Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1)

by Kaitlin Bellamy

  “Easy, little pup,” Farran teased. “You’ll get there, I’ll make sure of it. Now, for starters, let’s work on your stance.”

  And each lunch afterwards, they focused on knives. And that, at least, came easier to Fox than any other combat practice he’d had so far. While his body may have been battered from the morning training, his mind was still clear, and his predator’s eyes were keen at measuring distances. It was very much like shooting a bow, he quickly discovered. And he came to look forward to their short but fulfilling midday rests.

  It should have taken more than a week to reach the foothills, even with Fox’s instincts at the helm. But within five days of leaving Whitethorn, the ground began to rise beneath their feet.

  Their path grew steeper, and the wind whistled down at them from the mountain peaks far above. When Fox turned an inquisitive eye to Farran, the god winked and said, “I never said I had to do everything by a mortal’s rules. And just because I can’t get us there in an instant doesn’t mean I won’t help ... ah, speed things along a bit.”

  Fox grinned. “Couldn’t have mentioned that at the beginning, could you?”

  “And spoil my fun?” said Farran. “Come now, I can’t be giving away all my secrets at once!”

  With that, they began the familiar ritual of setting up camp for the night. There was a sheltering sort of dip in the earth that would tuck them neatly underneath a series of rocky ledges. The snow was thinner here, and the earth made a natural lean-to that would save them the trouble of putting up the tent for one night. They cobbled together a hearty stew of winter mushrooms and weasel meat, and as they let it heat over the fire, Fox asked a question that had been itching at his mind ever since he’d met Lai’s mother.

  “How did you meet her?” When Farran didn’t answer at once, Fox pressed on. “A god and a mortal woman, it just seems so ... impossible.”

  There was a heavy, guarded quality to Farran’s voice when he finally answered. “Are you asking for edification, or entertainment?”

  “Both,” admitted Fox.

  For a moment, he was sure that Farran wouldn’t answer. After all, on the road Fox had tried many times to pry bits of history from Farran, but the pirate god had cleverly eluded all of his questions, or even bluntly changed the subject. Now however, as Farran tossed scraps of kindling into the heart of the fire, he said, “Even the gods like to descend from their thrones on occasion and walk among mortals. And I – well, I have less cause to be about the divine realms than most.”

  Farran shifted, stretching one leg out farther in front, but Fox didn’t dare to move. He didn’t want to interrupt the story, or make Farran remember that he’d been actively avoiding such tales up until now.

  “I was sailing with a fine and clever plundering crew,” Farran continued. “We’d disguised ourselves as merchants. And she was a chancellor’s daughter. A blue-blooded, finebred young thing. But oceans alive, did she have spirit.” His voice trailed off dreamily, and he tossed another handful of scrap wood into the fire. For several minutes he simply stared ahead, his eyes reflecting the firelight. Then he shifted again, and Fox was surprised to notice discomfort in Farran’ movement.

  “I’ve never been much of a storyteller,” Farran grunted finally. “And for her ... there’s nothing I could say that would ever make you see her as I did. No tale I could spin that would ever truly capture Adella deMorrow.” And then, he looked Fox straight in the eyes and said,

  “Would you like to see it?”

  Fox cocked his head in curious confusion. “How —” he began.

  “The Shavid may make you see visions when they sing,” said Farran. “But the gods have other ways. If you would like, I can show you everything.”

  For a moment, Fox was torn. It was one thing hearing the story of Lai’s parents, and entirely another to see it. What might be a fascinating tale was still a very private part of Lai’s life, and even she didn’t know it. But in the end, Fox’s curiosity was stronger. He had to know.

  He nodded, and Farran reached out a gentle hand. He pressed two fingers just between Fox’s eyes, and said softly, “Then I’ll take you to The Gossamer Sea, and the finest ship I ever sailed: the Laila.”

  There was the smell of saltwater and the crack of canvas sails in the wind. Winter melted away, and the sun shone brightly, bouncing off the highly polished deck of the ship. It was as though Fox were all at once gazing through Farran’s eyes and watching him from afar. As the ship began to rock lazily back and forth on the swells, Fox began to lose track of who he really was. And then, he disappeared into Farran’s memories.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Laila

  Farran dropped the last few feet to the deck and laughed triumphantly. “There’s no man alive that can race the likes of me in the rigging!” he crowed. He threw his head back and laughed again, a rich and wild sound that had been known to make the very sails fill with wind, and could make mermaids sing.

  With a hearty laugh of his own, Edwin came sliding down the rope after him and landed, wiping sweat from his smile-crinkled brow. “I should have known better,” the man joked. “But I keep hoping one day I’ll catch up to you!” He swept back the blond curls that had fallen across his eyes, running his fingers through his hair and letting the steady sea-breeze whisper through it.

  He was a tanned, muscular young man, with a constant boyish gleam in his wide green eyes. Farran laughed and wrapped a jovial arm around him. “Keep trying, my friend,” he said.

  “Perhaps if I lose a leg!”

  “You know,” teased Edwin lightly, “I could use a hand sharpening my tools later, if you happen to be around.”

  Farran tousled Edwin’s hair and shoved him away, saying, “Planning accidents for me already, are you?”

  But before Edwin could respond in kind, a bellowing shout from the quarterdeck came tearing through the air. “That’ll be enough lollygagging from you Mister Farthington!” They both looked up to find the captain glaring across at them, arms crossed over his chest. Edwin hung his head like a beaten dog. “Back to work with you!”

  “Yes sir,” said Edwin quietly, but they both knew the captain had heard it. He heard everything. Without a backward glance, Edwin hurried below decks.

  “And you, Mister Tallowight!” bellowed the captain. “Report to the helm at once!”

  Farran bowed his head sardonically and swept up the deck to where the captain stood, surveying his ship with a critical eye.

  “You shouted, sir?” said Farran.

  Captain Worthright might have been intimidating to anyone else, but to Farran he was just a man. He was inch-for-inch as tall as Farran, but at least three times as broad. He had scars from a lifetime of battle rippling across every inch of him, like a map carved by each sword, knife, and shred of cannon shrapnel. The bulk of his arms so strained at any stitching that he’d taken to wearing open, sleeveless vests with no shirt. But no matter the weather, he did not seem to feel cold.

  He surveyed Farran with the same sharp, calculating eye with which he took in every inch of his ship. Then he sighed and went over to the starboard railing, gesturing for Farran to follow. The captain gripped the polished teak with both hands and leaned his whole weight on it, gazing out at the open sea. As always when Captain Worthright applied his bulk to something, Farran was inwardly surprised that the wood didn’t simply give way. He himself leaned on his elbows beside the captain and waited. He knew the captain would speak when and if he saw fit.

  “You couldn’t let him win just once,” said Worthright gruffly after a few minutes.

  Farran shrugged apologetically. “He’s got his strengths, rig-racing just isn’t one of them.”

  “Strengths be hanged,” said Worthright, shaking his head and turning to look at Farran.

  “Make him look good in front of the men! Boost his confidence a bit!”

  “No disrespect, sir,” said Farran, “but the men do like him. He’s friendly and much beloved around here. I know you ca
n’t see it —”

  “I see that alright. But love does not always command respect! They need to see him as a leader!”

  “You still plan on making him your successor, then?” asked Farran.

  Captain Worthright heaved an almighty sigh and turned to look down the railing. Edwin had reemerged from below, and was now hanging off the starboard bow, busily repairing some of the woodwork. “They boy’s a damned fine carpenter, no arguing that,” he admitted. “But every time I look at him ... there’s so much of his mother in him, that I want something more for his future. Something ... grand! Impressive.”

  “Not everyone is meant to be a captain,” said Farran calmly. “I know he’s your son, but that doesn’t mean he has to fall in line for the throne!”

  Worthright glared sidelong at Farran. And then, he appeared to give in, if only by an inch. He sighed in frustration and turned to lean his backside against the railing, arms crossed commandingly once more. “If he could just win one of your bloody races, once!”

  “Oh come now, sir,” jibed Farran. “Would that really be all it takes?”

  Worthright chuckled slightly. “I suppose not.” He clapped Farran on the shoulder and said, “You’re a good man, Tal. And a ruddy fine sailor. But it’s a big prize we’re after tonight. Just ... keep an eye on him.”

  “I always do, sir,” Farran said. He and the captain clasped hands firmly, and Farran tapped his forehead in a respectful gesture. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be back to work.”

  And as he made his way down the quarterdeck, the captain called after him, “Shame you’re not a captain yourself, lad!”

  And Farran called back over his shoulder, “Perhaps someday I will be!” And then, he leaped the last few steps from quarterdeck to main, and within moments was pulling himself back up into the rigging, with a hearty crow and the start of a song. The crew joined in, raising their voices to the sky and making the wood hum.

  They only knew him by the name “Tallowight,” or “Tal.” To them, he was merely a fisherman’s boy who longed for a life of riches and adventure. He was the trickster, the womanizer. The captain’s pet. And the men adored him. They never had a clue that when they prayed to the pirate god Farran, asking for a successful hunt or fair winds, he was standing right with them, watching over all. And while Farran certainly enjoyed being worshiped as much as the next god, there was a blissful sort of peace to be had in the mortal labors of the sea. A peace he could only find on the deck of a well-formed ship, being rocked and tossed on the waves like a great salty cradle.

  And so, he happily let his shipmates believe that he was simply one of them. And, on the rare occasion that someone remarked upon his resemblance to the pirate god Farran, he simply laughed it off, saying that it must have been written in his destiny to be a pirate.

  Now, Farran settled himself in high above the deck, lounging comfortably on the foretop. Below him and tucked in the rigging all about him, the men still sang. Their voices made the very ropes vibrate. Surely even the whales could hear them. And Farran smiled lazily, gazing out across the sea to where their quarry sailed, blissfully unaware that they were being hunted. Far enough away that they couldn’t hear the men singing. In fact, anyone but Farran would have needed a spyglass to catch a glimpse of them. Four of them, flanking one great flagship in the middle. But even had they been closer, even had they known that the seemingly harmless ship on their tail was planning to take them as a prize, it wouldn’t have done them a mite of good. Farran’s grin spread wolfishly at the thought: no matter how they tried, they didn’t have the gods on their crew.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The sun began to sink, staining the clouds a brilliant red. A palpable tension hovered on the salty breeze as the men grew eager. Wolves who had caught scent of a wounded beast. With the sun perched on the horizon like a great flaming egg, a quiet settled over the deck as the men disappeared below for a hearty supper. Farran could hear the muted clanking of dishes and the incoherent thrum of voices, but did not join them. And neither did Edwin.

  The captain’s son was still hard at work, making repairs to every damaged splinter of wood, real or imagined. He was just starting to apply a fresh coat of paint to the figurehead when Farran decided to join him. Edwin was perched on a swing, anchored at just the right level for him to work alongside the magnificent figurehead, and Farran shimmied down the rope pulleys to reach him. Then he sat himself down, casually straddling the wooden plank that made up the seat of the swing. For a moment, the whole contraption twisted in midair at the added weight, and Edwin stopped his work. But then the swing settled into stillness once more, and Edwin put brush to wood and continued to paint.

  “I just thought she could use a bit more blue,” Edwin said quietly. He was carefully edging the blue-and-gold scales of their figurehead, and Farran glanced over at the elegantly carved woman gracing the bow of their ship. While many in these waters had women as their figureheads, or even mermaids, the Laila was different. She was a siren.

  Beautiful, dangerous, and a sailor’s worst nightmare. Their songs drove many sailors mad, and the appearance of one meant certain doom for a crew. This one was carved with ample curves and a playful tail that disappeared into the body of the ship, in fact very reminiscent of a mermaid. But mermaids did not have wings, or great sharp spines like a sea snake’s running down their backs. Laila, the name granted to both the ship and the siren, was all at once stunning and deadly. Farran gazed fondly on her, taking in the long, flowing wooden tresses that had been detailed with scale and feather patterns.

  “It’s fitting, isn’t it?” asked Farran. “It’s one of the reasons I like this ship so much.”

  “It’s almost too fitting,” said Edwin. He paused for a moment to look at Farran, pulling his brush away from Laila’s painted form. “Why haven’t they seen us for what we are? No lawabiding, self-respecting merchant vessel is going to have a siren as their figurehead. Can’t they see it?”

  “It’s really not that hard to justify,” said Farran, “if you think about it. Captain’s been a very careful man. Careful not to let the wrong people see us, so we can’t be recognized. We are nothing but a rumor on the wind, a shadow that eats unsuspecting children in the dead of night. We are a ghost story. We attack from out of nowhere, we disappear into the darkness. They could no more recognize our figurehead than our crew.”

  “Then why is tonight different?” asked Edwin.

  “Ah, tonight!” said Farran theatrically. “Tonight is our grand lady’s debut! After tonight, everyone will know her face.”

  Edwin sighed and returned to his work. “I suppose I should touch up her gilding as well, then.” He painted in silence for a few moments as Farran gazed out to sea, watching their quarry sail unconcernedly ahead. “I think ... perhaps there’s a great deal about piracy I still don’t understand,” Edwin admitted after a time. “I don’t see why we should reveal ourselves at all, if we’re getting along so well in the shadows. And on such an important take!”

  “We’ve gone after big fish before,” Farran reminded him.

  “But the king’s navy?!” said Edwin, dropping his voice to a passionate whisper. “This could get us moved to the top of every hangman’s list in Linnat! Not to mention Fernaphia, Mirius and every other country they’re in allegiance with. We’ll be running for the rest of our lives after this, and for what? The captain’s pride?”

  To an untrained eye like Edwin’s, it might have seemed like a fool’s errand. Even Farran knew the risks of taking on kings and emperors. The Laila and her crew had been marauding for close to five years now, though Farran had only been sailing with them for three. And in all that time, they’d never been caught. Never suspected.

  “It’s not pride,” said Farran finally. “Not exclusively, at any rate. But the Captain knows, I suspect, that it’s only a matter of time before someone catches up to us. They’ll find out who we are. At least now, we do it on his terms. And by the rolling seas, we will make a show ou
t of it!” There was a fervor of excitement in Farran’s own voice as he went on. “Our figurehead will strike fear into the hearts of even the boldest of sea dogs! And the shadows of our sails on the horizon will be a warning, let those who dare to oppose us come forth! But we fall to no man!”

  Edwin had stopped painting. He watched Farran with an anxious thrill dripping all across his face, his eyes shimmering with the barest hint of the fire that pirates felt before taking a prize. It may have just been a spark, but it was there for a lingering moment. Until, far too quickly, it faded, and his boyish face was etched with concern once more. He turned back to the siren figurehead, raised his brush as if to continue, but did not paint. And then, so quietly it was almost drowned by the sound of the sea slapping against the hull, Edwin said, “He’s going to make me his successor no matter what, isn’t he.”

  “He does seem rather intent upon it,” admitted Farran.

  “Tonight,” said Edwin gloomily. “Of all nights, tonight he had to put me in charge of something real. And I’ll butcher it up, and then all the men will see I’m not cut out for leadership.”

  “Would that be so wrong?” asked Farran. “Not everyone needs to be a leader. Maybe he’ll finally see that.”

  Edwin rolled his eyes and dropped his brush back into the bucket of paint, apparently giving up on even the appearance of work. “You think he’ll let it go at that, do you? As long as I’m on this ship, I’ll be groomed to be a leader.”

  “You could always leave,” suggested Farran. “Take your share of the prize money and head off when we get to port. You could make a decent life as a carpenter.”