Bran Hambric: The Farfield Curse (13 page)

"Go to the light, Bran." He heard the voice, and he spun around. It was her again, on the other side of him…but she wasn’t there. His heart began to beat faster.

"The light," her voice insisted on the other side, and he spun.

"Where are you?" he demanded. He tripped forward, stumbling down the hall. "Rosie!" he whispered intently.

"The light!" her voice hissed, and he hurriedly felt the edge and came around the corner.

"All right, I’m here," he said, breathing hard. He had come to a large opening where the crates were cleared away into something of a workshop. The glow came from a lamp on a desk, shining onto his face dimly and lighting the dust that was floating in the air. There were books scattered around the desk and boxes lying in disorderly stacks on the floor, piled so high they formed an incomplete wall. Some books were opened, others were pushed around on the floor, torn to pieces. There were spaces between the towers of boxes where Bran could see more light and piles of things, almost as if someone had been collecting these boxes for decades. Beyond the towers he saw the room continue a long way, too far for him to see. The whole place smelled of paper and ink and musty air.

"Rosie, where are you?" he asked, searching the boxes with his eyes but not seeing her.

"I’m over here," she said, but her voice didn’t come from any specific direction. "I need you to look in one of the boxes for me."

Bran was still hesitant, but he took a few steps further. "There’s a lot. Which do you want?"

"Third box down, on the floor in front of the workbench," she said. "Open it."

He came to the chair, all the while looking around for her. He couldn’t see her nor tell where her voice was coming from. He counted as he unstacked them.

"It’s taped up," he said into the darkness when he had finished. He set it on the chair.

"The knife is in the bottom drawer on the left side of the desk," Rosie’s voice said. "It’s underneath the masking tape and the flashlight."

Bran went to the drawer. He set the tape and flashlight on the desk, and below them was the knife, just as Rosie had told him.

"How did you know it was there?" Bran asked. He cut the tape and then lifted the lid. The box was stuffed with paper folders, each tab labeled.

"It’s open, Rosie," he said, but he was only met with silence. "Rosie?"

There was no reply. He looked around him. She was nowhere to be found.

"Rosie?" he asked again, but all he heard was his own voice, echoing around him. He was very still. He couldn’t hear a sound of anything—no movement, no voice.

He set the knife down on the desk, the click of it touching the surface a thousand times louder in his ears. Everything was silent. His eyes moved from one side to the other, watchful, but nothing moved. His gaze shifted to the box he had just opened.

What did she want this for?
He asked himself, slowly reaching toward the files. His fingers lifted one tab, labeled Haartman. He moved to the next, Habmark, then Habmarl, then Habmin.

"They’re names," Bran realized. The files were thick and full of papers, some of them ragged and torn. He slid his hand along

them, skimming to the far back, and all of a sudden, his eyes fell on a name that grabbed his attention like a lightning bolt across the sky.

"Hambric!" he gasped. It was shoved down and nearly hidden between two others, very thin, but definitely with the name on it. In a flash he pulled it out, and forgot about Rosie altogether.

Written in black marker on the front of the file were the words:

Hambric, Emry

City of Dunce Police Report #H-988

"Emry Hambric…" Bran whispered. That was it, the name Shambles had said on the roof! Bran’s heart was beating faster, his hands shaking as he hurriedly unwound the string that held the file closed, and turned it over to dump out…

"Nothing!" Bran said with disbelief. He stuffed his hand into the file and felt all around in every corner, but it was completely empty.

I was just getting somewhere!
he thought angrily. He checked it again, to no avail, so he pried the folders apart to stuff it back. However, as he did, there came a sudden, sharp creaking sound from across the room that caused him to freeze in motion, fearful someone was coming.

His eyes swept the room, and they caught movement against the far wall. He saw no one, but as his eyes studied the wall further, he saw that part of it was broken abruptly into the slightly ajar outline of an opening, like a hidden doorway. What was more, the light of the lamp spilled through, so that beyond it, Bran could see there was a hidden room.

He cautiously looked around. No one was there who might have opened it. He told himself the wind probably did it, but as there was no draft he immediately dismissed the thought. Still, a secret room in the back of a bookstore was very odd.

Taking the flashlight he had set on the desk, he carefully stepped around one of the towers of crates and came toward the opening. When he got to it, he peered around the edge, not daring to turn the flashlight on yet. He reached out slowly and his fingers touched against the edge of the opening: it was cold and metal behind the fake paneling that covered it, and as he pushed against the edge, the wall slid to the left with a low rumbling from the rollers hidden above.

"It
is
a door," Bran realized with shock as he slid it open further. He pushed the switch on the flashlight, and its soft glow exposed a simple hallway, about twelve paces deep and lined with shelves. The ones on the left held books, and the ones on the right had boxes labeled with numbers and months. As he shone the beam on the books, their titles glimmered in gold foil, though he could not read their titles from the doorway.

What would they be hiding back here?
he wondered. He took a glance behind him again, just to make sure, and when he was certain no one was watching, he slipped through the crack in the doorway, drawing closer to the books and shining the light on them.

The books were very neatly sorted: each the same exact height and depth. There were five rows of shelves, each row holding books whose spines were the same color. He ran the light up and down it: at the bottom, all the books had purple spines, and the shelf above it held red. Next up was green, then

blue, and then, on the top shelf, black. The black books on the top shelf were so high he had to step back and shine the light upward to see them, and there were only five, while the other shelves were full to the edges with books of their color.

It was very odd, so Bran drew closer and pulled out one with the green spine that was at eye level, just to see what it was. The book was no more than an inch and a half thick, though it was heavy and tightly bound. He held the light on his shoulder and looked at the cover: it had a heavy front, and in the center was a stamp. The image was of a bird, wings outstretched over its head and forming a circle, with a black oval where they touched and four other ovals formed like gems, two on each of its wings. The two on the right were purple and green, and the two on the left were blue and red. The bird’s head was turned with a majestic expression, feathers set with sweeping lines. Inscribed around the top circle’s edge were tiny words:
Lite yirou diyestini lidea yuo,
and at the bottom:
adni micagi geuida yirou wiya.

"What is this?" Bran whispered. Then he noticed more words in a row at the bottom:

ARCHON

- VOLUME 17 -

THE OFFICIAL CATALOG OF MAGIC

The moment he read the last word he jerked backward, dropping the book to the floor, the flashlight falling from his shoulder at his sudden move. They landed with a smack and crash that sounded like a gunshot, the light disappearing and leaving Bran shrouded in darkness.

He stood there, still and breathless, the fear of what he had just read dominating the fear of who might have heard the noise. He stood with his back against the opposite shelf, unmoving.

What have I found?
he thought.

Chapter 10

Inside the Hidden Room

When he was sure no one was coming, Bran searched the wfloor for the flashlight, finding it against the cold concrete and switching it on. He trained it on the book he had dropped on the floor. It lay there, its very presence breaking Dunce’s laws. He let the beam of his light go up the shelves again. That whole room was filled with those books. If the police had stumbled upon this place…

"Who am I fooling," Bran muttered softly. "Me being alive is enough to be arrested."

It was a grim thought, but one that seemed to give him a feeling of power. He couldn’t be afraid anymore. Suddenly, knowing he was a mage, one of the things the entire town stood against, he felt oddly free. There was no way to turn back.

He left the book on the floor and came to the opening of the room again, sliding the door closed and leaving it just an inch ajar in case it might lock. Attached to the back of the door was a mirror, and it reflected Bran’s flashlight beam across the room. He turned around again and took a deep breath. The books were still there. It felt like this was his moment of truth.

"So," he whispered, stepping forward and slowly picking the book up, "I come to a bookstore and find a file with my mother’s name. The same name a burglar used when he attacked me on my roof, just before dropping a note that fits perfectly with one left eight years ago."

He picked up the green book from the floor. "Then, right after discovering I’m a mage, I stumble upon a secret room in the back of a bookstore, filled with books on magic."

He placed the flashlight on his shoulder, sliding down to sit with his back against the shelves, opening the green book.
Magic
…the word stuck out at him. It was still bitter on his tongue, though already the fear of it seemed to have subsided within him, now that he knew he had no choice but to embrace it.

He flipped open the cover, and on the inside of the hard front was a white page, covered with what appeared to be a chart. Again, he immediately recognized the same five colors as he had seen before, on the front symbol and also on the spines of the books: the colors, this time, were set as words in a neat chart, under the title MISSIVS of MAGIC: NETORA the PHYSICAL, on top, in purple, then COMSAR the MENTAL in red. Below it came ARCHON the ELEMENTAL in the same green as the book’s cover, then ILLIAN the ILLUSIONAL in blue. Finally, at the bottom, was the last one, in deep, dark black: DRIMRA the MORTAL.

Bran stared at it, and realized that each color must stand for something, and each matched up with the books on the shelves. At the bottom of the inside page was a small quote:

The MISSIV of ARCHON

You are an Elemental mage, master of fire, water, earth, and air. You are drawn to what is natural: to the plants and trees. Your missiv balances the scales of our world’s surroundings.

"They must be different types of magic," Bran realized aloud. "Archon mages are Elemental…"

Without hesitating another second, he flipped the pages of the green book open, every nerve on edge as he did. It was almost like an encyclopedia: rows and rows of entries, all numbered, a few with charts and drawings. He read the first his eyes fell upon.

[8601-A] Bright Icy Beam—Winkler

Sends a blinding beam of ice, which is stunning to behold

Open Hand:
Straight beam toward target

BIMEA GIWLO IECA

Bran couldn’t completely understand what it was, and wished he had Adi or someone who could explain it. He figured it was a magic formula of words, so that if he spoke them in a certain way then magic would happen. Perhaps the third line was instructions.

He turned the page and saw that there were rows and rows of similar magics: all organized in the same way and numbered neatly. Each had a title of its own as well, like a nickname. He saw one called Fulton’s Fiery Flying Fingers and Muddy Mucktrap, and Windy Snaps just above Caterwauling Cannons of Lightning. Each had something to do with a natural element.

Bran felt as if he were a wanderer and had for the first time in his life found books about his homeland. Sitting against the opposite shelves, he reached across and pulled out one of the books with the purple spine from the bottom.

"Netora," he read, the cover decorated in the same manner as the green one. At the bottom of the inside, the quote read:

The MISSIV of NETORA

You are a mage of the Physical, master of things that can be touched. You are drawn to what can be made melodic by your hands and abilities: to music, architecture, art. Your missiv works in all things that move, and rests in all things that are still.

"The physical," Bran said, paging through that book as well. He was confronted with listings in similar form to the first, except now many of them referred to more dramatic instructions in their lines, such as:

[3601-N] Roran’s Rippling Road-Ripper—Roran

Causes a catastrophic, municipal disaster with a satisfying ripple effect. Use only in dire need, as arrests are sure to follow.

Hands Out, Draw Apart:
Gravel stones as a blanket unfurling outward

BIKREA PIHUSO RIKOCA AYWAY

This was followed by many others of similar making, mixed in with magics for teleportation and telekinesis. The question of how the books got there was lost with Bran as he paged through, letting his eyes skim down the markings and the graphs, hardly reading them but rather soaking in the vastness of the knowledge contained within.

It might have only been a few minutes, though it felt like hours before he leaned back against the shelf behind him, closing the book and just staring at the width of its pages bound together. It was then that he caught the boxes behind him out of the corner of his eye, and realized that he had yet to even see what they held.