“A what?”
He makes a little sound of frustration. He’s completely the same, aside from being partially turned to stone, as the days when you and he were less than lovers and more than friends. Ten years and another self ago. “Astronomestry isn’t foolishness,” he says. “I know you were taught that, everyone in the Stillness thinks it’s a waste of energy to study the sky when it’s the ground that’s trying to kill us, but Earthfires, Syen. I thought you would’ve learned to question the status quo a little better by now.”
“I had other things to do,” you snap, just like you always used to snap at him. But thinking of the old days makes you think of what you’ve been up to in the meantime. And that makes you think of your living daughter, and your dead son, and your soon-to-be-very-ex-husband, and you flinch physically. “And my name is Essun now, I told you.”
“Whatever.” With a groaning sigh, Alabaster carefully sits back against the wall. “They say you came here with a geomest. Have her explain it to you. I don’t have a lot of energy these days.” Because being eaten probably takes a toll. “You didn’t answer my first question. Can you do it yet?”
Can you call the obelisks to you? It is a question that made no sense when he first asked it, possibly because you were distracted by realizing he was a) alive, b) turning to stone, and c) the orogene responsible for ripping the continent in half and touching off a Season that may never end.
“The obelisks?” You shake your head, more confused than refusing. Your gaze drifts to the strange object near his bed, which looks like an excessively long pink glassknife and feels like an obelisk, even though it cannot possibly be. “What do—no. I don’t know. I haven’t tried since Meov.”
He groans softly, shutting his eyes. “You’re so rusting useless, Syen. Essun. Never had any respect for the craft.”
“I respect it fine, I just don’t—”
“Just enough to get by, enough to excel but only for gain. They told you how high and you jumped no further, all to get a nicer apartment and another ring—”
“For privacy, you ass, and some control over my life, and some rusting respect—”
“And you actually listened to that Guardian of yours, when you don’t listen to anybody else—”
“Hey.” Ten years as a schoolteacher have given your voice an obsidian edge. Alabaster actually stops ranting and blinks at you. Very quietly, you say, “You know full well why I listened to him.”
There is a moment of silence. Both of you take this time to regroup.
“You’re right,” he says, at length. “I’m sorry.” Because every Imperial Orogene listens—listened—to their assigned Guardian. Those who didn’t died or ended up in a node. Except, again, for Alabaster; you never did find out what he did to his Guardian.
You offer a stiff nod of truce. “Apology accepted.”
He takes a careful breath, looking weary. “Try, Essun. Try to reach an obelisk. Today. I need to know.”
“Why? What’s this about a still-light? What does—”
“Satellite. And all of it’s irrelevant if you can’t control the obelisks.” His eyes are actually drifting shut. This is probably a good thing. He’ll need his strength if he’s to survive whatever is happening to him. If it’s survivable. “Worse than irrelevant. You remember why I wouldn’t tell you about the obelisks in the first place, don’t you?”
Yes. Once, before you ever paid attention to those great floating half-real crystals in the sky, you asked Alabaster to explain how he accomplished some of his amazing feats of orogeny. He wouldn’t tell you, and you hated him for that, but now you know just how dangerous the knowledge was. If you hadn’t understood that the obelisks were amplifiers, orogeny amplifiers, you would never have reached for the garnet to save yourself from a Guardian’s attack. But if the garnet obelisk hadn’t been half-dead itself, cracked and stuffed with a frozen stone eater, it would have killed you. You didn’t have the strength, the self-control, to prevent the power from frying you from the brain on down.
And now Alabaster wants you to reach for one deliberately, to see what happens.
Alabaster knows your face. “Go and see,” he says. His eyes shut completely then. You hear a faint rattle in his breath, like gravel in his lungs. “The topaz is floating somewhere nearby. Call it tonight, then in the morning see…” Abruptly he seems to weaken, running out of strength. “See if it’s come. If it hasn’t, tell me, and I’ll find someone else. Or do what I can myself.”
Find who, to do what, you can’t even begin to guess. “Will you still tell me what all this is about?”
“No. Because in spite of everything, Essun, I don’t want you to die.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. The next words are softer than usual. “It’s good to see you.”
You have to tighten your jaw to reply. “Yeah.”
He says nothing more, and that’s enough of a goodbye for both of you.
You get up, glancing at the stone eater who stands nearby. Alabaster calls her Antimony. She stands statue-still in the way they do, her too-black eyes watching you too steadily, and though her pose is something classical, you think there’s a hint of irony in it. She stands with head elegantly tilted, one hand on her hip and the other upraised and poised with the fingers relaxed, waving in no particular direction. Maybe it’s a come-hither, maybe it’s a backhanded farewell, maybe it’s that thing people do when they’re keeping a secret and want you to know it, but they don’t want to tell you what it is.
“Take care of him,” you say to her.
“As I would any precious thing,” she replies, without moving her mouth.
You’re not even going to start trying to interpret that. You head back toward the infirmary entrance, where Hoa stands waiting for you. Hoa, who looks like an utterly strange human boy, who is actually a stone eater somehow, and who treats you as his precious thing.
He watches you, unhappily, as he has done since you realized what he was. You shake your head and move past him on your way out. He follows, at a pace.
It’s early night in the comm of Castrima. Hard to tell since the giant geode’s soft white light, emitted impossibly from the massive crystals that make up its substance, never changes. People are bustling about, carrying things, shouting to each other, going about their usual business without the necessary slowdown that would occur in other comms with the reduction of light. Sleeping will be difficult for a few days, you suspect, at least until you get used to this. That doesn’t matter. Obelisks don’t care about the time of day.
Lerna’s been politely waiting outside while you and Hoa met with Alabaster and Antimony. He falls in as you come out, his expression expectant. “I need to go to the surface,” you say.
Lerna makes a face. “The guards won’t let you, Essun. People new to the comm aren’t trusted. Castrima’s survival depends on it remaining secret.”
Seeing Alabaster again has brought back a lot of the old memories, and the old orneriness. “They can try to stop me.”
Lerna stops walking. “And then you’ll do what you did to Tirimo?”
Rusting hell. You stop, too, rocking a little from the force of that blow. Hoa stops as well, eying Lerna thoughtfully. Lerna’s not glaring. The look on his face is too flat to be a glare. Damn. Okay.
After a moment, Lerna sighs and comes over. “We’ll go to Ykka,” he says. “We’ll tell her what we need. We’ll ask to go topside—with guards if she wants. All right?”
It’s so reasonable that you don’t know why you didn’t even consider it. Well, you know why. Ykka might be an orogene like you, but you spent too many years being thwarted and betrayed by other orogenes at the Fulcrum; you know better than to trust her just because she’s Your People. You should give her a chance because she’s Your People, though.
“Fine,” you say, and follow him to Ykka’s.
Ykka’s place is no larger than yours, and not distinct in any way despite being the home of the comm headwoman. Just another apartment carved b
y means unknown into the side of a giant glowing white crystal. Two people wait outside of its door, however, one leaning against the crystal and another peering over the railing at the expanse of Castrima. Lerna takes up position behind them and directs you to do the same. Only fair to wait your turn, and the obelisks aren’t going anywhere.
The woman gazing out at the view glances over and looks you up and down. She’s a little older, Sanzed, though darker complected than most, and her bushel of hair is ashblow with a slight kink to it, making it a frizzy cloud instead of just a coarse one. Got some Eastcoaster in her. And Westcoaster, too: Her gaze is through epicanthic-folded eyes, and it is assessing, wary, and unimpressed. “You the new one,” she says. Not a question.
You nod back. “Essun.”
She grins lopsidedly, and you blink. Her teeth have been filed to points, even though Sanzeds supposedly stopped doing that centuries ago. Bad for their reputation, after the Season of Teeth. “Hjarka Leadership Castrima. Welcome to our little hole in the ground.” Her smile widens. You stifle a grimace at the pun, though you’re thinking, too, after hearing her name. It’s usually bad news when a comm has a Leadership caste that isn’t in charge. Dissatisfied Leaders have a nasty habit of fomenting coups during crises. But this is Ykka’s problem to deal with, not yours.
The other person waiting, the man leaning on the crystal, doesn’t seem to be watching you—but you notice how his eyes aren’t moving to track whatever he’s looking at, off in the distance. He’s thin, shorter than you, with hair and a beard that make you think of strawberries growing amid hay. You imagine the delicate pressure of his indirect attention. You do not imagine the ping of instinct that tells you he is another of your kind. Since he doesn’t acknowledge your presence, you say nothing to him.
“He came in a few months ago,” Lerna says, distracting you from your new neighbors. For a moment you wonder if he means the strawberry-hay-haired man, and then you realize he’s referring to Alabaster. “Just appeared in the middle of what passes for a town square within the geode—Flat Top.” He nods toward something beyond you, and you turn, trying to understand what he means. Ah: there, amid the many sharp-tipped crystals of Castrima, is one that looks as if it’s been sheared off halfway, leaving a wide hexagonal platform positioned and elevated near the center of the comm. Several stair-bridges connect to it, and there are chairs and a railing. Flat Top.
Lerna goes on. “There was no warning. Apparently the orogenes didn’t sess anything, and the stills on guard duty didn’t see anything. He and that stone eater of his were suddenly just… there.”
He doesn’t see you frown in surprise. You’ve never heard a still use the word still before.
“Maybe the stone eaters knew he was coming, but they rarely talk to anyone but their chosen people. And in this case, they didn’t even do that.” Lerna’s gaze drifts over to Hoa, who’s studiously ignoring him in that very moment. Lerna shakes his head. “Ykka tried to throw him out, of course, though she offered him a mercy killing if he wanted. His prognosis is obvious; gentle drugs and a bed would be a kindness. He did something when she called the Strongbacks, though. The light went out. The air and water stopped. Only for a minute, but it felt like a year. When he let everything come back on, everyone was upset. So Ykka said he could stay, and that we should treat his injuries.”
Sounds about right. “He’s a ten-ringer,” you say. “And an ass. Give him whatever he wants and be nice about it.”
“He’s from the Fulcrum?” Lerna inhales in what seems to be awe. “Earthfires. I had no idea any Imperial Orogenes had survived.”
You look at him, too surprised for amusement. But then, how would he know? Another thought sobers you. “He’s turning to stone,” you say softly.
“Yes.” Lerna says it ruefully. “I’ve never seen anything like it. And it’s getting worse. The first day he was here it was just his fingers that had… that the stone eater had… taken. I haven’t seen how the condition progresses. He’s careful to do it only when I or my assistants aren’t around. I don’t know if she’s doing it to him somehow, or he’s doing it to himself, or…” He shakes his head. “When I ask about it, he just grins and says, ‘Just a bit longer, please. I’m waiting for someone.’” Lerna frowns at you, thoughtful.
And there’s that: Somehow, Alabaster knew you were coming. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was hoping for someone, anyone, with the necessary skill. Good chance of it here, with Ykka somehow summoning every rogga for miles. You’ll only be what he was waiting for if it turns out you can summon an obelisk.
After a few moments, Ykka pokes her head out of the apartment through the hanging. She nods to Hjarka, glares at Strawberry-Hay until he sighs and turns to face her, then spies you and Lerna and Hoa. “Oh. Hey. Good. All of you come in.”
You start to protest. “I need to talk to you in private.”
She stares back at you. You blink, confused, thrown, annoyed. She keeps staring. Lerna shifts from foot to foot beside you, a silent pressure. Hoa merely watches, following your lead. Finally you get the message: her comm, her rules, and if you want to live here… You sigh and file in behind the others.
Inside, the apartment is warmer than in most of the comm, and darker; the curtain makes a difference, even though the walls glow. Makes it feel like night, which it probably is, topside. A good idea to steal for your own place, you think—before checking yourself, because you shouldn’t be thinking long term. And then you check yourself again because you’ve lost Nassun and Jija’s trail, so you should think long term. And then—
“Right,” says Ykka, sounding bored as she moves to sit on a simple, low divan, cross-legged, with her chin propped on a fist. The others sit as well, but she’s looking at you. “I’d been thinking about some changes already. You two arrived at a convenient time.”
For a moment you think she’s including Lerna in that “you two,” but he sits down on the divan nearest hers, and there’s something, some ease of movement or comfort in his manner, that tells you he’s heard this before. She means Hoa, then. Hoa takes the floor, which makes him seem more like a child… though he isn’t. It’s strange how hard it is for you to remember that.
You sit down gingerly. “Convenient for what?”
“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Strawberry-Hay says. He’s looking at you, though his face is tilted toward Ykka. “We don’t know anything about these people, Yeek.”
“We know they survived out there until yesterday,” says Hjarka, leaning to the side and propping her elbow on the divan’s arm. “That’s something.”
“That’s nothing.” Strawberry-Hay—you really want to know his name—sets his jaw. “Our Hunters can survive out there.”
Hunters. You blink. That’s one of the old use-castes—a deprecated one, per Imperial Law, so nobody gets born into it anymore. Civilized societies don’t need hunter-gatherers. That Castrima feels the need says more about the state of the comm than anything else Ykka has told you.
“Our Hunters know the terrain, and our Strongbacks, too, yeah,” Hjarka says. “Nearby. Newcomers know more about the conditions beyond our territory—the people, the hazards, everything else.”
“I’m not sure I know anything useful,” you begin. But even as you say this, you frown, because you’re remembering that thing you started noticing a few roadhouses ago. The sashes or rags of fine silk on too many of the Equatorials’ wrists. The closed looks they gave you, their focus while others sat shell-shocked. At every encampment you saw them look their fellow survivors over, picking out any Sanzeds who were better equipped or healthier or otherwise doing better than average. Speaking to those chosen people in quiet voices. Leaving the next morning in groups larger than those in which they had arrived.
Does that mean anything? Like keeping to like is the old way, but races and nations haven’t been important for a long time. Communities of purpose and diverse specialization are more efficient, as Old Sanze proved. Yet Yumenes is slag at the bottom
of a fissure vent by now, and the laws and ways of the Empire no longer have any bite. Maybe this is the first sign of change, then. Maybe in a few years you’ll have to leave Castrima and find a comm full of Midlatters like you who are brown but not too brown, big but not too big, with hair that’s curly or kinky but never ashblow or straight. Nassun can come with you, in that case.
But how long would the both of you be able to hide what you are? No comm wants roggas. No comm except this one.
“You know more than we do,” Ykka says, interrupting your woolgathering. “And anyway, I don’t have the patience to argue about it. I’m telling you what I told him a few weeks back.” She jerks her head at Lerna. “I need advisors—people who know this Season ground to sky. You’re it until I replace you.”
You’re more than a little surprised. “I don’t know a rusting thing about this comm!”
“That’s my job—and his, and hers.” Ykka nods toward Strawberry-Hay and Hjarka. “Anyway, you’ll learn.”
Your mouth hangs open. Then it occurs to you that she did include Hoa in this gathering, didn’t she? “Earthfires and rustbuckets, you want a stone eater as an advisor?”
“Why not? They’re here, too. More of them than we think.” She focuses on Hoa, who watches her, his expression unreadable. “That’s what you told me.”
“It’s true,” he says quietly. Then: “I can’t speak for them, though. And we aren’t part of your comm.”
Ykka leans down to give him a hard look. Her expression is something between hostile and guarded. “You have an impact on our comm, if only as a potential threat,” she says. Her eyes flick toward you. “And the ones you’re, uh, attached to, are part of this comm. You care what happens to them, at least. Don’t you?”
You realize you haven’t seen Ykka’s stone eater, the woman with the ruby hair, for a few hours. That doesn’t mean she isn’t nearby, though. You learned better than to trust the appearance of absence with Antimony. Hoa says nothing in reply to Ykka. You’re suddenly, irrationally glad he’s bothered to stay visible for you.