The Continent (The Continent #1)(31)
How can I set such grief aside? How can I do anything other than crumble to its will, and allow myself to burn away like so much wreckage? A part of me simply wants to lie down and die—to let my grief flow through me, to allow it to infect my soul the way my wound threatens to infect my body.
And yet, these urges to surrender are at war with a stubborn fury in my heart. I am in turns broken to the point of helplessness and determined to escape this place. I look up to see Noro watching me intently, and I know the conflict within me is written on my face. Lost before this strange, quiet warrior, I feel like a pane of glass—brittle, fragile, and wholly transparent. I close my eyes and shake my head. “I’m not sure if I’m capable of what you suggest.”
“You will find your way,” he says.
“And if I don’t?”
“Give it time. Grief is always followed by a quiet. In that stillness, you will find that you have learned much.”
I look up at him, my lashes fringed with tears. “What will I learn?”
“I could not say. That is for you to discover. But first, you must survive.”
With my wound bandaged and the rip in my trousers stitched back together, Noro begins making preparations for our journey. He provides me with a thick white vest and a pair of leather gloves, both of which feel heavenly after so many days in the constant, biting cold. We sit down to a quick breakfast of stale bread, oranges (produced from a sack in the Topi tent), and water, and then we are on our way.
My pace is slow at first due to the pain in my leg, but after an hour or two, the increased circulation seems to improve matters. Noro is kind enough to stop from time to time and let me elevate my foot. He doesn’t say much over the course of the morning, but that’s fine with me; my mind is on my family, on the Spire, on my home.
From the direction we are traveling, I determine that Noro’s village must be southwest of Ivanel—and since we are heading toward the coast, I feel as though each step brings me closer to the island itself. I haven’t yet worked out how to reach Ivanel, but my hope is that Noro’s people will be able to offer some kind of assistance.
We stop at midday to eat again—another quick meal of bread and fruit—then continue on. The weather is bright and clear. Smooth blankets of snow glisten and sparkle in the sunlight, spreading out for miles along the deep southern valleys. The trek would be exhausting on fair terrain, but the snow makes the journey even more difficult. By the time the sun begins to sink below the horizon, my legs are like two spindly pieces of yarn. When Noro announces that we are to make camp, I drop to the ground in exhausted relief, certain that I could not manage another step.
The site he has chosen offers more protection from the elements than the Topi camp; we settle at the base of a small hillside, where a natural earthen cave reaches perhaps ten feet into the slope. I watch as Noro kindles a healthy fire beneath the cave’s entrance.
“How is your leg?” he says, glancing up at me.
I run my palm over the top of my thigh. “It hurts, but the pain is manageable. It was far worse this morning, to tell you the truth—perhaps I am getting used to it. My feet, on the other hand…”
“Are they numb?”
“No,” I say. “Just sore.”
He nods and wipes the dirt from his hands. “We will clean your wound each morning, and do what we can to try to stave off infection. Now…wait here. I have traps nearby, and with any luck, we will have meat in our bellies tonight.”
I sit by the fire, my body aching with exhaustion, hunger, and the shadow of a grief too great to bear. Noro is gone only twenty or thirty minutes, and returns with an armful of wood and two white hares swinging from his belt.
“We shall have meat tonight,” he says. It is difficult to tell, but he sounds pleased.
“I’m very grateful. For the food, and…well…for what you did.”
He unhooks the game and sets it beside the fire, then begins to rummage through his pack. “The people of the Spire,” he says. “Do they resemble you?”
“How do you mean?”
He makes a twirling gesture toward his head. “This golden hair,” he says. “Eyes like the leaves of an evergreen.”
“Oh,” I say, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, no. Those in the West are typically dark-skinned with pale blue eyes, those in the North with pale skin and white hair that practically shimmers.” I pause, thoughtful, caught in the memory of home, loneliness stretching into my heart. “Southerners are olive-skinned, with freckles sometimes, and lovely dark hair—and those from the East, like myself, are often pale, with blue or green eyes. But throughout the Spire, all come together. The nations are not as separate as once they were, and travel has created a beautiful mingling of cultures. Astor—the capital city—is the most beautiful place in the Spire, with swirling platforms of mathematical design, architecture so elegant it could make you cry, and all the technology a citizen could hope to experience.”
He retrieves his bundle of knives from the satchel. “Technology?”
“Conveniences. The trains, and the lifts, and the moving gardens. Certain technologies are suppressed in the Spire, overseen by the government, to discourage the development of weaponry, but we have every comfort we need. The Chancellery determines what technology is to be shared amongst the citizens.”