The Lady Alchemist

by Samantha Vitale

  Sepha stared down at her hands, studying the bends of her fingers, the lines on her knuckles. She could hear the words Ruhen was saying, but she didn’t want to understand them. Didn’t want to think about how, as badly as she’d needed to escape from Father, Ruhen must’ve needed to escape more. As afraid as she’d been after the Magistrate’s pronouncement, Ruhen had been more afraid. Every day since that alchemancer had sent him here.

  She wondered if she should believe him, if all of this was just more lies. But she did believe him. As always, she believed everything he said. And was that good or bad?

  “And then,” Ruhen’s voice dropped to a whisper, “we moved to the forest outside Three Mills. On the day of the Wicking Willow, my brothers—just Vehal and Rehan now—went hunting, and I went out to the river to be near the water. And I saw you on the riverbank. You were on a boulder, sleeping.” He swallowed. “I was terrified. If my brothers had seen you, they would’ve—” He paused. Took a deep breath. “Then you woke up and ran away, and I went after you. My brothers were laying traps in the woods, and I couldn’t let them catch you. Then the Willow happened. I thought one of them had made it. It would’ve had no power over me, but I couldn’t let you see me using magic, even to protect myself. To protect us.”

  Sepha knew she’d almost died that day. But she didn’t know how very many ways she’d almost died. How very many ways she’d been saved.

  “After the Willow, I went home and confronted Vehal and Rehan. They said they hadn’t made that one, but I didn’t believe it. I told them I was leaving. And maybe they could tell something was different, or maybe they just didn’t care. They didn’t try to stop me.”

  Sepha didn’t need to ask why Ruhen’s voice had suddenly gone hollow. She knew what it was to crave love from someone she mostly hated. What it was never to get it.

  “Then,” Ruhen went on, “I went into Three Mills just in time to find out you were in another scrape. I was too big a coward to save you from the Magistrate. I swore to myself I wouldn’t let you be executed, though, no matter what. I wouldn’t’ve let you die, Sepha, I wouldn’t’ve, but I didn’t save you that night, even though I could’ve.”

  Ruhen paused, as if he needed to hear her speak, but she didn’t. She couldn’t.

  “I wanted to tell you, Sepha,” Ruhen said, misinterpreting her silence. “After that night in your room, I was going to tell you everything. I’ve been holding back this whole time, because I wanted to tell you about myself before—before anything happened between us. But then your magic woke up, and we had to escape, and there was never any time after that.”

  There’s something I want to tell you, he’d said, the morning after the fire. Had started to say, last night, just before she kissed him.

  “You must be so angry with me,” Ruhen said, “and I don’t deserve anything from you. But please,” his voice went soft and pleading, “please forgive me.”

  His words hung in the air between them, an outstretched hand, a lifeline, and it took Sepha a very long time to answer.

  Ruhen’s a magician, and Destry is dead. Ruhen’s a magician. And Destry is dead.

  “Of course I forgive you,” she said at last. The words felt wrong in her mouth, dry and boxy, a thing she’d manufactured instead of a thing she’d felt. “You lied because you were afraid, just like I did. I understand.”

  Ruhen exhaled slowly. From behind her closed eyes, Sepha heard him take several deep breaths. He was crying. She didn’t comfort him. Only held herself stiff, her neck bent at a painful angle as her head rested on his shoulder.

  “Do you want me to go?” Ruhen asked at last.

  After half a beat, Sepha nodded. “I just need some time. Or sleep. Something.”

  Ruhen shifted. The bed creaked, and then the door opened and closed.

  Sepha stretched out on her bed and hid her arms beneath the pillow. Her bed was hard. Her pillow was cool. Her chest was a void.

  Sepha was adrift, and Henric was enraged.

  And Ruhen was a magician.

  And Destry was dead.

  The next morning, Captain Ellsworth held a brief memorial service for Destry and the five fallen mariners. Of the six dead, they only had three bodies.

  The Dear Lady’s churning engine had broken down at last, leaving them dead in the water. The morning was cool, bright, and windless, the sky the same sharp blue as Destry’s eyes. The remaining mariners stood in a crescent around the three bodies, and it took every bit of Sepha’s courage to stand with them when she ought to be hiding in shame. But the dead were dead because of her. She owed it to them to stand, and watch, and remember.

  Standing with several mariners between herself and Ruhen, Sepha watched as Ellsworth gave the order for the fallen to be tipped into the sea. The swaddled bodies slipped off their boards. An empty moment, and then three sickening splashes.

  The mariners stood at varying levels of attention, facing out to sea. Ms. Elos, who stood beside Captain Ellsworth, murmured something only Ellsworth could hear.

  Ellsworth swallowed and nodded. Turning to face his crew, he said, “Back to work, then.” He fixed his eyes on Ruhen, and said, “If you would.”

  “Of course,” Ruhen said. Now that he didn’t have to hide his magic, the Dear Lady would be back in working condition in no time. Ruhen’s eyes flicked uncertainly to Sepha before he turned to follow Captain Ellsworth belowdecks.

  The rest of the mariners scattered, shooting dark looks at Sepha as they left. When she was alone, she took one deep breath and released it in a huff. There was something she had to do, something she’d been putting off.

  She had to talk to Henric.

  She found him a few minutes later on the main deck, aft, staring out over the water. His holsters were empty, his shirt rumpled and untucked. His hair was unkempt, his arms were crossed, and he was quiet. And he was never quiet.

  Henric turned to face her, his eyes shockingly red against the green of his irises. They looked at each other for a quiet moment, and it was as if Destry’s absence took up space between them, a physical object that was too heavy for them to move.

  Sepha nodded, the barest acknowledgment of a loss much greater than her own, and they both returned their gazes to the sea. They were both too tired for anything but blunt and dry-eyed observation.

  “Destry is gone,” Henric said, his voice reduced to a gravelly murmur.

  Sepha looked sidelong at him. “You weren’t at the memorial.”

  Henric’s head drooped. “I couldn’t go,” he said. “If I’d gone, that would’ve meant it was real. That she really died. And if she’s dead, that means I have to be the next Magistrate. The moment my mother dies, my name will be expunged. I’ll be Monseigneur Magistrate, not Henric.

  “You got me wrong, Sepha,” he said. “I never wanted this, not even for a second. All I wanted was—well, not this.” He shook his head. “Maybe she isn’t dead. Maybe we should circle back. She could’ve climbed one of those rocks, maybe.”

  Sepha sighed and scanned the horizon for pursuing ships.

  None.

  “She’s dead, Henric.” Her voice was flat and unyielding, because she’d had to tell herself the same thing. “I saw the cleptapods get her.”

  “I can’t believe that, Sepha,” Henric said, fixing her with a desperate look. “She was too good for that. It had to have been one of the magicians, Ruhen or that other one, the homunculus. Don’t do Destry the disservice of saying she got killed by a godsdamned octopus.” He squared his shoulders, faced her head-on, and asked, his voice cold, “Did Ruhen kill her?”

  “No.” Sepha felt hard, as if she were full of broken stones and sharpened metal and shattered glass. “He tried to save her.”

  “Or maybe he only wanted it to seem like he was trying to save her, did you ever think of that?” Henric came closer, so that they were face to face. “He didn’t kill her, but he let his friend do it for him.”

  “Gods, Henric!
” Sepha took a few steps away and leaned one hip against a giant spool of rope. “The other magician isn’t his friend.”

  Henric’s eyes narrowed. “You know something.”

  The lie tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop it. “No, I don’t.”

  “Tell me,” Henric snarled. “Destry is dead, and you’re hiding something. I’m going to be the Magistrate, and you’re an alchemancer, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  An errant gust of wind forced Sepha to take a step backward, and her magic roiled up beneath her skin. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

  “It’s just a fact,” Henric said, moving closer to her. Too close. Her magic was uncoiling and spiraling outward, smoke in a stopped chimney. Sepha forced herself to ignore it, to glare up at Henric as he said, “Another fact is that magicians began attacking Destry as soon as you came into her life.”

  Sepha gritted her teeth and said, “I already told you I’d never harm Destry, and I’m not telling you again. Either you believe me, or you don’t.” Henric scowled and looked away. “The magician-homunculus has been wreaking havoc in Tirenia. Maybe he attacked the boat so he could kill Destry. She’d’ve been a formidable Magistrate.”

  The light in Henric’s eyes flickered, and he seemed to wilt. “More so than me.” He turned away and plunged both hands deep into his long, curly hair. Then he whirled around, looking utterly miserable. “I’m sorry, Sepha. I didn’t mean to—but you understand.”

  Sepha twisted her mouth to one side. All she understood was that Henric had been the Magistrate’s heir for less than two days, and he was already using his status to make threats. To an alchemancer, no less.

  There was a small shuffling sound. She looked down and saw Fio climb onto a nearby barrel.

  “Morning, Fio,” Sepha said, and started in surprise when he rasped back, “Morning.”

  She gaped from Fio to Henric, who was frowning out over the sea. Henric seemed not to have heard Fio. Who had talked. In all of the—everything—she had forgotten he could.

  There was a loud bang from far below. With a slight lurch, the boat began to churn forward. The motion picked up a small breeze, and Sepha’s eyes flickered closed as it teased the hair around her forehead. “He fixed it,” she said, mostly to herself.

  “There’s no getting out of it, I suppose,” Henric sighed, seeming not to have heard Sepha, either. “I’ll have to contact Mother once we get to the Sanctuary.”

  Sepha’s heart swooped. She knew that Destry had planned to contact the Magistrate from the Sanctuary, but she didn’t like the idea of Henric doing it. Not even a little. “I thought we were hoping she wouldn’t know we were there.”

  “It won’t matter,” Henric said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “She can’t go there without violating the treaty. Anyway, she’ll be too busy being disappointed that I’m her successor to give chase.” He snorted and shook his head. “Wish I could see her face when she finds out.”

  Sepha’s lip curled in distaste. But then she remembered how hard it was to talk about her father Ludov without letting bitterness spew out of her like acid. How she was always afraid people would think she was a liar if she talked about how he’d treated her.

  Maybe the Magistrate was Henric’s Ludov.

  “What did your mother do to you, Henric?” Sepha asked.

  Henric turned just enough to look at her. His eyes narrowed, and Sepha didn’t know quite what to make of it when he said, “Nothing. She did nothing.”

  “All right,” Sepha said, wincing as her tether flickered out and in. Ruhen was suddenly much farther away than before. “Sorry. I thought you might—but never mind.”

  Henric shrugged and turned away. He was silent for so long that Sepha thought he was thinking of Destry again. But then he said, “Not every mother wants to be a mother. Not every mother wants all of her children. Not every mother cares enough to pretend she does.”

  I’m sure she wanted you, Sepha almost said, but she swallowed the words. She was quite sure Destry had overshadowed Henric in every way. The broken and sharp and shattered bits inside Sepha ground together as she said instead, “She’ll have to want you now.”

  “Yes,” Henric said. There was almost a smile on his lips. “I suppose she will.”

  Several days later, seven weeks after the night in Cell Two-Seven, Sepha found herself again on the main deck with Henric and Fio. The Dear Lady, thanks to Ruhen’s magic, was making record time and was set to arrive at the Sanctuary on the southern coast of Tirenia within two weeks. The journey from Port Balarat to any of the southern ports normally took over a month.

  Bored to the point of distraction, Henric had enlisted Sepha’s help. He’d drawn a large transformation alchem on the back of a map and set Sepha hurling knives over it. He wanted to continue his research, which was suddenly important to him.

  He didn’t succeed a single time. Each failure only sent him deeper into focus, settled a frown more permanently over his green eyes.

  After an hour or two of watching Henric fail, Sepha took a turn.

  “This might be a waste of time,” she said to Henric as she walked toward the alchem. “This really isn’t what alchemy is for.”

  “Yes, well,” Henric said, “soon it’ll be up to me to decide what alchemy is for, and I say transforming projectiles in motion has too damn much potential for me to give up on it.”

  Sepha sighed. He did this at every opportunity: used Destry’s death as an excuse to go on doing what he wanted. Because he knew it would work.

  Sepha’s tether stretched as she walked. Ruhen was deep in the belly of the ship, far enough away to be ignored, for once. He’d fallen into the habit of lurking just within eyesight, and from the way the mariners shied away from Sepha, she suspected Ruhen was lurking for their protection, not hers. As if she were some dangerous beast, liable to explode at any moment.

  If anything, Ruhen’s unreasonable lurking was making things worse. His constant, smothering presence irritated Sepha to no end, making that roiling something bubble up and burst out of her. Then Ruhen would leap into action, using his steady magic to undo the damage her wayward magic had done. And she was left standing there like an idiot, pretending it didn’t bother her that she had no control over the magic she’d never wanted.

  She was more prone to unexpected blasts of magic when she was tired or emotional, she’d found.

  And seeing Ruhen made her feel too much.

  She’d tried to forgive him, but every time she talked to him, the snide voice sang, Ruhen’s a magician, and Destry is dead. Every time it did, something inside her shrank.

  “Fine,” she said to Henric and knelt beside the alchem. She’d barely settled onto her knees when Henric hurled a knife straight at her. Before Sepha could place her hands just so, before the knife had even reached the alchem, that roiling something bubbled up beneath her skin. It burst out of her without her telling it to, and the knife ricocheted off the air and landed on the deck several yards away.

  “What in all After …” Henric began.

  “That was me,” she said, looking at the knife and then frowning at her hands.

  Henric looked at her hands, too, grimacing as if he’d just had a distasteful thought. “Damn it all, Sepha,” he said. “I’d nearly forgotten you weren’t an alchemist, and then you go and do something like that.” He jogged over to pick up the knife and said, as he walked back, “You should stop using your magic. Learn how not to use it. It’s better that way.”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose,” Sepha muttered. She set her fingers just so along the alchem’s rim. “Just give me warning next time.”

  “Warning,” he said, and threw the knife at her.

  This time, she was ready.

  As it always had been before—and as it hadn’t been with her homunculus problem—the solution was immediately clear to her.

  All it required was a slight shift in focus.

  And suddenly
the alchem wasn’t just a flat pattern drawn on paper. It was power in three dimensions, an enormous portal that formed an upward-facing cone.

  The moment the knife crossed into the cone, there was a pulse, followed by a metallic thud.

  Sepha had transformed the knife into an ingot. In one try.

  There was a moment of silence, and then, simultaneously, Fio let out a whoop and Henric shouted, “Gods, Sepha!”

  Henric rumpled his hair. “How did you do that?”

  A slow grin spread across Sepha’s face. She pulled another ingot from her holster, tossed it into the alchem, and placed her hands just so. With a pulse, she transformed both ingots into knives. “Do two this time,” she said.

  Hours later, the sun had set, but Sepha and Henric were still at it. By now, they’d drawn a crowd, and Henric’s smile was growing more manic by the minute. The mariners had a lot less to do now that Ruhen had rescued them from their most difficult work, and Sepha could hear snatches of bets being wagered.

  Several mariners now stood, knives in hand, waiting for Henric’s go-ahead to throw. From the way the idiots had oriented themselves, their fellow mariners were likely to be impaled if Sepha failed to transform any of the knives.

  All the more reason not to fail.

  Sepha rocked back onto her heels, turning to make sure no one had decided to throw a knife from behind her. She reached up to hook a stray strand of hair behind her ear and heard Henric shout the go-ahead.

  No—

  She whipped her head around and saw, as if in slow motion, the mariners’ arms arc forward. Saw the knives fly from their hands, spiraling toward her through the air.

  Then the knives were inside the cone and her hands weren’t just so and if she didn’t do something, they’d hit her or someone else, and—