The massive suite door swung back without a whisper.
Sturm saw the hinges were made of ruby. There seemed no
limit to the wealth of the alchemist-lord. He slipped down
the hall, straining to hear the last word of the Kernaffi
guards and Soren. The palace was still.
He kept close to the wall, just as he did when he played
‘Storm the Citadel’ in Castle Brightblade. His damp palms
moved stickily over the glossy wood panels. A strange,
irresistible smell came to Sturm’s nostrils, an odor of spice
such as he had never known before. Where the corridor
crossed another he stopped, uncertain which way to go. A
fresh waft of spice drew him to the right. Down the hall a
high, curving staircase of black marble spiraled up,
following the sweep of the palace wall. Midway up, a single
torch burned in an iron bracket.
Sturm mounted the steps. The odor was stronger and
more compelling with every rising step. As he passed under
the torch, Sturm heard a peculiar sound – the gurgle of slow-
moving liquid. The steps ended at a black door studded with
silver spikes. It was ajar.
Sturm’s hand reached out, wavered … He could not
resist. He touched the door with one finger, and it opened
wide for him.
Even yellow light filled the room beyond. It was a
workshop of some sort, filled with all sorts of strange
things: tables laden with crystals of odd color and shape;
stuffed animals with glass-bead eyes that stared knowingly
back at Sturm. Shelves lined with fancy canisters and
bundles of dried herbs, neatly labeled in some foreign
script. And books. More books than Sturm had ever seen in
his life.
He found the source of the gurgling and the spice
aroma. An elaborate arrangement of clear tubes and bottles
bubbled slowly on a round table in the center of the room.
Beside this apparatus was a large red candle, as thick as his
wrist. The odor was coming from it.
“Careful, young lord,” said Mukhari Ras, appearing
ghostlike from a deep alcove. “The essence still is very
delicate, and I have need of it soon.”
Sturm flinched and stood away from the table. The fluid
in the tubes was thick and dark, very like the color of –
“Blood,” said the alchemist. “Merely the unwholesome
remnants of my last experiment,” said the alchemist. He
drew nearer even as the boy shrank from him.
“Human blood?” asked Sturm in a small voice.
“Of course,” said Mukhari. “No other kind is of any use
to me.”
Sturm slowly pointed to the red, sweet-smelling candle.
“What is this made of? It smells good.”
“I am pleased you noticed. It is a very SPECIAL candle.
You see, I cannot smell it at all.” Sturm couldn’t believe
that. The spicy aroma was almost overwhelming in the
close room. “Only very special people can smell it. The
young and pure.”
A cold hand came to rest on the back of Sturm’s neck.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“It means, my boy, that I needed to know what sort of
boy you are, to know if you were suitable for my purposes.”
Sturm backed a step. “What purposes?”
“At the command of my Dark Goddess, I seek the true
restorative medicine, the elixir of life. My research
uncovered the formula, but to make it work, I need noble
blood. Your blood.”
“Mine!” cried Sturm. “Why mine?”
“You passed the test. The candle led you here.”
Sturm bumped into a table. He cast about wildly for a
way out. Mukhari did not seem to notice. He looked far
away, musing about his experiments.
“Artavash brought me children from Kernaf, but they
were imperfect, unworthy. The elixir made from their blood
was only partially effective.” He held out an arm and pulled
back the loose sleeve to his shoulder. “See? I have the arms
of a man of thirty, while the rest of me rots at sixty-six.”
Fear and disgust rose sourly in Sturm’s throat. “So
that’s why the town is empty – you murdered the children!”
“Don’t be silly, boy. Most families fled, true, but they’ll
come back once I’m rejuvenated. They will come back and