Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1)

by Kaitlin Bellamy

  “Hey!” shouted Lai in his ear, and Fox jumped. He’d been drifting toward the Shavid camp without realizing it. Now he stopped, tearing his eyes away from the whirlwind of color. “Yeah?” he said sluggishly.

  “I said come with me! I want to get some of my savings so I can buy something!” She grabbed Fox by the arm and pulled him away, back to the Five Sides. Reluctantly, Fox allowed himself to be dragged against the tide of Thiccans hurrying to get a closer look at the Shavid.

  Once inside the tavern, he followed Lai upstairs and to the end of the hallway, where she and Borric shared one of the rooms.

  “I’ve been saving up all winter so I could get some new things during the Homecoming barter, but this is so much better!” said Lai. She dropped to her knees in front of the fireplace and pried one of the bricks loose. In the hollow space beneath it, she stashed her most precious things: money, her favorite doll from when she was younger, and a deep green hair ornament that she never wore. Fox saw the polished surface glint in the weak emberlight, and turned away. He’d seen Lai’s treasure trove before, but that hair ornament was the only thing Lai had of her mother’s. Looking in on it always made Fox feel as if he was intruding on something very personal.

  Lai pocketed a handful of silver and replaced the brick. “Let’s go!”

  Downstairs again, they were briefly held up by a group of Lai’s cousins, all sent to help with the extra tavern business. Fox waited impatiently as Lai issued them their tasks, then finally grabbed hold of her shoulders and pushed her from behind. He steered her all the way to the Shavid camp like this as she laughed.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man was standing on the wagon stage, addressing the crowd. Fox dropped his grip on Lai and they squeezed up to the front of the gathering to listen.

  “And so we thank you for welcoming us into your beautiful valley,” the man was saying. His voice made Fox feel warm, as though he were sitting by the kitchen fire in the early morning. He was also dressed in the most remarkable clothes Fox had ever seen. His vest was bright red, and hung with rows of gold beads. Gold stitching winked from the cuffs of his deep blue shirt, and even his boots seemed to be patterned with golden leaves and feathers. Fox missed the next thing the man said, he was so fascinated by the colors. Suddenly, the man was bowing his way off stage, to be replaced by a handful of the other Shavid, all dressed in bright costumes and with masks tied to their faces.

  The Shavid players put on a show like nothing Fox had ever seen. It was a comic piece about one of the gods falling in love with a milkmaid, and it had the audience applauding and cheering riotously. By the time the players took their final bow, Fox was holding a stitch in his side from laughing so much. Then the Shavid welcomed the valley folk into their camp, to trade and enjoy each other’s company. Fox found himself shuffled forward by a mob trying to reach the seller’s stalls, and he ducked quickly out of the way to avoid being trampled.

  Lai had vanished, presumably joining the eager crowd. And so Fox began to wander on his own, taking in the colors and smells with quiet delight. He caught glimpses of jewelry at the selling stalls, and leather masks that mimicked the ones he’d seen on stage. A handful of boys were buying ornately carved wooden swords from one of the players, and Fox couldn’t figure out why. Thiccans had no problem carving their own, what made these so special? For a moment he stopped to watch, frowning at two little boys as they squared off against each other in an empty patch of grass. And then as they began play-fencing, Fox stared in amazement. Multi-colored sparks flew each time the wooden surfaces met, and Fox could swear he heard the clank of steelon-steel. As the children fought clumsily, having no real idea how to fence, it almost seemed as though they were no longer dressed in their festival clothes. As he watched, Fox could swear that they were suddenly clad in chain mail and armor. The vision flickered and shifted as the combatants moved, but it was there.

  He turned away, staring around the rest of the camp excitedly. Tents as garishly bright as the wagons were being pitched all around him. They smelled of silk and fur and ink. Fox let his feet take over, wandering where they would with the rest of him simply along for the ride. He ducked behind the stage wagon, catching the briefest glimpse of flesh as some of the Shavid began changing costumes for another play. He turned left, making his way deeper into the campsite.

  His feet took him past an open tent, almost a pavilion. Inside, he saw a handful of Thiccan girls including Kimic, swaying their hips slowly in rhythm to a piper’s tune. A tall, beautiful Shavid woman in a long flowing skirt was directing them, seemingly teaching the girls a foreign dance. As Fox scanned the scene, he caught sight of the piper, dressed entirely in multi-colored patches. Fox watched him, sure for a moment that he’d seen a shower of sparks pouring from the pipe’s end, but he blinked and the vision was gone.

  The next performer he came across caught and held his attention for several minutes. A juggler, dressed in a costume of cream and gold, was entertaining a small group. He was juggling what first appeared to be solid golden baubles, the size of spring apples. But as Fox watched, some of the globes began to shift sizes in midair, changing from egg-sized to large as grapefruit in the blink of an eye. The audience clapped for him, and the juggler bowed dramatically, sweeping one arm behind him and continuing to juggle with his free hand.

  There. A deep-throated laugh, somewhere to Fox’s left. And the strum of a lute. It was the man in the red vest, Fox was sure of it. He turned, looking for the source. There, seated on a low stool in front of a short, round tent was the broad-shouldered man who had made such an impression on Fox. He was surrounded by a handful of his company, all of whom were holding foreign instruments. The man himself was tuning a beautifully-carved lute, the only instrument in the whole collection Fox recognized. He looked up when Fox approached.

  “Welcome, young master,” said the man in that warm, rich voice. “How can we help you today?”

  Fox looked over the small group. Two boys older than him, a man with a thick grey braid, and a woman whose dark red hair was cut so close Fox might have mistaken her for a man, if it wasn’t for her form-fitting costume. They smelled of fresh soap and foreign spices and wood, and Fox felt a longing pulling at him that he could not explain.

  “Look at the poor lad,” said the woman sympathetically. “Speechless in sight of you, Radda.”

  The broad-shouldered man, Radda, laughed heartily. “Well there’s no need for that,” he said. “Come now, boy, what’s your name?”

  “Forric Foxglove. Fox.”

  “And what service might we offer you this fine afternoon, Master Fox?” He shifted his instrument into playing position, and Fox marveled that hands so large could even hold the thing without snapping it into kindling. “A song? A dance? A mythic tale of maidens and swords?”

  “Or is there a love ballad you’d like us to sing to a lady friend?” asked one of the boys.

  “We’re best at the dancing tunes, though,” said the other boy.

  “And you really shouldn’t ask for a tale,” said the grey-haired man. “Our resident storyteller is up at the front of camp somewhere, and this one here,” he jerked his head toward Radda, “has never been much with stories.”

  “Here now,” said Radda in mock outrage. “I’m better than you ever were, Otter!”

  “You embellish too much!” Otter spat back. “You turn what ought to be an end-of-night poem in to an epic that drags through ’till the morning embers!”

  Fox smiled as his nervousness melted slightly. Feeling somewhat bolder, he cut in before Radda had a chance to reply. “Actually,” he said, “I was hoping to learn a little bit more about ... you. All of you. The Shavid?” Now that he’d gotten started, he found he couldn’t stop. It was as if he had to convey to them the longing, the need to know everything about them. “It’s just, we don’t get many Shavid here. Or any. Ever. You’re the first troupe we’ve ever seen, that is to say I’ve ever seen, and I know you travel the Known World and you’ve seen so much more
that there is to see than I can ever dream to and —”

  Otter cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Alright, we get it boy.” He looked at Radda. “For Spirit’s sake, tell him something before he wets himself.”

  Radda chuckled and motioned for Fox to sit. He did so, waiting eagerly for Radda to set his instrument aside and begin speaking. “There is a legend of the creation of the Shavid.” He looked pointedly at Otter. “I may not be a gifted storyteller, but there are some tales even I can spin to satisfaction.” He took a breath and looked Fox in the eye. “It begins, as all truly old stories do, with the start.

  “In the beginning, Dream fell in love with Spirit. Over time, their union would produce the gods. But firstborn were the elements: Earth, called Shatza. Fire, called Zaru. Water, called Ralith. And Wind, called

  Rhin. Wind was the youngest of the four. She was blithe and vivacious, and told her father Spirit that she would never fall in love. When she finally did, as all women eventually do, her first kiss was legendary. It lasted one hundred years, and when it was over it broke into one hundred pieces. And that was the beginning of the Shavid.”

  Fox had heard stories before. There wasn’t much else to do during the dead of winter. But this was nothing like the tales that were spun during the dark hours, when most of Thicca Valley would gather at the Five Sides and tell their favorite myths or make up new poems and songs. Those nights were warm and comfortable, as you nestled in with your friends and took turns telling your favorite parts of old legends. This, however, was something else entirely. From the very first words, Fox was whisked away to someplace new. He could feel warmth on his face with the word “fire,” and feel his heart beat madly at the mention of love. And when Rhin shared her first kiss, Fox felt an ice cold pressure on his own lips.

  “The Shavid are wanderers,” Radda continued. “Following the wind, always moving from place to place. Never setting down roots. They make their unofficial home in a town called Wanderlust. It is a place that exists only once a year, and only for one purpose: to host the yearly gathering of the Shavid. A festival at summer’s end, dedicated to the celebration of their patron goddess, and the birth of their people.”

  There were tents. Dozens of them, shimmering in Fox’s vision. And the distant sound of a hundred wagons rolling through the woods toward the heart of Wanderlust. And brief, teasing scents flittering through the air, but disappearing before Fox could place any of them.

  “The rest of the year, the Shavid travel in smaller groups, or on their own. Their magical Blessings are a reflection of Rhin’s own passions. Music, dance, theatre. But their true Blessing is in their connection with the wind. It is Rhin’s voice to them, whispering in each ear and heart.

  The children of Rhin answer to no master but the wind.”

  When Radda bowed his head, the story at a close, Fox realized he hadn’t been breathing.

  He took a deep breath of ice cold air, pulling himself from whatever spell the story had wrapped around him as Otter clapped Radda on the shoulder.

  “Well done. See? You can practice brevity when you really want to.”

  The musicians and Fox laughed, and the redheaded woman tugged playfully at the ear of one of the boys. “Come on, we’d best start getting ready for the show.” The group began to gather themselves up, straightening their costumes and checking that their instruments were in order. But Radda stayed put. He caught Fox’s eye and held his gaze.

  “You’re still hungry for more, aren’t you boy?” Fox nodded, and Radda seemed to scrutinize him closely for a moment, as if there was something about Fox that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Then, he clapped his hands together and said, “Well, Radda Southwick is nothing if not a people-pleaser!” He dramatically swept up his instrument again. “Come now, ask me anything, and I will be honored to oblige.”

  “What did it mean, the magic Blessings?”

  “Powers. Gifts. You know, the magic some people are born with.”

  Fox blushed slightly. Of course. Blessings. That’s why he didn’t recognize the term: magic in Sovesta was extremely rare since the curse. Fox had never even heard of anyone in Thicca Valley being born with magic in over four generations. “Oh, of course,” he said to cover his embarrassment. “Blessings.”

  “Well, the Shavid Blessings are not like other magic. We don’t usually appear from thin air, or read minds or walk in dreams. Our blessings live through our talents. Dancing, music, even sewing.”

  “Magic? In the music?”

  The tall bard laughed. “Well of course, young master. For instance, I could make you see ... flowers.” He plucked at a few strings, and a shimmering blanket of golden blossoms sprang to life at Fox’s feet. “A bright spring morning in a land where the snow falls only in December.” He began to play a lighthearted tune, and it suddenly seemed to Fox that the ice beneath his feet had turned into lush, green grass dotted with wildflowers. A sweet chirping chorus seemed to fill the air and, just for a moment, the sun was warm on Fox’s face. But as Fox reached out to touch an iridescent butterfly that was winging past, it all dissolved in a flurry of snow, and cold settled over him once more.

  Fox stared at the spot in front of him where the butterfly had been, barely registering the playful argument that had broken out between the musicians. It was only when Otter shouted “— whole forest of great white oaks, changing seasons! Now that was a performance!” that Fox came back to his senses.

  “Maybe back then, but you couldn’t pull that off these days, old man,” said one of the boys, and Otter smacked him on the back of the head.

  “You alright, Fox?” asked Radda quietly as Otter and the boys continued to snipe at each other.

  “Yeah,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “Just, lost in thought, I guess.”

  “Well,” said Radda, “there are worse things to get lost in.” When Fox didn’t answer, he set aside his instrument. “Why don’t you head on back to the staging area? We’ve got a few more plans for tonight’s festivities. You can watch from there.” He leaned in closer and put a massive hand on Fox’s shoulder. “We’re not going anywhere for awhile, so don’t you fret. I’m here if you’ve any more questions. Just go enjoy yourself.”

  Fox nodded mutely and wound his way back through the Shavid camp in a haze. But he did not go back to the staging area. Instead, he slid through the crowd like a ghost, barely noticed. He wandered back to the Five Sides almost without thinking and flopped onto the bench across from Father.

  “You look like I feel,” said Father gruffly, shuffling through a stack of papers. “How about we sneak another piece of pie later?”

  Fox made a non-committal grunt and stared out the window without really seeing. The rest of the afternoon passed slowly, despite the constant shifting of crowds in and out of the tavern. Fox did his best to be helpful to Father, helping sort through trade goods and occasionally running back into the kitchen to grab them something to eat, but his mind kept drifting back to Radda’s story. He could still feel the phantom goddess’s ice-cold lips on his.

  When the Shavid came to the Five Sides for dinner, they put on a dazzling show. Radda played a rowdy song that made everyone cheer and throw coins at him, but Fox secretly longed for him to play the little tune with the butterflies again. Two of the girls did a southern country jig on one of the tables, and the juggler with the golden orbs finished the night with a spectacular act, appearing to juggle live, flaming birds. And then they all sat and ate a hearty meal with the Thiccans, everyone laughing and swapping stories, just like in the dark hours of winter. Except this time, they weren’t just stories, they were adventures. The Shavid were excited to learn the Thiccan tales, just as the valley folk were clamoring to hear the wanderers’ stories. Everything was suddenly new and fresh, even the songs that Fox had heard a hundred times before.

  There was something there for him, with the Shavid. Something he needed, something that he’d never known he was missing, until now.

  Chapter Four<
br />
  Neil

  The celebration at the Five Sides ran late into the night. By the time the last song was sung, the fireplace along the far wall had burned completely dark, and the firepit at the center of the room held only the hint of flickering embers. By the whispers of light from the tabletop candles, Fox could see that many of the Thiccans and Shavid alike were choosing to sleep right where they were, curled up near the hearth or sprawled out on a bench. Father had fallen asleep hours before, sitting upright against the wall with his feet propped up on the table.

  Fox stretched out on the neighboring bench, closing his eyes gratefully. He felt he had never been so tired, and yet he’d been determined to hear everything the Shavid had to offer that night. And now, though his body was aching for sleep, his brain was wide awake and humming with the stories of the night. He tried to remember the names of strange places and cursed princes, and wondered how many roads one would have to travel to gather so many tales. Pieces of a dozen different legends flittered through his head as he finally drifted into a half sleep.

  Every so often throughout the night, a Thiccan would drag himself up and make his way home, forsaking the immediate comfort of the common room for the warmth of his own bed. Each time one of them opened the front door, a chill would settle on the room, making Fox pull his cloak tighter around his shoulders before letting himself sink back into the swirl of strange dreams keeping him company. Half awake and half asleep, he wasn’t quite sure how much time passed before the smell of something coming from the kitchen woke him totally and completely.

  He sat up, rubbing at a cramp in his neck and stretching. The common room was full of the heavy, even breathing of deepest sleep, but Fox’s nose told him that Picck was already up and hard at work. Fox slipped from his bench and crept across the common room, carefully stepping over and around sleeping shadows. He ducked gratefully into the warm kitchen and blinked, his eyes adjusting to the glowing firelight.