The Alchemist

213 Pages·2002·0.78 MB·English

by  Boyd Donna

(Back Cover)
Imagine, if you will, the days spinning backward: a millennium ends here, a
century turns there, a year ends now, and another, and a thousand others, and
finally there are so many days, so many years ending and beginning that you can
no longer remember why it seemed important that you keep count of them at all.
And yet I have counted them. I have counted every one, marking the beginning
of each new year, of each new century, in my own quiet fashion. The years
change, but the question does not. Will this be it?
I ask myself. Will this be the year I tell my story, the whole of it, from beginning
to end, at last?
—from The Alchemist
(Jacket)
In a sweeping epic of dazzling magic, soaring suspense, and dark longing, three
immortal souls are united by fate and a fearless ambition that will change the
course of history—even as it destroys their own way of life…
On an upper floor of a plush, high-security building on Central Park West, an
elegant man sits in the office of Dr. Anne Kramer, confessing to the heinous
murder that has horrified the modern world.
Randolf Sontime is renowned for his personal charm, and Dr. Kramer is fighting
to keep from falling victim to it. For the first time in her life, she truly
understands the meaning of the word “charisma.” Not knowing that her own
destiny is irrevocably tied to his, Anne Kramer listens to the story of Sontime’s
life.
“It began with the magic, you see. And so, perforce, must I. ” As a boy named
Han at the House of Ra, an isolated oasis in the Egyptian desert of a far ancient
time, Sontime lived in privilege. There the chosen were trained in the science of
alchemy—magic, philosophy, miracles. Only two other initiates were as skilled
as he: Akan, quiet and studious, a boy whose thirst for knowledge was matched
only by his hunger for truth; and Nefar, beautiful and brilliant, a girl as filled
with wonder and unfathomable ambition as Han himself. Together they
discovered that in union, theirs was a power unmatched in the physical world.
But even in the House of Ra, there were boundaries to be observed, knowledge
that only the masters understood and feared. As the threesome’s thirst for
answers—and for each other—deepened, they were tempts’ the dark arts that
they had sworn to avoid.
“Look at three magnificent youths who stand, astride your world and scoff at the
rules you must obey… Look at us, and call us gods.” Their power was palpable,
their desire total—until the fateful moment when their alliance was forever
damned, their gifts horribly corrupted.
A seductive work that seethes with mystery and passion, The Alchemist hurtles
readers back through time to an era when magic was sacred and the workings of
the world lay in the hands of a few gifted but tortured souls. In a stunning feat of
unbridled imagination, Donna Boyd has created her most hypnotic novel to date.
The ALCHEMIST
DONNA BOYD
Copyright © 2002 by Donna Ball Inc.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Boyd, Donna. The alchemist I Donna Boyd.— 1st ed. p. cm. ISBN 0-345-44114-
1 I. Title.
PS3552.087757A79 2002 813‘.84—dc21 2001043637
ISBN 0-345-44114-1
Designed by Ann Gold
First Edition: January 2002
New York City
THE PRESENT
Even now he could see it: the shower of blood that had sprayed from a surprised
carotid artery, arching gracefully against a sundrenched sky where it seemed to
be captured for a moment in time and space, glistening drops of liquid life that
spun and danced like melted gold in a viscous suspension before raining in a
sweet gentle mist onto his face and skin and hair. He had expected the blood to
sizzle against his skin, to bore perfectly round holes through flesh and bone, to
burn the oxygen from the air and char his lungs to useless, crumbling remnants
with his first desperate gasp. But it had been only a warm shower, slippery and
rich with the elements of life. Lovely, really. A drop or two had landed on his
tongue as he drew in a breath of wonder, and he tasted salt. He had savored the
taste, and swallowed. Ah, that was the real alchemy.
The headlines were saturated with outrage. Words like brutal, vicious,
unimaginable, and horrific were repeated so often they lost their power, like a
rosary whose charm had been worn away by too many worrying fingers. Around
the globe the airwaves pulsed with images that were only the remnants of loss:
blood-splattered stones, masses of wailing mourners brought to their knees.
Around the world, evil had become a palpable thing.
He was the island against which the stormy waters tumbled and surged, raged
and lapped. To say he was unaffected would be a lie. But he was serene. When
the worst is over, one often is.

*
The offices of Dr. Anne Kramer were located in a high-security building on
Central Park West, an exclusive garden property that was protected by a stone
wall and ironwork gate that was more than ornamental. The walls were
upholstered and the floors were marble, the draperies heavy damask and the
carpets oriental. There were few mirrors, and each expensive, carefully selected
work of art had its own lighting. The furniture was dark and highly polished;
voices were hushed.

There was a German cabinet clock in the corner of her office that ticked off the
minutes with mechanical precision, and celebrated the hour by bringing to life a
musical diorama of dancers at its base. The legend was that the brass pendulum
on that clock had not stopped swinging in three hundred years. Even when it was
shipped overseas, its owner had hired someone to supervise its movement,
placement, and regular winding, so that it would not stop ticking. It had been
ticking still when it was transferred to Anne's office.
Now she timed her appointments by it, and the steady rhythmic sound was as
soothing as the heartbeat of eternity, quiet, predictable, inevitable.
Her space was designed to be an oasis in the midst of chaos, a stalwart harbor at
the edge of the storm.
But even here the murmur of upheaval seeped through, in the form of the
telephone, the television, the shocked, distressed faces of those who passed in
the corridors or paused at the water cooler to exchange a few hushed and
strained words. Unbelievable, they said. Unforgivable, they agreed.
He waited in her consultation office, a slender, elegant figure of a man with
aristocratic features and thick silver hair. His face was composed, his skin
golden-colored and unlined. He could have been anywhere between thirty-five
and seventy. He had the kind of effortlessly maintained good looks that, like his
casually tailored European clothes, were the trademark of uncounted generations
of extreme wealth. His hands were folded lightly atop his trademark gold-
knobbed walking stick, and his attention was on the television set that Anne
normally kept behind the closed doors of a Louis Quatorze armoire. He did not
look up when she came in.
Anne was briefly annoyed that he had made himself so much at home in her
office as to open the armoire and turn on the television set, then she recognized
the reaction for what it was—a defensive response to the invasive stresses of the
day. Politely, and because she could not control a certain amount of grim
fascination for the story herself, Anne waited until the newscaster finished
announcing the details of the funeral services, which would be held on Sunday.
But before he could go on to revisit the gruesome nature of the crime or to
explore in painstaking detail the effect it was having on everyone from
construction workers to schoolchildren around the nation, Anne closed the door
firmly and stepped into the room.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Sontime. I’m Dr. Kramer.”
The sound on the television set was abruptly silenced and the red “mute”
message appeared against the background of more news footage. She hadn’t
seen him touch the remote control.
He got to his feet and smiled, offering his hand. “It was good of you to see me at
the end of a very long day.”
Long, strong fingers, as smooth as marble. His grip was not warm, but firm, his
skin not dry, but supple, raging with life. When he took her hand, Anne felt
captured.
She faltered. He looked at her with eyes that were as green as the bottom of the
ocean, and for a moment her mind went blank, wiped completely clean, a stutter
in consciousness. It was not recognition, it was not shock, and yet it was
somehow reminiscent of both. And when he released her hand, it was gone.
Anne took a steadying breath and moved around to her desk. She was not easily
caught off-balance, and was mildly disturbed by the fact that this man had
unsettled her so effortlessly. Randolph Sontime was renowned for his personal
charisma; it was no one’s fault but her own if she had allowed herself to fall
victim to it.

The clock ticked rhythmically, yet its sound was uncharacteristically ominous,
mimicking the pounding of her pulse. The time was six minutes after five.
Her patient resumed his seat. She started to take her notepad and pen to the chair
adjacent to his, where she normally interviewed her patients, then abruptly
changed her mind and sat down behind the desk. It was bad practice, she knew,
to put that kind of barrier between a therapist and a client, but she did it anyway.
Long day, she kept repeating to herself. Another hour and it would be over.
Absently she fingered the chain that held the pendant she wore beneath her
sweater, a nervous habit that she checked immediately. She folded her hands
deliberately atop the desk, leaned forward, and tried to look as welcoming as
possible. “Let’s talk about why you’re here, Mr. Sontime.”
“A woman who gets directly to the point,” he observed. “I approve.” He had a
beautifully musical voice, with the hint of an accent she could not identify and,
in fact, had to strain to discern.
He nodded toward the television, where the camera was focused on a
mountainous shrine of flowers on the steps of a cathedral in Paris. “That is why,”
he said simply. “I am the assassin they seek. I killed that creature.”
Her carefully trained features betrayed no reaction. She was in control again. She
let three swings of the clock pendulum pass, and then she nodded calmly. “I
see.”
“You don’t believe me.” But instead of anger or disappointment, his expression
was softened with something that was very close to sympathy. “I’m sorry to have
troubled you.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you,” Anne replied. “But I do have a question.”
“I should imagine you have several.”
She turned in her chair toward the bookcase that lined the wall behind her and
bent down to the bottom shelf, where she kept the periodicals. The New York
Times from two days ago was still there, glaring its lurid headlines about the
crime of the century. She quickly flipped past the first section, with its violent
black type and bleak, shattering photographs, until she found what she was
looking for.
She folded the newspaper and held it up to him. The photograph in the center of
the page was of the man who now sat before her. “It says here that you were
making a speech at a People for the Environment benefit at the time the crime
was committed. How could you have been seen in New York by five hundred
witnesses and have committed a murder in Geneva at the same time?”
He smiled, gently. She noticed then what peculiar eyes he had: pale gray, almost
silvery. Completely unreadable, as compelling as frosted glass. And how odd
that at first she had thought they were green.
He said, “Magic.”
Anne closed the newspaper, folded it on her desk, and returned it to the bottom
shelf of the bookcase.
During her internship and early clinical practice she had heard patients confess
to the murder of space aliens, Elvis, and Abraham Lincoln, as well as a number
of lesser personalities. Compulsive Confession Syndrome had become so
common in this day of random violence and media reinforcement that it barely
merited a few lines on a chart. But this was not a phenomenon she was
accustomed to seeing in her current private practice. Certainly it did not seem
likely in the case of a man like Randolph Sontime.

“Now I will ask you a question.” Sontime spoke conversationally, in a pleasant,
matter-of-fact tone.
“Why did you agree to see me?”
The fingers that were laced atop the walking stick were beautifully manicured,
the nails lightly buffed.
Anne noticed that detail as she composed her reply. But he did not give her a
chance to speak.
“I will tell you,” he said. His tone was still pleasant, and mildly amused.
“Because I’m rich and famous and powerful, and I asked you to. Perhaps you
can get inside my brain and find something no one else has found. Perhaps
you’ll get a paper out of it. But whatever else, you will have my psyche to add to
your trophy case. And that’s what you do, isn’t it? Collect trophies?”
Anne leaned back in her chair, her fingers straying toward the chain around her
neck again. She stroked it once, as though for reassurance, and dropped her hand
to her desk again. “You don’t appear to have a very high opinion of me. Why,
then, did you choose to confess your crime to me? Why not the police?”
He lifted one shoulder in a vague dismissal. “I have no interest in the police, and
being arrested would be inconvenient.”
Now the humor left his face, and the gaze he fixed on her was somber. “But it’s
important that you understand why it was necessary for me to do this thing.”
“I see. May I record our conversation?”
“As you wish. But your machine won’t pick up my voice.”
“What makes you think so?”
“It’s an electrochemical matter. The explanation would bore you.”
Her smile faltered as she opened the drawer where her tape recorder was kept.
There, in its usual place next to the recorder, was the remote control for the
television set. She could not stop a quick glance toward the television, where the
red “mute” display still glowed across the screen. She looked at him, and his
expression was anticipatory and amused. She swallowed the question that
hovered at the back of her throat. It was important that she maintain control of
the interview. Important.
She assumed a pleasant tone as she pushed the button on the tape recorder
inside. “This is a very expensive machine. I hope you’re wrong.”
He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. “Such things are important to you,
aren’t they, Anne?
Exclusive offices, expensive machines, celebrity patients with their pathetic little
secrets… Even Richard, your Park Avenue doctor-husband—all of it to remind
you every day that you’re no longer the little girl who spent her first six years in
an orphanage in London and never even knew her parents’ names.“
Ah, he had gone to some lengths to make certain he had the advantage. This was
not unpredictable behavior on his part. It was, in fact, almost reassuring. She was
in familiar territory now. This she could handle.
“You’ve done your research, I see.”
“I know everything about you.” He spoke gently, but with confidence.
“Everything.”

“Of course. You broker power. And knowledge is power.”
“It always has been.”
His eyes reminded her of mirrors veiled in crepe, a peculiar image to say the
least. Death and mourning, thunderheads moving across the sun. In fact it
seemed almost as though the light in the room had changed, for now his eyes
were dark, close to black.
Was it his manner, or his voice? For the first time Ann truly understood the
meaning of the word charismatic. He had a personal energy that was almost
palpable.
She glanced at the clock. And she looked again. There was no mistake: The
hands of the clock clearly showed the time to be six-fifty. But how could that be?
She could have sworn no more than ten minutes had passed since she walked in
the door. Could she have misread the time when she started the session?
How could she have lost over ninety minutes?
Her heart began to pound, and her throat felt dry. Nonetheless, she kept her voice
even as she said,
“My sessions are usually an hour in length. I’ve found it’s best not to make
exceptions.”
“And tonight you have theater tickets.” A quick glint of humor flashed in his
eyes. “The world might be tumbling down around you, let there be rioting in the
streets, but those tickets cost two hundred eighty dollars, and you have no
intention of missing the curtain, am I right?”
She said nothing. The muscles in her face felt like stone.
“I am very sorry to disappoint you, but you will be missing the curtain tonight,
Anne.” His voice was as soothing as a caress, his eyes filled with sympathy.
“And you mustn’t worry about Richard. You’ve already called him to cancel.”
“I assure you, I’ve done nothing of the kind.”
He smiled. “It doesn’t matter. He thinks you did. And perception is the only
reality.”