The Continent (The Continent #1)(2)
My mother takes the pendant and fixes it around my neck, and the guests applaud once again. My father hands me a second box; this one is wide and flat, and quite heavy. I set it on the table and begin to unwrap it. When I see what’s inside, I draw in my breath.
It’s a map of the Continent, framed in ebony wood, with a crimson mat set inside to bring out the color of the red and black pens with which the map was drawn. But it’s not just any map. It’s one of mine.
I drew this map over the course of a year during countless visits to the Astor Library, which is easily the greatest source of information about the Continent in the whole of the Spire. I spent hundreds of hours poring over aerial phototypes, studying the existing cartography, and imagining the features of that vast and foreign land. This map earned me an apprenticeship with Otto Sussenfaal himself, the curator of the library and perhaps the most brilliant cartographer our nation has borne in three centuries. This map is the culmination of my study; it is my greatest achievement so far.
And now, here it is, framed like a work of art, beautiful enough to draw hushed whispers from the guests gathered around the stage. I have no words.
“This map,” my father says, “was completed by Vaela herself.” A surprised murmur rises from the crowd. “Her passion and her talent enabled her to create this stunning—and, I have no doubt—highly accurate representation of the Continent. It is because of this map, because of the hours of work Vaela put into creating it, that her mother and I were inspired to choose this final gift.”
He hands me the last box. It’s no more than six inches wide and half an inch thick, and feels as though it contains nothing at all. I remove the paper and lift the lid: inside is a certificate of travel, embossed with the Spire’s official seal and marked with my name. I look up at my father, confused.
“Turn it over,” he says.
On the other side of the paper, I find the following words printed on the form:
Traveler: Vaela Sun
Depart from: Spire East
Destination: Ivanel
Tour: The Continent
My mouth falls open and I look up at him in wonder. “We’re going to the Continent?”
The crowd, hearing this, erupts in thunderous applause. My father beams at me as my mother puts an arm around my shoulders. Her excitement is palpable.
“We leave in three days,” she says.
A ruby pendant is the sort of gift I might have expected from my parents. A beautiful frame to display my map was an incredible, meaningful surprise. But a trip to the Continent is the most coveted privilege in the Spire—only ten tours are given each year, with a maximum of six guests per tour. Every man, woman, and child longs to see the Continent, but with more than a hundred million people across the Spire, only the very wealthy—and influential—are ever able to arrange a trip. My family is affluent, well-respected, and certainly very prominent in terms of society, but I still can’t imagine how my father managed to secure us passage.
“What do you think?” he asks, studying my face.
This question has a thousand answers, but none seem sufficient. I throw my arms around him. “Thank you,” I whisper.
The guests are delighted, stamping their feet and applauding with great enthusiasm. My father turns back to the crowd. “Dinner will be served shortly; please continue to enjoy the celebration, and thank you all for coming!”
He replaces the microphone in the stand. “Are you surprised?”
“Surprised? I don’t understand, I thought the wait-list to tour was—”
“Endless,” my mother says. “Absolutely impossible. But, as it happens, your father is working with Mr. Shaw now—you’ll know the name, of course, the Director of National Affairs down at the Chancellery—and he’s been promoted to Trade Regulator! Overseeing the embargoes and other whatnots for the East, West, North, and South.”
“Paperwork,” my father says, and gives me a wink. “Mountains of it.”
My mother laughs. “In any case, Mr. Shaw and your father have been getting along famously. And so the Shaws, who’ve had a private tour booked for absolute ages, invited us to join their family.”
“What good fortune!” I say. “We shall be traveling as their guests?”
“As their companions,” my father says. “Mr. Shaw was kind enough to make the arrangements, but this gift is from your mother and I alone.”
“I am very grateful,” I say. “To you and Mother for your generosity, and to Mr. Shaw for his graciousness. I should like to thank him properly, when we meet.”
“You shall have the chance directly,” says my mother, beaming. “They’ll be joining us for dinner.”
The Shaws, apparently, have been delayed, and so the three of us—my father, mother, and I—begin my birthday dinner at rather an empty table. A golden cloth, edged with silken tassels, is laid out before us, with a slim black runner down the center; the dishes are ivory, the utensils silver, the glasses crystal: all handmade, and exceptionally fine. The decor throughout the Chancellery ballroom is striking, all in the black and gold of the Spire, according to tradition—as is the attire of our guests. Only my family is dressed in red, for as the guests of honor, we wear the crimson of the Blood Lily, the symbol of the East: the nation we call home.
We are seated, chatting idly and awaiting the second course, when a stout, bespectacled man and a very harassed-looking woman approach the table. They are accompanied by a handsome young man of about twenty; his hair is brown and slightly wavy, his eyes blue.