Chapter 5

I had expected to see elegantly dressed Court Aids and High Chemists commending the tasks of their day’s agenda, but I hadn’t expected to run into Hesperia. Or a statue of her, at least. Although the cloaked, obsidian figure carries no identifying markers and the face is partially hidden beneath a beautifully carved hood, what gives her away is her pose. The statue stands with open arms, her long sleeves creating the appearance of a safe embrace, Hesperia’s embrace. I have to tilt my head back to be able to look into the face, which is nothing more than a flat surface of marbled black. However, glowing spheres of Stormglass are embedded at specific points of the statue, recreating the constellation in the foyer of the Citadel.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” I breathe, taken away by not only the holy representation, but also the detailed craftsmanship. It takes me an extra moment of admiration to notice that Sulien has not waited for me. I glance around, my lose hair tickling my nose, when I notice the back of his black robe.

I leave the statue and hurry after him, finally taking note of the rest of the foyer. The foyer is expansive. A circular rotunda with walls composed of the same stones as the exterior. Large, arched windows allow shafts of sunlight to filter in, illuminating the impressive stonework and polished floors. The center of the foyer rises into a cylindrical building where each floor of the Citadel is visible. Wide staircases walk up to each level, their balustrades crafted from wrought iron, curling upward like vines. Each floor above me appears almost like a balcony with ornately designed colonnades.

I reach the bottom of the stairs leading to the first floor just as Sulien turns around halfway up the stairs.

“Ah, you are following. Keep up, keep up. All of this is just trivial decorations compared to what’s to come,” he chides, then continues up the steps with his hands clasped behind his back.

My legs protest and my joints threaten to snap at the second set of stairs I’ve had to climb this morning, but I refrain from groaning.

We land on the first floor, which is filled with more people than I’ve seen since Maven and I have left the house at twilight. I recognize a few Scribes by their blue vest and white shirts and tassels and a couple of Guards by their steel chest plate with Callanth’s symbol embossed.

Sulien stalks around the first floor till we arrive at another set of stairs at the other end. My level of relief is unmatched by the time we make it to the third floor and Sulien passes a fourth set of stairs, continuing down the third floor corridor. The exposed part of the floor that faces the foyer is replaced by a wall with evenly-spaced windows. At every other windowsill sits plump vases with the purple Callanth flower, offering a fresh aroma to fill the otherwise stale air. Opposite of each window is an arched wooden door, but Sulien turns to none of of them till we pass at least nine different doors that look exactly the same.

How do people find their way around in here? Is there a map mounted somewhere?

The door Sulien stops at, however, isn’t the same dark wood that nearly makes the black, iron hinges blend in. This door is yellow, like oak wood.

“Here we are,” he announces, wasting no time in pushing open the door and walking through, a loud creak filling the quiet corridor.

An immediate sense of wonder envelopes me as I step into the laboratory. Towering wooden bookcases stretch from floor to ceiling all along the perimeter of the room, each shelf brimming with volumes of every size and color, their spines glinting in the soft, diffused light that filters through the glass casing overhead. Nestled between two bookcases, a copper capsule pipeline runs up the wall and disappears into the ceiling. I spin as I crane my neck to take in the lively display above me. The ceiling is domed and long geometric panes of glass glow softly, allowing the sun’s diluted rays to cascade down, casting intricate patterns on the sleek stone floor. I haven’t spoken a word, or rather I simply can’t find a word grand enough to express my awe.

Sulien walks to one of the two tables that stand parallel to each other in the center of the room. He shuffles through some of the notebooks that lay cluttered on the table among long metal quills and stray papers filled with eccentric sketches and sprawling notes. Both tables exude a sense of purpose, as if the minds that gather there are engaged in revolutionary explorations of knowledge and creativity. Even standing mere feet from simple wooden tables, I feel a tinge of inferiority.

That is until I focus on the table behind Sulien. Three glass orbs sit on metallic stands, each pulsing with a swirling mass of churning clouds, resembling miniature storms. Glimmers of lightning occasionally spark within the gray, white, and black tendrils, emitting an otherworldly glow and filling the room with a gentle, constant hum. The sight is hypnotizing.

Sulien makes a satisfied sound and slaps a hand onto a page of his notebook. “Aha! I knew it was there all along. And that Telenor dares call me disorganized,” he exclaims with enthusiasm, but quickly notices my fascination with the orbs. “I see you’ve found my stormglasses.”

I tear my eyes from the mini storms and look at Sulien with a raised eyebrow. “Stormglasses?”

Sulien chuckles and turns towards the other table with his notebook tucked under his arm. “Just a little play on words. Science without a good sense of humor becomes too serious and boring. You’ll learn,” he says as if he knows enough about me to make such an assumption. We have only had one other conversation before this one, but I have to admit, I feel a certain ease in his presence.

“So what are they?” I ask and walk up next to him, peering into the middle stormglass.

“Simply put, fancy barometers. They measure the air pressure and react accordingly. They’ve more or less become my predictors in Stormglass surges,” he explains with pride, his bearded chin raised, a spark gleaming in his visible eye.

I lean down on the table with folded arms, taking in the way the storm within moves much like the second layer of the actual storm. I look to the other two orbs beside me.

“Does each orb measure the pressure of each layer of the storm?” I ask.

“Astute,” Sulien remarks. “Yes, each orb represents a layer. I’ve been observing how the layers react when a Stormglass surge brews by copying the air pressure in each layer. So far I’ve only been able to confirm that surges are explicit to the third layer.”

I purse my lips in thought. “How do the other layers interact?”

“Interestingly enough, they don’t. From my readings of the stormglasses and the notes relayed to me by Atrissa and Raiden, it appears that the layers remain separated, almost like independent entities. Like oil and water,” he finishes, tapping the third orb with his index finger’s knuckle. The black ribbons of storm inside don’t respond to his taps.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Raiden?” I gawk, then try to hide my shock by standing up straight again and walking to the other side of the table, my fingers grazing the smooth wood.

“One of the Scavengers I sponsor. Chemists and Scavengers work closely together to test theories and obtain more research. Without Scavengers, Chemists wouldn’t make it halfway through a hypothesis,” Sulien elaborates.

Get yourself together, Leander. Quit acting like a distracted child.

I just grimace. Of course Raiden would already be sponsored, I think bitterly as I recall the many times Raiden had managed to maneuver his way up the rank, upgrading from Miner to Guard, simply by being charismatic.

I let myself be mesmerized by the orbs again, specifically the way the storm has been dissected into three orbs for me to study and scrutinize as I please. The wispy swirls of light grey clouds and mist move around like one of the fish Leil herds, the lively red one with silver speckles that he wants to name after me.

I shake my thought away and smack my lips. “Does each High Chemist have a specialty?”

Sulien blinks with his one, visible eye. “They do.”

“What do you specialize in?” I ask, leaving the table and turning around to face a broad and tall arched window. Its geometric frames match the shapes in the domed ceiling, but this window doesn’t appear to be made of treated Stormglass. Through the crystal-clear glass, I can see the entire east side of Callanth, its colorful fields of flowers and grain framed by the window. I can even make out two of the three straight staircases that lead from the glistening metal roofs of the village all the way up to the Citadel courtyard. But what really captivates me is the view beyond. Like a sharp line slicing through the perseverance of Callantheans, the black storm roils on the other side of the crown-shaped summit.

Positioned by the corner of the window sits an overstuffed chair wrapped in maroon fabric, and it’s angled like it’s frequently used to take in the view or study. I’m convinced Sulien has acquired the most spectacular view in all of Callanth.

Sulien clears his throat, which snaps me out of my admirations. “I specialize in the history of the storm. It entails a lot of reading,” he pauses for a moment. “You can read, right?”

I frown and fold my arms across my chest. “Of course I can read,” I huff in offense.

Sulien seems mildly amused by my reaction and shrugs. “Just checking. I tend to hide away in some area of the Citadel more days than I’m out. I confess that I’ve long lost my touch with society. The Edict calls for dedication, not social skills.”

I meander over to one of the bookcases while I think. “I know an Edict is a requirement for Chemists, but I’ve never been certain of what it is or how long it take to earn one.”

“It’s nothing more than an embossed seal on a piece of paper. It simply proves that you’ve earned the right to serve as a High Chemist. It takes, oh, five or so years of Institute to earn. You tend to lose track after the fourth year. The ones that make it to the fifth year are either worn out from the rigorous schedule or have lost their drive. The ones remaining take on the Edict and commit the rest of their lives to serving knowledge. In a way, Chemists are set apart from regular court rule.”

“So you govern yourselves?”

“Essentially.”

“And how do you usually apply for apprenticeship?”

Sulien scratches the top of his head, ruffling some of the white hair that had previously sat well-combed. “You don’t.”

I had been nonchalantly perusing the different titles of books— no, older. Tomes— displayed on the bookcase, but I pause at Sulien’s reply. “But in the arena you said—”

“The prerequisite for holding the position of High Chemist is Institute and an Edict. An apprentice only needs an invitation,” he clarifies calmly, then opens his notebook he’d had tucked under his arm and starts skimming it again.

I cock my head to the side. “So anyone could technically become an apprentice?”

Sulien simply nods, probably dividing his attention. I leave the colorful bookshelf and approach Sulien who still stands between the two tables.

“Then… what’s the point of an apprenticeship?”

Then Sulien smiles and looks up at me from his notes as if I just asked the right question. “Opportunity,” he snaps his notebook closed again, his face suddenly alight with excitement. It’s becoming more and more apparent to me that High Chemist Sulien enjoys a dramatic flair. “For those who aspire for more and to learn, an apprenticeship offers all that without the life-commitment to the position. You still have opportunity: to learn and to live.”

I nearly take a step back at his brazen enthusiasm. “And you want me to…” I say slowly, but don’t finish because I’m not even sure what he wants with me. I’m in Trades, a cook, and a candidate who has failed five Stormglass Trials. What do I have to offer that would inspire a High Chemist of the storm’s history to take me on as an apprentice?

Sulien leans in close as if he’s about to divulge a defining secret. “Much like a newly-formed theory or a stormglass come to life, you intrigue me. You’re well aware of the stigma surrounding repeat candidates. And yet, you participate, you persevere, every Trial. Why?”

His penetrating stare makes me feel vulnerable, so although I know my answer, I open and close my mouth several times before any sound comes out.

“I… I don’t feel I have a choice. As a cook, I have a lot of time to think. I could come up with all sorts of imaginary answers for what Old Atoraxis is like or how Stormglass interacts if you change the variables. By the time I was old enough to qualify for The Stormglass Trials, I didn’t feel I could let a chance to see some of the things I’d wondered about for myself go by. I have lost track of how many times my mother whacked my hand with a spoon to get me to pay attention,” I speak with passion and nostalgia, which perfectly shields the nervousness I feel about only telling half the truth.

Oh and I desperately need easy access to as much Stormglass as possible or my hand will wither away.

Involuntarily, I chuckle lightly at the memory of my mother’s auburn hair tucked into a bandana, her collection of buttons sewed into swirly patterns up and down her sleeves, the twinkle in her amber eyes every time she smacked the wooden spoon over my distracted hands. The memory tugs at tender heartstrings.

“And she supports your endeavors?” Sulien asks, his unrestrained excitement dims to a warm curiosity.

The memory sours with his question, and my gaze falls to my feet. “She passed away before I started competing.”

My arms unfold to wrap around myself, my fingers habitually tracing the textured metal of the coins tied around my bicep. I will myself to draw strength from them, forcing the last memory of my mother to pass without tears spilling. My fingertip touches the edge of a thicker coin, which nearly makes me gasp.

We collect things we treasure because they mean something to us. They fill the parts of us that we fall short in. It’s not about finding the right collectible. It’s about finding the treasure that reminds you of your potential. It helps you remember what you must do. My mother’s voice rings as clearly in my ears in the laboratory as it did three years ago when she had spoken them to me on the evening of her death.

Sulien places a timid hand on my shoulder. I flinch at the unexpected touch, but don’t shove him off.

“My condolences,” he says dutifully, but his tone bears… understanding. “I gather you’ve been through your own version of Institute. The institute of a life riddled with trial and error, specifically in relation to the number of Stormglass Trials you’ve participated in,” he says as he drops his hand from my shoulder and opens his notebook again, placing it on the table littered with all of his notes and theories.

I appreciate the change in subject and remove my finger from the coin my mother had gifted me, my first. I turn to join Sulien at the table, finally taking a closer look. Aside from smudged notes and hasty drawings of formulas, detailed portraits of the storm and its layers are sketched onto several pages. Every angle and aspect I myself have experienced within the storm itself seemed to be portrayed before me in shape of black lines on white. The power somehow transfers from the page to my very soul. But I’m not scared, just like I wasn’t scared the first time I plunged through the first layer of the storm. I’m enlivened.

“I haven’t lost my drive yet,” I mumble. Sulien nods slowly in thought, then sifts through one of the piles of papers and pulls out a thin quill with metal spikes in shape of a black feather.

“Good.” He extends the quill to me. “You want to earn your version of an Edict?”