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  Books of Underrealm

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  This is Not the Beginning

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  About the Author

  Epilogue

  THE ALCHEMIST’S TOUCH

  Garrett Robinson

  Copyright © 2016 by Legendary Books. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  To my family, who make everything better.

  To Johnny, Sean and Dave, who told me to write.

  And to everyone taking this journey to the Academy,

  Especially those who followed me from the pages of Nightblade.

  You have made my life epic.

  I hope I can enrich yours.

  THE BOOKS OF UNDERREALM

  BY GARRETT ROBINSON

  THE NIGHTBLADE EPIC

  NIGHTBLADE

  MYSTIC

  DARKFIRE

  SHADEBORN

  THE ACADEMY JOURNALS

  THE ALCHEMIST’S TOUCH

  THE MINDMAGE’S WRATH

  CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER:

  NIGHTBLADE

  MYSTIC

  DARKFIRE

  SHADEBORN

  THE ALCHEMIST’S TOUCH

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  one

  THERE WAS A BLUE DOOR across the street from the tavern, and no matter how hard he tried, Ebon could not stop himself from looking back to it every few moments.

  Nothing seemed special about the door. Simple wood, painted blue, with an iron latch and little in the way of ornamentation. Still, every few moments his attention would go there, passing across it as if by chance, before returning to his cup of wine.

  It was easier to look at the door than around the common room of the inn, where no one would sit at his table or, indeed, the tables next to it. Often he felt the weight of a curious gaze, and yet when he turned to meet it, the observer would quickly turn away, as though afraid of being caught. Only Tamen would look upon him without fear, or sit anywhere near him. But then, Tamen had nothing to fear from Ebon. Rather, it was the opposite.

  “The High King’s Seat,” muttered Ebon. He drank again from his cup. Already he felt a tightness behind his eyes, a muddling of his thoughts. “Long have I wished to see it, and yet now I wish they had never brought me.”

  Tamen did not answer. He only took a sip from his own cup, much gentler than Ebon’s swig.

  “You are right,” said Ebon. “I am greedy. I wish for too much. How foolish of me to still hold dreams of the Academy. Father has made it plain that I shall never attend. Yet still, when he told me I would accompany him to the Seat…still I held out hope.”

  The tavern was a bit quieter for a moment. Tamen’s eyes flicked to one side, and then the other. “Mayhap it would be wise for you to speak more softly.”

  Ebon scoffed. “Wise. Who has ever called me wise, Tamen? Tell me that. If I were wise, I would be in the Academy. Or perhaps if I were in the Academy, they would call me wise. I suppose we shall never know for certain, shall we? I feel it sitting there. Do you remember? We passed it in our carriage when we arrived. Straight past its wide front doors we drove, and then it was gone. Yet the place where it stands is forever burned in my memory. I feel that even after Father takes me home, I shall be able to point it out.”

  “A sorrowful state of affairs indeed.” But Tamen’s words were accompanied by a sigh, and Ebon knew his retainer grew tired of the endless complaints.

  Darkness take him, he thought. Tamen was not his friend, not truly. A retainer in name only, Ebon knew the man’s true purpose: his guard. If ever Ebon strayed from his father’s wishes, thought to defy the will of the family, Tamen would deliver word of his misdeeds. Often the man had done so in the past. Yet other times he had held his tongue, and Ebon never knew which would happen on a given day, or for a given offense.

  His eyes strayed out the window, passing across the blue door, and then back to his cup. He drank again.

  “Answer me this, Tamen. What would my father say if I were to ask for a tour of the Academy? Not to attend, but only to see it for myself. To return to Idris with some glimmer of a dream, some memory of the place I have longed for since I was a child. Would he deny me so small a thing?”

  “Yes.” Tamen said it as though there might be more to follow, but then left it at that.

  Ebon nodded. “Of course he would. My father is not one to grant trivial boons. He is not one for trivialities at all, for any purpose. Not even so small a purpose as kindness. No doubt even my presence at this tavern would strike him as trivial. ‘Stand your lazy self, whelp,’ he might say, as he likes to do.”

  Again Tamen looked about the room, and this time his eyes flashed anxiously. “Keep your voice hushed.”

  Ebon thought of saying it again, louder this time, for simple spite. But he sagged back in his chair instead. What would be the purpose of such a gesture? To make Tamen uncomfortable? Then the retainer would only speak to Ebon’s father of the deed, and Ebon might not be allowed from his room for a month. Perhaps longer. The vindictive will of Shay Drayden knew little of restraint.

  He realized he was staring at the blue door and quickly looked away.

  “I thought the Seat would be different,” he muttered. “Not—not better, I suppose. But different. I thought that upon its streets, in such a place as this, I might meet some chance stranger who would speak to me more gently than I am accustomed. Yet they fear to sit beside me. They fear to sit within arm’s reach. Who here will even look at me? Even now, when I am speaking far too loudly because I have drunk too much wine?”

  Several heads jerked away from him. This time Tamen smiled. “At last you speak truth. You have had too much wine. Mayhap it is time to think of turning our steps towards the manor…unless you have some other reason to remain.” This time it was Tamen whose gaze turned outward, towards the blue door.

  Ebon’s heart skipped a beat. But he would not allow himself to dwell on the thought that sprang to mind. Perhaps Tamen was hinting towards something, and perhaps not. Hope could be a cruel thing once taken away. Instead he leaned forwards, cupping his wine tighter and taking still another pull. Tamen leaned in to hear his murmur.<
br />
  “Will my life always be this way, Tamen? Tell me true.”

  “You have asked me this before. How would you like me to answer this time?”

  “Never does he turn his wrath on Albi. He looks at her as though her eyes are the moons. Yet we are almost of an age.”

  “Almost of an age. But not quite.”

  “Then I shall never be free of him?”

  Tamen pursed his lips and took a small sip of wine. “This may be a small comfort to you, and cold besides. But no one lives forever.”

  Ebon’s jaw clenched, and he leaned away while draining the last of his wine. “That is a dark thought. You should not have said it.”

  Tamen shrugged and finished his own drink. “I mean no ill intent, and you know it. It is a truth none can ignore—not the High King upon her throne, nor the poorest beggar upon the Seat, nor the wealthiest of merchants. Now, I would ask if you wish for more wine, but I think that would be very unwise.”

  “I would give anything not to be my father’s son,” whispered Ebon. He had not meant to say the words aloud, and he caught Tamen’s eyes widening. But he would not shy away now. He pressed his fingers into the tabletop’s rough wood. “It is the truth. If it were possible, would you trade places with me? Who would, were they in their right mind? Anyone who would desire my place thinks only of our family’s riches. They spare no thought for the family itself.”

  Now Tamen’s eyes were filled with fear as he looked around, and he seemed suddenly thankful that no one was sitting in earshot. “We have waited too long, and you have drunk far too much. We must leave here at once, Ebon. And please, I pray, speak no more, or I shall have to repeat your words, and I do not wish to do that.”

  Ebon grasped his hand, holding him steady, trying to calm the man with a gaze. “Tamen, stop. Stop, I beg of you. I am sorry. My tongue runs too freely, it is true. Only…only this is unbearable. I thought it would be a joy to be here, but instead it is a far greater pain. I know I cannot go to the Academy. But I…I only wish, for just a little while, that I could pretend I were not of the family Drayden. Can you find no pity in your heart for such a wish?”

  Tamen paused, and though his lips were pressed tightly together, Ebon thought he saw something soften in the man’s eyes. He turned his hand in Ebon’s so he could hold the boy’s wrist, and he gave it a gentle squeeze.

  “I can find pity for such a wish. And no, I will not blame you for it. Only please, do not speak of it so plainly, nor so loudly. If you do, pity will not be enough to stay my tongue.”

  “Thank you,” whispered Ebon. He made to draw back his hand, but Tamen tightened his fingers. When he spoke again, his words crackled with fear, an undercurrent that made Ebon’s body tense with nerves.

  “If you wish it in truth—if you want to pretend you are not a Drayden—then follow your wandering eyes. They have rested often enough upon the blue door. Go there, if only for a little while.”

  Ebon found his throat was suddenly dry, and his palm had begun to sweat in Tamen’s grip. He withdrew it and wiped it on the golden silk of his tunic. “You mock me. I tell you this trip is more pain than pleasure, and you mock me by dangling a wish before my eyes.”

  “I do not mock.”

  “You would tell them. You would have to.”

  “Honor would bind me to. Yet I will not. You may not believe me, Ebon, but I take no pleasure in the service I provide your parents. And how could I fail to have some love for you, when I have spent so many years by your side? Duty keeps me here, and I will not abandon it. But this—there is no harm in it, and so I will turn my gaze aside. Just once, do you understand?”

  Ebon saw the earnest light in his retainer’s eyes. He wanted to believe the words. But how could he? How often had Tamen carried tale of his misdeeds straight to the ears of his father? Yet never before had Tamen promised to keep such a thing secret.

  His stomach did a turn. Curse his father anyway. Even if Tamen did speak of this, what could Ebon’s parents do? Keep him locked in his room? They might do that anyway, for any perceived offense, no matter how slight. And yet Ebon might still have one happy memory of the Seat. No punishment could take that away.

  No words came to him, and so he did not try to summon them. Instead he rose from his table and reached for his coin purse.

  “Keep it,” said Tamen. “I have coin enough for these drinks, and you will need your purse.”

  Ebon swallowed hard. As he walked for the tavern’s front door, his hand paused for a moment on Tamen’s shoulder, and he gripped it tightly while passing. The tavern’s denizens turned quickly aside as he passed into the night.

  two

  THE DOOR’S LATCH LIFTED LIKE a feather, and it swung inward on well-oiled hinges that gave no sound. A heady fragrance rushed out to greet Ebon, and it nearly stopped him in his tracks: fine, exotic perfumes from Calentin, and more familiar ones from his homeland of Idris; the unmistakable scent of Wadeland tea mingling with the cinnamon wine of Hedgemond. And under it all there was something sweeter, pungent but light, something that stirred his heart.

  His knees had begun to shake. He forced them to move again, and stepped across the threshold quickly before closing the door behind him.

  Here the lights were dim, even dimmer than they had been in the tavern. But the darkness seemed warm and comforting, mysterious rather than ominous. Partly that was thanks to the fine music that floated on the air, the steady plucking of a harp teasing his ears like a whisper at midnight.

  He turned towards the sound and saw a harpist in the corner. One of the room’s few lamps sat just beside her on a table, so that it looked as if it were there only for her illumination. As he saw her clothes and the shape of her face, he realized with a start that she was a woman of Idris. But the light brown in her long braid was rare in his homeland, as were her hazel eyes glowing in the lantern’s light.

  Those eyes captured him for a moment as she met his gaze, though her fingers never faltered where they plucked at the strings. Ebon gulped, looking away before she thought he was staring, but he could not entirely remove his gaze from her. Instead it moved down, taking in her clothing, and though it was of a familiar cut he thought he had never seen anyone at home wear it quite so well. Her feet were bare upon the floor, resting against the harp’s wooden base. He looked upon them and blushed before finally looking away.

  It was not until then that he realized there were many other figures in the room, men and women, all of them draped across chairs and couches that ran along the walls. Some studied him with curious little smiles, while others let their attention wander. Some wore veils while others’ heads were bare. Ebon gripped his pant legs tightly as he realized some were shirtless. Suddenly he did not know where to look, and his eyes darted wildly back and forth. But he was rescued as the house’s matron arrived, smiling gently as she came to him.

  “Good evening, young sir. How may the house ease you this evening?”

  Ebon’s tongue refused to work. He tried to force the words out, fumbling at his coin purse before finally producing a gold weight. “I have coin.”

  The matron’s smile widened in amusement, but she was quick to take the coin from his trembling fingers. “Thank you. Is there any sort of girl you would prefer?”

  He knew his face was the color of a beet. He looked down at his fine shoes and then around the room. He could scarcely make out the many figures in the dimness, a fact not helped by the stars now dancing in his eyes. He thought he might faint. He thought he saw the harpist grinning in the lantern’s light.

  The matron seemed to misunderstand. “My apologies if I have made an assumption. Of course we have many fine men as well. I only meant to ask if you preferred a certain type of companion.”

  Ebon nearly choked. He shook his head quickly, but words would not come.

  Her head tilted back slightly, and her eyes softened. “Ah. Is this your first time, young sir?” At his shaky nod, she went on. “Your first time at a house of lovers, or…
?”

  “I have not—that is, I have never—”

  “Forgive me for not realizing this at once.” She stilled him with a hand on his arm. “Worry not. We have some experience with such things, after all. But it is important that you know there are rules—very strict rules indeed, and behind them lies the full weight of the King’s law.”

  “I have heard something of them,” mumbled Ebon.

  She patted his hand. “Somehow I do not worry that you will break them. But I shall tell you the most important one regardless: always you must obey the words of your lover. Only if you gainsay them, or act against their command, will you have anything to fear. Now, then. Would you prefer a recommendation? Sometimes that makes it easier.”

  Ebon hesitated, for in truth he had no idea how to answer. His gaze wandered again and fell upon the harpist. Her eyes were now demurely on the floor.

  “Adara,” called the matron.

  The girl’s fingers ceased on the harp at once, and she rose from her chair. One of the boys sitting in the shadows took her place, and soon the sweet chords rang out again. Yet Ebon thought they had lost some of their sweetness, and he wondered if that were only his imagination.

  Adara approached him, and it seemed that her beauty was magnified many times over. The sway of her walk stirred him in ways he was not familiar with, and she never broke his gaze, so that Ebon found he could not look away. She said nothing as she reached him, simply taking his hand and drawing him towards the back of the room, where a blue silk curtain hung across a small doorway.

  Beyond was a hallway that stretched in both directions. She took him left, then around a bend that turned right, finally coming to a halt before a wide door. Ebon was thankful it was wooden, and looked thick—he had feared it might be open, or covered only by gossamer. Adara lifted the latch, drew him inside, and then closed it behind them both with a soft click.