Chills washed over me, unrelated to the cool breeze. “Who are these people? Professors?”
“Only a few. Most of the Alchemary researchers are among the elite, though, as well as the Alchemary board. And a few distinguished alchemists in private practice.”
There were very few distinguished private practitioners, as far as I knew. Most notably, the royal alchemist.
“They call themselves scriveners,” Desmond added.
“Scriveners? Why?” The word meant simplythose who write.
“The title refers to their mastery of grade-five elixirs.”
“Thereisno grade five,” I said, but I knew before the words had even left my mouth that I was wrong about that. “Very well,whatis a grade-five elixir?”
Because it was very clearly something entirely apart from the first four grades.
It would have to be, if the majority of the alchemy community wasn’t allowed to even know it existed.
Desmond twisted to look up the length of the dock and peer into the shadowy depths of the woods, as if to assure himself that we were truly alone. Finally, he turned back to me, a new, quiet sort of tension drawn in the stiff line of his shoulders. Echoing in the depth of his voice. “Grade-five elixirs require only one ingredient.”
“Beyn,” I guessed, and he nodded. “But how is that possible?”
“The most elite practitioners of alchemy have developed a technique for imbuing the writing of a formula—the symbols, specifically—with theintentof the ingredients. With the will of the alchemists themselves.”
“They only have to write the formula?”
“And paint the symbols with their beyn.” Desmond hesitated. “There are other…details. Complications of the process. But yes, in reductive terms, they write, instead of laboring over a lab table and refining tangible ingredients. The art is called scrivening, the practitioners scriveners. And they’re only capable of doing this because they have done the true scientific labor of alchemy thousands of times over. They have become so adept at it that they can now mentally perform the same art.”
“They have achieved a higher state of alchemy,” I whispered. “An elevated form. In a way, the very goal of alchemy itself.”
“Indeed.” Yet there was something tense and distant in Desmond’s voice.
“But with ‘complications’…”
He gave me a tight smile. “Yes.”
“How does this craft afford the scriveners power? What do they do with their alchemy?” I asked.
Desmond exhaled slowly. Heavily. “There is very little they cannot do. Scriveners have developed advances in medicine, entertainment, and cosmetic application beyond imagination, though they do not make those advances known to the masses for fear of exposure. But the most prominent use is the production of alchemy-based weapons.”
“Weapons?”Horror flowed across my flesh like a slow dunk into a cold pond. Weapons were the very agent of chaos and disorder. Of violence and oppression. The antithesis of the goal of alchemy.
“Weapons,” Desmond repeated. “Ostensibly—and often legitimately—to protect both the craft of alchemy and the Alchemary itself.”
“From what?”
“From the threat of control by outside forces. To protect the autonomy of the institution. And the right for alchemy to exist, as an art.”
“To protect the Alchemary from the Toolkeepers?” I guessed.
Desmond nodded. “Yes. But not exclusively.”
“What kind of weapons?” I’d never seen an overt threat to the Alchemary, at least that I could remember. There had been no soldiers attacking the gates. No navy assaulting our shores.
Another sigh. “Scrivenings can stun, paralyze, burn, and shock. They can blind, deafen, and even kill. But that is not the worst of it.”
My heart pounded painfully. “How could killing not be the worst?”
“Killing one person usually has a limited scope of impact. Butinfluencingone person—or, ideally, a handful of strategically positioned people—can have limitless impact.”
