Someone was shouting and pounding on the door, but my mind was elsewhere, happily filled with formulas and images and hypotheses. Even when the hubbub finally started to break through my abstractions, I assumed it was just a messenger from the Abbot, here to berate me for (once again) blowing off my shift in the common laboratory.

Then I heard what they were shouting.

"Reinold! You must come! Your father is gone and your mother is dead!"

That snapped me out of my reverie.

I leapt from my chair, and for my troubles almost pitched headfirst onto the floor. Catching myself on my table, I shook my head and gathered my wits. "Coming!" I shouted back. "I'm coming!"

Still half-dazed, I stumbled to the door and drew back the bolt. A tiny part of me knew that if I would just conform and be like everyone else, I'd have no bolt on my door and the messenger could have come in and alerted me directly. How long had the messenger been there, knocking?

A young woman—one of the Abbot's serving staff, most likely—stood in the door, looking panicked. "This way," she said breathlessly, and lifting her skirts, ran swiftly down the hall.

I followed as best I could, semi-stumbling at first, but rapidly finding my stride. Mother? Dead? And what did she mean that my father was "gone"? I'd spoken to them both earlier in the day. Father had been nearly done with our experiment—the moment of truth was to have been this very evening. Gone?

The poor young woman was breathless and staggering by the time we reached my mother's laboratory, but I blessed all those hours traipsing around the hills and mountains with Mother, looking for alchemical reagents and potion ingredients. Barely winded, I burst through the laboratory doors ahead of the young woman and took in the scene.

Mother was prone on the floor, surrounded by several people. Broken retorts and spilled liquids littered the tables and floor.  One table had been upset entirely, and was lying on its side amid the debris.

I rushed to my mother's side, kneeling down between two senior artificers who were trying to administer some liquid to her. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a folded bit of parchment with an ornate seal in bright yellow wax. It tickled something in my memory, but I couldn't spare it any attention.

Mother. "What happened?" I asked. "Who did this?"

The artificer on my right, a senior alchemist named Osior, shook his head. "We don't know. At first, we even thought she was dead, killed in the struggle, but that was premature. Here, finish administering this while I apply a salve." He handed me the skin that he'd been holding just above her lips.

I took it and held it as I'd been trained, allowing the liquid to land in drops on her lips. I saw with relief that Osior was right: Mother was not dead. As the liquid seeped into her mouth I could see her throat convulse as she swallowed once, twice, three times. Her eyelids fluttered.

"Mother?" I asked. "Mother!"

Osior touched my shoulder. "Not yet, Reinold. She's alive, but she's going to need quite a bit of time before she can say what happened."

I nodded and continued to feed her the elixir, which was obviously restoring her somewhat. But Osior was right, I could see it myself now that I took the time to observe her objectively. The color of her skin, the texture of her lips. The slight inflammation of her eyelids around the corners of her eyes. She'd been poisoned, perhaps even magically. It had been clumsily done, but no less effective for that. She might be days in reviving. Weeks.

But at least she will revive, I thought.

Who would do this? I glanced around the room between drops of the elixir, and again noticed the piece of parchment. It definitely hadn't been there when I'd visited earlier. My fingers itched to grab it, and open it. Could it have something to do with all of this?

And where was Father? I asked as much of Osior, whose face darkened at my question.

"Your father is gone," he said. "One of the servants saw him go into your mother's laboratory, and when he came out again he was running. That was about an hour ago. No one has seen him since."

"Wait," I said. "Are you saying my father did this?" The idea was laughable. My father was a battlesmith, and an astonishingly large and strong man, but I'd never seen him so much as raise his voice to my mother, let alone hurt her. He adored her. Everyone knew that. My mother was exceptionally beautiful; many called her "breathtaking". Father considered himself the luckiest man alive, and had said as much on multiple occasions. "That's impossible!" I blurted, finally, unable to think of any other way to sum up what I was feeling.

"I'm not saying anything, yet," said Osior. "But even you must admit the situation is suspicious."

"Suspicious or not," I said, "it wasn't him. He would never do this."

Osior nodded dubiously. "Perhaps," he said. "But until your mother awakes and can answer these questions herself—assuming she is able to remember anything about it—the first order of business is finding your father."

I had to agree. "Is my mother going to be okay?" I asked.

"Yes, yes, of course. She's out of danger."

"In that case, may I go and see if I can find my father?"

Osior waved toward the door. "Certainly. Though I have a feeling he's fled the Tower."

"Thank you," I said, ignoring his suspicion. I stood up and arranged my exit so it took me past the table with the parchment on it.

As casually as possible I ran my hand along the table top, smoothly grabbed the paper, and slipped it into my pocket. It was stiff, but made little impression through the fabric. A quick glance around confirmed that everyone in the room was still focused on Mother. No one had noticed my bit of legerdemain.

I left the room, walking quickly. I had to find Father.

———

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