The Alchemist's Touch (5 page)

Ebon was beginning to wonder if Mako could force the door open, when they heard the heavy
snap
of a thrown latch. With a bone-deep groan, the door swung in. On the other side was a short, portly man, grey hair clinging determinedly to a balding pate. He wore black robes of unremarkable fabric, trimmed with golden brocade of fine make, catching both the sun and the eye as he moved his arms.

“Cousin Cyrus,” said Halab, smiling graciously at him. “What a pleasure to see you.”

“Halab, Halab,” said Cyrus, stepping out to greet her. He took her hands and his, moving to usher her inside. “Come in, please. I offer my deepest apologies for the delay.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Halab. Then she turned to Mako. “Wait here for us.”

Mako nodded and stepped to the side, facing out towards the street with his hands clasped before him. Ebon hurried after Halab as Cyrus drew her inside, and an attendant within hurried to swing the door shut behind them with a
clang.

Ebon froze, dumbfounded by the sight before him. The Academy’s entrance hall stood at least ten paces high, its floor all black marble, thin white veins glinting with light from the many chandeliers hanging high above. A staircase with bronze railings swept up before them, seeming to promise the sky itself at the top, though Ebon could see it ended at a landing that vanished into hallways on both sides of the second floor. Other passages ran to the left and right of the stairway, while two doors stood closed to either side of the great chamber. The doors were made of white wood, polished until it shone like gold, and everywhere were tapestries of glorious make. Ebon thought he recognized Calentin craftsmanship.

Students and instructors bustled about in every direction like ants swarming through a hive, none sparing so much as a glance for Ebon and the others standing in the entryway. The chandeliers’ light was strengthened by the great windows set high in each wall, made of colored glass depicting many tall figures Ebon did not recognize. But they were beautiful, and clearly ancient. He felt them staring down on him in judgment as he stood beneath them.

With a start he realized that Cyrus and Halab had almost vanished, making for the passage to the right of the staircase. He scurried after them, barely able to tear his eyes from the windows high above. Quickly Cyrus took them down the hallway, past many doors on either side, until it branched right and he turned. At last Ebon reached his destination: a door of iron not unlike the one in the front, and saw that it was worked all over with the same small symbols. It swung open easily at his touch, and they followed him inside.

They were in an office now—the Dean’s, Ebon guessed, for it was wide and well-lit, with a second half-floor reached by a narrow staircase to the right. The office was filled with many items that were strange to him—crystal globes, metal orbs, and many books that stood in great stacks in every corner. On the second floor were many bookshelves, most covered with dust, and windows that let light come pouring in from outside, though he could see nothing more than sky.

“My heart sings to see you, Cousin,” said Cyrus, going to Halab and kissing her on both cheeks before she kissed him on his forehead. “Again I must apologize for your treatment at the front door. Despite my many years here, I have never succeeded in ridding this place of Mellie, daft old hawk that she is.”

“I hope you do not trouble yourself about it,” said Halab graciously. “Allow me to present my nephew, and your second cousin once removed: Ebon, Shay’s son.”

Cyrus regarded Ebon with a cool tolerance. “Indeed. Welcome, Ebon. You travel in mighty company.”
 

He held forth a hand, and on it Ebon saw the cross-and-circle sigil of the Academy. For a moment Ebon was unsure whether he was supposed to respond. After an elongated pause, he realized his mistake and quickly leaned forwards to kiss the ring. Cyrus gave him a thin smile and turned away.

“What purpose brings you here today, honored Cousin? Is there any service I might render you, or any here at the Academy? Only name it, and it is yours.”

“In fact, I am here for Ebon,” said Halab. “Long has he dreamed of seeing the Academy, and as his family is here to visit, I thought to show him. Who better to introduce us to its labyrinthine halls than the Dean himself?”

It looked to Ebon as though Cyrus tried to hide some slight displeasure. “Indeed. Certainly I would be happy to—ah!” He turned to Ebon again, and now his eyes lit with recognition. “You are the transmuter. Your father would not let you attend.”

Ebon felt his cheeks burning, and he lowered his gaze to the floor. “Yes.”

“A pity. And now you are…how old? Fourteen? Fifteen?”

“I have seen sixteen summers,” mumbled Ebon.

“Sixteen!” The Dean shook his head, pursing his lips. “Such a waste. Such a waste. But then, it is only alchemy. And better a glimpse of opportunity lost than to never know it at all. It will be my pleasure to show you my school.”

He took Ebon’s hand in his own, smaller, clammy one, and patted it. Ebon felt an urge to withdraw, but he did not wish to appear rude. The Dean was looking at him like some boy whose legs had been cleaved in a farming accident.

Cyrus opened the study door again and motioned them out. He made his way through the hallways once more, his steps sure, though Ebon was already lost in the massive place. Soon they were standing back in the entrance hall, and Ebon was left to marvel at the Academy’s craftsmanship yet again.

“The student dormitories are near the top of the central citadel,” he said, pointing up to where the staircase turned into hallways far above. “No need to visit them, of course, unless you like beds dressed in plain grey wool.” He tittered.

“No, indeed,” said Halab.

“Most of the classes are taught on the bottom floor, and here also are the kitchens and the dining halls. Come, let me show you where the students learn their spells.”

He took them to the hallway that ran to the left of the staircase. Doors appeared on either side from the moment they left the entrance hall, but Cyrus passed them by. (“Instructor’s studies,” he said, with a dismissive wave.) Soon they reached a set of double doors on the left, and Cyrus threw them open with a flourish.

Inside were many benches filled with students, tables set before them, and a large podium in the front. A thin wisp of a man stood before it, clutching the wooden stand as though for support. He had an owl’s wide eyes, and seemed to blink with the speed of a heartbeat.
 

“Dean Cyrus!” the instructor wheedled, leaping away from his podium as though from a striking snake. He came forwards, wringing his hands together, mouth working as though chewing a tough bit of gristle. “What an unexpected visit.”

“This is Instructor Credell,” said Cyrus, putting a hand on Credell’s shoulder, from which the poor man withered. “He is the beginner’s transmutation instructor—the man you would learn from, Ebon, if you were but a few years younger, and attending the Academy.”

“Well met,” said Ebon, holding forth a hand. Credell regarded it with suspicion, and Ebon slowly withdrew.

“Are you an transmuter then?” said Credell, trying to smile and failing. “Fascinating! Where have you studied?”

“I am unlearned,” said Ebon, feeling a familiar blush creeping across his face.

Credell blink-blinked with his owl eyes. “Oh, I…oh.” Behind him, Ebon could see several of the students—all children far younger than he was—leaning about and aiming for a look at him.

“Perhaps we could leave these students to their studies,” said Halab, giving the room a smile. “After all, they have much to learn.”

“Of course, of course,” said Cyrus, clapping Credell on the back until Ebon thought the instructor might fall over. “Carry on.”

He stepped out and swung the doors shut again, whisking them a bit farther down the hallway to another set of double doors. Beyond these they found a class of mindmages listening attentively to their instructor. The man’s eyes glowed as he made a small iron ball dance in the air. Ebon stared in wonder, but to his disappointment the instructor lowered the ball upon sight of the Dean.
 

Ebon noticed something else intriguing: though there were surely more than a score of students inside, they all wore the same simple black robes. At first he did not know why that caught his eye, until he realized that he could not parse wealthy students from poor. In his own household, even if he did not know all the servants by name, he knew them by dress, just as he knew a member of his own family the moment he saw their bearing. Here, students were equal. Ebon marveled, though only for a moment before Cyrus spoke again.

After hurried introductions, Cyrus pushed on to a new room with another lesson, though Ebon could see no magic at play. Another hall was passed, and then another, as though the Dean was now in a hurry and wished only for the tour to be over.

Evidently Halab noticed Cyrus’ haste, as well as Ebon’s dissatisfaction, for she stopped the Dean after he closed yet another set of classroom doors. “Good Cousin, perhaps we could see the training grounds? I think my nephew tires of seeing so many classrooms that all look the same.” Then, before Ebon could claim in politeness that he was fascinated by the tour, she smiled at him and said, “And I think I agree with him.”

Cyrus grew flustered and produced a silk handkerchief with which he dabbed at his forehead. “Ah, of course, good Cousin. The training grounds indeed—though be careful! They are not without peril.”

“I trust your ability to protect us, dear cousin.”

“Ah, I…ah, yes, of course. This way.”

He set off down the hallway now, faster than before, until Ebon nearly had to jog to keep pace. After three turns that left him utterly bewildered, he stopped at another set of double doors, polished white wood like the great entrance hall doors. Cyrus hesitated a moment before throwing them open.

Ebon’s eyes burned at the sudden daylight, and he had to raise a hand to shield his vision. Once adjusted, he saw a stone courtyard extending many paces from the building’s edge until it ended at a grassy lawn that might have been trimmed with a barber’s shears, it was so precise. And there, for the first time, he saw wizards using magic true.

They saw firemages first, bending flame and lightning in their hands before flinging them at iron figures set in the ground many paces away. Just as Ebon’s eyes warmed to the daylight, he saw an infernal ball fly through the air to engulf one of these figures in flame. A short distance away, a girl Ebon’s age drew water from a bowl, twisting it into swirls in the air before shooting it into the ground. Ebon thought that was the end of it, until the water burst from the soil a moment later, erupting with a stream of earth into an iron dummy’s stomach.

“This is where the elementalists practice,” said Cyrus, as though they needed the explanation. Ebon found himself rooted to the spot. “Let us move on, to the mentalists.”

Halab had to prod Ebon’s elbow before he moved, and then he quickly followed Cyrus. They walked between two of the Academy’s great wings, moving from one to the other. Ebon could not take his eyes from the elementalists casting spells in practice, each seeming more wondrous than the last.

There was another white wooden door set in the wall before them. Cyrus opened it to a short passage that cut straight through the wing until it emerged on the other side. Ebon stepped into the passage with a final, regretful look at the wizards behind him. But when they came out on the other side, he found himself dumbfounded yet again—for here were mentalists, and if their magic was not so wondrous at first sight, looking closer he was even more overawed. For they raised plates of metal and heavy chairs with only their magic, so that it looked like some spirit caused the objects to move. Then the mentalists would drag them back and forth through the air, or make them spin. As Cyrus hurried them along, Ebon saw some students engaged in what looked like simple duels. They would throw things at each other—soft, straw-filled balls of cloth, not the iron weights of before—and the other student would try to halt the attack with her magic. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes not; Ebon saw one student struck in the midriff by an attack, and she doubled over. It seemed the missiles were somewhat weightier than they looked.

They passed through another wing into another training area, and there he found weremages. Some changed only the color of their skin, or the shapes of their faces, but Ebon saw some who turned into animals and back, as quickly and as naturally as he could remove his own clothing. Cyrus moved faster now, and they stepped through one last passage into the final training area.

This one was smaller than all the rest, and looking up, Ebon saw that they were tucked in between the Academy’s southern wing, the citadel’s main entrance, and the wall. But Cyrus turned to them with a smile and gestured at the gathered students, giving Halab a half-bow.

“Here, I think, you will find something to hold your nephew’s attention. This is where the transmuters practice their craft.”

Ebon looked at them in wonder. Some students sat cross-legged upon the ground, their palms pressed into the earth. The grass roiled and shifted beneath them, turning to wood, to stone, and then back to turf, so smoothly that Ebon could not tell it had ever been changed. Iron dummies stood in rows, like before, only now the students took them into their hands and turned the metal soft, malleable, twisting them into different shapes, or posing them so they looked like warriors in combat. Still other students dueled, as he had seen the mindmages doing before. Only these students would throw the cloth balls at each other with their hands, with the other students met the missile with open palms. The balls would turn to water at a touch, splashing harmlessly across the student’s skin, or perhaps vanish in a puff of smoke.

Ebon saw one instructor, far off to the side, with a student standing several paces away. The instructor held a bow and arrow, and the student watched intently. The instructor slowly raised the bow and drew, until the fletching rested against her ear, and then released the shaft. Ebon cried out in alarm—but the student raised a hand as if to catch the arrow, and it vanished in a puff of smoke before touching her palm.