Hunter's Legend

by R. J. Vickers

  That would be easy enough to find, provided I knew how to access the basement. Jakor’s office was the last one in the hallway. “Are students allowed in the basement?” I asked. “What do they use the space for?”

  “Archives mostly, I think. I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to go down there, but there aren’t any specific rules saying that. Of course, the stairs leading down there are right next to the gatekeeper’s room, so he’s not likely to let anyone suspicious through.” He shoveled up the last of his potatoes, so sodden with gravy they looked close to melting. Then he froze. “You’re not going to search for it, are you?” he asked, mouth hanging slightly open. “Can I come?”

  “No, of course not,” I said hastily. “I’m doing nothing of the sort. I just love these little mysteries. It fascinates me—the history of this place, and everything concealed beneath it. I wonder who would have built a secret room like that in the first place.”

  “Ooh, this school has been around forever,” the boy said. “I’ll bet there were some pretty unpleasant people hiding all sorts of things while the place was new. Anyone could study here back then, I think, forbidden races and all.”

  I gave him my best enthusiastic smile. “Incredible! I had no idea.” Then I narrowed my eyes at him. “Would you keep this conversation between us? It would not do if your friends heard about my curiosity. I’ve just started here, and I hardly wish people to think I’m unduly nosy.”

  “Don’t worry, no one will hear anything from me.” The boy smiled sadly. “I haven’t got any friends.”

  “Why not? You’re a very nice young man.”

  He shrugged. “I’m younger than everyone mostly, and my parents were some of the miners blamed for the whole Red Plague. No one talked to me much after that story came out.”

  “That’s awful! How can they hold you accountable for something that happened before you were born?”

  “Dunno.” The boy swirled his spoon through the leftover gravy on his plate. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I knew you’d be in the papers, so I thought you’d understand how it is with rumors and all.”

  “Very much so,” I said grimly.

  It was not until much later that I was able to puzzle out what I ought to do about Professor Jakor. Sitting alone in my room, at the foot of my narrow bed, I decided on my next course of action.

  I had to find Professor Jakor’s lair. There was nothing more to it. Clearly he was afraid of what would happen if I dug too deeply, which meant he had something to hide. And if he knew I was searching and still feared discovery, it meant whatever was hidden in that underground room was too cumbersome to hide and too blatantly incriminating to explain away.

  First, however, I had to work out how to get around the gatekeeper. Perhaps if I went late at night, he would have retired to bed. Surely there was no need to have someone around to chain and unchain the gates at all hours of the night.

  What if the basement door was locked? That was altogether too likely. I had to come up with a plan. If I could find some trinket that would unlock doors—an all-purpose key, perhaps…

  It was not until the next day that I was able to steal a few hours away from the University to visit the Market District in search of such a key. I had a two-hour break around lunchtime—foregoing my meal, I dressed in my most comfortable shoes and most careworn dress and hurried out of the University at a near-jog. My time was almost half-up by the time I reached the Weavers’ Guild.

  I did not want my parents to know I had dropped by the neighborhood, especially since I didn’t have time to pay them a visit, so I chose one of the streets on the outskirts of the Weaver community. Already my feet were sweating and beginning to blister in my shoes. The hot weather had held, unbroken, since midsummer, and the city was noticeably beginning to dry up. With the heat rose a pungent smell of rotting fruit; I was eager to return to the fresh-smelling lawn on the University campus.

  The street I turned down was narrow and well-shadowed, a welcome relief from the sun that hovered almost directly overhead. I made for the largest shop on the block, hoping that if they did not carry the sort of key I was after, they might at least know where it could be found.

  An elderly couple greeted me as the bell on the door tinkled, and at first glance the shop looked as though it housed the most traditional of Weavers’ wares. There were flying cloaks, self-warming blankets, and arrow-proof hats galore.

  “Excuse me,” I said briskly, striding to the desk at the center of the shop at the same pace I had hurtled through town. “I have need of a key that opens any lock. Do you know where I might find one?”

  The grey-haired man blinked at me, nonplussed. I realized what a sight I must have made, careening into the shop red-faced, my short braid askew, and I took a few long breaths. With more deliberation, I began again.

  “Sorry to intrude. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I was simply looking for a universal key; is that something that can be made with Weavers’ art?”

  The couple shared a concerned look. “It can be done, certainly,” the man said, his tufty hair quivering as he bobbed his head. “But an all-around key is not the sort of trinket one sells publically. Just think of the mayhem that would cause!”

  I had suspected as much. “I swear, by everything I hold dear, that I do not intend to use this key for ill.” I put a fist to my heart to emphasize my words. “This matter is of dire importance.”

  “How can we trust you?” the old woman asked, squinting at me. She had a friendly sort of face; suspicion did not sit well on her features. “Any criminal could say those same words with an equivalent dose of honesty.”

  “Don’t I look trustworthy?” I asked hopefully. When neither responded, I sighed, my shoulders sagging. “My parents are Weavers. You probably know them—Ambria and Forton. I was the child born untalented, the one everyone in this neighborhood has heard of.” I had not wanted to bring my parents into this, but my time was running short.

  Again the two glanced at each other. The man nodded fractionally.

  “Of course we know Ambria and Forton,” the woman said, the lines on her forehead smoothing as she smiled. “We will inform them that you dropped by, of course. And tell them what you were after. If you agree to this, we might be able to find what you need.”

  I nodded, trying not to grimace. By the time I had figured out what Jakor was up to, no one would ever trust me again.

  With surprising haste given his lopsided gait, the elderly man shuffled to the back of the room, where he dug behind a rack of blankets for what must have been a concealed cabinet. After a few painstaking moments of rummaging, he produced a small brass key with a leather cord wrapped tightly about its diamond-shaped handle. That cord would be the location of the silver hair, I assumed.

  “This will be twenty varlins,” the man said, handing the key to me.

  I gulped. That was a fifth of what the sculpture garden had cost to rent for a span. I had the coins for it, but after that I would be nearly impoverished. The rest of Hunter’s money was secured in the bank, where it would sit until the banker proved that Hunter had left no will; after that, the entire sum would be transferred to his family. I would have to move into a shared dormitory one quarter hence; I would have no way to afford my current luxury at the University.

  “Done,” I said reluctantly. Digging in my coin-purse, I counted out more than three-quarters of my remaining wealth. Then I tucked the key safely within, where I could be certain it would be neither lost nor seen.

  “Take care,” the old woman said, waving. I gave her a brief smile before turning and hurrying away.

  I truly did have to run most of the way back to the University. A stitch knotted my ribs before I was even nearing the central square, and I dug my fist into the ache, hunching forward as I ran. The blisters on my heels turned fiery and raw, and sweat slid down my neck and traced an itchy line between my breasts.

  By the time the University came in sight, I was ready to collapse. It was a miracle
I had not tripped over a stray brick, or collided with someone doing their leisurely rounds of shopping. I was so parched I could barely swallow. Stopping for a hastily gulped glass of water in the dining hall, I flew upstairs and dropped into my seat just as the professor began his lecture. I had not even glanced at my scribbled list of classes before making my way here, and I had arrived with no textbooks or writing materials. From the books around me, I decided this was the Weavers’ Workshop, Level 1—the class Volandrik had specifically asked me to participate in. It would be a miracle if the professor did not call attention to me in some way, and here I was sitting at the back of the room, empty-handed, my clothes drenched in sweat.

  Sure enough, as soon as the professor had taken roll, he said, “First off, I would like to welcome a new member of our class. Cady Fenwood.” He gestured in my direction.

  I slid a bit lower in my chair, feeling foolish and entirely out-of-place. It did not help that the other students were wearing their uniforms; I had not received mine yet.

  Every set of eyes in the classroom turned to look at me, each one topped by a silver head of hair. I was the only anomaly allowed in a Weaver-dominated class.

  “Cady has kindly agreed to work with us over this term to broaden our understanding of Weaver magic,” the professor said. To my relief, he did not seem to notice or think badly of my unkempt appearance. “She was born a Weaver, but her hair was taken at birth. We will watch as she experiments with her abilities—will she be able to learn the Weavers’ art, with no prior knowledge and no silver hair of her own? And will she be able to sense the subtleties of our Weaving?” He gave me a half-bow. “Thank you.”

  It was not until the students’ attention had returned to the professor that I was able to get a proper look around the classroom. The desks were wider than I was accustomed to, with jars and racks of materials—rulers and pens and scissors and hammers and sewing needles—at the end of each. It looked as though every class was spent learning and practicing a new Weaving project.

  As the professor continued his lecture, students began pulling pieces of leather and cord from their schoolbags. On closer inspection, I realized these were waterskins.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered to the girl on my left.

  “We’re making bottomless waterskins,” she said, holding up her half-finished skin, still lumpy and stiff.

  “You can do that?” My embarrassment was replaced by complete surprise. It seemed the bounds of magic could be stretched much further than I had imagined. I had never seen anything beyond the simple charms common throughout the Weavers’ Guild. Most provided comfort or protection to the wearer, or were simply enchanted to perform a handy trick. Something that created its own water—spun an element from empty air—was beyond anything I had yet encountered.

  “It is rather tricky,” the girl said. “But I’ve heard all Weavers’ classes are like this. After all, what would be the point of attending University if we learned nothing beyond the skills taught by the Guild?”

  “True,” I muttered, still taken aback. I would be happy if someone could teach me to knit a silver hair into a pair of gloves for a basic sizing charm. That was one of the simplest Weavings taught to children, one that ensured any item of clothing would shrink or expand to suit the wearer.

  Though I was not called upon to participate just yet, given that the students were in the middle of their project, the professor summoned me to his desk at the end of the lesson and gave me a stack of books nearly the height of his desk to peruse in my free time.

  “I hope this class does not prove too tedious for you,” he said. “These books outline some of the most basic lessons presented to Weavers as they first explore their art. A few are more advanced, while others delve deeper into the theory and history of Weaving. Read whichever ones catch your fancy.”

  “Thank you.” I gathered the books into my arms, holding the top one in place with my chin. The stack wobbled precariously as I lifted it from the desk. “I appreciate this, I truly do. I wish my family had given me this sort of knowledge from the start.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, why did they not?”

  I made a face. “I was eighteen before I learned I had been born a Weaver. Throughout my childhood, I believed I was talentless.”

  Chapter 17

  W ith the universal key in my possession, I had no reason to delay. I reasoned the longer I spent at the University, the more closely Jakor would be watching me; if I sought out his secret room straightaway, he might be caught unaware.

  Unable to trust myself to wake before the morning bells, I fetched myself a pot of tea and whiled away the hours reading my new pile of books. The most helpful of the lot went into detail about the mental and practical aspects of Weaving. Despite growing up among Weavers, the limit of my practical knowledge was that one silver hair was worked into each object the Weaver meant to enchant. Thus the popularity of wool-based enchantments.

  As this book described, the integration of the silver hair was just a small aspect of the enchantment. The way in which the hair was used strengthened or weakened the spell—for instance, a hair spun into a length of wool and then knitted into an item of clothing would create a virtually infallible spell. On the other hand, a hair simply held alongside the unenchanted yarn so it was worked into the pattern would create a less powerful spell. Hair that was merely threaded through a finished garment almost never cast an effective charm.

  After the hair was attached, the book described a moment Weavers could feel, the exact instant where the spell began to take hold. At that precise instant, the magic from the hair began to expand, malleable and unformed; if unguarded, it would dissipate. While the magic was volatile and mutable, the Weaver had to utter a word to determine which spell would be cast, a word in the mother tongue of all the magical races that had originated in Whitland. The language was no longer spoken, and its use had fallen to spellcasting and archiving.

  This was the reason no non-Weaver was able to cast a spell using a Weaver’s hair. Only a Weaver could sense the exact moment when the charm could be laid.

  I was so fascinated by the book that midnight came and went without my notice. When I roused from my daze, every light in the school had been extinguished, and no sounds rose from the usually-rowdy bedrooms neighboring mine.

  Extinguishing my lamp, I gathered it and my coin-purse, checking to be certain the key had not vanished. Then I crept from my room and tiptoed down the stairs to the courtyard. I would rely on the wan light of the crescent moon to guide me across the flagstones; I did not dare light my lamp for fear of drawing attention.

  To my relief, the gatekeeper had indeed gone to bed. A young, pimply man was sitting in the gatehouse, but he had his feet crossed and his head drooping behind the chair. When I crept closer, I heard him snoring softly.

  Beneath the arch that housed the gatekeeper’s office was a plain door that had to lead to the basement. I had never noticed it before.

  Hooking the lamp on one arm, I tried my key in the lock. It took a moment to slide in properly, but at last it clicked into place. Only as I turned the key and heard the pop of the bolt sliding free did I dare to breathe again.

  Less frightened now, I slipped through the door and closed it swiftly behind me. I fumbled in the dark to light my lamp, and once it flared to life, it cast a beam on the low arched ceiling that descended into blackness. The stairs were roughly hewn from plain grey stone, and the entire space had the cold, stale-smelling, mildewed feel of a cave. Lifting the lamp higher, I ventured down the steps, still unable to make out what lay below.

  I imagined I descended two stories beneath the ground before the floor leveled out again. I found myself in a passageway lined with brick, a layer of cobwebs and mold throwing eerie shadows on the wall.

  Though I did not expect to find anything until I reached the corner of the basement beneath Jakor’s office, I stared hard at every door I came across, wondering what lay behind. Once I turned and began wa
lking the length of the school, I noticed intermittent corridors branching off to the left, each one leading away to blackness. How far did they go? Perhaps the basement extended beneath the entire courtyard. It was practically a second school belowground.

  What could possibly fill these rooms? And what was their intended purpose? Maybe there was a vast repository of wealth down here, or a collection of dangerous, illicit books. Or maybe the basement had been built as a second school, one where the forbidden races had once studied in secret. Perhaps every teacher had their own personal chamber down here, with tools and stored knowledge they were either too greedy or frightened to share.

  The corridor seemed to stretch into eternity. I quickened my pace, afraid I had somehow taken a wrong turn and lost my way in the tangle of unmarked rooms. The darkness pressed on me; I could have sworn I felt the weight of the building above me, condensing the air until it settled like a weight on my back. I was close to turning back when the flickering lamp illuminated a brick wall just ahead.

  Just ahead lay the door to the room below Jakor’s office. It looked like every other—a slab of grey stone with a simple brass handle. But unlike the rest of the hallway, the handle was free of dust.

  Someone had entered recently.

  Though I had been anticipating something of the sort all along, it set my spine tingling. I clenched the lamp tighter, as though it could ward me against whatever I would find within.

  I did not know what to expect. What secret arts did Jakor dabble in? Was this a secret stash of Dark Potion ingredients, as the other students believed? Or something more sinister still? At the very least, I hoped to encounter the box that Hunter and Professor Jakor had relocated to the school while I was kept busy at the palace ball.

  Then I could see if my guess had been anywhere close to the mark.