by Amy Alward
‘That would be amazing!’ I say. ‘You should mention that to Daphne.’
‘So that’s all?’ Zain asks, as he packs away the FollowMe. ‘Just anxious to get there?’
‘I guess I’m also nervous about being on camera all the time.’
He smiles. ‘You don’t have to worry about that. You’re a natural! Even that weird thing you do with your nose looks cute on TV.’
‘What weird thing?!’
‘You know, where you scrunch up one side . . .’
I cover my nose with the palm of my hand. ‘I do that?’
He nudges me gently. ‘Yeah, but like I said, it’s cute. I promise.’
‘Okay,’ I say, not fully convinced. I’ve never cared much about how I look – I’m normally covered in dust from the shop and once even went to school with fluff from giant swan feathers in my hair. I’d grown up assuming I’d never be able to afford the fancy glamours that I saw Talented kids using, and I’d embraced that. We can’t create our own glamours – we can only buy them, often at outrageous prices. At least I can just throw my hair into a ponytail and be done with it. My thick brown hair is so straight it barely needs any kind of styling to look at least a little bit polished. I know that’s lucky, even if I sometimes wish for the soft, natural blonde curls that Princess Evelyn has – or bold, fiery copper hair like Trina. The grass is always greener.
Still, I agreed to do this documentary so I could tell my own story, in my own words. But now it’s only just dawning on me that thousands of people might tune in to watch.
In close up.
In full HD.
I close my eyes and let the nerves wash over me. It’s not like this is my first time on TV. I was filmed all through the Wilde Hunt and that was okay. This will be okay too.
I look up at Zain. He doesn’t have to worry. He’s comfortable using glamours – in fact, I’ve only ever seen him without them once: when we were stranded on the mountainside in a tent, worried about whether we were going to survive the night. He’s one of those people that looks naturally camera-ready all the time.
I put it to the back of my mind for now, and stare out of the window as we pull away from the terminal. I’m eager to get my first glimpse of the country the Kemis once called home.
We’ve not Transported into the capital city of Zhonguo, but one of the smaller cities closer to the Bharat border called Zhen. It’s almost unbelievable that this isn’t the biggest city in Zhonguo, though. All I can see for miles around are skyscrapers: gleaming steel towers that put Kingstown’s business district to shame. I don’t think there’s anywhere like this near Nova. The streams of magic are bundled up so tight, I can almost feel them slicing through my body as we drive.
If there really is a virus that can affect Talenteds . . . It would be chaos in a city like this.
Once we leave the city limits, we enter rolling countryside. This isn’t the Wilds. These are cultivated fields: rice paddies and tea plantations – neatly constructed and controlled, still touched by humanity. There’s an almost clinical beauty to the broad sweeps of lines that run up and down the hills. It’s almost hypnotic to look at.
I gently nod off while leaning against the window, and am only jolted awake when we hit a large bump in the road. When I look outside, I see that the landscape has changed again, the sky tinting to a dusky violet as the sun sets. ‘Wow, I’ve never seen a sky that colour before.’
‘I think it’s because of that,’ Zain says, pointing at the windscreen.
My jaw drops.
It’s impossible to miss. Directly in front of us is an enormous volcano, rising up out of the landscape like a triangular fist punching through the countryside. It looks almost alien on the horizon, surrounded by nothing but flat land.
The mighty Yanhuo volcano.
The volcano of Yanhuo. Where alchemists first discovered fires hot enough to transmutate a solid ingredient into liquid, so it could be integrated into a potion. Now what was the name of that ingredient again?
‘The dust and particles thrown up by the volcano can make the sunsets look even more dramatic,’ says Zain.
I’m barely listening as I drum my fingers against my temple. ‘I can’t think of this potions ingredient that was first created after being melted in lava from the Yanhuo volcano . . .’
‘Look it up – my tablet is in my bag.’ Zain gestures to his backpack at my feet and reluctantly I take out the tablet. With a few taps, I have the answer.
I slap myself on the forehead so hard, Zain jumps up in his seat. I wave off his concern. ‘Of course! I can’t believe I forgot that. Phoenix feathers.’ Phoenix feathers are one of the world’s rarest ingredients. It would be my dream to use them in a potion, but they’re not only difficult to acquire, they’re also volatile and highly combustible.
‘Hey, you can’t remember everything. That’s why we have the internet.’
‘You can’t always access the internet, but I can always access my brain,’ I shoot back, sticking my tongue out at him. My memory is what I rely on the most when it comes to all things potions. It’s one of my best features. When I get home, I vow to amp up my studying.
‘Not long now,’ says Zain, his wand enchanted to act as our GPS. It sits on the dashboard, swivelling in the direction we should drive and every so often letting us know how much time we have left.
We continue driving closer and closer to the bottom of the volcano, its presence getting more and more menacing by the mile. My stomach turns with unease. I can’t imagine what it must be like to live permanently at the base of such a monumental landmark: its sheer size a reminder of nature’s power. It suddenly puts everything I know about Talenteds and ordinaries into perspective. I might have my potions and Zain might have his magic, but we are still nothing compared to nature’s own immense power.
‘I think I bookmarked a video on Yanhuo,’ says Zain. ‘It should be on the front page of my tablet.’ I pull up the page he’s talking about, and the voice of one of the most popular naturecast presenters in Nova, Sir Malcolm Renfrew, fills the car.
‘While the Yanhuo volcano is labelled as “active”, the last known eruption was a thousand years ago, and so it is considered dormant. The eruption was devastating, burying nearby settlements beneath ash or swamping them with lava. While some settlements were rebuilt, it wasn’t until a local hiker fell through a lava tube and came across an old, cracked pestle and mortar, like the ones used by traditional alchemists – totally out of place on the mountainside – that historians and archaeologists realised the true extent of what had been hidden beneath the lava. Since that initial discovery, an entire village has been unearthed, which experts now believe to be the ancient alchemical monastery of Long-shi. Excavations are still ongoing.
‘According to historical documents of that time, the Talented villagers living near the monastery blamed the ordinary alchemists for the eruption, claiming that in their search for new elixirs, they’d disturbed and angered the gods. The few surviving alchemists were rounded up for execution. But when a sickness descended as a result of the residual ash cloud, it ended up being the surviving alchemists who helped the villagers get well and start to rebuild their lives. So they were pardoned and allowed to continue their work. The site is now one of the most pre-eminent centres of alchemy, with the mixers and villagers living in harmony, and the volcano has remained quiet ever since. Though for some thrill-seekers who brave the volcano’s rocky slopes, lava can still be seen boiling deep in the heart of the top-most caldera.’ The video changes to an aerial shot of the volcano, a desolate landscape of greys, browns and rust. But I don’t need to watch it on a video – I can look at it right outside our window.
‘We’re here,’ says Zain, snapping my attention back to the road. We lean forward in our seats as we pass underneath the ornate gateway to the town of Long-shi, an arch richly painted in bright red with gold accents. I spy a carving of a snake winding its way around one of the columns – the symbol of alchemists everywhere
.
I feel tears springing up in my eyes despite myself. The birthplace of alchemy. In a funny way, it feels like I’ve come home.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Samantha
I STRETCH MY ARMS WIDE WHEN WE GET out of the car, my spine popping as I twist from one side to the other. We’ve driven into a gated compound at the edge of the town of Long-shi and have arrived in a neatly manicured courtyard surrounded by three low buildings, Daphne and Trina pulling in behind us. Rising over the top of one of the living quarters is the dominating sight of the Yanhuo volcano. Now that we are closer, I can see its snow-capped peak more clearly. I even think I see smoke lifting from the very top but it could just be clouds gathering.
‘Stop that, or you’re going to get even taller,’ grumbles Zain.
I laugh. ‘I don’t think that’s possible.’ I’m already approaching six feet – plenty tall enough for me. Only in the past few months have I learned to embrace my height, not hide from it. Slouching is not a good look for anyone.
It might just be my imagination, but already I feel the wonder of this place seeping into my bones. A place that feels like home. The town of Long-shi is modern and clean, but every so often there are little touches that remind me we are really in Zhonguo. The rooftops, for example, are peaked at each corner, and along their gable edges small, intricately carved figurines of animals dance in single file: tigers following lions, with dragons and unicorns and Garudas too. The main street that runs through the centre of town is dominated at either end by bright red gates, the ornate decorations edged in gold leaf.
The compound is the home of the Waidan, with one building his living quarters and the other two dedicated to alchemy: a lab and a store.
‘Wow, this place is so . . . relaxing,’ says Zain, taking in a deep breath.
‘I know. It’s beautiful,’ I say. The courtyard has a rock garden in one corner, with a bubbling stream tumbling between the rocks and into a pool below. Large, bright orange carp drift lazily around the pool, occasionally rising to snatch food off the surface.
‘Ah, hello, Samantha! You’re here!’ says a voice from behind me.
I spin around. Even if I hadn’t met the Waidan before on the Summons screen, he would be easily recognisable. He is dressed in the traditional long white robes with sky-blue ribbon trim that I’ve seen in ancient portraits of Zhonguo alchemists.
‘Hello, Waidan,’ I say slowly, faltering over every syllable. I feel like I’m butchering the basic Zhonguoan phrases I learned from the internet. I bow my head like Grandad taught me. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you in person.’
The Waidan smiles and nods his head back to me. ‘It is nice to meet you too,’ he replies in Novaen.
My cheeks redden with embarrassment – I’m sure he knows my Zhonguoan doesn’t stretch much further. ‘Waidan, please meet my boyfriend, Zain Aster. And here is the documentary team my grandad told you about: meet Daphne Golden, the director, and Katrina Porter, our camerawoman.’
‘You are welcome to my humble home and laboratory.’ His eyes linger on the wand holstered underneath Zain’s arm, and on Daphne’s wand, which she is currently using to keep a large microphone hoisted above our heads. ‘We have much to discuss but first, come and meet my team,’ he continues. Three people enter the courtyard from the laboratory building. ‘This is Mei, Dai and James. They are all apprentices here at Jing Potion Laboratories.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ I say with a smile, and this time it’s handshakes all around.
‘You too,’ says Mei. She grins at me. ‘We’ve heard a lot about you – of course. Would you like a tour of our facilities?’
‘Um, I would love that but . . .’ I look over at the Waidan expectantly. I’m anxious to hear what he has to say about the virus. Everything else can wait.
‘Do the tour first,’ says the Waidan. ‘I will meet you at the end. I have a few things I need to prepare.’
I nod. ‘Then a tour would be great,’ I say to Mei.
‘Fantastic. First of all, are you having any trouble understanding me?’
I frown. ‘No, not at all. You speak Novaen like you were born there.’
Mei turns to Dai and they give each other a high five. James, however, folds his arms across his chest and huffs. ‘Don’t mind him,’ says Mei. ‘He just lost a bet. We’ve been working on a translator potion for months and you are our test subjects. But it looks like we’ve hammered it!’
‘I think you mean nailed it,’ says Zain.
‘Ah! See, not quite perfect yet,’ James pipes in. Mei rolls her eyes and flicks her sheet of long, black hair over her shoulder. I’m a bit in love with her already.
‘It’s amazing,’ I say. ‘What are the ingredients, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Not at all,’ she says, as we enter the lab building. ‘The main ingredient of course is Babel fish scales – we have some in the pond outside – but it was getting them to work with the brain to produce accurate translations for a specific language that was the challenge.’
Babel fish – legend had it that if you caught and ate a Babel fish, you would go mad and speak in tongues for hours. Turns out those ‘tongues’ were languages and the scales can now be used in potions for translation.
‘Oh wow, I’ve heard of Babel fish scales being used in potions to help someone read or listen in another language, but not speak. That’s absolutely amazing if you’ve cracked it: it could be worth a fortune!’
Mei looks from me to Zain, then back again. ‘We have many more tests to do first,’ she says, ducking the statement.
‘Of course,’ I say. I probably wouldn’t give too much away if I were in the presence of the heir to a massive synth corporation either. Zain might not be in the business now, but his father is keeping a seat warm for him at the boardroom table.
The lab is a lot more modern than I was expecting, with tablets on the front of every workstation and sophisticated ventilation systems running through the ceiling, but there are traditional elements too: brushed wooden countertops and large clay mixing pots over open fires. It’s nice to see that they still use natural materials, as we do in our lab in Kingstown, but our set-up still feels a lot more . . . medieval than theirs. There are also huge stainless steel barrels full of rosewater-and-moon-milk potion base and their ingredients are stored in a hermetically-sealed refrigerated store room. I almost faint with envy when I see their electronic database listing their ingredient stock, including warning symbols that are automatically pinged to their Finders when they’re getting low. The Jing labs are a blend of technology with tradition and a model for my future dream lab.
Trina’s camera captures all my gasps and excitement, and I’m glad. If the docucast can also show Nova that alchemy has its place in the modern age, then that’s no bad thing.
‘I think you’ve been wanting to see this?’ Mei says, standing in the doorway to the next room.
I eagerly follow in her footsteps, and almost fall to my knees when I get inside. We’ve entered the library.
It’s only a single-storey room, but the shelving space goes on for what seems like miles: a maze of glass-enclosed bookcases organised by century. There must be hundreds of potion diaries in here.
‘As well as being the Waidan’s apprentice, I’m also the official Potion Diaries librarian here at the Jing labs,’ says Dai, with a smile. ‘The earliest journal in here is from a thousand years ago. You will especially appreciate that one. It is written by the last Kemi to have taken the title “Waidan”.’
My entire body quivers with excitement. A thousand-year-old Kemi diary. And who knows what other treasures are hidden inside that library. I wonder what it must be like to have so many diaries in one place, you need a librarian to sort through them all. With his gelled, spiky blue hair and tattoos peeking out from the top of his white coat, Dai doesn’t look much like a typical librarian. He does have round glasses though, which I suppose is one point in the librarian column. ‘If you come here, I’ll show
you – because it will be of most definite interest to you.’
I follow him through the maze of glass shelves, Zain hot on my heels. ‘How do you preserve the diaries?’ Zain asks. ‘Do you have to wear special gloves?’
‘Actually, using your fingers is better for the diaries than using gloves.’
‘Really?’ Zain sounds sceptical. ‘But don’t the oils from your fingers risk destroying the paper over time?’
‘It hasn’t happened yet. In fact, if you use gloves, you’re less likely to be aware of how firmly you’re gripping the paper and you’re more likely to tear it – which causes more damage in the long run.’
‘Oh, I get it,’ says Zain. ‘And what about temperature fluctuations? It feels pretty cool in here.’
I look over at Zain in surprise. I hadn’t known he had such an interest in book preservation. He winks at me.
‘We keep the temperature in the room as controlled as we can, along with the humidity. But these are meant to be working diaries – no one wants the knowledge that’s in here to be locked away. That’s why we welcome visits from international alchemists such as Sam Kemi here. Especially those with such a pedigree as yours,’ he says to me, with a slight bow of his head.
A blush rises in my cheeks. ‘You must have diaries from some of the other ancient families here too.’
‘Of course. But the Kemi diary we have is the oldest.’
‘What happened to the older diaries?’ Zain asks. ‘There’s been a monastery here for two millennia, so there should be older ones . . . maybe that haven’t been discovered yet?’
‘Almost everything that had been kept at the original Jing monastery on the volcano was destroyed in the eruption. We are still doing excavation work to this day, but it’s slow-going. Paper and fire, well . . . they don’t exactly mix.’
Zain is persistent. ‘Then how did Tao Kemi’s diary survive? Wasn’t he the Waidan at the time of the eruption?’