Chapter 35 – The Visiting Scholar

The university was bustling again and returning students and newcomers jostled in the hallways, chests were dragged across the cobblestones, and people stood crowded three rows deep in front of the board to read announcements and room changes.

Professor Veilford’s Advanced Planar Geometry course came as a shock. Not necessarily in terms of content, as Valentina had a solid grasp of the fundamentals, but the mathematical precision and work load Veilford demanded in her master’s year was on an entirely different level. Whereas she had previously relied on geometric intuition and a good eye for proportions, Veilford now required exact formal proofs. In the very first session, the professor filled four blackboards with calculations that looked as if someone had crossed Altothal with obscure numerical mysticism.

“This is going to be exhausting,” Vyxara remarked as Valentina went over her notes after the lecture and realized she couldn’t follow several of the calculation steps Veilford had taken at all.

“Exhausting is an understatement. I hope Crispin can help me out a bit with this. He just gets Veilford.”

Professor Whitehall’s Advanced Medical Applications seminar, on the other hand, was practically a walk in the park, and for Advanced Essence Theory, only a preliminary syllabus was available so far, since the lectures wouldn’t begin until the visiting lecturer arrived. But the reading list alone was remarkable. Valentina skimmed through it that evening in her study.

“Gerwin Sapolder’s treatise on Essence Resonance is on the list,” Vyxara giggled. “Of all things. I wonder if anyone at this university even recognizes the name Sapolder anymore.”

“Probably not,” Valentina muttered. She knew more about it, of course, than she cared to admit.

The requirements for the Master Weaver candidacy were outlined in an introductory session by Professor Emberfell. An independent research project, a theoretical exam covering the entire curriculum of the three academic years, and a practical demonstration before an examination board.

“The theoretical exam,” Vyxara said that evening, “covers at least four subject areas that you already understand better than most of your professors. The challenge will be more in formulating answers that are conventional enough not to raise any uncomfortable questions.”

~

The class had gotten smaller. Three years of study had taken their toll, and the group of remaining students in their master’s year numbered just over a dozen. Some faces Valentina had known since her first year were missing, whether due to poor exam results or financial reasons, she couldn’t say. No one talked about such things.

Faustus Boarfend’s absence was the most noticeable, but no one mentioned him. At least not out loud. The rumors from the end of last year had survived the summer and multiplied like rabbits by now.

The accounts of what had happened at the end of the last academic year contradicted each other in numerous details and it was hard to say which one was more dramatic, but no one except Valentina knew the whole truth.

The first- and second-year students, most of whom knew her only by hearsay, stared at her in the hallways. After a lecture, a shy first-year student asked her if it was true that she had defeated the demon worshipper Faustus Boarfend in a dramatic duel during the Greystone Competition after he had attacked her with a forbidden pattern.

“I did win the Greystone Competition, that much is true,” Valentina said kindly, with a smile that gave nothing away. “The rest of the story seems to have gotten a bit out of hand in the meantime.”

“You’re a legend,” Vyxara remarked dryly. “Winner of the Greystone Competition, protege of the Duke of Duskenshire, Lady-in-Waiting to the Duchess, and the personal nemesis of the most notorious demon worshipper this university has ever produced.”

“Stop it.”

“I just mean, you could have a worse reputation.”

The attention made her feel a little uncomfortable, but she wasn’t foolish enough to reject it. So she smiled, was polite and approachable, offered advice and help, and answered questions with friendly composure. Just as if she had nothing to hide.

Innogen and she went back to being the inseparable friends they’d been since their first year. That something had fundamentally changed behind the familiar facade wasn’t visible, and it wasn’t supposed to be.

Crispin joined them for meals and study sessions, and his shaved head and serious demeanor drew their own share of glances. Valentina heard Ignacio Flintside at the neighboring table make a joke about how Gillespie had apparently finally given up on pining for the beautiful Valentina to enter the monastery. His tablemates laughed. Crispin, who couldn’t possibly have failed to hear the conversation, merely smiled calmly and continued eating.

“Doesn’t it bother you that they’re talking like that?” Innogen asked.

“Why should it?” replied Crispin. “It’s not even particularly far from the truth.”

~

On Thursday evening of the first week, Valentina went to see Gretta.

The tailor shop was located on a quiet side street and was a respectable business with carefully draped fabrics in the display. When Valentina entered, the small brass bell above the door jingled, and Gretta looked up from her work.

“Ah, Lily!” The blonde woman smiled warmly and set her sewing aside. “Welcome back, my dear.”

Two young seamstresses working at a table in the workshop greeted her without looking up. Valentina knew the routine. Gretta pushed the heavy roll of fabric aside, revealing the hidden door, and the narrow, clean passageway led her in a gentle curve to Violet Delights.

Madame Dolorosa was waiting for her in the back parlor, seated in a dark velvet armchair, a goblet of red wine in her hand. The tall, elegant woman with the unusual violet eyes, dressed in a dark purple silk gown, hadn’t changed a bit in the months since Valentina’s departure.

“My dearest Lily.” Madame Dolorosa rose and kissed Valentina on both cheeks. She wore a perfume that smelled of violets and dark musk. “Sit down. Wine?”

“Gladly.”

Madame Dolorosa poured a glass and sat down again. “How was Parliament?”

“Exciting, thrilling,” said Valentina, taking a sip. The wine was excellent, like everything in this house. “And long. So many banquets that I think I’ve eaten more roast meat in six weeks than in all my previous life before combined.”

Madame Dolorosa laughed her dark, warm laugh. “That’s the aristocracy for you, I guess. You never know what they’re ruining worse, the realm or their livers.”

She turned to business. “I missed you, but our customers missed you even more and some of them quite desperately, I might say. Master Nellington asked about you every three days, and the wine merchant from Five Ashes tried to persuade Rose to dress up as you.”

“Poor man,” said Valentina, without a trace of pity.

“What does your schedule look like?”

Valentina set down her cup. “The Master’s year is demanding. One, maybe two evenings a week should work, depending on how exhausting it actually turns out to be. But if circumstances allow, I can come more often.”

“Fantastic.” Madame Dolorosa sipped her wine. “Actually, that works out quite well. It keeps the demand high.”

“And the price,” Vyxara remarked in Valentina’s mind. “You could really use the money this year, not just for rent and tuition. Distilled Essence of the quality we need for working with the Eye isn’t cheap.”

After everything had been discussed, Valentina said goodbye to Madame Dolorosa, walked back down the hallway, through the hidden door, past the seamstresses, and back out into the nightly Bridgewater.

~

On Tuesday morning, the large auditorium was more crowded than Valentina had ever seen at an academic event.

Not only were the Essence Weaving students from all three years in attendance, but also scholars from the city. Certainly two dozen Master Weavers whom Valentina knew only by sight where there and in the back rows there were even a few local nobles who were not skilled in Essence Weaving but apparently considered themselves cultured enough to attend a lecture on Essence Theory nonetheless. There was also a somewhat older lady in a far too elaborate velvet dress for the occasion. Who would go to an academic lecture dressed up like that?

It was so crowded that Valentina, Innogen, and Crispin had only been able to secure seats in the middle rows, even though they were fairly early.

“Is that the Dowager Baroness Milreaux back there?” whispered Innogen, nodding almost imperceptibly to the right. “Since when has she been interested in Essence Theory?”

“Maybe she’s more interested in the famous scholar from Othal himself than what he has to say about the scholarly art,” replied Valentina.

Innogen stifled a laugh.

All around them, the auditorium buzzed with conversation. Two rows ahead, a swaggering second-year-student was explaining to his impressed female neighbors that Von Agrippin had once so thoroughly refuted and literally destroyed a rival scholar in a public debate that the latter subsequently resigned his professorship and became a shepherd.

“I don’t believe that,” Crispin said indignantly. “That’s surely made up!”

“Of course it is,” said Valentina. “But it’s a good story.”

She leaned back and felt a tingle of anticipation in her chest that surprised her. Genuine, unbridled intellectual anticipation of the kind she had felt in her first year, when the world of Essence Weaving had still seemed new and boundless, before everything had become so complicated. It was strange and pleasant at the same time to realize that she still had that sense of wonder.

Then the hall fell silent.

The side door next to the podium had opened, and Decan Valemont entered, in his long academic robe, his silver-grey hair carefully combed back, followed by Professor Veilford, Professor Emberfell, and the rest of the faculty. They took their seats in the front row, and behind them, last of all, Johann Georg Bombastian von Agrippin entered the auditorium and immediately became the center of attention in the room.

He was tall and slender and possessed a seemingly effortless physical poise that was rather rare among scholars. Most of the professors Valentina knew looked and moved as if their bodies were merely a kind of cumbersome means of transport for their large heads. This man moved as if body and mind were inseparable and honed in equal measure.

His shoulder-length dark hair, streaked with a few grey strands at the temples, was tied back with a simple leather cord. He wore a close-fitting doublet in a deep wine red, which immediately marked as a stranger, for the fashion in Othal was evidently more form-fitting and simpler than that of Sommerland, with its puff sleeves and elaborate embroidery. Several rings sparkled on his hands.

His face was not necessarily conventionally attractive, but striking and angular, with high cheekbones. He surveyed the auditorium with attentive eyes and seemed completely at ease with being stared at by so many people. And over it all was an expression of alert amusement, as if he found the whole commotion quite funny.

And he had no notes with him whatsoever.

He took his place in front of the auditorium and waited while Decan Valemont stepped up to the lectern.

Valemont cleared his throat and filled the hall with his deep voice. “Esteemed colleagues, dear students, and guests. It is a special honor for me to introduce our visiting scholar for this academic year.” He read out Von Agrippin’s impressive list of publications and academic positions, and although Valentina knew most of the titles only by name, she could tell from all the professors’ reactions that these credentials were by no means insignificant. Professor Veilford nodded appreciatively at nearly every title.

When Valemont had finished, Von Agrippin took half a step forward and bowed with perfect form and only the slightest hint of irony.

“Decan Valemont, ladies and gentlemen,” he said and his voice was surprisingly warm and with only a hint of the harsh Othalan accent. “Thank you very much for your kind words and generous invitation. I am very glad to be here.”

“Color me intrigued,” Vyxara remarked in Valentina’s mind.

“Same,” Valentina replied silently.

Something about him reminded her of Cosimo. Perhaps it was the same natural expectation that all the attention in the room belonged to him.

“He knows exactly how he comes across,” Vyxara added with an inaudible chuckle. “Not what I would have expected from a scholar. He strikes me more as a performer.”

Von Agrippin let his gaze wander through the hall one last time, as if to make sure he really did have everyone’s full attention, and then he flashed a broad, beaming smile.

“Let me,” he said, “begin with a simple question.”