by Keira Drake
“You seem improved,” Noro says. He’s crouched at the entrance, having just returned from some errand or other.
“Actually, I do feel better. I believe it was just the exertion after all.”
He ducks below the ledge and sits beside me. “Let us hope so.”
“How could I not be recuperated, sitting here out of the wet?” I pat the rich brown soil beneath me. “This little spot is as nice as a fine hotel.”
“What is a hotel?”
“Well…it is a place of excellent accommodations, extraordinary food, and all the niceties one requires to feel at home.”
He glances around at the cramped little hollow. “Your dwellings in the Spire are impressive, are they not?”
“None so grand as this.”
He frowns at me. “You are being sarcastic.”
“No, I’m not! Perspective is a mighty equalizer, you know.”
He regards me with a curious expression, then reaches into the pack by his side to produce a bundle of leftover meat. He taps the parcel with one finger. “I cannot claim the food at this hotel to be extraordinary, but I think with a little heat, we might make a meal of it.”
I laugh—and immediately cover my mouth with my hands. A sickening wave of shame and guilt washes over me. Noro leans forward at once, his eyes dark with understanding.
“It is okay to laugh,” he says softly. “You have done nothing wrong.”
I shake my head and bury my face in my hands. My parents have been dead hardly a week—it is far too soon to revive the pleasure of laughter. I feel as though I have spit upon the graves of all who died in the heli-plane. The guilt and grief inside me expands to fill every pore, every inch of my body, until it seems there is nothing left of me at all, and I begin to weep.
Noro is silent. He makes no move to comfort me, whispers no platitudes, attempts no consolation. Yet he is there. I feel his empathy as certainly as I feel the anguish of my own heart. For a long time, we stay like this, my pain and weakness made all the clearer in the gravity of his strength.
The sun sinks below the edge of the world, and night spreads across the Continent like a bleak, stifling blanket. In the darkness, fatigue grips me, and I fall into a black sleep, Noro still at my side.
* * *
In the morning, I find myself tucked snugly beneath the fur. Noro is seated just outside the entrance to the hollow, his arms crossed over his knees, his gaze fixed on some point in the distance. The hood of his coat is up, casting a shadow along the side of his face. In profile, he is the very picture of a warrior—solemn, powerful, and focused, with a short sword strapped to his back and the belt of black knives slung about his waist. It is difficult for me to reconcile this image with the quiet soul who sat with me last night as I wept. But then, if I learned anything from my experience with Aaden, it is that people are not always what they seem; who knows what kindness, cruelty, selfishness, or heroism may be concealed beneath the surface? Only time and circumstance bring all into view.
I sit up, keeping my hands inside the warm blanket. “Don’t you ever sleep, Noro?”
He glances over at me. “Of course. How are you feeling?”
My skin is warm despite the morning chill, and my body aches. I force a smile. “Very well, thank you.”
“You are a terrible liar,” he says, and leans over to pour me a small cup of dark, steaming liquid. “Drink this. We should leave as soon as you are able.”
I take the cup and give it an exploratory sniff; the drink smells faintly sweet. “Is it a type of tea? The aroma is not like the others you’ve prepared.”
“Whiteroot tea, and a bit of sugar.”
I’ve never heard of whiteroot, but a small sip reveals a mild flavor reminiscent of chamomile. A larger sip is like warm honey being poured into my upper body. “It’s delightful,” I say. “Thank you very much.”
He nods. “Tell me the truth, now, how badly are you feeling this morning?”
“I shall be very well once we are under way,” I say, but I know that this, too, is a lie.
“That is not what I asked.”
I sigh. My Spirian upbringing has brought into focus the imposition of my illness. I ought to be self-sufficient—self-reliant. Malady is best concealed, stuffed into a sickbed, kept properly away from others—not forced upon them in the middle of the wilderness with many miles yet to travel.
“I am unwell,” I concede, “but please, let it rest at that. I do not wish to complain, and you will hear no more of it from me. All right?”
“Fair enough,” he says. “But we have a long way to go yet; we won’t reach the village until late afternoon, and that’s assuming the weather will hold. You must tell me if you need help.”
I hand him the empty cup. “I am sturdier than I look. Now let us be going, for we shan’t make any progress sitting around like this.”
By midday, my facade of hardiness and self-sufficiency has crumbled. All I want to do is lie down in the snow and sleep. A truly alarming heat is radiating from my wound, and my muscles are drained of all strength. I have lost my footing more times than I can count. The weather, as it turns out, did not hold; it has been snowing steadily for the past hour, and what began as a fine drizzling of soft flakes has become a miserable flurry of ice.
I do not mean to do it, but I put one knee down in the snow, and the rest of my body follows. Noro, walking at my side, immediately stops to collect me. I do not protest as he gathers me into his arms, but merely turn my face away from the driving snow and close my eyes. Somewhere in my mind, beneath the exhaustion and fever, a prim and proper Spirian voice is telling me to stop being such a burden—to get down at once and put one foot in front of the other until we reach the village. But the gentle sway of Noro’s footsteps lulls me into a state of quiet recalcitrance, and I make no move other than to settle my head against his chest.
Minutes or hours pass by, and on we go. Noro never stops, or speaks, or even looks at me as far as I can tell. Sleep and a comfortable delirium come to me in waves, and between these moments, I catch glimpses of his face—his eyes, really, as his mouth and nose are concealed by a black cloth he has wrapped around his head. His brows are furrowed, his dark lashes dusted with ice, his eyes unwavering from the path ahead.
The day grows darker, though whether from the passage of time or a change in the weather I cannot tell. “Is it very much farther?” I say. It is the first time I have spoken since we left the hollow.
Two deep brown eyes glance down at me. “An hour at most,” he says, his voice muffled behind the mask.
“Will the people of your village be very surprised to see me?”
“No more surprised than I was.”
“Do you suppose they will think me strange?” I say. He does not answer, though I wait nearly a minute. “Noro?”
He makes a noise as he shifts my weight closer to his body. “Go back to sleep, girl.”
I close my eyes and drift away.
The clouds have deepened to a smoky gray by the time Noro rouses me. The snow has stopped, but the icy wind persists, and the chill is biting. As we reach the top of a low hillside, I see the village laid out in the center of the valley below.
It is surrounded by a rectangular wall of blue-gray stone, with parapets and slender towers set at the town entrance and at each of the four corners of the wall. The village itself is clustered within; dirt roads wind through the rows of black-shingled houses and market buildings, while wispy puffs of smoke rise from chimneys scattered throughout. I would guess that a town this size could accommodate perhaps one or two thousand people; this place is far more sizable than the tiny hamlet spotted during my first tour of the Continent. A sliver of the southern sea is visible from here, and beyond that vast ocean is the Spire. The thought of home fills me with renewed hope.
“You can put me down,” I say. “You must be exhausted.”
The scarf around his face has come loose and I see a frown on his lips, but he sets me lightly on my feet
. A finger of cold slithers up my spine; I hadn’t fully appreciated the warmth of Noro’s body. Still, I am steady, and that is something.
“Can you walk, then?” Noro asks.
“Yes,” I say, with some confidence. “I’m terribly sorry for all the trouble.”
He ignores this. “We are nearly there, and I intend to take you directly to the healer.”
“Oh, but you mustn’t!” I say, a knot forming in my stomach. “I wish to speak with the leaders of your village as soon as possible—I must know if they will help me to return home!”
His frown grows deeper. “You require medical attention.”
“Noro, please—this cannot wait,” I say. My heart beats faster; I think on some level, I merely want to put off seeing an Aven’ei “doctor” as long as possible. Who knows what terrible medicines he or she might conjure? Everyone in the Spire has heard stories about leeches and other ghastly treatments performed on the Continent. But also, I am desperate to know if the Aven’ei will help me to reach the Spire—if they even have the capability. “A few minutes won’t make a difference,” I add quickly. Hopefully.
“You are very stubborn,” he says.
“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. I must request assistance without any further delay.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he nods, and begins to move forward down the hillside. I follow without a word, glad to be by his side and under his protection as we head toward the village of the Aven’ei.
CHAPTER 12
TWO LOW TOWERS FRAME THE NARROW PORTCULLIS that bars entrance to the village. A voice calls down as soon as we approach, the sound booming in the relative quiet of the early evening. “Who comes?”
“It is Noro, friend.”
A shadow passes between the slits of the tower on the right-hand side. “Noro Zensuke? You were expected three days prior.”
“Open the gate, Takashi. I have traveled far and am eager to rest.”
The iron gate begins to rise, the steady click of its chain in the pulleys a welcome and reassuring sound. A moment later, Noro’s friend—a young man of about twenty-five—appears at the entrance. He is a bit shorter than Noro—perhaps just under six feet—and ruggedly handsome, with strong, arched eyebrows and a sweep of long, dark hair about his shoulders. His wide grin turns to an expression of open surprise when he sees me.
“Noro?” he says, his right hand coming to rest automatically upon the sword at his hip. “What is this?”
“Peace, Takashi. Only a wounded girl in need of help.”
“She’s not—” Takashi pauses, suspicion written on his face. “She’s no Topi?”
Noro spits on the trampled snow. “Of course not. Trust me, friend—all will be explained. May we pass?”
The man shakes his head, but gestures for us to come inside. “If I catch any hell for this—”
“She is no enemy.”
“Find me later?”
“I will do.”
As we walk away, I look back to see Takashi watching us with undisguised curiosity. He is not the last to do so; as we move through the entrance and into the town proper, we draw many stares.
Most of the townspeople are dressed in plain, practical clothes of heavy wool, but a good many of the men wear the fighting garb of Aven’ei warriors. And while these men look as fierce and dangerous as Noro, it strikes me that none are dressed quite like him; he alone wears black from head to toe, while they are clothed in muted fur and leather. Neither do they wear the same style of hair as he does—the sides shaved, with only a thin stripe spiking up along the center of his scalp. I wonder if these differences are significant in some way, but I do not ask.
The buildings, like the walls of the city, are made of stone, and look to have been built with great skill and care—though I notice that the walls seem to have been constructed more recently. I don’t know what I expected from an Aven’ei village—we saw more Topi settlements during the tour than Aven’ei—but it wasn’t pots full of winter flowers crowded onto porches, or beautifully carved rocking horses set into tiny courtyards for the children. The Aven’ei have developed a rich culture—and whether or not they have achieved an understanding of flight, or telephony, or other such modern conveniences, I must admit that all I have seen thus far has been wholly surprising and impressive.
Noro and I continue down the main thoroughfare for a good while before turning onto another lane, this one apparently far less traveled, as it is covered in powdery snow. I sag against Noro, the weakness of my fever manifesting in irregular waves, my vision darkening from the mere exertion of walking. I shake the haze from my eyes. Nearly there. Nearly there now, and soon, I shall meet with the healer. Two more eventual turns bring us to a quiet residential street, lined with single-story stone cottages built quite close to one another. Each house is so near to the next that two people could not stand side by side between them. Rather than looking crowded, however, the whole scene affects an orderly and cozy sort of impression.
“Noro!” comes the cry of an excited voice behind us. I turn to see a boy of about ten years old, accompanied by an enormous gray hound, racing up the road in our direction.
Noro’s face breaks into a wide smile. He extends his arms and the boy barrels into him, and the two embrace.
“Kept the place safe and sound, I see?” Noro says.
The boy grins. “I’ve been practicing every day with the barrels, just as you instructed. I can hit the knothole six times out of ten.”
Noro’s eyebrows inch upward. “A big improvement in a short time.”
The dog—if one could call it that, for it is nearly as tall as a small horse—leans heavily against Noro, who pets the beast with absentminded affection.
“Sit, Aki,” the boy says, and the dog obeys, though not without issuing a sharp whine of discontent. “Who is this?” the boy adds, nodding at me.
“A friend, brother. She comes from the Nations Beyond the Sea.” At the word brother, the resemblance between the two becomes immediately apparent. Each has the same aquiline nose, high cheekbones, dark eyes, and angled jawline. The boy is Noro in youthful miniature, only with a crackling ebullience that his brother does not share.
The boy’s mouth falls open, and he stares at me. “You lie—it’s impossible.”
“I tell you the truth. She was lost by her people.”
“Lost how?”
Noro ruffles the boy’s wiry black hair. “All will be explained in time. Now I must assemble the council, for they will want to meet our guest. Will you wait with her, and be hospitable? She is ill, and very tired from the journey.”
The boy turns at once to face me and makes a deep bow. “Keiji Zensuke,” he says in a distinctly formal tone. “Any friend of Noro’s is a friend to me as well.”
I smile, despite the pain, exhaustion, grief. “My name is Vaela Sun. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Noro points to a cottage down the lane, on the left-hand side. “That’s our place. You and Keiji can wait for me there; I shouldn’t be long.”
“Come, Vaela Sun,” Keiji says. “I will make you some tea, if you like.”
“I should like that very much.”
Noro looks back and forth between the two of us. “I shall be as quick as I can,” he says, then turns to head back in the direction from which we came.
I follow Keiji—and the dog, which seems to mirror his master’s every move—down the road and into the little cottage. We enter into a small sitting room, with two low sofas upholstered in deep blue, and a fire burning behind a metal grate. The warmth of the room envelops me at once.
The place is sparsely decorated, but comfortable and refined in its way. A great tapestry hangs on the wall adjacent to the fireplace, depicting a sort of picnic scene with gold-leaved trees and elegant figures in repose. Below it is a bookcase carved from shining blackwood, each of its three shelves stuffed with volumes of varying sizes.
“Sit, please,” Keiji says, and disappears into t
he next room, a small kitchen, only part of which is visible from the entry. I sink into the sofa nearest the fire and pull off my leather gloves, marveling at the relief of simply sitting on a piece of furniture. The dog is seated at the entrance to the kitchen like some kind of sentry; he stares at me with curious brown eyes, turning his head only occasionally to mark the movements of his master. After a few minutes, Keiji reappears and hands me a small brass cup.
“Are you really from beyond the sea?” he asks, pouring tea from a copper kettle.
“Thank you,” I say. “And yes, I am.”
“You are lost?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Keiji pours himself a cup and sits on the rug. The hound crosses the room, its claws clicking on the wooden floor, and curls up beside him, resting its great gray head on the boy’s knee. “How will you find your way home?”
I sigh, weary from asking myself the same question. “I don’t know, Keiji.”
“You do not look well at all,” he says, though not unkindly.
“I am quite under the weather,” I admit. I wipe my brow, which has grown sticky with perspiration. “But I am to meet with one of your healers as soon as I’ve spoken with the village council.”
“It’s a good thing, too. You look fit to fall right on your face.” He takes a sip of tea. “Is your family waiting for you beyond the sea?”
“No,” I say, grief dancing upon my heart, waiting to show itself fully. “My family was with me when I was lost here. I’m afraid they did not survive.”
His eyes narrow, and he leans forward. “Was it the Topi?”
“No, no, not the Topi. It was an accident.”
“The Topi killed my family,” he says. “Except Noro, of course. Nobody can kill Noro. He’s an itzatsune, you know.”
“What is an it-zat…forgive me, I don’t know the word.”
“Itzatsune,” he repeats. “An assassin.”
A prickly clarity comes upon me as I recall the black-handled blade in the neck of my Topi attacker.
“He is adept in his work,” I say, unsure how to compliment so violent a thing, but still possessing a quiet admiration for Noro’s abilities. “He must be very well suited for the profession.”