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Of course, my chains aren’t made of gold, but I’m desperate, and in that moment part of me wonders if there’s a chance that gold is not the only metal I can manipulate. I don’t understand this magic, or where it’s coming from—Ruskin and I never even got a chance to talk about how I killed that snake—but it seems worth a try.
I’ve only done it a few times before, but I hook my fingers round the bindings as best I can and concentrate, imagining the manganese growing warm and malleable under my touch. It’s slow…so slow I don’t notice anything happening at first, but then I think I sense it—a slight give in the surface of one of the links.
I press down, excitement mounting when I think my finger sinks into the surface a fraction. And then…
Nothing.
The manganese is still cool to the touch, and it doesn’t move any further. It has me wondering if maybe I just found some minor imperfection in one of the links.
I curse. Once. Then again, louder, because my hand and arm and leg really hurt, and cursing makes me feel a bit better.
I’m ready to start again. If I can’t change the chains wrapped around me, maybe I can use something from further afield. I cast about, thinking that Cebba must be flashy enough to have some gold hidden around here somewhere.
I spot a chalice on the mantelpiece above the fireplace that looks like it could be made of gold. It’s high up, but will also roll, and that’s a bonus, because I’ve only ever moved things a few inches before, and this is going to be difficult.
My head aches like someone’s taken a chisel to it, but I marshal my thoughts, boring my eyes into the cup. My heart leaps with triumph when it shifts an inch towards the edge of the mantelpiece, then jerks forward a touch more, enough to tip it over. It topples from the mantel and hits the floor in front of the fireplace, bouncing a little.
I huff and keep going, pulling the metal towards me, drawing it across the floor with my mind. Of course, it would’ve never occurred to Cebba to empty this place of gold. She knows I can forge it, but she’d never believe I can bend it with sheer will, and I don’t blame her. This is insane.
Insane, but thrilling, as the cup rolls across the carpet and reaches my feet. Pivoting it so it goes around me, towards my hands, is tricky, but after a few haphazard crashes into my thigh, it gets there.
Now the question is how I use this thing. I’ve only thought this far. But that’s because every time I try to use my magic, I discover it can do a little bit more, go a little bit further, like a muscle building up strength. I consider trying to shape it into some kind of crowbar or lever to try to break the chains, but gold is softer than manganese—even magical gold—and I suspect it will just bend.
What about transmutation, then? I can do it in a lab, so why not with magic? It seems to me even with the “rules” Maidar mentioned to me, magic has fewer limitations than metallurgy and chemistry. I’m sure his “you can’t make something from nothing” advice holds, but while I don’t have my augium and other ingredients here, I don’t need to make the gold from scratch either. It’s not quite reverse alchemy, but it’s certainly a bastardized version of it.
I’m going to make something gold, using gold itself as the base.
I clasp my nearest free fingers around the edge of the cup, then shimmy it up between them until the rim is touching my chains. I close my eyes, quietening my mind, then start calling to it.
The cup heats when my fingers grip it, vibrating with eager energy. I picture what I want to happen, the gold of the cup reaching out to the manganese, spreading and overtaking it, until the gray steely metal takes a new form.
I have to push hard on the image in my mind, sharpening it and holding it front and center. Then, as the cup grows almost unbearably hot, I feel the chains around my wrists heat too. I grit my teeth, trying to hold focus until I’m sure the process is done.
Then the cup cools, and the bindings too. I let out a big breath and look over my shoulder to see my chains gleam with a glorious golden shade. I drop the cup and grin. For all my fear and pain, I’m overwhelmed by what I just achieved. What else could I do, given the chance?
It’s a question I want to learn the answer to, but that requires me surviving, so I start pulling on the weaker, softer, golden chains.
My wrists sting as I tug, but I feel the give in the metal quick enough that I don’t need to conjure any more magic to help me. The links split and bend apart and my arms fall limply down by my sides, free at last.
I don’t waste time, dragging myself up off the floor and swearing as my skirts fall against the flayed skin on my leg. I’ll have to do something about my wounds, so I search around. Luckily, the place is well stocked with creature comforts, and there’s a pretty linen tablecloth on the dining table that I can tear into strips to bandage my leg and arm—I can think about balms and salves later. Then for my finger. It’s still dripping blood and no bandage is going to change that, but Cebba was kind enough to leave the fire going, with a poker right next to it.
I stuff a strip of rag in my mouth so I don’t bite my tongue, and heat the metal until its glowing. I’ve seen my mom cauterize wounds, but I know it’s different doing it to yourself.
The rag also serves to stifle my scream as I press the white-hot metal to the stump of my finger. That acrid smell of burning flesh again, and then it’s done—the pain still gnaws at me, but at least I won’t lose any more blood.
I grab my chains, in case they’re useful, and a thick cloak—at least the fae have quality clothes—then scan for some kind of weapon. The Emerald Forest is no place for a human even when they’re not wounded, and I need something to defend myself. There are crossbows and spears that will surely be too heavy for me even if I did know how to use them. I settle for the knife Cebba used on me, smiling grimly at the irony, then sprint out into the rapidly falling night.
I remember Ruskin said that Cebba’s hunting lodge was located north-east, so I need to head south-west if I’m going to get anywhere near the palace. Unfortunately, I don’t have the pendant with me to guide me or try to summon Ruskin—even if it would work this far away from him. But the sun has long set and the stars are the same here. I know enough to find Polaris and head in the opposite direction.
It’s hard not losing it as the cover of the trees thickens, and I have to keep stopping and finding a gap in their branches to make sure I’m going the right way. It seems like the mysterious forest is even noisier at night. Every step I take is met with rustling and slithering as all manner of small creatures I can’t see make way for me.
I’m just thanking my stars that none of them seem to be the beasts Ruskin mentioned, those that Cebba filled this part of the forest with, when a howl freezes me mid-step.
We have wolves in Styrland. This call is different, wilder and more beautiful, but it’s just as terrifying. I can only guess that fae wolves are about as unfriendly as our kind, and I pick up my skirts and run.
I’ve been here before, of course, but then I had no idea what manner of creature was on my tail. Now I have a pretty firm idea, as the howl is joined by another, harmonizing with the first. It at least gives me an idea what direction they might be coming from. The good news is that if they’re wolves, or wolf-like, they probably won’t be great at scaling trees, and I’ve had some practice in that department. I just need to find a good one before they find me. After all, I don’t have any strong fae princes to give me a hand up this time.
I clamber up a tall oak, the journey slowed by my injured hand. It means I’m just at a decent height, barely out of reach, when I hear heavy pants and the soft pad of paws against the ground. I look down and wish I’d gone up a few more branches. The wolves are huge, almost as big as bears, with red pelts like foxes and huge, plate-sized ears. They sniff the bottom of the tree, then lift their heads to fix me with scarlet-ringed eyes.
