Inkspice (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 2)

by Kaitlin Bellamy

  In the shadows behind him, across the back end of the stage, fellow Players silently began to reenact his story as he told it. Barely lit, they were like phantoms, dreams of the story itself coming to life out of the darkness. But Radda’s words gave them more than life, and their wooden swords shone dimly with the illusion of fine steel. Their costumes shifted as the story did, seemingly portraying armor one moment, fine capes and crowns the next, though the Players never changed, and they never spoke. Radda’s voice silenced even the rustling of clothing, until there was nothing but the tale.

  And then, as the story reached its climactic battle between knight and beast, the very shadows came to life. A great dragon made of smoke and darkness and ghostly flickering lights reared up from the stage itself. It opened its mouth in a silent roar, and when the knight finally slew it, it slowly dissolved into a shower of sparks and fireworks. When the last flame had flickered out, Radda was alone on the stage once more, his heartbeat like a solitary drum in the clearing’s silence. And then, as he took a bow, a swelling of sound returned to the valley.

  The response was enormous. Radda bowed again and again amidst a shower of gold and silver coins, thrown at his feet and onto the stage. When he finally waved his last goodbye, he did not disappear as grandly as he had appeared, instead simply walking backstage with a humble nod and a grateful, exhausted smile.

  Fox could hear the crowds recounting the tale to each other as he made his way back to his own tent. The delighted patrons gushed excitedly about their favorite moments, and wondered longingly when the Shavid would return. Even Fox, who had seen similar acts in his time with Radda’s players before, was left amazed. It stayed with him as he ducked into the tent and flopped down on his bedroll.

  Darby’s cot was empty. In fact, Fox realized, he hadn’t seen his mentor all evening. Their conversation came back to him all at once, along with the feeling that there had been something the dwarf wasn’t telling him. Something important. What was so wrong with losing himself in legends, Fox wondered? And why had Darby chosen now to bring it up? They had visited dozens of libraries and bookshops before now, and not a word of protest had crossed the dwarf’s lips. But there was something about Calibas that worried him ...

  The black of pre-dawn came far too early, and Darby had still not returned. Fox set to work harnessing beasts to wagons as the Shavid camp was quickly packed up and broken down around him. Farewells were passed around among the merchants who would not be taking their same road, and a basket of cold breakfast rolls and sausage was distributed by a sleepy and silent Mary. Radda was nowhere to be seen, and Fox knew he would still be asleep in one of the wagons, magically drained from his performance.

  Darby re-appeared just before they departed. He smelled of some sort of flowery perfume, and suddenly Fox was sure of exactly where his mentor had been. The dwarf met his eye and winked, confirming the suspicion, and Fox chuckled quietly to himself. Whatever reservations Darby had, he would speak up when he was ready. And clearly, his concerns would not get in the way of his ... other priorities. Until then, Fox put it out of mind, and let him be. They were off to new marketplaces and new lands, and Fox had more to worry about than disappearing legends.

  Chapter Three

  Old Magic

  The Five Sides never opened on Midsummer. The kitchen and bar remained empty, and those guests who might be staying in the upstairs rooms kept to themselves. It was a sacred day, peaceful and quiet as mountain grave memorials. The streets remained empty, and no miner’s songs echoed through the quarries. Every family kept to their homes, where they would stay until dusk. There, they prayed to whichever god they held dearest, or called patron.

  Girls took extra long washing and braiding their hair, boys scrubbed their faces until they were pink and raw. If one had new shoes, they would don them for the first time. No fires were lit, and everything that was eaten was cold and simple.

  For Lai, it was a day free of chores. She woke late and simply lay there for awhile, enjoying the feeling of the sun warming her face as it trickled through the warped glass of her window. She dressed slowly, taking pains to ensure that every fold of cloth was tucked carefully in place. She combed her hair with a languorous ease, being sure to free every wisp of feather down that had escaped from her pillow.

  By the time she made it down into the common room, Picck and Rose were already there. They had thrown open the windows and doors, letting in a fresh summer breeze and a flood of dust-flecked sunlight. Baby Rivena was wrapped up in her mother’s arms, gnawing on a strand of her own unruly black hair and chuckling in the way that only babies can; as though she knew a wonderful secret that nobody else was allowed to share.

  When they were younger, she and Picck had always played games by the cold and empty fire pit. They would build little people from scraps of dough. They would dream up stories, to be fine-tuned and re-told later when the tavern was full of patrons. They would take long naps, basking in the freedom and silence. And Borric would leave them be, disappearing to keep the holiday in his own way. How and where he prayed, if he prayed, Lai never knew. There was no shrine nor statue dedicated to Corda, god of the innkeepers, in the whole tavern. But she’d never concerned herself with it. The gods were no business of hers.

  It was strange, celebrating Midsummer with Rose and Rivena. Just another change, Lai thought. But before long, things seemed much the same as they had been. Only now, the cousins had an audience for their stories. As they sang, Rose joined in, and Rivena laughed, filling the tavern with sounds of pure joy. They let Rivena play with the doughy pieces as they made their little dolls, and laughed as she made a sticky mess of herself, smearing dough all over her face and hands. When Rose finally took the baby upstairs for a bath and a nap, Picck followed, leaving Lai alone in the common room.

  She sat by the fire pit, looking at the line of dough things they had created. Here was a little misshapen goat, and two women with hair made of straw. Farther down the line there was a man in a hat, which they had fashioned from a pebble. And then ... Lai picked up the boat she had made. It was lumpy, and tilted more to one side than the other. But she had built a mast and sails from a twig and scrap of rag. She’d no notion of what a true and proper pirate ship should look like, but she imagined it would be much more elegant than hers. She tried to smooth out the edges with her thumb, but stopped when she heard someone clear their throat behind her.

  Borric stood in the doorway, smiling jovially at their dough creations. “You’ve always been good at those,” he said. “Better than Picck, I think. For a man who works with pastries all day, his skills are really in pies and bread, not toys.”

  He leaned against the doorframe, his massive bulk making it creak and moan, and folded his hands over his belly. He’d braided his massive beard and wild mane of hair, and donned his cleanest, newest clothes. His boots were freshly bought, with silver buttons that shone and glinted in the sunlight.

  “You’re never home this early on Midsummer,” said Lai.

  “Get something on your feet,” said Borric. “We’ve a little trip to make.”

  Lai didn’t argue, but simply hurried to put on her own boots. That done, she followed Borric out into the empty valley square.

  They made their way down the main road in silence. When they came to the end, they turned toward the foothills and kept walking. As they left the heart of the valley behind, they began to talk a bit about the little things. Borric asked about Fox’s latest letter, and Lai recounted the tales she and Picck had made up that morning. Finally, Borric stopped, and Lai looked around in curious wonder.

  “Where are we?”

  They were out farther east in the foothills than Lai had ever been before. Set apart from the grounds where goatherds took their charges, and isolated from any mountain road. They had come to a cluster of strange stones that Lai had never seen before. They were tall, and jutted out from the foothills as though they had simply grown there. But their edges were much too straight to be complet
ely natural.

  “Did you know there used to be a wall here?” Borric asked, and Lai shook her head. “Long, long time back,” said Borric. “They say it was before the Highborns were created, and when the mountains sprang up, only pieces of the wall survived.” He gestured out past the valley’s edge, up into the mountains. “You can find little ruins like this all through the range. Some in the foothills, some tucked deeper in the forest and overgrown with roots and moss.” He gestured at Lai to follow him once more, and they began to climb closer to the ruins. “Can’t rightly figure if the people down south way were trying to keep us from them, or if we were trying to keep them from us. But as far as I can tell, this particular bit was a watchtower of some sort.”

  They climbed a set of crumbling stairs cut into the side of the hill, leading them right under the heart of the ruins. For a moment, Lai’s steps faltered in the darkness. But then her eyes began to adjust to the warm glow of the firestones set along the walls and ceiling. Many of them were cracked and dim, or flickering from within like dying candles. The earth beneath her feet seemed to have once been pure stone, but was now uneven and fractured. The whole place had a heavy air of ancientness to it.

  “Farther in,” said Borric quietly. “We’re almost there.”

  He led the way to the deepest end of the ruins, where Lai could see something glowing brighter than the old firestones. Candles, dozens of them, casting dancing shadows on the walls. They were set across the top of a low alter, dripping on the surface and over the edge, creating a twisted landscape of melted wax. More candles winked at Lai from beneath the alter. And everywhere, tucked or pressed within the wax, little offerings shone in the candlelight.

  “It’s a shrine,” said Lai in awe.

  “This is where I spend Midsummer,” said Borric. “And it’s also where I come whenever I need to have a word with ... a certain god.”

  Something in the way Borric said it made Lai glance at him curiously. Borric looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight back and forth as he watched her. Lai turned back to the shrine and took a step closer, scrutinizing the alter. These were not the offerings one left to an innkeeper’s god. There were gold coins and chunks of unpolished gemstones. There was a spyglass being used as a candlestick, hot wax dripping down its brass tube. As she looked closer, Lai found scraps of familiar things: a ribbon she had worn in her hair as a child; a small toy she’d thought she’d lost years ago. And at the heart of the altar, a small statue of a man with a familiar face. It was a face she had seen only once before, towering above her and Fox as they explored the Whitethorn temple, what seemed like an age ago. It was a face Lai tried not to think about. And yet here it was, in Borric’s shrine, smirking at her from amidst a collection of trinkets and mementos from her own childhood.

  Lai took a shaky step back. “Why?” she asked. “Why do you pray to him? He’s not even your god!”

  Borric placed a massive hand on Lai’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “He will always be my god, because he gave me the most important thing I’ve ever known.” He turned Lai to face him, cupping her chin in his other hand. “He gave me you. And he has let me care for you, and watch you grow all this time. And it’s time you paid him tribute for that. He is a part of you, and he always will be. And that is nothing to be ashamed of.” Briefly, he wrapped Lai up in an enormous hug, then let her go with a gentle nudge towards the shrine. “It’s time you spoke to your father.”

  “But I don’t know what to say.”

  “I’ve never known you to be speechless for long,” said Borric with a chuckle. “I’m sure it’ll come to you. Take all the time you need, I’ll be just outside when you’ve finished.”

  And he left, and Lai was alone with the shrine of Farran the Pirate God. For several moments, she simply stood, staring at the alter. Then she knelt carefully in front of it, taking in every offering. She brushed her fingers over the dish of silver buttons, noting that some of them were hers, taken from clothes she’d long since outgrown. She found a whole armada of little wooden pirate ships set in the wax, and smiled at them. They looked ready to sail into battle, just like in the stories the Shavid had told them, or the songs she and Picck made up.

  Finally, she cleared her throat and said awkwardly, “I’ve never done this before, so you’ll have to excuse me. I’m not quite sure what to say.” She looked into the carved eyes of the little statue and continued. “Fox says we’re a lot alike, so I suppose I should be grateful for that. At least he gets on with you alright. It’s hard to hate somebody your best friend trusts.” She paused for a moment, then said quietly, “You are watching after him, aren’t you?”

  There was no response, but Lai hadn’t truly expected one. She found a box of unlit candles behind the alter, and pulled one out. She held it tight with both hands for a moment, a million wishes and prayers and hopes flooding through her head at once. Then, she lit it with the flame of a dying stump of candle. She pressed the base of her candle on top of the dying flame, using the hot wax to anchor it to the altar, and as she did she felt something rush through her. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Her vision flared, as though every candle on the altar suddenly burned ten times brighter. She could hear crashing waves and distant song, and feel a wet, salty sea breeze whipping against her face. But the moment passed quickly, and Lai released her candle with a shaking hand. She stood, brushing off her skirt and stepping rapidly back from the altar.

  She stared at the shrine for a moment longer, but nothing happened. The candles flickered innocently, and the ruins were quiet and still. Whatever had happened, it was over. By the time Lai reached Borric’s side once more, the strange sensation was almost forgotten. But she found herself humming a new song on the way back to the Five Sides, a song about whales and the open sea.

  ∞∞∞

  The valley streets began to fill at dusk. In the semi-dark, everyone made their way out to the proving grounds, clutching their offerings. Farmers carried cuttings of their richest crops, or spools of wool from their finest goats. Miners carried tinder and ore, and raw, unpolished firestones. Everyone had something that represented their trade, or lifestyle. For some, it was a scrap of clothing from their newborn child, or the shoes of a loved one who had passed from the world.

  The Blackroot family walked among them, their hands full of small trinkets: satchels of their best flour, and intricately-carved tankards engraved with all of their names. But Lai’s hands were wrapped tightly around a worn, well-read scroll of parchment. She ran it between her fingers as she walked, fiddling with the crumpled edges and tapping at it with her fingertips. Of all of Fox’s letters, this was the one she had read the most. She had pored over it so often that every word was etched in her memory like a favorite song.

  It was the first of many letters. The first message Fox had sent to Lai after he left Thicca Valley. It had arrived almost a month after Fox had departed, and it was Lai’s first glimpse into Fox’s new world. In it, he cataloged the day-to-day routine of life on the road, and wrote in detail of his new master, Darby. He had drawn rough, hurriedly-sketched maps of their path, and scrawled little notes around the edges of the parchment, remarking on everything from the quality of the roads to the condition of the weather.

  The bonfire was built in silence. Nobody spoke to one another, but no one really needed to. The fire was a tradition as old as the valley itself, and its creation ran as smoothly as a dance. Firestones were placed at the heart of a stack of kindling, like eggs tucked away in a nest. Sparks were coaxed from every ore brought forward by the miners, until a small but furious flame began to build. Wickworkers and candlemakers lit their finest wares carefully in the fire, then set their offerings around the edge, letting them burn and melt into the fire itself. The valley built on with offerings and logs until the whole of the proving grounds was bathed in warmth and flickering firelight. With every new offering, the fire blazed briefly hotter and brighter, before settling once more.

  Lai hung back. Everyone
took their own time adding their offerings, but the ritual wasn’t complete until every last heart and hand in the valley took part in the building of the bonfire. While most had added their piece as the fire was built, some trickled forward even now. Here, a farmer’s widow, gently laying her departed husband’s scarf on the outer rim of the fire, and backing away before it was consumed by the flames. When Borric stepped forward, he kissed the rim of the wooden tankard he held, then tossed it deep into the fire.

  Finally, it was only Lai. She could feel the eyes of everyone on her as she walked carefully up to the fire, stopping just shy of the edge. The heat was intense, the smoke making her eyes water. She held up the scroll of parchment and ran her fingertips across it one more time, before she simply let go. The wind caught Fox’s letter and carried it to the top of the flames, where it caught fire at once and began to break apart into charred parchment scraps and ash.

  As Lai turned her back on the flames, returning to her family’s side, the singing began. A deep, older voice started it, and others picked it up a few at a time, until the whole valley was nothing but firelight and song.

  Heart and stone

  And mountains’ groan

  Strengthen the soul of the land we own

  Fire and light

  And midsummer night

  Blessings upon our home

  Never before had Lai offered something so personal, and so close to her heart. But, then again, never before had the gods been quite so personal to her either. What she had once viewed as archaic, sentimental ritual, was suddenly extremely real. And with Fox on the road, she wouldn’t only be praying for herself. Her offering was for the both of them.