The Continent

CHAPTER 1

THIS MUST BE the most magnificent party in the history of the Spire.

I’ve never felt quite like this before; my mind is awhirl, my senses dazzled, and there’s a bounding joy spiraling up within me. I wonder where it’s coming from, this feeling of inexhaustible delight?

Maybe it’s the music, rising from the gleaming instruments of the quartet on the dais, filling the air with the cheerful sounds of the strings. Maybe it’s the food and drink, the tables overflowing with dainty hors d’oeuvres, sparkling juices, and wine. Maybe it’s the men and women on the dance floor, swirling by in a blur of black-and-gold finery, laughing and glittering and whispering merrily to one another. Or maybe it’s just knowing that all this—this amazing affair, this wonderful gala—it’s all for me. For my sixteenth birthday.

The room is filled nearly to capacity with well-wishers—people from all four corners of the Spire. I count two dozen of my friends from school, but the rest of the partygoers appear to be business associates of my father’s, or society women whom my mother invites for tea at the start of every week. Now that I take a moment to look around, it seems clear that the greater portion of the Spire’s nobility—as well as a sprinkling of government officials—are in attendance; even the Chancellor and his wife are here at my father’s invitation.

Vaela, calls my mother, as she approaches in a swish of cranberry chiffon, it’s time.

Her dark hair shimmers, her alabaster skin glows in the light of the chandeliers. She takes my hand and pulls me across the dance floor, smiling and nodding to the revelers as we duck through to the other side of the hall. When we’re clear of the guests, she turns and gives me a long look, her eyes flickering over my face in quick assessment. Then she smiles.

You look happy, darling. Are you pleased with the party? Is it everything you hoped it would be?

It’s wonderful, I say. I can’t remember when I’ve had such a good time.

She gives my hand a little squeeze. "I can’t wait to see your face when you open your gifts! You’ll be absolutely astounded when you see what your father has done. There he is now—Thomas!"

My father stands on the dais with his back to us, arranging three crimson-wrapped packages on a small table. When he hears my mother’s voice, he turns and smiles. Then he gestures for us to join him. He is grinning widely, happy, a virtual match to my mother save for his blond hair.

I follow my mother up a small stairway and we meet him at the back of the stage. He gives me a kiss on the cheek, then nods toward the packages on the table. Are you ready to open your gifts?

I look out on the party, at the scores of people dancing and drinking and chatting together. They are friendly, happy, many of them a bit drunk. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said that people from all four corners of our great United Nation are in attendance here tonight—men and women with complexions of every shade, from darkest brown to palest white, each wearing a proud expression of cultural heritage in dress, representing all that makes the Spire such a beautiful place. Oh, how I love my homeland! I do wish for the millionth time that I could enjoy my gifts privately. But that is not our way, for birthday celebrations are always a big to-do, and so I give my father a smile. Of course.

Oh, Vaela, my mother says. When you open the last one—that small one there at the edge of the table—you’ll be the envy of everyone in the room. But I won’t say another word—I don’t want to spoil the surprise!

I think she may be more excited than I am, but I must admit, my curiosity is piqued. All right, then, I’m ready. It’s a lie, but a necessary one. It’s my birthday. The party is in full effect. I must play my part. I’d rather crawl under a table than make a public appearance, but I will do what I must; shyness is not a thing valued in the Spire.

The musicians play the closing notes of a lively waltz and my father signals for them to wait. Then he steps up to a small stand on the podium and taps the microphone a few times.

Good evening, he says. May I have your attention for just a few minutes? The guests fall quiet as they turn toward him. Ever comfortable speaking to a room full of people, he smiles broadly and continues. Friends and colleagues, citizens and patriots, I thank you most graciously for being here this evening. It’s not every day that we have the opportunity to celebrate a milestone like this one—a sixteenth birthday, a coming of age, a step into life as a true citizen of the Spire. The guests applaud, and my father turns to me. Vaela, your mother and I could not be more proud of the young woman you have become. I hope these three gifts will demonstrate our admiration, our respect, and most of all, our love.

He extends an arm and I step forward, trembling a bit as I realize that all eyes in the room are now on me. By God, by the Maker, I am incredibly uncomfortable. My father reaches for a tiny rectangular box and places it in my hands. Go ahead, he says.

I turn the box over and gently tear open the paper, while guests begin calling out guesses as to what might be inside.

A bicycle! says Evangeline Day, my closest and dearest friend, and the crowd laughs. Evangeline claps her hands demurely, but I see the giggle in her eyes. She’s the picture of societal grace, but I know her, and she is wicked—in all the best ways, of course. She’d kiss a boy before he made any declaration of intention, and she’d tell you all about it. I adore her.

A heavyset woman at the edge of the dance floor—a friend of my mother’s, I believe—says, A great stuffed bear! The guests titter appreciatively and the woman grins.

I smile and lift the lid from the box. Inside, suspended from a delicate golden chain, is the most spectacular ruby pendant I’ve ever seen; it’s cut like an emerald, but mirrors the color of a deep red rose. The facets catch the light, glittering beneath the warm glow of the chandeliers. I look up at my father. It’s beautiful.

See what’s written on the back, my mother whispers.

I turn the pendant over to find a single word inscribed in tiny print: ansana. It’s an old word, from a language now mostly lost to the Spire, but a word still known and with many meanings: family, love, forever. My eyes fill with tears. Thank you, I say. Thank you so much, both of you.

My mother takes the pendant and fixes it around my neck, and the guests applaud once again. My father hands me a second box; this one is wide and flat, and quite heavy. I set it on the table and begin to unwrap it. When I see what’s inside, I draw in my breath.

It’s a map of the Continent, framed in ebony wood, with a crimson mat set inside to bring out the color of the red and black pens with which the map was drawn. But it’s not just any map. It’s one of mine.

I drew this map over the course of a year during countless visits to the Astor Library, which is easily the greatest source of information about the Continent in the whole of the Spire. I spent hundreds of hours poring over aerial phototypes, studying the existing cartography, and imagining the features of that vast and foreign land. This map earned me an apprenticeship with Otto Sussenfaal himself, the curator of the library and perhaps the most brilliant cartographer our Nation has borne in centuries. This map is the culmination of my study; it is my greatest achievement so far.

And now, here it is, framed like a work of art, beautiful enough to draw hushed whispers from the guests gathered around the stage. I have no words.

This map, my father says, was completed by Vaela herself. A surprised murmur rises from the crowd. Her passion and her talent enabled her to create this stunning—and, I have no doubt, highly accurate—representation of the Continent. It is because of this map, because of the hours of work Vaela put into creating it, that her mother and I were inspired to choose this final gift.

He hands me the last box. It’s no more than six inches wide and half an inch thick, and feels as though it contains nothing at all. I remove the paper and lift the lid; inside is a certificate of travel, embossed with the Spire’s official seal and marked with my name. I look up at my father, confused.

Turn it over, he says.

On the other side of the paper, I find the following words printed on the form:

Traveler: Vaela Sun

Depart from: Spire East

Destination: Ivanel

Tour: The Continent

My mouth falls open and I look up at him in wonder. We’re going to the Continent?

The crowd, hearing this, erupts in thunderous applause. My father beams at me as my mother puts an arm around my shoulders. Her excitement is palpable.

We leave in three days, she says.

A ruby pendant is the sort of gift I might have expected from my parents. A beautiful frame to display my map was an incredible, meaningful surprise. But a trip to the Continent is the most coveted privilege in the Spire—only ten tours are given each year, with a maximum of six guests per tour. Every man, woman, and child longs to see the Continent, but with more than a hundred million people across the Spire, only the very wealthy—and influential—are ever able to arrange a trip. My family is affluent, respected, and certainly very prominent in terms of society, but I still can’t imagine how my father managed to secure us passage.

What do you think? he asks, studying my face.

This question has a thousand answers, but none seem sufficient. I throw my arms around him. Thank you, I whisper.

The guests are delighted, stamping their feet and applauding with great enthusiasm. My father turns back to the crowd. Dinner will be served shortly; please continue to enjoy the celebration, and thank you all for coming!

He replaces the microphone on the stand and gives a nod to the waiting musicians, who immediately take up with an old standard.

Are you surprised? he asks.

Surprised? I don’t understand, I thought the wait list to tour was—

Endless, my mother says. Absolutely impossible. But, as it happens, your father is working with Mr. Shaw now—you’ll know the name, of course, the Director of National Affairs down at the Chancellery—and has been promoted to Trade Regulator! Overseeing the embargoes and other whatnots for the East, West, North, and South.

Paperwork, my father says, and gives me a wink. Mountains of it.

My mother laughs. In any case, Mr. Shaw and your father have been getting along famously. And so the Shaws, who’ve had a private tour booked for absolute ages, invited us to join their family.

What good fortune! I say. We shall be traveling as their guests?

As their companions, my father says. Mr. Shaw was kind enough to make the arrangements, but this gift is from your mother and me alone.

I am very grateful, I say. To you and Mother for your generosity, and to Mr. Shaw for his graciousness. I should like to thank him properly, when we meet.

You shall have the chance directly, says my mother, beaming. They’ll be joining us for dinner.

* * *

The Shaws, apparently, have been delayed, and so the three of us—my father, mother, and I—begin my birthday dinner at rather an empty table. A golden cloth, edged with silken tassels, is laid out before us, with a slim black runner down the center; the dishes are porcelain, the utensils silver, the glasses crystal—everything is handmade, and exceptionally fine. The decor throughout the Chancellery ballroom is striking, all in the black and gold of the Spire, according to tradition, as is the attire of our guests. Only my family is dressed in red, for as the guests of honor, we wear the crimson of the Blood Lily, the symbol of the East: the Nation we call home.

We are seated, chatting idly and awaiting the second course, when a stout, bespectacled man with smooth, light brown skin—quite rosy around the cheekbones—and a very harassed-looking woman of ruddy complexion and drawn-on eyebrows approach the table. They are accompanied by a handsome young man of about twenty; his hair is brown and slightly wavy, his eyes blue, rimmed by dark circles. He is even paler than I am, which is quite saying something.

My father rises to greet them. Mr. and Mrs. Shaw, we’re so glad you could make it! And Aaden, it’s nice to see you again as well.

It’s a wonder we’ve made it at all, says Mrs. Shaw, the way it’s pouring rain outside. I had to change my shoes three times! Can you imagine? She stops speaking and stares at one of the servers, who rushes forward and pulls out her chair. She sits with a huff and makes a quick inspection of the table. We’ve missed the first course, have we? It’s just as well. I had a late lunch.

My father smiles and settles into his chair once again. Vaela, may I introduce Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Shaw, and their son, Aaden.

It’s a pleasure to meet you, I say.

The pleasure is ours, says Mr. Shaw. And happy birthday! I presume you’ve already had occasion to open your gifts? He raises a brow at my father.

Yes, sir, I say. And I’m told it was by your invitation that we are able to see the Continent. I can’t say how grateful I am.

Not at all, he says. It is our good fortune to have you and your family along. The more the merrier, so they say.

I couldn’t agree more, my mother says. A journey across the sea! I can scarcely imagine how exciting it will be. Are you looking forward to the trip, Mrs. Shaw?

Mrs. Shaw has busied herself with inspecting the silverware, but hasn’t missed a word. Oh, yes. I’ve been after Arthur for years to get us bumped up the wait list, but he’s always too busy doing something or other for the Chancellery.

They do keep us busy, he agrees. As I’m sure your husband can attest, Mrs. Sun.

My mother reaches over and pats my father’s hand. It’s fortunate for all of us that the government has seen fit to spare you both for a holiday.

I’ve been packed and ready for two weeks, says Mrs. Shaw, adjusting her very large hat, upon which no fewer than six black ceramic birds are perched atop a spray of shining golden wheat. No one can ever say I don’t properly prepare for these events. Of course, there’s always the odd thing you somehow manage to forget, isn’t there? She takes a sip of wine and smiles at me. What a lovely pendant, Vaela. I’ve never been able to wear rubies—I look absolutely dreadful in red. I’d have done much better if I’d been born in the South, draped in all that luxurious purple. Haven’t I always said so, Arthur? Anyhow. The color suits you very well, and that chain brings out the gold of your hair. Makes it look like— She pauses, searching for the right word.

Like honey, Aaden says. I glance over to find him staring at me, a contemplative expression on his face, and I quickly look away.

Mrs. Shaw considers this for a moment, then nods in agreement. "You’re a lovely girl—why, you’re nearly the spitting image of your mother, but with your father’s hair! And what I wouldn’t give for tresses so—heavens, Vaela, are you blushing? Oh! She laughs. How quaint! How darling! She’s blushing, dear, do you see?"

I bring my glass to my lips and fix my eyes on the ice water within. My cheeks are burning, but I can think of nothing to say. My father graciously intervenes.

Have you any thoughts, Mr. Shaw, about the Xoe and the Aven’ei? I expect we shall see a good deal of fighting during our tour.

I favor the Xoe, myself, says Mr. Shaw, leaning forward. I’m not as well-read as my boy Aaden here, but the Xoe seem highly skilled—masterful men-and women-at-arms, they say.

They are a popular favorite, to be sure, my father says. Much more formidable than the Aven’ei, or so I hear. I take no preference, myself, but I admit, it will be interesting to see them at battle.

Thomas, really? my mother says, a tiny crinkle appearing between her brows. I was hoping not to see any bloodshed at all.

Come now, madam, Aaden says, an easy smile upon his face. Is there any other reason to go to the Continent?

My mother is taken aback. I’m sure there are many reasons. For my part, I have heard that the landscape is spectacular, and I shall be very glad to see it.

Ah, yes, Aaden says. Snow and ice, and miles and miles of treacherous wilderness. He laughs. Let’s be honest—it’s not the scenery that has every citizen in the Spire clamoring to see the Continent. It’s the war.

My mother smiles and sets down her fork. I have no interest in seeing the Xoe and the Aven’ei slaughter one another.

But that is exactly what you’ll see, Mrs. Sun, Aaden says. Surely you are prepared for it?

She knows perfectly well what she will and won’t see, says Mrs. Shaw. No one expects that the violence on the Continent will stop simply because we’re there to observe it. The Xoe and the Aven’ei have been railing at each other for centuries. I’ve never understood the fascination with it, myself. I’m with you, Mrs. Sun.

The fascination, my father says, lies in the fact that they are at war in the first place.

Too right, says Mr. Shaw. We take for granted that the Spire is a place without such hostilities—that we have transcended the ways of war in favor of peace and negotiation. To see the Xoe and the Aven’ei in conflict is to look into our past—and to appreciate how far we have come.

Did you know, my mother says, addressing the Shaws, that Vaela and I are of Aven’ei descent?

Aaden looks back and forth between the two of us. Are you quite sure? he says. Many claim as much, but it’s rarely true.

She smiles. "We can trace it all the way back to one of my ancestors, a Miss Delia Waters. She was a cultural attaché for the East—an illustrious position, all told—and spent a great deal of time on the Continent, back in that all-too-short bit of time when we had contact with those living overseas. Anyhow, we haven’t all the details, but we know she married an Aven’ei by the name of Qia who died soon after their wedding. She returned to the Spire, kept her given name, and gave birth to a baby boy—Roderick—a man of considerable accomplishment, so the story goes."

Qia, Aaden says, tapping his fingers upon the table. A curious name for an Aven’ei. Typically—

I’m sure we don’t need a lecture in linguistics, son, says Mr. Shaw, glancing sidelong at Aaden. He turns back to my mother. What a fascinating history, Mrs. Sun. An exceedingly rare lineage among Spirians, to be sure, and one you must count with great pride.

Absolutely, she agrees, smiling. I have always felt part of the world at large, rather than just bound to a small space on the atlas. Does that make any sense at all?

I do hope you haven’t inherited any violent tendencies, says Mrs. Shaw, before sticking a forkful of duck confit into her mouth, chewing it carefully, and swallowing. "I suspect that sort of thing gets passed right down through the generations. Bit of a questionable lineage, isn’t it?"

A hush falls over the table at this remark; my mother and father shift in their chairs, and I sit quietly, poking at my entrée, my face flaming even though I am certainly not the one who should be embarrassed. Eventually, Mrs. Shaw looks round at us, her eyes wide. What? Have I said something off?

Mr. Shaw clears his throat. Now, dearest, he says, "that’s a rather singular way of thinking, isn’t it? An outmoded way of thinking? Violence itself is not a thing exclusive to the Xoe and the Aven’ei. After all, before the Four Nations united to become the Spire, the people of our own lands were ever locked in some conflict or another."

My father nods. The tour will be, as you say, like a look into our own past. But at least we can see it all from the safety of the heli-plane, yes? Not the sort of place you’d like to go tramping about on foot.

Oh, I don’t know, Aaden says, it might be quite a thrill to see all that blood and gore up close.

Aaden, please, says Mrs. Shaw, making a face. We are at supper.

My mother pushes her plate away. I think it’s a dreadful shame that in all these years, the Xoe and the Aven’ei haven’t been able to sort out their differences.

Mrs. Shaw rolls her eyes skyward. I say let them kill each other. One day they’ll figure out that war suits no one, or else they’ll drive themselves to extinction. Either way, it makes no difference to me.

My mother, dark-haired, lovely, and generally made of warm smiles, becomes the picture of frost. "We are talking about people, Mrs. Shaw. Flesh and blood. Fathers, brothers, mothers, daughters."

Mrs. Shaw bristles. "People without the good sense to realize that there are ways to solve disagreements not involving blood or dismemberment."

Well, says Mr. Shaw, I believe the Xoe and the Aven’ei will work out their differences in their own time. Peace always prevails. They will find a way forward—I’d bet my hat on it. He raises a glass. "Now. Let those of us here be thankful that the forefathers of our great United Nation had the will and the courage to envision a world of peace for all who would choose it."

Glasses are raised all around the table.

Hear, hear, my father says, and the whole party drinks: to peace, to hope, to the Spire. I take a small sip of champagne; from the corner of my eye, I see Aaden watching me.

I am surprised to find that I am flattered. Uneasy. But flattered.

* * *

Later that evening, when most of the guests have gone and only a few stragglers remain, my mother pulls me aside. Her brow is knit with worry.

I never thought to ask you, Vaela, before we arranged the trip, and now I feel quite beside myself: Will you be all right seeing the Continent?

I wave goodbye to a friend, then turn back to my mother. But of course, I say. Why wouldn’t I be?

She is quiet for a moment. With the war, I mean. The things you might see.

I suppose I haven’t given it much thought, I say. But then, I’m more interested in the topography than the Xoe and the Aven’ei. This is a dream come true for me—you know that better than anyone.

Her shoulders relax a bit. Then you’re not worried about it?

What is there to worry about? We’ll be well out of reach of any danger, touring in the heli-plane.

That’s not what I mean.

I find a stray chair and sit down, my feet aching in my pointed shoes. What is it, then? The violence?

Yes, Vaela, the violence.

I give a little shrug. I know what to expect—we’ve all read the histories. The Xoe and the Aven’ei fight, and fight, and fight some more. Over land or religion or territory or whatever it is—I’ve never quite understood—the war goes on and on. It never changes.

Vaela! Vaela! Evangeline, shimmering and luminous in a gown of pale gold and black lace, flutters over and plants a kiss on my cheek. Her skin is damp with perspiration from dancing, darker than deepest brown, her blue eyes bright with celebration. Remember everything, she says breathlessly. "Draw every single thing you see! I want to know if the Xoe are as tall and handsome as Roslyn says they are. And the Aven’ei—do you think they truly have grand cities surrounded by towering walls of stone? I know it’s true, and oh, Mrs. Sun! I—how do you do?"

Hello, Evangeline, my mother says. You look lovely this evening.

Thank you, Evangeline says, her fingers brushing the silky fabric of her skirts. She smiles and turns back to me. You will come to call as soon as you return? I know my mother will want to receive you at once. She’s sick with envy, you know—she hasn’t said a word to Father all night, on account of his being so far down the wait list.

I’ll come round as soon as we’re home, I say. I promise.

She pulls me into her arms, embraces me tightly, then steps back and grins. The Continent! Oh, Vaela. You’ll have a spot yet beside the scholars at the Institute. You’ll be far more famous than stuffy old Sussenfaal, and lauded by your scientific peers, and I shall tell everyone that I am practically a part of your family.

I touch the pendant at my neck. And so you are, forever. We are sisters, remember?

She giggles, and then her mother calls from the grand doors at the entrance of the hall, an icy expression upon her perfectly painted face. Oh, but she is a picture of discontent. Mr. Day stands beside her, a full head shorter and twelve shades paler than his Northern wife, looking defeated, apologetic, and miserable. Be well, and remember everything, Evangeline says. I shall miss you every moment! Goodbye, Mrs. Sun! And with a rustle of silk, she turns and hurries toward the foyer.

A glance at my mother tells me that the subject of violence on the Continent has not been forgotten.

The tour will be incredible, I say. "The war is tragic—of course it is. But...perhaps we won’t see any fighting at all, only the vast, sparkling beauty of the Continent! Just imagine the stories we shall have to tell!"

She smiles, but not with her eyes. You’re right. I’m sure it will be a lovely trip.

It will be amazing, I say, taking her hand. Her hesitance hurts me, moves me, makes me want to comfort her. Don’t worry for even a moment. It will be the single greatest adventure of my life, I’m sure.

CHAPTER 2

THE SPIRE IS a colorful place, and no city is more representative of this than Astor—the Spirian capital. Here, citizens of all cultures, bedecked in the finery of their home countries, come to take positions in the Chancellery: the beating heart of our Nation’s government. Astor, which is but five miles from the place I call home, is nestled firmly within the borders of the East, though its residents maintain their original citizenship, designated, as always, by the Nation of one’s birth.

There are those of the North, most often with skin of deep brown, eyes of pale blue—nearly white—draped in the colors of the navy seagull that flies free upon those cold, Northern shores. And then there are the Southern men and women, all dressed in glorious shades of purple, their hair a frizz of blond and brown, complexions ranging from pink to golden brown, curls like happy tendrils falling here and there, eyes like charcoal, or sometimes blue like stones. The Easterners are generally much like me, pale, with eyes of every color (my mother often says my eyes are brown, then green, then blue, and it’s true—they seem to change with the seasons), dressing formally—stiffly—compared to every other Nation. We are certainly the most old-fashioned of all the Nations, with a thousand rules of conduct for every behavior. And then there are those in the West—sun-kissed, tanned, with hair of every color, but auburn most commonly, with loose-fitting clothes and the most relaxed set of mores in all the Spire.

Of course, the Nations were once separate, and in the two hundred years since the borders fell, a beautiful intermingling of peoples has begun. One might now find any number of those with mixed heritage and all manner of varied features throughout the land. When the Four Nations became the Spire, the world opened up, and love spread from shore to shore. And so it is here in Astor, in the Chancellery, in this place of ultimate blending, that all come together.

The Chancellery—the