The Continent

by Keira Drake

  I rub my temples, my head in a fog. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Oh, not long,” he says. “Twenty minutes or so. You had a bit of a shock, that’s all. Are you feeling better?”

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly.

  “Well. It’s all quite understandable.”

  I look out the window to see the deep blue sea spreading out below in all directions. “The Continent is behind us then?”

  “Yes, my dear. You’re on your way home.”

  Home. What a curious word, and a fickle one.

  “Actually,” I say, “I intend to return to the Continent as soon as I have treated with the Chancellery for their assistance.”

  Mr. Cloud gapes at me. “You wish to…I’m sorry, of what assistance do you speak?”

  I look carefully at him. “Do I have your word, sir, that what I say will stay between us? I should not like for anything I share to be revealed before I have the opportunity to speak with the Heads of State.”

  “But of course, Miss Sun,” he says, looking a bit wounded. “I would not betray your trust for any purpose.”

  I give him a smile. “I believe you. I only wanted to clarify that what I say must be held in confidence, at least for the time being.”

  “On my honor, Miss Sun, I shall reveal nothing.”

  “Then it is well we have a long flight ahead of us, for I have much to tell you.”

  Mr. Cloud is a keen listener, absorbing every detail of my story with rapt attention. When I have told it all, he sits back, wonder and sadness alike mingled in his expression.

  “I had no idea things were so bad over there,” he says. “We all knew the Topi had become more aggressive—their movements into the south were tracked with great interest by the tour pilots. But to think that the Aven’ei are now in peril of being utterly destroyed—what a terrible predicament. What a terrible predicament indeed.”

  “I am relieved to hear you say so, Mr. Cloud. It gives me great hope that the Heads of State will prove to be as thoughtful and compassionate as yourself.”

  “Well,” he says, looking uncomfortable. “I think you have a fair challenge ahead of you there.”

  “But…I shall tell them all that I have told you—why should they respond any differently?”

  He gives me an apologetic smile. “I am but a simple groundskeep er, Miss Sun. I am no politician. The folks in the Chancellery—no disrespect intended—well, they tend to have a different way of seeing things than a regular fellow might do.”

  “Is there another way to see this situation? Can there be any other answer but to intervene?”

  “If the Aven’ei will not emigrate, as you say, I don’t see any way that the Spire can help.”

  I look out the window, squeezing my arms against my chest. “I hope you are wrong.”

  “And perhaps I am. As I say, I am only a groundskeeper. What do I know of such matters?”

  I turn back to him. “I ask you, Mr. Cloud: if it were in your hands, what choice would you make?”

  He straightens, his chin coming up slightly. “Well, if it were up to me, Miss Sun, I should take up a sword myself to defend those in difficulties. But alas, I have no influence in such matters, or skill with a weapon, nor any right to speak against the rule of the Spire.”

  This last point perplexes me. “Haven’t you?”

  “Oh, no, miss. The Spire has kept us safe for an absolute age—not a single drop of blood shed in battle for more than two hundred years. That’s saying quite a lot, don’t you think?”

  “It says a great deal. I should never deny the significance of the peace we enjoy—I only question whether it is right to wrap ourselves within it and turn a blind eye to the suffering of those less fortunate.”

  He nods. “It is a fair question. But I, for one, would have great difficulty in putting it to those who rule.”

  “Well, I mean to do it.”

  “As you say.” He gives my hand a little pat. “I think if anyone were to bring about a change for the Continent, it would be someone like you.”

  “Why not you, Mr. Cloud? You believe as well as I that the Spire should intervene.”

  He laughs, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Oh, no, not I, Miss Sun! I don’t have the words to fairly express my thoughts—and I’d make a bungle of it if I tried. No, no, I leave that to your lot. After all, I am—”

  “Far more than a simple groundskeeper,” I say, and he smiles. “But I take your point. I shall say all that must be said when I meet with the Heads of State—I only hope they will listen as you have done.”

  CHAPTER 27

  THE SCENT OF URBAN LIFE ACCOSTS ME AS I STEP once more onto Spirian soil: fuel, cleaning products, asphalt wet with recent rain—things almost forgotten, but suddenly and intrusively familiar. As I look around the hangar where once I departed for the Continent with my family, I can feel grief pulling at me; my heart beats as though it is on the precipice of breaking once again. Mr. Cloud has informed me that arrangements were made so that I might spend the night in my former home. The house has been silent and empty all these months, the estate having been held in trust by the Chancellery and not yet sold. Hasty preparations were made this morning to clean the property and employ a full complement of servants before my arrival, but I wish the house were empty; I know it will be grievously difficult to face the memories within, and I am loath to be surrounded by strangers. A while longer, I tell myself. Just hold on a while longer.

  There is no one waiting to greet us; the Chancellor and the Heads of State are en route from the West, but will not arrive until tomorrow. It is just as well; I am not quite prepared to meet with them, and it has been a long, exhausting day.

  After my episode of panic aboard the heli-plane, Mr. Cloud seems unwilling to leave my side. He accompanies me on the drive to the estate, chattering mildly and relating various articles of recent news. As the car winds its way along familiar streets, his voice grows distant; I watch through the window, pieces and places of my former life flickering past like fragments of a dream that has been suddenly remembered. We pass by my former school, as well as the grand, sprawling mansion of Otto Sussenfaal—the cartographer who was to be my mentor. And when we finally inch through the gates and pull into the long drive leading up to my parents’ home, it is all I can do to keep my tears at bay.

  The car slows to a stop and a footman opens the door, extending a hand to assist me. How strange this formality seems after so many months on the Continent—how unnecessary the proffered help for a task so trivial. Certainly I can step out of the car by myself. Yet I reach for his hand automatically, exiting the vehicle with practiced grace. Perhaps there is something left of the Spire within me after all.

  “No luggage, miss?” the footman calls, casting a surreptitious glance at my clothing, and at the single black satchel slung over my back. I suspect he has never seen anything quite like the garb and accoutrements of the Aven’ei.

  “None at all,” I say. “Thank you kindly.”

  Mr. Cloud, standing beside me on the cobbled drive, stares up at the house with a deep crease between his brows. “Are you quite sure you want to stay here tonight, Miss Sun? It certainly wasn’t my idea, I only told them to make arrangements for you to—”

  “It’s fine, Mr. Cloud. I have many happy memories of this home.” And each is breaking my heart.

  “Well. I’ve given the staff my number—I’m stopping at the hotel down by the Chancellery—the great tall one with all the windows—and I will be happy to see you removed from the house if you find it too…well, too painful to stay the night. I have been appointed to manage your transportation to and from the city—so let me know if you need anything at all. It is my pleasure, of course. The Chancellery would prefer you to travel by car, and stay off the trains. A driver will come round at eight o’clock sharp to collect you in the morning.”

  “Very well. And will you wish me luck with the officials?”

  He gives me a wry grin. “
Politicians don’t believe in luck.”

  I laugh, though the sound is brittle. “Nor do I, now I come to think of it.”

  “Good,” he says. He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “May I offer a bit of advice?”

  “I welcome anything you have to say, Mr. Cloud, at any time.”

  “Don’t let the folks in the Chancellery see you fixed up like this,” he says, indicating my attire. “You want them to see you as an equal. If you stroll in dressed like an Aven’ei, those black-robed swells will think you no more than a savage.”

  “They might be right.”

  He snorts. “If you’re a savage, I wonder what the rest of us may be?”

  “Noble citizens, all,” I say, smiling. “As to the clothing—I think you’ve made an incisive point. I shall wear my Spirian finest, for I can’t have the officials looking down their noses at me. Thank you, sir. Once again, you have done me a great service.”

  He returns my smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling up into a criss-cross of fine lines. “Whether it be worthwhile or not, I say good luck to you, Miss Sun. The sentiment, at least, has merit. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “It does indeed, and I thank you.”

  He nods. “Tell it true, and they will listen. Good luck.”

  I close the front door behind me as I step inside the house. My eyes sweep over the entrance hall, so familiar and strange all at once. Everything appears exactly as it did on the day we left for the Continent. The lights are lit. The exquisite crimson rug that my mother purchased in the North stretches out along the marble floor of the foyer, not a stray piece of lint or speck of dust to be seen upon it. My father’s precious ornamental vases are gleaming and immaculate upon the entry console. My map of the Continent hangs above the fireplace in the sitting room beyond.

  An elderly man, looking prim and distinguished in his butler’s uniform, comes through from the dining room and stops abruptly. “Miss Sun! My apologies, I ought to have been here to greet you—we weren’t expecting you quite so soon. Please, may I take your…” He trails off, observing that I have neither coat nor traveling trunk. He clears his throat. “Well. Do you have a mind for a late supper, or do you wish to retire?” His eyes flick down to my tunic, then back to my face. “I can call the housemaid to run a bath, if you like.”

  “Thank you, no—I’m not hungry, and I wish to be alone. I shall tend to myself this evening.”

  He looks relieved, as though he had not been entirely sure how best to serve an eccentric mistress dressed in strange, dirty clothing. “Please ring if you need anything at all.”

  “I will.”

  He returns to the dining room; a moment later, the soft clink of china is to be heard. I assume he is making sure that the breakfast dishes are properly arranged; he does seem a fastidious sort, though a bit cold for my liking. Our former butler, Mr. Kincaid, wouldn’t have batted an eye had I showed up dressed like a jester all in motley, much less in the muddy, sweat-stained garments I wear now. He would merely have welcomed me and insisted I take a meal. I wonder where Mr. Kincaid is now. I wonder if he mourned for my parents, and for me.

  I move to the end of the foyer, my eyes fixed on the map above the mantel. I remember so clearly the weight of it in my hands as I took it from the box at my birthday party, how silky the smooth wood felt against my fingers. What a beautiful object it was to me once—a triumph of hard work and long hours. Yet what a black thing it seems now, the mark of death woven into its very fibers. Had I never drawn it, my parents might have lived. But this is a rumination of futility. My mother and father are gone, and nothing will bring them back.

  As though compelled by these morbid thoughts, I turn down the hallway to my right: the long corridor that leads to the family bedrooms. I walk slowly, absorbing each of the portraits along the walls, delicate brushstrokes long forgotten returning to my memory. I come to a halt as I reach the two doors—both closed—at the end of the hall. To the right is my own bedroom, to the left is the suite that belonged to my parents. After a moment’s hesitation, I face my parents’ door, take the cold knob in my hand, and turn it slowly.

  The room is dark and deathly quiet. I switch on the lights and feel a stab of desolation; everything is so clean, so orderly, so normal, that I half-expect my mother to enter from the washroom, absentmindedly tying the belt of her dressing gown into a delicate bow. Why, Vaela! she would say, looking at me in surprise. What are you doing up so late?

  Her voice was once so clear in my mind, but the memory of it is fading with time, a thought that both pains and terrifies me. What if I should forget her? What if I should forget my father? The people we love may live on in our recollections and impressions, but so much is lost. Already, my memories are not as vibrant as once they were—how I wish I could hold each one in my heart forever, safe and perfect and true.

  I cross the room and lie down on the bed. The smooth fabric of the coverlet rustles beneath me as I slide to the far side, where I reach for my mother’s pillow. I clutch it to my breast and press my cheek against it, inhaling deeply, but the freshly laundered case retains no trace of the jasmine perfume she always wore. Still, the memory of the scent lingers in my mind, and I find great comfort in this.

  I turn onto my back, hugging the pillow to my chest, staring up at the crimson silks draped above the bed. Tears come at last, along with the wrenching agony of grief. I bury my face in the coverlet, weeping as though all I have lost has only just been taken from me. My fingers dig into the stiff fabric of the pillow, my heart sings with torment. I cry and cry, my face wet and flushed, and I mourn once again for my mother and father and the life I once knew.

  How very, very long this day has been. Was it truly only this morning that I set sail for Ivanel with Noro? I think of the map rolled tightly in my bag—a new map, much like the one I drew for the Aven’ei council—yet far more complete. It is not delicate and detailed like the work I might have completed as an apprentice cartographer, not drawn in the Astor Library with fine, expensive ink pens, but in the lamplight of the Continent with a slim goose quill. It is tactical, concise, and as accurate as I could make it from memory. Everything—everything—hinges on this map.

  I hope I will not fail the Aven’ei.

  CHAPTER 28

  IN THE GRAND HALL OF THE CHANCELLERY, I watch as great silvery clouds gather beyond the gilded half-dome windows. The world has gone gray, and with the turn of the weather, some measure of my hope has diminished. I find it difficult to be cheerful in the gloom; even the bulbs in the chandeliers seem to burn white and cold, casting the corners of the vast hall in stark shadows.

  I am seated at a slender table opposite the four Heads of State, waiting for the Chancellor to arrive. The officials—three men and one woman—are dressed in the black robes of government office; I wear a floor-length dress of ivory silk, accented from top to bottom with translucent blue beads. An awful choice in regard to the weather, perhaps, but even the stuffy old butler at the estate seemed impressed as I swept through the foyer on my way out the door.

  The officials are, from left to right: Mr. Lowe, of the West, a dark-skinned man with pale eyes, an easy smile and a crackling sort of energy about him; Mr. Wey, of the East, a scholarly man of advanced years who wears a pair of spectacles at the tip of his nose; Mr. Chamberlain, of the South, a sickly-looking man with a slender mustache and watery eyes; and Mrs. Pendergrast, of the North, who looks as though she has spent most of her life sucking on a sour candy—even the smile she mustered when I first arrived had a sort of miserable, acidic quality to it. She could be the polar opposite of the sweet-faced Mr. Lowe, and indeed, I notice that the two of them never so much as glance at one another.

  A steward passing through the Hall clears his throat, and the sound seems to fill the wide, mostly empty chamber. A moment later, the entrance clock chimes nine and the Chancellor emerges from his offices at the west side of the room.

  I have met him before—several times, in fact, as he worked closely wi
th my father—and have always found him to be a warm and congenial sort of person. Today is no exception. Grief is stamped upon his face, his expression of sympathy unguarded. This renews my hope.

  “How very, very sorry I am for your loss, dear Vaela,” he says, approaching the table and clasping my hands in his. “You know how fond I was of your mother and father, and of the Shaws as well.” He shakes his head. “What a terrible tragedy. I hope we may find some way to offer recompense, inadequate as any gesture will certainly be.”

  “I ask nothing for myself, Chancellor.”

  “How terribly you must have suffered,” he says, regarding me as though I were a piteous thing. He shakes his head again. “Well. Let us begin, for while this sad exchange of testimony is all too necessary, I am sure the day holds brighter things in store.”

  “I’m sure it does.”

  He moves around the table, nodding to Mr. Lowe, and takes a seat at the center, directly opposite me.

  “Now, Vaela,” the Chancellor begins, “let me tell you what we know, and then you may tell your story—from the very beginning of course, for we must hear all that has happened.” I nod, and he continues. “On the fourth morning of your tour, Ivanel received a distress call from the pilot of your heli-plane. He gave his position, stated that a failure of multiple engines had occurred, and said that he intended to make an emergency landing. That was the last communication which was received.”

  He leans forward. “Now, let me assure you beyond any doubt that we were extremely distressed by this information, and moved at once into action. Ivanel had no secondary aircraft, so we could not attempt an immediate rescue—but two additional heli-planes were sent to the island post-haste. Due to the late hour of departure, the planes did not arrive until after night had fallen, when it was far too dark to attempt any sort of rescue—the drastic changes in the Continent’s elevation would have made any such endeavor quite unsafe—and so we were forced to wait until the following day to begin our search. We deployed the planes at the break of dawn, and from morning to night, we searched without success.”