“And you will,” Darby assured him. “But this works differently for everyone. Even among Shavid.” The dwarf hooked a nearby stool with his foot and pulled it over, sitting next to Fox. “When you stand in the same gale as someone else, you don’t feel exactly the same thing. Your hair may move slightly differently than theirs. Your clothes may toss more, or less, depending on where you stand. The wind may irritate your skin, and invigorate theirs. It may even feel colder to one of you. Remember, this Blessing behaves very much the same as the wind goddess it was given from.”
Fox rubbed his temples as the headache began to ease somewhat. “And I just haven’t found it yet,” he groaned. And then, he added cautiously, “You don’t think it would be easier if I knew how the cartomancers of old worked?”
Darby chuckled darkly. “Even should you find some lost tome detailing the secret workings of the mapweavers, I believe it would do you better to create your own magic, rather than borrowing someone else’s.”
Fox raised an eyebrow curiously. “You’re not going to yell at me?”
“Did you want me to yell at you?”
“It’s just, every time I’ve brought them up before now, you’ve reacted ... a bit ... loudly?”
At this Darby laughed outright. “Listen, my troublesome little apprentice. I’ve had my doubts about your studies. I’ve made my concerns known. However,” he gestured around the workshop with open arms and a proud smile on his face, “look at what you’ve done! My worry was never about you learning. It was about getting lost in legends, and forgetting to discover who you might be.” Darby leaned in close, and cupped Fox’s face in his hands in an almost fatherly gesture. He said quietly, “You are so much more than old magic, and the ghosts of the cartomancers. Let yourself be something new. That is all I wish.”
Something new. It was all Fox could think about that night over dinner, nearly two months after the company’s arrival in Calibas. He watched as the usual showcase of Shavid gifts played out before him, tonight focusing on the dancers. He ate his own dinner slowly, entranced by the vision of color and wind filling the hall as the women writhed their way through a tribal dance from somewhere in a far desert land. Out of habit, he joined Neil for their regular training in the evening, and let himself get thrashed far more than usual in his distracted state. When Fox finally fell into bed, bruised and exhausted, he didn’t even bother changing. He simply collapsed, Darby’s words echoing like a song in his head. He needed to be something new. He needed to try something new.
It was the wind that woke him up in the middle of the night. A sharp, insistent wind. A wind that was done waiting. Without questioning it, Fox slipped out of bed and pulled on his boots quickly, heart racing. He didn’t know what time it was, or even if he would be allowed out of the palace this late. But he had to try.
At every step, the wind let him know where it was safe to go. It fetched him the sound of every footstep like an obedient pup, and bore the scent of every patrolling guard. Fox could almost see the layout of the entire palace in his mind, sure for an instant where everyone was. His own instincts were heightened, his awareness as sharp as it had ever been. He knew what to do. Somewhere in his head, or in his sleep, Fox had figured it out.
He met no interference on his way to the workshop. He expertly avoided everyone who might have wished harm to a boy on his own at night, or turned him in to Gilvard for being out past curfew. No one followed him. The workshop was blessedly empty. No Neil or Gully, no Bartrum or Darby. Not even Farran, tucked away in the shadows waiting for him. It was simply Fox and the wind, eagerly rippling the pages covering every surface.
There was one piece of finished parchment still stretched on its frame, in the center of the workshop. Fox could feel his whole body tingling with anticipation as he moved toward it. Something new. As he walked, he scooped up a small bottle of black ink from a tabletop, uncorking it carefully. This was his freshest batch. He hadn’t written anything with it yet. And this new, clean parchment waited before him, a blank and willing canvas.
It was never about the tools, Fox had finally realized. The Shavid’s music was only magical because it was being played. Simply tuning their instruments never brought about visions or elicited emotions. The dancers did not create stories when they stretched, or walked through the motions in rehearsal. And for Fox, his cartomancy did not manifest simply because he was fiddling with parchment and ink. He needed to make a map.
He stood for a long moment, staring down the canvas, every part of him humming like a plucked string on a violin. And then, he breathed deep, calling the wind to him. He flung the ink bottle wildly at the parchment, splattering its surface in black gall, and began to wave his hands in midair, commanding the map into existence. Before him, the ink began to stretch and spread, forming itself into lines and words. Mountains bled into existence. The wind shaped coastlines into being, and pulled ruins into place. At Fox’s chest, the amulet was burning and pulsing, like a second heart, but he ignored it. A wild joy had spread through him, and the ink on the parchment had begun to glow. Not a drop was left unclaimed by the growing map, now spread across the entire sheet. When Fox finally lowered his hands, his whole body shaking, a perfect map of Sovesta looked back at him. Every landmark. Every city. Everything Fox knew about his homeland, and many things the wind had whispered to him in secret as he worked, was forever branded on this map. It would never tear, Fox was sure of it. Not unless he meant it to. Its detail was impeccable, and Fox knew in his heart that it was the most accurate map of the northern land in existence.
The glow from the ink began to fade, or perhaps Fox’s vision was simply growing darker. The amulet was beyond painful now, and Fox realized his mistake too late. He’d done something new, in a city where new magic was hunted like a prize to be caught and caged. He needed to run, to find Farran or Darby. To hide.
Fox took one step toward the workshop door, and crumpled into a heap on the floor.
Chapter Twelve
Scars
Lai sat with her back against the fencepost, wincing as Cullen tended to her arm. It was a deeper cut than usual, and Cullen was rapidly spreading a stinging paste on it that made Lai clench her fists in pain.
“We can always go back to the practice swords,” Cullen suggested quietly, finally setting his salve jar aside and starting to wrap the wound in clean bandages.
Lai turned to glare at him. “Never,” she said stubbornly.
“Drills, even?” said Cullen, almost pleadingly. “There’s nothing wrong with training drills, or using the dummies for awhile.”
Lai snorted. “I’ve been using them. We’ve done drills until neither of us could walk. We’re ages ahead of the rest of the trainees, and I don’t just want to get complacent fighting when there’s no risk. I’ll never improve. Neither of us will.” She stared at Cullen’s forehead as he worked, daring him to look up and meet her eyes. When he did, he was met with an icy and commanding gaze.
Cullen chuckled and dropped his own focus to the bandages again. “You’ve been practicing that look.”
“Maybe,” admitted Lai, trying to shrug, and then yelping when the movement made her bandages slip. “Sorry,” she mumbled, her bravado melting away somewhat.
Cullen fixed the wrappings and secured them into place, then stood and offered a hand to help Lai up. As she took it gratefully, he said, “I just don’t fancy having to be the one who tells your father I’ve accidentally gutted you.”
“Oh believe me,” said Lai, “you’re better off running for it at that point.”
They laughed, and began to pack up their practice gear, Cullen sheepishly wiping Lai’s blood from the blade of his shortsword. It wasn’t the first time one of them had accidentally sliced into the other during their daily practice. While the other militia trainees were sticking to choreographed drills and wooden practice blades, Lai and Cullen had begun their own routine of steel-on-steel. For over two months now, they’d set aside some time each day to hone their skills,
and push each other to their limits. And it had all started with the cutlass.
In the beginning, there was no control. Each time Lai held the weapon, the piracy in her blood answered with a warcry, and her whole body would respond. Her mind cleared, her aches vanished, and she felt truly invincible. But, of course, it was all an illusion. The moment the blade was taken from her, pure agony took over. Several times in the beginning, Cullen had to half-carry her back to The Five Sides. She spent days in bed once after one particularly intense session, during which she had almost sliced Cullen’s thigh open before she could stop herself.
That was the first time he’d cut her. In pure self-defense, Cullen had leaped out of the way and lunged for her arm, disrupting Lai’s motion and opening up a large gash on her forearm. The sudden pain had made Lai drop the cutlass, and come back to herself at once. Since then, her small collection of cuts, scrapes, and scars had begun to grow. But so did her control. Now, she wielded the blade, rather than letting it wield her. With Cullen’s help, and intense training on both their parts, Lai had turned instinct and bloodlines into a deadly skill.
“You still intend to compete at Harvestmast?” asked Cullen as the pair began their march back up to the tavern.
“Can you think of any reason why I shouldn’t? In your professional opinion as my Sword Master, I mean.” With the departure of the yearly trade caravan approaching, the Harvestmast festival was on everyone’s minds. It was a final chance for families who would be separated during the long winter to celebrate. And, like every valley revelry, it was a chance to show off. Waresmen found excuses to tote their finest goods, be they firestones or jewelry. Young women danced the night away, and young men found reasons to square off against one another. There were no official competitions, like the Courter’s Contests in the spring, but casual betting always sprang up around wrestling matches or light sparring. Many of the waresmen who would be leaving used this as a chance to remind their intended that they were worth waiting for.
But Lai had something different in mind this year. She’d been watching her own trainees, especially the girls. She watched as their admiration of her grew, and she wanted more than anything to be a worthy leader for them. And so, she’d gotten it in her head several weeks back that she might be able to prove her own worth, both to the town and to herself.
“Your skills have definitely improved,” admitted Cullen. “You’d give anyone in town a run for their money.”
“But?” said Lai, sensing his concern.
Cullen grabbed her elbow, forcing them both to a stop and looking her in the eyes. “It’s one thing for the two of us, out here. In a controlled training environment. We’ve got your ... situation ... more-or-less taken care of. But out there, against an opponent you may not have fought before? Let’s just say, I worry the risks would outweigh the rewards.”
“You worry I’d lose my head, and let the sword take me over again?” asked Lai. It was a worry that occupied her own mind as well, but she hadn’t admitted it out loud just yet. “That I might hurt someone, without meaning to and without being able to stop myself?”
“That,” agreed Cullen. He hadn’t let go of her elbow, and his fingers tightened just a hair as he continued. “And, I worry about you. Getting hurt.”
At this, Lai laughed. “I get hurt here, Cullen! What’s so different about doing it in private or doing it in front of a crowd?”
“Because here I am the one doing it,” said Cullen. His voice was sharper now, and tinged with something more than concern. “I know you don’t truly mean me harm, and I adjust my own fighting accordingly. In the heat of battle, even a mock one, what if your opponent doesn’t understand? What if you lose control, and someone does more damage than they ought to, just to protect themselves?”
“I — ” Lai started to defend herself, but Cullen took another step closer, his hand sliding up her arm to grab her by the shoulder.
“What if I have to step in, and save you from yourself? I won’t even be able to tell them why.”
The two stared at each other in silence – Cullen’s eyes begging silently for an answer, and Lai struggling to find one to give him.
“One day,” she stammered finally, and Cullen shook his head. He released her, his hand lingering for a moment in her hair, before he stepped away again.
“Keep your secrets, Captain,” he said with a wry smile, though there was still sadness in his voice. “We still have time before Harvestmast. If you choose to fight, we can work out some precautions in advance.”
The two began to walk again, Lai trailing miserably in Cullen’s wake. He deserved better from her. He’d never pushed her to give him an answer about the cutlass, and why it only reacted to her. He knew something was off about it, but he never questioned. Not directly, in any case. He had been patient to a fault, even when he ought not to have been. Anyone else, Lai was sure, would have forced the truth out of her before agreeing to train her. Or at least insisted she be up front once it was clear there was some strange magic at work.
Anyone would have ... except for Fox.
For the first few weeks of training, Lai had contented herself with writing to Fox almost every evening. More letters than she’d ever written him before. Details about everything from life in the village to the progress of her work with the cutlass. But, when after a month Fox failed to answer, Lai had found herself turning to Cullen as a confidant. She spent more time with him than any one person in the valley, it was only natural that they started to bond as more than just trainees. He’d quickly become her closest friend in the valley, and was privy to all of her stories.
Except for the one. When it came to the truth about her parents and the origin of the cutlass, Lai had remained stubbornly tightlipped.
Not that she hadn’t wanted to tell him. Time and time again, she had wondered what it would be like to finally have someone in the valley to talk to about it all. Not just the cutlass, but the dreams she’d been having about life on board a ship. The sea shanties she suddenly found she knew by heart. She could never talk to Borric about it, it was far too uncomfortable, and felt a bit like betraying him. And, by the time Lai had begun to come to terms with her own history, Fox had already left town. Now, with the continued absence of any correspondence from him ...
Steeling herself, Lai made a decision. Her heart pounded in her throat as she said, “Wait! Please?” Cullen stopped obediently, and Lai swallowed hard. “I have to ... speak to somebody first. There’s things that even I ... questions that I don’t — ” She pushed past her own fluster, and finished in a rush. “Meet me tonight, I’ll tell you everything. If I can.”
“You don’t need to explain yourself,” said Cullen, shuffling guiltily while trying not to smile.
“No, I want to,” Lai assured him. “It’s time. It’s time for a lot of things, in fact.”
She waited until Cullen escorted her back home, as he always did. And then she watched him leave, now with a certain spring in his step, until he’d disappeared around a street corner. Then, checking constantly that she wasn’t being followed, Lai slipped away from the crowds and the valley folk, making her way to the eastern foothills, and a certain hidden shrine that she had visited only once before.
The ruins were just as she remembered them from Midsummer, and soon Lai found herself standing before a crumbling stone archway, willing her feet to move forward. She needed to go inside. To kneel at the altar, perhaps. To leave some sort of tribute and ask Farran to manifest himself. She wasn’t quite sure how all of this worked, but she had to at least try.
Lai didn’t know how long she stood there, unable to make herself take another step, before a voice spoke from behind her.
“We could just do this out here. No need for all the formalities.”
It was a voice Lai knew. She had heard it in her dreams, shouting commands at his crew, and singing along with a chorus of pirates as they sailed the Gossamer Sea. When she didn’t answer, or turn, Farran continued.
&nb
sp; “Or, we could stand here in uncomfortable and awkward silence until I just agree to let you tell that boy everything about me.”
“How did you — ” began Lai, finally turning to face him, but then she stopped with a gasp. Whatever she had been expecting, this was not it.
Where there should have been a man, instead there was a man-shaped shadow of ink and darkness. He was wrapped in several dark layers of cloak and cowl, leaving only small bits of his true form exposed. But Lai could see the truth around his eyes and hands, and she took an involuntary step back.
“I don’t always look like this,” said Farran hastily, holding up his hands as if in surrender. “This isn’t how I imagined you’d see me when we first met, either. I hoped to be more ... myself ... before you were ready.”
Lai forced herself to look him over, scrutinizing the god standing before her. Finally, she said, “Take off your hood. Let me see your face.” Without argument, Farran obliged, though Lai could see his hands shaking somewhat. Within moments, a face of shadow was staring back at her, and Lai found herself smiling nervously. “You look like one of your own temple statues. Carved all out of ore and stone. But the features are there. You still ... look like you.”
“I’m ... flattered?” said Farran, a matching smile appearing in his darkened face. “Although I’m sure this is not the father-daughter reunion you were expecting.”
“Don’t call me that,” snapped Lai. And then, at his crestfallen look, she immediately regretted it. “I mean,” she said, more gently, “I barely know you. And my whole life Borric has been ... may I just call you Farran, for now?”
“My dear, you may call me anything you wish.”
Lai held out her hand, using every ounce of her self-control to keep it from quivering. “Laila Blackroot,” she said simply.
Farran gripped the offered hand, and Lai was relieved that he at least felt like flesh and blood, even if he didn’t look it. “Farran Arthelliad.”
Inkspice (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 2) Page 15