The Continent (The Continent #1)(40)
But one cannot stay forever in the eclipse of tragedy, and though I try to avoid both the darkness and the light, each waits for me in turn. And so, in the quiet hours of those long, terrible weeks, I finally begin to face without distraction the magnitude of all I have truly lost.
When I sleep, I dream of drifting, ghostlike, through the halls of my home in the Spire. The rooms are dim, the furniture shrouded in billowing white sheets. I cannot touch anything; my fingers pass through objects as though they were made of nothing. I search for something, but I cannot find it, and eventually awaken in the purple-gray hours before dawn with my hair wet and tangled, clinging to my skin. “Mother,” I say aloud, the word a question on my lips, the sound of my voice lingering in the quiet night. And, of course, there is no answer. Only grief. Only the certainty that they are gone, that everything is gone, that I am alone now, and will be always. How I ache; how I curl into a shriveled husk of myself, every moment a wash of despair and disconsolate reflection. I feel it will kill me—I am sure it will kill me. But I wake, again and again, only to relive the loss.
Eno hears me cry out sometimes, and she comes to the healing room, clad in silence, to hold my hands in hers. I clutch her wrinkled fingers with all my strength, tears streaming down my face, my heartache a physical thing. From time to time, Eno brushes the tears from my face, or presses her palm against my cheek, and I am quiet for a while, until sleep comes. Sometimes, when I wake, she is still there, asleep in the chair beside my bed, her chin resting on her chest.
In my waking hours, I obsess over details. I try to remember the fine characteristics of my mother’s hands: the softness of her skin, the slender length of her fingers. I close my eyes and imagine the feel of the marble banister in the courtyard of our home in the Spire—how cold it felt in wintertime, shining white and clean in the frosty air. I strain my ears, recalling the memory of my father’s voice: This has all been a terrible dream, Vaela, he says to me. Everything will be just fine.
But the worst rumination is the re-imagining of my birthday party—still elegant and bright, still merry and exciting—but the third gift always some insignificant, whimsical thing. A sparkling gown. A pair of summer shoes, handmade in the South by the finest artisans in the Spire. A book—a romance, a thriller, a genealogy—it makes no difference. I only want something safe.
I want anything but a ticket to the Continent.
One afternoon in the second week of my stay, the sound of laughter rumbles through the walls of the healing room. Eno is mute; she scarce makes a sound save for a scraping wheeze when she exerts herself, and so I sit up to listen closely—not out of interest, but in hopes of determining that the mysterious visitor will be leaving promptly.
Eno’s familiar shuffle-step sounds down the hallway, followed by a second pair of footfalls and a clicking and scuffling I can’t identify. I lean back against the wooden headboard of my bed, holding my breath, waiting for the party to pass by. There is a beat of silence, and then Eno’s double knock comes at the door.
“I’m not well,” I say, as she peers into the room, and this is the utter truth. “I hope there’s no one come to call?”
She smiles and steps aside, ignoring me in that unflappable way of hers, and a small boy pokes his head in through the door. It takes me half a second to recognize him: it’s Keiji, Noro’s brother. Behind him, the great dog Aki sits in the corridor, looking bored. The Aven’ei, apparently, do not present cards to announce their arrival—nor do they wait to be received.
Keiji steps in, and Aki follows. “Hello, Vaela Sun!” the boy says brightly. “I’ve come with gifts, so you can’t send me away.”
Perplexed by his presence and reluctant to spend time just yet with anyone other than Eno, I give him a tight smile and shake my head. “I’m sorry, Keiji—it’s kind of you to think of visiting, but I’m not in a very good place right now—”
“That’s what Noro said you’d say,” he replies, plunking down in the chair beside my bed and gesturing for the dog to sit beside him. Keiji extends a hand to me, exposing a palm full of what look to be brightly colored, polished bits of glass. “Here. These are for you! Girls like this sort of thing, don’t they?”
I frown. I want him to leave, but even in my current state, I find it impossible to be rude; Spirian manners are not easily discarded, even in the face of despair. After a moment’s hesitation, I cup my hands and Keiji drops the glass into my palms. There are five pieces in total; two pink, one jade, one blue, and another almost completely white. “Thank you,” I say, examining each of the glossy bits in turn. “These are… they are glass?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says. “I found them on the shore of a little lake in the Kinsho.”
“You’ve been to the Kinsho mountains?” I say, surprised. “That’s quite a distance from here.”
“My battlemaster takes me every year. You’d like him, Vaela—he’s nearly eighty, but he can still split a Topi from stem to stern.” Keiji mimics the motion of a sword slashing upward at lightning speed, and grins.
“Oh,” I say. “That’s…impressive.”
“He’s a legend.”
“Is he an itzatsune like your brother?”
Keiji laughs. “Nooo. He’s a master of weapons—sword, bow, axe—he knows them all. Old Zuka wouldn’t have the patience to creep around slitting throats and blowing poison darts. No—he likes to look the Topi in the eye when he kills them.”