Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1)

by Kaitlin Bellamy

  Fox couldn’t help it. He let his laugh free, and managed to choke through his tears of mirth, “Well we shall be careful not to muss your curls, princess!” And then he bowed extravagantly, with much gesturing of the hands as he’d seen Bartrum Bookmonger do.

  Farran cuffed him lightly about the head, but he was smiling all the same. “Finish packing your things, and then meet me upstairs in front of my shrine. We’ll be on our way within the hour.”

  But Fox was already packed. He dressed quickly as Farran left, then carefully rolled his letters into a tight bundle, and tied each of them with a thin scrap of rabbit sinew string. He would find a bird house somewhere in the city before they left, and send his messages off to Thicca Valley. Then he checked and double-checked his gear, counting the spare strings he had for his hunting bow and making sure each of his knives was sharp and clean. As he made to leave the room himself, he found that someone had put a tray of hot breakfast outside his door. A hearty slice of salted pork flank and a steaming cup of bread pudding. He ate only half of the pork, wrapping the rest of it in otter skin and stowing it with his things. The pudding he inhaled eagerly before replacing the empty cup on the tray and setting the dishes on his desk.

  And then he shouldered his pack with his unstrung bow secured to the side, took one last look about to make sure he hadn’t left anything, and closed the door behind him as he left.

  Fox had been right in thinking he was in a living quarters. As he made his way down the long, dark hallway toward the stairway, doors on either side of him opened and closed as priestesses emerged, yawning and talking in hushed voices. It seemed Fox and Farran weren’t the only ones who had an early start to their day.

  Upstairs, Fox found the temple empty and quiet. Only the barest amount of candles were lit, and no light shone through the colored glass. The room was a puzzle of shadows, and Fox thanked his excellent sight as he picked his way to Farran’s shrine. “Predator’s eyes,” Father had always called them.

  And it was because of these eyes of his that Fox could see, quite clearly, the two shadows tucked in the back of Farran’s shrine. As he rounded the viney corner, he suddenly stopped.

  Farran and Adella were there, and they appeared to be saying their goodbyes. Carefully, hoping they hadn’t seen him, Fox backed away until he was hidden behind one of the statue’s massive stone boots. Adella’s head was buried in Farran’s chest, and he was holding her and tenderly stroking her hair. Then, she pulled her head back and turned her face up to look into his.

  “Safe travels, my lord,” she said softly.

  Farran tucked two fingers under her chin and kissed her ever so gently on the forehead. The kiss lingered for a long time, and Fox suddenly felt guilty intruding on such a private moment. And then Farran pulled away, and ran one finger down the side of her cheek. “It is always my pleasure to return to you,” he said. He let his fingers tangle for a moment in her hair, and then he released her. She curtsied low, and he bowed in return. And then she left, her cloak whispering along the floor until she disappeared into the stairwell.

  As Farran watched her go, Fox removed himself cautiously from the shadows and cleared his throat. Farran took a deep breath, and then said somberly, “Time to go.” He bent down and plucked something from the shadows of his own statue. It was finely stitched leather gear, much larger than the bags Fox carried. Farran slung them onto his back effortlessly, then reached out in front and gripped his hand tight in midair. An elegant walking stick shimmered into being in his hand. And without another word, Farran led the way out of the temple and into the frozen forest.

  They didn’t speak as they made their way through the sleeping city of Whitethorn. There was a quiet resolve on Farran’s face that didn’t encourage talking. When they passed a little bird house on the way out of town, Fox simply gestured that he needed to stop, and Farran nodded. Quickly, Fox ducked inside the stone tower, where hundreds of birds adorned the rafters. A little girl curled up on a pillow in the corner awoke when Fox came in, and rubbed the sleep in her eyes as she came scrambling to help him. She was streaked with dirt, and there was straw caught in her flyaway blonde hair, but she smiled at him broadly as he presented her the letters. She promised to get them sent off at once, and thanked him heartily when he tossed her a fat copper coin.

  Farran started walking again the moment Fox re-joined him, and he didn’t speak until they reached the very edge of the city. Then Farran turned and gazed out at Whitethorn, off in the general direction of the temple. “There’s something unnatural about a pirate finding a home this far from the sea,” he said quietly. “And if I had it in my power, I would take us both away on a ship somewhere, until the end of her days.”

  “Why can’t you?” asked Fox.

  “That power was taken from me, long ago,” said Farran. And then he smiled, but Fox could tell it wasn’t real. “But this is your mission now.” He turned his back on the city and held his arm wide, gesturing out at the open fields and snow-covered landscape. “Lead on, Master Foxglove.”

  As the sky began to lighten, a fresh breeze took Fox by the hand, and he followed. There would be plenty of time for questions on the road. Plenty of time for talk and stories. But it wasn’t now. Now, Father was waiting. And Fox was coming to save him.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  It was easier to talk to Farran that Fox might have imagined. Once the god got away from Whitethorn, he became more of his old self again, and seemed eager to chat. He let Fox ask all sorts of questions about the gods he’d read of in Asynthum. He even added anecdotes of his own, and Fox was amazed at how normal Farran made the gods sound.

  But when it came to himself and his history, Farran would change the subject. He would ask Fox questions of his own, talking about anything from Fox’s past to how he was coming along in studying his Blessing. And, above all else, he wanted to know about Lai.

  Over and over, Farran asked for stories about his daughter. He seemed to want to know everything, from her favorite color when she was three to how she took her eggs. He asked about her friends, what she did every day, how she’d handled growing up without a mother. These stories came easily to Fox, and he was more than happy to oblige. He spun hours of tales as they walked, telling about his earliest memories with the Blackroots and Lai’s lessons with Widow Mossgrove.

  “You know her well,” Farran remarked at one point, as they sat together on the side of the road, eating a simple lunch.

  “Maybe better than anyone,” admitted Fox. And then, tearing his jerky into smaller pieces, he said, “In a way, we always only had each other.” Farran raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and Fox explained. “We sort of ... found one another, when we were young. Neither of us really felt like we had a place in the valley, at least not with the other kids. Didn’t matter why we felt it, but it was there. And it brought us together, closer than family.” He absently sucked on the end of one of his shredded chunks of jerky for a moment. Then he stood, wiping snow from his backside. “We should get moving. Don’t want to have to camp out in the open tonight.”

  Without waiting for Farran’s response, Fox was on his way again.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  They set up camp early, tucking themselves into a comfortable scrap of forest. To Fox’s surprise, Farran offered to set up the tent and build a fire. “You go,” said Farran, waving him off. “Track us down a hearty supper, I’ll take care of things here.”

  As Fox strung his bow and strapped his knives around his waist, he watched Farran from the corner of his eye. The god hummed to himself as he worked, stringing up ropes between thick tree trunks and anchoring loose ends to the ground with wooden stakes. By the time Fox headed out in search of game, Farran was whistling cheerfully and unrolling a great roll of tent canvas.

  It didn’t take long for Fox to bag three plump hares for dinner, but by the time he’d returned Farran had already built a beautifully crackling campfire. The tent was fully erected, nestled between two large pine trees, and Farran himself was
lounging on a fallen log, staring up at the shadowed ceiling of branches. He glanced over lazily when Fox returned.

  “Those will do nicely,” he said, his eyes catching the limp carcasses strung across Fox’s back.

  “They’ll do better if I have some help,” said Fox pointedly, letting two of the hares fall to the earth while he dropped the other one onto Farran’s stomach. The god coughed and sat up, chuckling slightly.

  As the two began to skin the animals, Farran said, “That’s quite a good shot you’ve got there.”

  Fox looked up, and found Farran inspecting the hare’s eye. “Father taught me well,” said Fox. “One good killing blow is better than two near misses. And if I catch them in the eye, it damages less of the pelt. Makes it easier to sell.”

  Farran smiled in a bemused sort of way, and turned back to his work. Once his hare was skinned and gutted, he skewered it on a sharpened branch and propped it up just beside the fire, wedging the end of the branch in between two heavy stones. As Fox finished up his own work, trussing up his two hares just as Farran had done, the god remarked thoughtfully, “Must be easier for you to catch game, now that you can just call the animals to you.”

  Fox looked up from adjusting one of his skewers, shocked. “I would never,” he said defensively. He wasn’t so much surprised at Farran’s knowledge of his Blessing, but more at the insinuation that Fox could simply hunt effortlessly now. “It would be too much like cheating.”

  Farran chuckled. “Permission to take a moment and point out the irony of arguing cheating with a pirate.”

  “And if permission is denied?” asked Fox.

  “I’m merely suggesting that you take advantage of the gifts you have been given,” said Farran. “Why struggle to hunt and risk going hungry when you can simply command the beasts to walk up to your side?”

  Fox busied himself with cleaning off every scrap of gut and fur from his knives, and for a moment he did not answer. Then, as he slid one completed blade back into its sheathe, he said quietly, “Gifts may just as easily be taken away.”

  Farran looked mildly surprised, as though Fox’s answer had not been quite what he was expecting. But he recovered quickly. “Cheating is a way of life, my lad. It is how wars and maiden’s hearts are won. Even your namesake, the cunning woodland fox, is a scavenger.

  Following other creatures of the forest to their hideaways and taking their food as his own.”

  The next knife, Fox crammed into its sheathe with more force than he’d originally planned, and a stitch popped loose from the leather. “It may be your way of life,” he said firmly, “and perhaps one day it will be mine. But it is not yet, and I will use my Blessing as I see fit. Magic should not be a crutch, replacing a skill I already have with a quick fix. And if one day the gods see fit to take it away from me again, I will still be able to live.”

  A smile was playing about Farran’s mouth now. A triumphant, self-satisfied smile. “For a child who has grown up in a country bereft of magic, you seem to know an awful lot about it.”

  “And for a god, you know an awful lot about mortal pursuits,” countered Fox. He cocked his head pointedly at the crackling fire.

  Farran sighed in a defeated manner and chuckled. “I suppose there’s more to both of us than meets the eye.”

  They sat in a comfortable, lazy quietude after that, each keeping themselves entertained and taking turns checking on supper. Their little circle of trees was full of the sounds and smells of a campsite: the soft hiss of roasting meat as tongues of flame licked at the skewered hares; the soft pop and fizzle when crystals of sap caught fire and melted into the embers; a low humming and the gnawing of blade on wood as Farran whittled away at a scrap of pine; and the steady rrrrsch of Fox’s tools as he scraped the pelts clean.

  Between the two of them, they ate one and a half hares for supper. The rest, Fox wrapped carefully in parchment to save for breakfast. The fire had burned low by the time they finished, and Fox was beginning to yawn openly.

  “I’ll take the watch tonight,” said Farran, stretching himself out on his log again. “Get your rest, you’ll need it.”

  A part of Fox wanted to argue, if only to prove he was man enough to stand the first watch. But instead, another yawn overtook him, and he grunted a quick thanks before dragging himself to the tent and crawling inside. The exhaustion of the last few days seemed to have finally caught up with him, along with the sleepless night before. It was only as Fox laid out his bedroll and fell gratefully into it that the thought occurred to him: did gods even need sleep? But before he had time to ponder it, a dreamless unconscious washed over him.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Fox was awakened long before dawn by a sharp kick to the ribs. With a painful grunt and a fit of coughing, Fox scrambled to sit upright, looking around wildly and grasping blindly for his knives.

  “Oh good,” said the dark shadow in the tent doorway that was Farran. “You’re up. Come on, then.” And he was gone, pushing back through the canvas door flap and letting a burst of freezing air rush through the tent. Fox shivered and pulled his knees to his chest, wiping sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hand. Slowly, with many grunts and muttered curses, he dressed and stumbled out into the grey haze that was not quite morning.

  Farran had already brought the fire back to an even blaze, and the leftover pieces from last night’s supper were laid out on flat rocks to heat. Farran himself had abandoned his merchant’s costume, and looked much more like himself. In fact, he had abandoned almost everything. The pirate god had stripped down to breeches, a belted sash, and an open vest over his naked torso. He stood waiting on the other side of the fire, hands clasped behind his back.

  “You spoke of skills wasting away in the presence of magic,” said Farran once Fox had emerged. “And yet, you let this skill rust like an unused sword.”

  Fox finished tucking in the stray corners of his shirt, and glared at Farran. “Which skill do I have to sharpen before the sun is even up?”

  “You were practicing combat with Neil just as early, not long ago,” said Farran. “When you travel with me, you keep your skills sharp.”

  Dragging his feet, Fox shuffled over to join Farran across the fire. “Is there any point in wondering how you know about all that?” he asked grumpily.

  A roguish grin was Farran’s only answer. “Now,” he said, spreading his feet in a fighting stance, “let’s see what you can do with that rusty sword of yours.”

  By the time breakfast was ready, Fox was sore and bruised. Farran had gotten the better of him in every sparring match. And while many of the things Neil had once taught him were buried deep in his muscle memory, Fox found it harder to put into practice than he’d anticipated. He was sweating freely despite the cold, and when he sat down gingerly to help himself to breakfast, he stripped off his outer coat.

  “I don’t think I realized quite how long it had been,” he admitted, wincing as he twisted his shoulder too far back.

  “The technique is still there,” said Farran. “You just need to get back at it.”

  Fox grunted and began shoveling warm hare into his mouth. The morning practice had made him ravenous, and meat had a way of making him not hurt quite so much. As the forest around them began to come to life with the scurrying of those animals that dared to brave Deep Winter, Farran quickly rolled up the tent canvas and tacked it securely to his bags. Fox took charge of the ropes, which were sticky with a light glaze of sap. He wrapped and knotted them expertly, so they wouldn’t get tangled and would be easy to use again tonight.

  Clouds were thick across the sky, but they could feel somewhere behind them, the sun was trying to rise. They shouldered their packs and set off, Fox in the lead once more.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  They settled into a sort of routine as they traveled. Farran would set up camp each evening, as Fox went off in search of dinner. They chatted on occasion as they worked, and more often than not they would wind up playing a friendly game of cards. Then Farr
an would stand watch, and Fox would retire to his waiting bedroll.

  Mornings were always heralded by combat practice. Farran drilled Fox on the things he’d learned already, putting him through his paces over and over again until he could measure “how much you’ve really learned.” And then, once Fox’s body began to remember what it was like to practice hand-to-hand and simple kicks and punches, Farran began to mix things up. He taught Fox tricky footwork and the basics of staff combat. Time and time again, they went through the same routines, until Farran was satisfied with Fox’s technique.

  Breakfast was always a quiet affair, as Fox was exhausted and only focused on his food. They would clean up camp in silence, working so seamlessly that neither tried to do the other’s chores. By the time they left the campsite behind, there wouldn’t be a trace that humans had set foot there.

  And then, they would walk. They would keep a steady conversation, often about nothing at all, until they stopped for lunch. There, Farran started training Fox in the ways of throwing knives.

  “I wouldn’t dream of trying to teach you a thing about bows,” said Farran on their second day out. They were once more taking their lunch resting just off the path. “But there are other weapons of range you could be utilizing. And I just happen to be an expert in the art of a well-placed knife.”

  With that, the god palmed a small blade and, with a quick flick of the wrist, sent it flying down the road to embed itself deep in the heart of a tree trunk. The first knife was hardly gone when a second one went rushing after it, and landed with a distant thud right next to the first. Once Fox was sure that Farran was finished, he went to investigate. He found both knives clustered so close together, there wasn’t a hairs’ breadth of a gap between their hilts. Indeed, the hilts themselves were the only things that showed. Even at such a distance, the knives had gone so deep Fox couldn’t pull them free. He hurried back to Farran’s side with an eagerness to learn that must have shown in his face, because Farran laughed at him.