by Keira Drake
THE CONTINENT
Keira Drake
www.harlequinbooks.com.au
Books by Keira Drake
available from HQ Young Adult
The Continent
For Pea.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgements
Questions for Discussion
CHAPTER 1
THIS MUST BE THE MOST MAGNIFICENT PARTY IN the history of the Spire.
I’ve never felt quite like this before; my mind is awhirl, my senses dazzled, and there’s a bounding joy spiraling up within me. I wonder where it’s coming from, this feeling of inexhaustible delight?
Maybe it’s the music, rising up from the gleaming instruments of the quartet on the dais, filling the air with the cheerful sounds of the strings. Maybe it’s the food and drink, the tables overflowing with dainty hors d’oeuvres, sparkling juices, and wine. Maybe it’s the men and women on the dance floor, swirling by in a blur of black and gold finery, laughing and glittering and whispering merrily to one another. Or maybe it’s just knowing that all this—this amazing affair, this wonderful gala—it’s all for me. For my sixteenth birthday.
The room is filled nearly to capacity with well-wishers—people from all four corners of the Spire. I count two dozen of my friends from school, but the rest of the partygoers appear to be business associates of my father’s, or society women whom my mother invites for tea at the start of every week. Now that I take a moment to look around, it seems clear that the greater portion of the Spire’s nobility—as well as a sprinkling of government officials—are in attendance; even the Chancellor and his wife are here at my father’s invitation.
“Vaela,” calls my mother, as she approaches in a swish of cranberry chiffon, “it’s time.”
She takes my hand and pulls me across the dance floor, smiling and nodding to the revelers as we duck through to the other side of the hall. When we’re clear of the guests, she turns and gives me a long look, her eyes flickering over my face in quick assessment. Then she smiles.
“You look happy, darling. Are you pleased with the party? Is it everything you hoped it would be?”
“It’s wonderful,” I say. “I can’t remember when I’ve had such a good time.”
She gives my hand a little squeeze. “I can’t wait to see your face when you open your gifts! You’ll be absolutely astounded when you see what your father has done. There he is now—Thomas!”
My father stands on the dais with his back to us, arranging three crimson-wrapped packages on a small table. He turns when he hears my mother’s voice, and grins. Then he gestures for us to join him.
I follow my mother up a small stairway and we meet him at the back of the stage. He gives me a kiss on the cheek, then nods toward the packages on the table. “Are you ready to open your gifts?”
I look out on the party, at the scores of people dancing and drinking and chatting together, and wish for the millionth time that I could enjoy my gifts privately. But I give him a smile. “Of course.”
“Oh, Vaela,” my mother says. “When you open the last one—that small one there at the edge of the table—you’ll be the envy of everyone in the room. But I won’t say another word—I don’t want to spoil the surprise!”
I think she may be more excited than I am, but I must admit, my curiosity is piqued. “All right then, I’m ready.”
The musicians play the closing notes of a lively waltz and my father signals for them to wait. Then he steps up to a small stand on the podium and taps the microphone a few times.
“Good evening,” he says. “May I have your attention for just a few minutes?” The guests fall quiet as they turn their attention toward him. Ever comfortable speaking to a room full of people, he smiles broadly and continues. “Friends and colleagues, citizens and patriots, I thank you most graciously for being here this evening. It’s not every day that we have the opportunity to celebrate a milestone like this one—a sixteenth birthday, a coming of age, a step into life as a true citizen of the Spire.” The guests applaud, and my father turns to me. “Vaela, your mother and I could not be more proud of the young woman you have become. I hope these three gifts will demonstrate our admiration, our respect, and most of all, our love.”
He extends an arm and I step forward, my hands trembling a bit as I realize that all eyes in the room are now on me. My father reaches for a tiny rectangular box and places it in my hands. “Go ahead,” he says.
As I turn the box over and gently tear open the paper, the guests begin calling out guesses as to what might be inside.
“A bicycle!” says Evangeline Day, my closest and dearest friend, and the crowd laughs. Evangeline claps her hands demurely, but I see the giggle in her eyes.
A heavyset woman at the edge of the dance floor—a friend of my mother’s, I believe—says, “A great stuffed bear!” The guests titter appreciatively and the woman flushes pink.
I smile and lift the lid from the box. Inside, suspended from a delicate golden chain, is the most spectacular ruby pendant I’ve ever seen: it’s cut like an emerald, but mirrors the color of a deep red rose. The facets catch the light, glittering beneath the warm glow of the chandeliers. I look up at my father. “It’s beautiful.”
“See what’s written on the back,” my mother whispers.
I turn the pendant over to find a single word inscribed in tiny print: insazi. It’s an old word, from a language now mostly lost to the Spire, but a word still known and with many meanings: family, love, forever. My eyes fill with tears. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you so much, both of you.”
My mother takes the pendant and fixes it around my neck, and the guests applaud once again. My father hands me a second box; this one is wide and flat, and quite heavy. I set it on the table and begin to unwrap it. When I see what’s inside, I draw in my breath.
It’s a map of the Continent, framed in ebony wood, with a crimson mat set inside to bring out the color of the red and black pens with which the map was drawn. But it’s not just any map. It’s one of mine.
I drew this map over the course of a year during countless visits to the Astor Library, which is easily the greatest source of information about the Continent in the whole of the Spire. I spent hundreds of hours poring over aerial phototypes, studying the existing cartography, and imagining the features of that vast and foreign land. This map earned me an apprenticeship with Otto Sussenfaal himself, the curator of the library and perhaps the most brilliant cartographer our nation has borne in three centuries. This map is the culmination of my study; it is my greatest achievement so far.
And now, here it is, framed like a work of art, beautiful enough to draw hushed whispers from the guests gathered around the stage. I have no words.
“This map,” my father says, “was completed by Vaela herself.” A surprised murmur rises from the crowd. “Her pa
ssion and her talent enabled her to create this stunning—and, I have no doubt—highly accurate representation of the Continent. It is because of this map, because of the hours of work Vaela put into creating it, that her mother and I were inspired to choose this final gift.”
He hands me the last box. It’s no more than six inches wide and half an inch thick, and feels as though it contains nothing at all. I remove the paper and lift the lid: inside is a certificate of travel, embossed with the Spire’s official seal and marked with my name. I look up at my father, confused.
“Turn it over,” he says.
On the other side of the paper, I find the following words printed on the form:
Traveler: Vaela Sun
Depart from: Spire East
Destination: Ivanel
Tour: The Continent
My mouth falls open and I look up at him in wonder. “We’re going to the Continent?”
The crowd, hearing this, erupts in thunderous applause. My father beams at me as my mother puts an arm around my shoulders. Her excitement is palpable.
“We leave in three days,” she says.
A ruby pendant is the sort of gift I might have expected from my parents. A beautiful frame to display my map was an incredible, meaningful surprise. But a trip to the Continent is the most coveted privilege in the Spire—only ten tours are given each year, with a maximum of six guests per tour. Every man, woman, and child longs to see the Continent, but with more than a hundred million people across the Spire, only the very wealthy—and influential—are ever able to arrange a trip. My family is affluent, well-respected, and certainly very prominent in terms of society, but I still can’t imagine how my father managed to secure us passage.
“What do you think?” he asks, studying my face.
This question has a thousand answers, but none seem sufficient. I throw my arms around him. “Thank you,” I whisper.
The guests are delighted, stamping their feet and applauding with great enthusiasm. My father turns back to the crowd. “Dinner will be served shortly; please continue to enjoy the celebration, and thank you all for coming!”
He replaces the microphone in the stand. “Are you surprised?”
“Surprised? I don’t understand, I thought the wait-list to tour was—”
“Endless,” my mother says. “Absolutely impossible. But, as it happens, your father is working with Mr. Shaw now—you’ll know the name, of course, the Director of National Affairs down at the Chancellery—and he’s been promoted to Trade Regulator! Overseeing the embargoes and other whatnots for the East, West, North, and South.”
“Paperwork,” my father says, and gives me a wink. “Mountains of it.”
My mother laughs. “In any case, Mr. Shaw and your father have been getting along famously. And so the Shaws, who’ve had a private tour booked for absolute ages, invited us to join their family.”
“What good fortune!” I say. “We shall be traveling as their guests?”
“As their companions,” my father says. “Mr. Shaw was kind enough to make the arrangements, but this gift is from your mother and I alone.”
“I am very grateful,” I say. “To you and Mother for your generosity, and to Mr. Shaw for his graciousness. I should like to thank him properly, when we meet.”
“You shall have the chance directly,” says my mother, beaming. “They’ll be joining us for dinner.”
The Shaws, apparently, have been delayed, and so the three of us—my father, mother, and I—begin my birthday dinner at rather an empty table. A golden cloth, edged with silken tassels, is laid out before us, with a slim black runner down the center; the dishes are ivory, the utensils silver, the glasses crystal: all handmade, and exceptionally fine. The decor throughout the Chancellery ballroom is striking, all in the black and gold of the Spire, according to tradition—as is the attire of our guests. Only my family is dressed in red, for as the guests of honor, we wear the crimson of the Blood Lily, the symbol of the East: the nation we call home.
We are seated, chatting idly and awaiting the second course, when a stout, bespectacled man and a very harassed-looking woman approach the table. They are accompanied by a handsome young man of about twenty; his hair is brown and slightly wavy, his eyes blue.
My father rises to greet them. “Mr. and Mrs. Shaw, we’re so glad you could make it! And, Aaden, it’s nice to see you again as well.”
“It’s a wonder we’ve made it at all,” says Mrs. Shaw, “the way it’s pouring rain outside. I had to change my shoes three times! Can you imagine?” She stops speaking and stares at one of the servers, who rushes forward and pulls out her chair. She sits in a huff and makes a quick inspection of the table. “We’ve missed the first course, have we? It’s just as well. I had a late lunch.”
My father smiles and settles into his chair once again. “Vaela, may I introduce Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Shaw, and their son, Aaden.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say.
“The pleasure is ours,” says Mr. Shaw. “And happy birthday! I presume you’ve already had occasion to open your gifts?” He raises a brow at my father.
“Yes, sir,” I say. “And I’m told it was by your invitation that we are able to see the Continent. I can’t say how grateful I am.”
“Not at all,” he says. “It is our good fortune to have you and your family along. The more the merrier, so they say.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” my mother says. “A journey across the sea! I can scarcely imagine how exciting it will be. Are you looking forward to the trip, Mrs. Shaw?”
Mrs. Shaw has busied herself with inspecting the silverware, but hasn’t missed a word. “Oh, yes. I’ve been after Arthur for years to schedule a trip, but he’s always too busy doing something or other for the Chancellery.”
“They do keep us busy,” he agrees. “As I’m sure your husband can attest, Mrs. Sun.”
My mother reaches over and pats my father’s hand. “It’s fortunate for all of us that the government has seen fit to spare you both for a holiday.”
“I’ve been packed and ready for two weeks,” says Mrs. Shaw, adjusting her very large hat, in which no fewer than six black ceramic birds are perched atop a spray of shining wheat. “No one can ever say I don’t properly prepare for these events. Of course, there’s always the odd thing you somehow manage to forget, isn’t there?” She takes a sip of wine and smiles at me. “What a lovely pendant, Vaela. I’ve never been able to wear rubies—I look absolutely dreadful in red. I’d have done much better if I’d been born in the South, draped in all that luxurious purple. Haven’t I always said so, Arthur? Anyhow. The color suits you very well, and that chain brings out the gold of your hair. Makes it look like—” She pauses, searching for the right word.
“Like honey,” Aaden says. I glance over to find him staring at me, a contemplative expression on his face, and I quickly look away.
Mrs. Shaw considers this for a moment, then nods in agreement. “What I wouldn’t give for hair so—heavens, Vaela, are you blushing? Oh, how quaint.”
I bring my glass to my lips and fix my eyes on the ice water within. My cheeks are burning, but I can think of nothing to say. My father graciously intervenes.
“Have you any thoughts, Mr. Shaw, about the natives on the Continent? I expect we shall see a good deal of fighting during our tour.”
“I find them fascinating,” says Mr. Shaw, leaning forward. “I’m not as well-read on the natives as my boy Aaden here, but I think I favor the Topi. Seem a red-blooded sort—aggressive and primitive, they say.”
“They are a popular favorite, to be sure,” my father says. “Much more fearsome than the Aven’ei. I take no preference, myself. But I admit, it will be interesting to see them at battle.”
“Thomas, really?” my mother says. “I was hoping not to see any bloodshed at all.”
“Come now, madam,” Aaden says, an easy smile upon his face. “Is there any other reason to go to the Continent?”
My mother is
taken aback. “I’m sure there are many reasons. For my part, I have heard that the landscape is spectacular, and I shall be very glad to see it.”
“Ah, yes,” Aaden says. “Snow and ice, and miles and miles of treacherous wilderness.” He laughs. “Let’s be honest—it’s not the scenery that has every citizen in the Spire clamoring to see the Continent. It’s the war.”
My mother smiles and sets down her fork. “I have no interest in seeing the natives slaughter one another.”
“But that is exactly what you will see,” Aaden says. “Surely you are prepared for it?”
“She knows perfectly well what she will and won’t see,” says Mrs. Shaw. “No one expects that the primitives will stop their ghastly violence simply because we’re there to observe it. They’ve been railing at each other for centuries. I’ve never understood the fascination with it, myself. I’m right with you, Mrs. Sun.”
“The fascination,” my father says, “lies in the fact that they are at war in the first place.”
“Too right,” says Mr. Shaw. “We take for granted that the Spire is a place without such primitive hostilities—that we have transcended the ways of war in favor of peace and negotiation. To see the Topi and the Aven’ei in conflict is to look into our past—and to appreciate how far we have come.”
My father nods in agreement. “And at least we can see it all from the safety of the heli-plane, yes? Not the sort of place you’d like to go tramping about on foot.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Aaden says, “it might be quite a thrill to see all that blood and gore up close.”
“Aaden, please,” says Mrs. Shaw, making a face. “We are at supper.”
“I’ll take a safe distance over the threat of arrows and hatchets any day of the week,” Mr. Shaw says.
My mother pushes her plate away. “I think it’s a dreadful shame that in all these years, they haven’t been able to sort out their differences.”
Mrs. Shaw rolls her eyes skyward. “I say let them kill each other. One day they’ll figure out that war suits no one, or else they’ll drive themselves to extinction. Either way, it makes no difference to me.”