Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1)

by Kaitlin Bellamy

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  “Are you sure?” asked Lai. They were crouched in the back kitchen door of the Five Sides later that afternoon, secretly watching the happy couple go about their work.

  “Positive,” whispered Fox. “But it’s so new, even she may not know.” He watched as Picck swept Rose up into a playful embrace, kissing her on the forehead before releasing her again to her duties. Then Fox backed slowly out of the kitchen doorway, and he and Lai sat with their backs against the outside wall. “Why can I smell that?” he asked. “Are all Shavid that sensitive?”

  “They’ll come back someday,” said Lai reassuringly. “You’ll be able to ask them everything then.”

  “And until they do?” said Fox, running his hands through his hair irritably. “Do I just keep sitting here, discovering little bits and pieces on the way and never truly knowing what to do with them all?” He pounded his fist into the earth in frustration. Then he said quietly, “Why did they have to leave? Why did all of them have to disappear just when I started to learn? Why couldn’t someone have stayed behind to help with ... all of this?”

  Lai leaned into him, wrapping one arm around his shoulders. “Sometimes, we have to figure things out on our own. Maybe it will make you stronger, in the end.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Fox moodily.

  But before he could start feeling too sorry for himself, there was a disturbance out front.

  They could hear someone arriving at the Five Sides, and Fox sat up a little straighter. They could hear a muffled but unfamiliar voice briefly conversing with Borric’s deep, resonant boom. And then both voices disappeared into the tavern, and Fox and Lai scrambled to their feet. They made their way around to the main entrance instead of cutting easily through the kitchen, so as not to disturb Picck and Rose.

  Visitors were always exciting in the valley. They brought news of far-off places, or else stories from neighboring cities scattered through the Highborns. This one, Fox could already tell, was not a local. The man himself might be inside, but one glance at his horse and wagon told anyone walking by that he was clearly foreign.

  His horse was a rather serene, dappled mare, hitched to the strangest little wagon Fox had ever seen. Very different from the great, boxy carts that the waresmen used to tote their goods, or even the painted wagons the Shavid traveled in. This piece of wood and wheel was tall rather than long, with a great padded driver’s seat built right into the front. There were two massive wheels that, if Fox had to guess, probably doubled as makeshift steps up to the perch. The seat itself was cushioned like a massive throne in soft, gold velvet that contrasted elegantly with the smooth, polished black of the wagon. The whole unit swooped into a graceful curve in the back, stretching out a bit into a warped “L” shape that ended in an elegantly stamped “B.B.” Every bit of the wagon was sealed tight, leaving Fox’s imagination to run wild about what might be inside.

  The two of them exchanged curious glances, and Lai shrugged. “We weren’t expecting anybody.”

  Fox led the way inside eagerly, and his eyes fell upon the gentleman exchanging coins over the bar with Borric. He was a flamboyant weed of a man, with tight sandy curls and round, gold spectacles perched on the end of his thin nose. He wore a pale brown jacket cropped at the hip, and matching riding gloves. A bright green scrap of silk was knotted at his neck and tucked into the collar of his jacket.

  “And that’s for just the three nights?” the man was asking, and Borric nodded.

  “If you decide to stay any longer, we can re-negotiate the terms,” said Borric. He then noticed Lai and Fox, and said, “My daughter, Lai, will be around if you have any special requests.”

  The man spun around to greet them and dipped into a low bow, sweeping the hem of his jacket behind him with one hand, and offering the other one forward grandly. “Bartrum Bookmonger, at your service!” Then he drew himself straight again and flashed them an impossibly white grin. “Reading and writing instructor, and purveyor of fine paper goods!”

  He had a thick, almost comical accent. As if he stretched his mouth too far when he spoke. Lai threw her father a raised-eyebrow, and Borric shrugged. “He’s a bit of a character, I’ll admit. But I’d like to keep him around, and see if the miners have him killed.” He glanced apologetically at Bartrum with a wry, lopsided smile. “We’re starved for entertainment here in Sovesta. Something you might have thought of before you ventured this far from home.”

  Bartrum laughed nervously and adjusted his glasses. “Well, I admit, I may have wandered a bit farther north than I originally intended. However!” And he sprang back to his attitude of player-like splendor. “Somewhere deep inside, something spoke to my soul and said, ‘Bartrum, someone out there needs you! Someone out there is waiting for you and your books!’ And so I took to the road!”

  The scattered patrons throughout the tavern were watching Bartrum with various levels of amusement on their faces. Some of the more rugged miners were openly laughing and exchanging low whispers about him, and Fox remembered Borric’s comment about the miners having him killed. It may have been half a joke, but Fox found himself hoping that Bartrum Bookmonger would double-lock his doors at night.

  “So!” said Bartrum, rubbing his hands together, apparently oblivious to the mildly threatening looks being thrown in his direction. “If someone might show me to my room? I’d like to freshen up before I get down to business.”

  “I will!” said Lai, rather more quickly than Fox would have expected. As the two disappeared upstairs, Borric finally let loose the laughter he’d clearly been keeping bottled up out of respect for his guest. The room filled with great roars and guffaws from every corner as not only Borric, but most of his customers, gave in to their amusement.

  But Fox did not laugh. True, he found the man’s whole persona wildly ridiculous, especially considering how obviously out of place he was, but Fox was thinking about what Bartrum had said about someone needing his services. And didn’t Fox truly need a book, right

  now?

  But he decided to wait until later to approach the book-seller. Let the man settle in a bit. And so he retreated to Father’s workshop until sundown, when the whole valley came together for the Midsummer bonfire. And then, he made his way back to the Five Sides, slipped in through the kitchen, and looked for Bartrum Bookmonger.

  He was easy to spot, alone in the otherwise deserted tavern. Everyone was out on the proving grounds, where an enormous beacon of flame had been erected. Unlike the Homecoming, or even the grand Harvestmast festival that was just a short ways away, Midsummer was a simple affair. It was a mountain tradition, as old as the Highborns themselves. A prayer to the gods for a successful harvest season, and a plea that winter would hold off until the crops were all brought in. The bonfire was kindled by a plant from each farming household, and sparked by each miner’s finest flint. It marked the halfway point of the growing season, and it was a call for everyone to pull together and start preparing for the harsher months to come.

  Bartrum was wise to stay away from the ritual. Outsiders were not welcome at such a sacred event. Instead, the man sat at a table by himself, scratching away at a long roll of parchment with an extravagantly plumed quill. Fox approached cautiously, not wanting to startle him, and cleared his throat when he was inches away from the table.

  Bartrum jumped slightly and looked up, startled, but managing not to spoil his writing. “Hello young master,” he said exuberantly. “Come for a simple chat? Or did you desire, perchance, to browse my fine wares? Or have you come for lessons in reading and writing, like your little friend?”

  “Thank you sir, but I already read and write,” said Fox politely. And then, “What friend?”

  Bartrum brushed the question away with his quill, as though trying to dust away the very words Fox had spoken. “Never you mind! So, you’ve come for something else then! Parchment, quills? A fine business ledger?”

  Fox was feeling strangely nervous now. He’d never owned a book be
fore, and he didn’t have a clue how much one might cost. “I was actually hoping ... maybe I could look at your books?”

  “Oh, but I have so much more than simply books, my fine young scholar!” said Bartrum, practically leaping from his seat and taking Fox by the shoulders. “Come. Take a journey with me!”

  He led Fox out and around the back, into the kitchen courtyard and to the rebuilt goat,barn. “Your innkeeper was kind enough to let me anchor my little traveling store in your stables,” said Bartrum, flinging open the doors and sweeping inside, Fox at his heels. Lanterns were lit quickly, illuminating the cozy little barn and waking a very cranky Fermia. She bleated at them and retreated farther into the corner of her stall as Bartrum rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

  The wagon was parked right in the center of the room, great blocks wedged under its wheels to keep it in place. The wagon’s horse was housed in an empty stall, looking just as calm as ever. She’d have to be, thought Fox, to be able to tolerate her owner’s exuberant energy all the time. And then Bartrum began to open his wagon, and every other thought flew from Fox’s mind.

  It seemed that only Bartrum himself knew how to open every drawer, cupboard, and sliding hatch, but as Fox watched, he was amazed to discover that the entire wagon seemed to be made up of just that. The whole back panel, with the “B.B.” stamped into it, pulled out into one massive drawer, filled with great tomes and leatherbound volumes. A door halfway up slid open to reveal shelves of colored ink, rolls of parchment and scrolls. And a little pocket in the side of that same cupboard held not only quills, but a series of finely carved pens that Fox had only seen once before, used by a particularly wealthy merchant passing through the valley years ago. Doors opened up on both sides of the wagon as well, and there was even a small hidden shelf that extended from the bottom and hung beneath the wheels.

  Bartrum ran his fingers fondly along the spine of one of his books. “Tales of daring from across the seas. Biographies of kings. Histories of war and succession. I’ve got them all, right here, for your enjoyment and edification.” And then he took a step back, gesturing for Fox to come take a look for himself.

  By the dim light of the rafter-hung lanterns, the book titles seemed to flicker and shimmer on their spines. Fox brushed his fingertips along each one in turn, pausing here and there to pull one from its housing and flip it open. Here was a beautifully illustrated picture of a woman with leaves woven into her hair, playing a lap harp that seemed to be made of so many live branches. There was a poem on the opposite page, telling the sad tale of a woman who waited in the woods for her lover to find her. She sang and played to bring him to where she sat, but he never appeared. And as she faded into illness and drew close to death, the spirits of the forest who heard her lovely voice took pity on her. They transformed her into a weeping willow, keeping her forever alive and protecting her from heartbreak. According to the poem, her voice and harp could still be heard if you stood beneath the willow branches on a breezy day.

  Another book was full of nothing but highly detailed accounts of ancient battles. There were lists of ships and their crew, cataloguing who was killed, injured, or lost at sea. Personal tales of the front lines from captains and commanders, on land and ocean combat alike. And beside that one, a book that was all in some strange language Fox didn’t recognize. There were books of all sizes, balanced and stacked inexplicably in this moving library. Fox grinned. How Neil would love to see this.

  And then, as he wandered around to look at the books tucked into the left-side shelf, something caught his eye. A thin, black volume with emerald green lettering on the spine. The title was one word: “Asynthum.” Fox plucked the book curiously from its spot, and was surprised to find it was much heavier than it looked. As he opened it, he marveled at how thin the pages were. Impossibly thin, making him worry he might tear them straight out of the book if he so much as turned a page.

  “They’re stronger than you think,” said Bartrum, in a much calmer voice than he’d used before now. He was leaning against a wooden beam, one foot propped up and his arms crossed over his chest. “It would take more than your sharpest knife to cut those pages from that book.”

  “What are they made of?” said Fox. “This isn’t parchment.” The pages were an opalesque, creamy white that seemed like it should have been so thin that the ink would bleed straight through it. But instead the fine, flawless lettering on each page was clean and even, and even its shadows did not show through on the back. It seemed impossible.

  Bartrum winked. “Trade secret,” he said.

  Fox began to flip through the book, not daring to ask how much it would cost him. And as he read, he felt a strange chill. This was the book he’d been looking for. Even silently asking for. A book about the gods. Stories, tales, legends, drawings ... Gods from every country. Demi-gods who went on to become heroes. It was an entire university course on the divine, tucked neatly into one slight tome. And there, not one third of the way through the book, was Farran.

  Even in his black-and-white ink portrait, Farran looked cocky and highly amused with something. Fox glared down at the page, resisting the childish urge to stick his tongue out at it. He continued to browse through the pirate god’s section of the book, and came across a map very similar to the one that had been on display in the Whitethorn temple. In fact, upon closer inspection, Fox found that it was indeed the very same. It laid out, in a series of tiny lines and great shapeless things that Fox assumed were supposed to be countries, the course of Farran’s infamous raiding days on the high seas. Fox had only glimpsed pieces of these stories, but it seemed that there was a time when those sailing the Gossamer Sea had to be very wary of crossing Farran’s ship. Fox’s curiosity and hunger for learning screamed at him from within, wanting to know more about everything from the journeys of the ship to the color of the paint on its hull. He reached out and ran a single fingertip along a line that was labeled “The Hydra Route,” smiling to himself as he imagined the thrill of sailing on a real pirate ship.

  It happened as he traced the route with his finger. He could see it as clearly as though he had been there: Farran standing on the rail of his ship, holding himself steady with a rope tied to one of the sails. His red cloak was billowing behind him as he shouted orders, and all around him, his crew were launching themselves over the edge of their ship, landing on the deck of the smaller boat helplessly tethered to their side. The captured ship was boarded, looted, and any sailors who put up a fight were run through at once. Fox could smell something burning, and hear the relentless crash of the sea behind the screams of fallen men and the shouts of triumph from Farran’s crew. And he could see Farran himself, smiling his wolfish smile.

  Fox ripped his hand away from the page, and the vision disappeared. He looked shakily over at Bartrum, who was watching him curiously. Then Fox wiped his now-sweating palms hastily on his pants and closed the book with a thud.

  After a moment of heavy silence, Bartrum spoke. “I stock my roving warehouse with books of all types. Many of them I even write myself. The biographies especially are a project of mine.” He smiled. Not the toothy, winning smile he’d flashed before, but a soothing sort of friendly smile. “I make it my business to have something here for everyone, and I price accordingly.”

  There wasn’t a doubt in Fox’s mind that this book was the one he’d be taking home. And now, to find out how much he’d have to pay for it.

  Bartrum stepped away from his pillar and moved in closer to Fox. He picked the book up, held it out, and wrapped Fox’s fingers tightly around it. Then he said quietly, “To be collected at a later date.” And with that, he began closing up his wagon again. Their business, for now at least, was done. Fox mumbled a quick thank you, and slipped out of the barn.

  The valley streets were still empty, and Fox could see the glowing light of the bonfire in the distance. A faint hint of song drifted toward him on the warm breeze, and Fox recognized it as a farmer’s prayer. He kept moving, back up the hill to
his deserted house, straight upstairs into his firestone-lit cubby, where he changed into his night things and crawled into bed. There, he propped the book open on his knees and began to read, starting with the very first page.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  He spent every spare moment reading his new book. He took it with him to the stable in the mornings, grooming Cobb absently with one hand while he held the book open in the other. He read late into the night and continued before dawn each day. And no matter how many pages he read, there always seemed to be so many more ahead of him. But this did not bother Fox. In fact, he would have been happy if the book never ran out of pages. For every inch of them was covered in more information than he’d ever hoped to learn, and it was exhilarating.

  The gods, he’d realized, were not very unlike mortals. Prone to the same feelings of love, or anger, or even jealousy. As he read story after story, he was fascinated by how much the gods were once a part of people’s lives. And he took note, somewhat anxiously, of how often those people seemed to come to sticky ends. He read lineage charts of which gods were related to which. He found Radda’s story about the creation of the Shavid, and the wind god Rhin. He found detailed illustrations of many of the deities, though whether they were actual representations or how the artist imagined them, Fox couldn’t tell. And there were maps. Dozens of them, scattered throughout the book, depicting which lands payed tribute to which god. Or where certain notable god-shrines were located. These pages, Fox avoided touching.