Provided Professor Jakor did not murder me in the process, of course.
“How do I go about this, then?” I asked. “None of my family has attended the University. I know precious little about anything that goes on here. I just want to learn as much as I can.”
Volandrik reached down and tugged a stack of papers from a drawer in his desk. “To begin with, you can fill these out. Fear not; most of the pages are rules and stipulations for you to read at your leisure. There are only four pages that need attending to. Oh, and while you are here, I may as well conduct your student interview. Usually this part happens after I have received your completed paperwork, but given the circumstances, I think we can make an exception.”
I nodded, immediately nervous. I hated scrutiny.
“What schooling have you attended prior to this?” Volandrik began, fetching a clean sheet of parchment and holding his pen at the ready.
“Nothing official,” I said, wishing my parents had sent me to the quaint school Elden’s daughter attended. “Like most Weavers’ Guild children, I took lessons from my neighbors and completed a minor apprenticeship. I can tell you nearly everything there is to know about Weaving; I just haven’t done any myself.”
Volandrik nodded, unsurprised. “Do you have any notable accomplishments behind you? Usually I would ask students for the most advanced Weaving they have completed. If they have never successfully braided an insect-ward for plants, I send them back to the Guild for another apprenticeship. Insect-wards are a student’s first introduction to enchanted objects whose spells affect something beyond the object itself. So—what have you done with your life?”
“Um.” I scratched my sweaty palm beneath the table. I honestly could think of nothing. I had grown up, left my parents’ house, and quickly abandoned reason for the thrill of traveling with Hunter. More recently, my accomplishments had consisted of persuading Hunter not to get drunk in Borderville, and successfully procuring a reference for our house.
“Any jobs, perhaps?”
“Oh! I worked as a scribe for a while, with the city council. I worked with the treasurer. Aubald.”
“Really!” Volandrik’s eyes widened. He looked impressed in spite of himself. “Scribe or not, anyone who secures a position with the city council has proven themselves trustworthy, reliable, and intelligent. What did you do after this? Forgive me for reading the gossip, but I heard from the papers that you and Hunter had just recently returned to Baylore. Where were you in the interim?”
“Just traveling about,” I said. “Neither of us was exactly working at the time. We made the rounds a few times, going between Baylore and Larkhaven and stopping by the smaller villages.”
“Also impressive,” he said. “Anyone with a bit of traveling behind them is automatically more knowledgeable and intelligent than those who sit at home. It sharpens your mind, learning to think of the world from more than one perspective.”
I was flattered by this. I had thought little of my adventures with Hunter until now; to hear an esteemed professor praise what most would see as a waste of time was immensely gratifying.
“And which villages did you visit along the way?” Volandrik asked.
“All of them, I think.” I tried to remember whether we had passed any by. Hunter had tried his best to visit every village and town and tiny hamlet in Itrea. “There might have been a couple along the Larkhaven coast that we missed, but they weren’t connected to any roads.”
Volandrik blinked several times. “I see. You are a very knowledgeable young woman. You may fill out your papers now, if you wish. The final two pages are a written examination merely intended to assess your current understanding of mathematics, language, and magical terminology.”
I carefully wrote my name, address, family, magical bloodline, and age on the first page; when I flipped the sheet to the examination, I was momentarily stymied. I could answer the general knowledge section well enough—except the two parts on mathematics, which I had never understood—but there were fifteen complicated questions on magical theory, law, and race-specific traits that had me stumped. I had come from the Weavers’ Guild. We were all Weavers, and nothing more. How was I supposed to outline the history of Drifter relations with Baylore?
The others were similar: List at least five forbidden races. What are the legal allowances for a Flamespinner operating in Baylore? Name ten common sources of magic for a Potioneer (not Dark).
I had never known a Flamespinner personally. How was I meant to answer these involved questions?
After staring at the page for ages, I decided to leave most of the questions blank. I put ‘Dark Potioneer’ and ‘Braider’ as two of the forbidden races, but the others I did not attempt. Volandrik would likely think less of me for blundering my way through something I did not understand.
Setting aside the pen, I returned the two exam pages and the personal information sheet to Volandrik. He would be disappointed to read my answers, no doubt, but I could do no better. I just hoped he was impressed enough with my work and travels to overlook my ignorance of the other magical races.
“Thank you,” he said, looking up from a list he was scribbling on a scrap of paper. “I will review it tonight, convene with the other professors, and send you a letter tomorrow with our decision.” He gave me a smile, surprising in his hard-lined face. “I wish you luck.”
I took that to mean I was dismissed. Collecting the remaining papers, I left the room, pausing in the hallway to glance toward Professor Jakor’s office. I did not dare approach the door.
I took my time crossing the courtyard, staying to the far wall and scanning the face of every student I could pick from the crowd. It was too much to hope that I would happen across Samara here, but I could not restrain myself from searching. None could be mistaken for Jakor’s assistant, though. Besides, she was no student; why would she linger amongst these young scholars?
Just as I reached the gates, however, I looked one last time over my shoulder and could have sworn I saw Samara walking briskly through the same archway I had recently exited.
“Successful interview?” the guard asked sourly as he unlatched the gates for me.
“I hope so,” I said innocently. “You would just love it if I started appearing every day, wouldn’t you?”
“I doubt they’ll let you in,” he said. “Enjoy your day.”
He shoved the gate closed with a dull clang.
The following morning, I found a folded piece of paper on my doorstep, stamped with the seal of Baylore University—a tree with six different races represented as crests sprouting from the branches. The Weavers’ Guild was easily recognizable as a spool wrapped with a spiraling thread.
With cold fingers, I peeled free the wax seal and unfolded the letter.
To Cady Fenwood -
We are pleased to announce your acceptance to Baylore University. The professors, the administrator, and myself are all impressed with your achievements to date, and would be honored to have you here. You must sign up for Introduction to Magical Races and History of Magic in Baylore for your first term, given that you have no background in this knowledge.
One professor was not convinced of your honesty, a concern that likely stems from your recently publicized interview. However, we have chosen to dismiss these doubts and accept you on a non-probationary standing.
Welcome, and happy studying. If desired, you may move into the dormitories on Tabansday.
Best wishes,
Professor Volandrik
Chapter 16
T he guard was not pleased to see me again the following day.
“Not willing to leave me in peace, are you?” he groused, shuffling up to the door and shaking his ring of keys at me.
“I’ve been admitted,” I said, holding out the letter.
“I know that.” The guard unlocked the door as slowly as possible, glowering at me. “I still don’t trust you. I think you’ve only weaseled your way in to cause trouble. Meddle in others’ affair
s.”
How much had Professor Jakor told him? “You’re wrong.” I could not think of a suitable retaliation, so I hurried past him and across the courtyard once more.
The rest of that day was spent working out logistics. I had to sign up for classes, tour the school, and ask the head of housing to assign my dormitory. As an older student with money at my disposal, I was allowed a room to myself; I was told that was a rare luxury.
After that, I had two days to organize everything before I moved in. I visited my parents with the news (they were delighted); tracked down Brogan, the property salesman who had set us up in the statue garden, and informed him that I would be moving out just in time for the one-span lease to expire; and packed my paltry belongings. None of my new dresses were suitable for wearing at the University, but I brought them along anyway. And, after consideration, I folded a few of Hunter’s shirts at the bottom of my satchel. They still smelled of him.
When I fastened my satchel and gathered my books under one arm, I was overcome with a desperate longing. I was sitting on the floor at the foot of my bed, one dresser drawer still open beside me, the sun washing everything in the bedroom with pale brilliance. My eyes itched, though no tears came.
This was the end. I was leaving behind the final piece of the life I had shared with Hunter. His erratic yet unfailing presence was all but erased; the only lingering traces were a memory and a scent.
I longed for him. For his impulsive wildness, his unexpected tenderness. For the dreams he foisted upon me, the mad adventures he dragged me on.
This life was different. Lonely. I had lost the reckless passion Hunter had thrown into everything he did. I did not know where I was headed, or what I wished for.
Yet somehow I was more of myself.
This life was mine.
One tear escaped my lashes and was lost in the folds of my skirt. Shaking my head, I returned to business. There was only one treasured set of cutlery to collect from the kitchen, and afterward I would be ready to move to the University.
I stood and slipped on my shoes. It was time.
By the end of that Tabansday, I had moved everything into my small room in the dormitory, arranging and rearranging my belongings until they filled the space. It was comforting to leave behind the vast emptiness of the statue garden. Neither Hunter nor I had belonged in that cold house.
I was nervous about joining the other students for dinner. Most were a few years younger than me, and even those who had just enrolled at the University had begun their summer term two quarters ago. I was a stranger, and worse still, I was a minor celebrity. As soon as the other students caught sight of me, the rumors would begin. I hoped no one genuinely believed I was crazy.
Finally, driven by hunger and restlessness, I donned my most practical dress and headed to the dining hall, which was nestled beneath the left-hand wing of classrooms. I made my way immediately for a seat in one corner, partly obscured by a carved stone pillar.
The professors were at dinner as well; I had not expected that. I knew some had families and homes outside of the University, but it seemed that nearly half lived in rooms opposite the student dorms and joined the students for meals. Professor Jakor was there—I spotted him at once. Seated on his left was Samara, eyes lowered to her plate. Though she sat straight and tall, her demeanor was submissive. I almost pitied her.
A curly-haired boy took the seat across from me and gave me an eager smile. “You’re new here, right? I heard about you.”
Of course he had.
“What classes are you taking? It’s brave of you to start school right in summer. Most people would rather have the term off.”
I had a list of courses in the leather pouch at my waist, and I reached for it. I was taking six in all; on top of the two Volandrik had prescribed for me, he had asked me to join a Weaver’s workshop as a point of curiosity for the professor. I had elected to take Icewraith Studies and Theory of Weaving, filling my final slot with Professor Jakor’s class on Drifter magic.
“Well?” the boy prompted.
“Just a few introductory classes. Nothing very exciting,” I said. “I thought the class on Drifter magic sounded interesting, though. Do you know who teaches that?”
“Oh, that would be Professor Jakor,” the boy said, eager to help me out. “He teaches everything to do with Drifters. I think he might have lived among them once or something; I don’t know how else he would’ve learned so much.”
“What is he like? Professor Jakor?” I had to be careful; I did not wish to give myself away with an undue show of curiosity.
“I haven’t taken any of his classes,” the boy said. “But everyone says the same thing. He’s really intelligent, and he’s fascinating to listen to, but apparently he’s a really hard-nosed grader. You can’t just slide by in that class—you have to earn your marks.” He scratched his bulbous nose. “There are some funny rumors about him too. Some people say he has a secret dungeon somewhere in the basement. Lots of people think he’s a Dark Potioneer. He’s got that sort of look.” He seemed to realize just then that he had said too much. “Don’t listen to me. I don’t want to bias you against the teachers before you’ve even started classes!”
I grinned, trying my best to look like an ordinary, non-scheming student. “I love hearing funny gossip. Better to know what to expect from your teachers than go in completely unarmed, right?”
“Yup.” With fierce concentration, the boy sawed a corner from his slab of steak. “So, what about you? Any magical blood? I can tell just by looking that you’re not a Weaver or a Drifter.”
Shrugging, I took a daintier bite of my potato cake. “Actually, I come from a family of Weavers. I just inherited the unlucky blood, I suppose. You?”
“I’m a Minstrel,” he said. “Not a very good one, though. Neither of my parents showed any talent, so I didn’t know a thing until I came here.”
“Shame,” I said vaguely.
Professor Jakor’s class was the first on my schedule the following day. I felt very out-of-place as I shuffled into the back of the still-empty room; the class had been in session for an entire quarter already, and the other students undoubtedly had their usual seats and friends already picked out. I took a chair near the back of the double rows of long desks, hoping to avoid Jakor’s notice.
To my dismay, the next person who arrived was the professor himself.
“Cady Fenwood,” he said coldly when his eyes lit on me. “You sly little Braider’s whelp. I don’t believe for one instant that you came here out of a desire to study. You’ve been meddling in business that doesn’t concern you from the start, and I know you’re out to cause more trouble.”
I swallowed. Any witty or innocent responses I could have come up with died in my throat.
“Do you actually intend to sit this class out, or are you just here to give me grief?”
I forced myself to look him in the eye. “I am eager to study, Professor. This is my first opportunity to attend an official school. Of course I wish to learn as much as I can from your class.” As I spoke, I knew the words were futile. By the very fact that I did not act shocked or offended at what Jakor had called me, I had given myself away. He knew I was aware of what I had done to anger him. Which told him I did intend to meddle.
This would not be easy.
“If I get even a hint that you’ve put a single toe out of line, I’m reporting straight to the head administrator. You won’t get away with this underhandedness, I swear.”
It was a struggle not to drop my gaze and sink beneath my desk in shame. I was a terrible liar, so I did not attempt to make up a story. “I promise to be a good student,” I muttered instead. That did not omit the possibility of sneaking around trying to find clues as to what Jakor was up to.
Just as he raised a finger to admonish me further, a pair of girls walked in. They had been chatting brightly just outside the door, but their voices lowered and their expressions grew serious once they passed into the classroom. They
did not seem afraid of Professor Jakor, though they were certainly guarded around him.
Casting me a curious glance, the girls took seats at the front of the room, where they arranged their books and papers on the long desk.
Unable to speak further on the matter, Jakor strode to the front of the room, a sour look on his face. He dug through a box of papers and wrote something on the chalkboard, and when he turned around to face the steadily filling classroom once more, he did not glance my way. It was as though our conversation had never taken place.
I would not forget, though, and neither would he. It was difficult to concentrate on the lecture with so many dangerous ideas floating around my head, but I diligently took notes so I could prove myself a genuine scholar.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. At dinner I sought out the company of the same curly-haired boy who had joined me last night, hoping he might be just as willing to divulge information as before.
“How was your first day?” he asked brightly, already halfway through a mound of potatoes and gravy. “It’s tough being new, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “How long have you been here?”
He pursed his lips. “Not too long. Just since winter term.”
“Hmm.” I was running out of ordinary conversation topics. “You were right about Professor Jakor. He definitely seems like a strict one.”
The boy nodded, wide-eyed. “Did I tell you about what happened when a group of girls gave him a Woven hair-changing scarf as a prank? They were scrubbing toilets for a week!”
That was not reassuring. I tried a spoonful of the mashed potatoes, giving myself time to think. I hoped the boy would not think too much of what I wanted to ask next—or, worse still, speak of the matter to his friends. “That secret chamber of his, the one you mentioned yesterday,” I began tentatively. “It sounds very curious. Where do the rumors say it’s located?”
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