by Keira Drake
“From what we can tell,” he continues, “everything has been left just as it was when the villages were overtaken. We’ve even been able to make out dress forms and the like in store windows, still bearing tunics and other Aven’ei garments! There are metal pots in the bakeries, mosaics upon the walls—it is like a civilization frozen in time. We of the Spire do not land, of course, for to do so would be to violate the Treaty—but the Chancellery has a number of phototypes on record of these ancient Aven’ei towns. Storefronts, armorers, residential districts, all abandoned in the aftermath of war. Truly fascinating!”
“Grim,” my father says.
“Too right,” Mr. Shaw agrees.
We fly over the settlements, and grim, I think, is not the right word. Stark…sad…overgrown, perhaps. White brick buildings snaked with ivy, fields encroached by weeds and wildflowers, pillars crumbled to half-height. Children once played in the now-empty yards and meadows, men and women once worked in the buildings of industry. All has gone to rot, has been left to nature, as the Topi push farther west and claim village after village. Only the Narrow Corner—the point in the north at which the Kinsho mountains recede—has kept the Aven’ei from total encroachment. This small access point, north of the Kinsho, the Aven’ei can defend. And it is there that we are headed—but first, the Continent holds one last wonder for me.
The pilot sweeps to the south in a beautiful, graceful arc, and we come upon the thing I have most longed to see. Spreading out before me is a miracle of nature, a deep place carved into stone by water, ice, and time.
“If you’ll just take a look out the window,” the steward says, “you’ll see that we’re directly above the Riverbed—a great natural phenomenon, quite unlike anything in the Spire. Please enjoy this grand and majestic view!”
“Good grief,” Mrs. Shaw says, peering out her window. “It’s as though someone dug out half the earth!”
“It’s incredible,” I say. And it truly is: narrow in some places, impossibly wide in others, far deeper than I imagined. I find myself sketching madly as I observe—my cheeks flushed, my fingertips coated with charcoal as I draw and shade and blend. The peaks and crevasses come to life on the pages of my little book, and it occurs to me after about twenty minutes that I should like to do an extensive map of the Riverbed itself.
When the pilot finally veers away from the valley and directs the plane toward the Topi-Aven’ei border, I feel restless and unsatisfied, like a great work has begun and must be put aside. But the steward comes down the aisle and makes a point of telling me that the pilot will return to the canyon on our way back to Ivanel—even though a second look will take us miles out of the way. I thank him profusely, and he laughs.
After a while, the steward returns to the front of the plane. “We’ll be approaching the border any minute,” he says, “and I just want to remind you that we may see violence here today. After an advance flight this morning, the pilot did report that two parties were seen en route to this location. I should like to say at this point that although the sight of battle can be shocking—even disturbing, to some—it is a valuable thing to witness. Few Spirians ever see what battle is truly like—few have the opportunity to fully appreciate the Spire’s peaceful accord. However, if you find yourself distressed by any violence, please know that I am here to assist—and you may always retreat to the solitude of the aft cabin.”
“Will we be close enough to get a good view?” Aaden says. “When we saw the Aven’ei yesterday, we must have been at some two hundred feet.”
“Touring altitude largely depends upon the terrain, as well as the activity taking place on the ground. This part of the border sits in a wide basin, which will allow us to get quite close; these aircraft are specially equipped to hover at low altitude. The plane will stay at between fifty and one hundred feet—near enough so that you may see all the action taking place, near enough so that you can enjoy a truly visceral experience. Facial expressions and the like should be very clear. Oh—there we are, the pilot is turning toward the border now. It’ll be just a few minutes.”
He sits on the bench opposite the passenger seats and folds his hands together. There is a quiet amongst us now, quite different from the awkward silence of yesterday afternoon. This is something altogether unique—it is a tension, an impatience, an uncertainty. Our curiosity is so strong, it is nearly palpable. Even I cannot take my eyes from the window.
We come upon a clearing surrounded by a wood. The quiet aboard the plane persists, and I feel my stomach twist with nerves.
“This side of the plane,” Aaden says. “Come to this side.”
Mrs. Shaw moves to sit beside Mr. Shaw, my father crosses to the other side of the aisle, and I sit down next to Aaden, my heart hammering in my chest.
What strikes me first of all is not the movement of the warriors—not their huge strides, not the swinging of their weapons, not the frenetic activity of the battle. What strikes me first is the blood.
It is everywhere—carved out into wild arcs beside the natives, dripping from the branches of leafless bushes, coursing in rivulets along the limbs of the Topi and the Aven’ei alike. It is bright red in the snow, spattered into patterns so delicate and graceful, they seem to have been painted there on purpose. And aside from the gaudy cloaks and vests of the Topi, it is the only thing of color in the stark white.
Only secondarily do I become aware of the actual brutality playing out before me. It seems to register in bits and pieces, in fragments of activity. For although there is a single battle taking place, I realize that it comprises many smaller conflicts, each seeming to occur independently of the others. My eyes don’t know where to look, and everywhere I cast my gaze, there is death.
An Aven’ei warrior is pinned to the ground, his shoulder reduced to flesh and muscle as it is struck by a Topi hammer. Beside him, a Topi fighter is killed by a knife driven into his chest. And on the other side of the clearing, nearest the wood, an Aven’ei archer is charged by three Topi and decapitated before he can escape.
It goes on and on, the killing and violence and horror, while not a word is spoken aboard the plane. Finally, there are only Topi left standing in the field—perhaps forty or so, while at least a hundred men in total lay dead around them. The men scream and raise their fists to the air, drunk with victory, reveling in blood. One of them points to the heli-plane, then gestures to the fallen archer. The group laughs together, and a short, stocky warrior darts across the clearing to retrieve the severed head.
We all watch in silence as the man pushes through the snow, making his way back to his group. One of the other Topi—a tall man with long, braided hair—shouts something at the heli-plane, his face contorted with disgust. A moment later, the stocky warrior hurls the head toward us.
We’re too high for it to reach, of course, but its effect is powerful nonetheless. Mrs. Shaw gets up at once and moves down the aisle toward the aft cabin; Mr. Shaw follows her directly. The steward heads forward to the cockpit, and seconds later, the plane tips gently and moves once again toward the Riverbed.
My father pulls me back to sit beside him. I stare at him, acutely aware that I am looking at him with eyes that can never unsee what has just taken place, and he looks back at me, willing me to unsee it. Then he puts his arms around me and I cry, because there is nothing else in the world to do.
CHAPTER 5
THERE IS NO PART OF ME THAT CAN UNDERSTAND how one person can harm another.
I feel like a fool, having somehow failed to ever mark the difference between spectacle and death. I take no comfort in knowing that almost every citizen in the Spire has done the same, for their failure is just as shameful as my own. I feel this truth so profoundly that I wonder how it never occurred to me before.
Even after I saw the men hanging from the bridge, I didn’t fully grasp the reality of the natives’ war. It took seeing with my own eyes the cleaving and ripping of flesh. It took a severed head hurled toward us in hatred and contempt. It took too
much to understand something that ought to have been clear from the beginning.
I spent the duration of the flight in my father’s arms, replaying the battle in my mind. I kept my eyes closed, terrified that I might look out the window and see anything like violence. The Continent, once a land of great fascination to me, now seems a hateful arena of death and horror. I never want to go back.
The steward came round this morning to ask if we would be touring today, and I heard my father speaking to him in hushed tones. About half an hour later, there was a second knock at the door—it was the steward again, coming to see if I would like to join Aaden on an expedition of the island. I tried to decline, but he implored me to consider that the fresh air—however cold—might do me some good. He left a canvas bag full of insulated clothing and said that he would be back at noon to collect me.
And so, here I am, waiting alone on the private indoor promenade, staring at the snow and the rocks and the sea beyond. I see now that this is what my mother feared most—that the Continent might change me. Perhaps it has.
When Aaden and the steward arrive, both seem to be in good spirits. Aaden smiles brightly when he sees me.
“All set, there?” he says, gesturing to my new clothes. “I’m feeling rather outdoorsy myself today. What do you think?” He does a little spin, and despite myself, I laugh.
“You look very fine, sir.” I collect my hat and gloves, tuck a small sketchbook into the pocket of my vest, and close the door behind me. “Are you to be our escort?” I say to the steward.
“Oh, heavens, no,” he says. “I try never to set foot out of doors unless I’m in the Spire. Far too cold for a Southerner like me! We’re to meet your guide in the lobby—a Mr. Cloud.”
“Very well,” I say, falling into step beside Aaden as we walk down the hall. “Is no one…is no one going to the Continent today?”
The steward’s voice falls to a hush. “No, miss. Everyone required a bit of a respite, I think. It happens sometimes, after the first tour. Some folks enjoy the fighting, but others…well, you understand. It can be a bit much.”
An image of bloody snow flashes before my eyes and I shake my head. “It was very…real,” I say, looking at Aaden.
“It’s miles away, now,” he says lightly. “Think no more of it.” He claps his hands. “Now! Let’s away, for it is very cold outside, and we gluttons for punishment must embrace it like true adventurers.”
In the lobby, we are introduced to Mr. Cloud, the groundskeeper at Ivanel. His height is astounding—he must be nearly six and a half feet tall. He has the look of a Westerner—beautiful dark skin, blue eyes so pale they are nearly white, and a warmth and geniality about his person that is very inviting. I find that I like him almost at once.
“Good day,” he says. “I hear we have a couple of explorers in our group—not too common, you know. First time for everything, as they say!”
“How do you do?” Aaden says. “I’m Aaden Shaw, and this is Miss Vaela Sun. Vaela is something of an accomplished cartographer, and she’s interested in getting a feel for the island.”
“So I’m told,” says Mr. Cloud, looking at me with interest. “I take it you want a look up close at the terrain?”
“Very much,” I say. “It’s one thing to see the landscape in the phototypes, or even to view it from the plane—but I have such a restless yearning to feel the ground beneath my own two feet. Does that seem strange?”
“I’ve got the same affliction, my dear,” Mr. Cloud says. “And I wouldn’t call it strange—more like…irrepressible. Well. It’s not too cold out today, so let’s see how we do!” He takes a second glance at me. “You’ll want to put on that hat, miss, and those gloves. When I say it’s not too cold, what I mean is that you won’t get frostbite out in the open. I don’t mean to say it’s warm, or anything like it.”
“I understand,” I say, putting on my hat. Aaden does the same with his own.
Mr. Cloud nods, grinning. “Explorers on Ivanel—whatever next? All right then, Spirians. Off we go.”
The chill cuts through me the moment we step outside. The steward was right—it is far colder out of doors than it was in the hangar.
Mr. Cloud kicks aside a large clump of snow in an attempt to clear the pathway. “All right, there? Warm enough?”
I’m not sure if I can speak, so I just nod my head and attempt a smile.
He laughs and tugs my hat down around my ears. “Come along, you’ll adjust to the temperature in a minute. Those clothes are plenty warm—it’s just the cold on your face that’s thrown you.”
We follow behind him on a sloping path, and even though I find myself gasping a bit from the freezing air, I can’t help but notice the pristine beauty around me. There isn’t a cloud to be seen; the sky is a crisp wintry blue, the sun is like a bright white stone in the sky. The Ivanel complex lies behind us, and ahead is a wide field—covered in snow, of course, with little to it other than some hardy shrubs and a few jagged boulders. Small white birds flutter here and there, pecking something or other from between the rocks; they tilt their heads and coo at us as we move along.
“Achelons,” Mr. Cloud says. “Greedy little things.” He produces a handful of dry bread from his pocket and tosses it onto the snow. Six or seven of the birds hop forward to snatch up the pieces.
“They’re so precious,” I say. “Do you feed them often?”
“I always say I won’t, but then I do. Just the ones here by the facility. They’ve come to know me a bit, I think.”
“I think so, too,” I say.
As we continue on, the shore comes into view, and I’m delighted by the sight of violent, frosty waves crashing and breaking before rolling up to kiss the rocky sand. A fishing boat floats idly in the little bay, tied to a weatherbeaten post—and a great iceberg looms in the distance, shining pale bluish-white in the sun. I’ve never seen an iceberg before, and would be content to stare at it all day, but Mr. Cloud leads us away from the more accessible part of the beach toward the base of a high cliff.
I’m huffing a bit by the time we reach it, as the snow is quite thick and we’ve been moving steadily uphill for a little ways. Mr. Cloud doesn’t look as though he’s exerted himself at all, but Aaden’s breathing seems as labored as mine.
“I thought you might find this interesting,” he says, patting a hand on the steep wall. “This cliff is more than five hundred feet high, and it goes two-thirds of the way around the island.”
“Yes! I’ve noticed it on some of the topographical maps—but it’s quite something else to see it up close.” I take a step back and shield my eyes, staring up at the immense wall before me. It’s damp and glistening, with fragments of shiny rock jutting out in small clumps. “I don’t suppose we can go up to the top?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re up for that, miss? It will take the better part of an hour, and we’ll be in some heavy snow by the time you get there.”
“Please,” I say. “If Aaden is agreeable, I should love to see the ocean from such a vantage point.”
“I’m game if you are,” Aaden says. “Let’s do it.”
By the time we reach the top, the muscles in my legs are burning. My whole body, in fact, is significantly warmed by the climb; the sharp breeze now feels cool and bracing against the fine layer of perspiration that has appeared on my cheeks and forehead. Mr. Cloud says it can be very dangerous to sweat in these temperatures, especially without insulated clothing. To this, I assure him that I have no intention of traipsing about on Ivanel in my dinner clothes.
The grueling climb is all but forgotten upon sight of the ocean sweeping out below us, vast and dark and beautiful, the sunlight golden upon the fragmented sea ice. The waves break against the cliff with tremendous power, creating great whorls of frothy white foam that seem to dance atop the water, ever at the mercy of the tides.
I put a hand to my breast. “Did you ever see anything so marvelous?”
“Worth every miserable step,”
Aaden agrees.
Mr. Cloud crosses his arms and gives a small nod, a smile at the corner of his lips. “For all the Spire’s beauty, you’ll never see anything quite like this.” He glances back at the trees behind us. “Listen—I’d like to check a few traps while we’re up here—mind if I leave you two to admire the view for a while?”
“Take your time,” Aaden says, and moves to sit on a wide, flat rock. He pats the space next to him. “Sit with me, Vaela.”
We rest for a few minutes, our eyes on the sea. It is quiet here atop the cliff, the stillness broken only by the trilling of the Achelons in the trees and the breaking water far below.
“Aaden?”
“Yes?” he says, his voice distant.
“Was it what you expected?”
He glances over at me, then looks back at the ocean. “Yes and no.”
“Tell me what you mean.”
He doesn’t answer right away. “It was thrilling, just as I thought it would be. There was something raw and powerful about the battle itself. But…it was not entertaining. I was rather put off, to be honest.”
“It was terrible.”
“It was.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “When people return from the Continent, they talk about how exhilarating the battles were. They say the fighting was bloody, but they never say…they never say how gruesome it all is.”
He tilts his head. “What did you expect, Vaela? You had to know on some level how brutal it would be.”
I pull my legs toward my chest and hug them close. “I suppose I didn’t think about it at all—not in any real sense. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but it’s true. I just thought it would be exciting.”
“Well, it was, at that.”
“It was dreadful. The whole thing was dreadful. And to think, all those years ago, each was offered a place as a nation of the Spire, if only their quarrels could be set aside. But they chose dissension. They chose death and blood and perpetual hostility. Why?”