The Principles of Alchemy

Graduation day at Flamel University was not filled with happiness and cheer, but dread and tears, as many potential graduates failed their final in front of the public. Rowan Mosswood watched in horror as automatons carried the third student off the stage in Cobalt Square and tossed them into the back of an ambulance. This time, a young, and rather ambitious student thought they’d try translocating a pound of gold, but they must have calculated the destination point incorrectly, and it ended up fused inside their arm.

Cobalt Square was packed, crammed with students, the public, and a slew of news and business automatons recording the events. This was a highlight in the bustling city of Neosilica, the day Flamel released only a handful of students. Scouts from throughout the city would descend on graduates the moment they stepped off the stage, looking to scoop them up before any other business did. Yet others in the crowd were far more interested in what kinds of explosions and injuries would befoul the square before the dean called the day off.

Rowan adjusted his baggy sage green button-up shirt, the same color as his eyes, and rubbed his tanned hands together. He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready for this two years ago when he last attempted to graduate. Granted, botanical alchemy has fewer risks than other disciplines, but last time he embarrassed himself when he accidentally created a rapidly growing invasive type of sentient fungus. The crowd had to flee when it overtook a news automaton and started beating a portly businessman over the head. Of course, the dean had to step in, dismantling nearly a decade of mechanical alchemy and leaving behind a heap of fungal infested metal. Rowan spent nearly a year tracking down and crawling into rather unseemly places to find and eradicate the remaining mycelium.

He tapped his foot, looking back at the line of students. Hundreds, all waiting for their turn to get on stage. Some students camped out the day before, just to ensure the dean would see them. He wasn’t as desperate, but he arrived before sunrise, and stood in line as the sun drifted up high into the sky, bouncing off the tall, windowed skyscrapers around them.

Four people were in front of him now, and if she didn’t show up, he’d have nothing to show. He pulled at his collar, sweat beading on his brow. He was going to fail again.

Shouts came, just in earshot. “Ugh, gross! What is that? Stop pushing!”

Rowan stood up on his tiptoes and spotted the sea of students parting, plugging their noses as purple hair bobbed between them.

Marley, a short Black woman with a silver nose ring and a thick pair of overalls on, appeared in front of him, plugging her own nose as she held up a burlap sack. “You’re lucky we’re friends.”

Rowan couldn’t agree more. After nearly two years at Flamel with no friends, he’d found Marley, and she made his next four years worth it. He swiped the bag from her and stuck his hand inside, fishing around until his fingers wrapped around a glass jar.

He shut his eyes and begged the universe, “Please, please, please work.” When he pulled it out, the jar was nearly empty, with only a small blue seed at the bottom. “Yes!”

“You gonna tell me why you have a bag of manure in your bedroom?” she asked.

Rowan tucked the small jar in his pocket. “Had to sit somewhere dark and quiet. Not all disciplines are metal and oil, you know.”

“I nearly died!” Marley shouted at him, arms flailing. “How can someone have that many books just thrown on the floor? Why haven’t you packed?”

Rowan shook his head. “After last time, I’m not hoping for much. Just that the dean might pity me and keep me for another two years.”

Marly grunted, pulling out a bottle of liquid silver from her pocket, and turned it over. “I mean, would it hurt you to switch disciplines? Nano and quantum are out of the question, but metallurgic alchemy is still in high demand. I heard the dean has a quota to pass each year or his donors will stop funding.”

“Would if I could,” Rowan said. “But my mom wanted me to do this. I owe it to her. ‘The world will always need Botanical Alchemy, even if they don’t know it.’”

“But Neosilica doesn’t need that. Now that we have nano and quantum. Did she even see an automaton before she passed?” Marley asked.

Rowan dropped his head, remembering the small house just outside of Rosen before they renamed the city. “No, she didn’t”

Marley lightly punched his shoulder. “Ignore what I said. You’re right. And you’ve got the talent. No matter what the dean or that piece of garbage ex-boyfriend thinks.”

Rowan’s cheeks flushed as that pretentious, know-it-all Calder Steelwright with his big dumb perfect jawline and platinum hair surfaced in his mind. He looked down at the ground and said, “Thanks.”

Marley punched his shoulder. “Hey! None of that self-wallowing. You’ve got a diploma waiting for you and you’re gonna kill it. So just get—”

“Next, we have Marley Argentum,” a booming male voice, Dean Vayu, called from up on the stage.

Marley turned and glared at Rowen. “You signed me in before you?”

“Seemed like the right thing to do at the time,” Rowan said.

Marley rolled her eyes and hopped up on the stairs. “We’re both graduating this year and finding us some sugar daddies to fund our research. You hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah. Good luck!” Rowan shouted.

Rowan watched as she jumped up on stage. She nodded to Dean Vayu, a tall Black man in purple robes, before pulling chalk out from behind her ear and deftly drawing a sigil on the stone slab in the center of the stage. The dean stood behind her, scribbling notes on a clipboard as she worked.

Before Rowan knew it, Marley uncorked and poured out the contents of her bottled silver and placed her hands on the sigil.

White light glowed from the slab, and Rowan shielded his eyes. Moments later, the crowd let out a cheer. Rowan peeked behind his fingers, spotting a small silver ferret hopping up into Marley’s hands.

She held it up for the dean and said. “This is still a prototype, but this sigil and silver combination allow for automatons without seams. I think with a few more resources and years, I could work something larger.”

Dean Vayu held out a hand, running a finger along the ferret, then nodded. He traced a sigil in the air with his finger, purple light trailing behind. When he was done, the light descended onto a sheet of paper.

“Marley Selene Argentum,” Dean Vayu shouted out to the crowd. “By demonstrating your mastery in your selected discipline, I am proud to grant you with this seal of approval, denoting you as an ‘Alchemist of the Metallurgical Arts’ of Flamel University. As you step into the world beyond these halls, may your accomplishments reflect the excellence of our beloved university.”

Dean Vayu handed over the certificate to Marley. Marley grinned ear to ear, looking back at Rowan and waving it in the air before walking off the other side. Two men and a woman, all dressed in suits, flocked to Marley the moment she stepped off stage.

A crew of rusted automatons raced to the stone slab, pouring water over the top and scrubbing it clean of any residual markings. As they did that, Dean Vayu flipped through his clipboard, sighed, cleared his throat, and said, “Next, for his second attempt, we have Rowan Mosswood.”

Rowan gripped onto his burlap sack and shakily walked up the steps and onto the stage.

He approached the slab, averting his eyes from the crowd and the dean, but he still saw the man take a step back, no doubt wincing from the odor emanating off the sack.

Rowan breathed in and focused only on the slab, ignoring the sea of people watching him. He reached inside, pulling out a wad of wet, grimy manure.

As expected, the crowd groaned. There weren’t many botanical alchemists for a reason, and the people of Neosilica were looking for a spectacle. Little did they know, Rowan expected this.

He started on the sigil, using the manure to craft a large square representing earth. Wavy lines intersected two opposing edges of the square and triangles pointed outward from the other two edges, representing both water and fire. Spirals tailed inward, representing aether as they formed the inner circle.

He scooped out more manure, carefully drawing a seed in the center, branches shooting out, and markings he’d practiced and studied for years for growth, change, and transformation.

When it was done, he stepped back, running the sigil over in his head one more time. This was the culmination of years of study. It had to be precise, right down to which portion was drawn first. He looked back at the Dean, who frowned at the slab, slowly taking notes.

Rowan pulled the last component from his pocket, a jar containing the small metallic blue seed, and placed it in the center of the sigil. He took his position, kneeling down and placing his palms on the edges of the square.

He focused, magic pouring out of him like cold liquid, tracing along the lines he’d drawn. His mind stretched and followed, coursing through a labyrinth of turns and curves until it reached the seed. Fractals filled his mind, unending patterns and possibilities flashing. He was the sigil, and the sigil was him. He was the lines, the curves, the manure, and the seed. Magic vibrated in his heart, and energy pulsed from the slab.

First, he heard the crack ofstone. Then a rush of air as the seed burst. The connection between him and sigil broke, and Rowan fell back as roots drilled into the ground and a trunk twisted up to the sky.

One moment, the sun was looking down on him, and the next branches covered his view. Thin, blue leaves sprouted, sharp serrated edges stretching long like willow leaves. A kaleidoscope of blue painted the ground, and the crowd was silent.

Then, as quick as it had grown, the leaves came clattering to the ground, and the tree crumbled into dust.

Rowan looked up at the dean, who sighed and scribbled a note onto the paper. Rowan had to move quickly, before the dean announced his failure.

He reached into the pile of dust, feeling the edge of a leaf cut into his skin. He pulled it out and held it up. “This,” Rowan shouted. “Is the final.”

Dean Vayu raised an eyebrow.

“They named Cobalt Square after the rich deposits of Cobalt that have since been mined. However, plants have a way of absorbing trace minerals and metals. I’ve been working on a project that can dredge up and deposit them in the leaves. The process is still unstable and time consuming, but I believe we can bring botanical alchemy back to Neosilica.”

The crowd burst into laughter, but as Rowan stared out at them, he found several people carefully kicking aside the dust and inspecting the leaves.

He turned to Dean Vayu, who pursed his lips. “You broke my slab,” he grumbled.

“Sorry, Dean Vayu. I didn’t—”

The dean cut him off, quickly drawing a purple sigil in the air and shouting out to the crowd, “Rowan Hawthorn Mosswood, you have demonstrated your... abilities in your selected discipline. I hereby grant you with this seal of approval, denoting you as an ‘Alchemist of the Botanical Arts’ of Flamel University. May you remember the excellence and expectation of all graduates of Flamel University as you step into the world beyond these halls.”

Rowan pocketed his cobalt leaf and wiped off his hands before grabbing on to his certificate. He’d finally done it, he’d finally passed. But before he could take the certificate, Dean Vayu leaned in and whispered, “There is still the matter of your loans.”

“Right,” Rowan said, biting his lip. “I can pay them back. I promise.”

“We have something else in mind,” Dean Vayu said. “The university would like to put you out on assignment. A small place, a week’s travel north by train. Consider it your... postgraduate research.”

Rowan’s eyes widened. “Assignment? And my debts?”

“Paid in full, after you report back to us in a year.”

“A year?” Rowan asked. “But that far north? Does magic even work there?”

“That is for you to find out, but I need an answer now,” Dean Vayu said, his grip tight on the certificate.

This paper was everything Rowan wanted. Everything his mother wanted for him. He ran the offer through his head, looking over to Marley, who was laughing as she spoke with a businesswoman with a long red braid. It was only a year away from Neosilica. From city life. From Marley.

“I,” Rowan stuttered. “I’ll take it.”