn to look at him directly. A black cloak covered crystalline mail, spattered with blood. The man wore a mask over his eyes and nose, held to his hood with small tacks inlaid with the same crystal as his armor. A glittering crystal sword rested in a scabbard on his back, held in place by red leather straps. Though hunched in pain, the soldier still towered over the aging goldsmith. The man had never shared his name or where he came from, and the jeweler felt he never would.

  Soft words in a language the jeweler did not recognize filled the room, the man’s lips brushing across the surface of the embedded gem. Mist tumbled from his mouth, the charm greedily drinking the fog like a cheap brew. The jewel glowed brightly as the last of the words reached the jeweler’s ears. In an instant, it changed color, the milky white hue replaced by a deep royal purple. The glaring light shining from the stone dimmed, the gem now shimmering from the inside as swirls of iridescent glitter moved within the bauble. The warrior wordlessly pointed to a simple silver chain hanging from a rack above the worktable. Obliging him, the goldsmith removed it from the hook and placed it in his hand beside the newly-created talisman. A weak but thankful smile crossed the blood-spattered face under the eye mask before both amulet and chain were returned to the pouch.

  The soldier raised his hand in the air and tracked it down over the face of the jeweler, a whispered incantation causing the old man to slump forward and lay his head on the worktable. In the morning, aside from a headache, he would have no recollection of the events of the night before.

  Wrapping his cloak around himself, the warrior stumbled out into the moonless night, blood splattering on the fresh snow.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “A man chooses his destiny the way he chooses when and where to sleep. The particulars are flexible and up for debate. But it will happen.”

  --The wisdom of Leeothea Nye, grandmother of Ryris Bren.

  “Ryris Bren, do you really think you’d be able to leave without saying goodbye?”

  The alchemist turned awkwardly, the sound of the booming voice startling him. He nearly knocked a cluster of bottles from the counter. One of them wobbled precariously on the edge, before gravity took hold and brought it to the ground with a shattering crash. Green liquid spilled into the spaces between the floor stones. The alchemy shop owned by the Brens—Maxxald and his son Ryris—was old, and the potion quickly seeped into the dusty grout.

  Hundreds of bottles lined rickety shelves and alchemical ingredients covered every available space. Bunches of desiccated herbs hung from crooked nails hammered into the heavy wooden ceiling beams. Jars of dried flower petals, bottles of preserved insect wings,
and dishes of sparkling mineral chips were readily available to the customers who frequented the small shop. The more precious fare, like needle weed and blood mist were locked away in cabinets behind the counter or sealed in display cases as far from the door as possible. If there was one thing Maxx wasn’t—it was careless with his merchandise.

  Blackthorne Village may have been out of the way on the map, but loyal alchemy lovers from all over the empire chose Bren’s because of their expertise, honest prices, and incredible selection. Several hundred ingredients resided within the walls of the store, most carefully harvested by both Ryris and his father. While a great number of them were easy to obtain with a little hard work and know-how, there were a fair amount that took determination and courage. Yes, the Brens had suppliers that would stock them on merchandise from far-off lands. But for the most part, they procured their goods themselves, sometimes at significant risk. Spelunking in dark caves, wading through festering swamplands, trudging through the deep snow drifts of the Screaming Peaks—the pair had done it all.

  The Brens had a reputation for being alchemy geniuses. Their tinctures were legendary. Some attributed it to years of study, long hours toiling over bubbling alembics, and grinding their fingers to the bone with a mortar and pestle. Fair and true—but not exactly the case. The two men couldn’t explain it, and didn’t really feel the need to—but their expertise was so much more than learned. Maybe it was in their blood, their genes. Maxx’ mother once called it ‘the touch’. A simple, yet very honest description of their skill set. They simply knew the right ways, the correct ingredients. They lived and breathed alchemy—it was who they were, who their ancestors had been—who the universe had destined them to be.

  It was what Ryris had always envisioned for himself.

  As he looked around the shop, he felt great pride in the business, pride in what he and his father had worked so hard to create. He also felt his stomach jump when his visitor bumped a display case as he crossed the door threshold, nearly toppling a thin glass vase containing dried brumble weed. The guest steadied the vase with giant, calloused hands before turning to face the young man. He pointed to the spilled liquid on the floor.

  “Now you’ve done it. Your dad’ll have your head for wastin’ potions.” The door shut, instantly cutting off the blast of cold air. Heavy footsteps approached, the bottles near the entryway clinking together as the weight of the giant man jostled the shelving they sat on.

  Ryris smiled and bent over to pick up the shards of glass. His muffled voice wafted up from behind the counter. “It was one of my creations, Grildi.”

  Grildi laughed heartily as he leaned his elbows on the workspace and peered down over the top. He took off his wool cap, exposing a shiny bald head. “Even worse! Not to talk stink about Maxx, but...” Grildi stopped himself, realizing Maxx may be within earshot.

  Ryris grinned as he moved to the end of the counter and threw the broken bottle bits into the fireplace. “We’ll soon find out if I have what it takes, right?”

  The hulking man’s smile faded and his shoulders slumped. “Don’t remind me. Keld is too far away.”

  “Don’t go getting weepy, I’ll write you whenever I can.”

  “You know I’m not that good at reading.”

  “Consider it practice, then. You’ll hear my tales of adventure and prosperity in the big city and hone your literacy skills at the same time.” Ryris offered an encouraging smile.

  Grildi’s eyes crinkled at the sides as his lips curled. Grildi Amzod was the self-appointed village security guard, and the residents were happy to allow him the title. Standing just under seven feet tall and weighing more than two average men combined, he seemed perfectly suited for the job—if you didn’t know him well. The townsfolk knew him as kind-hearted and fiercely protective over his friends, but outsiders had no idea. And that suited the people of Blackthorne just fine. To any stranger wanting to make a scene or commit a crime, he was a menacing, muscular beast who wouldn’t hesitate to snap you in two before throwing you into the Whispering River. That was, when he wasn’t batting his eyes at the baker to get a berry pie gratis or cuddling with one of the many village cats. To the people of the town, he was just ‘their Grildi’.

  Ryris came back from the hearth and slapped Grildi on the forearm. “And no, I didn’t think I could get away with leaving before I said farewell.”

  “Good. ‘Cause I’d have to hunt you down and—“

  “—toss me in the river.” Ryris moved the remaining bottles away from the edge of the counter.

  “You think you’d let me do it for old times’ sake?”

  “Absolutely not! The water’s freezing and I can’t afford to be sick when I open the new shop.”

  Grildi pouted and picked at a leather lace poking out of his jacket sleeve. Ryris could tell he was about to get mushy.

  “I tell you what, when I come home to visit, I’ll bring you a present from the capital.” He held his hands out wide in front of himself. “A big one.”

  “Aye.” Grildi reached across the counter and grabbed the young man by the shoulders, pulling him up and toward his body with such intensity that the alchemist thought all the air would be forced from his lungs.

  Ryris’ eyes bulged as he struggled to draw in a breath, and he wildly flailed his hands against his friend’s massive biceps. His words were raspy and urgent as his feet knocked against the backside of the shop’s counter. “Gr-Grildi…can’t breathe!”

  The older man gasped and let go, sending Ryris tumbling backwards onto his rear end. Grildi reached over and extended a giant hand to help him up, an embarrassed expression crossing his face. “Sorry, Boss. Just wanted you to remember me, that’s all.”

  Ryris attempted to catch his breath as he allowed his friend to help him back to his feet. “Don’t you worry; you’re one person I’ll never forget. And who knows, maybe you’ll get the chance to come visit.” He turned his attention to the dwindling light filtering through the old shop windows. “You’d better get to your nightly patrol. It’s almost time to lock the gates.”

  Grildi puffed out his chest. Ryris knew he took his job very seriously, and would risk his life protecting the village and its inhabitants. As the lumbering man opened the plain hardwood door, he turned to face his friend one last time.

  “I’m awful proud of you, boy. Even if your daddy is scared for you to go.” He sighed deeply. “And I know your ma would have been proud, too.”

  “Thank you, Grildi. That means more than you’ll ever know.”

  The man hesitated at the threshold with a silent, sincere smile before opening the door wide, the brisk autumn air rushing in at full force. Grildi replaced his hat and raised his collar around his neck, hunching his back in an attempt to keep himself warm. He waved his hand over his shoulder, the door slamming shut behind him.

  Looking to the last drops of the green restorative elixir on the floor, Ryris sighed somberly. It hit him that he would truly be leaving in the morning. He had grown up in the small apartment in the back with his father and maternal grandmother. It had been crowded and never private, but it was home. When his grandmother died, the place had seemed so empty, even though it was filled to the brim with books, bottles, and the occasional live alchemical specimen.

  He really was going to miss Blackthorne and its residents—especially Grildi. After his mother had been killed, Grildi had taken it upon himself to comfort him as best he could. He wasn’t the smartest man and had a slower way about him. But Grildi was kind and caring, and had become a true friend over the years.

  Even at twenty years his senior, Grildi sometimes had the mind of a child, and that suited Ryris just fine during his formative years. He would spend his days following the large man around town, jabbering in his ear about alchemy while he accompanied the guard on his duties. They would occasionally venture into the woods, making sure to steer very clear of the deep, foreboding inner forest. The pair would sometimes collect specimens for Maxx, the elder Bren alw
ays paying Grildi a fair price for retrieval.

  As Ryris aged and his intellect grew, he realized how special his older friend was—and how important to his life he had been. Grildi had always been there for him.

  The young alchemist didn’t have many friends. All the children his age had been more interested in playing war games in the forest than mixing potions and sorting alchemical ingredients. And as they aged, they grew more and more apart in interests. It wasn’t that the other young villagers were unkind to him; they just didn’t have anything in common other than place of birth. When they were busy learning the ways of the village lumberjacks or going off to join the army, Ryris’ nose had been in books, his hands coated in the grime of alchemy. He was too engrossed in learning everything he could from his father about their trade.

  An icy whirlwind snapped him from his thoughts as his father barreled through the door, arms full of various packages. Ryris rounded the counter and scrambled to help the older man before the parcels tumbled from his hands.

  “I see you’ve done nothing but daydream about Keld today.” Maxx’ voice wafted around the packages.

  Maxxald Bren was a salty old man. He had seen his fair share of tough times, and had risen above to make a name for himself in the alchemical world. His own mother, like Ryris’, had passed away when he was young and his hard-nosed father had raised him. There had been times their shop—the one they still ran to this day—didn’t see customers for months, and this meant their stomachs were never quite full, the coffers holding nothing but dust. Never attending formal school, the elder Bren learned all he needed from his own father, all while toiling away at an alchemist’s worktable. He wasn’t “book smart” so to speak; he didn’t know history or care about the position of the stars. But when it came to common sense and good old fashioned know-how, he had more than a head start on anyone who wanted to challenge him. The alchemical knowledge contained within his head was vast enough to write books from, but he had no interest in adding to the volumes stored in libraries. Wise beyond his already long years, he wasn’t one to mince words. If he didn’t like you—or what you were doing—he told you as much. He didn’t have time to pussyfoot around anyone’s feelings.