The Continent (The Continent #1)(34)



Noro is unconvinced. He looks toward the south, his brows furrowed. “We are nine, perhaps ten hours from my village. I had planned to make camp at dusk and complete our journey tomorrow, but now I am not sure if we should wait. It may be unwise to delay our travels.”

I sag to the ground, sinking into a snowdrift at the base of the tree. “I am only tired, Noro. A moment’s rest will restore me, I’m sure of it.”

He looks down at me, displeasure on his face. “I have told you not to sit in the snow.”

I close my eyes again. “Does it really matter? I am already wet and cold.”

He crouches down before me. “This is not a game, girl. You must take care of yourself. I have seen lesser wounds than yours lead first to fever, then agony and death. Do not let pride delude you into believing you are beyond danger.”

“I don’t believe I am beyond anything.”

“Then stop being foolish,” he says. He looks again into the distance, toward the southeasterly destination that is yet so far out of reach. He nods, as if coming to a decision. “I think we should continue.”

“Please…let us rest tonight and carry on tomorrow. I don’t know if I can press on for another ten hours, especially in the dark.”

He is unmoved. “I will carry you if I must.”

“A few hours of sleep may do more good than a difficult journey in the dead of night. Don’t you agree?”

He considers this. The sun casts his face in hazy orange light, dissolving the shadows along the planes of his cheeks. His features look softer, his expression less severe, even in his current state of tension.

“You may be right,” he says finally, straightening up and extending a hand. “Now, please, get out of the snow. There is an outcropping ahead where we will find shelter. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing at all.”

Noro’s description of the small outcropping as “not much” was generous at best. Consisting of a rocky ledge jutting out at a sharp downward angle and a sheltered area of perhaps three to four feet of hardened earth, the tiny refuge scarcely fits the two of us. The cave from the first night seems vast in comparison, but still, this place is secluded and dry. That makes it very near to paradise in my rapidly reforming opinion of what constitutes comfort.

“You seem improved,” Noro says. He’s crouched at the entrance, having just returned from some errand or other.

“Actually, I do feel better. I believe it was just the exertion after all.”

He ducks below the ledge and sits beside me. “Let us hope so.”

“How could I not be recuperated, sitting here out of the wet?” I pat the rich brown soil beneath me. “This little spot is as nice as a fine hotel.”

“What is a hotel?”

“Well…it is a place of excellent accommodations, extraordinary food, and all the niceties one requires to feel at home.”

He glances around at the cramped little hollow. “Your dwellings in the Spire are impressive, are they not?”

“None so grand as this.”

He frowns at me. “You are being sarcastic.”

“No, I’m not! Perspective is a mighty equalizer, you know.”

He regards me with a curious expression, then reaches into the pack by his side to produce a bundle of leftover meat. He taps the parcel with one finger. “I cannot claim the food at this hotel to be extraordinary, but I think with a little heat, we might make a meal of it.”

I laugh—and immediately cover my mouth with my hands. A sickening wave of shame and guilt washes over me. Noro leans forward at once, his eyes dark with understanding.

“It is okay to laugh,” he says softly. “You have done nothing wrong.”

I shake my head and bury my face in my hands. My parents have been dead hardly a week—it is far too soon to revive the pleasure of laughter. I feel as though I have spit upon the graves of all who died in the heli-plane. The guilt and grief inside me expands to fill every pore, every inch of my body, until it seems there is nothing left of me at all, and I begin to weep.

Noro is silent. He makes no move to comfort me, whispers no platitudes, attempts no consolation. Yet he is there. I feel his empathy as certainly as I feel the anguish of my own heart. For a long time, we stay like this, my pain and weakness made all the clearer in the gravity of his strength.

The sun sinks below the edge of the world, and night spreads across the Continent like a bleak, stifling blanket. In the darkness, fatigue grips me, and I fall into a black sleep, Noro still at my side.

*

In the morning, I find myself tucked snugly beneath the fur. Noro is seated just outside the entrance to the hollow, his arms crossed over his knees, his gaze fixed on some point in the distance. The hood of his coat is up, casting a shadow along the side of his face. In profile, he is the very picture of a warrior—solemn, powerful, and focused, with a short sword strapped to his back and the belt of black knives slung about his waist. It is difficult for me to reconcile this image with the quiet soul who sat with me last night as I wept. But then, if I learned anything from my experience with Aaden, it is that people are not always what they seem; who knows what kindness, cruelty, selfishness, or heroism may be concealed beneath the surface? Only time and circumstance bring all into view.

I sit up, keeping my hands inside the warm blanket. “Don’t you ever sleep, Noro?”

Keira Drake's Books