With the most important part of the ceremony finished, Thutmose took advantage of his break to investigate what had piqued his interest about the whole ritual: the ancient heirlooms that were now his. They had been passed down by one of the ancient ancestors of his family, Tehuti, though he had been known by many names. Theyn Thoth or even Hermes Trismegistus were both Greek names for Tehuti, but Thutmose had always preferred the original Egyptian name. Tehuti had been an Egyptian god and king, after all, so he should bear the original name Tehuti, the one he himself had chosen. Though, Thutmose could not deny the wisdom of the Greeks in naming his ancestor “Hermes the Thrice Great,” also after one of their gods. It was only fitting, if they had to change his name at all.
Tehuti had been a god of the moon and balance, so almost all the names in Thutmose’s family followed one of those themes. His father’s name meant “born on the full moon,” and even more telling, Thutmose himself was named “born of Tehuti.” He had heard many stories about his great ancestor and believed that, because of his name, he was destined to become Tehuti’s heir in the living plane. The next great alchemy wizard.
His head proudly rose a few inches as he recalled the tales. Tehuti had been the father of alchemy, it was said, and his works had spread all over the world. Recent works on alchemy were mere imitations of Thutmose’s great ancestor’s, and they built upon research already done rather than new discoveries.
And now, Thutmose would have access to the original works, written by the king himself.
Few people outside his family knew about these heirlooms. They were almost all that was left of Tehuti’s works. The Emperor Diocletian had destroyed every one of them he could get his hands on, though Thutmose couldn’t at the moment recall why. The why had never been as important to him as the injustice of destroying his ancestor’s brilliant research. His family had taken what works they still had left and hidden them away to protect them. Though Diocletian had long since died, these heirlooms were still kept secret out of the fear something similar might happen again. The knowledge was kept within the family so it would survive.
Not that his family was making much use of it. Thutmose shook his head contemptuously as he followed the stone corridor down into the underground part of the palace, flaming torches marking the passage more frequently to make up for the lack of natural light. A pair of guards followed him, more out of ceremony than for protection. The sandstone blocks forming the walls, floor, and ceiling of the passage fit together perfectly without any kind of mortar. This whole passage and the rooms beyond had been constructed specifically for the purpose of housing Tehuti’s writings, so all of it had been built with the care of a tomb. Because it had been built to protect rather than entomb, however, the stone was carefully maintained and still looked new and sturdy despite its years. That, however, didn’t stop the unearthly silence from falling over Thutmose the farther down he went, three pairs of footsteps mixing with the crackling of the torches in an echoing cacophony louder than it really should’ve been.
Thutmose removed his ceremonial mourning headdress and handed it to one of the guards as he stepped beyond the corridor into the first room. The other guard respectfully entered after him to prod the fire channel running around the edges of the room with his wand. Flames raced along the channel, banishing the shadows clinging to the corners of the room. Thutmose’s black eyes glittered. He would change his family’s pattern with his own hands. Instead of treating these crystal slabs as mere heirlooms, he would give them the proper reverence as works of knowledge to be used.
Each of the three rooms housed its own work from the ancient king, and the walls glittered with gold leaf and hieroglyphics. Semi-columns carved with Tehuti’s likeness stared down at the young heir, and tables displaying all of the tablets of the first work stood around the room, carefully arranged for the best possible display. Everything in these rooms was carefully maintained by servants, as well it should be. These were the original slabs Tehuti had written on, passed down through generations.
Thutmose passed straight through the first two rooms, not even pausing for one of the guards to light up the second room in the same manner. He felt grateful for the smokeless fires not only for their light but also as the stench of the stale underground air lifted a bit.
The third and final room held the alchemical masterpiece, The Emerald Tablet. As the fire snaked its way around the last room and lit up the walls, Thutmose stepped forward in wonder. Hieroglyphics dominated the opposite wall, each letter half as tall as he and still painted in bright, fresh colors. Ignoring the tablets on display”all of them made out of emerald”he walked forward to get a better look at the writing.
“The key to life and death,” he read aloud, his voice echoing off the sandstone as if in emphasis, “is everywhere to be found, but if you do not find it in your own house, you will find it nowhere. Yet, it is before everyone’s eyes; no one can live without it; everyone has used it. The poor usually possess more of it than the rich; children play with it in the streets. The meek and uneducated esteem it highly, but the privileged and learned often throw it away. When rejected, it lies dormant in the bowels of the earth. It is the only thing from which the Philosopher’s Stone can be prepared, and without it, no noble metal can ever be created.”
The Philosopher’s Stone. Thutmose’s eyes glinted orange in the flickering light. The wellspring of eternal life and unending gold. He traced a bronzed hand over the symbols that read “Philosopher’s Stone,” feeling the rough sandstone even beneath the smooth paint, almost in tribute to the duality of the stone itself. The rough path to it and the smooth life afterward. Few wizards had ever been up to the task of creating it, but surely he, the blood of Tehuti running strong through his veins, stood a better chance than most. With all the knowledge necessary compiled around him, how could he fail?
“Fetch a papyrus scroll,” he said without turning, “and copy this down. I want it in my chamber by the time I get back there.” One of the guards left to do his bidding, and Thutmose walked around the room once, glancing at the emerald tablets containing the secrets to the riddle on the wall. He would have to research it more later. On the day of his father’s funeral, he had things left to attend to, or his family would lose face. But soon.... He looked up once more at the riddle painted on the wall. Soon, he would find the answers and gain eternal life. His name spoke his destiny for him, enhanced by enchantments cast over him as a babe, and all Thutmose had to do was reach for it.
His eyes met the blank, carved ones watching him from the wall. Great ancestor, you will not be disappointed in me.
The rest of the day, Thutmose’s mind kept drifting back down to the underground passage and the secrets contained in the Emerald Tomb. His father might have gotten everything he needed to live well and comfortably in the afterlife, but Thutmose did not intend to join either his father or his mother there. He would become the first living god in centuries and the most powerful wizard in the world.
However, his advisors all scoffed at this. They just wanted him to find and bed a wife. It was up to him because his mother had died the previous year during a plague outbreak, and Thutmose was the only surviving child. Now, while he was young and healthy, he should expand his noble family and prevent it from dying out. But Thutmose had a better idea. If he had the Elixir of Life, he wouldn’t have to worry about his bloodline dying out, and he and his wife would have plenty of time to expand the family. Finding a wife could wait. The Philosopher’s Stone called to him louder than any of his advisors could hope to.
Though he was exhausted by the time he finished all of his ceremonial and political duties, Thutmose could not resist one last look over the riddle when he reached his chamber and the servants finally cleared out. The key to life and death, it said, was everywhere, but he had to find it in his own house before he could find it anywhere else. Something in his own house, often discarded by the rich but a plaything of children and something no one could live without. Everywhere ... used by everyone....
At last, after a long morning of attending his duties, his feet found the long-forbidden path, and he had to restrain himself to keep from running. He left the guards and servants back at the entrance to the first room, forbade them from interrupting him unless it was an emergency or if he called, and secluded himself in the Emerald Tomb with only his wand for company.
The threat of suffocation, with the fires burning the oxygen around him, and the knowledge of how old these rooms really were kept him from closing the doors behind him, but before long, he had forgotten all about such concerns. The deathly quiet of the room honed Thutmose’s concentration to a point as he pored over the tablets, constantly checking back up at the riddle inscribed on the wall. The flickering orange light cast such deep shadows some of the tablets were difficult to read, so in a fit of irritation and with a wave of his wand, Thutmose shot the flames higher still and bleached them white to imitate the light of the sun. The roar of the flames echoed in his ears like the audible babble of his thoughts, and after a while, it seemed the flames voiced the words as he read them, helping him rather than hindering him.
The most logical course of action was to put together the riddle piece by piece. What was meant by something “in his house”? He dismissed most of the mundane things as soon as they came to mind. Furniture, walls, stone, cloth, food.... Gold seemed possible for a moment until he remembered the lines about the poor having more of it than the rich.
“Stone,” he repeated to himself. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad answer at all. The pieces fit together shabbily if at all when he thought about them, however. Children certainly played with stones in the streets, but his people didn’t throw it away”it was used for magnificent works of architecture. If anything, stone was less valued by the poor than the rich. One could argue it wasn’t possible to live without stone, though “the poor usually have more of it than the rich” trumped this answer, too. The poor didn’t live in stone houses like his”certainly not of this size.
Thutmose turned to that problem. What did the poor have more of than the rich? He laughed softly. “Nothing.” What a splendid answer.
...Wait. His eyes scanned the riddle. Nothing could be found in his house and everywhere else. Nothing was before everyone’s eyes.... “Can you live without nothing?” He frowned. “No one can live without nothing,” he said, filling in the blank on the actual riddle’s phrasing. “So ... no one can live with something? That doesn’t make any sense.” It fit best with the poor having more of it than the rich, but the answer had to fit all the pieces, not just a few.
As he worked, one of the felines of the household strolled casually into the room and hopped up onto one of the tables, silent as a ghost. The white light from the flames glinted off her silver coat, accenting the dark spots and the bands along her tail. Her eyes glinted the same dusty green as the emerald tablet she stood on.
Thutmose jumped as her voice disturbed the regular chatter of his thoughts and joined her at the first table. “Bast, what are you doing down here?” he said, scratching her ears affectionately. She leaned against his hand, sprawling sideways onto the tablet. He stroked along her side, her speckled coat softer than the cotton he wore. “Did you come to give me the blessings of your namesake?” Bast”Bastet”was the cat goddess of the moon (among other things). Though the household had many cats, Bast had always been especially close to Thutmose, and he had named her after one of the most beloved goddesses.
She mewled again, laying one of her paws down on the tablet. Never one to ignore a hint given by Bast”ignoring a cat named after Bastet was the height of folly”he looked over the tablet again. “I’ve already read this one,” he said absently, even as he scanned it again. “It’s the first tablet of....”
All Obscurity will be clear to you.
This is the greatest Force of all powers,
because it overcomes every Subtle thing
and penetrates every Solid thing.
“All obscurity will be clear with a force that overcomes every subtle thing and penetrates every solid thing,” he said, running a finger over the carving. The glory of the whole universe had to be the Philosopher’s Stone. What else could he mean? This, then, held the key. Thutmose absently continued stroking Bast’s fur as he stared at the words on the tablet, the crackling of the fire now joined occasionally by her pleased murmurs.
What could penetrate solid things? Air, maybe, though he thought it unlikely as he sniffed at the still, stale air around him. He did not want to imagine how much worse it would be if this place was locked up constantly like a real tomb. Thutmose idly fingered his wand. Magic could. He was certain it would be impossible to create the Philosopher’s Stone without magic, but something struck him as false about that idea.
His eyes wandered back up to the looming hieroglyphics of the riddle. Magic could be found in his house and before everyone’s eyes. He didn’t think people actually lived without magic (no matter what was said about non-magical people. Just because they didn’t have any inside them didn’t mean magic was not a part of their lives). But did the poor have more magic than the rich? He had seen children play with magical toys in the streets before. Didn’t everyone esteem magic highly, not just the “meek and uneducated”? Who threw away magic?
That night, Thutmose paced as he repeatedly pressed the tip of his wand to his temple, carelessly tossing the light, silvery memories of the day into a stone basin built to contain them. To these, he added his first impressions of the Emerald Tomb and the riddle from yesterday, as well as all the lessons on alchemy he could remember learning as a boy. He stayed awake for hours that night, poring over the memories, hoping that seeing them from outside his own head would give him some new insight. And, to the bottom of the scroll containing the riddle, he added the new piece from the first slab of The Emerald Tablet as a reference.
The answer he came up with startled him.
Shakily, he went to bed, hoping sleep would clear his mind and show him a different answer. In the morning, he shunned his advisors and attendants, heading immediately back down to the Emerald Tomb. Surely something in there would tell him he was mistaken. A fever dream had afflicted him. Exhaustion. He barely noticed the guards who trailed behind him to be sure he was all right, but the pounding of his footsteps down the echoing tunnel throbbed in time with the implications swirling around in his head.
Everything he looked at only confirmed it more. It was true. This was the key. Thutmose stared up at the likeness of his ancestor carved into the wall. “Is this why so few people succeed?” he asked, so softly he almost couldn’t even hear himself over the roar of the flames.
The force of life itself. People. Imagination. Consciousness. That was the key to making the Philosopher’s Stone.
Everything made sense now. All the pieces came together. Of course he would have to find it in his own house”he lived there. Life was around everyone, and it was impossible to live without being alive. The poor often had more children than the rich, and children played with it two-fold in the streets”with each other and with their own imagination. The privileged and learned often relied more upon logic and hard facts rather than fantasy and imagination. Books and knowledge instead of life. And when life is rejected, it lies in the bowels of the earth. His own father was an example of that.
Imagination can overcome the subtle things and see through the solid things. Thutmose’s imagination could take him out to the river he knew so well even as he stood surrounded by sandstone and dirt below the surface of the earth.
Suddenly, the purge of alchemical writings at the hands of Diocletian almost made sense.
Such a high price held some logic, though. A stone so powerful it could extend life indefinitely. What was a more fitting price than the force of life itself? Perhaps that was why Tehuti himself was not still around. He had not been willing to pay that price.
Thutmose paused. But why not? The Elixir of Life could be used on others, couldn’t it? Such a magical object would be a boon to his entire household, and who knew how much it could extend their power? Gifts of gold or the Elixir would form alliances. He could make sure his family was taken care of for all eternity. To have such knowledge and not use it would be the selfish thing, surely.
Slowly, he turned around, looking back the way he came toward the two guards who still stood watch in the first room. His grip tightened around his wand. Surely....