The Marechal Chronicles: Volume V, The Tower of the Alchemist by Aimélie Aames

from their homes, torches and lit lanterns in hand.
    “And to their great surprise, there stood the bridge that spans the Licq and still stands to this very day.  And when the river water runs clear enough, one can make out a void at the base of one of the bridge's foundation columns.
    “For it was there that the Laminak had been about to place the last stone to finish the bridge's construction, only to be fooled into thinking they had failed to finish before daybreak by an idiot cock's crowing.”
    The old man went silent and looked at Bellamere to see if the young man was still listening.
    The truth was that he had been, but he found his attention wandering as the Alchemist spoke while thinking over that little Harki might actually be real and not just a figment of his imagination.
    “ … curly mustache,” said the old man.
    “I'm sorry, what?” replied Bellamere.
    “Pay attention, boy.  I asked if your invisible friend sports a long and curly black mustache.”
    “Oh,” Bellamere said, “He doesn't have a mustache.”
    “No mustache?  Not even a little one?” asked the alchemist, visibly puzzled, “The tale was quite specific about the Laminak's love of twirling their mustaches.”
    “No, no … none at all.”
    But, then in a flash of inspiration, Bellamere said, “But he does have suspenders, Maitre.  In fact, he seems rather proud of them.”
    “Ah, suspenders in lieu of mustaches … I suppose it could be.  Fashions do change over time and all that.”
    “Is there anything else?” asked the alchemist.
    Bellamere nodded.
    “Well, as I've said before, he tells me all kinds of stories, some of which he has repeated many times before to the point I already know them by rote.  Only he ends up changing the details and the names, and it feels like he's just talking to hear himself talk instead of telling me real, true stories.”
    “Is that all?”
    “Well, no, not all.  There is one thing that he says all the time and that bubble … erm, I mean, lens that you made just now made me think of it.
    “He says it often, but most especially at night, or at the end of his longer stories most any time at all, but the most interesting part is he never varies how he says it.
    “'There is no light so sublime as that of the abyss overhead … the subtle light of darkness.'”
    The Alchemist moved away from the smith’s son, murmuring, “Yes, yes … subtle … abyss …”
    The Alchemist examined the bubble he called a lens, and Bellamere knew that the time afforded him was growing short.
    Without thinking, he blurted, “Sir, you know that I appreciate very much that you explain so many interesting things to me.  I was just thinking that maybe …”
    Bellamere shuffled his feet, suddenly uncomfortable over what he wanted to say.
    “Maybe you could take the time to explain them to Etienne, too … sir.”
    “Eh?  Etienne?  Don't think I haven't.  I have and then some.  But he is as stubborn and mule-headed as anyone I've ever known.”
    Bellamere persisted.
    “It's just that … sir … it's just that I think he would rather you spent more time with him instead of with all these books … sir.”
    The Alchemist frowned.
    “Ah.  So that's it, is it?  Of course. It always is.  When it comes down to it, it is always a question of time and how to spend what little remains to one.
    “But, and this is the most important facet of the equation, if I am to reach my goal then I must spend time in these books.  Then, and only then, with my success, will there be time enough for Etienne and me both.  Time enough for all that there is to say and do, and still there will be time left over.
    “He must wait, and it is a hard thing for a young man like him to understand.  And even more so when he refuses to understand the essentials of the problem.
    “Do you see?” the old man asked.
    Bellamere shook his head, although the Alchemist did not seem to notice.
    “One must search for that part that cannot