Crier cracked the reins, dug her heels into the horse’s sides, and left everything she’d ever known behind her.

The birthplace of the Magick Arts has long been a point of contention among Historians; each kingdom lays claim to that title, each can trace the advent of the Magick Arts to their own court; it remains a mystery which claim is true. However, birthplace or not, one cannot deny the kingdom of Varn—a territory which has gone by many names: from years 311 to 429, under the rule of the clan Ta’en, the golden hills were called Vhi’ros-Kai; after the defeat of the Ta’en by a foreign prince known only as Prince Qell or the Crow Prince, Vhi’ros-Kai became Qell-den; mid–Era 600, the ancestors of the current King Tiren ousted the Crow Prince and took the throne, first naming their kingdom, then about half the size it is now, Varnandanna; by Era 800, the kingdom had expanded west to the edge of the Great Spine, and the name, in contrast, had shortened to Varn—one cannot deny the kingdom of Varn has practiced the Magick Arts for hundreds of years; indeed, one of the first known mentions of the Arts was found in the personal records of a girl whose name has since been lost to time (referred to hereafter as Alchemist X), pre–Era 100, who spent her life in a mining village in what is now southwestern Varn. Alchemist X’s writings included extensive notes first on the desire to turn lead to gold, later to define and recreate artificially the human soul; X was fascinated by prima materia, that formless essence, the root of all things. It was Alchemist X who Designed the first rudimentary alchemists’ alphabet, beginning with five symbols: earth, fire, air, water, gold.

—FROM A HISTORY OF THE SOUTHERN TERRITORIES BY IVY OF FAMILY FANG-THIEL, 3029510850, E. 900, Y. 19

5

Three hours into the first lesson with Lady Dear found Ayla reconsidering whether or not Storme was worth it. Learning to read and write—both her mother tongue and alchemy, the language of the Makers—was frustrating enough without Lady Dear huffing impatiently every time Ayla took more than two seconds to remember a letter.

She already knew some words. She could write her name, Benjy’s name, Rowan’s. Automa, human, rebel, heart. And she could recognize a handful of other words by shape, if not spell them herself. When it came to the language of the Makers, she knew only a few symbols: the eight-point star engraved into the necklace she’d inherited from her mother; the symbols for salt, mercury, and sulfur; body, mind, and spirit. The pyramids of fire and air then inverted to form water and earth. That was it. The written language of Zulla only used twenty-four letters, but even the most basic alchemic alphabet required over a hundred symbols. It was all about memorization, which wasn’t Ayla’s strong suit.

Lady Dear was seated next to Ayla at the small writing desk, loose pieces of parchment spread out before them, some covered in Lady Dear’s perfect, loopy handwriting and some in Ayla’s chicken scratch. They’d been at it long enough that afternoon sunlight was falling across the desk, turning the parchment a pale yellow-gold, almost glowing; the black ink looked blue. Dust motes drifted, starlike, before Ayla’s eyes. She wished for . . . something. What was it about this? The soft-edged smell of parchment, sharp notes of ink, sunlight warming a room.