Wayfinder (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 3)
Also by Kaitlin Bellamy
The Mapweaver Chronicles
Windswept (Scroll I)
Inkspice (Scroll II)
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
WAYFINDER
First edition. October 24, 2019.
Copyright © 2019 Kaitlin Bellamy.
Written by Kaitlin Bellamy.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Wayfinder | The Mapweaver Chronicles | Scroll III
Table of Contents
Chapter One | Kindling
Chapter Two | The Arcanist
Chapter Three | Water and Wind
Chapter Four | The Map to Nowhere
Chapter Five | The Daughters of Ralith
Chapter Six | Out of the Fog
Chapter Seven | Broken
Chapter Eight | The Fallout
Chapter Nine | The Port of Thieves
Chapter Ten | Passageway
Chapter Eleven | A Certain Kind of Chaos
Chapter Twelve | Pirates and Thieves
Chapter Thirteen | Smoke and Mirrors
Chapter Fourteen | The Silent Cell
Chapter Fifteen | Black Powder
Chapter Sixteen | Brixel’s Workshop of Wonders
Chapter Seventeen | Grey Dawn
Chapter Eighteen | The Warden’s Price
Chapter Nineteen | Those Left Behind
Chapter Twenty | Tears of Crystal and Ice
Chapter Twenty-One | The Lover’s Lament
Chapter Twenty-Two | Vathidel
Chapter Twenty-Three | The Library of the Lost
Chapter Twenty-Four | Forgotten
Chapter Twenty-Five | Darkness in the Archives
Chapter Twenty-Six | The Unknowable Vaults
Chapter Twenty-Seven | Farran’s Last Salute
Chapter Twenty-Eight | The Song of the Scarab
Chapter Twenty-Nine | Partings and Farewells
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
About the Author
Wayfinder
The Mapweaver Chronicles
Scroll III
by Kaitlin Bellamy
For Chelsea,
Who always believes in me, even when I don’t believe in myself.
Table of Contents
Chapter One: Kindling
Chapter Two: The Arcanist
Chapter Three: Water and Wind
Chapter Four: The Map to Nowhere
Chapter Five: The Daughters of Ralith
Chapter Six: Out of the Fog
Chapter Seven: Broken
Chapter Eight: The Fallout
Chapter Nine: The Port of Thieves
Chapter Ten: Passageway
Chapter Eleven: A Certain Kind of Chaos
Chapter Twelve: Pirates and Thieves
Chapter Thirteen: Smoke and Mirrors
Chapter Fourteen: The Silent Cell
Chapter Fifteen: Black Powder
Chapter Sixteen: Brixel’s Workshop of Wonders
Chapter Seventeen: Grey Dawn
Chapter Eighteen: The Warden’s Price
Chapter Nineteen: Those Left Behind
Chapter Twenty: Tears of Crystal and Ice
Chapter Twenty-One: The Lover’s Lament
Chapter Twenty-Two: Vathidel
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Library of the Lost
Chapter Twenty-Four: Forgotten
Chapter Twenty-Five: Darkness in the Archives
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Unknowable Vaults
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Farran’s Last Salute
Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Song of the Scarab
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Partings and Farewells
Chapter One
Kindling
The ocean air was cold. Bitterly, painfully cold. Even Fox, raised in the frozen Highborn Mountains, where winter ice gripped his little valley for so much more of the year than summer sun did, had to tuck firestones into every spare fold of his clothes. The coldest, darkest nights of Deep Winter back home in Thicca Valley were nothing compared to this. There, at least, there had been warmth at any hearth. Blazing fires at the Five Sides Inn and Tavern, warming the common room. Bodies gathered together in song and drink and dancing, lending their own heat to the night, and keeping the chill at bay. But not here, aboard the Laila. At least, not for Fox.
Fox was not like other sixteen-year-olds. While young men in his valley home spent their days hard at work in the mines or on their family’s farms, Fox’s own talents had taken him down a different path. Since learning he was magically Blessed, Forric Foxglove’s time had been consumed with learning about the forgotten magic that ran in his veins. The magic that set him apart from not only his family and the denizens of Thicca Valley, but even from other magically gifted.
Growing up, Fox had always assumed his talents were just good breeding and skill. He’d practiced his whole life to be a trapper and fur-trader, like Father. His skill with a bow and his uncanny tracking abilities were, he had always assumed, the instincts of a natural hunter. But everything had changed when the Shavid came to town. They saw his powers for what they really were, and they called him Windkissed: one who is born outside the Shavid tribe, but with magic related to their own. Magic that was a gift from the wind herself. The Shavid were storytellers and dancers, players and troubadours. They lived a colorful and nomadic life, wandering from city to city, going where the wind whispered they should go. They lived out their lives like dandelion seeds, borne adrift on every breeze, sometimes settling down and taking root, other times simply floating along until their final days. And Fox, through their training and his own discovery, soon learned that he was an oddity even among these kindred spirits. He was no player, nor musician. His gift was cartomancy. Maps spoke to him, down to the very parchment and ink they were made from. All he had to do was brush a fingertip along the line of a river, worlds away, and the wind would bring him its secrets. With every day that passed, Fox learned more and more how to harness this gift. To control his connection to the wind, and make it bend to his own will. But the wind, in turn, seemed eager to strengthen their bond in its own way. It fought to be near him, like an over-excited pup that would not be easily tamed.
Now, aboard this ship, everywhere Fox went the frigid breeze followed him, biting at exposed skin and tugging at every hem. Sensing the importance of Fox’s journey, and longing to help. There was no safe space for him aboard the Laila. No corner where the wind would not find him. And so, he often found himself closing his eyes, letting his senses be torn away from his body, riding the salt zephyrs wherever they would take him. This, at least, gained him a few moments of peace. He was not aware of his own body, or the biting pain in his fingertips and face. Instead, Fox’s senses soaked in the emotions of everyone else on board.
This morning was no different. Fox sat alone in the crow’s nest, the wind begging him to come play. With an ease that came with weeks of practice now, Fox took a deep breath of frigid air, and by the time he exhaled he had left his own body behind. He could see and hear and feel everything around him, as the wind did, and together they chased the sensations of the rest of the crew, seeking out each of them in turn.
The easiest to find was Neil. Wrapped in newlywed bliss, and the fascination of the magic surrounding him, even the horrid weather could not dampen the older boy’s spirits. Fox could feel his jubilation like a beacon of warmth, and steered the wind to the starboard side of the ship. There, he found Neil Palladoran and his bride, Gully. They were sitting on two crates, with a third between them like a makeshift table, eagerly giggling o
ver some ancient scholarly text. Neil’s dark skin nearly disappeared into the shadowed folds of his winter wear, and Gully’s pale face looked almost blue in the bitter cold, but neither of them seemed terribly bothered by it. They were pointing at various parts of the ship, and as Fox drew closer on the ocean breeze, he could hear part of their conversation.
“It’s still amazing how the Laila’s been pulled together like this,” said Gully, gesturing to a nearby piece of deck. There, as with many places on board, there should have been a gaping and rotting hole in the wood. Instead, a pristine sheet of ice had filled in the spaces, ensuring the ship was seaworthy once more. Everywhere on board, missing pieces of lumber and sail had been replaced by frost and silver-blue ice crystals.
“Look, right here,” said Neil, drawing a finger along a particular line in his text. “There’s claims that a mortal wizard did something similar with living creatures once. He used to heal animals with pieces of forest and farm, creating functioning bird wings from leaves, and repairing scarred animal furs with moss and soil.”
“But it says they didn’t last very long,” countered Gully, reading the passage upside down from across the crate. “And we’ve been on the water for over a fortnight, with no sign of collapse from the ship, or the sailors!”
It was true. Not only had the ship itself been raised from the depths of the ocean and repaired with this strange ice magic, but the memories of the pirates that had died on board had been raised along with it. Now, they walked among the living crew, their own bodies kept afloat in just the same manner as the ship – with icicles filling in the missing pieces of their beings, and magic stretching itself across their bone-and-frost skeletons in a pale, smokey reminiscence of skin.
Neil shook his head at the marvel, though Fox could tell he longed to know exactly how this power worked. “Gods,” he said simply. “There’s no telling what they’re capable of.”
The god in question was also easy enough to find. Fox’s own magic was drawn to him like a fish on a hook, pulling him off the side of the ship to where the pirate god Farran hung like a barnacle, right in the space where ocean saltwater met hull. He’d carved a grip for himself out of the ice, hanging on lopsidedly while he dragged one hand along the surface of the water. The waves crested up around the ship’s body, the water as eager to greet Farran as the wind was to be near Fox.
Farran was not dressed for the cold. He let his long black hair flow behind him like a sail, the ornaments woven into it clicking against each other. His long coat and loose shirt snapped in the wind, smelling of lavender and brine. He had a broad grin on his face, stretching the close-cut beard and moustache that framed his mouth. As he reached out to greet the sea like an old familiar lover, the waves wrapped willingly around his fingertips and wrist. Small fish of every color sprang out of the cresting foam to meet him, and for a moment the water felt warm and comforting, rather than deathly cold.
It was Farran’s own quest that brought them out to these frozen waters. So many times, he had helped Fox save his family and friends. Now, it was Fox’s turn to repay the debt. Briefly, the zephyr that bore Fox’s consciousness swirled around Farran, taking in everything he was feeling. There was hope and eagerness, longing to restore his own shattered soul with Fox’s help. There was joy at being on the ocean once more, as he was meant to be. And, buried deep beneath it all, there was a hint of fear. An unspoken fear, but one Fox recognized all too well: the fear that they would fail.
Quickly, Fox withdrew, his grasp on the wind connection beginning to feel tenuous. He fought to hold it together, not quite ready to go back to his own body yet, but shaken by the fear he felt in Farran. It was a sensation he lived with in his own heart every day, because it wouldn’t just be Farran who would be disappointed if he, Fox, didn’t succeed. But he might be putting all of the people who’d followed him in danger. And, worse than anything, Lai would be heartbroken.
Lai. He couldn’t so much as think about her without the wind fetching him her scent. Now, fight though he might to stay away, the ocean breeze bore him back to the deck of the Laila. Past the living memories of the crew. Past Neil and Gully once again, still buried in their books. Past the small, muscular woman called Norda, and the taller man named Cullen, now sparring with wooden staves to keep themselves limber and warm. All the way up to the helm, where Captain Laila, the Pirate King’s daughter and Fox’s best friend in the world, stood.
Once, he had known her as Laila Blackroot, the daughter of innkeeper Borric Blackroot. She had always been quick to laugh and ready with a fireside story. Now, she was simply Lai. Or Captain. And, while her laugh and good nature remained intact, there was a fire in her now that Fox had never seen, and a comfortable familiarity with the sea that Fox saw echoed in Farran’s own attitude.
Her thick dark tresses, practically identical to her father’s, blew about her neck and shoulders, each curl’s scent like intoxicating flower wine on the air. She’d donned high boots with dagger sheathes laced into the sides and a long, fur-lined coat. And while she didn’t seem as accustomed to the chill as Farran, she was definitely not as uncomfortable as the rest of the mortals on board. Flecks of ice clung to her hair and clothes, but she paid them no mind. Instead, she sailed on as easily as though she’d been a pirate her whole life, shouting occasional orders to her skeleton crew.
The year apart had changed them both. While Fox had been away with the Shavid, learning how to use his Cartomancy Blessing, Lai had been coming to terms with the magic in her own blood. Fox had learned to shape the very ink and parchment that formed his maps, and Lai had become a fighter to be reckoned with, especially holding her father’s old cutlass. Fox had discovered that his own connection to the wind could be tested, and begun seeing his mapweaving as a mystery ripe for experimentation. And Lai ... Lai had fallen in love.
It was this change that had truly driven a wedge between them. This stumbling block in their friendship that kept Fox often occupied in separate parts of the ship, and only giving in to his desperate need to be near her during these moments when his senses ran away with the wind. Here, he could be at her side. He could watch from a distance as she practiced her own swordplay with her betrothed, the tall, red-headed Cullen. A man who Fox could not hate, no matter how hard he tried. A man who had dropped everything in his life to follow Lai on this insane adventure, all to protect her and just be near her. Everything Fox himself would have done.
“Stop that,” snapped Lai, quite suddenly. For a moment, Fox thought someone else was at the helm with her, someone he hadn’t noticed before. And then, he realized: she was talking to the wind. She was talking to him. “I know you’re there, Fox,” she carried on. “Every time you get agitated, the wind picks up around me. I might not have been able to tell if we were on land, but here, my magic knows how the ocean breezes are supposed to behave.”
Lai scanned the ship and sails, looking for something. And then, her eyes fell on the crow’s nest where Fox’s body sat, inert. Quietly, she said, “I don’t know what’s got you so anxious, or why you feel like you can’t talk to me about it. But you don’t have to hide up there. Not from me.”
Fox didn’t answer. He wasn’t even sure he could, in this state. Instead, he reached out with the wind and gently swept a handful of stray locks out of her face. He could feel her skin, soft and cold, and for a moment, Lai closed her eyes and breathed in deep. As if she, too, were enjoying Fox being near, even in this small way. Carefully, Fox wove the breeze through individual strands of her black curls, taking in the scent and the salt with every part of his own ethereal being.
Lai was wrong. Fox did have to hide from her. He had to hide, so he wouldn’t ruin what she had with Cullen, or poison what was left of their own friendship. He hid so he would never tell her the truth: that he’d realized several weeks ago that he loved her. That he’d been sure, once, that she loved him, too, and that it broke his heart a little each time he remembered that they were not meant to be.
It was
only when the wind brushed too near Lai’s lips that Fox pulled himself back to his own body with a jolt, smashing his head hard on the wooden railing of the crow’s nest as if he had been thrown backwards. At the helm, Lai’s hair went limp as the ocean breeze abandoned her, and she opened her eyes, glancing around at the sudden stillness in confusion. When her eyes met his on the crow’s nest, Fox tried to wave jovially, as if he’d just been playing around. Just like when they were children. She waved back, everything seemingly normal, but they both avoided eye contact for the rest of the day, and Fox made sure to sit at a separate table that night during dinner.
“STOP BEING AN IDIOT,” snapped Darby the next morning, smacking Fox firmly across the back of the head.
“Agh!” yelped Fox, wincing in pain and putting his hand up to block further assault. “What was that for?”
“You’ve got bigger things to focus on,” said Darby. “Maybe some love struck adolescents can let feelings get in the way of their work, but you can’t.” He glared at Fox as he walked back around the worktable in their cabin and sat on the other side, arms crossed over his muscular chest. “You chose not to tell her how you felt when you reunited in Thicca Valley. You chose not to tell her the truth when Cullen came after her. And now, you need to find a way to live with it. You can sulk and avoid her and pine over the scent of her flowing hair when you don’t hold a god’s fate in your hands.”
The dwarf was, perhaps, the only one on board the Laila having a harder time of it than Fox, and it made him ever so slightly more blunt than usual. But it wasn’t the cold that had Darby Whistler shaken. It was the company.
There was a reason the Windkissed dwarf had been chosen as Fox’s mentor. Darby was, like Fox, an oddity among the Shavid. He came from a place where most magic was rare, and wind magic was unheard of. And, also like Fox, his gift was a thing of legend. They called him The Historian.