CHAPTER 20 Wren
CHAPTER 20
Wren
‘We walk a tightrope between progress and peril, and it is only through balance that we can hope to achieve true mastery of our craft’
– Transformative Arts of Alchemy
W REN DREW A trembling breath, shame burning a hole in the pit of her stomach. After all this time, after everything she’d learned, she’d tossed it all out the window the second she’d set foot in the most prestigious academy in all the realms. Several sheepish looks around the foyer told her she wasn’t the only one with regrets.
The High Chancellor continued, his voice apathetic and blunt. ‘You were all alchemists in your own right, some even apprentices to great masters. You were the elite where you came from, but not here. Here, you are nothing. Here, you are at the bottom of a vast ladder. What you were before is gone. You are novices now. Nobodies. Until we say otherwise.’
Someone at the back gave a nervous laugh, but the sound was silenced instantly.
This might not be Thezmarr , Wren thought, but it’s just as intimidating . She didn’t take her eyes off the High Chancellor. Remington Belcourt scanned the hall with piercing eyes, letting his words sink in throughout the throng before him.
‘Over the centuries, alchemy has meant many things to many people. Like life itself, it has gone through countless seasons and cycles. First, its purpose was finding the elixir of life, and obtaining immortality, for those foolish enough to seek it. Then came the season of runes, where magical symbols were combined with herbology to imbue objects with power. After that came the era of elements and precious metals...Throughout the ages, a common thread has remained at the heart of alchemy: that knowledge is might .’
The High Chancellor paused, drawing a weighted breath before continuing.
‘Here at Drevenor Academy, we teach the four pillars of alchemy: lifelore, healing, warfare and design. As novices, you will study all of these to solidify a foundational understanding of what our great art comprises. Usually, to graduate from novice to adept takes a minimum of a year, but this year we have accelerated studies and challenges to six months. There are sixty students in your cohort from all around the midrealms and beyond, but there are only thirty places at the next level.’ The High Chancellor cleared his throat. ‘How do these eliminations take place? Through a series of trials known as the Gauntlet.’
Goosebumps rushed across Wren’s skin, and she had to remind herself to unclench her jaw, the muscles there already aching.
‘The Gauntlet tests your knowledge of what you have learned here,’ he told them. ‘This will be the hardest challenge many of you have ever faced. It will carve out the weak and leave only the strong. Consider this the Great Rite of alchemy, and be prepared to give it everything you have, including your life.’
Wren felt Torj’s eyes on her, but she didn’t let her gaze slip from the upper level.
‘If you pass, you will graduate from novice to adept. As an adept, you will narrow your focus to a specialty. From adept, we expect you to work towards the rank of sage. And as a sage, you will delve deeper into that specialty and find subjects you might choose to explore further. Only from there may the title of Master Alchemist be within reach, for a select few of you.’
In the years before the war, Wren had dreamed of becoming a Master Alchemist, and now, the mention of the title had that old yearning rising to the surface once more. It was the one thing she’d wanted for longer than she could remember, the one thing that had been solely hers...A hope for her future that she’d had long before she’d become the Poisoner. She had learned a good deal of healing from Farissa throughout the years, but Drevenor was going to open up an entire world of alchemy to her.
The High Chancellor ploughed on. ‘Over the course of your time here, you will attend classes and practical lessons, and will take up any challenges as directed by your teachers. Do not let the books and workshops fool you – they are your commanders, and their orders must be obeyed. The masters also have the power to award points.’ Belcourt gestured behind him, where several cylindrical glass vessels were mounted to the wall, and beside them, a larger dispenser full of dark gems glinting in the candlelight. ‘Each piece of black garnet represents a single point. Your masters will see to it that points are tallied and deposited into the appropriate receptacle each week. In six months, these points will be counted and will determine the starting order for the Gauntlet.’
The High Chancellor pressed his long fingers together in front of his chest, passing another sweeping gaze across his captive audience.
‘Rules,’ he declared. ‘There is but one. Break it and suffer the consequences, ranging from academic suspension and expulsion to criminal trial and the removal of your memories.’
Wren blanched. Removal of memories? Was that legal? How was it even possible?
‘The fuck...?’ the Bear Slayer murmured beside her. ‘You agreed to this?’
She didn’t answer, just balled the fabric of her dress at her sides.
‘Secrecy.’ The High Chancellor let the word ring out across the room. ‘Drevenor deals in complex alchemy that, in the wrong hands, can lead to disaster. We need only look to the shadow war for evidence of that. You will be required to pledge an oath of secrecy. What is taught here remains within these walls and the minds of our students only. Anyone to break this oath will face the full extent of our academy’s retribution and punishment.’
It was not the rule or consequences that had Wren’s palms turning clammy, but the mention of the war. Besides those who she’d arrived with, she recognized no one here. Had any of them been present for the battles? For the horrors that had bled across the lands?
A cold sweat broke out across her skin as flashes of violence came back to her. An army of monsters charging across the snow. A frost giant impaling soldiers on the spikes of its club. Kipp lying lifeless upon the ice, the fang of an arachne protruding from his chest, blood seeping from the wound. No number of deep breaths or calming meditations could ground her in the present. She had seen the consequences of misused alchemy in the war herself. She had been there when the late King Artos and Princess Jasira of Harenth had used a combination of shadow magic and alchemy to create a force of darkness that had almost destroyed the midrealms. They’d weaponized their own empath magic to rob soldiers of their free will and fear, forcing countless men and women into battle and to their deaths—
The scent of black cedar and oakmoss wrapped around her. A warm, steady hand rested on the small of her back.
‘Pick one thing,’ Torj murmured, his voice low as he leaned in. ‘One thing to focus on. The gaudiness of your High Chancellor’s robes? Or perhaps the fact that Kipp hasn’t noticed his trousers are undone?’
Wren loosed a tight breath, her eyes darting quickly to Kipp; the front of his soaking trousers was indeed gaping open. A huff of raw laughter escaped her, and in the folds of her gown, her fists relaxed.
Blinking back the tears of relief that stung her eyes, she whispered, ‘Thank you.’
A dip of his head was the only confirmation that Torj had heard her.
The High Chancellor was still talking. ‘Beyond the walls of our institution, you are free to enter the city and surrounding towns. No doubt many of your tasks and challenges will require it of you.’
The sudden clap of his hands made Wren jolt, her body still recovering from the effects of the brown laurel.
‘Your education at Drevenor begins on the eighth bell tomorrow. Get ready to meet your fellow scholars, and your adversaries.’