The Alchemist's Touch Read Free

the edge of the bed and trying to find something sensible to do with his hands.
    She studied him, smiling as she shook her head. Her braid swayed back and forth, and Ebon found himself captivated by her hair. “That was no command. You will know a command if you hear it, though I do not suspect I shall have that need.”
    “Ah. Yes, I…thank you,” said Ebon, immediately thinking that that was a stupid thing to say.
    “Would you like some wine? It can bolster the nerves.”
    “Please,” said Ebon, never wanting anything so badly.  
    A fine golden pitcher sat next to goblets of silver, and Adara filled them both—though Ebon noted she filled one to the brim, and that was the one she placed in his hand. He drank greedily, and immediately recognized the taste of cinnamon. He did not often care for cinnamon wine, but just now it seemed the finest thing he had ever swallowed.
    Soon his cup was empty. Adara took it gently and set it on one of the tables beside the bed. Then she sat beside him, gently shifting the mattress. He fought a sudden urge to move away from her, wondering where it came from. Another part of him wanted nothing more than to inch closer.
    He realized she had not taken her eyes from his face, and he forced himself to meet her gaze. She was not smiling, but neither did she look displeased. She looked only curious, as though she longed to know what he was thinking. Sure enough, she spoke at last. “Why have you come here tonight?”
    Ebon gave a quick chuckle. “I should think that would be obvious. Why do most step within the blue door?”
    “You know I mean more than that.”
    He looked at Adara askance, for his mind had gone to his words with Tamen. Yet she could not possibly know of that, or where he came from, or what drove him here.
    He changed the subject. “Wouldn’t you like to know my name first, at least?”
    “If you wish me to know it.”
    “It would not displease me.”
    “Then?”
    “I am Ebon.”
    “Ebon. And have you a family, Ebon? Or are you a bastard?”
    His nostrils flared, but if Adara saw his offense she made no mention. “I am a trueborn son.”
    Adara arched an eyebrow. “You speak as if it were some great shame to be a bastard. I take it you are from Idris, then?”
    “And are you from elsewhere? You have the look of the women from my kingdom.”
    “My parents fled from there when I was very young. I was raised in Dorsea, where it is no great thing to be a trueborn child. Indeed, I think only Idris clings to that ancient tradition.”
    Ebon blew out a slow breath through his nose. “I am sorry. I did not mean to seem so…prickly.”
    That made her smile, and his heart warmed to see it. “Worry not. But also answer my question. You seem to think I shall forget it, but I will not. What drove you to open the blue door tonight, Ebon?”
    You came here to forget you were a Drayden, at least for a while, he thought. He found himself wanting to answer Adara with the truth, but what if she told others? It would not do for word to reach his father—no matter how long or winding the path—that he had visited a house of lovers. His wrath would be terrible.
    Darkness take my father.
    “I am here because I do not wish to be anywhere else. Wherever I go, I am my father’s son. None will let me forget it—him least of all. He has brought me here to the Seat, where I have long wished to go, and yet what can I do? I remain in my room all day, only slipping out into the city when my mother tells me to do so and orders my retainer to silence. Yet I cannot visit the Academy as I wish, for then he would hear. Nor can I go to a tavern without the patrons refusing to drink with me, speak with me, or sit in arm’s reach. It is as though I walk shrouded in the curse of being a Drayden—”
    Ebon stopped short, looking at Adara in fear. But she shook her head gently and took his hand. “I had guessed it already—anyone in the front room would have known it at a glance. You need