Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1)

by Kaitlin Bellamy

  “Soon enough it’ll be second nature,” Farran assured him.

  “Excellent,” said Edwin.

  It happened in that moment, just as Farran glanced out at the decks once more. There was movement behind Worthright, and all at once Farran saw it. The captain of the Merry Doll, sprinting with all his might in a last show of defiance. Edwin saw it as well, and shouted, “Father!” But it was already done. Before Farran could so much as brush his hilt with his fingertips, before any of the cheering pirates noticed, a sword was driven straight through Captain Worthright.

  The next moment stretched for an eternity, though it was only mere seconds. Silence fell. Edwin threw out one hand, commanding his ship, and in a heartbeat the diminutive captain was dead, torn unceremoniously in half by his own flag and a length of anchor rope. And then Edwin was running, leaping from the quarterdeck and pushing men aside, finally coming to rest on his knees, cradling his dying father’s head in his lap.

  Farran watched helplessly from his post at the quarterdeck, gripping the banister so hard splinters drove themselves into his palms and fingertips. There were times when he had the power to save a life, and times when he didn’t. There were moments when being a god did him no good. And the life or death of a mortal, any mortal, did not fall to him to decide. Instead, he watched as Edwin tried in vain to stem the river of blood. He saw the moment when defeat washed over him, and the realization that he couldn’t help his father and captain.

  The pirates began to hum a seaman’s lament, while across the water they could hear wild cheers from the other ships. There, other crews of pirates had begun to put out the fires, and were celebrating their victory. But aboard the Merry Doll, triumph had turned to tragedy. And so muted hurrahs were accompanied by the thrum of despair.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The captives were thrown in the hold of the Laila, guarded heavily at all times. The four burning ships were scoured for everything of worth, and their damages were measured and recorded. Two of them were deemed worth repairing, while the other two were sentenced to the very depths, to be scuttled and consumed by the sea.

  It was aboard one of these that they sent Captain Worthright’s body to its resting place. Dressed in his finest, adorned with his swords crossed over his chest, he was laid at the heart of a ship called “The Lavenlock.” And then, with the crew watching from the deck of the Laila, a shower of flaming arrows set both sentenced ships ablaze once more.

  Farran stood with Edwin on the quarterdeck, and they were silent for some time. While the rest of the men began to sing a proper farewell, Edwin said quietly, “We’ll divide the crew. I want you to take the Laila under your command. I’ll be sure to leave you enough men to keep an eye on the captives, in case something should happen. I’ll take the Merry Doll, and meet you in Aseos. We’ll have that drink, and sell off some of the cargo before heading out to Sovesta to deliver the medicine. Give the men time to decide if they’d like to stay on board. Maybe pick up some more crew.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like the Laila for yourself?” asked Farran, but Edwin shook his head.

  “She’s always been more your ship than mine. The Doll responds to me, and I think she always will.”

  They stood in silence for another few moments, watching the showers of sparks erupting from the sinking ships, like so many stars brought too close to the sea. And then Farran spoke once more. “Well, it will be done as you command me, Captain Farthington.”

  “No,” said Edwin firmly. “Worthright. It’ll be Captain Worthright.” Another silence, and Edwin turned to gaze on the Laila’s figurehead, glowing proudly in the firelight. “I suppose we gave her a grand entrance after all,” he said. And then, as the dying ships began to sink beneath the waves, he spoke once more, a grim echo of Farran’s earlier promise. “The shadows of our sails on the horizon will be a warning. But we fall to no man.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Merchant’s Highway

  It took quite some time for Fox to recover from the latest piece of Farran’s story. He kept waking up in the middle of the night, tearing himself out of nightmares filled with dead sailors and the memory of Captain Worthright’s death, as fresh as though he’d been there. Not to mention the horrific vision of the enemy captain being torn in two by his own ship.

  And apart from that, even when he was awake, Fox found his head was filled with things that shouldn’t be there. Names of ship parts and nautical maps of places he’d never seen. His mind was crowded with all things piratical, and he even caught himself humming sea shanties that he was sure he’d never heard before.

  But in the three days more it took them to travel through the Beneath, Fox decided it was better to focus on the memories of Farran’s world than the very real fear that gripped him with every step. The group traveled quickly and quietly, and Farran always kept watch while they slept, but Fox couldn’t wait to escape back into the open air. Couldn’t wait to leave these indescribable terrors behind him. Whatever it was that lurked in the shadows, Fox felt sure it was always watching them.

  And so it was, that at the start of the fourth day, when Fox began to sense a tingle of something familiar, he began to run. Not out of fear, but out of joy and relief. Somewhere ahead, the wind was waiting for him with open arms. He ran without caring how loud his feet were on the stone, and without a scrap of thought as to where he was going. All he knew was the wind was there, and she would never lead him astray.

  He burst out into foreign foothills like a waterfall finally breaking through the winter ice, and collapsed flat on his back. He stared up at the impossibly clear sky and breathed deep, taking in the smells of fresh spring grass and unfamiliar wildflowers. Spring. Here, on the other side of the mountains, it was already spring!

  Fox simply let himself lay there, sun on his face and skin being tickled by the grass as he waited for everyone to catch up with him. When they did, Farran kicked him in the ribs a little harder than Fox thought was necessary.

  “Don’t do that again,” said Farran, and left it at that.

  They decided to rest here for awhile, feasting on an early but hearty lunch and enjoying the simple pleasure of talking at a normal volume again. Topper and Fox pelted the adults with questions as they ate.

  “How often have you been out here?” Fox asked Wick.

  “And where are we?” added Topper.

  The men chuckled, and Wick took his time in answering. “Sovesta is just the rooftop of a large community of countries, called the Central Kingdoms, or Central Continent. So named because, in the days of early exploration, no one knew what shape the world was. And this group of nations always seemed to be at the heart of every map and chart. Even now, though mankind has circled the very world for generations of trade, our name has stuck. And so here we are, in the eaves of the great house that is the Central Continent.”

  “It’s a country called Mirius,” said Farran, by way of a simpler answer. “For those of us who don’t care to know the whole history of the thing,” he said, rolling his eyes at Wick.

  “Oh yes, that’s right,” teased Wick. “Frivolous merchants have an aversion to scholarly pursuits. Tell me, sir, can you even read?”

  Everyone laughed, and Fox found he was glad that Farran and Wick had developed such a friendly rapport during their journey from Doff.

  “How big a place is this?” asked Topper through an oversized bite of bread.

  “Smaller than Sovesta, but still a sizable nation,” said Wick. As he began to lecture them on the divisions of land, words like “fiefdom” and “barony” were thrown about. Things that no one in Sovesta ever needed to worry about. There was no fighting over land, no ruling class. Fox wasn’t even sure if there was a king. Old stories and rumors claimed that there was a deserted city at the very northern peak of the land; the Lost Capital, they called it. And if ever a king or queen lived there, they certainly didn’t trouble themselves to rule over their people now. No, every city and village and hamlet and town in So
vesta was on its own, and had been since the start of the great curse.

  But here, on the other side of the Highborns, things were entirely different. And Fox could feel that familiar tickle, the wind whispering to him that there were new things to see and learn here. It was the part of him that was Shavid, and longed to wander.

  Finally, they set off again, this time with Fox in the lead once more. He could feel the wind leading him as though there was a fifth member of their party, walking arm-in-arm with him. There were sounds and smells just off to the east, beckoning him onward, telling him just where to go. And so, with the wind leading Fox, and Fox leading the group, they made their way to the place he’d heard stories of since infancy, the place he’d always been told was his future: the Merchant’s Highway.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The land began to flatten and smooth out beneath their feet. What started as empty green foothills now became little farmlands and scattered windmills. They passed fields full of great, smudge-coated animals Farran called “cows.” They wove around great fields of newly planted crops, and waved good day to planters and farm workers. Slowly, the farmlands turned into outlying towns. Fox craned his neck at every turn, as fascinated by this new country as he had been by Doff and Whitethorn. Perhaps even more so. For, while those had been places within the familiar borders of his own land, this was something entirely different. Mirius. A place with new customs and cultures, and even new weather. A place with cows!

  And cows weren’t the only new discovery. The windmills were contraptions Fox only knew by Wick’s explanation. In the raging winters of Sovesta, such things would never have survived. And the great, towering buildings they could see sometimes in the distance, overlooking the towns from far-off hilltops. These were small castles, homes to the lords and barons who ruled these little towns.

  As Fox asked question after question, Wick laughed heartily at his eagerness. “You’d think he was a political apprentice, the way he goes on asking about the ruling class,” the candlemaker said to Farran, speaking over Fox’s head as they walked. And then, to Fox himself, “Is there nothing you aren’t curious about?”

  Fox gave this some serious thought for a moment before answering, quite honestly, “No, sir.”

  Another good-natured chuckle, and Wick promised to buy Fox a detailed book on the workings and divisions of class in the Central Kingdoms. The towns began to grow larger and closer together. Afternoon began to sink into a light, cool evening. Buildings stretched higher into the sky, and the sounds and smells of a thriving city began to wrap around Fox, like a cat winding around one’s legs, demanding attention.

  And then they passed beneath a wooden archway with a hanging sign, informing them that they were now entering ... Fox couldn’t read the language it was written in.

  “Hawthorn Proper,” said Wick. “Home of the first notable marketplace on this side of the Highborns. A modest but prospering city, and the farthest south I’ve ever traveled.”

  But Fox was only half listening. The road had widened beneath their feet and, without any other sign but his own instincts, he knew they had arrived. Here, finally, the son of Timic Foxglove had made it to the Merchant’s Highway.

  It might have been any other road. Pitted with generations of wagon tracks, the earth had settled and hardened almost to stone. Persistent and determined weeds sprang up here and there, and riders on horseback jockeyed for space with those city folk who walked or drove carriages. Some pushed small, two-wheeled carts laden with wares. Men sold cheese, shouting out prices and offering bargains. Women sold fabric and sewing needles. And, everywhere, there was a pervading sense of flowers in the air.

  Fox had noticed it before, but put it out of mind. In a world with so much new to discover, flowers seemed rather insignificant. But now that the towns had turned into a city, he could feel flowers everywhere. In the tiny patterned details of women’s dresses and the fresh scents wafting on the breeze. They sprang up on vines that crept up shop walls and grew in planters on the windowsills. Even the names of stores and eateries, once Fox had Farran or Wick translate for him, seemed to be heavy with flowers. The very name of the city, “Hawthorn Proper.” Fox was sure that he’d heard “hawthorn” as the name of a plant before.

  It bothered him in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on until that night at supper. They’d found a cozy little inn called The Willow’s Wife, built mostly above a bakery that fed directly into the marketplace. The dining room was on the second floor, and Fox sat himself at a window seat, overlooking the market below. He ate his biscuits and fish quickly and then sat staring out the window, absently fingering the flower petal embroidery worked into the curtain.

  “Bubble in your wax?” asked Topper from across the table, pulling Fox’s attention from the window.

  “Excuse me?” said Fox, puzzled by the phrase.

  “It’s a candlemaker expression,” explained Topper with a grin. “It’s sort of what happens when an air bubble gets into your candle when you’re making it. Makes weird lumps and pits in the finished product, and you can’t sell it that way.”

  “Well, look at you!” said Wick appreciatively, pulling his nephew into a rough hug and ruffling his hair. “Talking like a proper Doffer now, aren’t you?”

  “Aw, go on then,” said Topper, shoving away from Wick and blushing. “I was bound to pick up some things eventually, wasn’t I?” But he looked pleased with himself all the same, and Fox chuckled before looking back out at the market.

  “I was just thinking,” he said. “These people would have been our neighbors if it wasn’t for the mountains. And with everything they do, all around us, there’s flowers.”

  Topper shrugged and scooped a handful of biscuits onto his plate. “It’s springtime. Everywhere’s got flowers, right?”

  “It’s just,” said Fox, “I’ve been wondering ... Back home in Thicca Valley, most of our names have to do with plants. Even flowers, you know. Foxglove, Bracken, Lillywhite ...” He looked over at the men, and Farran in particular. “It’s been said that it’s because of our past. Those were our family names then, when Sovesta was prospering and green. Do you think,” he continued, now meeting Farran’s eyes directly, “that we would have looked like this? If it weren’t for the curse and the mountains and the ice, that Sovesta would have looked more like Mirius?”

  “I think,” said Farran slowly, “I would imagine, that one day long ago, Sovesta did look very much like this.” And then, he shook his head ever so slightly as he said, “But I daresay even the gods couldn’t tell you what it would look like now.”

  “It’s odd, isn’t it?” said Topper, entirely unaware of the silent questions both asked, and answered. “If it wasn’t for the curse of Sovesta, what cities would be where the mountains are?”

  “Oh, Dream have mercy,” said Wick. “I’d probably be a farmer. How excruciatingly dull.”

  A steady stream of conversation carried them all the way through the rest of their supper, and then Fox excused himself to go wander through the market. He could feel Farran watching him as he went, but he didn’t turn back. No matter this god’s intentions, or the silent apologies Fox could clearly read in his eyes, the gods were the reason Sovesta was a country of grey and snow and devastating winters, instead of a land of flowers.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  They left before dawn the next morning, following the Merchant’s Highway southward, away from the mountains. Fox took the lead again, carrying on with an eager spring in his step and often raising his voice in song, joined quickly by the others. They walked through the early mist, occasionally running across another early-morning traveler as they journeyed farther away from the city and back into sprawling farmlands.

  Fox had been surprised the previous evening to realize how many things in the marketplace were familiar. He’d half expected foreign tools and inexplicable contraptions that wouldn’t have made sense in Thicca Valley. But apart from everyone speaking a language he didn’t understand, the goods an
d wares were remarkably ordinary. And far from disappointing him, Fox found it to be oddly exciting. There were so many things waiting for him out in the world that he did not understand, and not nearly enough days in a lifetime for him to learn them all. At least some things might remain the same, no matter where he went.

  Fox knew from Father’s many stories that the Merchant’s Highway passed all the way through the Central Kingdoms. It even had wayposts throughout Sovesta, though they’d been abandoned generations ago. Now, the highway stretched and serpentined across the rest of the land, gracing every country, passing through countless large cities and leading its travelers from market to market.

  And somewhere down the road, Father was waiting. Fox could feel himself drawing closer every day, and he pushed the pace of his little group to the very brink. The Thicca Valley caravan had moved since Fox’s shiver, warning him of the coming avalanche. But Fox could still see them, if he breathed very carefully and was able to sort out all the cascading sounds and smells and feelings that were a constant accompaniment to his Blessing. And there were times, usually late at night, that Fox could feel exactly where Father was, down to the very color of the stone beneath his feet.

  Spring rains often slowed them down, making Fox frustrated and irritable. If they’d found a place at an inn or tavern, or had even rented lodging in someone’s barn, the men would insist they stay inside until the weather cleared. And Fox would pace, and glare out at the rain, and continuously un-pack and re-pack his things.

  If they were sleeping outside, however, Farran and Wick allowed them to travel only so far, stopping once they’d found someplace dry.