In which Ashenivir has an alchemy mishap.
Ashenivir shot a glance at the door as he finished tying back his hair. He was fine, he told himself. No-one else would be wandering the alchemy labs at this time of the evening. He scanned the book again, set it more steadily against the jar he’d leant it on. The pickled blindfish inside bumped the glass—despite its lack of eyes, it seemed to regard him with reproach. He nudged the jar until it rotated away.
The book was old, not even an alchemy text, and he’d been surprised to find the hints of a recipe hidden within its pages. Well, not precisely a recipe, more like the implication of one; the older the Elvish was, the more it tended to imply rather than outright state. The implication had wanted a dragon scale, which he didn’t have—books from the restricted section were one thing, but rare spell components were not something he’d yet gained much access to.
Given that he only wanted to test the recipe’s validity, not actually transform himself, Ashenivir hoped that his substitution of the more readily available riding lizard scales would suffice.
The mixture in his small cauldron bubbled ominously. According to the book, by now it should have taken on the appearance of liquid gold—currently it was a sort of muddy silver. Ashenivir gnawed at his lip. Maybe he could prompt it along.
A sprinkling of gold flakes later and he was sprawled on the floor, cradling his scorched wrist. An agonised litany of curses echoed in the empty lab; the workbench was charred, his equipment ruined where it wasn’t outright destroyed—the book was somehow fine, praise Mystra, so at least he wouldn’t have the library taking a chunk out of him as well as the alchemy Masters.
“What in the world is going on in—apprentice Zauvym?” As if things couldn’t get any worse. Rizeth stared down at him, his mouth a thin, disapproving line. His eyes flicked over the burned workbench, the wrecked equipment. “What have you done?”
Ashenivir’s wrist throbbed. He hadn’t dared look at it, and dared even less now. He hugged his arm to his chest.
“I’ll clean everything up,” he said, starting to his feet. Rizeth froze him with a look, then came to crouch by him.
“Show me.”
“I’m fine, it’s nothing, I—”
“Show me.”
No arguing with that tone. Reluctantly, Ashenivir held out his arm. His stomach rolled—from the base of his palm to nearly his elbow, the skin was shiny and raw in a scale-like pattern of burns. An awful, gold-tinged fluid wept from the ragged edges, and with every beat of his heart, it pulsed with hot pain. Rizeth examined him with gentle hands and slow movements, a slight frown creasing his brow.
“Experimenting with volatile potions without applying protections is a first-year error,” he said. He met Ashenivir’s eyes. “And you should not have been attempting to brew Dragon’s Majesty in any case, let alone by yourself.”
“I know,” Ashenivir whispered.
“On your feet.” Rizeth helped him up. His wrist throbbed again and Ashenivir bit his tongue on a whimper. “Can you make it to the infirmary on your own?”
“I…I think so.”
Rizeth gave him a long, considering look. His hand was still on Ashenivir’s arm where he’d helped him up, and despite the pain in his wrist, Ashenivir didn’t want to go anywhere, if it meant Rizeth letting go of him. He was almost tempted to retract his answer, say he did need help to get to the infirmary.
His Master would see through that lie in half a second.
“I would implore you to be a little more careful, apprentice,” Rizeth said quietly. He released Ashenivir and stepped back. “We will discuss your punishment later. Get to the infirmary before you do yourself further injury.”
“Yes, Master.”
Somehow, the promise of punishment from Rizeth made everything feel less awful. No, Ashenivir realised, as he made his way to the infirmary—it was the promise of punishment from his Master. Whatever it was would be fair, and afterwards he would be able to leave his mistake behind, trapped in the scene, and move on.
He might have to wait a few days to thank his Master properly, depending on how well the healing went. That was no great trouble though—there was plenty of gratitude he could demonstrate with just one hand.