Hunter's Legend

by R. J. Vickers

  The casting word is Caimbrolt.

  To use the enchanted compass, speak aloud the name of the object sought and visualize the object. The accuracy of the spell depends on the accuracy of one’s memory.

  When I sat back in my chair again, my thoughts were a jumble. Why did the spell have to be so complicated? I knew nothing of metalcraft. And worse still, I could not buy an enchanted compass from another Weaver. I would have to do it myself, using my one silver hair.

  And I had no room for error.

  Banned from the University, unable to ask Hunter for the truth, I had no possibility of uncovering the genuine story behind his death without this compass. If I failed, I might as well give up, find myself a comfortable, boring profession, and forget that Hunter had ever graced my life.

  It was too late to go in search of a compass now. There were stores within the Weavers’ Guild that sold half-completed objects, mainly intended for the instruction of apprentice Weavers—most Weavers eventually specialized in a particular vocation, whether metalcraft or spinning or carving, and did not dabble in unfamiliar crafts—and it was there I hoped to find a compass designed to accommodate the addition of a silver hair.

  I hardly slept that night, almost feverish with anticipation, and forsook my bed long before sunrise. No one was downstairs to greet me; the baker was the only one up at this hour, and he was ensconced in the kitchen. Outside, the light was wan and grey, the streets quiet apart from the chattering of birds. I walked briskly down Market Street, though there was no need to hurry, and reached the first street of the Weavers’ Guild just as the sun sent its first rays glinting over the city walls. None of the stores had opened yet, and the only sign of life was a woman moving a row of potted plants from the safety of her house to a narrow second-floor balcony.

  Too impatient to sit and wait, I kept walking as the city roused itself around me. By the time I neared the city gates, they hung open, and the sun had peeped over the wall. Stopping just long enough to glimpse the gold-tinged fields of wheat rippling beyond the gates and smell the sweet country air, I turned and made my way uphill toward the Weavers’ Guild again, coin purse jangling at my belt and spellbook clasped tightly under one arm.

  This time the shops were open. I stopped at random in the first store belonging to a family I did not know, and asked where I might find half-finished objects ready for enchanting.

  “If money isn’t a concern, the Levins are the best around,” a tall, shy-faced young woman said. “They even supply the University. Two blocks down, third door on your left.”

  I thanked her and left, inwardly cringing at the likely price of the compass I sought.

  The shop door was not yet open, so I waited beneath the sign that read Levins’ Educational Supplies, hugging the book to my chest and shifting from one foot to another. At last the door creaked open and the man behind it gave a start to see me there.

  “Bit early, aren’t you?” he said once he regained his composure. Though his untidy hair was brown where it was not silver, his face was lined and his shoulders rounded; stress or hard labor appeared to have aged him prematurely.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I need something from you, but I don’t know if you have it.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s a compass. I need an unfinished compass that I can enchant to find lost objects; I have no metalworking skills, so I can’t make one myself.”

  After peering at me for a few long moments, the man beckoned me inside. Another man, this one with grey-and silver-streaked hair, was piling a mountain of boxes onto a cart in the back of the room.

  “Are you Messer Levin?” I asked.

  “One of them,” the first man replied. “He’s my brother. Younger, if you would believe it.”

  He led me to his desk and sat down, shuffling a sprawl of papers into a haphazard stack.

  “What need do you have for this compass?” he asked absently, beginning to search through the desk drawers.

  I thought the question was a bit obvious. “To find something lost?”

  He cleared his throat and frowned at me. “I just wanted to ensure that you realize the spell can only be used by the caster. It wouldn’t do you much good, unless you plan to ask a friend to find your lost object for you. Provided that friend has seen and can remember the object in question.”

  I clasped the book tighter still. I didn’t want word of this visit getting to my parents, but I needed enough instruction to cast the spell myself, and the man would likely not provide that unless he knew the truth. “I have one silver hair,” I said quietly. “I’ve never been trained, but I am a Weaver. I have to cast this spell, and I have to do it right on the first try. I’m the only one who has seen the object that is lost. If this doesn’t work, it’s lost forever.”

  The man did not bother to conceal his surprise. “May I see the hair?”

  I turned my back to him and lifted my hair to show the spot where it grew from the top of my neck.

  “Intriguing!” He clasped and unclasped his hands on the desk, looking me up and down. “Well, if you are a Weaver by blood, you could always buy a few hairs on the black market, should your first attempt fail.”

  “And how much would that cost?” I said skeptically.

  “Ah.”

  “But you have the compass?”

  Messer Levin opened one last drawer and drew out a heavy gold compass, the gold chain clanking against the table as he held it up for me to inspect. When I took it from him, I nearly dropped it—the face was not attached, and the backing was in two pieces.

  “Take a seat,” he said.

  Placing the book carefully in front of me, I drew up a chair opposite Messer Levin.

  “Since you have that book, I will assume you know the proper procedure to enchant this compass.”

  I nodded.

  “You will need these pieces, plus a ring of solder to cement the hair within the backing. Additionally, you will need access to a fiercely hot fire to melt the solder. Will this be possible?”

  I nodded again. If the kitchen oven at The Queen’s Bed wasn’t hot enough, I didn’t know what was.

  With a frown, he dug a flat ring of what looked like silver out of the same drawer the compass had come from.

  “What’s that?”

  He set the glass compass case aside and pulled the face away from its backing. “Sandwich this between these two layers. The ring is the solder. It melts at a much lower temperature than the copper in the compass.”

  “And the hair goes between the two copper layers.”

  “Exactly.”

  I eyed the compass dubiously. As straightforward as the technicalities sounded, I was still lost. How would I know when the correct moment came? What if it was so subtle I failed to notice it? And what if I got so caught up in my spellcasting that I let the entire compass melt to a puddle in the fire?

  “This isn’t really a—a beginner’s spell, is it?” I slid the three pieces of the compass and the solder across the table toward myself.

  “It is usually left for metalworkers,” he said. “However, it is one of the spells most frequently attempted by those specializing in other areas. Since none but the caster can use the spell, half-finished compasses are more commonly sold than enchanted ones.”

  “And how often do the casters succeed?”

  Messer Levin gave me a dry smile. “I have many return customers, milady. I will be surprised if you succeed.”

  I swallowed. This entire plan was looking more and more like a waste of money. And speaking of which—“How much is this going to cost?”

  When he quoted a price, I nearly choked. It would cost more than two nights at The Queen’s Bed. “Do you have a cheaper model?” I managed.

  Messer Levin chuckled. “Sorry. This is the only one in stock at the moment, I’m afraid. The comparison model is in silver, and nearly double the price.”

  There was nothing for it. I upturned the entire contents of my coin purse on the desk and c
ounted. I had two gem-centered varlins, and the rest were small, burnished dravs. There were more coins than I’d expected, though; in the end I was five dravs short. Silently I slid the entire pile of money toward Messer Levin.

  He had been watching me, counting as well, but he scooped the coins into one leathery hand without objection. Once the coins were safely tucked into a drawer, he smiled. “I’ll forgive you just this once. But be sure to send your friends to Levins’ Educational Supplies.”

  “Of course.” Sagging with relief, I tucked the compass into my now-empty coin purse. “Thank you. I will repay you someday, I promise. I won’t forget your generosity.”

  “Thank me once the spell has worked,” he said. “You clearly won’t be coming back for a replacement compass.”

  Back at The Queen’s Bed that evening, I stole a pair of small mirrors from a room down the hall that was in the midst of an airing-out. With some difficulty, I managed to set them up in my closet-sized room so they allowed me to see the back of my head. I wanted to pluck the hair from its source.

  Kneeling between the two mirrors, I lifted my hair with one hand to reveal the silver strand. Then I pinched it between my thumb and forefinger, imagining it felt solid and cold and metallic. I squeezed my eyes shut. There. The hair came out easily.

  It looked less impressive curled across my palm. Beside my brown hair, it had stood out; now it could have belonged to any old lady. Maybe I had been wrong all along. Maybe I had hit myself on the head once, and the impact had turned that hair grey. Still, my heart was beating fast. With stiff hands, I curled the hair into a ring and tucked it into my coin purse alongside the compass.

  Now I could not sit still. The compass burned in my purse as I paced up and down the hallway, occasionally startling a guest on their way up the stairs. Night could not come soon enough.

  I was still pacing as the nighttime steward chained the heavy front doors and went around extinguishing the lights in the dining room. As he dug in the cleaning cupboard for a broom, I tiptoed down the stairs and slipped past him into the dark kitchen.

  The fire in the cavernous oven never truly burned out. With such a deep circle of bricks surrounding the flames, there was small danger of anything else catching alight, so the coals were left to smolder until the baker stoked them to life the following morning. I had been counting on this. The glow from the far wall was enough to see by; I lifted a bench and placed it by the fire, wincing when it echoed softly on the stone.

  Prodding the coals with a pair of iron tongs, I coaxed enough red heat from them to light a new handful of coal. Then I removed the compass from its pouch, cradling it delicately in both hands. The glass cover I set beside me on the bench, and the solder I placed atop the backing. It was nearly the same width as the copper circle.

  The silver hair I wound around one finger, curling it tighter than before, and pressed into the center of the backing. I flattened it with the compass face before the hair sprang free from its coil.

  I took the compass between the tongs, gripping them tight so the precious bits of metal would not slip. I hoped the fire would be hot enough. How would I know when the solder had melted?

  Kneeling, I eased the tongs and the compass into the coals. The heat washed across my face. Little bits of rock and scraps of straw dug into my knees, but I did not dare move.

  I realized my teeth were clenched, and relaxed my jaw. The word for the enchantment—Caimbrolt—was running through my head, over and over, until the “t” dissolved and the word became a nonsense chant. Caimbrolcaimbrolcaimbrol. What if I got the word wrong? What if I didn’t sense the moment of the enchantment?

  Sweat was beginning to itch all down my neck. The heat from the fire felt raw, like a day-old sunburn.

  Nothing was happening.

  I nudged the compass deeper into the coals. The face was almost obscured beneath the black char now.

  The embers crackled and hissed as a pale tongue of flame darted out. I nearly drew away.

  Was that the spell taking hold? I drew abruptly upright.

  No, it was just my leg going numb.

  At last I sensed it.

  The whole room seemed to muffle itself—the crackle of the fire came from afar, the light dimmed, the air seemed to thicken, and every sense honed in on the compass. I felt as though I was chained to the ground.

  In my shock, I nearly forgot to say it.

  “Caimbrolt.” I spoke hastily, without enunciating, afraid I had lost my chance.

  Just like that, the noise and light and air returned to the room, and I was just kneeling before a fire with a pair of tongs in my hand, knees aching. Clumsily I stood and removed the compass from the fire.

  Had it worked? The compass face, with its pointer hovering a hair’s breadth above the flat circle, was so charred I was afraid I had ruined it. But when I polished it on my skirts I saw that the copper, though burnished, was fully intact. A thin line of silver had seeped out between the face and the backing—it was the melted solder.

  Cleaning the face more thoroughly now, my skirts already stained beyond repair, I studied the needle as it hovered from one point to another. At last I set aside the tongs, screwed on the glass cover, and stood. I would put the compass to a test.

  Since I did not have many possessions to choose from, I pictured the book that had contained this spell. I tried to banish all other thoughts, concentrating on nothing but the cover and heft of the spellbook. Of course, I was simultaneously picturing the exact place I thought I had left it, on its usual shelf in my room. I hoped this did not interfere with the spell.

  When I looked down at the compass in my hand, its needle had stopped shifting aimlessly and had instead settled pointing in the direction of the kitchen door. With a glance over my shoulder to be sure I hadn’t left anything behind, I shook charcoal from my skirts and made for the door. At the entrance to the kitchen, however, I realized the compass pointed not to the stairs but to the far corner of the dining room. I had a vague feeling something was amiss. The nighttime steward was nowhere in sight, so I tiptoed over the creaking wood floor until I reached the far wall of the room. Was I meant to go outside?

  But when I reached the wall, I glanced at the booth where I had spent the past several days studying, and there it was, sitting just beneath the table—my spellbook. How had I been so careless? Hastily I collected the book and tucked the compass into my coin purse.

  It had worked.

  “Milady!” It was the gruff voice of the night steward. “This dining room is closed after hours.”

  I hung my head. “Sorry, Sirrah. I forgot my book, and wanted to retrieve it before someone else took it. I’m studying at the University, you see.”

  “Harrumph.” With a disgruntled look, he waved me back up the stairs. I could not move quickly enough.

  Chapter 19

  M y search for the book had taught me not to guess where the compass would lead me. After helping sweep the kitchen and scrub the charcoal mess I’d inadvertently left on the hearth, I set out in the cool of early morning to find Hunter’s diary. I had my cloak thrown over my shoulders—as the day grew warmer, I knew it would become a burden, yet I could not do without—and a satchel with two millet cakes slung across my chest. I did not know how far the search would take me; Hunter could have hidden the diary outside the city walls, for all I knew.

  Pausing at the inn door, I closed my eyes and visualized the diary—the peeling, dark leather, the yellowed pages, and the looping, well-formed script. When I opened them, the compass had found its mark. From my vantage point at the southern end of the central square, it appeared to be directing me straight to the cathedral.

  My stomach dropped. Surely it wasn’t in the tower? I did not think I could face the climb again. Hunter’s memory clung too strongly to the place.

  With one eye on the compass, I strode across the square, wary of any Weavers who might guess my purpose. The sun was already warming the western half of the square, but the breeze still bit
at my ears. As I neared the cathedral, I gave the compass a shake just to be sure I had not misread it. It could be pointing to something behind the cathedral, of course, but I thought I should give the most obvious solution a try.

  The air inside the cathedral was cooler still. The stones held their nighttime chill, and the wind whisking down the aisle brought the stale iciness of a cave. No one glanced my way; I was left to wander the towers of books unsupervised. The compass led me down the main arm of the cathedral and toward the left-hand wall, not far from the tower stairway. I stopped short in front of a wall of books thirty shelves high. Fingering the coarse spines, I studied the compass more carefully.

  If Hunter had left his diary here, he would have done it either before he took me up for the first time, or just before his fatal leap. I guessed it was the second time; I didn’t remember him taking a detour to this wall when we had been together. And if that were true, the diary had to be low enough for him to reach. With the entire population of Baylore waiting to witness his jump, he could not have unobtrusively climbed a ladder to stow the diary high overhead. Someone would have seen and questioned him.

  Forsaking the compass, I went along the shelf one book at a time, fingering each cover and pulling forward each book that seemed a likely candidate. Once I had examined both shelves at eye level, I stood on tiptoe to survey the higher one and then crouched to get a better look at the four lowest ones.

  Nothing.

  Had he climbed a ladder? The tower guard, who must have been making his rounds, returned to his seat behind me with a creaking of ancient wood. I hurried over to him, tucking the compass into the folds of my skirt.

  “You were here the day Hunter died,” I said. It was not a question. “Did you see him climbing a ladder? Over there, perhaps?” I waved in the direction of the shelf I had been rummaging through.

  The guard harrumphed. “I suppose he did dawdle a bit, right by that shelf. He didn’t climb any ladders, though. I wondered what he was after, but it didn’t seem to matter after he died.”