Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1)

by Kaitlin Bellamy

  Fox finished his own potato and selected another. “How are you handling it? The farm work?”

  “It’s not easy,” said Widow Mossgrove. “I’ve had to sell off almost all of the goats. We’ve only three left now. I would have sold off the shepherding dog as well but,” she cleared her throat, “she was my husband’s, you know. And the children would pine after her, if she were gone.” The briefest hint of a tear shone in the corner of Widow Mossgrove’s eye. Fox pretended not to notice as she carried on brusquely. “We’ll manage. Just got to find a way to hire out some extra hands, help tend to the animals and the land.”

  Before he knew what he was saying, before he was even aware that the idea had formed in his head, Fox said, “You know my friend Lai? Borric Blackroot’s daughter?”

  Widow Mossgrove smiled. “Course I do, she’s a right pretty girl. And kind as summer sun to my little ones.”

  “She’s very good with animals, and she can even work the land! Just as good as any boy her age.”

  The older woman frowned. “A bit of help here and there is all well and good, but ...”

  “And she wouldn’t need paying,” said Fox, before Widow Mossgrove could entirely refuse. “She could work, in exchange for lessons. Lessons in women’s work, like the loom and sewing and ... and whatever else women do!”

  He worried for a moment that he might have gone too far. Some women in the valley, his own mother included, got very touchy about “women’s work.” One of the biggest fights Fox could ever remember his parents getting into was after Father, tired and cranky after an unsuccessful week on the road, suggested that women never truly worked as hard as men.

  But Widow Mossgrove didn’t look offended. Instead, she smiled appraisingly at Fox. “You drive a hard bargain, just like your father. He’ll make a fine trader out of you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Fox politely.

  “You tell your friend I’ll see her at noon, starting tomorrow. Now, are we to sit here chatting all day, or are you going to help me finish these potatoes?”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Spring wildflowers blanketed the mountainsides. Countless shades of green dripped from the forest leaves and fresh new grasses. A blithe breeze flitted through the valley, tugging at women’s dresses and children’s hair like an old friend, just wanting to play. New moss crept its way across rocks and up tree trunks. Shoes were all but abandoned by the younger Thiccans, and some of the elder ones as well. The season of weddings was upon them.

  It seemed almost impossible that mere weeks ago, the valley had suffered an unprecedented tragedy. Now, as Fox sat high up on a hillside, watching great wedding tents being erected in the valley below, even he found it hard to remember that he had once been trapped in a hunting cabin, facing certain death. For now, there was a celebration of new life. A wedding day, where the five new couples of Thicca Valley would begin their lives anew.

  Beside him, Lai worked furiously at a hand-held loom. A smaller version of the loom Widow Mossgrove had been teaching her on. Her lessons were not coming easily, but that didn’t stop her. With a determined stubbornness that Fox was amazed at, Lai spent every free moment practicing. Borric said he’d discovered her up late at night, long after she was supposed to be asleep, crouched by the dying firelight in the kitchen, trying to stitch holes in dish rags and old shirts. The times she was not learning at the widow’s side, she was working. For the widow, or her father. Today, like many other days, found her watching the goats up on the eastern foothills. She was often put in charge of Widow Mossgrove’s small remaining herd, as well as the sturdy little brown pony that grazed with them. She even brought Fermia out to graze with them, which seemed to perk up the old nanny goat’s spirits.

  “Lai,” said Fox, nudging her and pointing down to the valley. “They’re hanging the lanterns, look!” Normally, the wedding preparations would fascinate and excite her. Especially since her own cousin was among those to be married. But now, she didn’t tear her eyes away from the knot of tangled thread in her lap.

  Then, with an exasperated yell, Lai threw the loom so hard that it shattered on a nearby stone. “I can’t do it!” she shouted, scaring the goats and making them scatter across the hillside. And then, for good measure it seemed, she stood up and grabbed the broken pieces, then hurled them even further.

  Even as Fox tried to comfort her, he struggled hard not to laugh. “You’ll get it,” he said carefully. “And there’s no rush, honest!”

  But Lai didn’t seem to hear him. She grabbed her shepherd’s crook and started rounding the animals up again, ushering them closer to her and Fox’s perch. As she worked, Fox plucked an apple from the basket lunch Picck had sent them off with and bit into it. Cold, sticky juices ran down his chin, and he wiped them off with the back of his hand as he watched the fields below coming to life with party preparations.

  Fox had heard plenty of stories about other wedding traditions. Binding ceremonies from the deserts; deep jungle rituals involving live snakes; even the glorious spectacle surrounding so many royal weddings in the Central Continent. But while they all sounded fascinating, Fox preferred Thicca Valley’s above them all. It was simple, a celebration more than a ceremony. All of the couples were married at once, promising their lives to each other.

  Lai sat down beside him again with a thud, tossing her crook aside and then laying back on the grass. After a moment of silence, Fox said, “You know, your loom will be harder to work with in pieces like that.”

  In spite of herself, it seemed, Lai laughed. It was half-hearted and tired, but it was still a laugh. “I don’t know why I can’t manage it,” she said.

  “I don’t know why you care,” said Fox. “So there’s one thing in the world you can’t do. You’re great at everything else you try! The sewing is coming along, and Widow Mossgrove says you’re excellent with her children. They love having you around.”

  Lai tucked her hands behind her head and stared up at the thick, white clouds. “I just always pictured my mother, sitting at home weaving. Making blankets and tapestries and ... I thought if I could just do it, then maybe I’d have something in common with her.” And then, before Fox had a chance to comment, she sat up on her elbows and changed the subject. “Only two days until the wedding. And then what? Rose moves in, and hopefully Picck goes back to his normal self all the time.”

  Fox finished his apple and tossed the naked core away. “Father’s got the whole summer planned for us. Traveling to neighboring valleys and towns, learning the trading circles. It’s my time to prove I have what it takes to be a Foxglove.”

  They watched in silence as bright banners were strung from the high tent poles, bringing the wedding pavilion to life with wind-tossed color. Then Lai said, “In a few years, it’ll be us down there. My da will have set me up with someone, and you’ll have won the hand of somebody’s daughter.” She shifted, absently plucking at the blades of grass beneath her. “I always used to think it was so far away, being grown up. But you’re learning to be a man, and I’m practicing my womanly trades ... doesn’t seem so far off now.”

  A lone wedding banner pulled loose from its hangings and was borne away on the wind. It danced upward, a scrap of purple like fresh brambleberry, flapping back and forth like a confused bird. Finally, the wind carried it up toward them. It drifted over their heads and then settled to earth, hidden away somewhere in the foothills.

  Fox stood and grabbed Lai’s hand, pulling her to her feet. “I’m not quite a man yet,” he said. “A man would be polite, and let the lady get a head start.” And then, he took off, running to search for the fallen flag. And Lai, laughing and calling him names, chased after him.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The night before the wedding was still and clear. Not a single breath of wind so much as rustled the trees. The sky was cloudless, letting the half moon bathe the town in light, casting harsh black shadows over everything. All was grey and eerily quiet.

  Fox sat up late into the night at the Five
Sides, helping the Blackroots prepare for the morning. Not only was Picck one of the grooms, he was also the chief baker for the party. The kitchen was filled with cakes and pies and sweet rolls. Rose was there too, laughing and singing as she helped decorate the sweets. Borric and Lai were enjoying themselves as well, but Fox could not. There was a restlessness about him that he could not shake.

  He’d grown used to the feeling that he was forgetting something. He’d even found that keeping busy could help him ignore it almost completely. And then there were the nerves; the horrible, twitching feeling of waiting for something he couldn’t put his finger on. That, too, could be pushed to the back of his mind. The combat practices Neil had taught him kept his mind and body occupied. The errands for Father. Even helping with the wedding. All were perfect ways to keep him from going absolutely stark-raving mad. But this was something new.

  When he quietly excused himself to go home, no one seemed to notice. And when he stepped outside into the still and empty night, the feeling worsened. He ran home without knowing what he was running from, and threw himself into bed fully dressed. He pulled the blankets all the way up over his head, shutting out even the comforting glow of the firestones, and tried to force himself to sleep. Any sleep, no matter how fitful and uneasy, had to be better than this.

  He was wrong.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  It was as though the dream was being pieced together around him. As though Fox had been dropped into an unfinished painting, and somewhere, an unseen artist was busily streaking colors across a wooden panel. He was sitting alone in a small wooden boat, surrounded by thick, grey fog. The boat rowed itself silently, taking Fox somewhere only it seemed to know. Bit by bit, things began to come into focus as the fog cleared. He became aware of the sea, slapping against the sides of his boat. He’d never been to the ocean, but he knew it at once from the smell and the sheer vastness of it. It was bigger than the biggest lake he’d ever seen. Bigger even than Fox could have imagined from Radda’s tales of sailing adventures. On and on it went, stretching out as far as the eye could see, in every direction. Here, the sky was not just above him, framed by the mountain peaks, but all around him. He felt sure that if he kept sailing long enough, he would someday reach the place where sky and sea met.

  Shadows in the distance began to take shape. Great masses of grey became islands. Enormous black smudges on the horizon revealed themselves to be cliffs. And there was something else. A tangle of shapes far ahead that the little boat seemed to be aiming for. Shapes that became clear as Fox drifted into their shadows.

  Ships. Countless, abandoned ships, towering above Fox in his tiny wooden boat. Some were whole, complete masterpieces, stunning in their grandeur. Others were splintering, rotting shells. It was like the forest after a blizzard, with some trees sturdy and upright, others reduced to firewood and scrap. Fox struggled to remember the few names of ship parts he knew. Masts, the tall poles at a ship’s center. And sails. And ... he stopped trying, and simply stared. Even in their ruin, the ships were beautiful. He could hear their wood creak in a lonely, abandoned way, and he longed to climb aboard one of them and explore. But his boat carried him on, through the depths of the watery graveyard, to an island deep in its heart. An island with high cliffs, and lush green rippling across the black stone peaks.

  There, the boat stopped, just off the shore. Fox climbed out, wading in the shallows up to his ankles before climbing out onto the sand and looking around. The beach stretched to either side for a good number of paces, until it curved out of sight. Ahead of him, there was a ... the word that sprang to mind was “jungle,” although he’d never seen one. It grew thick, filled with trees he didn’t recognize, and hid the rest of the island from him. And, lounging casually in the sand, his booted feet propped up on what looked like a gigantic turtle’s shell, was a man.

  He sat up as Fox approached, and then sprang up, dusting sand from his bottom. “Excellent,” he said. “You’re finally here.” And then, without so much as an inviting gesture, he turned and headed off into the forest. And Fox, without any idea of what else to do, followed.

  The man was wearing colors to rival even the Shavid’s costumes. His vest was deep purple with dark green trim. His breeches were a rich brown that almost seemed green when the light hit it. They were woven in with shimmering golden thread, and tucked into knee-high, supple burgundy boots. His shirt, with its billowing sleeves and decorative cuffs, was a few shades lighter green than the vest trim. A red-and-purple striped sash hung from his hip, and his long black hair was pulled back with a beaded ribbon. His colors might have been dark and earthy, but they were somehow richer than the brightest yellows and blues of the Shavid wagons. Richer even than the multi-colored hibbin furs.

  “Sorry about the mess getting you here,” said the man as he led them deeper into the jungle. “But you, sir, are a hard one to get in touch with.”

  “And why would you want to get in touch with me?” asked Fox. He struggled to keep up, fighting his way through the thick greenery, and resisting the urge to stop and look around in awe. He felt that if he fell behind, he would be lost in this strange place forever. Everything was so real, so much clearer than any dream Fox had ever had. So real, in fact, that he wasn’t sure if he was even dreaming any more. Maybe he really had been transported to a faraway island, never to return home.

  The man didn’t answer his question. Instead he kept up a steady monologue, which confused Fox even more. “Oh, if you only knew how much trouble it took to bring you here,” the man said. “I’ve had to call in favors, pay bribes. I’ve had to pull strings I shouldn’t even be allowed to touch!” He sounded almost proud of himself. “But the wind keeps an eye on her Blessed, and you’ve got more watchdogs than anyone I’ve ever seen! You must be something special. Special indeed.”

  He pulled aside a curtain of vines with a flourish, exposing the great mouth of a cave set into the black rock. Fox went in first, and the man followed, letting the vines fall back into place behind him with a hush. And then, taking the lead once more and leading them down a wide tunnel, the man said, “If you’d come here in the waking world, you’d have to take the other way to get in. Much longer, and much more treacherous. Beautiful scenery, though.”

  Even in his awe and confusion, Fox couldn’t help but notice the stone around him. He didn’t recognize it. And the part of him that had grown up around miners his whole life was insatiably curious. The stone was black, rippled with veins of some sort of green that, upon closer inspection, seemed to be glowing faintly. And Fox knew enough about stone that he was fairly certain this tunnel was not manmade. He reached out a hand in passing and ran his fingers across the wall. It was cold to the touch, and smoother than cut stone.

  “Where are we?” Fox asked.

  “The only place in all the worlds where they can’t find me,” said the man.

  They rounded a corner, and Fox stopped in his tracks. The tunnel opened up into a tremendous, open cavern, filled with color and patterned light from dozens of lanterns hanging throughout the room. A lake was tucked in the far corner, and even it seemed to be glowing from somewhere deep in its depths.

  Everywhere Fox looked, treasures met his eyes. Great jeweled cups and platters. Chains of gold and silver. Open chests, spilling out coins Fox didn’t recognize. There were gems he couldn’t name, and furs from creatures he’d never seen. Great cushions lay scattered throughout the cavern, in colors brighter even than the Shavid’s wagons. The stranger flopped down casually onto one of these, producing an apple seemingly from nowhere and biting into it.

  “Make yourself at home!” he said, propping his feet up on an opulently carved, gem encrusted chest.

  Fox sat gingerly on a stack of rugs. They were softer than any weaving he’d ever seen at home, with intricate patterns and thick, colored fringe dripping from the edges.

  “The riches of a thousand lifetimes,” said the stranger proudly. “From every age of men. And even those who are more than men.” He
closed his hand around the half-naked apple core, and it vanished, as simply and silently as a traveling magician made coins disappear. Then, the stranger wiped his hands on the front of his vest and tucked them behind his head, lounging comfortably as he looked Fox up and down. “So, to business.”

  “You said you brought me here,” said Fox. “Why?”

  The man chuckled. “You get straight to the point. I like that about you, boy.” He studied Fox appraisingly. “You really are a little scrap of a thing, aren’t you? But, size doesn’t always guarantee power. And you’ll have to do.” And then, before Fox could ask any questions, or even have a chance to feel properly angry over being called a “little scrap,” the man said, “It’s not enough. Everything you’re doing now, it’s not enough.”

  “Beg pardon?” said Fox, not sure whether to be confused or offended.

  The man pulled his feet down from the chest and sat up, looking Fox straight in the eye. There was something so oddly familiar about the man’s face. A close-cut beard and moustache framed his mouth like the curtains on a Shavid stage. No one in Thicca Valley ever kept their whiskers that trim, but still ... it was as if Fox had grown up his entire life with this stranger right next door, but had simply never spoken to him before now.

  “It is not enough,” the man said, slower this time. More precise. Almost as if he was trying to convey something more than just the words. “You are meant for more than weddings and spring chores, you know that.” When Fox didn’t answer, the man sighed and shook his head. “I can’t keep you here for long, this kind of power is costing me. And if they catch me ...” He seemed to be at war with himself, fighting over choices that Fox couldn’t understand. Finally, apparently coming to a decision, the man sprang over to Fox and took his head between his hands, staring the boy squarely in the face. “Listen. I’ll have to spell it out for you as best I can.”