The Continent (The Continent #1)(35)

He glances over at me. “Of course. How are you feeling?”

My skin is warm despite the morning chill, and my body aches. I force a smile. “Very well, thank you.”

“You are a terrible liar,” he says, and leans over to pour me a small cup of dark, steaming liquid. “Drink this. We should leave as soon as you are able.”

I take the cup and give it an exploratory sniff; the drink smells faintly sweet. “Is it a type of tea? The aroma is not like the others you’ve prepared.”

“Whiteroot tea, and a bit of sugar.”

I’ve never heard of whiteroot, but a small sip reveals a mild flavor reminiscent of chamomile. A larger sip is like warm honey being poured into my upper body. “It’s delightful,” I say. “Thank you very much.”

He nods. “Tell me the truth, now, how badly are you feeling this morning?”

“I shall be very well once we are under way,” I say, but I know that this, too, is a lie.

“That is not what I asked.”

I sigh. My Spirian upbringing has brought into focus the imposition of my illness. I ought to be self-sufficient—self-reliant. Malady is best concealed, stuffed into a sickbed, kept properly away from others—not forced upon them in the middle of the wilderness with many miles yet to travel.

“I am unwell,” I concede, “but please, let it rest at that. I do not wish to complain, and you will hear no more of it from me. All right?”

“Fair enough,” he says. “But we have a long way to go yet; we won’t reach the village until late afternoon, and that’s assuming the weather will hold. You must tell me if you need help.”

I hand him the empty cup. “I am sturdier than I look. Now let us be going, for we shan’t make any progress sitting around like this.”

By midday, my facade of hardiness and self-sufficiency has crumbled. All I want to do is lie down in the snow and sleep. A truly alarming heat is radiating from my wound, and my muscles are drained of all strength. I have lost my footing more times than I can count. The weather, as it turns out, did not hold; it has been snowing steadily for the past hour, and what began as a fine drizzling of soft flakes has become a miserable flurry of ice.

I do not mean to do it, but I put one knee down in the snow, and the rest of my body follows. Noro, walking at my side, immediately stops to collect me. I do not protest as he gathers me into his arms, but merely turn my face away from the driving snow and close my eyes. Somewhere in my mind, beneath the exhaustion and fever, a prim and proper Spirian voice is telling me to stop being such a burden—to get down at once and put one foot in front of the other until we reach the village. But the gentle sway of Noro’s footsteps lulls me into a state of quiet recalcitrance, and I make no move other than to settle my head against his chest.

Minutes or hours pass by, and on we go. Noro never stops, or speaks, or even looks at me as far as I can tell. Sleep and a comfortable delirium come to me in waves, and between these moments, I catch glimpses of his face—his eyes, really, as his mouth and nose are concealed by a black cloth he has wrapped around his head. His brows are furrowed, his dark lashes dusted with ice, his eyes unwavering from the path ahead.

The day grows darker, though whether from the passage of time or a change in the weather I cannot tell. “Is it very much farther?” I say. It is the first time I have spoken since we left the hollow.

Two deep brown eyes glance down at me. “An hour at most,” he says, his voice muffled behind the mask.

“Will the people of your village be very surprised to see me?”

“No more surprised than I was.”

“Do you suppose they will think me strange?” I say. He does not answer, though I wait nearly a minute. “Noro?”

He makes a noise as he shifts my weight closer to his body. “Go back to sleep, girl.”

I close my eyes and drift away.

The clouds have deepened to a smoky gray by the time Noro rouses me. The snow has stopped, but the icy wind persists, and the chill is biting. As we reach the top of a low hillside, I see the village laid out in the center of the valley below.

It is surrounded by a rectangular wall of blue-gray stone, with parapets and slender towers set at the town entrance and at each of the four corners of the wall. The village itself is clustered within; dirt roads wind through the rows of black-shingled houses and market buildings, while wispy puffs of smoke rise from chimneys scattered throughout. I would guess that a town this size could accommodate perhaps one or two thousand people; this place is far more sizable than the tiny hamlet spotted during my first tour of the Continent. A sliver of the southern sea is visible from here, and beyond that vast ocean is the Spire. The thought of home fills me with renewed hope.

“You can put me down,” I say. “You must be exhausted.”

The scarf around his face has come loose and I see a frown on his lips, but he sets me lightly on my feet. A finger of cold slithers up my spine; I hadn’t fully appreciated the warmth of Noro’s body. Still, I am steady, and that is something.

“Can you walk, then?” Noro asks.

“Yes,” I say, with some confidence. “I’m terribly sorry for all the trouble.”

He ignores this. “We are nearly there, and I intend to take you directly to the healer.”

“Oh, but you mustn’t!” I say, a knot forming in my stomach. “I wish to speak with the leaders of your village as soon as possible—I must know if they will help me to return home!”