The Mapmaker's War Read online

  THE

  MAPMAKER’S

  WAR

  a legend

  RONLYN DOMINGUE

  NEW YORK LONDON TORONTO SYDNEY NEW DELHI

  ALSO BY RONLYN DOMINGUE

  The Mercy of Thin Air

  ATRIA BOOKS

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Ronlyn Domingue

  Illustrations copyright © 2012 by Kathryn Hunter

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

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  First Atria Books hardcover edition February 2013

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  Designed by

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  ISBN: 978-1-4516-8888-7

  ISBN: 978-1-4516-8888-0 (ebook)

  TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

  This narrative is an exceptional rarity. The source language scarcely has been heard spoken outside of its cultural borders. Until the acquisition of this work, the presumption was that no writing system existed for the language. In remarkable condition despite its age, the handwritten manuscript is not only one of the earliest known autobiographies but also one of the first attributed to a woman.

  The author’s rhetorical structure defies convention of any period; she addresses herself throughout and appears to be her own audience. Further, while matters of war and society are so often the domain of chroniclers, historians, and philosophers, this author offers a concurrent, heretofore unknown representation of past events through the story of a participant and a survivor.

  Simplified pronunciations of several proper names are as follows. Aoife [ee-fah]; Ciaran [keer-ahn]; Wyl [will]; Aza [ah-zah]; Edik [ed-ick]; Leit [lite]; Wei [why]; and Makha [mahk-ah].

  —S. Riven

  THE

  MAPMAKER’S

  WAR

  THIS WILL BE THE MAP OF YOUR HEART, OLD WOMAN. YOU ARE FORGETFUL of the everyday. | misplaced cup, missing clasp | Yet, you recall the long-ago with morning-after clarity. These stories you have told yourself before. Write them now. At last, tell the truth. Be sparse with nostalgia. Be wary of its tangents. Mark the moments of joy but understand that is not now your purpose. Return to the places where your heart was broken. Scars evidence harm done. Some wounds sealed with weak knits. They are open again. The time has come to close them.

  Here, choose the point of entry. Any place, any time, right now and you have—

  Your small finger in the hearth’s ashes. A line appears. You divide space.

  Then there were twigs and broom bristles. Scratches and marks and lines until you had the control to create shape. Circle, triangle, square, said your older brother. Ciaran put the first nib under your thumb and first scrap of parchment beneath that. What you drew is missing in substance and memory. In its place, years apart, you transformed the circle into a tub. The triangle was a churn. The square became a table. You marked your spot with an X.

  Aoife, said your brother, who taught you to draw a map?

  The kitchen as it was when you were five. You could render space and suspend time.

  You lived in a large cold house at the edge of a forest. The shady quiet lured, then hid, you. Wild child, said the nursemaid. Uncivilized, your mother declared when you returned home dirty with treasures. She tried and failed to tame you. Wait until I tell your father, said she. Next to his chair, you held your breath and your guard. He saw no harm in the fresh air and exercise. Good habit to start now because what man wants a fat wife? said your father. Indulgent, she called him. She stormed off on stout legs.

  You had few ordinary interests as a girl. You didn’t dress your bronze hair, tend to dolls, or join petty quarrels. This perplexed your mother, who tried her best to create a being in her own image. You soon realized you had to give to take. When you were attentive to your morning girlhood duties, she fought less when you asked for afternoon freedom. You acquiesced to learn how to behave regardless of whether you intended to follow suit. The reward was worth the concession.

  With meticulous care, you planned your provisions, though not your expeditions. Adventure wasn’t in the hunger to come but in the quest of what to follow. You packed your pouch | nuts and fruit, soft bread and hard cheese | along with parchment and ink, cloth scraps and straight edges.

  You mapped the hidden worlds when you were still young enough to see them.

  Spiderwebs and honeycombs taught the wisdom of symmetry. To you, everything before your eyes was built upon invisible lines and angles. The very spot where you stood only a point among many. A girl is not always in her place, you thought. A girl can be many places at once. And so you were. When you settled upon a space in the forest or meadow, you made a grid on the earth with small steps and tiny flags until there were row upon row of even little squares. You took your seat within the grid. You moved from square to square, noting what stood still and what passed by. All day long you observed and measured, sketched and colored. That which was off the edges appeared on the parchment as well. There were mysterious realms of bees and ants and creatures never seen before, with tiny castles and bright gardens.

  One day, as you traced the uncovered trails of termites, you heard a rustle in the brush. You remained still with hope that the ancient stag or a sturdy bear would meet your eye. What a lovely beast to draw in that place! Instead, you faced a boy with green eyes and chestnut curls. A boy you knew well. Prince Wyl called your name and held up a dead rabbit by its hind legs. You lifted your hand in a polite wave and turned back to your work.

  Did you see what I caught? I shall skin it and give the fur to the tailor to make you a fine collar, said Wyl.

  It will be cold if you do that, you said.

  It’s dead. It has no need for fur now.

  So literal, Wyl. You mistake my japes.

  You meant no hardness toward him. As you looked to the ground again, you smiled. You knew his gesture was an act of affection. Such regard you had neither sought nor earned. His attentions you tried not to encourage or reject. That you two knew each other at all was a matter of circumstance. Your father served as the King’s most trusted adviser.

  On that day, when you wished Wyl had been the stag or a bear, you realized he didn’t ask to see your map. He had on other occasions. You had no way to know that in years to come he would be privy to every chart you made, to the very last one.

  See, you became a mapmaker.

  Those hours you spent looking at the distance from one point to the next | star to star, rock to rock, blade to blade | were your study of geometry before you ever received formal instruction. You could be both abstract and precise, and sit for long periods. Ciaran gave you lessons in mathematics and astronomy. He had also taught you to read. You enj
oyed the challenge of learning. You also liked the attention from your brother, amiable and patient with you. Your mother encouraged the companionship between her children. However, she saw no purpose for the lessons.

  You need to know what is practical for a woman, said she. All this effort leads to nothing.

  Nothing indeed would have come of it had you not heard your father and brother in conversation.

  The kingdom was in a quiet time. For generations before, there had been years of strife, battles to claim land and battles to control it. At last, there was much to manage and little known about the holdings. They discussed the King’s consideration to map the entirety of his realm. Mapmakers would need to be hired and some trained.

  You almost cried out on impulse. This you wanted to do, although you didn’t know why. You banished the thought that you would be denied the training. You wanted to be good at something other than what was expected of you, for life. You threw yourself at chance.

  We’ll see, said your father when you asked for a place at the apprentice’s table. Don’t raise your hopes, said Ciaran when you told him of your wish. Your brother, seven years your senior, had begun to serve the King in earnest, the heir to your father’s role as a trusted adviser. You had no such secure inheritance. You suspected your name would not receive mention.

  Now. Tell the truth.

  You turned Wyl’s affection to your advantage. The pull between you both served in your favor. You didn’t call it manipulation. Perhaps it was. An offhand comment was all it took. I would like to learn to draw real maps. With magical speed, there you were in the mapmaker’s chamber.

  Heydar came from another kingdom with an accent, his instruments, and several bound volumes. His ears sprouted whiskers that reached up to his frantic hair and down to his bushy beard. He looked, and ate, like a lion. You passed the tests he gave you, then he tested your courage because he saw your wits. He didn’t care that you were a girl, but twelve. All he cared was whether you could learn the craft, whether you practiced enough. He demanded excellence. You would deliver.

  You thought to thank the King for his favor. Wyl arranged a brief meeting. The King said he had been assured of your talents. He said he made exceptions for what pleased him, and it pleased him greatly to have such intelligence, enthusiasm, and tenacity at his service. He gave no mention as to who might have swayed him. Or why he allowed it.

  When you sat with your studies at home, your mother bustled to and fro. She stitched and stitched and stitched. She hurried and harassed the servants. She sighed and moaned. You ignored her. She told your father he would have difficulty finding a mate for such a daughter as yourself.

  She isn’t crippled or ugly, which is good enough, but no man wants a stupid wife, said he.

  That was how you became apprenticed to the old man. Why you, with that silent desperation you hoped he could not detect? You sensed if you could do well there, if you were a good mapmaker, you would avoid the inevitable. You knew what happened to girls like you.

  You confess that you weren’t as smart as others assumed. You were no prodigy at figures and measures. What you grasped you did so with diligence and repetition until it became second nature. There had to be precision in your practice. You took pleasure in it. There was room for error in the Land of the Bees and Outlying Environs but not in the case of territory and ownership.

  For four years, you apprenticed with the old mapmaker. Heydar tutored you in the pertinent subjects related to the craft. He showed you how to use all of the instruments. He sent you afield with them | heliotrope high in the hot sun | , then allowed you to practice at his side at the table. He gave to you his insight into triangles. That he brought from his distant land of sand. He mapped with three sides as his center and trained you to do the same. This he claimed proudly as his innovation. You claimed his legacy.

  Heydar supervised your work as you charted the castle and its immediate lands. He had done so himself, but this was your final test. He praised your effort. He declared you ready to go on your own. Before he left to return to his homeland, he gave you the waywiser given to him by his adept.

  Many distances this wheel has measured with its walks. Remember me in a step once in a while. My time is done, and yours has begun, said he.

  The old mapmaker gave his leave and the King his permission. You crossed paths with your brother on his travels from holding to holding. With his group of envoys, Ciaran created lists and tallies. He was to collect numbers of people, animals, and goods. He was also to discern what grievances needed attention, what loyalties called for boons, and what troubles might be in brew beyond the borders.

  You were instructed to chart all that could be seen, and that was much. The kingdom was wide and broad. There were mountains and rivers, hills and streams, forests and valleys. Within this were the hamlets and towns, mills and smithies, pastures and arables, roads and paths. Ciaran and you were to note the fortifications. Ciaran, the condition. You, the location.

  Many times, Ciaran’s work would be done before you finished with yours. He would return to your childhood home, and you would stay behind to tend to the maps, but not only the maps. You explored the nearby regions by yourself. There were birds and plants and on occasion creatures you had never seen. You liked to speak with the people and learn about their customs. They fed you unusual foods and told familiar stories with subtle twists. Sometimes you sketched simple treasure maps for the children and hid coins for them to find.

  To you, knowledge of the people was meant to be mapped as well. For whimsy, you would include reminders on your work for the King. They meant something to you and only you. This was how you entered your childhood again. A hut’s roof edged with ribbons for no apparent reason. A place where you ate too much of a succulent pie. A fallow field speckled with blue gentian.

  It seemed, though, that just when you had found a comfortable rhythm in your temporary quarters, Prince Wyl appeared with matters to tend on behalf of his father. His presence caused a stir, with people running about to catch a peek at him and share words. He was, in fact, good with the subjects, when he saw them. He exchanged pleasantries. Sometimes he asked questions and listened until the people had had their say. When requested, he touched the crowns of children’s heads with gentleness. But, more often than not, Wyl was within your sight. He rode his horse around the place where you were at work. He sat at the hand of the host who gave shelter and food to the King’s representatives. He seemed to talk longer with others when you were nearby, in conversation with the son of a prominent nobleman. Or a lowly shepherd. Or a man on your crew.

  He has the stealth of a squirrel and the modesty of a peacock, you thought.

  One summer morning, you leaned over the plane table, your eye in a squint, and stood quickly when the object in your sight went black. There was Wyl with a raspberry between his fingertips and a small metal bowl filled with more.

  Thank you, but I’ll wait to eat them. Stained fingers, stained map, you said.

  You’re tame enough to feed by hand, said he.

  You stood bold before his charming smile and the pride he’d mustered. Such a thing he’d never said to you. Wyl looked at the map in progress and noticed the triangles that branched across the parchment.

  Where are we? asked he.

  You pointed to an open space yet to be drawn.

  This land is flat with little to see. Your work must be difficult.

  I have my ways.

  What would help you?

  Elevation, perhaps. I’ve had dreams of a tower.

  Then you’ll have this tower, said Wyl.

  So it was. You gave him drawings of the tower in your dreams. Wyl found the woodcutters and smiths to make its pieces. He found stouthearted men to test its design, which did not fail, and hired them to tend to its care.

  Innocent Wyl. He could not hide his adoration. You resisted your tender feelings. Was it love? Perhaps. When you were children, you attempted to keep the boundary fixed. Much your mothe
r’s doing. Bow to him, Aoife, he is the prince. Be friendly, not familiar. Be gracious. Be obedient. Be careful. | yes, be that with his dark brother Raef as well |

  You liked Wyl. His disposition was sanguine. He seemed more interested in pleasure than power. Grudges didn’t suit him. When you were young, when a girl wasn’t permitted to say aloud she found a boy comely, you thought he was just that. As you grew older, you found him handsome. An exceptional example. He, for whatever reason, found you pretty. No boy orbits a girl as he did unless an attraction, a physical attraction, exists.

  When you first saw the tower, you toed the great beams at its base. You tugged the ropes that tethered the tower to the ground for safety. You tapped the metal bolts that locked the heartwood beams into place. Then, the best part of all, you didn’t have to climb the sides like a ladder but could walk the staircase you had envisioned. A spiral led up to the top.

  You took your maiden ascent alone, with a crowd below, Ciaran and your crew, Wyl and his brother Raef. It was summer again. All was green and gold. All was alive. You had stood higher before, in the hill country, but this was different. When you leaned over the side, that caused much shouting on the ground. You saw straight down, your shadow a small dark splotch in the grass. So this is what the swallow sees on the wing, you thought. And as if by invitation, a blue swallow appeared above your head. It hovered before your eyes, plunged to ward the earth, and darted away with a green head and long legs crushed between its beak. You called Wyl to join you.

  The tower is wondrous. I could kiss you, you said.

  Yes, you could, said he.

  So literal, Wyl.

  Then I’ll wait until you mean what you say.

  You felt a sting. For the first time, a joke on him barbed you back. You watched him stare afar and wondered why he went to such lengths to please you. Perhaps there is more to this boy I once knew, you thought. You linked your arm with his and leaned into him, both swaying groundless.

  YOU THE MAPMAKER TRAVELED THREE LONG YEARS AND CHARTED A fraction of the kingdom. The King wished for faster results, but he knew you and your crew gave him more than he had expected. He himself walked some of the maps on his own and encountered no missed marks or wrong turns. Despite your wish to work through that fourth winter as well, the King summoned you home for a long respite. You had earned it and, you knew, others had insisted.