The Alchemist's Touch (19 page)

“You will do what they ask, of course.”

He looked at her quickly. “You say it so easily. Does it not worry you?”

“Why should it?” She shrugged. “You only delivered a parcel. If there is anything dark in such an act, it comes before, or after, and is not your responsibility.”

“Yet
my
hands bore the parcel.”

She sighed and pushed his shoulders until he lay back upon the bed. Slowly, intently, she climbed atop him.

“Never do kings behead messengers for bearing words, even when those words may anger the king. And if bearing such parcels keeps you upon the High King’s Seat, and here in my arms, then I shall command you: bear them, Ebon. Bear as many as you must. But do not leave me.”
 

Ebon found it impossible to muster a reply.

twenty

THOUGH EBON’S FEARS HUNG DARK about him, it seemed that for a time, at least, Mako and his father were finished with him. He saw nothing of the bodyguard as days became weeks, and summer at last surrendered to autumn upon the High King’s Seat. At home in Idris, the turning season meant relief from the unbearable heat; but on the Seat, Ebon had found summer pleasant, and now often felt chilled while passing through the granite halls.

One day he entered the library for his studies and found Jia sitting at a desk, reading a short letter. He gave her a quick wave, as he always did, but then stopped. Something about her gave him pause. Her face was grave, brows drawn together as she hunched over the letter with worry.

He cautiously approached, but Jia did not look up, or seem to notice him at all. Soon he stood at the table, and she had yet to bat an eye.

“Instructor Jia?” he said tentatively. “Is everything all right?”

She started in her seat and looked up at Ebon. With a quick sigh, she folded the letter and tucked it away in a pocket.

“No, it is not,” she said, standing. “Yet it is nothing you need trouble yourself with. Do you require assistance?”

He shook his head. “No, Instructor. But what troubles you so? If I could help…”

“It is this war that rages in Wellmont. No doubt you have heard?”

Ebon frowned. “I have not. Wellmont—is that the city upon the border of Dorsea and Selvan? They squabble all the time. Surely this is no great worry.”

“They do,” she admitted. “But this seems to be something more grave. It has lasted longer than usual, and even a border skirmish there would trouble me. I grew up in that city, as did a former student whom I cared for deeply. The last I heard, she was stationed there, but I have not received word from her in months.”

Ebon wanted to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but it seemed inappropriate. Instead he merely stammered, “I am sorry to hear that. You taught her weremagic?”

“Therianthropy, Ebon. And no, I was not her instructor; she was a mentalist. But never mind; this is nothing for you to worry over. We can do little about it in any case, here so far from the fighting—and a good thing, too. Carry on with your studies, Ebon, and remember: wisdom in the right head may stop such wars before the first arrow flies. You should hold that endeavor as paramount, as should all people of learning.”

“Yes, Instructor,” Ebon mumbled, and left her. He thought of the war, so far away, and wondered what it would feel like to have a loved one tangled within it. That thought drew him to his brother, Momen. He scarcely remembered the day when Momen rode away from home. Much clearer were his memories of the day they learned of his death. The darkest day, stretching into forever, full of hurt and tears, hatred in his father’s eyes. Ebon doubted he would ever forget it; and he both hoped he would, and hoped he would not.

A thought struck him—odd that he had never had it before. Ebon did not know how Momen had died. As far as he could remember, Idris had never been involved in any border wars with the three surrounding kingdoms. Idris was a desert, lacking the fair green lands that made Selvan so attractive a target. And the Camar, the royal family of Idris, were almost as fearsome as the Draydens. He had never mustered the courage to ask Father how Momen had passed, and now, he likely never would. Perhaps Halab knew. He would have to ask, the next time he saw her.

Kalem was waiting at the table when Ebon arrived, and immediately he put down his book. “Let us see it.”

Ebon sighed, drew his wooden rod, and handed it over. Kalem took a deep breath. His eyes glowed, and under his fingers, the rod turned to stone. He blinked, and it returned to wood.

“There. Did you feel it this time?”

Kalem had told him that wizards could sense other wizards using their spells, if the magic was of an aligned branch. Weremagic and alchemy worked in tandem, as did mindmagic and firemagic. Ebon could sense when a weremage or another alchemist were using their powers. Now, as he often had, Ebon could feel a tingling on his neck and a turned stomach when Kalem transformed the rod. But it was no more help than it had been before.

“I sensed it, yes. But I still do not see how it helps.”

“The feeling it gives you—try to emulate it. Try to recapture it while casting your spell.”

Ebon rolled his eyes, took the rod, and focused, trying to do as Kalem asked. He pictured the tingling on his neck, and the vague roiling of his stomach. But that only distracted him from seeing the wood for what it truly was. Nothing happened to his eyes, and he soon cast the rod aside in frustration.

“It is no use. When I focus on the sensation, I lose sight of the rod, and when I think of the rod, I cannot hold the sensation.”

“Focus upon them both. It is really quite easy.”

Ebon thrust a finger under his nose. “If you tell me, even once more, that it is easy, I will…”

Kalem smiled and touched Ebon’s robe. The whole sleeve turned to iron, and at the sudden change in weight, Ebon tipped where he sat, yelping as he landed hard on his arm.

“Change it back,” he growled.

Kalem sighed and did as he asked. “Ebon, you grow frustrated too easily. A calm mind is the best facilitator of magic.”

“I have few places to find calm in my life.”

“Then I hope you are resigned to a life without spells,” said Kalem with a shrug. “Because that is all you will ever have. When you struggle to clear your mind, consider that if you learn to do this, you will learn how to be a wizard. The physical world will bow at your command; you will control the earth, buildings, even the oceans and winds. Is that not worth learning to cast aside your fears and doubts?”

Something had nabbed his attention. “What do you mean, the oceans and the winds? Those spells are of mind magic.”

“Elementalism,
Ebon. You could at least pretend that proper terms matter to you, for I can assure you they matter to everyone else.”

“Elementalism, then,” said Ebon through gritted teeth. “But you have not answered my question.”

Kalem seemed to take this as an apology, for he nodded magnanimously. “I do not speak of elementalist spells such as summoning water and wind. Those depend on motion. Ours is magic of change. You can turn water to oil easily enough. One day you will learn to change the air as well.”

Ebon’s curiosity was piqued. He had never considered this, nor seen an alchemist at the school do it. “How? What can you do with the air?”

“Only simple things,” Kalem said with a shrug. “They teach more advanced spells in the next class. But I have learned the spell to make mist.”

“Can you show me?”

Kalem looked surprised, and not a little pleased. He crossed his legs beneath him, and after a moment his eyes began to glow. Then a mist seemed to spring out of nowhere, but as Ebon looked closer he could see it emanating away from Kalem’s body. Soon it filled the space around them, spreading ever farther until it reached the library’s railing. The mist thickened, until Ebon could not see more than a few paces in any direction.

“That is all I can do for now,” said Kalem. “My instructor says he could fill the entire Academy with fog, if he so chose. I do not know if I believe that, but then again, it is a very simple spell.” He blinked, and the glow faded from his eyes. The mists rushed back and vanished, and the air was clear again.

“That is wondrous. I would give much to be able to cast such a spell.” Ebon felt his lack of ability like an ache in his heart.

“You will learn. It is simpler than turning wood to stone. Air is not complicated like wood.”

“Mayhap I could try,” said Ebon.

Kalem looked uncomfortable. “I am not sure that is wise. They teach us our spells in order for a reason.”

“What reason? If I can make mist, why should I not try? Mayhap it will turn my mind towards other spells—even the spell for stone.”

“Mayhap,” said Kalem. “I suppose I cannot see the harm…”

Ebon closed his eyes and tried to envision the air around him. He spread his fingers until he could feel its coolness on his skin. At first he felt no different. Then he remembered how it felt when turning water to oil. He did not picture the water in his mind so much as he
saw
it through his fingers. He tried it now, and soon it was as though he could see the air’s tiny currents weaving about him. He opened his eyes and focused. To his delight, the world brightened, and Ebon knew his eyes must be glowing. Thin wisps of mist sprang into being, twisting in tiny spirals about his fingers.

Joy radiated through him, strong enough to shatter his concentration. The glow died, and the mists vanished. But rather than disappointment, Ebon laughed out loud. “I did it!”

Kalem grinned. “Indeed you did. That seemed to come easily.”

Ebon studied his fingers, feeling that he could still see the air’s currents. “It was so much easier than the wood. I could see it as plain as the floor underfoot.”

“As I said, air is simple. But still, even I did not learn mist so quickly. You should be proud.”

“Have you ever used it? It seems to me that mists would be a powerful spell for sneaking about.”

Kalem’s face fell, and he looked to the ceiling as though for help. “Sky save me. Of course you would immediately think of ways to use it for mischief.”

Ebon gave his shoulder a little shove. “Oh, calm yourself. I have no schemes to sneak about the Academy and wreak havoc. At least, not yet.”

“You would find it a hard prospect even if you did. Any alchemist or weremage would sense what you were doing and put a stop to it.”

“Transmuter or therianthrope,
Kalem, honestly,” Ebon wagged an admonishing finger, “you could at least pretend that proper terms matter.”

Kalem scowled.

twenty-one

The discovery of a new spell, and one that actually seemed useful, filled Ebon’s days with joy. He practiced spinning his mists whenever possible—while bored in Credell’s class, and in between reading his ever-mounting pile of books. When not practicing, Ebon was wondering what else he might be able to learn. His wooden rod seemed suddenly unimportant. Oh, certainly, he would need to turn it to stone eventually—but why worry over it now, when he could learn other spells instead?

He also found himself dwelling on the parcel. Despite sharing his worries with Adara, and his conversations with Kalem and Theren, Ebon could not help but wonder what he had become involved in—for however unwilling and inadvertent his own part had been. If indeed he were part of some nefarious scheme, Ebon doubted the King’s law would care that he had not asked to be dragged into it by Mako and his father.

One morning he woke with an idea. He toyed with it all through Credell’s class, turning it over and over in his mind. By the time of his midday meal, Ebon knew he should bring it to Kalem and Theren.

“I have been thinking hard,” he said, once they were all seated in the dining hall. “And I want to know what was in the parcel.”

“I am sure we would all like to know,” said Kalem. “But that carriage, as they say, has driven on.”

“Mayhap not for good.”

Theren leaned in, eyes alight. “My dear goldbag. You cannot be proposing what I think—no, what I
hope,
you are proposing.”

“Mayhap,” said Ebon with a grin.

“I do not understand.” Kalem looked back and forth between them, utterly lost. “What do you mean to do?”

“I shall return to the inn, and if the man is still there, I will find the package and learn what was inside it.”

Kalem could only gawk. “You cannot be serious.”

“He is, and it is glorious.” Theren laughed out loud and slapped her hand on the table. Many students looked over in shock, but she ignored them. “My dear little goldbag. I take back all the nasty things I ever said about you. Well, not all of them, but the greater part at least.”

“You will help me, then?”

“She will
not,
because you will
not
do this mad thing,” Kalem whispered, but it was so loud and harsh that Ebon doubted it did much to hide his words. “You do not know what you are involved in.
You could be killed.
”

“I doubt that. The man was some agent of my family’s. He would not dare raise a hand to me, for then he would face their wrath—at least my aunt’s, for I doubt my father cares whether I live or die.”

“You do not know that. What if he hired your family to do this thing for him? If they are in his employ, and not the other way around, that is a very different situation.”

“My family, playing the part of lackey to some man in a rotten hovel of an inn?” Ebon scoffed. “That is hardly likely.”

“You are quick to say so, yet what if you are wrong? It could go ill for us all.”

“All?” Ebon smiled. “Do you mean to come with us, then?”

“Say you will, little goldbag,” said Theren, shaking Kalem’s shoulder. The poor boy flopped all about like a rag doll. “It would not be a proper adventure without you.”

“I do not
want
it to be a proper adventure!” protested Kalem, shoving her hand away.

Ebon leaned in closer. “Think, Kalem. You have heard rumors of my family’s doings, have you not? It seems I am being drawn into them. Will you not help me fight off their influence? I do not mean to grow up and become another agent of whatever mischief my father chooses to plot on a given day.”