Fox chuckled, sinking down to sit beside her on the staircase once more. “I’ve noticed. Your hair, especially, tends to change color when you’re upset.”
Mindi shook her head, blushing furiously now. “No matter how hard I try, I can never stop that from happening.”
“It’s not a bad thing,” Fox assured her. “It’s ... sort of charming, actually.”
Mindi stared at him, her eyes growing wider than usual. “That’s ...” She stood, suddenly appearing very uncomfortable. “Thank you, I’m sorry, have a lovely evening!” And she bolted, her face beet red and her hair beginning to fade into a pale silver that Fox had never seen before.
“Wait — ” Fox began, confused and rising to his feet to follow her. But before he could, Neil emerged from the crowd, every inch of him radiating barely-concealed rage. He saw Fox, and made straight for him.
“That slimy bastard,” he growled through clenched teeth.
“I heard,” said Fox quickly. “Well, overheard. Are you alright?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Because she’s a noble?” asked Fox.
Neil shook his head stiffly. “Because he thinks he owns her!”
For this, Fox had no response. He didn’t have anything comforting to say about the Lady Gilvard, and he thought it rude to turn the conversation to his own strange interaction with Mindi. So the two sat in uncomfortable silence at the edge of the hall, watching the dance.
Before long, the music ended, and the Shavid cleared the floor once more. It was time, Fox knew, for their finale, as Radda himself stood once more alone in the center of the room. Without a word of preamble, he tucked his fiddle into place beneath his chin, and pulled the bow across the strings. Almost at once, the magic began to flow from the instrument, and a picture of light and illusion and memory took shape around him.
He played his way spectacularly through an epic tale about a hunter who fell in love with a forest goddess. As Radda performed, Fox leaned against the banister, basking in the flood of sensations that filled the room. He could feel the moss beneath his feet, and low-hanging branches catching in his hair. He felt the surge of warmth in his heart and in his stomach when man and woman first laid eyes on each other. Fox watched breathlessly with the rest of the crowd as figures were painted in midair, going through the motions of the story in perfect harmony with the strings. He could smell the fresh crackling pine of their campfire that night, the one night they would ever spend together. And, when Radda brought his musical story to a close, and the illusions began to fade, there was a long and palpable silence in the room, until it erupted with applause.
All throughout the hall, the gathered audience and even the Shavid wiped tears from their eyes and shouted their approval. With his arms outspread and a dazzling smile spread across his face, Radda bowed to each corner of the room, and finished with a sweeping, elegant gesture as he faced the dais.
Lord Gilvard stood, a manic grin plastered on his face. He was rubbing his hands together eagerly as the room fell silent once more. “Well!” he said, his voice reverberating through the room, so all could hear him perfectly. “Wasn’t that an absolutely divine and spectacular treat!”
Radda and the Shavid looked rather proud of themselves. They were beaming around at the room, enjoying the praise. Happy nobles meant better pay, and sometimes even an invitation to a feast or two.
Lord Gilvard continued. “I think you’ll all agree that the Royal Court of Calibas deserves to have the Shavid grace its halls more often! Wouldn’t you say?”
Something in Gilvard’s tone made Neil look up, his melancholy melting away into intense focus. He stood slowly, his brow furrowed as he watched the dais. “Something’s wrong,” he murmured.
The audience had begun to cheer again in support of Lord Gilvard’s pronouncement. Radda thanked them for their kindness, but started to insist that the Shavid would only remain until the wind changed. At which point, Lord Gilvard cut him off. His voice sounded kind, and welcoming, but his eyes were hungry again.
“Nonsense!” continued Lord Gilvard. “You’re our special guests, of the highest honor! We wouldn’t dream of letting you cut your visit short! Come now! Why don’t you play another song for us? I’m sure nobody would mind, would they?”
As the audience cheered again, something rang false in their voices. And Fox, calling on the wind to aid him, could hear the frightened murmurs in tucked-away pockets of the room. Their agreement was not optional. And, Fox realized as the wind brought him even more of their conversations, neither was the performance. If Lord Gilvard wanted the Shavid to play, they would play.
“Radda showed too much,” said Fox, the realization dawning on him. “It was meant to be a show-stopper. A crowd-pleaser. But it showed Gilvard that we are strong.”
On the dais, Lord Gilvard was getting irritated as Radda continued to insist, firmly but politely, that the Shavid would be leaving any day now. Gilvard’s voice grew less and less friendly as he spoke to the assembled company. “We insist on your company joining us for an extended holiday,” Lord Gilvard said, and his voice was no longer kind. Everything about him was twitchy, almost desperate. “You’ll find your rooms have been paid for, wasn’t that generous of me? You wouldn’t want to throw that generosity back in my face, would you?”
All of the Shavid were on their feet now, gathered around Radda. Some looked angry, others merely confused.
Fox’s mind raced back to everything Bartrum had said on the balcony. “Lord Gilvard is collecting powerful allies and strange magics,” he hissed to Neil. “And, by the looks of it, they’re not always willing. Radda might have thought his show-stopper was the perfect way to end the evening and impress the nobles ... but he may just have shown a power-mad maniac that we are worth enlisting too.”
As if to confirm Fox’s words, Lord Gilvard clapped his hands for silence, and announced to the room, “Let it be known! The Shavid Players of Radda Southwick will be the new crowning attraction here in court! They will bring more honor to the fine city of Calibas than it has seen in many years! Let us raise a cheer to the heavens, in hopes that they will forever call Calibas ‘home!’”
The hall once more filled with cheers, but Fox could hear now how forced they were. And he, too, was beginning to panic now. Did Lord Gilvard truly intend to keep the Shavid company here forever? Could it even be done?
They had their answer that night, as Radda tried to spirit them out of the city under cover of darkness. At every turn, they were watched. City guards dogged their footsteps, and no watchman at any gate would let them pass, for any amount of coin.
And then, Fox began to hear whispers among the company. Whispers of a fear he’d never heard them utter: the Still. A violent, magical sickness that set in among Shavid forced to take root, unable to roam where the wind called them. A madness. Suddenly, he knew why Darby had been so urgent to get them away, and why all the Shavid were nervous now.
The clock had begun to tick, and Fox knew each of them wondered: who would be the first to fall to the Still?
Chapter Eleven
Inkspice
Within two weeks, the Shavid were moved from their rooms at the Drunken Goose, and into guest housing at the palace itself. Lord Gilvard insisted it was for their “comfort,” but his intentions were painfully clear: he wanted them closer. He wanted to study them. He insisted on at least one of them performing every evening during dinner, watching what they could do. Learning every part of their Blessings. Testing their limits. Sometimes, he requested the same performer over and over. Other times, he changed his mind nightly, or even mid-performance.
By the end of a month, the trials grew more intense. The jugglers were often expected to catch daggers hurled at them randomly by Lord Gilvard. He seemed to be testing their reflexes, and their ability to adapt. Most of them emerged without a scratch. But some of the novices were not so lucky, and spent days afterwards being tended to by Mindi, healing from stab wounds and nearly-severed fi
ngers. Musicians were asked to play endlessly, weaving every illusion they could conjure. At first, the Shavid attempted to use these particular performances as a chance to escape, but Gilvard seemed to have planned for that, and the punishments were swift when they were caught. Radda himself had spent no less than twelve days in jail over the course of that first month.
A routine started to develop among the Shavid. The days were their own, to do with as they pleased within the city walls. It seemed that Lord Gilvard wanted to show them off, hence the dinnertime performances. Most of the Shavid spent their morning hours sleeping late, recovering from the exhaustion of being forced to use their magic longer than their bodies and minds usually allowed. When they did finally arouse, they usually took to the gambling houses and taverns. Fox quickly realized, accompanying groups of them day in and day out, that most of them didn’t seem to care whether they won or lost. And, they only spent coin Lord Gilvard had paid them. They spent it on expensive wine and purchased company. They bought fine clothes, but immediately gave them away. They frequented the finest bathhouses, and bought round upon round of drinks for the patrons at every pub. They spent lavishly, ending each day without a copper to their names, and with nothing to show for it.
“It’s rebellion,” said Darby one morning, after Fox questioned the Shavid’s odd behavior. The two were going about their usual chores, namely grooming the horses and keeping the wagons in order. Both the shunderings and the animals had been relocated to the palace stables, but Darby insisted on turning down the hostlers’ aid in caring for them. Instead, he dragged Fox out each morning to complete their work as usual. As though they were simply on the road anywhere. “They’re throwing Gilvard’s dirty money back in his face. They don’t want it, but he won’t let them refuse it either. So, they’re giving it back to the people.”
And they weren’t the only ones quietly rebelling. Fox knew that Neil and Gully had found more than a few moments to steal away together. Neil often returned to the Shavid rooms before dinner with a smile on his face, smelling of old books and flowered perfume. He and Gully exchanged subtle glances over dinner each night, despite the fact that she was still seated beside Vol Tyrr at every meal. And when she left the table each evening, escorted forcefully by the general, Neil’s face would cloud over. His fists would clench in rage, and Fox would drag his friend away as quickly as he was allowed without raising suspicion. The two would take to the training grounds, and Fox would let Neil fight out his frustrations with any weapons exercise or hand-to-hand training he wanted. Before long, both of them were the strongest they’d ever been.
Fox and Neil were among the lucky few never chosen to be tested. Once it became clear what Lord Gilvard was after, Radda immediately assured him that both Neil and Fox were Dervishes. They managed to hide Darby under that category as well, thinking it safest not to mention that the group had any Windkissed among them. It was a rare enough condition to be fascinating to normal people; none of them dared imagine what Gilvard would do with that information. As such, the three weren’t watched as closely as the rest of the company. Lord Gilvard simply seemed uninterested in them, which suited Fox just fine. It allowed him the freedom to visit Bartrum Bookmonger.
He had lessons every few days, as often as he could manage without getting in the way of Bartrum’s other obligations. He practiced sensing places from other maps, and drawing his own. He found quickly that it was easier to communicate with maps he’d drawn himself, and far simpler to help Bartrum feel what he was feeling. Within just a few weeks, Fox had painted so many detailed maps of Thicca Valley that he was sure the ink stains would never fully wash off his hands. But he didn’t mind. He could feel his own Blessing growing, and it was exhilarating. Here, he could forget about what was happening to his fellow Shavid at the hands of Lord Gilvard. He could ignore the creeping fear that he might be the first one to succumb to the city fever, the Still. In Bartrum’s office, he let himself disappear into faraway lands, and learned to draw his own versions of what he saw. He filled up two small books with notes and sketches and drawings, ink crammed into every corner of the parchment pages.
“Can I ask you something?” said Fox one day as they were packing up. Today’s session had been a particularly successful one, and he was feeling an eagerness and momentum he didn’t want to lose.
“I’m your teacher,” joked Bartrum. “I believe it’s my job to let you ask me things?”
Fox grinned as he pressed on. “You mentioned you make your own parchment, and it’s stronger than usual. You make inks that don’t fade, and books that don’t rip or tear or age. I was just wondering ... is that something you could teach me?”
For a moment, Bartrum scrutinized Fox, a mixture of curiosity and pride in his gaze. Finally he said, “My magic, like yours, is strange and rare. Most people can’t do what I can, no matter how clever or powerful they are, or how good a teacher I may be.” And then, as Fox’s heart began to sink, Bartrum continued, “However – we don’t know what the Mapweavers could do. And, it stands to reason that they may have had the same sort of connections to paper and ink that I have. Shavid artists stretch their own canvas. Many troubadours learn to make their own instruments. Even the best warriors craft their own weapons. They learn their art, from the inside out.”
Fox held his breath, something inside him suddenly threatening to burst with excitement. The wind began to pick up around him without his calling it, rustling his hair and clothes and the papers on Bartrum’s desk. This, he knew, was right. He could feel it. The wind could feel it. And it wanted him to learn.
There was a long moment as Bartrum watched Fox with a perfectly cocked eyebrow, and Fox silently urged the wind to settle down. Then, as the room fell into stillness once more, Bartrum said quietly, “You’ll need to pick up a few things.”
∞∞∞
It only took Darby two days to find a small workshop for Fox to rent. Within two more, Fox had checked off every item on Bartrum’s shopping list, and begun his practice in earnest. The art of parchment making, Fox quickly learned, was not so different from tanning and curing hides. In fact, the process was so similar that he found himself falling into an easy and familiar rhythm almost at once. Each time he worked, he felt like he was home again with Father, treating furs and animal skins in preparation for the caravan. He could almost hear Father’s voice, singing songs by the fire as they labored, and smell Mother’s cooking. He found himself humming along, the rhythm of the songs harmonizing with the rhythm of his work.
For days, Fox scraped and cleaned small hides – sheep and goat furs he had purchased from the abattoir, as he wasn’t allowed to hunt outside city walls for his own pelts. And, in the moments when the hides were soaking, Fox read. Bartrum had sent him off with stacks of books on magical theory. Neil couldn’t seem to keep himself away from such a fascinating enterprise, and added his own tomes and scrolls to the list. He would bring Fox his own notes from the library, or occasionally add an entire book to Fox’s ever-growing pile of research. Before long, Fox had to install a small bookshelf in one corner of his workshop, and his walls were soon covered in copied pages and drying sketches of his own.
The ink was an even simpler task. Before long, Fox had crafted pots of different colored batches, eagerly experimenting with whatever local oils and dyes he could get his hands on. He began practicing his work with different hues for each landmark: greens for the forest; red for cities and towns; blue for the lakes and rivers and shorelines. As the weeks passed, his notes grew more and more colorful, and he began to feel, for the first time, like he might be a Shavid artisan after all. In his own small way.
The workshop quickly became a haven for Fox’s small group of closest companions. Neil and Gully, running out of places to hide in the palace or library, often joined Fox as he worked. Gully always made sure to bring food, usually sweets, and Fox found he enjoyed her company. She was quite as clever as Neil, and the two eagerly helped Fox through the more complex subjects he was reading a
bout.
Occasionally, when the two lovers had slipped away again into the city, Farran would appear in the workshop. He’d been gone much more than usual lately, but Fox could never get a straight answer out of him as to where he’d been. In any case, it didn’t seem important. And Farran was content to simply keep Fox company as he worked, lending a helpful tip here and there, or bending Fox’s ear with tales of the sea. These were peaceful moments, and the days when Farran visited were always followed by nights of pirate-filled dreams – Farran’s memories, Fox knew. Memories of his time spent sailing with his mortal companions, and falling in love with an intoxicating woman named Adella. Fox often intended to ask what had become of her. He felt he should know, but couldn’t quite remember. But, in the moments when Farran sat in the workshop and told his stories, Fox simply forgot. It just didn’t feel terribly important.
Darby was an even rarer sight in the workshop, but was always welcome when he came by. His intention, like Farran’s it seemed, was to keep an eye on Fox’s progress. Fox was always keen to show Darby what he’d learned, and Darby in turn had a unique perspective to offer. He was the only proper Shavid that Fox felt safe in asking for help, as he wasn’t being so closely watched like the others. He guided Fox through the finer points of imbuing the parchment with his own magic, as the Shavid did when they crafted their wooden swords or illusory masks. And it was here that Fox truly needed his mentor. His body and mind understood how to make the parchment. It came easily to him, and he had mastered the craft itself rather quickly. But making it anything more than plain vellum ... that seemed eternally beyond his reach.
“You’ve got to be patient with yourself,” said Darby one afternoon, as Fox collapsed into his chair with a blinding headache.
“What am I missing?” asked Fox in frustration. “Bartrum said I would feel it. I would know when I’d succeeded in branding the parchment with my gift.”
Inkspice (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 2) Page 14