The Continent (The Continent #1)(16)

I spent the duration of the flight in my father’s arms, replaying the battle in my mind. I kept my eyes closed, terrified that I might look out the window and see anything like violence. The Continent, once a land of great fascination to me, now seems a hateful arena of death and horror. I never want to go back.

The steward came round this morning to ask if we would be touring today, and I heard my father speaking to him in hushed tones. About half an hour later, there was a second knock at the door—it was the steward again, coming to see if I would like to join Aaden on an expedition of the island. I tried to decline, but he implored me to consider that the fresh air—however cold—might do me some good. He left a canvas bag full of insulated clothing and said that he would be back at noon to collect me.

And so, here I am, waiting alone on the private indoor promenade, staring at the snow and the rocks and the sea beyond. I see now that this is what my mother feared most—that the Continent might change me. Perhaps it has.

When Aaden and the steward arrive, both seem to be in good spirits. Aaden smiles brightly when he sees me.

“All set, there?” he says, gesturing to my new clothes. “I’m feeling rather outdoorsy myself today. What do you think?” He does a little spin, and despite myself, I laugh.

“You look very fine, sir.” I collect my hat and gloves, tuck a small sketchbook into the pocket of my vest, and close the door behind me. “Are you to be our escort?” I say to the steward.

“Oh, heavens, no,” he says. “I try never to set foot out of doors unless I’m in the Spire. Far too cold for a Southerner like me! We’re to meet your guide in the lobby—a Mr. Cloud.”

“Very well,” I say, falling into step beside Aaden as we walk down the hall. “Is no one…is no one going to the Continent today?”

The steward’s voice falls to a hush. “No, miss. Everyone required a bit of a respite, I think. It happens sometimes, after the first tour. Some folks enjoy the fighting, but others…well, you understand. It can be a bit much.”

An image of bloody snow flashes before my eyes and I shake my head. “It was very…real,” I say, looking at Aaden.

“It’s miles away, now,” he says lightly. “Think no more of it.” He claps his hands. “Now! Let’s away, for it is very cold outside, and we gluttons for punishment must embrace it like true adventurers.”

In the lobby, we are introduced to Mr. Cloud, the groundskeeper at Ivanel. His height is astounding—he must be nearly six and a half feet tall. He has the look of a Westerner—beautiful dark skin, blue eyes so pale they are nearly white, and a warmth and geniality about his person that is very inviting. I find that I like him almost at once.

“Good day,” he says. “I hear we have a couple of explorers in our group—not too common, you know. First time for everything, as they say!”

“How do you do?” Aaden says. “I’m Aaden Shaw, and this is Miss Vaela Sun. Vaela is something of an accomplished cartographer, and she’s interested in getting a feel for the island.”

“So I’m told,” says Mr. Cloud, looking at me with interest. “I take it you want a look up close at the terrain?”

“Very much,” I say. “It’s one thing to see the landscape in the phototypes, or even to view it from the plane—but I have such a restless yearning to feel the ground beneath my own two feet. Does that seem strange?”

“I’ve got the same affliction, my dear,” Mr. Cloud says. “And I wouldn’t call it strange—more like…irrepressible. Well. It’s not too cold out today, so let’s see how we do!” He takes a second glance at me. “You’ll want to put on that hat, miss, and those gloves. When I say it’s not too cold, what I mean is that you won’t get frostbite out in the open. I don’t mean to say it’s warm, or anything like it.”

“I understand,” I say, putting on my hat. Aaden does the same with his own.

Mr. Cloud nods, grinning. “Explorers on Ivanel—whatever next? All right then, Spirians. Off we go.”

The chill cuts through me the moment we step outside. The steward was right—it is far colder out of doors than it was in the hangar.

Mr. Cloud kicks aside a large clump of snow in an attempt to clear the pathway. “All right, there? Warm enough?”

I’m not sure if I can speak, so I just nod my head and attempt a smile.

He laughs and tugs my hat down around my ears. “Come along, you’ll adjust to the temperature in a minute. Those clothes are plenty warm—it’s just the cold on your face that’s thrown you.”

We follow behind him on a sloping path, and even though I find myself gasping a bit from the freezing air, I can’t help but notice the pristine beauty around me. There isn’t a cloud to be seen; the sky is a crisp wintry blue, the sun is like a bright white stone in the sky. The Ivanel complex lies behind us, and ahead is a wide field—covered in snow, of course, with little to it other than some hardy shrubs and a few jagged boulders. Small white birds flutter here and there, pecking something or other from between the rocks; they tilt their heads and coo at us as we move along.

“Achelons,” Mr. Cloud says. “Greedy little things.” He produces a handful of dry bread from his pocket and tosses it onto the snow. Six or seven of the birds hop forward to snatch up the pieces.