by Keira Drake
How can I set such grief aside? How can I do anything other than crumble to its will, and allow myself to burn away like so much wreckage? A part of me simply wants to lie down and die—to let my grief flow through me, to allow it to infect my soul the way my wound threatens to infect my body.
And yet, these urges to surrender are at war with a stubborn fury in my heart. I am in turns broken to the point of helplessness and determined to escape this place. I look up to see Noro watching me intently, and I know the conflict within me is written on my face. Lost before this strange, quiet warrior, I feel like a pane of glass—brittle, fragile, and wholly transparent. I close my eyes and shake my head. “I’m not sure if I’m capable of what you suggest.”
“You will find your way,” he says.
“And if I don’t?”
“Give it time. Grief is always followed by a quiet. In that stillness, you will find that you have learned much.”
I look up at him, my lashes fringed with tears. “What will I learn?”
“I could not say. That is for you to discover. But first, you must survive.”
With my wound bandaged and the rip in my trousers stitched back together, Noro begins making preparations for our journey. He provides me with a thick white vest and a pair of leather gloves, both of which feel heavenly after so many days in the constant, biting cold. We sit down to a quick breakfast of stale bread, oranges (produced from a sack in the Topi tent), and water, and then we are on our way.
My pace is slow at first due to the pain in my leg, but after an hour or two, the increased circulation seems to improve matters. Noro is kind enough to stop from time to time and let me elevate my foot. He doesn’t say much over the course of the morning, but that’s fine with me; my mind is on my family, on the Spire, on my home.
From the direction we are traveling, I determine that Noro’s village must be southwest of Ivanel—and since we are heading toward the coast, I feel as though each step brings me closer to the island itself. I haven’t yet worked out how to reach Ivanel, but my hope is that Noro’s people will be able to offer some kind of assistance.
We stop at midday to eat again—another quick meal of bread and fruit—then continue on. The weather is bright and clear. Smooth blankets of snow glisten and sparkle in the sunlight, spreading out for miles along the deep southern valleys. The trek would be exhausting on fair terrain, but the snow makes the journey even more difficult. By the time the sun begins to sink below the horizon, my legs are like two spindly pieces of yarn. When Noro announces that we are to make camp, I drop to the ground in exhausted relief, certain that I could not manage another step.
The site he has chosen offers more protection from the elements than the Topi camp; we settle at the base of a small hillside, where a natural earthen cave reaches perhaps ten feet into the slope. I watch as Noro kindles a healthy fire beneath the cave’s entrance.
“How is your leg?” he says, glancing up at me.
I run my palm over the top of my thigh. “It hurts, but the pain is manageable. It was far worse this morning, to tell you the truth—perhaps I am getting used to it. My feet, on the other hand…”
“Are they numb?”
“No,” I say. “Just sore.”
He nods and wipes the dirt from his hands. “We will clean your wound each morning, and do what we can to try to stave off infection. Now…wait here. I have traps nearby, and with any luck, we will have meat in our bellies tonight.”
I sit by the fire, my body aching with exhaustion, hunger, and the shadow of a grief too great to bear. Noro is gone only twenty or thirty minutes, and returns with an armful of wood and two white hares swinging from his belt.
“We shall have meat tonight,” he says. It is difficult to tell, but he sounds pleased.
“I’m very grateful. For the food, and…well…for what you did.”
He unhooks the game and sets it beside the fire, then begins to rummage through his pack. “The people of the Spire,” he says. “Do they resemble you?”
“How do you mean?”
He makes a twirling gesture toward his head. “This golden hair,” he says. “Eyes like the leaves of an evergreen.”
“Oh,” I say, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, no. Those in the West are typically dark-skinned with pale blue eyes, those in the North with pale skin and white hair that practically shimmers.” I pause, thoughtful, caught in the memory of home, loneliness stretching into my heart. “Southerners are olive-skinned, with freckles sometimes, and lovely dark hair—and those from the East, like myself, are often pale, with blue or green eyes. But throughout the Spire, all come together. The nations are not as separate as once they were, and travel has created a beautiful mingling of cultures. Astor—the capital city—is the most beautiful place in the Spire, with swirling platforms of mathematical design, architecture so elegant it could make you cry, and all the technology a citizen could hope to experience.”
He retrieves his bundle of knives from the satchel. “Technology?”
“Conveniences. The trains, and the lifts, and the moving gardens. Certain technologies are suppressed in the Spire, overseen by the government, to discourage the development of weaponry, but we have every comfort we need. The Chancellery determines what technology is to be shared amongst the citizens.”
“Strange,” he says, but does not elaborate.
I sit up and cross my arms over my chest. “Do you not have your own name for this place?”
He looks around the small shelter. “For…this place?”
“I’m sorry. For the Continent. I’d have thought the natives would give it a grander name.”
He sits back on his heels. “In the old words, we only ever called it inzua—home.”
“Home,” I say, and the word is like a dagger, threatening to loose all the feelings inside that I am trying so desperately to suppress. I smooth it away, erase it, push it from my mind.
“Inzua,” he repeats. “A very old word indeed. Hayato—the village to which we travel—is very like to a ‘capital’ city, though every settlement of the Aven’ei is equal in importance.” He removes a knife from the case before him and begins to sharpen it; this one is longer than those I saw at the Topi camp, and shaped differently, too, with a blade curving smoothly up to the tip.
“Is there something I might do?” I say. “I would like to help, if I can.”
He shifts on one foot and peers over his shoulder at me. “Can you skin a hare?”
“I—well, no. I mean, it isn’t that I can’t skin an animal, it’s just that I’ve never done it before.”
He rests his knife against the half-shorn hide. “How exactly did you eat in the Spire?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you not eat such things as hares?” he asks.
“I prefer lamb,” I say. “But I did once have a lovely rabbit stew, although now that I think of it, I’m not sure if a rabbit and a hare are quite the same.”
He looks at me, his mouth open slightly. “I think you misunderstand my question. I mean to ask how you procured your food.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well…our meals are managed and prepared by the kitchen staff, who are specially trained in culinary matters.”
“These are slaves?”
“What? No! Of course not,” I say, flummoxed. “They are paid quite handsomely, I assure you.”
He picks up the knife and runs it smoothly beneath the animal’s pelt. “In my village, a child of five can trap, skin, and prepare a hare for supper.”
“I suppose you think me ridiculous.”
He frowns. “I do not judge you for failing to learn what was never taught, girl.”
“It’s Vaela,” I say.
“What?”
“My name. It’s Vaela.”
He says nothing further but turns back to his work. When he has finished, he sets the first animal aside and gestures to the second with his knife. “Come over here, and I will teach you.”
“To skin the
rabbit?”
“The hare,” he corrects. “There is indeed a difference between the two. You see? You are learning already.”
If the gnawing hunger of the past few days were not so fresh in my mind, the process of preparing the hare for dinner might have been enough to destroy my appetite. Thankfully, once cooked, the flesh resembles any other kind of roasted meat. As a meal, it is chewy, stringy, and entirely different from the succulent rabbit in the stew of my memory, but it is also warm, hearty, and nutritious, so I devour my portion with grateful enthusiasm.
“You seem to wear many hats,” I say, sitting back against the wall of the cave. “Warrior, hunter, woodsman, medic, chef.” I tick off the titles on my fingers. “Thank you, Noro, for everything.”
“I do what must be done when it is required of me.”
“I’m afraid my own abilities are rather less useful.”
He looks over at me with interest. “And what skills have you?”
I hold up my hands. “None so practical as yours. I am an apprentice cartographer.”
“I do not know this word.”
“I’m a mapmaker.”
“A tactician!” he says, impressed. “This, I would not have guessed.”
“No, not a tactician,” I say. “I draw maps to record the geography. To create an accurate picture of the land.”
He frowns. “The maps have no strategic purpose?”
“They are educational. Informative. And quite beautiful, in their way.”
He tosses a tiny rib bone into the fire. “This seems like a waste of time, to draw a map for no reason.”
“It is not a waste of time at all,” I say, bristling. “And you’ll pardon me to say that I think your opinion is wholly influenced by the fact that you come from a nation at war. When a society has no use for such brutality, its citizens are able to indulge in more enriching pursuits.”
“Of course. Like touring around in your he-lo-planes and watching others who are at war.” I open my mouth, then close it. He smiles. “No argument, girl? I am surprised.”
“I actually agree with you on that point,” I say. “Though you are altogether wrong in your dismissal of cartography. It is an entirely worthy pursuit.”
He stretches out before the fire, propping himself up on one elbow. “What makes it worthy?”
I gape at him. “It’s—it’s—there’s an entire science devoted to mapmaking. It requires a great deal of diligence, of meticulous attention to detail—an understanding of geology and topography, of course, and there is an artistic element, to be certain—”
“But what is the point?”
“The…point?”
“Why do you do it?”
“I…I love it.”
“Is this why you came? To map the Continent?”
I look beyond the fire at the dark, quiet wilderness. “Yes. I’ve studied the maps of this place for as long as I can remember. All I ever wanted was to tour the Continent, to see it with my own eyes. The trip was a birthday gift from my parents.”
The words sting as I speak them, and I’m swept away by a memory of the party, of the dancing and the music and the excitement I felt upon learning about the tour. In my mind’s eye, I see my mother and father standing on the dais beside me. I see the Shaws at the dinner table. I see Aaden watching me with whispery blue eyes.
Noro’s voice pulls me back. “Both of your parents were with you, then. They perished?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” He is quiet for a moment, then says, “May I ask, for I have been wondering…if the anzibatu was destroyed, how is it you survived?”
“There was an escape pod, a lifeboat of sorts. It was ejected from the plane before the crash.”
He sits up at once and leans forward. “Made of glass?”
My stomach twists. “How do you know that?”
“I saw it yesterday, many hours before I discovered you with the Topi, though I did not know what it was at the time.”
“Please,” I whisper, “can you take me to it? There’s a beacon inside—at least, I think there is—and if I return to it, there’s a chance I could go home.”
Noro shakes his head. “It is gone, girl. One of your planes collected it. That is how I saw it—rising into the sky, suspended by cable and pulley. The anzibatu swallowed it whole.”
I think of the red light in the pod, blinking once, twice, again and again, silently beckoning the search party to its location. Had I waited only a few hours more, I might be home by now. But the plane has come and gone; there has been no sign of it since yesterday afternoon. And although I have continued to watch the skies with restless hope, I already knew in my heart what Noro has just made clear.
The search has been conducted, the escape pod collected. They are not coming back.
The Spire has abandoned me.
CHAPTER 11
THREE DAYS MORE WE WALK ACROSS THE WILD southern face of the Continent. No map or tour could ever have prepared me for the sheer vastness of this place, with its great yawning valleys and glittering frozen lakes. Ice, snow, narrow passes walled in dark craggy rock, endless thickets full of pine and blackwood trees—the land stretches out before us, ever changing, ever the same.
Most of the time, we travel in silence. No matter the terrain, Noro is astoundingly surefooted, while I slip and stumble across the icy landscape. My fine leather boots were made to be fashionable; though practical enough for short-term exposure to the cold, they were not designed for tramping across country in several feet of snow. My toes are cold, always cold, but dry at least, which is more than I can say for the rest of my body.
While the days are quiet, the evenings are quite different. Always Noro finds some unexpected shelter; always he builds a blistering fire that melts away the chill and exhaustion of the day. There is meat and fruit, and savory nuts served with steaming teas that warm me from the inside out. Noro, I find, has an easy grace about him—a stillness in his presence. I am grateful for his company, for his words that fill the space where grief longs to dwell. He tells me a little of the Aven’ei, of their villages and strongholds, of how they came to adopt the language of the Four Nations so many years ago. Every evening I find myself wishing that he would talk all the night through, for when silence falls and I close my eyes to rest, my thoughts drift to the loss I know I cannot face.
Yet somehow, I sleep, and each morning the light of day dampens my despair—or, more accurately, allows me to bury it so that I might function. I tell myself that I can survive this—all of it, and that the time for grief will come soon enough. For now, I must merely put one foot in front of the other, focusing first on my own healing and second on forging a path home. I will return to the Spire. I will go home, and resume my work—though I hope never to see the Continent again—and somehow put the pieces of my life back together. And so, as we make our way ever southward, I do my best to forget that I am moving toward a future that is both invisible and frightening.
Four days into our journey, in the unexpected calm of a clear and sunny afternoon, I feel a weakness come upon me. I do my best to keep pace with Noro, but find myself falling farther and farther behind. Finally, he doubles back to investigate the delay.
“Are you well?” he says, squinting at me. “You do not look well.”
I lean one hand against the trunk of a giant spruce and wipe a fine misting of sweat from my forehead. “I’m all right. I just need a moment to rest.”
He stares at me for a second before retrieving the canteen from his belt. “Drink,” he says, pulling out the cork and thrusting the container into my hands. I take a few sips but do not feel recovered. I am at once hot and cold, shivering and uncomfortable.
Noro steps closer, scrutinizing my face. “You are ill.”
I shake my head and return the canteen. “It’s just the exertion.”
Noro is unconvinced. He looks toward the south, his brows furrowed. “We are nine, perhaps ten hours from my village. I had planned to make cam
p at dusk and complete our journey tomorrow, but now I am not sure if we should wait. It may be unwise to delay our travels.”
I sag to the ground, sinking into a snowdrift at the base of the tree. “I am only tired, Noro. A moment’s rest will restore me, I’m sure of it.”
He looks down at me, displeasure on his face. “I have told you not to sit in the snow.”
I close my eyes again. “Does it really matter? I am already wet and cold.”
He crouches down before me. “This is not a game, girl. You must take care of yourself. I have seen lesser wounds than yours lead first to fever, then agony and death. Do not let pride delude you into believing you are beyond danger.”
“I don’t believe I am beyond anything.”
“Then stop being foolish,” he says. He looks again into the distance, toward the southeasterly destination that is yet so far out of reach. He nods, as if coming to a decision. “I think we should continue.”
“Please…let us rest tonight and carry on tomorrow. I don’t know if I can press on for another ten hours, especially in the dark.”
He is unmoved. “I will carry you if I must.”
“A few hours of sleep may do more good than a difficult journey in the dead of night. Don’t you agree?”
He considers this. The sun casts his face in hazy orange light, dissolving the shadows along the planes of his cheeks. His features look softer, his expression less severe, even in his current state of tension.
“You may be right,” he says finally, straightening up and extending a hand. “Now, please, get out of the snow. There is an outcropping ahead where we will find shelter. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing at all.”
Noro’s description of the small outcropping as “not much” was generous at best. Consisting of a rocky ledge jutting out at a sharp downward angle and a sheltered area of perhaps three to four feet of hardened earth, the tiny refuge scarcely fits the two of us. The cave from the first night seems vast in comparison, but still, this place is secluded and dry. That makes it very near to paradise in my rapidly reforming opinion of what constitutes comfort.