Since people were having lunch at the dining hall just a while ago, the smell wafting through the adjacent hallway stirs our appetite. Now I’m hungry. Come to think of it, I haven’t eaten anything since morning.
But wait, I must find Treyse first. It seems more promising to just go after her directly rather than try to get anything out of the Time Keeper.
“I’ve taken a sample of Treyse’s hair,” I say to everyone, showing a strand of soft, white hair while pressing on my stomach in the hopes it’ll stop it from rumbling. “Think we can use it somehow?”
I considered using a magic circle to teleport to her directly, but if it turned out anyone was with her, they would grow suspicious of us, and that would jeopardize the whole operation. Even if we teleported after turning invisible by casting the Coat of Many Colors on ourselves, magical effects get dispelled once you teleport to your destination, so that wouldn’t work either.
This is the past. We must remain cautious and avoid disturbing the peace. Which brings us back to the object in my hands.
“When did you get that?” asks Prince Zenon, blinking in surprise as I twirl the strand of hair between my thumb and index finger.
“I went to her desk before we left the classroom and found it lying there. Figured it would come in handy. I considered performing psychometry on it, but there was the risk of someone seeing me do it.”
The prince felt unwell at the time, so I’m not surprised he didn’t notice.
“Blood calls to blood; return whence you came!”
I blow on the strand of hair in my hand and speak the incantation. It is believed that objects containing at least some components of human blood are generally inclined to find their way back to their source. Any such object is perfect for searching for people, and hair is particularly easy to work with.
One might wonder why this spell isn’t commonly used if it makes looking for missing people so easy, and there’s a reason for it.
“Will it actually lead us, or...?”
“These tend to be rather ineffective...”
Nikeh and Benjamine look worried as they gaze at the strand of hair.
The efficacy of this spell depends on the condition of the hair it’s cast on. If the strand of hair is thin, damaged, curled, or short, it’s not very effective. It’s hard to trace people with unruly hair this way: usually either the spell won’t activate, or the strand simply won’t lead you anywhere.
Additionally, the spell won’t work on hair that fell out too long ago, as well as any hair that was ripped out. As convenient as it is, it comes with a lot of limitations. My dad once told me I should consider myself lucky if I find a workable strand of hair. Showing concern for the top of his head, he said, “My hair is straight, so I should still be fine,” then brought what appeared to be his longest strand of hair from the vanity and tried casting the spell on it. In the end it had no effect and my mom laughed at him.
You get the picture.
And so, some time after casting the spell, Treyse’s hair starts to tremble and points upwards. Looks like she’s on a higher floor. It seems my worry was for nothing and it worked out after all. That’s a relief.
Meanwhile, after Nikeh let him go, the Time Keeper found a moment to get back between Benjamine’s breasts; he’s making a vile expression. Damn it... Couldn’t Nikeh chew him out for a little longer?
Feeling angry at the gnome, I cast the Coat of Many Colors on everyone and we head to the back staircase Benjamine brought up earlier. Once we get to the second floor, the strand of hair stops pointing up and returns to its natural behavior, so I recast the spell. Treyse’s hair, if anything, can be classified as unruly, so it’s no wonder the effect doesn’t last. We’re lucky it works at all.
Unlike last time, the strand of hair now moves slowly, pointing to the left.
“Alright,” I say.
As I exchange glances with Benjamine beside me, we begin walking, keeping our guard up. The large, old hallways carry the sound of our footsteps far away. Luckily, the third-year students using the second-floor classrooms are currently out for extracurricular lessons, so there’s not many people around. We only run into the occasional freshman exploring the school.
The only rooms ahead are the laboratory, the herb-drying room, and the room used by student representatives. Incidentally, these representatives are selected in pairs from each class to manage the whole cohort. Our cohort had three classes, so there were six representatives in total. They aren’t chosen by their grades—an important factor taken into consideration is how reliable they are, since the position comes with serious responsibilities. Despite my good grades, I made commotion after commotion by fighting Rockmann all the time, so obviously I wasn’t chosen, and neither was he. I’m sure had that guy been chosen, I would’ve cried into my pillow every night out of frustration.
Oh hey, I feel like it’s been a while since the last time I called him “that guy” (even if it’s just inside my mind). I’ve been consciously avoiding referring to him that way, but it looks like old habits die hard. At this point it’s rude to use those words for him, but I suspect it’ll probably happen again, so at least look the other way when it’s inside my mind.
“Looks like she’s not in the representatives’ room, either,” reports Satanás, having scouted the room after checking where the white strand pointed. He was a representative from his third year to his sixth.
As we proceed further, watching the strand’s behavior, we arrive at the laboratory. The hallway ends here, so the strand must be pointing at this room. I grab the handle and strain my ears before opening the door, but no sound comes from inside. Remaining watchful, I open the door—shame about the clinking of the handle—and enter. It’s dim inside, despite the open curtains.
“Hey, wait!” says Nikeh.
Suddenly, the strand of hair shoots out of my hand. When did it get so animated? Flustered by the unexpected turn of events, I try to catch it, to no avail, as the strand flies deeper into the room. It’s hard to keep your eyes on a moving strand of hair from a distance, especially in a dim room like this one.
“Did it wig out because it’s close to its source?” The prince brings his hand to his forehead, sending his long robe aflutter. “I don’t sense anyone’s presence,” he utters quietly, straining his eyes like me to find the white strand.
I snap my fingers and illuminate the room to make the search easier.
“Let’s see... There it is!”
Gazing around the room with my brow deeply furrowed, I finally manage to find what I’m looking for. It’s standing upright in front of a wooden box in the corner of the room. Once I run over to it, the strand falls down and no longer reacts to the spell.
“Thank you, strand,” says Satanás, who’s apparently developed some attachment to our little hair guide. He picks it up from the floor and places it on a nearby desk.
Before long, we’re all staring at the old-looking box. It’s taller than our knees and looks a little dusty.
“There’s no way, right?” says the prince.
“The strand stopped here, though,” replies Nikeh.
Doesn’t look like it’s locked... Nikeh to my left gets on her knees and places her hands on the wooden box.
“I’m opening it.”
“Wait, Nikeh,” I stop her.
Feeling something off about the box, I put my hands on the Cudgel of the Goddess I’ve been carrying at my waist—just like when I’m at work—extend it, and tap the box with the tip.
“There’s probably a spell on it. Maybe a magic circle.”
Most likely a magical lock. As I continue to tap the box for a while, an image of vines in a bowknot appears on the lid. If we don’t do something about this first, we could be triggering any sort of trap when opening the box.
“Way to go, Nanalie!” Nikeh chimes in.
“Eh heh heh... Well, what can I say? It’s all thanks to this cudgel of mine.”
I realized something was up with the box, because the cudgel was shaking. It didn’t have such a function before, but ever since the whole thing with Städal, the Cudgel of the Goddess has started to react to things like this. I guess weapons grow up too?
As I think these thoughts, I use the tip of the cudgel to reshape the image of the bowknot. This should do it.
“Now let’s open it,” I propose.
“Wait, I’ll do it. You guys stand back,” argues Satanás.
“It’s fine, I’ll handle it.”
“Just do as I say.” He makes us stand behind him and reaches out to the lid of the box. “A little farther back, would you?”
We do as he says. I guess he’s that worried about what’s going to happen when he opens it. It’s not exactly a good time, and this is Satanás we’re talking about, but he still makes me flustered with that gallant side of his. Benjamine looks on at him with wavering eyes and her hands clenched together.
As we put some distance between ourselves and the box, I feel a soft breeze on my cheek—all the windows seem to be closed, though.
With the sound of a strong gale, Satanás forces a wind blade between the box and its old-looking lid, blowing the latter off into a corner of the room. A few seconds later, Satanás draws closer to the open box.