Free The Alchemist's Touch by Garrett Robinson Page A

pitcher of water on a nearby table. He went to fetch himself a cup—careful to keep his eyes from the corner of the room where the dark girl sat—and returned to his chair.
    He gently swished the water, and then placed a single finger into the cup to stir it. The water was neither cool nor warm, but was the exact temperature of the room itself. He closed his eyes and focused. Hazy across the long years since he first heard them, the old wizard’s words returned to his mind: Feel the water. See it the way it truly is. And then change it.
    Ebon concentrated with all his might. His eyes squeezed shut so tightly that they pained him. But nothing happened. He opened one eye, just a crack, to be sure. But the water still sat cool against his finger. The back of his neck prickled, and his forehead beaded with sweat. He thought he could feel something…something within him, yearning to break free. He reached for it, but the harder he grasped, the more quickly it slipped away.
    A long, slow breath escaped him. He stopped reaching, stopped trying to grasp the unknowable power dancing at the edge of his awareness. Instead he thought only of the water growing before his vision, the goblet swelling until it swallowed all the world. Now even his finger was forgotten, except as the bridge connecting him to the liquid.
    His vision brightened.
    Ebon felt his heart beginning to hammer in his chest, but forced himself to concentrate. His finger stirred, swirling in slow little circles and causing the water to splash against the cup’s rim. He turned the water thick and soupy, wherever he touched it, until soon it was pasty and resisting his finger.
    He sat back with a gasp, leaning into the couch, hand trembling as he lifted the cup again. Within, the water was a thick, oily soup.
    He wanted to burst into laughter. It had worked. Years had passed since he had last dared to slip away from Tamen for long enough to try it. He thanked the sky above that he could still do it, for he shuddered to think of the bitter irony of reaching the Academy at last, only to lose his gift.
    The common room door slammed open, and three students stormed inside.  
    Ebon shot to his feet. Across the room, he saw the sallow-faced girl had gone. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he realized he still held the cup before him. Swiftly he turned to place it on the table beside his chair, straightened himself, and then wiped his finger against his robe to rid it of the oil.
    A girl led the other students who had entered, and her gaze fixed on Ebon. She paused for a moment, brows drawing close, and then came to him. Her skin was ebony, her thick hair cut just below her ears and intricately braided to frame her face, making her light eyes all the more captivating. She stopped before Ebon and put her hands to her hips, sizing him up. Though Ebon stood half a head taller than she, he felt himself quail before her presence—an effect greatly enhanced by the girl and boy standing behind her, both several fingers taller than Ebon. Though she wore the same plain black robes as any other student, her stance and expression spoke plainly: here was a girl from wealth and power.
    “Who are you?” she said. “I have not seen you before.”
    Ebon tried to speak, but it came out as a cough, spit catching in his gullet. He cleared his throat. “I—I am Ebon,” he croaked. “I have only just arrived at the Academy today.”
    “Where did you train before? You cannot be sponsored by some lord. You are far too old. Did your family hire you some tutor?”
    Ebon felt a burning all along his skin, and knew his face must be dark as a well-cooked roast. “I have never trained.”
    She stared at him for a moment, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. He could see in her face that she did not believe him. Behind her, the other students looked at each other askance. But then the girl’s eyes darted past Ebon, to the wooden cup on the side table. He tried shifting to the side, to block