Hunter's Legend

by R. J. Vickers

  Smiling, I closed the door.

  My heart was light as I bounded up the stairs to Hunter, the precious bundle hugged to my chest. Yesterday I had feared it would not be possible; I had gone to my parents too late, and this was not their area of expertise. Yet somehow they had succeeded.

  “Hunter!” I called, throwing open the bedroom door. “I have it!”

  “What?” he mumbled, dragging the blankets closer about his shoulders.

  I tore open the package to reveal the garment within. It was a finely-tailored coat, deep green with shadows of black and gold, unrecognizable as a flying cloak. Triumphantly I held it up for Hunter, who frowned at it for a long time before his expression cleared.

  “That’s not a flying cloak, is it?”

  I nodded, beaming at him. “Or it used to be, anyway. A gift from my parents.”

  At once Hunter was up, hopping into a pair of trousers and shrugging the coat on without a shirt. “Come watch,” he said.

  I followed as he made his way to the railing and clambered over the rail to lean precariously over the sitting room far below.

  “You could test it from somewhere a bit lower,” I said nervously.

  “Don’t you trust your parents?”

  Before I could reply, he relinquished his grip on the rail and dropped straight down. But it was a slow-motion fall; the air seemed to resist him, as though he had plunged into a lake. By the time he reached the tiled floor below, he was moving so slowly his feet touched with the delicate grace of a dancer.

  “Hah!” he called up to me. “It’s brilliant!”

  Grabbing his tunic, I hurried down the stairs. He gave me such a fierce hug he lifted me off my feet.

  “I must go now,” he said, taking both of my hands. “If I do not return before then, meet me at the top of the cathedral tower at noon.”

  “Take some breakfast,” I said. “And are you planning to go out without a shirt?” Thrusting the tunic at him, I darted into the kitchen to fetch a leftover apricot tart and a wedge of cheese. Hunter dropped these into his coat pocket, kissed me, and was off without another word.

  I was left in a restless state of anxiety that consumed me all morning. I made the bed so neatly it looked as though it had never been touched, wiped three crumbs from the already-pristine kitchen counter, and scrubbed a bit of soot from the brick chimney. Then I resigned myself to pacing the main floor—around the kitchen table, down to the far end of the sitting room, in through the formal entrance to the dusty dining hall, and back through the servants’ door into the kitchen.

  My thoughts chased themselves in circles, going nowhere.

  The professor was dangerous. Something terrible would happen today, I was sure of it.

  What was taking Hunter so long?

  I should use my silver hair to work a charm of protection for him.

  No, I had no time for such a thing, even if I knew how.

  It was still early morning when I grew so restless I could no longer suffer the confinement of our house. Slipping on my most comfortable pair of shoes, I headed for the central square. At first I had hoped to search for any familiar faces—Lieman, perhaps, or Prince Donas—but the square was so suffocatingly packed that I immediately sought the cool, quiet refuge of the cathedral.

  Most of the people within appeared to be the same scholars who maintained the cathedral grounds, though a few curious country folk had wandered in, some clearly by accident. Hugging the right-hand wall, I meandered deeper into the cathedral, running my fingers over the embossed spines of hundreds of books. One or two I slid from the shelves and examined, though I was too distracted to process any of the text. When at last I had made a full circuit of the cathedral, it was near enough to noon that I decided to climb the tower.

  The guard seated at the base was the one we had tipped before; when I passed him another handful of coins, he let me through without question.

  The dizzying climb was nothing close to the trial it had been before. Concentrating on each narrow step banished the clamor of dark thoughts that had assaulted me all morning, and by the time I reached the open platform on top, I was winded yet remarkably clear-headed.

  The day was just as clear and windless as the previous one had been, and I was able to step fearlessly to the wall. Below, the crowd was packed so tight I could barely distinguish one body from another. Rather, it appeared a mass of shifting color, a hundred shades blurring together into an indistinct brown. I had foolishly hoped to pick Hunter out from the spectators below, but with that idea quashed, I had nothing to do but wait and fret.

  An eternity passed before anyone appeared.

  At last, footsteps echoed up the stairwell, and a shadow lengthened along the wall. Hunter extinguished his candle just as he emerged from the tower; his face was pale and blank.

  “Don’t do it,” I said, unable to come up with anything else.

  He stared at me, hardly registering my presence. “I have to. I’ll tell you everything later.” He stepped to the platform wall, fastening the top button of his flying coat. “You were right about that professor.”

  Then a brilliant false smile wiped all genuine emotion from his face as he leaned over the wall and raised his arms to greet the crowd below. If I had harbored any doubts that the masses had convened for the sole purpose of seeing Hunter’s feat, the sudden silence removed these. Everywhere, faces were turning up to see the tiny speck perched atop the cathedral tower. He must have bought himself a voice-magnifying chain somewhere along the line, because when he spoke, his voice rang out over the square.

  “Thank you, everyone, for joining me today!” Hunter opened his arms wide as though to embrace the hundreds of spectators. “From this moment on, there will be no doubt as to the identity of the wandering prophet. This is a day you will tell your children about.”

  With the swift grace of a cat, he climbed onto the wall, feet splayed for balance. A strong gust would have toppled him. He stood there for a long moment, drawing out the suspense. Then, with a flourish, he stepped off the ledge.

  He plummeted to the ground. The coat flapped around him, and his hair stood on end.

  But there was no moment of slowing, no gentle landing.

  Hunter slammed to the cobblestones at full speed. His body crumpled in a sprawl of jumbled limbs.

  He did not move.

  It felt as though someone had punched me in the chest. I could not breathe. Everything was too bright; my eyes burned.

  From below, I heard women screaming. The sound was distant and scattered, like a flock of birds calling.

  The screams followed me as I staggered off the tower and into the stairwell.

  At last my lungs were working properly. I took a heavy breath of the stale air. My legs were stiff and clumsy. I hurtled down the stairs; twice I tripped and grazed my knees on the rough stone, but I could not feel the impact.

  By the time I reached the cathedral floor, my heart was pounding so wildly it could have torn a hole in my breast.

  I flew to the doors and down the steps until I reached the mound of clothes that had been Hunter. My skin was clammy and too tight.

  Hunter’s skull had cracked, and blood soaked the cobblestones. It was a gory mess—I hardly care to describe it. I barely noticed the blood. I knew he was dead. I could not think except to probe his coat, looking for where it had been punctured. If the cloth itself had been damaged, the magic would have ceased to work.

  There. Just beneath his arm, where I would not have noticed it except through careful inspection, a row of stitches had been ripped free.

  Someone’s hands gripped my elbows and tried to drag me away from Hunter’s body. For the first time, I realized his blood, still hot, had oozed beneath my fingernails.

  “He sabotaged him!” I shrieked, fighting against whoever was holding me. “Look! He murdered Hunter!” I grabbed the two halves of the coat, showing everyone where the seam had been torn loose.

  “Milady. We must clear the scene.” Again the
hands tightened on my arms, and this time I could not resist. A city guard hauled me upright and marched me away from Hunter. The scene blurred around me, colors and voices bleeding together.

  “No!” I shouted. “Let me be!”

  “Cady.” This time it was Lieman taking my elbows and steadying me. “He’s dead. There is nothing you can do for him now. You would do best to leave. We don’t want to make a scene.”

  A petite woman took my other elbow from the guard; I assumed she was Lieman’s wife. Together they escorted me—or dragged me, more accurately—to the end of the square and the relative emptiness of the street beyond.

  “Cady,” Lieman said again, his voice deep and steady. “We should leave. This has been a highly publicized event, and if the reporters choose to investigate, they will discover you are no relation of Hunter’s. It would be best if you disappeared for a while.”

  I could hardly comprehend what he was saying. Belatedly I nodded, straightening and finding my footing. My hands were still covered in blood.

  “Where can we take you?” Lieman continued to grasp my elbow, though in a reassuring rather than a forceful manner. “Would you like to return to your manor, or would you prefer to spend some time with your parents?”

  I shook my head. “No. Not my parents.” The fog was beginning to clear from my head, and foremost in my thoughts was the fear of revealing everything to my parents. If I were to return to them now, distraught and utterly lost, I would be a disgrace to the family. Returning home would mean moving backward, erasing the freedom and confidence and sense of worth I had gained in my years away.

  “Come stay with us,” Lieman’s wife said. She had a very pretty face, with dark, inquisitive eyes and rosy lips. There was no hint of scorn in her expression, only kindness. “We would love to have you.”

  She shared a look with Lieman, who immediately said, “Yes. That’s a grand idea. We can look after you until Hunter’s affairs are sorted out.”

  I do not remember the long walk back to Lieman’s home, though I can recall the shuddering weakness with which I scrubbed my hands before climbing the stairs to the guestroom.

  “Come find us if you need anything,” Lieman’s wife said, before leaving me in peace.

  I closed the door with one icy hand. My chest ached; I could not breathe without trembling. With careful, numb steps, I approached the bed and knelt. As though a shaft of air had settled about me, I could feel once more Hunter’s hands on my neck, his warm weight pressed against mine.

  Hunter.

  Never again would he hold me. Never would I chide him for leaving a mess in the kitchen. Never would we sit on a starlit hillside and share our dreams.

  Now the tears came. I curled in on myself, clutching my arms around the emptiness that had been Hunter, and wept.

  Part 2

  Chapter 13

  I dare not relate the wretched state I remained in for the next half-quarter. Five days passed in a fog; I could scarce summon the courage to leave my bed for meals, and allowed Lieman’s wife—Adalia, I learned she was called—to deliver sumptuous meals to my doorstep. These I could barely stomach. Lieman and Adalia both paid me visits in an attempt to console me, but I was beyond reason.

  At last I was startled from my torpor by a pair of news articles, simultaneously printed on the front covers of the Baylore Daily and the Palace Times.

  “Cady?” Adalia called from the door. “Breakfast is ready. Would you care to join us downstairs?”

  As usual, I did not respond.

  “Hunter’s death was in the news today,” she said, as lightly as possible. “I was not sure if you cared to read it, but—”

  Frail though I had grown from lack of food, I slid from the bed and darted to the door. “I want to see that,” I croaked. I opened the door a crack, and Adalia handed two newspapers to me without a word. Though I did not appreciate it at the time, her unquestioning goodness had been the kindest gift I could have asked for.

  I retreated to the bed and perched at the foot, setting aside the more sensationalist Palace Times for the grittier Baylore Daily.

  HUNTER’S DEATH DEEMED A SUICIDE

  Sources report a “tragic descent into madness”

  Hunter Coalmar, alias the Wandering Prophet, died five days previously following a widely publicized jump from the cathedral tower. Reporters have tracked the origins of this enigmatic character, and have discovered a much less savory upbringing than the hero had suggested.

  Hunter, who postured as a nobleman traveling with his sister, was in fact born in the Baylore slums. He did have a sister once, but fled his family after poisoning her in what he claimed was an ‘accident.’

  His troubled mental state has been apparent ever since. While creating an aura of grandeur about his person, Hunter may have been drawn so deeply into his image that he began to believe his own lies. Eventually his delusions grew so profound that he truly thought himself invincible.

  Hunter’s false ‘sister’ has not been seen since the incident. Sources can only speculate on her role in provoking the hero’s demise. Reporters have concluded his death was the result of a lifetime of deception.

  I had to read the article through twice before I believed what I had seen. Snatching up both newspapers, I marched downstairs in nothing but my nightgown. Lieman and Adalia were already eating breakfast, while their elderly manservant poured steaming mugs of hot cocoa, but they set aside their forks at my arrival.

  “It’s nothing but lies,” I spat, slamming the papers onto the table. “Hunter did not kill himself. The professor murdered him.”

  Lieman rose and helped me into a chair. “It’s good to see you up again, Cady. We were worried.” When he resumed his seat, the manservant retreated to the kitchen to find something for me to eat.

  “He can’t get away with this,” I said. “Have you read it? The story is complete rubbish!”

  “Slow down,” Lieman said. “There is clearly much more to Hunter’s story than you’re letting on. If you would like our help, you’ll have to explain everything. Start from the beginning.”

  “You shouldn’t help me,” I said. “It could be dangerous. Though…someone ought to know the truth.” I took a deep breath. “Even I don’t know the entire story. Hunter never told me much; he claimed the lies were meant to protect me. But I’m certain his death was no suicide. He wore a flying cloak—well, a coat, really—tested just that morning, and it only failed because someone had ripped out a seam.”

  Gratefully I took a swallow of the cocoa Lieman offered me.

  “Why the whole to-do, then?” Lieman asked. “What was the point of his leap? I never understood that man.”

  “I’m not certain.” I cupped both hands around my mug and stared at the brown foam. “I can only guess.”

  Lieman and Adalia were both watching me intently. I sighed.

  “The Baylore Daily did get a few of its facts right. My guess is they managed to track down Hunter’s family. He did grow up in the slums, and I think he did accidentally poison his sister. It must have been just after that when Hunter began his apprenticeship with the treasurer. He cannot have been more than fifteen at the time. In hindsight, it would have been the perfect way to disappear—he wouldn’t have needed to leave the council blocks for anything, and his family would not have thought to search for him there.

  “I didn’t realize it at the time, but when he suddenly decided to leave four years after I started work, he must have been fleeing his family. After all that time, they must have tracked him down. He asked me to accompany him, of course. That was when we began traveling and Hunter started making a name for himself. He hadn’t the least bit of magic to his name, but he used acquaintances and rare charms to imitate a host of miracles.”

  “Why, though?” Lieman said, sliding a piece of eggshell about his plate with a look a fierce concentration. “Why would he care for the fame? I still can’t understand it. The Hunter I knew briefly was an intelligent, rational man. He wouldn’t
have pursued fame for the sake of it.” He looked up at me, brow furrowed.

  I shook my head. “I’m not certain. But…I might have an idea. You see, all along, Hunter was obsessed with raising the dead. From the very start, he spread rumors of the prophet who would reveal himself as the only one powerful enough to reverse death. No one can do that, of course, and I don’t know how Hunter intended to fool everyone, unless he wished me to fake my own death and later revive me.

  “But it was his sister he wanted to bring back all along. I’m sure of it. I wonder if he might have spread the rumor in hopes of attracting attention. If there were scholars certain that the deed could never be done, they would step forward and tell Hunter as much. And he certainly did speak to enough naysayers to fill a village.” I brought my lips to the mug again yet did not drink. I was close to figuring something out. The connection was there, just beyond my grasp.

  “I think he was also hoping for someone genuine to come forward,” I said slowly. “Someone brilliant and perhaps a bit cruel, who had tested the limits of magic and worked out a way to raise the dead.” I remembered the large wooden box Hunter had relocated to the University, and the final, dangerous idea it had given me. “That was why we returned to Baylore when we did—the magician Hunter had been seeking was here.”

  “Do you know who it is?” Adalia whispered.

  I bit my lip. I could not go accusing anyone out of hand, yet who else could have plotted Hunter’s demise? “I think so. I would recognize him if I saw him again, though I don’t know his name.”

  “Why the publicity?” Lieman asked again. “Why did Hunter care that every soul in Baylore attended his great leap?”

  It was Adalia who replied this time. “He must have wanted to lure his family to the spectacle. Only an event of that magnitude would have intrigued anyone living in the slums.”