Inkspice (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 2)

by Kaitlin Bellamy

  Bartrum’s lesson had taken its toll on Fox. He’d been asked to produce the same map dozens of times, as Bartrum stressed his attention to detail. It was a map specifically chosen to be a place Fox knew well, but Bartrum had never visited: Father’s hunting cabin. After each new drawing, Fox ran his hands along the drying ink and described what he saw and felt. He could feel hints of the map beginning to take shape in the room around them as he spoke. Once, a slight scent of pine drifted through the air. Another time, Fox was sure they could both hear the far-off howling of wolves. But it wasn’t easy. This new facet of his magic, while exciting, left Fox feeling shaky and slightly ill. When Bartrum finally sent him on his way, with the promise of another lesson soon, Fox couldn’t wait to be out in the open air again.

  The shared room in The Drunken Goose was mercifully empty, save for a cloaked and hooded shadow by the window. Closing the door behind him, Fox ignored Farran and collapsed onto his bunk, eyes squeezed shut. Willing his traitorous head to stop throbbing. And then, there was a cool touch on his temples, and a wave of relief washed over him.

  He opened his eyes without sitting up, and threw a perplexed glance at Farran, now sitting at the foot of his bed.

  “It’s what I do for pirates who haven’t quite found their sea legs yet,” the god explained casually. “It’s meant for seasickness, but I thought it might help alleviate your symptoms as well.”

  “It did,” said Fox, “thanks for that.” He stood, and began stripping off his vest and ink-stained shirt, tossing them unceremoniously to the floor as he began to scrub his hands in the small washbowl on his bedside table. “Will that always happen when I try and learn new things?” he asked.

  “Your body is still not used to harnessing its own Blessing,” said Farran. “But, I suspect, it will eventually adjust to your experimentations. Your shivers subsided, didn’t they?”

  Fox grimaced, remembering the awful shakes and fits of nausea that used to accompany his wind-borne visions. “For the most part,” he admitted. “It still happens, every now and then ... but never as bad as it was.”

  His hands were as clean as they were going to get, and he quickly combed his wet fingers through his hair to straighten it out. As his own fingertips brushed his neck, Fox smiled to himself, thinking how scandalized Mother would be if she saw his hair this long and unruly. She’d always insisted on cropping it short when he was younger. Now, on his own, so much had been allowed to change. He wondered if she would even recognize him when he saw her next. Would Father? Would Lai?

  “Stop that,” growled Farran.

  “What?” said Fox, jumping slightly. For a moment, he’d forgotten the god was there. And then, as he turned to face him, Fox began to blush. “I was just wondering if she would recognize me, with my hair the way it is. And I’ve gotten a bit taller.”

  “You were wondering if she’d like the way you look now,” retorted Farran.

  Fox glared at him, but found he couldn’t argue. Instead, he said, “You’ve lost so much of your power, why is that a trait that stuck around?”

  “I’ve told you, she’s my blood. The gods have always had an intense connection to their children, even broken gods. When you’re thinking about her, I can feel it. When your thoughts are particularly, dare I say passionate, then I can more than feel it.”

  Fox sighed in resignation. “I can’t help missing her,” he said as he began to dress again, this time in clean and well-kept clothes that were set aside for special occasions. “She’s my best friend, and you’re going to have to accept that one of these days.” He knew Farran was watching him as he began to lace up his jerkin, but he kept his own eyes on his task, carefully knotting each piece of his ensemble so it stayed put. He knew from experience that he would be expected to dance during the Shavid festivities. When Fox finally looked up, he did a double-take at the look in Farran’s eyes. Was that ... pity? Or fear? But the god blinked, and his confident smirk reappeared.

  “Well, you’ll be happy to know that she misses you, too,” he said dryly, holding out his hand. A letter materialized in his fingers from out of nowhere, and Fox could see his name carefully lettered on the envelope. He knew the handwriting. Lai had written to him enough times before now.

  Fox crossed the room and snatched it away without a word, throwing himself back onto the bed to tear it open. He began to read, unable to contain the joy at seeing her words written in front of him ... and then he stopped. He checked the date she’d scrawled on the top, and the date she’d put on the wrapping. Slowly, he lowered the pages, looking Farran dead in the eyes. “This was written today,” he said.

  Farran nodded, a bit of that look creeping back into his eyes.

  “I thought — ” said Fox carefully, “I thought you might have stolen it from a posting house, or intercepted it .... but ... you went to her? You saw her?”

  “I went to her,” Farran conceded. “But I did not see her. I did not make my presence known. I merely claimed this, and left her ... a gift.”

  “What — ”

  “You might want to read, my young kit,” said Farran, nodding to the letter with something resembling trepidation. “I’ve a feeling you’ll have more questions when you’re done.”

  “You’ve read it?”

  “Worse,” said Farran bitterly. “I felt it.” He nodded once more to the letter, indicating that Fox should read on before asking anything else.

  It was a simple enough letter. In it, Lai told Fox all about her training, and plans for the valley militia. She wrote about a new sword she’d come across, and how naturally it had felt in her hand. The cutlass. The sword meant for a pirate. It seemed almost casual, the way she mentioned how odd it was to be so naturally gifted at something she’d never touched before today.

  And Fox understood. He folded up the letter, carefully and deliberately, breathing deep to calm himself before he spoke.

  “Why,” he said finally, “is she so good with that weapon?” But Fox already knew, even before Farran said it. He’d seen Farran use that sword. He knew its name, from his stolen memories of the pirate god’s time aboard mortal ships.

  “Because she is my blood,” said Farran.

  “Blood does not guarantee natural talent,” pressed Fox.

  “No,” agreed Farran. “Not even Godkin are exactly like their parents. Except ... there are ... certain cases.”

  He looked more uncomfortable than Fox had ever seen him. And, for once, Fox didn’t push. He waited, as Farran found the words.

  “The children of the gods can go their entire lives without demonstrating any sort of gift,” he said finally. “Any ... what you might call a Blessing. But that doesn’t mean it’s not there. Quietly waiting, in their blood and in their soul. And usually, it waits forever. Sometimes a unique talent will slip through the cracks. A hunter god’s child may show an affinity for the bow, though it will still need to be trained and honed. Gods of the earth find that their half-breed children often become farmers. And that is enough. Whether the child knows they’re of divine descent or not, their lives will carry on more-or-less the same until they pass on, and are given a choice. Live with their parental deity and become a demi-god, or remain in the mortal After Realms. But, sometimes, the children are not quite so lucky.”

  Here, Farran stood and began to pace the room. Every inch of his shadowed form radiated nerves and discomfort. Fox watched him intently, inexplicably afraid of whatever was to come.

  “There are only two reasons a god would breed with a mortal,” said Farran. “Occasionally, it is for love. They meet someone truly magnificent in your world, and simply cannot help themselves.” He shook his head. “We are a rare sight among gods. Those who truly love a mortal ... I could count us on one hand. The rest of them breed for more selfish reasons. They mate to protect their own power.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?” said Fox, his skin beginning to crawl now.

  “Not all gods live forever,” said Farran darkly. “There are powers in our
realms that are dangers, even to us. And when we fall, our divine powers, our holy potential, our very essence is transferred to our nearest living kin. A sibling if we have them, but that is often messy, as the god’s sibling is often a god in their own right. A half-mortal child is a much easier vessel. Easier to fill, and easier to ... empty again.”

  And now, Fox understood. He clenched his fists and his jaw, the nausea returning for an altogether different reason. “They sacrifice them?” he said through gritted teeth.

  “The child becomes a phylactery, containing everything that a god is. The child is reclaimed as quickly as possible, and their power drained to bring the god back to glory. And, yes. The process always claims the child’s life.”

  The pieces started to come together. Farran’s shadowy form, and the fact that he’d barely regained any true power since his return. “You fell,” said Fox. “You fell in the Beneath, when we fought the Underbeast. And now —”

  “And now,” said Farran, “something in Lai has begun to awaken. Her powers are stirring, and the pirate within will arise.”

  “And you won’t — ” Fox swallowed, hating himself for even thinking it. But he had to ask. “You’re not planning to restore yourself, with her?”

  Farran smiled sadly. “My dear young friend. I would fade from memory forever before I even dreamed of it. And now, I’m afraid, my weakness may be her downfall.” When Fox opened his mouth, Farran cut him off quickly. “Think, boy. Think how much attention you gained just from being Windkissed in a strange land.” He shook his head, running his fingers distractedly through the shadows of his hair. “No Godkin has ever been allowed to live their own life after manifesting their parent’s powers. They are claimed, either for sacrifice or enlistment. A god, even a half god living in a mortal body, cannot simply roam the worlds unchecked and unknown.”

  A stunned silence fell over the room as Fox let everything sink in. And then, before he could gather his thoughts, he could hear footsteps on the stairs, and familiar voices. A handful of Shavid were on their way up, likely coming to change for the court, just as Fox had. Farran obviously heard them too, because he crossed quickly to Fox and grabbed him by both shoulders, speaking quickly and quietly.

  “I don’t know how long it will take her to truly realize what’s happening,” Farran whispered, “but it will be soon. I was already broken when I fell, that may protect her somewhat. Slow down the process. But her magic is awake. It is hungry for the sea, as you are hungry for the wind. And you, a mortal, may be just as much her undoing as Adella was mine.” He shook his head, and every inch of him screamed that he hated his own words. But, he charged on. “I would not wish that pain on anyone, least of all my own daughter.”

  “What are you talking about?” hissed Fox. “I’m not going to hurt her, ever!”

  “No,” said Farran. “No, you’re not.”

  The footsteps were getting closer now. Farran waved his hand, and the letter from Lai was pulled from Fox’s grasp. Before his very eyes, it disintegrated into nothingness. “You will forget her,” said Farran desperately. “I know how much you care. I can feel it. And I may not be able to protect her from everything, but I can protect her from you.”

  And, before Fox could react or resist, Farran reached out and pressed a hand to his forehead, muttering something in a language Fox did not understand. Then, Farran was gone, and Fox was left alone in the room.

  By the time the boys charged in and began changing, all memories of Laila Blackroot had faded from Fox’s mind.

  Chapter Nine

  Gully

  Neil breathed in the sweet smell of books and parchment, and smiled. No matter where the Shavid’s unpredictable road took him, this was always home. He felt at ease among the towering shelves and hushed voices. Every city’s culture might be different. Their weather, their people, even their languages might be entirely foreign. But their books were always the same. Their ink made sense.

  Something bumped into him around waist-height, and he looked down to see a mousy little candle boy, dressed all in brown, bowing apologetically.

  “So sorry, sir! Didn’t see you there, sir!” said the boy, apparently terrified that he might have offended Neil. He was holding a large, glowing orb cupped precariously in both of his small hands. From the looks of it, he had been so focused on keeping the orb secure, he hadn’t quite been watching his steps.

  Every inch of the boy’s uniform was riddled with pockets and pouches. From his own past as a candle boy, Neil knew they would be filled with everything from wick-trimmers and fountain pens, to glowing powder and magical light stones. Every large university employed children like this one, young boys and girls who kept the scholars properly supplied while they worked. They helped with the cleaning, and re-homed books and scrolls that had wandered too far from their shelves. But mostly, they concerned themselves with light.

  Lighting was tricky in a room full of books, as Neil very well knew. One stray candle could destroy an entire nation’s history. But then again, some tomes could not be examined by magic. It was a careful job, managing the balance between light and shadow. And Neil, in his early days, had been very good at it.

  He knelt down to the boy’s level, and extended his hand for the glowing orb. “May I?” he asked.

  After a moment of uncomfortable hesitation, the boy nodded, and carefully passed it over.

  Neil took the glass-spun ball in one hand, feeling the familiar warmth of the magical light within. He ran the fingers of his other hand carefully around the surface, feeling for the slightest imperfection in the glass. Then, his fingertips found an almost indiscernible groove, and he smiled. Taking the orb in both hands, he twisted it along the rut. The orb began to shrink, and Neil kept twisting until it was no bigger than an apple.

  Laughing at the look of shock and slack-jawed amazement on the boy’s face, Neil handed it back to him. “Now you can tuck it away in a pocket. No need to worry about dropping it.”

  An almost giddy relief settled into the boy’s frame as he took the orb back again and stared at it. With a babbled thanks, the boy stowed the magical ball away in a pouch at his hip and then scurried off, disappearing quickly up the main staircase.

  Neil watched him go, his smile fading. He remembered all too well the thrill of discovering any new magic as a young boy, and the heartbreak when he found he would never be able to truly wield it. He stood very slowly, making his own way up the stairs now in search of a quiet corner, the familiarity of the books and the comfort of the library sinking into him, like water on moss.

  Home.

  He found a quiet alcove on the third floor, its entrance almost completely obscured by a large hanging tapestry. The woven image depicted a bald old man, standing triumphantly atop a mountain of books shaped to look like a slain dragon. Neil slipped behind it, and into the comforting embrace of a wood-paneled study room. As he entered, a soft glow of lanterns flickered to life on their own, and he smiled. This city was exactly what he needed. This library, bent on recording ancient and obscure magics, might have the types of books and scrolls he longed to study. A quick survey of the surrounding bookshelves gave him enough to get started with, and then he took his place at the private work table, opened his first tome, and dove in.

  Nobody bothered him. No one so much as spared a glance as they passed his alcove, leaving him to work in peace. Hours passed in comfortable solitude as he sat, spreading papers and books across his table. He was determined to take advantage of Calibas’s unique collection of knowledge. Their library boasted what many others did not: works on those who had been Blessed later in life, rather than born with the gifts. They were rare, but always passed into legend as heroes and the greatest of men.

  It was a quest that plagued Neil, and had for most of his life. A fire that burned deep within him, to know why some were Blessed and others were not. What made one bloodline gain favor with the gods, or one person.

  A person like Fox.

  It was hard to res
ent the young Windkissed, no matter Neil’s own jealousy. Fox was simply too close of a friend. He was, perhaps, the closest and truest friend Neil had had since Adil. And Fox, like Adil, had been Blessed in a way Neil would have killed for.

  It was a story that had been told time and time again, with Neil at the center, as the people he was closest to found themselves in possession of the very magical gifts that Neil longed to wield. Sometimes, the Blessed took their talents seriously. They studied and honed them like Fox, just as eager to learn the ways of magic as Neil was. And to those, Neil could not hold any ill will. He worked hard to quash the anger that flared up, unbidden and raw, each time Fox discovered a new facet of his magic. And, while Fox might be aware of the seeds of jealousy and pain, they never spoke of it. Their companionship remained intact and untainted.

  Neil wondered if the same could be said of Adil, should they ever meet again. Adil, the first brother figure Neil had ever known. The childhood best friend now living in disguise, roaming the Maradwell libraries in Neil’s stead.

  It had been a good childhood, growing up in Maradwell. Neil had enjoyed the perks of being a candle boy. Free reign of the university library; an excuse to wander through the shelves and read the ancient texts; and easy access to most classes, where the professors found his adolescent enthusiasm charming. It was a life that would have contented him, where he would have grown up studying magical theory, and perhaps even teach it someday.

  The same civil war that had torn Maradwell apart had tossed Neil’s life into chaos forever. At only eleven years old, Neil had switched places with the orphaned heir to the emperor’s seat, Adil. They’d looked so much alike as children, that it had been easy enough to manage. Neil himself had been spirited out of Maradwell, and into another country across the Gossamer sea, while Adil had remained behind, assuming the position of the lowly candle boy. And, as far as Neil could tell, it had worked flawlessly. No news had ever reached his ears of Adil’s death or capture.