The Alchemist's Touch

by Garrett Robinson

  “Hurry, Ebon. We should not keep your father waiting.”

  “I can scarcely move faster.”

  “Then this will have to do.”

  He leapt from the tub and let Tamen towel him off quickly. Then, for good measure, Tamen fetched some perfume and dabbed at his neck, underarms, and wrists.

  “That is too much! I smell like a chemist!”

  “Darkness take me, I am sorry,” said Tamen, hands shaking as he tried to swipe it off.

  “Forget it. I must go anyway. My clothes!”

  Tamen helped him dress in haste, and soon he was half-running through the manor toward the dining hall. Fine tapestries fluttered on the walls in the wind of his passing, and he nearly bowled over the servants Liya and Ruba, who were dusting fine suits of armor mounted on stands. They cried out after him, but Ebon barely managed to call out “Sorry!” as he ran.

  He burst into the hall much faster than he had intended, and the door flew around to slam into the stone wall behind it. Ebon froze on the threshold. His mother and father looked up sharply from the table, where they had already begun to eat.

  “Did you have to run across all the nine lands to get here?” Though Shay Drayden did not raise his voice, disdain dripped from each word, like rainwater sliding down the tiles of the roofs back home.

  “I am sorry, Father,” said Ebon, breathing hard. “I was in the garden when—”

  But his father had already turned away to resume conversing with his mother. Ebon lowered his head, cheeks burning, and approached the table. A servant pulled out a chair. As he sat and scooted closer to the table, Ebon tried edging away from where his father sat. But they both turned sharply to him, eyes wide, and his father’s lips curled with scorn.

  “You smell like every courtesan on the Seat took a shit on you at once, boy. Sit at the other end of the table. I can barely stand the stench.”

  “Shay,” said his mother gently. Ebon’s father shut his mouth with a sharp click of teeth and turned away.

  Ebon rose hastily to follow the command, moving down towards the other end of the table. He did not sit opposite his father—that would no doubt be seen as a great slight, trying to claim the other end of the table, and Ebon with the audacity to sit there. Instead he took a chair just to the left. A servant ran to put a plate of food before him, with seared pork and some strange vegetables he did not recognize. Ebon ignored the vegetables and tore into the meat, his stomach loudly growling. Almost from the moment the greasy meat touched his lips, he could feel his headache subsiding, and gratefully sighed.

  He glanced up towards the other end of the table, where his father was now complaining about some perceived slight at the High King’s palace. But Ebon noticed that his mother was looking at him curiously, her eyes playing across his face, eyebrows slightly raised. He ducked and focused on his meal.

  Did she know? Could she somehow see it, or sense the truth within him? He dismissed the thought as ridiculous. Yet from the corner of his eye he could still see her, studying him, only turning away to give his father cursory nods and sympathetic sounds at the most appropriate times. But as Shay’s complaints grew in volume and energy, Hesta finally turned her full attention to him, and Ebon vented a long sigh of relief.

  But his anxiety at his mother’s lingering eyes had turned his thoughts back to Adara. When he thought of the night before, he flushed where he sat. He could still see the light hazel of her eyes, feel her fingers dragging along his skin. He could almost sense the way she had—

  Ebon had to shift uncomfortably in his seat. He found his attention dragged back to the conversation with his father as Shay raised his voice.

  “The audacity she has, to keep us waiting for four days now, without deigning to grant us so much as a firm appointment.”

  “She is the High King, and we must serve at her pleasure,” said Hesta, but her tone spoke only of full agreement with her husband.

  “She is an arrogant bitch.”

  Ebon’s gaze jerked up at that, and even the servants standing at the room’s edges seemed to tense. Shay ignored them all, and Hesta patted his hand reassuringly. He tore into his meal again, as though he had run out of fuel for the bitter fire that burned in his gut. The peace lasted only a moment, and then he slammed his cup on the table. “Wine!”

  A servant scurried to obey. Ebon shook his head—slightly, so that his father could not see—and allowed his mind to wander. His gaze fell upon the eastern wall, made of doors now open to the air, and looked out across the Great Bay until its far reaches vanished beyond the horizon. They had sailed those waters to get here, and would sail them again to return. Any day now, he imagined, unless his father extended the trip until they could finally meet with the High King. He would return to Idris, never having set foot inside the Academy, and even the Seat would fade to a distant memory, until he could scarcely remember the manor where he now sat. Once again he found himself wondering why they had brought him in the first place.

  Was the suspicion of his innermost heart right? Was this all some cruel new torture by his father? To dangle the Seat before his son, only to rip him away as he allowed his heart to love it? Then, for years to come, he could torment Ebon with the memory. You had best behave if you ever wish to return to the Seat. I had thought to take you with me the next time I went, but clearly you seem determined to prove yourself unworthy of that honor. No doubt Father could conjure countless ways to phrase the threat.

  Though Ebon knew it was foolish, the most painful thought of all was that he might never again see the blue door. Or that if he did, he would not find a pair of hazel eyes behind it, waiting for him.

  His mind was drawn back to the present as the hall’s door clicked and swung open. Ebon looked curiously over his shoulder—then shoved back his chair and leapt to his feet with a cry of surprise. His aunt Halab strode through the doors, long and golden dress sweeping behind her across the floor. Her hair, intricately braided and wrapped about her head like a crown, bobbed with every step, and she took them all in with sharp, dark eyes. Ebon’s parents rose quickly in respect. “Sister,” grumbled Shay, stepping away from the table.

  Halab went to him. He kissed her cheeks and then bent for her to kiss his forehead. Hesta came forwards more eagerly and wrapped Halab in a warm embrace.

  “Sister,” said Halab, echoing Shay. Then she released Ebon’s mother and came straight to him. Ebon straightened with a smile. “And look at you, darling Nephew. You are a man full grown now, and no mistake.”

  For a moment he quailed, for in his mind the words held another meaning. But he quickly shed the thought—Halab had not seen him in half a year, and he had grown inches since then. He stepped forwards to kiss her cheeks, but she pulled him into a hug instead.

  “None of that formality. My heart sings to see you.”

  “And you, Aunt.” Then, for courtesy’s sake, he kissed her cheeks all the same.

  “You are never lacking in charm. May I join you for your meal?”

  “Of course,” said Shay brusquely. Quickly he went to scoop up his plate and move it to the next seat. Halab sat at the head of the table. Ebon returned to his seat at the other end, but Halab stopped him with a sharp word.

  “What are you doing all the long way down there, nephew? Surely you were not banished for anything so trivial as the perfume you have surely bathed in?”

  Ebon froze, unsure of how to answer. He knew better than to speak ill of his father, especially with the man right there to hear it. But Shay spoke first, saving him from the dilemma. “He stinks worse than the Palace.”

  “Still, family is family,” said Halab. “Come, sit beside your mother, so that you may be as far from your father’s delicate nose as may be.”

  Still uncertain, Ebon went to do as she asked, keeping a careful eye on his father. But Shay said nothing to gainsay his sister, though Ebon noticed his knuckles whitened around the silverware. Meanwhile, a servant ran to fetch a new plate of food for Halab. Ebon saw the man’s
hands shaking as he set the plate down before her, and scoffed. The servants were too used to serving his father, and seemed not to know his aunt’s more genial nature.

  “How did you fare at the palace this morning, Brother?” said Halab, speaking around a tiny morsel of food.

  “The same as always,” growled Shay. “She keeps us waiting in her halls, and will not even give us a time to return when we might actually speak with her. They claim it is because of trouble brewing between Selvan and Dorsea, but I think that is an excuse. She thinks herself too high and mighty for us.”

  “She is the High King,” said Halab amiably, shrugging. One of her braids came loose to swing down towards her ear, and she lifted it carefully back into place. “We serve at her pleasure.”

  Shay snorted loudly. But Ebon noticed with some interest that he did not slur the High King as he had done before.

  “In any case, I had already heard something of your troubles,” Halab went on. “I spoke with a friend at the palace—a very highly placed friend indeed. He has secured an audience on your behalf. Visit the palace at midday tomorrow, and you will find the throne room doors are open to you.”

  “Do you see, my love?” Hesta smiled gratefully at Halab. “I told you that this would work out.”

  Shay’s eyes stayed fixed on his plate. “Thank you for your help, Sister. That is most kind.”

  “Think nothing of it. I am confident the High King will speak on our behalf and secure our new trade route through Dorsea. This threatening border squabble is nothing of import, and certainly not to us.”

  His father’s hands clenched harder. “Certainly.”

  Ebon smiled to himself, careful to still his face. He did not like to think what Father might do if he was seen snickering. But then Halab turned to Ebon, and he straightened in his chair.

  “And what of you, Nephew? How have you enjoyed your time upon the Seat? I hope you have been able to experience all of the island’s…oh, what word am I searching for…pleasures?”

  Ebon blanched, but again kept his mask of tranquility. “I have—that is, I have spent most of my time here, at the manor. But I have walked the streets once or twice, and found them to my liking. It is a grand city, to be sure.” He had to avoid any notion that his father held blame for Ebon’s presence at the manor, for that would be an insult worthy of punishment.

  Halab’s brows drew close. “You have not wandered much? I thought you would eagerly poke your nose into every corner of this city. Surely you have visited the Academy?”

  Ebon swallowed. “No, I have not. It holds little interest for me.” Those words nearly stuck in his throat, yet somehow he managed to make them sound earnest.

  Halab glanced at Shay, but his eyes were fixed on his food. “That is unacceptable. You must venture out upon the Seat. I suppose I could show you one or two of my own favorite haunts…” She seemed to think for a moment, and then snapped her fingers at an idea. “I know. I will take you on a tour of the Academy myself.”

  The world froze, and Ebon could not feel his fingers. His head, already aching, became light, and his stomach turned more than it had even in Adara’s arms.

  “Yes, that will do nicely,” said Halab, and now it was as though she was talking to herself. “The Dean is Cyrus, my cousin—and your cousin, too, Ebon, or at least your second cousin once removed. Surely he would be only too happy to share his school with us. And whether you think it holds interest for you or no, you will love it. There are wizards of all four branches practicing their crafts. Oh, flame and wind and weremagic and—yes, alchemy. It is a sight to behold.”

  Ebon could not speak; he could barely breathe. He looked fearfully at Shay. Surely his father would not allow this. But his father still stared down at his hands. When the silence stretched a moment too long, his gaze snapped up to Ebon. He saw his son looking at him in fear, and growled through his dark beard, “Well? Your aunt has asked a question. Answer, damn you.”

  Still Ebon could not speak. In his heart he wanted nothing more than to go. But then he thought ahead. In a matter of days he would be leaving the High King’s Seat, likely forever. Already he knew he would miss it, and would waste away days in Idris thinking of its white stone streets and high, pristine spires. That pain would only magnify if he saw the Academy itself, for there was where his heart truly lay.

  But then he thought further still. In Idris, his sister Albi would be waiting for him—Albi, in whom he had confided all his deepest wishes about the Academy. He had spoken of it for so long, and in such warm terms, that she herself had come to dream of seeing it. He could return to tell her all about it. If he did not, Albi would not only be disappointed for herself. She would berate Ebon for years.

  His hands steadied on the tabletop. “Thank you, dearest Aunt. It would be my pleasure to accompany you.”

  “Then it is settled,” said Halab.

  The dining hall fell silent. Ebon’s father stabbed his knife savagely into his meat, and his mother dabbed gingerly at her lips with a napkin.

  five

  EBON HAD ASSUMED THEY WOULD take a carriage, but Halab surprised him by proposing a walk instead. “It is not so great a distance, and I would find it most invigorating,” she told him, as though he did not already know. Ebon had memorized the streets between manor and Academy, though Tamen had never let him draw too close. Halab had ordered Ebon’s retainer to stay at the manor, to give her a special time with her nephew. But she did bring Mako, the beast of a man following them closely on the streets, almost within arm’s reach, so that Ebon felt his presence behind them no matter how hard he tried to forget it.

  It was just past midday, and the streets were busy with all manner of folk heading hither and yon. There were no open markets in this part of the city, and so no vendors screamed their wares at passers by, but there were shopkeepers, and deliveries of food and drink passing by on wagons, making their way to taverns and inns. Among the crowds, Ebon often caught flashes of red—either the red leather armor of constables, or the red cloaks of Mystics. These last he noted with some keen interest, for the order’s power was lessened in Idris, and they did not often present themselves to his family. At least, not in meetings that Ebon was ever privy to.

  “You find the Mystics intriguing, do you?” said Halab, who had noticed his wandering eye.

  “I suppose. It is only that they are rare back home.”

  “That is just as well. They are a meddlesome folk with no love for wizards, except those donned in red. That means they would have a particular dislike for you, young nephew.”

  Ebon glanced at her with concern, but she laughed and went to take his arm.

  “Sometimes I worry that you are too serious, though I think I may know the cause. Your father puts great strain on you, Ebon. You must forgive him for that.”

  He did not have the faintest idea how to answer. Even with Tamen gone, he had no wish to speak ill of his father, for Mako walked close behind them both. The bodyguard’s sharp ears would hear all, and who knew where his tongue might wander?

  She gently patted his arm. “I know it must be difficult to speak of. You need say nothing. And I take back my words—you need not forgive him. For he has never forgiven you for Momen, and you were blameless in that.”

  Ebon ducked, for suddenly his eyes were stinging. Carefully he said, “Momen’s loss was a great pain to us all.”

  “It was.” She patted his arm. “Come. It is far too pretty a day for such thoughts. And we are nearly there.”

  He looked up. There had arrived: the spires of the Academy’s four wings, and the great tower at its heart in the center of them all. High and mighty the castle stood, nearly as great as the High King’s palace itself. But where the palace was laid in stone of white and grey, with windows and bracings of gold, the Academy was of a stone so dark grey it was almost black, its trimmings all in silver. Silver, too, were the banners streaming from its many flagpoles, all bearing the simple white cross that stood for the four branches of ma
gic, inside a white circle that was itself nested in an orb of black. Ebon had heard of the banner, but had never seen it until his arrival on the Seat. Since then, it had barely left his mind.

  Its size made it appear much nearer than it was, and still they had some distance to go. As they drew closer, Halab explained something of the place’s construction. Ebon knew many of the details already, knowledge gleaned from whispered conversations with servants who should have known better. Still, he drank them in, for he would never tire of Academy tales.

  “Four wings it has, for the four branches, of course. But that is only a symbol, and the students are not kept to each wing according to their gifts. Rather, they are arranged by age—or, I should say, their year of study. Now, do you see how high the walls are? They were built wide around the central building, and there they have the training areas where the students learn their arts. Though they built the walls high, they are never guarded. They are not meant to protect the Academy from attack, but to safeguard the city from the students. It would not do to have a young firemage blow himself up and engulf half a dozen nearby buildings in the flames.”

  Ebon laughed aloud, but Halab did not join him. He looked over to her, and saw that one of her eyebrows was arched.

  “I am afraid that is no jest, nephew.”

  Ebon swallowed hard.

  At last they drew near to the wide front door, set straight into the wall itself. The door was made of iron, dark and black as though hewn by a smith of little skill. But as he drew closer, Ebon saw that it was in fact carved with innumerable small characters, in some tongue that he did not know. Ten were as wide as his smallest finger, covering the door from top to bottom and from one side to the other, except on the burnished brass trim. He tried studying the symbols, but they soon made his eyes hurt, and he had to turn away.

  Halab glanced back, and Mako swiftly stepped forwards to swing the huge iron knocker twice. It was wrought in the shape of a wolf that gripped the brass ring in fierce jaws.