underestimate her and then she would strike! There was a particularly nasty
little spell she had learned in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains in
Transylvania that she was saving just for him.
Where was Nicholas?
She was afraid for Nicholas and the children. It was difficult for her to
judge just how much time has passed, but by examining the wrinkles forming on
the backs of her hands, she guessed she d aged at least two years, so two
days had passed. Without the immortality elixir, she and Nicholas would age
at the rate of a year a day. They had less than a month left before they
succumbed to old very old age.
And with no one to stand against them, Dee and the others like him would
loose the Dark Elders into the world again. It would be chaos; civilization
would fall.
Where was Nicholas?
Perenelle blinked away tears. She wasn't going to give the sphinx the
satisfaction of seeing her weep. The Elders had nothing but contempt for
human emotion; they considered it their biggest weakness. Perenelle knew it
was humankind s great strength.
She blinked again, and it took her a moment to realize what she was seeing.
The foul dripping water running down the walls had briefly curled and formed
into a pattern. She focused, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.
The liquid twisted and coiled into a face: Jefferson Miller, the ghost of the
security guard. The dribbling water bent into letters on the moss-streaked
walls.
Flamel. Children.
The words lasted less than a heartbeat before they flowed away.
Safe.
Now Perenelle had to blink hard to clear her eyes. Flamel and the children
were safe!
Ojai. Leygate. Paris.
Thank you, Perenelle mouthed silently as Jefferson Miller s face dissolved
and ran liquid down the wall. She had so many questions but at least now she
had some answers: Nicholas and the children were safe. They had obviously
reached Ojai and met the Witch of Endor. She must have opened the leygate to
take them to Paris, and that suggested that the Witch had helped them and had
most likely instructed Sophie in the Magic of Air.
Perenelle knew that the Witch would not have been able to Awaken Josh s
powers but in Paris and across Europe there were Elders and immortal humans
who would be able to help, who could Awaken Josh and train both twins in the
five elemental magics.
She rolled over on her back and looked at the sphinx, which was now crouched
outside her cell, human head resting on enormous lion s paws, wings folded
across its back. The creature smiled lazily, long black forked tongue
flickering.
It is ending, Immortal, the sphinx whispered.
Perenelle s smile was terrifying. On the contrary, she replied. It is now
only just beginning.
End of Book One
AUTHOR S NOTE
Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel were real people. So was Dr. John Dee. Indeed,
all the characters in The Alchemyst, with the exception of the twins, are
based on real historical characters or mythological beings.
When I originally conceived the idea for The Alchemyst, I thought the hero
would be Dr. John Dee.
John Dee has always fascinated me. In the Elizabethan Age, the age of the
extraordinary, he was exceptional. He was one of the most brilliant men of
his time, and all the details about his life in The Alchemyst are true: he
was an alchemist, a mathematician, a geographer, an astronomer and an
astrologer. He did choose the date for Queen Elizabeth I s coronation, and
when he was part of her network of spies, he signed his coded messages 007.
The two 0 s represented the eyes of the Queen, and the symbol that looked
like a 7 was Dee s personal mark. There is evidence to suggest that when
Shakespeare created the character of Prospero for The Tempest, he modeled him
on Dee.
The series of books based on an alchemist had been growing in my head and in
piles of notebooks for some years, and it seemed perfectly natural that it
should be Dee s series. As I wrote other books, I kept coming back to the
idea, adding more material, weaving together all the world mythologies and
creating the huge and intricate background for the stories. I continued to
research the settings, visiting, revisiting and photographing every location
I intended to use in the series.
Every story starts with an idea, but it is the characters that move that idea
forward. The characters of the twins came to me first. My story was always
about a brother and sister, and in mythological terms, twins are very
special. Just about every race and mythology has a twin story. As my story
progressed, the secondary characters, such as Scathach and the Morrigan, and
then later, Hekate and the Witch of Endor, appeared. But somehow I still
hadn't quite gotten the hero, the mentor, the teacher for the twins. Dr. John
Dee, despite being a wonderful character, was simply not the right character.
Then, one day in the late fall of 2000, I was in Paris on business. It is
difficult to get lost in Paris, so long as you know where the river Seine
is you can usually see one or more of the great landmarks, such as the Eiffel
Tower, Sacre -Coeur or Notre Dame but somehow I d managed to do it. I had left
Notre Dame earlier, crossed the Seine on the Pont d Arcole, heading toward
the Centre Pompidou, and somewhere between the Boulevard de Sebastopol and
the Rue Beaubourg, I got lost. Not entirely lost; I knew vaguely where I was,
but night was beginning to fall. I turned off the Rue Beaubourg into the
narrow Rue du Montmorency and found myself looking up at a sign that said
AUBERGE NICOLAS FLAMEL: the Nicholas Flamel Hostel. And in front of the
building was a sign that said the house, where Flamel and his wife had once
lived, dated from 1407, which meant that this had to be one of the oldest
houses in Paris.
I went inside and found a charming restaurant, where I had a meal that night.
It was a strange experience, eating in the same room where the legendary
Nicholas Flamel would have lived and worked. The exposed beams in the ceiling
looked original, which meant they would have been the beams Nicholas Flamel
himself would have seen. In the cellar below my feet, Nicholas and Perenelle
would have stored their food and wine, and their bedchamber would have been
in the small room directly over my head.
I knew quite a bit about the famous Nicholas Flamel. Dee, who had one of the
largest libraries in England, had Flamel's books and would have studied his
works.
Nicholas Flamel was one of the most famous alchemists of his day. Alchemy is
a peculiar combination of chemistry, botany, medicine, astronomy and
astrology. It has a long and distinguished history and was studied in ancient
Greece and China, and there is an argument that it forms the basis for modern
chemistry. As with Dee, all of the details in The Alchemyst about Nicholas
Flamel are true. We know quite a bit about him because not only do his own
writings exist, but also many people wrote about him during his own lifetime.
; He was born in 1330 and scraped by on a living as a bookseller and a
scrivener, writing letters and copying books for clients. One day he bought a
very special book: the Book of Abraham. It, too, really existed, and Nicholas
Flamel left us with a very detailed description of the copper-bound book,
which was written on what looked like bark.
Accompanied by Perenelle, he spent more than twenty years traveling all over
Europe, trying to translate the strange language the book was written in.
No one knows what happened to Nicholas Flamel on that journey. What is
authenticated is that when he returned to Paris in the late fourteenth
century, he was extraordinarily wealthy. The rumor quickly went around that
he had discovered the two great secrets of alchemy in the Book of Abraham:
how to create a philosopher s stone, which changed ordinary metal into gold,
and how to achieve immortality. Neither Nicholas nor Perenelle would ever
confirm the rumors, and they never explained how they had become so rich.
Although Nicholas and Perenelle continued to live quiet, unassuming lives,
they gave a lot of their money to charity, and founded hospitals, churches
and orphanages.
The records show that Perenelle died first; not long after, in 1418, the
death of Nicholas Flamel was recorded. His house was sold and the buyers tore
the place apart looking for some of the Flamels great wealth. Nothing was
ever found.
Later, in the dead of night, the tomb of Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel was
broken into and that was when it was discovered that the tomb was empty. Had
they been buried in secret graves, or had they never died in the first place?
Paris buzzed with rumors, and the legend of the immortal Flamels began almost
immediately.
In the years to follow, there were sightings of the Flamels across Europe.
When I came out of the Auberge Nicolas Flamel that evening, I looked back at
the ancient house. Six hundred years ago, one of the most famous alchemists
in the world lived and worked there a man dedicated to science, who had made
and given away a vast fortune and whose house was preserved by the grateful
people of Paris, who even have streets named after him and his wife (the Rue
Nicolas Flamel and the Rue Perenelle in the 4th Arrondissement).
An immortal.
And in that moment, I knew that the twins mentor was not Dee: Sophie and
Josh would be taught by Nicholas and Perenelle. As I stood outside Nicholas
and Perenelle s home on that wet fall evening, all the pieces of the book
came together, and the Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel took shape.
Front entrance to the Auberge Nicolas Flamel (the Nicholas Flamel Hostel) on
Rue du Montmorency, Paris.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Only one name usually appears on the cover of a book, but behind that name
there are dozens of people involved in the creation of the work. Of equal
importance, but in no particular order, I must thank
Krista Marino, the most patient of editors, who said, A little more
perspective
Frank Weimann, at the Literary Group, who said, I can sell this. And did.
Michael Carroll, who read it first and last and said, We need to talk
about
O. R. Melling, who said, Have you finished it yet?
Claudette Sutherland, who said, You really should think about
And finally, of course: Barry Krost, at BKM, who is surely the Alchemyst s
grandfather, which would probably make John Sobanski his nephew!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
An authority on mythology and folklore, Michael Scott is one of Ireland s
most successful authors. A master of fantasy, science fiction, horror, and
folklore, he was hailed by the Irish Times as the King of Fantasy in these
isles. He lives and writes in Dublin. Visit him at www.dillonscott.com.
A Special Preview of
THE
MAGICIAN
Book two of
Excerpt copyright 2007 by Michael Scott.
Published by Delacorte Press.
I am dying.
Along with my wife Perenelle, I age a year for every day that passes, and
thus, by my reckoning, we both have less than a month to live.
But much can be achieved in a month.
Dee and his dark masters have Perenelle prisoner, they have finally secured
the Codex, the Book of Abraham the Mage, and they must also know that
Perenelle and I cannot survive for much longer.
But they cannot be resting easy.
They must know now that Sophie and Josh are the twins mentioned in the
ancient book. They are the twins of prophecy and legend, with auras of silver
and gold, brother and sister with the power to either save the world or
destroy it. The girl s powers have been Awakened, though, sadly, the boy s
have not.
Now we are in Paris, the city of my birth, the city where I first discovered
the Codex and began the long quest to translate it. That journey led me to
the discovery of the Elder Race, revealed the mystery of the philosopher s
stone and finally the ultimate secret of immortality.
I love this city. It holds many secrets and is home to more than one human
immortal and ancient Elder. Here, I will find a way to Awaken Josh s powers
and continue Sophie s education.
I must.
For their sakes and for the continuance of the human race.
From the Day Booke of Nicholas Flamel, Alchemyst
Paris, the city of my youth
SATURDAY,
2nd June
CHAPTER ONE
The charity auction hadn't started until well after midnight, once the gala
dinner had ended. It was almost four in the morning, and the auction was only
now drawing to a close. A digital display behind the celebrity auctioneer an
actor who had played James Bond on-screen for many years showed the running
total at more than one million euro.
Lot number two hundred and ten: a pair of early nineteenth-century Japanese
Kabuki masks.
A ripple of excitement ran through the crowded room. Carved from solid jade,
the Kabuki masks were the highlight of the auction and were expected to fetch
in excess of half a million euro.
The tall, thin man with the fuzz of close-cropped snow-white hair standing at
the back of the room was prepared to pay twice that.
Niccol Machiavelli stood apart from the crowd, arms lightly folded across
his chest, careful not to wrinkle his Savile Row tailored black silk tuxedo.
Stone gray eyes swept over the other bidders, analyzing and assessing them.
There were really only five he needed to look out for: two private collectors
like himself, a minor European royal, an American movie actor who had been
briefly famous in the eighties and an antiques dealer who was probably
bidding on behalf of a client. The remainder of the audience a mixture of
celebrities from the worlds of entertainment and sports, a sprinkling of
politicians and the usual people who turned up to support every charity
event were tired, had spent their budget or were unwilling to bid on the
vaguely disturbing-looking masks.
Machiavelli had been collecting masks for a very long time, and he wanted
this pair to complete his group of Japanese theater costumes. These masks had
last come up for sale in 1898 in Vienna, and he had then been outbid by a
Romanov prince. Machiavelli had patiently bided his time; he knew they would
be put on the market again when the prince and his descendents died. Niccol
knew he would still be around to buy them; it was one of the many advantages
of being immortal.
Shall we start the bidding at one hundred thousand euro?
Machiavelli looked up, caught the auctioneer s attention and nodded.
The auctioneer nodded in return. I am bid one hundred thousand euro by
Monsieur Machiavelli. Always one of this charity s most generous supporters
and sponsors.
Applause filled the room, and several people turned to look at him and raise
their glasses. Niccol acknowledged them with a polite nod.
Do I have one hundred and ten? the auctioneer asked.
One of the private collectors raised his hand slightly.
One-twenty? The auctioneer looked back at Machiavelli, who immediately
nodded.
Within the next three minutes, a flurry of bids brought the price up to two
hundred and fifty thousand euro. There were only three serious bidders left:
Machiavelli, the American actor and the antiques dealer.
Machiavelli s thin lips twisted into a rare smile; the masks would be his!
And then the smile faded as he felt his cell phone buzz silently in his back
pocket. For an instant he was tempted to ignore it; he d given his staff
strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed unless it was an absolute
emergency. He pulled out the ultraslim Nokia and glanced down.
A picture of a sword pulsed gently on the large LCD screen.
Machiavelli s smile vanished completely. In that second he knew he was not
going to be able to buy the Kabuki masks this century. Turning on his heel,
he strode out of the room and pressed the phone to his ear. Behind him, he
could hear the auctioneer s gavel hit the lectern. Sold. For two hundred and
sixty thousand euro.
I m here, Machiavelli said, reverting to the Italian of his youth.
The connection popped and crackled, and then, from the other side of the
world, in the city of Ojai, north of Los Angeles, an English-accented voice
responded in the same language, using a dialect that had not been heard in