Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1)

by Kaitlin Bellamy

  Lai left him at the Five Sides, with a quick squeeze of his hand before she slipped away. And Fox, the last week finally catching up to him, let his feet carry him home without thinking. Exhausted, he pulled off his boots in the kitchen and undressed as he climbed the stairs. His last memory before falling asleep was of Mother lighting the bedroom fire with the funeral torch, and bathing the room in glowing green.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Days passed, with Fox only vaguely aware of his parents occasionally waking him up to eat something. He would force down some soup or bread before falling back into a deep but troubled sleep. By the time Fox fully awoke, the snows had all but melted. Spring was truly upon them, and with it came the Mudlock.

  The Mudlock didn’t happen every year. Sometimes, the spring thaw was gradual. The days would begin to warm slowly over the course of several weeks. The trees would dry, the snow would melt, and the earth would soften enough for heavy farming. But sometimes, it all happened at once. The sun would come out with a vengeance, melting everything it touched in only a day or so, leaving the valley wet and filthy for quite some time. The last Mudlock Fox could remember had lasted almost two weeks. The rivers had flooded, the valley was a uniform brown, and more than one pair of boots was claimed by the ankle-deep mud that permeated the land.

  But despite the unpleasantness of never being properly dry, it seemed as though the Thiccans were determined to have the valley rebuilt as quickly as possible. From his window Fox could see two fresh new structures being raised to the west, undoubtably replacing those that had been burned down. Anxious to learn what he’d missed while he’d been sleeping, Fox dressed quickly and hurried through the lunch Mother made him eat. When she finally agreed to let him go, on the promise that he would take it easy, Fox was out the door and down the front path in an instant.

  The valley square was a bustling hub of activity. Long wooden planks had been set atop the worst of the mud in the streets, giving people a drier path to walk. Store fronts were being repainted and doors repaired. Children ran barefoot from place to place, carrying notes and messages for their parents. And outside of the inn, a long line of goats was tethered where visiting horses were usually tied.

  “Several fences in town were destroyed with the storm,” said Borric when Fox went inside to ask. “Most of them have been fixed by now, but Farmer Ballard was one of those killed, and his young widow hasn’t a clue what to do with the goats. Told her I’d keep an eye on them for awhile, until someone can get out there to help her.”

  “I could mend a fence,” said Fox helpfully.

  “Oh no, boy, I’ve had a messenger bird from your mother already. I’m not to let you overtax yourself. Not after the week you’ve had. It’s straight to the kitchen with you, and you can help Picck.”

  Normally, Fox wouldn’t mind staying at the Five Sides, listening to the talk and gossip pass through the common room and making jokes with Picck. But as he sat and pounded dough, he couldn’t help feeling useless. He wanted to do something to help repair the damage that he had done.

  It went on like that for two days. Two days of mundane chores, while the rest of the town worked to rebuild and carry on after the tragedy. And Fox, his restlessness almost too much to stand, found himself cleaning every inch of the common room over and over again. He scrubbed mud from the floors and listened to every scrap of news that floated by. News of the finished buildings and Farmer Bracken being in the market for a new plough animal. The story of how the Shavid Donlan had arrived just before the storm, with the injured Hammon survivors riding in behind him on deer, as easily as though they were horses. Even the seemingly ordinary pieces of information, like the baker painting his new shop door bright yellow, Fox drank in eagerly.

  And then, always humming at the back of his mind, there were the Shavid. They were busy doing their part in the valley, happy to help with the repairs. But Fox wanted nothing more than to follow Radda around town, dogging his steps until the company leader made good on his promise, helping Fox to discover the true nature of his Blessing.

  It was Mindi who finally came to Fox. She found him grooming Fermia for the fifth time that day. No matter how much he scrubbed, the mud clung stubbornly to her coat and hooves.

  She watched him work for a moment, before she said, “The town’s looking nice again.”

  “Yeah,” said Fox.

  “Things got fixed real quick.”

  “Mmm.”

  After another few moments, Mindi said, “I’m glad you’re alive, you know.” Fox glanced up to find Mindi smiling at him, those giant blue eyes staring. “Would have been a shame for the cutest boy in the whole valley to die before courting age. I’m sure all the ladies would have been disappointed.” Fox tried to think of a clever retort, but his mind was blank. Mindi smirked at his obvious discomfort, and finally she said, “Daddy wants to see you.”

  Fox didn’t waste another moment. He tethered Fermia to a post in the kitchen courtyard and followed Mindi upstairs to her family’s room at the Five Sides. Radda was waiting, along with the dancer woman he’d brought to the council. James the player was also there, as well as the juggler Fox had seen on the Shavids’ first day in the valley. Mindi was dismissed, and Radda began making introductions.

  “James you probably already know,” said Radda, gesturing to the young player. James bowed with a flourish, making the woman roll her eyes.

  “He’s a show-off and a lazy lout,” she said, “but a decent player, I’ll give him that.” She offered her hand. “Belle. We weren’t properly introduced before.”

  They shook hands, and Radda said, “And that’s Tallac, our Acrobat Extraordinaire! He juggles, he tumbles, he climbs things ...”

  “They just keep me around for the food,” the juggler said, shaking Fox’s hand as well. “Best cook in the company, and they all know it.”

  Radda laughed and waved off the comment. Then he clapped his hands together and said, “Now! To business.” He motioned for Fox to sit in an empty chair and continued. “When Shavid children are growing up, they are exposed to a wide set of skills. Sooner or later, their Blessing will manifest itself. They’ll start showing proficiencies at one or more talents. But with the Windkissed, it can be much more complicated. They can come to us at any age. And with you in particular, exposed to no specific Shavid gift in your lifetime, we have no way of knowing where your talents lie. And so, it’s our job to find out. Assuming you’d still like to learn?”

  “Yes!” said Fox at once. “Yes, of course!”

  Radda laughed at his clear enthusiasm and said, “Well then, so we begin.”

  They started Fox with the most common gifts. They let him play around with some of Radda’s instruments: the flute, the lyre, and even one of the small drums. And whereas he wasn’t terrible, and even Radda agreed he might learn them one day, none of them seemed to be his forte. And Fox felt nothing other than awkward confusion as he tried to play each one in turn.

  Next, Belle taught him a simple dance routine. It was nothing like the dances they did in Thicca Valley, and Fox found himself stumbling over his own feet. In the corner of the room, James tried to hide his laugh in his hands. When it was James’ turn, he determined at once that the stage was not Fox’s Blessing, without even a trial. The others did not ask how James knew, but they seemed to accept it without question.

  Tallac tried Fox in several different skills. He was impressed at Fox’s surefootedness, and with the amount of flexibility and strength he’d picked up from the morning training sessions with Neil. He even admitted that someday, Fox might have a great talent for combat. But as a tumbler, he was nowhere near the skill of the Blessed.

  But Radda was not discouraged. He arranged for new tests every day. He would send Mindi or he would come and find Fox himself, stealing him away from his chores and running him through every Shavid skill he could think of. He tried painting with Radda’s wife, Adelai. Mask-making and storytelling with Donlan. Even Mindi tested him, looking for signs of
the simple household magics. And with every failed or rejected skill, Radda became more and more excited.

  “Don’t you see?” said Radda. “It’s in there, somewhere. We just have to find it! And we’ve tested all of the common Shavid skills.”

  “So?” asked Fox, trying not to feel disheartened. “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” said Radda, with the air of a child excited to play with a new trinket, “that your gift must be more uncommon! Your Blessing is rare, and that could mean great things for you!”

  “If we ever figure out what it is,” said Fox gloomily. And then, after a moment, he voiced a concern that had been nagging at him for several days. “What if I’m not Windkissed after all? What if it’s just like Father says ... a tracker’s nose and a hunter’s instinct?”

  Radda shook his head. “I’ve seen magic in all its forms, little one,” he said. “And you’ve got it.” He put his arm around Fox’s shoulders in a fatherly manner. “I can see it in you! I can feel it!” When Fox was still unconvinced, Radda said, “This land still has magic. But nobody has the ability to harness it! Except you.”

  As Fox trudged back to his chores, waiting for Radda to find yet another test for him, he thought about it. Was that so impossible to believe? Could that be the real curse of Sovesta, that magic still lived and breathed in the air and the earth, but nobody could use it anymore? Neil would know. He had studied magic theory, and he could explain it to Fox. For now, Neil was busy helping with the cleanup of the valley, but when he had a chance, Fox intended to ask him.

  But that chance was torn away that very night. Fox awoke from a deep sleep, suddenly and completely. He was dressing and hurrying silently out of the house before he even realized what he was doing. His feet took him running along the main road to the Shavid camp, where the wagons stood, being loaded up. They had been repainted and the damages from the storm had been repaired. Horses were being hitched up as Fox watched.

  Neil found him first. Before he could speak, Fox said dazedly, “You’re leaving?”

  His friend nodded. “That’s the way of the wind. Radda woke us all, said our time here was done.”

  Fox was seized by a sudden urge to stow away in one of the wagons. To go with them, wherever they were heading. Not for the first time, Neil seemed to know Fox’s thoughts.

  “Radda says it’s not time.”

  “I can find him,” said Fox desperately. “I can ask ... maybe my parents will let me ...”

  Neil held up his hand, silencing Fox’s panicked spouting. “He says soon, but not now.”

  There was a whistle from the camp. The last crates were being loaded into the wagons, and Neil was being summoned. “I have to go,” he said quickly. And for a moment, he looked like he wanted to say more. But he pulled Fox into a rough hug, and ruffled his hair. Almost like a brother might. And then he left, calling over his shoulder, “Look for us when the wind changes!”

  And then they were gone. Fox watched as the wagons rolled out of town, out past the farmlands and north, deeper into Sovesta. He watched until he could no longer see their garish wheels, no longer hear the jangle of bells on the harnesses. And then, he closed his eyes, breathed deep, and felt them leaving. The scent of foreign spices and ink drifting away, and the sound of their distant travel songs disappearing into the night.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dreamed

  T

  he days grew warmer. The Mudlock finally ended, and warm sunshine greeted Fox each morning as he settled into the season’s routine. From now until late summer, the whole valley would be buzzing with activity from sunup to sundown. Farmers tended their fields and goatherders could be found on the upper hills with their charges. The Five Sides was constantly busy with passing trade. Father spent the early spring rigging up fresh snares in the outer forest and helping Mother with their small garden. And Fox, more than happy to keep himself busy, spent his days running all over Thicca Valley, taking over the trading end of Father’s business while his parents enjoyed each other’s company.

  This year, more than ever, Fox was eager to stay occupied. The sudden absence of the Shavid in his life had left him with a strange sense of discomfort. He constantly felt as though he was forgetting to do something important. He found himself performing the same chores over and over, and looking for things he hadn’t actually lost.

  Neil said they’d be back. They had to come back. And “soon.” But when was soon? At first, Fox looked for them every morning at sunup, and every night before he headed home again. Searching for a sign of them on the horizon, and listening for their distant melodies. But eventually, as the days wore on with no hint on the wind of the Shavid’s return, Fox made himself focus instead on the springtime. This was his year, after all. This was the time to prove to Father that he would be ready for the caravan, and to take his place with the waresmen.

  Not everything had been traded away during the Homecoming. And there were always leftover pelts from the caravan. Some mornings, Fox would take his wares to the Five Sides and set up in the corner like Father, bartering with the out of town traders and merchants. Other times, he would go straight to the farmer’s wives, taking orders and trading whatever they could spare. The women in town were always eager for the finer quality goods that the waresmen collected, and Father always managed to pull in some luxury items during the journey.

  But while the valley folk were plenty cordial with Fox, he couldn’t help but notice they seemed to be looking at him differently. None of them knew the whole story of the Desolata attack, but it was clear that they knew he’d been involved. Eyes shifted to him when he walked by, and whispers followed him around town.

  If anyone could understand, it was Picck. With Neil gone, Fox found himself confiding more than ever in Lai’s cousin. When the stares of the community would become too much to handle, he would hide away in the Five Sides kitchen.

  Of course, Picck was not always the good company he used to be. He tried hard to be his old, carefree self, but Fox could tell that the storm still haunted him. Whenever the conversation lagged, or he was left alone too long with nothing to do, Picck would begin to shake. Sometimes just a subtle tremor in his hands, sometimes as bad as a spring fever. His eyes would go blank, and nothing and no one could pull him from his mood.

  Except Rose. A well-timed peck on the forehead could clear his expression. Even just her voice seemed to soothe him. With her by his side, Picck regained some of his old spark and humor. Sometimes, Fox stayed in the kitchen just to watch them, feeling a strange sort of pride for his part in having brought the two together.

  “They really fit, don’t they?” asked Lai one morning, as they both sat by the kitchen fire, watching the happy couple from the corners of their eyes. Picck was brushing flour from Rose’s cheeks with a gentle and loving hand, laughing in the way he only did when she was around.

  “My parents get like that sometimes,” said Fox. “After Father’s been gone all winter.” He smiled, remembering. “Father told me once that he’d gladly trade all the pelts in the world just to see her smile.”

  Lai dropped her gaze. She suddenly seemed to be very interested in the stonework of the fireplace. Fox watched her trace the grooves with her fingertips. It wasn’t until Picck and Rose left, heading out together into the kitchen courtyard, that she answered Fox’s unasked question. “I sometimes wonder if Daddy was ever like that. If he was the type of man who loves to see his wife at the end of a long day, like your dad. Or if he was like the miners who come here to drink sometimes, just because they don’t want to go home.”

  Fox knew the type. Men who’d been forced into marriages where neither party was happy with the arrangement. Theirs were the wives who brought passing merchants into their homes while their husbands were out, or ran away with men from other towns, hoping to find a better life. It was hard to imagine any woman wanting to run away from Borric Blackroot. He was a loving father, and a kind-hearted man. Then again, none of them had ever seen him court
ing.

  “We have this old loom of mama’s, down in the store room,” Lai continued. It was as though she was making herself talk about it, saying things she’d wanted to say before, but never could. “I sometimes like to sit down there and look at it, try to figure out the workings. But it’s not like fishing or plucking the hens, or even like making pies. It doesn’t come natural to me.”

  Fox was stunned. He had never thought of Lai as missing something. She and Borric made the perfect little family, just the way they were. But as he watched her, wiping her sooty hands on her breeches, something hit home for him. She wasn’t just talking about her father.

  She was talking about herself. She didn’t have any of the skills that made her a marketable bride. With no mother to teach her, she couldn’t even mend a pair of breeches, or sew on a button. Borric taught her what she needed to survive, but he’d never thought to teach her what it meant to be a valley woman.

  “Lessons?” Fox suggested hopefully. “Maybe one of the women in town could teach you how to —”

  “With what spare time?” asked Lai. “Besides, I have nothing to pay anyone with. What would I trade for my schooling, free brew? That only works on the men.”

  Lai tried to change the subject after that, but Fox kept revisiting the conversation for days afterwards. Always wondering, as he went about his work, what he could do to help.

  The answer came to him as he traded with Widow Mossgrove. Her husband and oldest son had both been killed in the Desolata attack. But as Fox sat with her on her porch, helping her peel potatoes, he was happy to discover that she wasn’t looking at him like it was his fault. In fact, she didn’t seem upset by the tragedy at all, instead carrying on in an entirely businesslike way.

  “It’s no surprise, you know,” she said. “Folk in this valley lead a hard life, even without outside trouble. Cave-ins, winter fevers, accidents on icy mountain paths. There’s more widows than me who have spent their whole lives prepared to be alone. I’ve still got the little ones at home, and who would take care of them if I let myself go to pieces? And who would look after the farm?” She shook her head, attacking the peel of a large and lumpy potato with her bonehandle knife.