by Keira Drake
“To be fair,” Aaden says, “the Aven’ei hoped to unite with us. It was the Topi who refused—they wanted nothing to do with our people from the very first; we were never able to establish even the simplest trade with them.” He scuffs his foot along the side of the rock and shakes his head. “It was different with the Aven’ei. They traded peacefully for decades with the East and the West—right up until the Spire was formed.”
“I’ve always wondered about that—what did the Aven’ei possess that our people could possibly want?”
“You realize how that sounds?”
I flush, the heat of my cheeks in stark opposition to the chill air. “I only meant…the natives have such a primitive culture.”
“Not all things of value are measured in gold, Vaela,” Aaden says. “The West has always taken a particular interest in societal enrichment, and its representatives were smitten by Aven’ei art and culture—smitten. You can see the native influence in many Western things, even now: the clothing, the architecture—they’ve enfolded the Aven’ei aesthetic into the very fabric of life.”
“And what did the West offer in return?”
“Medical advances. Clinical techniques. The Aven’ei healers were eager to learn, though skeptical about some of our procedures.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t ask for other things. Superior weaponry, perhaps. Something to give them an advantage over the Topi.”
“They did adopt our language—far more phonetic than the original Aven’ei tongue—which is no small thing. But when the Continent was first discovered—some…what, two hundred seventy years ago now?—the Four Nations put a treaty in place that severely limited the divulgence of schematics to either tribe, and prohibited any disclosure of weapons technology or combat tactics. The North, for example, had no interest in the natives, but did not want to help them advance either, should they someday take their war to our land. Probably very wise.”
“And the East? What did they gain?”
“Now that’s where it gets fun,” Aaden says, turning on the rock to face me. “The North, as you know, holds the monopoly on lumber—roughly 85 percent of the wood in the Spire comes from the North.”
Despite my mood, I can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. There is nothing so rousing as a scholar in his element. “So I’ve heard.”
“Well. When the Continent was found, the Head of State in the East was ecstatic. Her nation had been struggling financially for some time, and the North had cut off their lumber supply, as they had run up some bad debt. Imagine what it was like for the East to come across an entirely new land mass, covered in trees, completely uncontrolled by the North?”
“Like salvation, I suppose.”
“Yes. The Aven’ei were happy to share. And in exchange, they got a significant influx of agricultural wealth—crops, farming techniques, and something the Continent had never seen before: cattle.”
“No trade with the North and South?”
“None. They would have nothing to do with the natives at all.”
I sigh, feeling suddenly tired. “If all this symbiotic trading and sharing of cultures was going on—at least with the East and West—why did it end when the Spire was formed?”
“You have read the Declaration, right, Vaela?”
I begin to recite automatically: “East, West, North, and South, these Four are now One. We come together as the Spire, as a single united nation, as a pinnacle to those who—”
He rolls his eyes. “Okay, you’ve memorized the preamble—all of us have. But the full Declaration reads like a list of laws. Once the nations were united as the Spire, trade with any warring country was prohibited.”
“Well, then. The Aven’ei should have simply joined the Spire and left the Topi out of it.”
“Vaela…how could they? The only way to become a part of the Spire was to set aside the ways of war entirely. That was easily done on our piece of land, where all were in accord. But the Topi by then had no interest in peace; if the Aven’ei had put down their arms, they would have been massacred.”
I shift uncomfortably on the rock, which seems to have grown colder. I have some vague recollection of learning long ago some of what Aaden has just told me—a half-remembered notion that one side or the other wanted to join with us, but had not done so. Even so, I never considered that the aggression between the Topi and the Aven’ei might not be always mutual—that one side might be trying to defend itself against the other. “How very sad for the Aven’ei, then.”
“That’s the thing about war,” he says. “It’s easy to avoid as long as no one is trying to break down your door.”
I look at my hands. “Will you go back for another tour?”
“I will,” he says, then frowns at my astonishment. “It’s important to see it, Vaela. To know the truth of it.”
“I know all I need to know,” I say. “I won’t go back.”
“You should. I don’t have to tell you that the Continent has never been fully mapped—not in consensus, anyway. Your work is important.”
“Is it? I don’t know. I don’t know if it matters.”
“Of course it matters,” he says. “And in any case, it wasn’t the war that brought you here—so don’t let it keep you from doing what you love.”
“I don’t know why you care so much,” I say, looking up to meet his eyes. “You’ve only just met me.”
“I care because you surprise me,” he says. “No one surprises me.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
His gaze casts out to the sea, and he smiles. “You are strange, Vaela, don’t you know that? You are beautiful and naive, yet wise beyond your years. You see things that others do not. I would court you, if you wish, when we return to the Spire.”
A flush comes over me, though the breeze presses a cold kiss about my face. “I…is that what you want, Aaden?”
“Yes,” he says, his breath tight, the muscles in his neck taut. “I want you to be mine. I want to discover all the things that lie deep inside you, for I know there is an ocean left undiscovered in your heart.”
“Aaden,” I say, caught in the moment, flattered beyond all belief, weak at the center of my being.
His lips press to mine, soft and urgent, and only the wind rustling in the branches of the blackwood trees is to be heard.
Mr. Cloud soon comes to collect us, and I am certain he somehow knows that Aaden has kissed me, that an intention of courtship has been declared, that my stomach is fluttering like mad. My first kiss—and from a boy I’ve known only a matter of days. Evangeline will want every detail—and whatever shall I say? I hardly know what to think; it was so brief, so unexpected. I liked it well enough, I suppose, but it was rather wet, now I come to think of it. Is that how it’s supposed to be? I wish I could ask my mother, though I know she’d only ask a thousand questions in return. I feel somewhat anxious, if truth be told, as though I have embarked on a journey for which I am unprepared. Still…isn’t that love? Is that the way it should feel?
My pulse races as we follow Mr. Cloud down the cliff-side—no small feat, even though the trail is not terribly steep. The snow shifts and slides beneath me, moving in great clumps and making it impossible to stay on my feet. I spend half the time sliding down on my behind, feeling most undignified, but ahead of me Aaden is doing exactly the same. Only Mr. Cloud, with a practiced air, manages to stay upright all the way down the slope.
Back on the path, we come to the place where we first spotted the Achelons. The little birds have gone, but Mr. Cloud sprinkles a few extra crumbs for them even so. Our party has almost reached the complex when I notice a thriving berry bush a short distance away.
“Look!” I say, feeling terribly nervous about what has come to pass between Aaden and I, and eager to point out a distraction. “Clayberries—the ones we had at dinner! Shall we gather a few for your mother, Aaden?”
“No, no, miss,” says Mr. Cloud. “Those are snowthorn berries—quite poisonous.”
Aaden steps off the path and plucks a fat, ripe berry from the branch. “They do at that,” he says. “What’s the difference, sir?”
“The difference is that those ones will kill you, and the clayberries won’t,” Mr. Cloud says flatly. “But if you’re asking how to tell them apart, don’t look at the fruit—look at the shrub. Snowthorn plants have knobby branches—see those gnarls there? Clayberry branches are smooth as silk.”
“I guess we oughtn’t collect any then,” I say, disappointed. “Mrs. Shaw would have been so delighted.”
“Don’t you worry,” Mr. Cloud says. “The kitchen here at Ivanel is well stocked. Now, let’s get you two back inside—this cold is getting sharper, and you’ll probably want to rest up before dinner. After all—tomorrow is a new day, and from what I hear, the pilot has a truly fascinating trip planned for those who wish to return to the Continent. Trust me, citizens—you won’t want to miss it.”
CHAPTER 6
THE FOLLOWING DAY, DESPITE MY PREVIOUS protestations, I find myself aboard the heli-plane once more. Aaden was right: I didn’t come for the war; why should it keep me from doing what I came to accomplish? Cartography is the thing I have loved more than anything in my life, and I may never again have the chance to see the Continent with my own eyes. I would be a fool to squander such an opportunity. The plight of the Topi and the Aven’ei is tragic, but it is immaterial to my work—that sounds cold, but what can I do about the conflict here? I am not the first to be disturbed by the violence—the steward said as much. Even if the natives could see the senselessness of their war, I am in no position to help.
In any case, today’s tour has actually been rather pleasant; we’ve all engaged in lively conversation from time to time, and the general feeling of well-being among the passengers has been delightful. Even my mother—who came along at my request, and who is none the wiser in regard to the kiss I shared with Aaden—has enjoyed the flight, having taken a remedy beforehand to alleviate her airsickness. Mrs. Shaw is in a very happy mood because her husband was kind enough to bring along a good portion of their luggage to “keep her busy.” After five hours, I’ve seen several geographical formations of interest—including a second tour of the southern reaches and a flyover of the Aramei mountains in the northwest—filled an entire sketchbook with illustrations and commentary, and have not set eyes upon a single native (Mr. Shaw apparently had a private word with the pilot before we left the island and instructed him to tour unpopulated areas whenever possible).
Aaden has been absolutely charming all day long. Throughout the afternoon, he has regaled us with fun little facts about the Continent, none related to violence. Even Mr. Shaw has been impressed by Aaden’s considerable knowledge, and made a comment in passing about the prestige of his son’s upcoming professorship. It has been a pleasant day indeed.
We’re on our way back to the island now, and everyone has relaxed into a sort of easy quiet. My mother and father speak softly to one another in the back row, and Aaden sits beside me, looking through my drawings.
“You have quite a keen eye,” he says. “I have no talent for this sort of thing.”
“Cartography? It’s really more of a science than anything, and with education, I think anyone could—”
“Drawing,” he says with a smile. “I have no talent for drawing. I’m a mediocre artist.”
“I’m sure that’s not—” The heli-plane gives a sudden shudder and lurches to the side, startling me so much that I grab the seat in front of me. I look over at Aaden in wonder. “What was that, do you think?”
“What on earth?” exclaims Mrs. Shaw from the front row.
I lean over and peer up the aisle to see the steward smiling patiently at her. “Just a touch of turbulence, I expect. Nothing to worry about; it’s quite normal.”
“If I’d known we’d be in for a bumpy ride, I might have brought my adventurer’s hat with me,” says Mr. Shaw. “You know the one, Nora, the brown topper with the metal grommets?”
“If you’d packed that hat, I’d have stayed at home,” she says, and my mother laughs. Another jolt, this one smaller than the first, rattles the heli-plane. Mrs. Shaw laughs nervously. “I wonder if I ought to have stayed at home after all? I don’t go in for this turbulence one bit!”
Mr. Shaw pats her hand. “Not to worry, my dear. Remember what the steward said; these heli-planes have been fit to fly for ages. They simply do not crash.”
The plane shudders again, dropping a few feet in the air and taking my heart with it. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“Don’t worry, Vaela,” Aaden says. “These aircraft are equipped with highly redundant systems. It would take an improbable series of malfunctions to cripple one of them, much less bring one down.”
I open my eyes. “Really?”
He smiles. “Really.”
Mr. Shaw stands up, steadying himself with one hand on the top of his seat, and opens his mouth to say something when a horrible wrenching sound comes from the belly of the aircraft, and the whole cabin begins to shake.
“What is the meaning of this?” Mrs. Shaw says, her voice shrill. “What was that dreadful sound?”
“I’ll just go and speak to the pilot,” the steward says. “I’m sure we—”
“You tell him to return this plane to Ivanel at once.”
“I’ll just be a moment,” he replies, and disappears behind the sliding door that leads to the forward compartment.
Mr. Shaw puts a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Let’s just try to calm down and wait for the steward,” he says. “I’m sure everything is under control.”
He does not at all sound sure.
I glance up at the ceiling, where the light fixture is rattling in its casing. The sight of it makes me feel sick, and I look away.
The steward emerges from the cockpit, mopping his brow with a white cloth. “The pilot is going to try to land the plane,” he says. “There seems to have been a mechanical failure, and if everyone will do their best to keep calm, we’ll just—”
“Fire!” shrieks Mrs. Shaw. “There’s a fire!”
Mr. Shaw is on his feet. “Where?”
“I don’t know,” she says, her voice quavering. “But look.”
Acrid gray smoke has begun to seep through the seam of a panel in the forward part of the cabin on the right-hand side. I find myself gripping the armrest, my knuckles gleaming white beneath my skin. But it is the expression on Aaden’s face that brings me from nervousness to fear: gone is the easy confidence of just a moment before. Consternation and dread rule his features.
“Surely this isn’t serious?” I say, my voice thick in my throat.
“The airplane is on fire, Vaela.”
I am overcome by a terrible sense of desperation. “But you…you just said the plane couldn’t crash! That it couldn’t fail, that there are systems in place to keep that from happening!”
“Vaela,” he says quietly, “it is happening—though I don’t understand how. It makes no sense. The—”
“The pilot will land and they’ll send another heli-plane for us,” I say, aware that I am beginning to sound hysterical.
“Don’t you see where we are?” he says, jerking a thumb toward the window. “There’s nowhere to set down. We’re over the mountains southeast of the Riverbed.”
“Please,” I say, but have nothing else to add. I only want him to tell me everything will be okay. I want this plane to stop shuddering. I want to go home.
“When I kissed you,” he says, “I intended to honor every implication of such a thing.”
“What do you mean?”
He stands. “Excuse me, I need to pass by.”
“What?” I say, utterly confused. “Where are you going?”
He doesn’t answer, but steps awkwardly into the aisle and moves forward to address the steward, who gives him a look
of utter surprise before nodding emphatically. Then Aaden turns at once and stalks down the aisle toward the aft cabin. He does not look at me or say another word as he passes.
I turn back to my mother and father, who sit across the aisle in the row behind me. My father is looking out the window, his lips pressed into a tight line, and my mother is white-faced. She reaches forward to take my hand, but says nothing.
The plane drops down, seems to rise back up for half a moment, and then drops a second time. Then a third. It’s shaking so violently now that my whole body is jerking back and forth, and I hear myself screaming.
“Put her in the escape pod,” my father shouts, and in an instant, my mother is in the aisle, pulling me toward the aft end of the plane.
My father turns back to the Shaws. “You two get to the rear cabin before that smoke gets any thicker.”
“Wait!” wails Mrs. Shaw. “My bags! Arthur!”
My mother drags me along; I stumble as the floor lurches beneath my feet, but her hold on me doesn’t waver. Against the cacophony of clattering metal, of Mr. Shaw and Mrs. Shaw yelling at one another, and of the steward trying to calm them down, I hear my father’s voice, soft and reassuring. “It will be all right, Vaela. Don’t worry. Keep moving.”
I inch past my mother and step into the aft cabin. My father moves toward the panel where the escape pod is concealed; the door is ajar but not fully open, and it bangs back and forth as the heli-plane shudders in the air.
“Come along now, Vaela,” my father says, holding out his right hand. “We’ll put you in, just for good measure.”
“Why is this panel already open?” my mother says, but as she pulls it wide, the answer becomes clear.
Staring at us from behind the thick glass of the pod, secured within the locked enclosure, is Aaden.
“Get out,” my father says. “Now.”