The Continent (The Continent #1)(69)

“Nothing happened, Noro. I’m perfectly fine.”

He laughs joylessly. “Nothing happened today. They sent perhaps three hundred men—a pittance compared to the forces they have in reserve. Had they not been spotted by the Hayato guard, all might have fled. Still, it is safe to assume that many escaped, and that they will return in greater numbers—I daresay it is a certainty. And what will happen when they attack Hayato in earnest? How will I protect you? How will I protect Keiji?”

“I don’t know, Noro.”

He leans back, his shoulders slumping, his head in his hands. “For the first time in my life, I feel sure that the Aven’ei will fall. We have lost the stronghold of the south, and naught but a breath of wind from the west will mark our complete destruction.” He looks up at me, defeat in his eyes. “And there is nothing I can do to stop it.”

For four days, Keiji burns with a fever so intense, I am afraid that every moment will be his last. But on the fifth morning, the fever breaks—his skin becomes cool, his eyes clear. He does not speak; Eno indicates that he may never do so again, so traumatic was the wound to his throat. But it is not the loss of his voice, nor the weakness of his body after the wasting fever, nor even the humiliation of falling prey to a Topi arrow—something the old Keiji would have borne with great shame—that renders him utterly despondent. It is Aki’s death.

When first he woke, he patted the coverlets with urgency. The question was clear: where is Aki? Noro answered in soft words, telling him of Aki’s courageous sacrifice. Keiji wept in silence, his face turned into the pillowcase, this new agony too much to bear.

Afterward, his eyes were dark and still, all of the light in him blown out as though he were a candle in a drafty hall. To see him this way is to suffer a new kind of grief, for although he is now safe from harm, he is lost. Aki was his companion and his guardian from birth. And now Keiji is alone, or so it seems to him.

When he rises to take his first shaky steps around the yard, I watch from the window, anger growing in my heart. At ten years old, this child has seen more suffering than even the poorest and most infirm citizen of the Spire. And for what? Why do the Topi come again and again, reveling in their senseless war? More than a hundred Aven’ei were lost in this attack. Must every last one of them be destroyed before there is peace on the Continent?

Keiji stops to rest on the sandstone bench, the same one I sat upon so many months ago. The place where I made peace with my own grief, where I chose to return to the world. What must Keiji feel, wounded and separated from his lifelong friend? What hope will make him choose to come back to us? In this moment, I see the war not as a whole, but in the broken heart of this one child. In his tears I see the blood of his kin, of the thousands who are dead and buried. And in his suffering, I make yet another choice—one that I hope will change the fate that seems so clearly written for Keiji and all the rest.

Noro, returning from a meeting with the council, approaches the window. He crosses his arms, frowning as he watches his brother sit silent and alone in the yard.

“I need to go home, Noro,” I say.

He nods. “I think the danger is past. Keiji will recover. You should return to the cottage if you like—I will stay with him until he is well enough to leave.”

“I don’t mean the cottage. I need to go back to the Spire.”

From the corner of my eye, I see him stiffen. He turns to me and takes my hand. “Is this because of my words the other night? I am truly sorry for my anger, miyake. I was afraid.”

I look down to see my pale fingers wrapped in his. “I would never leave you for so small a thing.”

He takes my face in his hands, his eyes searching mine. “Then why? Do you fear the Topi?”

“I would be a fool if I did not fear the Topi. But that is not the reason I must go. I hope…I believe there is something I can do that may yet turn the tide of this war.”

“Explain.”

“You say that the annihilation of your people is imminent—that the Aven’ei can no longer save themselves. I trust your judgment, Noro—I truly believe it is as dire as you say. If you are to survive, you must have help.”

“Help,” he says, incredulous. “From the Spire?”

“Yes.”

“I see. It is your opinion that they will, after two centuries of indifference to the suffering on the Continent, suddenly decide to intervene? Tell me: why, exactly, would they do this?”

“I will explain how desperate the situation has become.”

His jaw clenches. “They already know, Vaela. Their planes have flown overhead for more than a quarter of a century—longer even than I have lived! They have seen it. All of it. And they have done nothing.”

“No. They have seen from a distance, with eyes of curiosity and with hearts that have forgotten the true nature of war. It has been generations since blood was shed in battle between the nations of the Spire. They do not remember. But I can make them remember.”

“How?”

“I will tell them everything that has come to pass since the heli-plane went down. I will explain in a way that will help them to understand. I know the Chancellor personally—he is a good man, Noro. He will not turn his back on your people. He cannot.”

“And what then?”

“Perhaps the Aven’ei would be welcome in the Spire.”