by Keira Drake
Keiji grows somber, his darkly serious expression making him appear even more like his brother. “It is nothing so small as a profession, Vaela Sun. Though the itzatsune are few, they are more important than the whole of our fighting force. They eliminate Topi leaders. They are expert in subterfuge and misdirection. They have prevented any number of assaults upon our villages! Without the assassins, the Topi would have wiped us from the Continent long ago.”
“Forgive me,” I say again. “I know very little about these things.”
He leans back and grins, his natural cheer quite returned. “It’s all right. You’re new here.”
“You’re very kind,” I say. “Very much like your brother.”
He smiles at this. There is a pause while we drink our tea, each of us occupied with our own thoughts.
“Are you named Sun for the color of your hair?” Keiji asks.
“No,” I say, “though that is an interesting question. ‘Sun’ is only a surname, from my father’s family. Although now I come to think of it, his side was typically quite fair, most with golden hair as far as I can remember. My mother is from the South, and has beautiful dark hair.” Was. Was from the South.
He nods. “It is a good name, I think: Sun.”
The front door opens and Noro steps inside. “The council is ready for you. Shall we go?”
I turn back to Keiji. “Thank you for making me feel so very welcome. I hope I will see you again soon.”
He bows his head slightly. “Good luck in your business with the council.” And then, to Noro, “Hurry back—I want to hear all about your journey, and I have much to tell you as well.”
A light snow begins to fall as Noro and I make our way to see the council. We pass by the town center—a wide market square that looks to be mostly empty—and turn on the next street toward a building that Noro offhandedly refers to as the War Room. Wagons line the lane, some fitted with oxen, while lanterns along the walking path cast the night in a warm, lazy glow, calling to mind a painting I once saw of the Spire’s most northern city. The cold seems more bearable in this light—less bracing, somehow.
There is an amiable quiet between us as we go. Inwardly, I am stirred by fresh optimism—I feel confident that the Aven’ei leaders will help me, certain that they will wish to return me at once to my own people. So moved am I by this spirit of hope and expectation that I feel quite able to ignore the pounding of my head, the fever raging in my body, and the pulsing of my wounded leg.
The War Room, though ominous in name, is in fact an unassuming single-story building set between two others that look exactly like it. There are no traditional windows on the facade, but rather two slim rectangles near the roof, each glowing yellow from the light within. Noro knocks twice on the door and enters without delay; I follow with butterflies in my stomach.
The room is wide, and quite austere; a great table with at least a dozen chairs lies at the center, and an overlarge fireplace lies directly behind. There are no other furnishings to speak of, save a few bins filled with large sheets of rolled up parchment—maps, I imagine.
Three men are seated along the far side of the table, and they make for an intimidating lot. The two at the ends both bear the countenance of a man faced with a difficult problem; only the man at the center wears a smile. There is a distinct air of authority about him; he looks to be around sixty years of age, with salt and pepper hair tied into a neat plait at the back of his head. He is dressed in gray, as are the other men at the table, and a violent scar runs at an angle across his throat, slashing downward from his chin toward his left shoulder.
He stands as I enter, and bows deeply. “Welcome to Hayato. It is some time since we had a visitor from the Nations Beyond the Sea—coming on two hundred years, I think, or very near. The last time your countrymen set foot on the Continent, they made to disembark by ships of the sea. Now, I am told they sail anzibatu through the clouds. Much has changed in these past centuries. But I digress from my purpose—please, sit, and we may talk awhile.”
“Thank you,” I say, and take the chair opposite. Noro sits beside me, his hands folded atop the table.
“My name is Teku Ana,” the man continues, “and these are Shoshi and Inzo.” He indicates the men at his left and right. The man called Shoshi looks as though he has never smiled—not ever. A tattoo covers the left half of his face, and he, too, is scarred; mottled lines mar his skin from forehead to collar. The other man, Inzo, wears his left shirtsleeve folded neatly in two; his arm appears to be missing from the elbow down. His face is smooth and he is handsome for his years, his eyes sharp and thoughtful. “We bid you welcome, although Noro tells me you find yourself here under the most unfortunate of circumstances. You have our sympathy.”
“Thank you again,” I say. “Your kindness means more than I can fairly express.”
“And what do you call yourself?”
“Forgive me—my name is Vaela Sun.”
“Noro tells me also that you are injured, and taken with fever?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nods. “Then let us be brief, so that you may see the healer directly. How can we help you, Vaela Sun?”
I feel a quiver in my chin. Now that it has come to the moment of asking for help, it seems a very difficult thing to do. “Please,” I say, then find I must collect myself before continuing, for I am on the point of tears. “I would ask for your assistance in returning home.”
Teku smiles, a placid, but genuine expression. “I’m afraid we are not equipped to bear you across the sea, Vaela Sun. As I understand it, your Nations are a very great distance from here, many hundreds of miles. Our boats are small, made for fishing these local waters—not for a great journey such as you would require.”
I lean forward and clasp my hands together, my fingertips trembling. “I do not need passage to the Spire, sir—only to a small island perhaps thirty miles east of the coast. We have a facility there, you see. I could provide you with a precise and accurate bearing, and it would be a very quick journey indeed.”
He is silent for a moment. “I’m afraid that would not be possible.”
These words are wholly unexpected. “Surely…surely your vessels could travel such a distance? I would be happy to repay your trouble with gold, or perhaps supplies of some kind. I do have a small fortune to my name, and—”
“The problem, Miss Sun, is manifold. Yes, a sailboat could likely make the distance you have described. But we are amidst the kazuri ko—the ‘anger of the sea.’ The coastal waters are icy at this time of year—treacherous—and remain so until the winds of autumn blow the bergs back to the north. We do not venture far beyond the marina until that short time between summer and winter. To do so would be to place oneself in the belly of storms that do naught to ships but sink them.
“Secondly, we are at war, as you know. Even if the weather were favorable, we have endured great violence in the north this year, and ought not spare the men required to see you safely to your island.” His expression is apologetic. “I sympathize with your situation, Vaela Sun. Should the tides of war turn in our favor, and should the seasons pass without incident, ensuring safer conditions, we can reevaluate your request. But for the time, as much as it pains me to decline, I must say no.”
My throat clenches and I swallow involuntarily. Silence weighs upon the room, upon me, thick and palpable like a suffocating fog. I struggle to find words, but there are none within my reach.
“I can take her to the island,” Noro says quietly, his eyes fixed on the table. “I do not fear the kazuri ko.”
“Mind your place, boy,” growls the man to Teku’s left.
Noro is unmoved. “I may speak if I wish, Shoshi Kaken.”
The man glares back at Noro. “Teku has spoken for the village. It is not your privilege to compel his judgment.”
“I merely offered to escort the girl back to her people,” Noro says. “She does not belong here.”
The man called Shoshi gives him a joyless smi
le. “Yes, she has lost her home. And would you lose yours, Noro Zensuke, by abandoning your village and taking to the sea—sinking like a stone in that great yawning tomb of ice and water?”
Noro clenches his teeth, the lines of his jaw tightening. Teku places a hand on Shoshi’s shoulder.
“Peace, Shoshi,” he says. “Young Noro only wishes to do what is honorable. He is to be commended.”
“I thank you,” Noro says.
Teku nods. “But Shoshi is right. You are one of our most valued itzatsune. We depend upon your skill, Noro, and need you here. You have some experience with the sea, yes—but even a salt such as you must practice wisdom. I would not commit you to the deeps just yet.”
Noro bows his head. “I am at your command, Teku Ana.”
Teku turns back to me. “I hope you can understand our position, Vaela Sun. It is not my wish to keep you from your people.”
I shake my head, feeling lost and overwhelmed—and suddenly very ill, now that the numbing barrier of hope has fallen away. “Of course not. You are kind to even consider my request.”
“Good,” he says. “Then I think we shall send you to the healer without further delay. See to it, Noro—and return to the council when Vaela Sun is settled. We have more to discuss.”
The night no longer seems blanketed in wintry softness, but rather feels bleak and cold. The Spire will not collect me. The Aven’ei will not deliver me. The war between the nations of the Continent is unlikely to ease, and this strange and unfamiliar place—Hayato—is to be my home for the foreseeable future.
I ought to feel grateful—grateful to have survived the plane crash, to have been rescued from the Topi, to be treated with such hospitality by a people who have no obligation to me whatsoever. But I do not feel anything of the kind; I am merely angry and resentful. A black thought snakes through my mind: I wish I had died with the others aboard the heli-plane.
Even as I imagine the words, I am appalled by them, scalded by their reckless, roiling venom. I did not think myself capable of such depths. Could it have been scarcely two weeks ago that I was safe at home in the Spire, laughing and dancing and enjoying my party? Now I walk through the dark night in another world, thinking dreadful, shameful thoughts, indulging my own piteous state. My mother and father would be ashamed of me.
We reach our destination after a short while—a narrow house on another residential street. Noro turns to me before knocking at the door. “For what it may be worth,” he says, “I am sorry about the council’s decision. I know it was not what you wished to hear.”
“At least I may put the matter to rest in my heart for now.” As an afterthought, I add, “Please know how much I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.”
He nods, and gestures toward the house. “The healer is called Eno, and though she is mute, you will have no difficulty in communicating with her. She will take good care of you.”
“I have no doubt.”
He raps on the door and takes a step back. As we wait, he looks at me thoughtfully, and for the briefest moment, takes my hand in his. “Be well, girl,” he says. The warmth of his fingers around mine lingers long after he lets go, and it is a surprising comfort on a night that seems otherwise void of all consolation.
CHAPTER 13
FOR FORTY-ONE DAYS, I DO NOT LEAVE THE HEALING room.
The first week is quiet; I turn my face to the wall when Eno comes to open the drapes each morning; I close the curtains when she goes out the door. I do the exercises she prescribes, but decline to go outside. The four walls around me become my personal fortress; my wound heals, my heart aches, and I sleep.
But one cannot stay forever in the eclipse of tragedy, and though I try to avoid both the darkness and the light, each waits for me in turn. And so, in the quiet hours of those long, terrible weeks, I finally begin to face without distraction the magnitude of all I have truly lost.
When I sleep, I dream of drifting, ghostlike, through the halls of my home in the Spire. The rooms are dim, the furniture shrouded in billowing white sheets. I cannot touch anything; my fingers pass through objects as though they were made of nothing. I search for something, but I cannot find it, and eventually awaken in the purple-gray hours before dawn with my hair wet and tangled, clinging to my skin. “Mother,” I say aloud, the word a question on my lips, the sound of my voice lingering in the quiet night. And, of course, there is no answer. Only grief. Only the certainty that they are gone, that everything is gone, that I am alone now, and will be always. How I ache; how I curl into a shriveled husk of myself, every moment a wash of despair and disconsolate reflection. I feel it will kill me—I am sure it will kill me. But I wake, again and again, only to relive the loss.
Eno hears me cry out sometimes, and she comes to the healing room, clad in silence, to hold my hands in hers. I clutch her wrinkled fingers with all my strength, tears streaming down my face, my heartache a physical thing. From time to time, Eno brushes the tears from my face, or presses her palm against my cheek, and I am quiet for a while, until sleep comes. Sometimes, when I wake, she is still there, asleep in the chair beside my bed, her chin resting on her chest.
In my waking hours, I obsess over details. I try to remember the fine characteristics of my mother’s hands: the softness of her skin, the slender length of her fingers. I close my eyes and imagine the feel of the marble banister in the courtyard of our home in the Spire—how cold it felt in wintertime, shining white and clean in the frosty air. I strain my ears, recalling the memory of my father’s voice: This has all been a terrible dream, Vaela, he says to me. Everything will be just fine.
But the worst rumination is the re-imagining of my birthday party—still elegant and bright, still merry and exciting—but the third gift always some insignificant, whimsical thing. A sparkling gown. A pair of summer shoes, handmade in the South by the finest artisans in the Spire. A book—a romance, a thriller, a genealogy—it makes no difference. I only want something safe.
I want anything but a ticket to the Continent.
One afternoon in the second week of my stay, the sound of laughter rumbles through the walls of the healing room. Eno is mute; she scarce makes a sound save for a scraping wheeze when she exerts herself, and so I sit up to listen closely—not out of interest, but in hopes of determining that the mysterious visitor will be leaving promptly.
Eno’s familiar shuffle-step sounds down the hallway, followed by a second pair of footfalls and a clicking and scuffling I can’t identify. I lean back against the wooden headboard of my bed, holding my breath, waiting for the party to pass by. There is a beat of silence, and then Eno’s double knock comes at the door.
“I’m not well,” I say, as she peers into the room, and this is the utter truth. “I hope there’s no one come to call?”
She smiles and steps aside, ignoring me in that unflappable way of hers, and a small boy pokes his head in through the door. It takes me half a second to recognize him: it’s Keiji, Noro’s brother. Behind him, the great dog Aki sits in the corridor, looking bored. The Aven’ei, apparently, do not present cards to announce their arrival—nor do they wait to be received.
Keiji steps in, and Aki follows. “Hello, Vaela Sun!” the boy says brightly. “I’ve come with gifts, so you can’t send me away.”
Perplexed by his presence and reluctant to spend time just yet with anyone other than Eno, I give him a tight smile and shake my head. “I’m sorry, Keiji—it’s kind of you to think of visiting, but I’m not in a very good place right now—”
“That’s what Noro said you’d say,” he replies, plunking down in the chair beside my bed and gesturing for the dog to sit beside him. Keiji extends a hand to me, exposing a palm full of what look to be brightly colored, polished bits of glass. “Here. These are for you! Girls like this sort of thing, don’t they?”
I frown. I want him to leave, but even in my current state, I find it impossible to be rude; Spirian manners are not easily discarded, even in the face of despair. After a moment’s h
esitation, I cup my hands and Keiji drops the glass into my palms. There are five pieces in total; two pink, one jade, one blue, and another almost completely white. “Thank you,” I say, examining each of the glossy bits in turn. “These are… they are glass?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says. “I found them on the shore of a little lake in the Kinsho.”
“You’ve been to the Kinsho mountains?” I say, surprised. “That’s quite a distance from here.”
“My battlemaster takes me every year. You’d like him, Vaela—he’s nearly eighty, but he can still split a Topi from stem to stern.” Keiji mimics the motion of a sword slashing upward at lightning speed, and grins.
“Oh,” I say. “That’s…impressive.”
“He’s a legend.”
“Is he an itzatsune like your brother?”
Keiji laughs. “Nooo. He’s a master of weapons—sword, bow, axe—he knows them all. Old Zuka wouldn’t have the patience to creep around slitting throats and blowing poison darts. No—he likes to look the Topi in the eye when he kills them.”
All this talk of death—so casual, so indifferent—makes my stomach turn. “Your dog,” I say, attempting to change the subject. “He is called Aki?”
“Yes,” Keiji says. “It means ‘loyal,’ in the old words.”
“I trust he’s a good companion?”
Keiji hooks an arm around Aki’s middle and nuzzles the dog’s neck. He receives a slobbery lick along the side of his cheek in return. “He might stink a little, but I keep him around.”
I try to muster a smile, though my muscles feel weighted down. “Keiji,” I say, “I appreciate your visiting, but I’m having rather a hard time. With all that’s…happened. Would you be terribly offended if I asked you to go?”
He smiles. “You like the glass?”
“It was very kind of you to think of it.”