Hunter's Legend

by R. J. Vickers

  With a sigh, I unlatched the woven-reed gate and walked up the path to the school. Just inside, a short-haired woman sat at a desk scribbling notes on a pile of papers.

  “Good morning,” she said politely, though she looked vaguely annoyed at the interruption. “How may I help you? Does your child attend this school?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said. “Actually, I was told a man named Elden lived nearby. I need to speak with him, and I was hoping you might know…”

  “Of course, of course,” she said, her expression brightening. “Elden’s daughter just started here last year. He’s such a lovely fellow. Lives in the wee brick house just at the end of this street, as a matter of fact. Turn right past the fence and keep going until you reach the corner; his is the one on the right.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I thought I saw a spark of surprised recognition as I turned to leave, but I could have imagined it.

  Elden’s house was easy to find. He answered the door almost at once, a book in one hand.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” I said. “My name is Cady. I—”

  “The one from the papers?” he asked swiftly. His skin was pale, but his features were dark, and his eyes were narrow and intelligent. “I’ve heard a few strange things about you lately, and not just what the journalists want to advertise.”

  “Oh?” I raised an eyebrow at him. He sounded like he knew more than he ought to. Which was exactly what I needed. “May I speak to you in private? I have a—er—delicate problem. It involves Samara; I was told you know her well.”

  His face grew whiter still. “Who told you that?”

  “Just another student,” I said hastily. “I don’t have anything against you or Samara. I just need to know a few things.” I folded my arms, steeling myself in case he protested. “It’s important. I don’t know how important yet.”

  He still looked alarmed. “How do you know Samara? I don’t think I’ve met you before.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not a student. But you probably know that already, if you’ve read all the gossip in the papers. Hunter sought help from a professor at the University, and Samara acted twice as a messenger for that same professor.”

  “Professor Jakor?” Elden’s face twisted with an expression I could only assume was hatred. “Yes, Samara is his assistant.”

  Professor Jakor. Already I had learned something worth knowing. He would be far easier to track down by name. “And what does Professor Jakor do?” I wanted to keep Elden talking, to distract him by asking as many innocuous-sounding questions as I could get away with.

  “Would you like to come inside?” Elden asked, glancing down the street. Was he afraid of being overheard? Once we were seated at the small kitchen table and Elden had cleared aside his daughter’s pile of childish artwork, he crossed his arms and answered my question.

  “Professor Jakor is the school’s Master Potioneer. Though he also teaches a slew of classes on Drifter magic, both to Drifters and those curious about the race. Thus his interest in Samara.” He raised his eyebrows at me. “He knows a great deal about unconventional uses for Drifter magic. Uses the Drifters won’t learn on their own. Some suspect him to be a Dark Potioneer, though in truth he has always been too talented for the school to turn away.”

  “And what about Samara? She’s a bit old to be a typical student. What brought her to the University?”

  Elden’s mouth narrowed. “You said this was important. Why? If you think I’m going to divulge anything to a stranger just because she asks politely, you’re greatly mistaken. Why should I trust you?”

  From Elden’s guarded manner and clear distaste for Professor Jakor, I guessed he was unlikely to pass anything I said along to the man. Though they did not appear to live together, I assumed Samara was the mother of Elden’s child. Which led me to believe Professor Jakor had done something to directly harm or offend Samara.

  I decided to trust Elden, at least in part. “Hunter did not kill himself, I’m sure of it. He had been wearing a flying coat, but someone ripped a hole in it before he jumped. He had been scheming with Professor Jakor just before Midsummer’s Day, planning something grandiose. And…”

  “You think Professor Jakor was responsible for Hunter’s death.”

  Elden was bright. I had to be careful not to let too much slip. “I—yes. That’s what I’m afraid of. And, seeing as Samara acted as Professor Jakor’s messenger, I thought she might know more about the circumstances surrounding Midsummer’s Day.”

  “Why not ask her yourself?” Elden picked up his daughter’s iron stamp, engraved with a picture of a lamb, and toyed with it. “I haven’t spoken to her properly in years. We just see each other in passing. She could very well be an accomplice in the crime.”

  I gave him a rueful smile. “The gatekeeper saw me lurking around the University one too many times. I’m not allowed back in.”

  “Ah.”

  “I should be off now. I’ve asked enough insensitive questions as it is.” I put both hands on the table, ready to stand.

  Elden coughed. “If it’s not too much trouble, I would very much like to hear the outcome of your investigation. If it’s not all over the papers, that is.”

  I laughed sourly. “Done.”

  “Oh, and one last thing,” Elden added as I turned to leave. “The gatekeeper doesn’t have any true authority. If you enrolled as an actual student, he wouldn’t be able to turn you away.”

  I gestured to my simple dress and ordinary features. “Do I look like I have an ounce of magical talent?”

  He shrugged. “It was just a thought.”

  Chapter 15

  E lden’s parting idea niggled at me for the rest of that day and the next. What he had suggested was absurd, of course, but it was also brilliant. But before I could put any serious thought into researching the University application process, I was distracted by a more pressing concern—a visit from my parents.

  I had been stoically ignoring the door ever since I had turned away the young reporter; after Pelton’s article had been printed, the number of callers seemed to have doubled. And when I peeked around the curtains, I recognized a few overly persistent faces.

  This time, though, the visitor refused to leave. After listening with increasing irritation to an unending tap-tap-tap, I decided it might be someone worth seeing. Someone I knew.

  I had not expected my parents, though. Not on a workday, with a hundred customers to attend to and the Sullimsday Market to prepare for.

  When I dragged open the door at last, both nearly fell inside. My father looked relieved to see I was alive, while my mother smiled tightly, her lips pressed into a thin line. They must have seen the news. My secret was out, then—I had lived four years with a man who had no intention of marrying me.

  Taking my father’s arm, my mother led the way into the expansive sitting room. “Were you asleep? We’ve been hammering away at your door all morning!”

  “Don’t exaggerate, Mother. But everyone has been hammering on my door for the past four days. It seems like the whole of Baylore suddenly has to meet me.”

  “You were on the front page twice in one quarter,” my father said, eyes twinkling with humor. “You, my dear, are practically a celebrity!” He looked around the room in amazement. “Do you really live here? It’s immense!”

  “I plan to move out before long,” I said, settling onto one of the dusty couches. Not once since moving here had Hunter or I paused a moment in this vast, neglected space. “Things have been a bit hectic, though. I have to make plans before I uproot myself.”

  “How do you afford this?” my mother asked, sitting gingerly on the edge of a cushioned chair. “It must cost more than we make in a year.”

  I winced. “Hunter paid for it.” I assumed they knew all the rumors, so I did not bother to obfuscate the story. “He’s already financed the entire first span we were meant to live here, so I might as well stay until that time is up.”

  “And afterward?” m
y mother eyed me with concern. “Will you be wandering the streets, penniless? Your father and I would welcome you home, of course, though I doubt you would come unless you had no other choice.”

  She was right. “Maybe I will be completely broke. But I can find work. I did it before.”

  “Your fame might work in your favor,” my father teased.

  I groaned. “Hunter had a fortune saved, but he kept it in the bank. If he had written a will, I know nothing of it.”

  My father must have caught something in my tone, because he reached out and grasped my shoulder. “Is it true? What the papers were saying? That you loved him?”

  Silently I thanked him for his polite wording. I nodded, staring at the arm of the sofa.

  My father pulled me into an embrace. We were nearly the same height, something I had always loved to point out when I was younger.

  “Are you okay?” he asked quietly. “Coping?”

  I pressed my face into his shoulder. “Coping.” My voice was muffled.

  When he released me, I felt oddly strengthened. My mother eyed me for a long moment, still clearly torn between judgment and pity; at last she stood and hugged me stiffly. “My poor darling. I have forgotten how it was to be young. Love is not rational, is it?”

  I shook my head.

  “I wish we could have met him, just once, before he passed,” my mother said as we both resumed our seats. “I imagine he was just as charming as everyone says.”

  “I suppose.” I would never have introduced Hunter to my parents. He was far too sly and manipulative to be trusted with something so delicate. My parents would have been horrified.

  “We’ve been worried for you,” my father said. “Ever since that article came out. I had no idea he meant so much to you. If you want anything—anything at all—please don’t be shy. We miss you.”

  “Thank you.” I resolved not to take him up on that offer. I wanted to prove myself independent and clear-headed even now. If I had been foolish enough to give myself to someone unattainable, I was not foolish enough to let his death end my own life. “How did you manage to come up here? I thought you would be working.”

  My parents exchanged a secretive smile. “We decided our neighbors had been a bit slack lately,” my father said. “They’re learning at this moment just how much we put up every day of summer.”

  “Though we ought to make our way back before long.” My mother stood and brushed her skirts flat. “They might have burned the place down by now.”

  I gave them each another hug and followed them to the door. When they started down the steps, I stopped them with a question I could not restrain.

  “Would I be admitted to the University if I applied? Or does my lack of talent ruin that for me as well?”

  When they both turned, my father looked triumphant while my mother’s forehead was creased with concern.

  “Do you want to study?” my father asked, eyes gleaming. “You certainly know enough of the theory. Nonmagical students have to undergo a more rigorous admittance process, but they still can be accepted.”

  “It is a bit unlikely, though,” my mother said nervously. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

  “Go to those admittance officers and prove them wrong,” my father said. “You have a brilliant mind when you apply yourself properly.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “I may try, or I may not. I was only curious.” I did not want to see their faces when they realized this was merely part of a scheme to avenge Hunter’s murder.

  It was not until they turned around the corner that I realized how relieved I was to be alone again. I appreciated their concern, of course, but this house—this world that Hunter and I had inhabited together—was not one I had ever wanted them to see. It was a shameful secret, a piece of my double life. And it was now splashed all over the press.

  With no further leads, and lacking the courage to seek out Hunter’s family, I had no choice but to follow Elden’s suggestion. Perhaps someone new would be stationed at the University gates, and I would not have to subject myself to the humility of being recognized by the admissions office.

  Of course not.

  It was the same sour old guard, and when I told him I genuinely intended to apply for a place at the University this time, he took it upon himself to escort me to the office.

  “What if someone sneaks in while you’re away from your post?” I asked innocently.

  “No one does that,” he grumbled. “Except you. Keeping you in sight will solve most of my problems.”

  “Then why do you have a job?”

  “Do you want me to turn around and march you straight back out again?”

  I shut my mouth. I did not usually talk this way; my nerves and the strange, uncomfortable feeling of being in the public eye had put me all out of sorts.

  What looked like half the student population was sprawled out on the courtyard lawn, some studying or reading, others tossing around a small leather ball in rapid sequence. The smell of flowers rose from planter boxes bordering the lawn, and the heat of the summer intensified in the still air.

  As we reached the archway and turned up the same right-hand staircase I had taken before, I hunched my shoulders and wished for invisibility. This was where Professor Jakor’s office was situated; if he saw me here, knowing I had meddled in Hunter’s affairs and sneaked into the University once already, he would ban me for life. Or worse.

  Rather than continuing to the end of the hall, the guard turned right at the very first office. “Here you are. No funny business, now. Once you finish your interview, I want you to come straight back to the gates. If it takes longer than half an hour, I’ll come after you.”

  I wondered if Professor Jakor had warned him about me. If he had anything to do with it, my request would be denied.

  Yet now it seemed I could accomplish nothing unless I was admitted as a full student. I could not search for Samara without the gatekeeper becoming suspicious and chasing me down, and I did not want to think what Professor Jakor would do if he saw me and realized I suspected him.

  “You don’t need to worry,” I said with perfect honesty. “I’ll be at the gates directly after my interview.”

  Then the guard rapped on the admissions door and left me to meet Professor Volandrik alone.

  “Who is it?” a low, reedy voice called from within. “Come announce yourself.”

  Nervously I stepped into the office. Professor Volandrik sat at the desk, small and keen-eyed, with one hand wrapped around a teacup and the other scribbling away at a missive. It was several moments before he paused long enough to glance my direction.

  “Well, come in!” He gestured to the empty chair across from him, pen still gripped tight between his thumb and forefinger. “You look familiar. Are you seeking admittance to Baylore University, or are you a former student I don’t quite remember?”

  Bending his head, he added another note to the paper before shuffling everything aside and giving me his full attention.

  “I haven’t been here before,” I said. “My name is Cady Fenwood. If you—”

  “Ah! The girl from the papers.”

  My hopes of anonymity were quashed.

  “Yes, I saw you at the square just after Hunter’s fall. But what brings you here? Are you hoping to attend the University?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve somewhat lost direction in my life since Hunter’s death. I thought a bit of study might give me a new chance to make something of myself. My parents are both Weavers, so I know a great deal about their brand of magic.”

  “Ah. Intriguing.” Volandrik took a gulp of his tea, which must have long since gone cold. “And you have no talent whatsoever? You must realize the acceptance process is much more arduous for those without magical talent. You could very well be admitted, but not without proving yourself worthy of note.”

  I cleared my throat, wondering if I ought to divulge my most precious secret. Now that I could no longer use my silver hair to coa
x Hunter’s love, there was no reason to hide it. “Actually, I was born a Weaver. My hair was chopped off and sold when I was too young to remember, but I have the blood. Perhaps I could learn to work auxiliary spells.”

  “Dear me,” Volandrik said. “You are not the first person to come up with this story. Unfortunately, without any proof of the matter, I will have to review your application on a nonmagical basis.”

  I lifted up my hair and twisted in my seat to reveal the one silver strand growing from the base of my skull. “See that? They missed one hair.”

  Volandrik reached out with a knobbly finger before freezing. “May I?” he asked delicately.

  I nodded.

  With the utmost care, he took hold of my silver hair and examined it. “That would be real,” he said at last, in a tone of flat disbelief. “Of all the supposed Weavers to come forth, you are the first who has proved herself genuine.”

  I twisted back around, wondering if, just this once, my past might serve me well. Volandrik was now studying me with considerable interest.

  “Now, if you would consent to it—provided we decide to accept you, of course—our Weaver professors could work with you closely to study just how transferable the art of Weaving is to someone untrained and unable to use her own hair.”

  “Of course,” I said, surprised. “It would be my honor.” For the first time, a foreign thought crept in. Maybe I wanted to attend the University. Maybe I had been craving an opportunity like this all along. I would fill out the required paperwork, do any persuading necessary to secure my spot, and use my newfound freedom to learn as much as possible about Professor Jakor. And after Professor Jakor had met what was coming to him, and Hunter was given the hero’s respect he deserved, after all that…maybe I would stay.