Twelve: Fixation

Damn it, why couldn’t I see her?

“You don’t know what you’re doing!” I heard her say, both pleading and admonishing. “I know you’re angry, but this isn’t how we deal with low trade. You can’t destroy every other guild just to provide for your town. I’ll speak to the queen about your concerns when I return, but you need to shut this down. Now. These water frames will destroy the textile guild!”

My chest tightened. “Magda isn’t a part of this, whatever there is between you and I. Leave her alone.”

The deep voice whispered around me, and the air rippled. A human form coalesced again, some four meters in front of me and well away from the widening tears in the magic veil. “Go home, Woodcutter’s Daughter.”

Bile rose in my throat. Booted feet scuffled over bricks, and a chair fell over. Magda growled. “Don’t. Put those away.”

I clenched my hands into fists and bit my lower lip. “Let me help her!” I yelled into the empty room.

“Go home!”

“No!” I was done with this witch and its threats. If we were the only ones in this subset of reality, that meant I didn’t have to aim. I grabbed at my pouches—the first two I could—pulled at their cords, and flung them at the hazy, headless form.

A scream came first—a short, aborted thing that truncated as soon as it started. More surprise than anything, I assumed, because nothing was happening. My pigments, instead of piercing or binding, suspended in the sunlight-streaked air. Dancing, almost, in lazy spirals, somehow buoyed to remain adrift.

That was definitely not supposed to happen. Alchemy wasn’t magic, and my pigments obeyed the laws of gravity like any other natural thing. Yet here they were…floating? No. Moving? I squinted. The flakes of pigment were moving, albeit slowly, toward the witch. They floated and bound to one another, the red forming crystals and the yellow patches of film. When they met, coming together in a nonexistent breeze, the yellow films coated the long crystal filaments and pulled, as if magnetized, to the witch.

All of it soundless, and beautiful, and horrifying. And too slow…voyeuristic. There was no heat, so it wasn’t the witch’s doing. That meant, what? An interaction maybe? Was that possible?

The witch’s breathing quickened as the crystals bound into a lattice. He had a head now, and a torso, then legs and arms, all yellow orange and patchworked, like he was made of spider webs.

I heard a gurgle. Yellow hands scratched at a throat, and the outline of a mouth that could no longer open appeared in front of me. As the witch’s form became more distinct, I could see the folds of his clothes and the shape of his face, all coated in a jagged, hooked, yellow film that would either suffocate him, impale him, or, with luck, both.

“Leave me alone!” I shouted at the silhouette of yellow and red. “Leave both of us alone. I don’t know why you want to keep me from finding my mother, and gods take you, I don’t care. I will find her so I can get back to my life! If you can get yourself doused in bone oil before the crystals penetrate your skin, or the film suffocates you, you might live.”

A wave of heat slapped my face, reddening my skin and scalding my eyes. I looked away as I yelled, but the heat passed almost as soon as it had begun. When I looked back, the room was once again empty, save for a slick of yellow slime with red spears sticking out from its surface, covering the center of the floor. The witch had vanished in a wave of his ridiculous magic. Before I could do more than scowl, another wave of heat rolled over me, and light and sound broke through the magic barrier. Forms took shape, of tables and people, as the remains of the magic wore off.

Another moment and the mirage around me shattered.

It felt like I had been dropped into a steamer, so warm was the air inside the factory without the witch’s barrier. Blinding sunlight streamed through the windows, brightening the room. The noise increased as people exclaimed over my sudden appearance. I stood a handspan away from a table that filled the center of the room. A system of narrow wood benches made up the table, draped with rough cotton tablecloths. Cotton bolls spilled across the table tops. And the rest of the space…machines. Everywhere I looked, metal giants spun thread, not a trace of a wood spinning wheel in sight.

The witch had just traded one nightmare for another. I scanned the room of wide-eyed faces, searching for Magda when, from the back of the factory, someone cried “Witch!”

I tapped my pouches with shaking hands. “I’m not…it wasn’t me!” I managed to yell back. Where was Magda? I held my hands out to show I had no weapons, though I saw plenty of people reaching for belt knives and scissors.

“Sorin!” Magda pushed between two large women, oblivious to their scissors and scowls. Most of the factory workers were scattered throughout the floor, but a cluster of about a dozen stood at the head of the table, Magda among them. She sounded accusatory, but considering how suddenly I’d appeared, I couldn’t blame her.

“Royal Daughter—” I began. I wanted to run to her, stupidly, because I was still shaking from the witch. But a table and people stood between us, and I was too old to act like that anyway.

“You brought guilders, witch guilders, to destroy the factory!” a woman screamed from behind one of the spinning machines. “This is our only income. Our village would have died without the water frames. We see well where your loyalties fall, Royal Daughter. Always the guilds over the commoner.”

“That’s not what I said! Sorin is…unguilded and sometimes messes with things best left alone. We travel together. I apologize for the inconvenience.” Magda started to turn, then shook her head and continued to me. She wove her way around a surly-looking gentleman and hopped across the narrowest bench, finally close enough that I could see the worry lines on her forehead.

I stared at Magda for a moment, forgetting the yelling of the factory workers. If she had explained that I was an alchemist, it would have sorted everything out. There was no reason to pretend I was just some foolish trade worker unless…she thought of me that way as well?

“Gods, Sorin, what are you doing here?”

“Witch,” the woman behind the machine hissed again.

“I’m not a witch!” I yelled to the crowd. Again, I pointed at my pouches. “This is an alchemy belt!”

“Liar!” One of the women sitting at the table piled with bolls stood and brandished her scissors, and other voices followed hers.

“Liar.”

“Unbound.”

“Witch.”

“We need to go.” Magda took my hand, and together, we tried to weave our way to the door, around angry villagers and strange, bobbing machines. No one tried to stop us, but no one got out of our way either. When Magda reached for the door handle, I looked over my shoulder one final time and caught sight of Sameer. He leaned against the far corner wall, arms folded. He had a look of frustrated concern on his face, which seemed really out of place. He’d pulled his hair up in a loose tail, and with his facial features completely unobscured, any doubts I had about his parentage vanished. I cursed.

Magda yanked open the door and a bitter gust of snow and wind hit us both in the face.

“You are everything that is wrong with guilds and the leadership of this country,” someone screamed. “Get out of Miantri before you destroy more lives.”

“The guilds are dead!” a man yelled. “We won’t starve for tradition any longer. You tell the queen that. You tell her!”

“Come back here, and we’ll give you a sound lesson in Iana’s history, and where that fancy sword of yours can go,” another man called. “You disgrace her name and her lineage.”

Magda stiffened beside me. She cursed viciously, then slammed the door behind us, catching the heel of my boot.

Magda seethed as she stepped into the street. I trailed her, haunted more by her words, and Sameer, than the words of the workers. People filled the streets now, bleary-eyed and bundled well against the cold, busy with their morning shopping.

“Is there a reason you didn’t want to call me an alchemist?” I asked her. My voice felt small and the hurt felt petty, but the words were out of my mouth, and I couldn’t take them back.

Magda glanced at me briefly. “If they don’t like witches, they won’t like alchemists either, Sorin. It…” She bit her lip. “It doesn’t have anything to do with your skills.”

That helped, a bit.

“I don’t suppose you saw the man in the corner?” I asked.

Magda paused long enough for me to catch up. When I did, she pulled me tightly against her and wrapped me in the blue cloth of her cloak, for mine was still on the floor of the guildhall.

“I saw a lot of people. We need to keep moving.”

She led me through the crowds toward the square, but her arms couldn’t warm the breeze, or take the burn from the witch’s words, or explain the strangeness of Sameer.

“Magda?” I prodded tentatively. “We need to talk about the factory. Did you find more guilders there? Did they have the snowsickness? Because I found—”

“Later, Sorin. We need to get to the inn. Get packed.” Her fingers dug into my arm, and I finally caught the set of her jaw and how narrow her eyes were.

Magda was… She was afraid. Afraid. I’d never seen her wear that emotion before. But she had to know; witches were to be expected, perhaps, especially this close to the glacier, but guilders, it seemed, were not. And I knew that man’s face as I knew my own—as well as I knew my mother’s and father’s. He was a perfect blend of both of them, just like me. Unlike me, however, he’d been fostered out at five to a textile guild. All I really remembered about him were hushed whispers and black curls.

I furrowed my brow as I looked up at Magda, unsure how she would react. Unsure how I should react. How many years had I longed for a sibling to ease the isolation of the Thujan woods? How many times had Mother ranted about the uselessness of fosters?

I tried to speak once more as the inn door came into view, just beyond the square.

“Magda.”

Magda came to an abrupt halt, released me, then put her hands on her hips. “What, Sorin? What is so important?”

I took a deep breath, practicing his name softly before I said it out loud, as if it might invoke some demon if spoken incorrectly. As if the spirits of tii might rise up and take me if I soiled the name of their lace maker.

“There’s a master of textiles in this town, guilded. His name is Sameer. He’s perfectly healthy.”

Finally, Magda looked interested. “Really? Did you speak with him? Are there others around? Has he seen your mother? Mine?”

I shook my head. “No, no, I don’t think so. He didn’t say anything anyway.”

Magda tilted her head. “So why is he important enough to discuss now? I appreciate knowing there are guilders in town, but we need to go.”

I looked at the ground, suddenly feeling silly for thinking Sameer was somehow more pressing than the witch, or finding Mother. I answered Magda’s question regardless, because his presence did bother me, although I wasn’t quite sure why.

“It matters because I am Mother’s first to be born with the correct anatomy, but Sameer…I think Sameer is my older brother, and he’s not happy to see me.”