THE TRIAL

The courtroom feels like a church as Aurora’s good citizens file into the cavernous chamber, fixing their expressions, trying to look more sober than sober—particularly the ones who are not. If you had asked the man whose untimely death brings them here this morning, he would have said that people make a place more than the place itself, especially in Aurora. They fill the pews at the front first, legs together, backs stiffened, as if the courtroom itself were watching, appraising, as if moral purity were a matter of good posture.

It is, of course, a matter of where you are sitting, or more precisely where you are not. For in the church of law, there is only one sinner: the man on trial. More than the clean clothes they wear or the smirks they subdue, that which separates every eager observer from sin today is a three-foot banister of stained oak. It circles a single empty chair.

But he has not entered the room yet, the sinner. Not until its saintly spectators have settled in for the show. Most have taken their seats now, but many more are caught cross-armed in the autumn cold, peering in as heavy doors are closed before them by an apologetic man in a blue uniform. Justice is open, but a room is only so big.

And then a different, smaller door opens from the opposite wall.

The first to walk through is a woman. She is older if not yet old, today dressed in a black blazer and heels that echo through the room as she takes her place in it, a seat beside the oak banister. She is not used to this, a veritable crowd, the out-of-place faces she recognizes over the rim of her gold-framed glasses. This is a defining characteristic of Alchemist Freya according to her friends and colleagues: her tendency to look over, rather than through, her glasses.

But the detail that draws the attention of today’s audience is Alchemist Freya’s black leather satchel. She unbuttons the well-worn bag and begins removing the delicate tools of her trade.

The second person to walk through the small door at the back of the room is a squat man in a green waistcoat, the silver chain of his pocket watch flashing reflections of morning light as he saunters through a speckled sunbeam. His permanently flushed face is a familiar one for most Aurorans in attendance. The Honorable Henrick Hector, Indemere’s one and only supreme judge, not only frequents the front pages of the Aurora Tribune but also the city’s many social gatherings, from formal affairs to song nights at The Moonlight Inn. It is even said that Judge Hector never misses a birthday party.

The judge does not take his usual elevated seat but instead paces between the audience and Alchemist Freya, his arms bouncing behind him in the manner of a philosopher.

And then, at last, it is time for him to enter. The man they have all come to see. The accused. The sinner. Conversations fade to whispers, whispers to quiet anticipation. A woman coughs. A man clears his throat. But everyone is watching the small door at the back of the room.

This is how Alchemist Ortez finally enters the scene: under an awkward shroud of silence.

Accompanied only by the sound of his shoe’s creaking sole, the disgraced alchemist is led to what an embezzling poet once coined the loneliest chair in Aurora, for it too is a prisoner within its circular oak cage. A boy-faced guard opens the gate for him, carefully refusing eye contact with a sea of identical stares, all of them somber or furious or a contortion of both.

There is one exception. Alchemist Ortez appears considerably less worried than he ought to be, which many in the crowd chalk up to the man’s unbridled arrogance. After all, the arrogance of a murderer knows no bounds. Not to mention an alchemist. It may also have something to do with his personality.

Nor does it help that, despite having spent a week in prison, the handsome alchemist looks no worse for it. His silky black hair is tied in a neat ponytail, a single fallen lock framing the right side of his bearded face—the one indicator of his time behind bars. His gray suit fits him perfectly, too perfectly, for it seems that suits were made for Alchemist Ortez, only to be stretched and hemmed into the unsightly forms of mortal men. One is allowed to change before appearing in court. But more than any suit, it is the alchemist’s olive skin that stands out among the pale faces of Aurora, now as it did the moment he arrived here, reminding them, if nothing else, that he is an outsider.

The jeers begin like the pattering before a storm.

Louder and louder they grow as people join in, fighting over one another to be heard, until their cries, their unintelligible insults, reach a deep, disorganized crescendo. The facade of proper etiquette has crumbled in mere minutes. Evil stands before them now, and there is no amount of noise they can make that is loud enough, no accusation untoward enough, for they know their anger is justified, it is pure, it is right.

“We’re going to hang you, you fucking cockroach!”

It is at this point that Judge Hector steps forward, showing them his sinking hands. But the expression on his face—the judge is a master of expressions—tells them what they need to hear. He understands their frustration.

“Please, everyone,” he says, “take your seats, take your seats.” He looks back toward Alchemist Ortez to communicate that this instruction also applies to him. The accused sits as the audience simmers.

“We are here today to determine the guilt, or innocence, of the individual sitting behind me, Alchemist Ortez.” Judge Hector takes a single step sideways so that they might have a good stare at the alchemist in question. “He is accused of murdering by poison one Everett Day, a man well known to every person in this room and, indeed, beyond its doors.” The judge pauses just so. “A man who was, and will always be, Aurora’s finest entrepreneur, its greatest mind, its most generous philanthropist.” By now his face has turned full tomato, the result of speaking each syllable more passionately than the last, but then he stops again, waiting until they go quiet, waiting for words that must be whispered in the way of all painful truths. “A man who was Aurora’s heart.”

The shared sadness that follows is worse than their rage, and it is clear that Judge Hector is conducting an orchestra. “This,” he says, “is what this man, this alchemist, is accused of.”

Now they are louder and angrier than seemed possible before, so blinded by their indignation over such injustice that no one notices the rolling eyes of Alchemist Ortez.

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As for Judge Hector, he is also a master of mixed signals: a splayed hand that says stop, a bobbing nod preaching amen. “Please. I understand, but please.”

“He bloody well did it!” a voice cries out. “We all know he did!”

“Be that as it may,” the judge says, “justice is not a verdict. It is a process. Which brings us to Alchemist Freya, the finest alchemist I have ever known.”

Alchemist Ortez takes no offense.

“She will walk us through that process,” Judge Hector explains. “For those in attendance who have not witnessed an alchemical trial before, I must warn you now that it is a time-consuming endeavor. But in cases such as these, in which we have no witness save for the man on trial, it is the only definitive way to prove one’s guilt or innocence.”

“But he’s an alchemist!” the voice protests.

“That he is.” Judge Hector turns to his colleague. “Alchemist Freya, would you mind explaining to us how exactly an alchemical trial works and why even an alchemist such as the accused could not possibly influence its outcome?”

Alchemist Freya shifts in her seat. “Certainly.” She clears her throat and looks down at the items resting on the timeworn table beside her: three glass vials, each filled with a different colored liquid, a neatly coiled metallic wire, two head-sized copper rings.

“This first vial here is vetramin diotide, a mnemonic stimulant that enhances memory visualization in subjects,” she says. “This is a level-three variation of vetramin diotide, stronger than the standard level-two elixir, given the subject’s alchemical background and presumably higher tolerance. A level-four—"

“Alchemist Freya.” Judge Hector puts on a smile as he swings back toward the crowd. “In language we can all understand, please.”

A few of them laugh, and she is reminded that this is her least favorite part of the job. But it is not usually this bad. There is not usually such an audience.

She tries again, speaking slowly. “Alchemist Ortez is going to recall the last month of his life for us, and it will be my job to ensure he does not hide or otherwise obscure important memories.” She points to the vetramin diotide first. “The red elixir will help him remember more clearly, the blue elixir will open up his mind, and the clear one is for me.”

“Why not just give him a truth elixir?” someone asks.

And while Alchemist Freya carefully considers her answer, Alchemist Ortez, who some might call occasionally careless, speaks his first words.

“Because a friend could have slipped me one of many counter-elixirs, I could omit information, or the honorable judge might simply ask the wrong questions,” he says. “Then there is the fact that truth elixirs are inadmissible in court for the aforementioned reasons. One could also reasonably assume that a trained legal alchemist with Alchemist Freya’s experience would have thought of that.”

“Alchemist Ortez.” Judge Hector spins on his heel and almost falls. “You will speak when you are given the floor and not a second sooner.”

“Understood.”

“I said quiet.” The judge removes a white handkerchief from his pants pocket and dabs the droplets beading his bald head. The trial has yet to begin, and already he has broken a sweat, which, as his friends and colleagues and many who have simply met the man can tell you, is a defining characteristic of the Honorable Henrick Hector. He will be soaked through by day’s end. “Alchemist Freya, please continue.”

“Mnemonic methods are standard in all alchemical trials,” she says. “Put simply, memories are closer to the truth than words. Words are an interpretation of memory, itself an interpretation of reality. While Alchemist Ortez revisits the events of the last month, I will see what he sees and ensure he speaks truthfully. Rather, as truthfully as he is able.”

The crowd stays silent in the wake of this explanation, half of them because they are satisfied with the alchemist’s answer, the rest because they have grown even more confused.

“Thank you, Alchemist Freya.” Judge Hector drags a wooden chair from one side of the room and takes a seat. It will be a long day. He rotates his chair to face the accused. “All right, Alchemist Ortez. If you have prepared a preamble you wish to share before Alchemist Freya administers her elixirs, speak now.”

A moment of silence follows. As much as his audience loathes him, the man on trial knows he has their undivided attention. Alchemist Ortez reads the pews like lines in a book, scanning for familiar faces, though none are the ones he hopes to find. His friends. They have their reasons, he knows. “What could I possibly say, your honor? Everyone in this room already believes me to be guilty. Only the truth might set me free.”

The judge leans back and checks his pocket watch. “Suit yourself.” He motions for Alchemist Freya to begin.

The legal alchemist takes a deep breath, closing her eyes until she can picture herself alone in her study, alone with her elixirs and her subject. Making only methodical movements, she gets to work.

The first step is creating a connection. Alchemist Freya uncoils her metallic wire, a mnemonic conductor used to transmit memories and dreams, as she walks over to the accused. She attaches the wire to a thin copper halo she places on his head, gently pushing the ring down until it rests at his ears.

The second step is administering the elixirs. She gives him the red one first, the level-three vetramin diotide. Next, she hands him the blue elixir, a common cerebral conducting aid. Alchemist Ortez swallows both without hesitation.

The third step is hers. Alchemist Freya drinks the clear elixir before connecting the free end of the mnemonic conductor to her own copper halo. She can immediately feel their connection forming.

But the feeling for Alchemist Ortez is stronger, intense, painful. It is the feeling of remembering too much at once, which is not unlike the feeling of eating too much at once. Even a savored memory hurts when you have no space for it. But the brain adapts and makes room. The adjustment period—a minute of throbbing agony that feels far longer—is quicker for Alchemist Ortez than it is for most. A few audience members relish the glimpses of pain they catch in his eyes, but he gives them nothing more.

The final step is confirmation.

“Alchemist Ortez,” she says, “I would like you to think about what you did last night, in as much detail as you can, please.”

“It was a most eventful evening in my prison cell.” The accused closes his eyes, cherishing the memory. Alchemist Freya sees what he sees: the perspective of a man sitting on a small, discolored bed in a claustrophobic stone room. He stares at a tin cup on the floor, which she knows to be empty. She can feel his thirst. He inspects a pebble mined from the crack by his bed. He looks at the cup. He looks back at his pebble. Pinching the pebble between his thumb and index finger, he aims carefully, readying the perfect throw, practicing the back-and-forth motion with his entire arm, until finally—the pebble ticks the cup lip and bounces beyond the bars of his cell.

Alchemist Freya matches eyes with Judge Hector. They are ready.

“Very well.” The judge dabs his forehead again. “Alchemist Ortez, you have been accused of murdering Everett Day, a crime to which you have pleaded not guilty. Do you, this morning, maintain your innocence?”

“I do.”

“It has also been determined, for the purposes of this trial, that you will begin your recollection approximately one month before your arrest. That is, the day you first received correspondence from the victim. You may begin your story there.”

The room grows quieter than a prayer.

“Thank you, your honor. Thank you, Alchemist Freya.” Alchemist Ortez collects his courage like one wrangles marbles from a tilted table, for even the simple telling of this tale is no trifling task. He trades glances with those who would see him dead.

“First, I would like to say that I understand,” he begins. “I understand your frustration. Your city is in chaos, and you wish to hear the truth you think you know admitted aloud. You have a question. You want an unambiguous answer. But there are many questions, as there are many answers, and as you will soon discover, I possess only some of them.”

He lets the tension boil, and it is quickly evident that Judge Hector is not the only man who knows how to play a crowd.

“If you came here thinking the truth was a narrow path with a known destination, I must warn you now that you are quite mistaken.”

Alchemist Ortez sits up a little straighter, his gaze a little sharper.

“For I am an alchemist, and the truth is my profession. If there is one thing I know, it is that the truth”—memories flash before him like pages thumbed in a book—“the truth, my friends, is an unending maze.”