Even days later, his head still buzzed from his encounter with the black ink “Hydra Route” and the visions it caused. Fox had no idea what it was about the map that had done it. Was it the fact that it was Farran’s page? Or was it something else? The one person he wanted to ask was miles away, the gods only knew where. And so, eventually, he settled on the second best person. And he found him, two days after his initial arrival, sitting up on the hillside with Lai, poring over a small portable desk with a scroll of parchment stretched across it.
Bartrum Bookmonger looked up when Fox approached them, and grinned broadly.
“Welcome, youngling! Come, have a seat, won’t you?”
Fox looked down at the parchment they were studying, and then turned a questioning face to Lai. It appeared to be a simple chart laying out all the letters of the common alphabet.
“Bartrum’s teaching me how to read and write,” explained Lai sheepishly.
The gentleman’s earlier comment about Fox’s “friend” suddenly made sense, and Fox smiled at her. “That’s excellent!” he said cheerfully. He flopped down easily onto the grass on Bartrum’s other side and said, “I could help you too, if you want!”
Lai shook her head, smiling. “Thanks, but you’ve got enough going on. Bartrum’s agreed to stay on the rest of the summer and tutor me. Father’s paying him.”
“I also teach mathematics and business,” said Bartrum genially, all teeth and hinting eyebrows. “For a fee, of course.”
“Maybe later,” said Fox. “Listen, I wanted to ... talk about something with you.” He glanced at Lai, who raised an eyebrow in silent question. “Something I can’t quite figure out, and I’m wondering if it’s your book, or ... or me.”
Bartrum’s player air was beginning to dissipate somewhat, as it had back in the goat barn. He grew quiet and calmer, and sat up a little straighter. “Ask away,” he said. “And I shall do my best to oblige.”
Fox spread the book open on the grass, never worrying that it might get dirty. He’d discovered very quickly that the book was impervious to dirt, water, and even food stains. Now, he flipped to a random map entitled “The Oracle’s Mountain,” depicting the hard-to-reach pathways to various temples of Phiira, goddess of seers. Fox had been very careful not to select a map that had anything to do with Farran.
“What is that?” asked Lai, scooting in closer to look.
“Just some reading for fun,” said Fox quickly. Then he turned to Bartrum. “These maps,” he said. “Have people been known to ... see things, when they touch them?”
Bartrum raised one perfect eyebrow and adjusted the position of his glasses. “See what, might I ask?”
Fox took a deep breath, and placed his finger on the spot labeled “The Gates of Agaath.” Again, it was as if he had been there himself. He spoke as the vision came to him. “There is a great tree that’s always in bloom, growing in the heart of a round pool. A pool with rose-colored stonework. And there is a winding path you cannot see with your eyes, it blends so perfectly into the stone. Only those who close their eyes and stop trusting in what their sight tells them will be able to hear the echoes leading them up, up the side of the mountain. But the earth at the gates is dead, from generations of pilgrims’ feet trampling the grass as they wander hopelessly, looking only with their eyes.”
Fox pulled his hand away, trying to ignore the sharp, sudden headache that came with the abrupt sights and smells. Even now, he felt the lingering scent of that faraway mountain tickling his nose. He looked Bartrum straight in the eyes. “I’ve never been there before,” he said. “I’d never even heard of it. Why can I see it? What are these pages made of?”
Bartrum looked stunned. And, for what Fox felt certain was the first time in the excitable man’s life, speechless. He pulled his glasses off with a trembling hand and pulled the book close. “These pages,” he said finally, “have a very specific kind of magic. They allow for a lot of information in a limited amount of space. They stay clean, and whole. They are meant for hard study, and for texts that should not be easily lost. But they cannot make you see things. That is not their power.” He looked up, replacing his glasses once more. “Show me again,” he said. And he held out the book.
Fox turned to a different page this time. A map that showed the capital city of the Central Continent: Athilior. It was said to be a chosen city, favored of many of the Great Gods. That’s why its map was included. Fox had heard many stories of the city from Father, but of course he’d never been there. Breathing deep again, Fox closed his eyes and touched a random piece of the map. “The market district is wide and sprawling. Every season has its goods, and every trader knows his place. I can smell saddle oils and soaps from the islands. There is a kennel on the west end of the market, with the finest hunting dogs in the city. And a mews that shares the kennel courtyard, where the city’s best hawks are raised. Streets of grey stone. Fireproofing balm on every wooden beam in the district since the Market Fire eight years ago, which claimed the lives of over three hundred citizens.”
This time, Fox had to pull his hand away from the map. His finger seemed to want to stay put, and Fox felt dizzy when he opened his eyes. It was almost as if the information was clattering to get to him, and he’d cut it off like a dam in a river. He settled himself before looking at either of them, and then his gaze locked with Lai’s. “It’s maps,” he said, only to her.
Bartrum was all but forgotten. “That’s what I can do. I can see them, Lai. I can see everything.” He knew as he said it that it was true. Just as he could feel the snow. The Desolata. Just as he could see the wind laid out before him, he knew. “It’s the maps.”
A great gust of wind swept up the hill toward them and settled on their little group, almost knocking them over. Bartrum clutched his glasses to his face, and Lai grasped at the parchment before it flew away. But Fox stood, spreading his arms wide and letting the wind wrap around him, taking in all it had to say. And when it finally slowed, he grinned.
“It’s the Shavid,” he said breathlessly. “They’re coming back.”
Chapter Fourteen
Departure
The Foxgloves’ next trading expedition took them to a little hamlet called Doff. It was even smaller than Thicca Valley, and tucked far up in the mountains. Their people were primarily fire merchants, specializing in candles, firestones, and even a specific strain of lymnstone. In any other circumstance, Fox would have found their whole culture fascinating. But now, he found it hard to focus on anything.
The Shavid were coming back. He had no idea where they were, or how long it would take them, but they were on their way! He was even more anxious than when they’d first left, checking the horizon regularly for signs of a colored flag or listening for a measure of song. It was only when Father cuffed him over the head and said he was acting like an incompetent child that Fox began trying to put his excitement out of mind. It might take months for them to meander back to him from wherever they might be. For all Fox knew, they could be far across the sea, past the Magistrate’s Harbor to the east.
And so he fell to his usual routine, cramming his life full with anything and everything he could to keep his thoughts in the here and now. Only this time, he did it with a certain renewed fervor, determined to show the Shavid how much he’d grown in their absence.
He started up a morning training class with many of the valley boys once he returned home. All the techniques and tricks Neil had shown him were dusted off and put to good use again as he and the boys sparred and practiced in the early dawn. As the weeks progressed, many of the men started to join them, and even a handful of the women. As one of the widows pointed out, those who couldn’t fight were more likely to be murdered by those who could.
Each morning after the training group dispersed, Fox would head out to the woods to put his newly honed tracking skills to work. There was no game in all the forests in all the world that was a match for him now. With a growing instinct so powerful it almost frightened him, Fox c
ould track even the cleverest elk with barely a hint of a trail. In fact, he found he had to be very careful to limit his daily haul, or else the woods would be completely barren of animal life by the end of the summer. It was a careful balance between bringing in enough pelts to satisfy Father, and letting the bulk of the animals be, so they could continue to reproduce.
And then, Fox would turn his attentions to his own personal practice. It was this part of his day that Bartrum Bookmonger was particularly interested in. As Fox began to delve deeper into the maps, Bartrum seemed to assign himself to be Fox’s personal tutor. He was always there, eager to help and ecstatic to answer any question he could. Fox noticed that the man lost a bit of his flamboyant air whenever he was deeply involved in teaching, and he asked about it one day as the two sat in Bartrum’s room at the Five Sides.
“My apprenticeship was rather ... unorthodox,” the man said reminiscently. “My master was a lady bookbinder. The only woman in a predominantly male trade. But she turned it to her advantage.” He sighed almost dreamily. “That woman could sell pages to an eyeless illiterate. In any case, I kept to myself for the most part. I was a scholar at heart, and being around the books and letters felt right. I wanted nothing more than a calm, comfortable life. I kept my head down, stayed out of trouble, and followed her rules to the letter.
“But the dear lady Life, it seemed, had other ideas,” said Bartrum. “And I began to discover I had a gift for making paper that even my dear mistress could never hope to emulate. My paper was stronger. Sturdier. Smoother. It sold for more; it was requested by the regulars. And my mistress began to see me as a threat, rather than an asset. Long before my apprenticeship was up, she threw me out. Left to my own devices, with but the one marketable skill, I tried to sell my wares on my own.
“I quickly learned, however, that a quality product will only get you so far. And so, I became this,” he said, gesturing almost ruefully at himself. “People react better to a cheerful smile and a jolly laugh.” Bartrum chuckled softly and shook his head. “For twenty years I have been living as him. The florid book man, with his fine clothes and fancy speech. It is most of who I am now. But every so often, the quiet scholar from the back of the bookbinder’s shop comes up for air. And I welcome him like an old friend.”
Not for the first time, Fox was strongly reminded of Neil. A scholar, trapped in a player’s world. And as he and Bartrum went about the days’ studies, Fox found himself hoping the two would meet someday. Perhaps Bartrum would still be in town by the time the Shavid once more rode in over the horizon.
Fox discovered quickly that he rather liked Bartrum. Not only as a teacher, but as a friend. He was exceptionally helpful to have around, an extra mind to help work out why Fox’s powers behaved as they did. He’d also begun to test Fox, putting him and his Blessing through an ongoing series of trials to see how powerful Fox truly was.
“And to stretch your gifts, as it were,” Bartrum would explain. For just as he made Lai practice her reading and writing, he expected Fox to practice using his magic at every opportunity.
And so, the summer passed far too quickly. The days spent in a haze of chores, work, and lessons, the nights spent in pleasant companionship at the Five Sides. Trade caravans from farther north began to pass through town, and there was a sense of agreeable tension in the air. New songs began to circulate around the farming community, and the nights slowly began to grow cool. Autumn came early to the mountains, and with it the caravan.
✽ ✽ ✽
The start of September found Fox and Bartrum perched high up on the goat hills, with Lai and her herd nothing but tiny smudges below. Fox had been gone on several trade and trapping journeys in a row, and it seemed Bartrum was determined to make up for lost time. He’d compiled a whole list of experiments he was eager to try, and he was practically bouncing with excitement as he spoke.
“Now, focus,” Bartrum said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “We know you can call the goats from a short distance, but try it from here.”
It was almost too easy for Fox. His instinct took over, and within moments the small herd was running up the hill toward them. Bartrum giggled excitedly and fluttered his hand. “Back, back, send them back now!”
With a quick scratch behind the ears, Fox carefully whispered to each that they should head back to their grazing. Once they returned to Lai, Bartrum said, “Now, let’s see if we can’t call one at a time.”
This, too, was painfully easy. Fermia came trotting eagerly up to him when he called, and Fox wrapped his arms around her soft, strong neck.
The next test was more difficult. He had to call them without actually looking at them. The first few tries were messy and unsuccessful. He accidentally ended up summoning an entire flock of geese, and once Lai said she felt inclined to go racing up the hill. But eventually, Fox managed it. And Bartrum was beside himself.
“This is magic unlike anything I’ve ever seen!” he said joyously. “When your Shavid friends return, oh what a tale we’ll have to tell them!”
But as September wore on, Fox couldn’t spend as much time on lessons as either he or Bartrum would have liked. The caravan was mere weeks away, and that meant every waking moment was dedicated to intense preparations. Repairs had to be made to the gear and the cart. Meat had to be smoked, to make portable rations for the journey. Pelts were stretched on frames to make them easier to display to potential buyers.
And every waresman in town had their own routine. Thicca Valley was never truly calm during the end of the summer, which only added to the restlessness already plaguing Fox. The wind still taunted him with hints of the approaching Shavid, but he could never tell how close they might be. He even attempted in vain to reach out to them with the wind, but he wasn’t hopeful. It seemed all he could do was wait.
But waiting, he’d discovered, truly did not come naturally to him. He knew it now more than ever: his restlessness was a product of the wind. Just another strange quirk that came with his particular Blessing. Just as the wind could not sit still, neither could he. He began to keep a whittling knife and a block of wood in his pockets at all times, just in case he found himself caught with nothing to do. By the time the final preparations for the caravan were in place, he’d carved enough wooden pieces to fill his entire windowsill.
Departure was a week away, and with it came the Harvestmast. The two rituals went hand-in-hand, as the harvest festival filled the day and night, leading up to the dawn commencement of the caravan the following morning. Bartrum Bookmonger was thrilled to be witnessing what he called “these pleasant little mountain ceremonies.” In the days leading up to the two events, he could be seen dogging the heels of anyone preparing for the festivities, asking them questions with a little book and pen held out before him, ready to take notes on the proceedings. Many of the Thiccans had begun to tolerate him by now, and some even seemed to enjoy having someone take such an interest in their humble lives. Fox watched Bartrum conduct many an interview at his favorite table at the Five Sides. It was also from here that Bartrum could sometimes be seen commanding the attention of the entire room, as he read passionately from his beloved books. A great number of Thiccans enjoyed his animated speeches and performances, just as they’d enjoyed the Shavid. And Fox, watching Bartrum grandly deliver a tale with one foot on his bench and one foot on the table, found that it was unfortunate that the book man wouldn’t be staying in the valley through the winter. His contract as tutor was up, and he would be traveling back to the south with the protection of the caravan.
The day before Harvestmast, the entire valley woke to a blanket of frost on the ground. And even those who did not possess Fox’s heightened senses could smell it: fall was here. Excitement filled the air, and the same anxious energy that preceded the Homecoming months before now settled over Thicca Valley again. Homes were cleaned from top to bottom. Rugs were beaten out, over and over again. Even Lai was grooming the goats so often they began to protest.
But why? Fox
wondered to himself as he sat on the hillside with her, watching her pick stones that weren’t there out of Fermia’s hooves. Lai had never given in to the valley’s nervous little quirks before. And why would she? No one she cared about ever left on the caravan. None of her family were waresmen. She never had to watch a father or brother leave for the entire winter, always wondering when and if he’d be coming home. And as Lai finally released the goat back to its grazing, Fox realized. It was him. He was leaving, for the very first time. And that made this year different.
Fox had been so wrapped up in his own preparations. With the excitement of the returning Shavid, and the responsibility that came with finally becoming a man, he hadn’t even thought about how his absence would affect the people left in the valley. Mother, alone for the first winter since Fox was born. Lai, with hardly a friend in the valley, losing both her tutor and her closest companion all in one day. Even Picck might find himself wishing for Fox’s company in the kitchen this winter.
He suddenly felt strangely guilty for abandoning them all, and tried to shake the feeling away. This was how life was in the valley. He’d never begrudged Father for being gone all winter. It was the way things were. Father had to leave for his family to survive. And the whole of Thicca Valley depended on the business of trade, Fox knew that. But even so, as he looked at Lai absently running her fingers through her hair, he was visited by a strange sense of discomfort.
And he knew, somehow, that things would never be the same between them once he returned.
Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1) Page 21