The Alchemist's Touch by Garrett Robinson Page B

clothing.
    “Wait! Where are you taking those?”
    “To be burned, of course. No one told you? The clothes you bring are destroyed. While you study here at the Academy, you will wear only your student robes.”
    “I did not know, and you cannot burn those! They are expensive.”
    She appraised his clothing with narrowed eyes. “I have burned far better.” Then she vanished through the door.
    He quickly bathed while Mellie was gone, and then jumped from the tub to throw on his robes. He had just covered himself again by the time she appeared, and seeing him dressed, she seized his wrist and drew him from the room. Now they ran back down the main staircase into the great hall, and then around to the right side, where Ebon entered the hallway opposite the one Cyrus had taken him down the day before. He remembered the Dean saying these were where the instructors had their chambers. Mellie stopped at the first door on the right and threw it open.
    “New student!” she shrieked, before scampering back towards the front hall.
    Beyond the door was a study. But this was no elaborate room filled with gilded ornaments like the Dean’s office. It was warmly lit by candles placed in the corners. A soft green carpet covered the floor. Bookshelves lined all three walls, other than the one with the door, and they were covered with books in barracks-neat rows. A modest desk stood proud in the room’s middle, a single leather tome to one side, and a stack of parchments in the center beside a pot of ink with a quill stuck in.
    A woman of middle years sat at the desk. Her hair was once flame-red, like a dancer from Dulmun Ebon had once seen, now flecked with many strands of grey. Her eyes were pale blue, and fixed on Ebon’s face with calm assessment. He noted that she wore dark grey robes, like the Dean, but hers had none of Cyrus’ gold brocade.
    “Well, come in,” said the woman. “And shut the door behind you, if you would be so kind.”
    Ebon stepped in, chiding himself for feeling so timid, and closed the door with a soft click.
    The woman sat back in her chair, sinking into its soft, stuffed leather. She studied him a moment more before gesturing with an open hand to one of the two wooden chairs opposite her. “Sit.”
    He did as requested, looking with interest about the room. He knew she was an instructor, but he felt none of the discomfort he had in Cyrus’ office. This place seemed warm, and gentle, if not entirely comfortable. She let him look about for a moment, her fingers steepled before her chin. He turned at last to look back at her, but she said no word, merely kept looking him over.
    She must recognize me for a Drayden, he thought, heart sinking in his breast. Surely that explained her reluctance to speak. Ebon knew how his family was regarded across the nine lands. Would that legacy follow him even here? Deep in his heart, he had hoped to escape it at last, but that seemed unlikely now.
    The woman spoke, but said nothing of his family. “How many years have you seen, child? Fourteen? Fifteen?”
    Ebon breathed a sigh of relief. But that question presented another problem, and he answered reluctantly. “Sixteen.”
    An eyebrow raised. “Indeed? Well, no doubt you think that is a terrible burden to bear. Do not worry yourself overmuch. I had seen fourteen when I came here. Perhaps not so grievous a situation as yours, but an annoyance all the same. You will find it difficult at first, but not forever.”
    “I am relieved to hear that.”
    “And your branch?”
    Ebon blinked. “I am sorry, I do not understand.”
    “Of magic. What is your gift?”
    “Oh!” said Ebon, clearing his throat. “I am an alchemist.”
    Her brows rose again, and this time they stayed there. “Indeed? I daresay we could use more of them.”
    His brow furrowed. “I am sorry?”
    “Never mind. It is of little consequence. You should know, though, that your branch’s proper name is transmutation, and you would do well to start