Chapter 1

The Alchemist's Apprentice

In his apprenticeship on the Archipelago, the young Wizard’s tutelage saw him thoroughly uninterested in the arts of Alchemy. Though Master Vega’s transmutations were renowned throughout the island chain, and the Apprentice well understood the privilege of his circumstance, the appeasement of the Capital seemed nothing more than an unparalleled bore.

In truth, the Apprentice had only been to the Capital once in the earliest days of his youth. Rarely had he so much as ventured to the other islands of the Archipelago, infrequently sent on errands to gather one thing or another for Master Vega’s work. Even in these times, no sooner had he moored his small vessel had some vague acquaintance of his Master approached, anticipating his arrival, and would, without greeting, hand the Apprentice a parcel to be delivered back to Etherium.    

It was these sparse outings that he Apprentice enjoyed the most, and their appeal grew with age as opportunities to temporarily shirk responsibility and feel the spray of The Salt cool on his face. The journeys to the smaller islands were never more than a full day at sea, and when the Apprentice was sent away to the outermost inhabited islands, such as Tethys to the East or Aegir to the South, he would pass the night in the Apprentice Hostels – if they were near the quay – before rising with the sun to set back out for Etherium. 

It was on the dreary days in the archives when the Apprentice’s mind would wander off the island and out to the sea, wishing he might again soon be tasked to collect a sample from a hooded stranger before whiling the night away on an mbira and dreaming of fantasies to lay in verse over the sweet reverberations of its quivering tines.

There at the Archive, the drones of the guild buzzed about the Apprentice in a flurry of robes and wafts of malodorous substances while he sat hunched over open books, nearly hidden in surrounding stacks in a failing attempt to study the craft. At his stage in his apprenticeship, he was disallowed entry to the few laboratories below the Archive where the Masters and their Compaignons would work on transmuting resources into goods for export to the Capital, or on occasion, on commission from the Wizards in the Delta to the North, or even less likely, by hidden order from those in the Pavilion Southwest. 

Though there existed a typical hum of interest among the shelves of the Archive, despite the signs requesting quiet, the din had risen to a degree unacceptable for all but the most studious – absorbed in alchemical theory. The Apprentice had taken to tracing the lines of words in hardbound volume before him with his finger when those hushed tones grew to the unrestricted cacophony that surrounded him. 

Just as he caught the word, hanging in the dank air of the room, he heard the striking of the bell: Chrysopoeia. The bell’s heavy tone rang out, penetrating the rough-hewn walls of the Archive and mingling with the word. They had finally succeeded. If the Librarian had struck the bell, the fact was verified and recorded. 

He had wondered how the Masters had done it. What elements had they entwined to produce that smooth, delicate metal? He wondered if the stocks of lead in the laboratories had dwindled to nothing in their search, chasing the myths. The Apprentice wondered if those myths were now in the annals as truth. 

Momentarily, he felt a strange shame in his rank – that he was unable to assist with that hallmark discovery whose grandeur now found celebration from every mouth on Etherium. However, those father away from the Archive might not understand the breadth of the accomplishment, but as the news traveled, they soon would. Any chime of the bell certified progress to its audience, and though it wasn’t always the case, that progress was usually to the great benefit of the islands.

The Librarian was steadfast in the alert. It was clear even over the chatter in the Archive, which had then regressed into scattered groups of conversation. The Apprentice hadn’t peeled away from his stacks of literature, and in fact, his finger still held his place when he first saw Master Vega enter the room. 

In the air of euphoria, her graven face was unmistakable. She stopped at the room’s entrance, falling still to scan the area and only resumed motion once she caught the Apprentice’s gaze, which he quickly returned to his book. He was gliding his finger along the page, when out of his peripheral vision, he saw the robes of his master come to a halt beside his table. 

“Follow,” she said. “You may bring the book if you insist on perpetuating this illusion.”

And then, after plucking a volume from the middle of one of the Apprentice’s stacks, she began to exit without waiting, thumbing through the book’s pages as she hurried away. Leaving his heaps as they lay, he gathered himself and followed Master Vega’s leave.

In her study, she asked the Apprentice to close the door behind himself. Before he could speak his congratulations on the Masters’ new discovery, she spoke.

“I’m sending you to the Capital.”

She was scrawling something on a small scroll of parchment at her desk. The Apprentice couldn’t read the words from his vantage point, but saw that his Master’s hurried hand had smudged her ink as she wrote. In other places on the parchment, the dark, excess liquid had dripped from her quill across the page, blotting and bleeding as it dried, seeping into the fibers. 

“Yes, Master,” the Apprentice said. It was indeed his only option, in truth. He held his tongue in his congratulations and bit it at the thought of its releasing a question seeking information above his rank. 

“Very good,” Master Vega replied, as she rolled the parchment tightly before flattening its middle with a seal of wax, stamped with the insignia of the Alchemists. The woman also produced something from a top drawer on her desk, then stood and relayed the message to her Apprentice, which he took with great care.

In her other hand, she revealed a slice of lagana, tearing it in half and handing one of its pieces to the Apprentice who took this, too, with great care. It was still warm.

“I apologize,” Master Vega said, “for the lack of ceremony. There simply is not time.” With nothing more, she ate the bread.

She must have had the refectory staff bake it that very morning, and that made the Apprentice wonder how long the Masters had known about the transmutation. How long had that new and unsullied gold sat in the laboratory, slick, gleeming, and observed?

The Apprentice also ate his half of the lagana, swallowing to say, “Thank you, Master Vega.”

“You may thank the Ouroboros, sapling. You are not yet oak.” She repeated, “There is no time. Go.”

Entered by: 0x3f80…DE2E