The Lady Alchemist

by Samantha Vitale

  Isolde clicked her tongue. “My, you are a child. What use would my sister have for an alchemancer whose secret is out? She’ll never use you now. If she doesn’t kill you, she’ll be exposed for the hypocrite she is, and she can’t have that. She’ll chase you until she kills you.”

  Sepha had expected as much, but she forced herself to flinch. Playing the part.

  “Now that you know that,” Isolde said, her eyes lingering on Sepha, “do you still think my Sanctuary is the best place for you?”

  Sepha shook her head, forcing herself to act confused, helpless.

  “Time,” Ruhen said. “We need time to think things through. And somewhere safe to do the thinking. This is the safest place we know of.”

  Isolde surrendered a small smile, and Sepha glanced at Ruhen. That bit of flattery was very nicely done. Her contract thrummed, a distraction, and she turned her attention back to Isolde.

  Isolde pressed one finger to her mouth before saying, slowly, “Well, you are correct. This is the only place my sister can’t touch. I need assurances from you, however, before I can promise you safety of any kind. Surely you understand the risk I would be taking, letting an alchemancer and magician into my domain. Especially when my sister’s alchemists are so thirsty for your blood.”

  Sepha and Ruhen exchanged suspicious glances. “What kind of assurances?” Sepha asked.

  There was a strange light in Isolde’s eyes. She rested her elbows on her knees and leaned toward them. “I merely wish to ask a few simple questions. And to receive the truth in response.”

  “And if we answer your questions, we’ll be safe here?” Ruhen asked. His voice was stiff.

  “If I like your answers,” Isolde said, lifting a breezy hand, “I shall not turn you over to the bloodthirsty alchemists outside. You have my word.”

  Behind Isolde, Fio pulled a grimace and shook his head. Sepha knew Ruhen felt the same way, could tell from the way he held himself, from the way he’d edged to the front of his seat.

  But leaving was not an option. Not yet, at least.

  “Fine,” Sepha said. “Ask away.”

  “Have you ever killed anyone on purpose?” Isolde asked immediately.

  “No,” they both said.

  But not for lack of trying, Sepha didn’t say.

  Isolde narrowed her eyes. “Do you mean harm to me or anyone at my Sanctuary?”

  Again, they both said no.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Three Mills,” Sepha said. Isolde’s eyebrows quirked upward.

  Ruhen shifted in his seat, more uncomfortable at this question than the first. “All over.”

  “Where are you originally from?” Isolde’s eyes were malicious, and Sepha thought of the undead magician. Malice shone from his eyes, too.

  “A place called Seacastle,” Ruhen said at last.

  Triumph flashed in Isolde’s eyes as she leaned back in her seat and said, “I’ve heard Seacastle is lovely. Never been there, myself.” She grinned as Ruhen went still. Sepha gritted her teeth against the sudden surge of her roiling beast. Isolde was toying with them, but Sepha could not attack her. She couldn’t. “If I allow you to stay, you must be aware that we at the Sanctuary abide by very strict rules. As guests, I will expect you to stay in your rooms unless escorted or unless one of my Spirit Alchemists tells you where to go. I must insist on this point and will not appreciate disobedience in the least. Do you agree to abide by this rule?”

  “Y-es,” Sepha said slowly.

  Ruhen paused for a second before saying, quietly, “Yes.”

  Isolde’s grin was sharp. “Good. One last question, and then we’re done.”

  Ruhen was shaking, and Sepha didn’t understand why. She rested a hand on his knee. “All right, one last question.”

  “What do you know of Spirit Alchemy?”

  Sepha raised her eyebrows. “Almost nothing.”

  Isolde grinned. “Well, during your stay here, we’ll ameliorate that. Of course, you are free to leave, Sepha, if you choose. The Military Alchemists may only be here to retrieve you.”

  Sepha swallowed. Being retrieved sounded worse, somehow, than being killed. Retrieved, and then delivered to the Magistrate. Even if the Magistrate didn’t kill Sepha—if—life under the Magistrate’s thumb would just be another contract. Just another Ludov. Just another thing-that-wasn’t-Sepha controlling Sepha’s every move.

  “What about Ruhen?” Sepha asked. “What would they do with him?”

  “Do they know what he is?” Isolde asked.

  Sepha and Ruhen exchanged a quick glance. “I don’t think so,” Ruhen said.

  “Well, then,” Isolde said, “if he was relieved of any associations with you, he’d be as free as any other Tirenian magician.”

  Sepha loosed her breath in a huff. Ruhen, at least, might recover from all of this. Might have a life worth living, a life not spent on the run.

  But Sepha wouldn’t. The Magistrate knew what she was. Henric and the Military Alchemists knew what she was. She’d been too distracted until now to realize it, but she would never be safe. Never.

  Isolde clapped her hands onto her knees, stood, and motioned to the door. “Rivers will show you to your rooms, if you choose to stay.”

  Her unspoken question lingered in the air.

  Without bothering to glance at Ruhen, Sepha said, “Yes, thank you, we’ll stay.”

  A short woman with smooth umber skin and hair that twisted into long, knotted locs was waiting for them outside Isolde’s study. She introduced herself as Rivers, and with a smile and a jerk of her head, she led them through the third doorway and toward their rooms.

  Under Rivers’s watchful eye, Ruhen and Sepha retreated into their separate rooms. Fio, following Rivers’s instructions, scuffed down the corridor toward the homunculi’s barracks, pulling an annoyed grimace when Rivers’s back was turned.

  Accustomed to the minuscule berth aboard the Dear Lady and the stark asceticism of the Ten before that, Sepha sighed with relief when she saw her room. It was spacious, comparatively—although most any room would be. The bed was tall and soft, and it sank wonderfully when she pressed her hand on it. The smooth, carved-stone floor was scattered with thick, patterned rugs and the walls were streaked with veins of colorful ores. There was an overstuffed chair beside the irregular, craggy window, and behind an open door in the corner was a gleaming white bathtub filled to the brim with gently steaming water.

  “Oh,” Sepha whispered. Without another thought, she stripped off her salt-hardened clothes and leapt straight in. It had been weeks since she’d had a proper bath, and even longer since she’d had a place to luxuriate in privacy. She took her time and only emerged from the water when her fingers were purple and wrinkled.

  Red-cheeked and warm, she slipped into a change of clothes and sat for a few minutes in her overstuffed chair, trying to re-center herself. Her thoughts flitted from the Magistrate to Destry, to Isolde, and finally to Henric. Three troublesome, one dead. All four bound so tightly to Sepha that she was suffocating under the strain.

  With a huff, Sepha got up and knocked on Ruhen’s door. It opened at once, and Ruhen, as fresh and clean as she, gestured her in. His room was the mirror image of hers, although it was somehow already messier.

  “Well?” Sepha said, sitting on the edge of Ruhen’s bed. Ruhen sat beside her. They hadn’t kissed again, hadn’t so much as held hands. But there was still something between them, something invisible but undeniable, something that pulled and pushed. “What do you think?”

  “She’s a snake,” Ruhen said. “I wouldn’t trust anything she said. Including that she’s heard of Seacastle. There is no Seacastle in Tirenia.”

  “I thought she seemed strange, too,” Sepha said. “But what about the Military Alchemists? Do you really think they’re only here to retrieve me?”

  “I don’t know,” Ruhen answered. “There’s no way for us to know until it’s too late
.” He paused. “How long do you think it’ll be before we can leave?”

  “I don’t know,” Sepha said. “I’m sure Destry was right about them knowing something about the magician. And beyond finding that information, there’s still the fact that the Military Alchemists are out there.”

  Ruhen leveled a look at her. “I really don’t think you have to be afraid of them. And if you’re not ready to face them head-on, I have a lot of experience living below their notice.”

  “That is true,” Sepha said, chewing on her lip.

  They were quiet for a moment, but then something changed, and that heavy silence welled up. Sepha leaned against Ruhen, an experimental touch, and said, “At least you can go free, if everything goes to Darkest After. They still don’t know what you are.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “I know the headaches would be a problem,” she went on, ignoring him, “but maybe if you were gone for long enough, the contract would give up and choose someone else. Then you’d really be safe.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  There didn’t seem to be a good answer to that question. Instead, Sepha said, “I’m sorry you got sucked in to all of this. I don’t know how you’ll be a Court Alchemist now.”

  “I can’t,” Ruhen said, scrubbing at his mouth. “Not now that Henric knows what I am.” Guilt hollowed Sepha out, and she wanted to fold in over herself. Her fault. “I don’t blame you, Sepha, really. To be honest, I don’t think what’s between us has anything to do with the contract. It’s too big a magic for that.”

  Sepha frowned. “But what else could it possibly be?”

  Ruhen shook his head. “No idea.”

  Sepha hazarded a glance at Ruhen just in time to see him look down at her. To see his throat bob, his lips part and close again. His thunderhead eyes roved across her face, and his voice was hoarse when he said, “But it’s something.”

  Someone knocked on the door and immediately opened it, and the moment was broken. In a habitual but now unnecessary move, Ruhen leapt off the bed to stand in front of Sepha. But she wasn’t defenseless anymore. Hadn’t been for a long time. Sepha stood beside Ruhen, giving him a look that dared him to argue.

  A man with waist-length brown hair was peeking around the door. He peered at them and smiled. “Oops,” he said, opening the door wider and coming into the room. “Hope I didn’t startle you. It’s just so rare that people who aren’t criminals come here.”

  Sepha frowned. “What?”

  “Our principal occupation is criminal rehabilitation. And since the Sanctuary is so isolated—again, because of all the criminals—well, we hardly get to see anyone new. I’m called Meadow,” he added, striding forward to shake their hands. His hand was soft and pliable in Sepha’s, and she fought the urge to wipe her hand on her shirt.

  Meadow tipped his head to study the pair of them. His eyes were an unsettling amber, and he had a thick, close-cropped beard that obscured most of his face. “Rivers made me wait before coming over here, but damn me to After if I was going to hang back for too long! An alchemancer! A real, true alchemancer! And a magician,” he added, with an apologetic glance at Ruhen.

  Meadow went back to staring at Sepha as if she was some exotic beast. “And you’re a Spirit Alchemist?” she asked, giving him the same rude stare. He was wearing long pants that were several sizes too big and a shapeless shirt that might once have been colorful but was now faded to several almost-browns. His feet were bare.

  No Court or Military Alchemists would ever allow themselves to be seen like this.

  That thought made Sepha smile. A little.

  “Yes. Yes!” Meadow said. The tip of his hooked nose angled sharply down when he smiled. “I am! One of a few dozen! There aren’t many of us. Isolde asked me to show you around and teach you a bit, believe it or not. I hardly believe it myself. But she thought you could use the distraction, Military Alchemists out there and all. Spirit Alchemy is a very complicated subject, and I hardly feel qualified to explain it to anyone, let alone to an alchemancer!—And a magician!—But I’m sure I know more than you do about Spirit Alchemy, and that’s a good enough place to start.”

  Sepha’s smile grew. She couldn’t help it.

  Meadow, in need of no such encouragement, went on. “I think it’s an excellent idea—not just because it’s a distraction, but because I think anyone would choose Spirit Alchemy over typical alchemy when given the right information. I’m going to show you what we do, and we’ll see how you take to it.” He paused and eyed Ruhen, twisting his mouth to one side. “You won’t be able to learn it, what with your … limitation. But you’re welcome to watch, if you want.” He smiled again, then seemed to remember his manners. “You must be exhausted from your journey. If you follow me, I’ll show you where the kitchen and dining room are. Dining cave, I guess. Ha!”

  Sepha and Ruhen followed Meadow through the Sanctuary until they reached a cavernous kitchen. Every surface shone metallic and clean. In the middle of the room was a long metal table, with half a dozen stools on each side.

  “Sit here,” Meadow said, and they sat. Without warning, Meadow banged on the table so hard Sepha jumped. “Hey!” he bellowed. “Food!” He gave them a calm smile. “They’ll be here in a minute.”

  Presently, three homunculi slouched into the kitchen and began cooking. Accustomed by now to Fio’s commentary, or at least facial expressions, Sepha found their flat silence disconcerting.

  “We get shipments of meat every so often,” Meadow said, pulling out a stool across from where Sepha and Ruhen were sitting, “but the produce, we grow here. Topside, of course.”

  In the interest of getting as many answers as fast as possible, Sepha steered the conversation away from food. “So. Rehabilitating criminals.”

  Meadow slammed his hands on the table again. The homunculi paused, as if waiting for another directive. “Criminals!” he exclaimed, and the homunculi resumed cooking. “Yes! So. To start, we have to ask, what makes a criminal a criminal?”

  It was a moment before Sepha realized Meadow’s question wasn’t hypothetical. “Crime?” she tried.

  Meadow laughed. “But what makes a person commit a crime? More importantly, what makes a person a habitual committer of crimes?”

  “Necessity,” Sepha said, thinking of the crimes she had committed. Planned to commit.

  “Circumstance,” Ruhen said. Then, probably thinking of his brothers, he added, “Or a bad nature.”

  “I like that one,” Meadow said, nodding at Ruhen. “We posit that the habitual criminal is possessed of a defective spirit—a bad nature. A good person might steal bread to feed his family, but as soon as he is able to provide the bread on his own, he will stop stealing. In that case, the crime was certainly one of circumstance and necessity. But if he goes on stealing the bread when he can afford to pay for it, then that, my friends, is indicative of a bad nature. A defect in his very soul.”

  Behind Meadow, the three homunculi worked together, standing on step-stools to reach the counters. A pot of something was boiling on the stove, and the steam rose in swirling tendrils up to the ceiling.

  “So …” Sepha began, unsure how to put her question into words. “So, Spirit Alchemy is a religion?”

  Meadow let out a short, loud laugh. “No! Of course not! I think you are under the misconception that a soul is so incorporeal as to be unaffected by alchemy. That could not be further from the truth.”

  Meadow broke off suddenly when Rivers walked into the room. Like Meadow, she was barefoot. Meadow beamed at her and beckoned her over. With a half-smile, she sat beside Meadow, slipping her arm around him.

  “Anyway,” he said, “Spirit Alchemy is used to replace the undesirable parts of the soul.”

  “How?” Sepha asked, furrowing her brow. “How is that alchemy? And how is that possible?”

  Rivers leaned forward. “Think of a soul as a collection of characteristics. Love, hop
e, and joy. Wrath, gluttony, and selfishness. Everyone is made of a mixture of characteristics, any of which can be bad when exercised to excess. We identify the evil that afflicts the criminal’s soul and replace it with a corresponding good. It’s a transmutation, of sorts.”

  “Oh,” Sepha said. It made sense. Sort of.

  “How do you identify the evil?” Ruhen asked.

  “Meditation,” Rivers said, “and lots of it. The most successful transmutations occur when the criminal and the alchemist meditate in tandem. Unfortunately,” she said with a laugh, “the criminals are usually unwilling to meditate. So, we have to restrain them in a room with us while we meditate on their behalf. Sometimes, the evil is immediately apparent; sometimes, it takes hours, even days, of meditation before we can identify where the soul’s defect lies.”

  The homunculi finished with their cooking and brought over four bowls of vegetable stew and a large, crusty loaf of bread. Meadow started eating as soon as the bowl appeared in front of him.

  “Thank you,” Sepha said to the homunculus who’d delivered her bowl. His gaze flicked briefly up to meet hers, then he looked down and walked away. Ruhen thanked his homunculus, too.

  “To perform Spirit Alchemy,” Meadow went on, pausing to slurp another spoonful of stew, “you must have an alchem, but you must also have a name.”

  “A name?” Sepha asked. “Whose name?”

  “The name of the soul you want to affect,” Rivers said, floating her spoon on the stew’s surface. “Unlike material things, which only have to be inside the alchem for you to affect them, a soul is immaterial. It’s as impossible to put inside an alchem as air. So, if you want to do anything to a soul, you’ve got to know its name.”

  “Is the soul’s name the same as the person’s name?” Ruhen asked. He hadn’t touched his stew.

  “Almost always,” Meadow said.

  “Almost?” Sepha asked.

  “The soul’s name is always the same as the person’s name, but isn’t always the same as what the person is called.” He saw Sepha and Ruhen exchange a confused glance, and continued, “I’m only called Meadow, and Rivers is only called Rivers. To know a name is to have power over a person, and we Spirit Alchemists would never work in harmony if we were afraid of each other. I find meadows to be very peaceful, which is why I took this name.”