Oh, Evil Earth. This is what Alabaster talked about. How had he described it? Factions in an ancient war. The ones who wanted people… neutralized.
Like the stone eaters themselves, ’Baster had said.
“You want to wipe us out,” you say. Whisper. “Or… change us into stone? Like what’s happening to Alabaster?”
“Not all of us,” Hoa says softly. “And not all of you.”
A world of only stone people. The thought of it makes you shiver. You envision falling ash and skeletal trees and creepy statues everywhere, some of the latter moving. How? They are unstoppable, but until now they’ve only preyed on each other. (That you know of.) Can they turn all of you into stone, like Alabaster? And if they wanted to wipe humankind out, shouldn’t they have been able to manage it before now?
You shake your head. “This world has borne two people, for Seasons. Three, if you count orogenes; the stills do.”
“Not all of us are content with that.” His voice is very soft now. “Such a rare thing, the birth of a new one of our kind. We wear on endlessly, while you rise and spawn and wilt like mushrooms. It’s hard not to envy. Or covet.”
Ykka is shaking her head in confusion. Though her voice holds its usual unflappable attitude, you see a little frown of wonder between her brows. Her mouth pulls to one side, though, as if she cannot help but show at least a little disgust. “Fine,” she says. “So stone eaters used to be us, and now you want to kill us. Why should we trust you?”
“Not ‘stone eaters.’ Not all of us want the same thing. Some like things as they are. Some even want to make the world better… though not all agree on what that means.” Instantly his posture changes—hands out, palms up, shoulders lifted in a What can you do? gesture. “We’re people.”
“And what do you want?” you ask. Because he didn’t answer Ykka’s question, and you noticed.
Those silver irises flick over to you, stay. You think you see wistfulness in his still face. “The same thing I’ve always wanted, Essun. To help you. Only that.”
You think, Not everyone agrees on what “help” means.
“Well, this is touching,” Ykka says. She rubs her tired eyes. “But you’re not getting to the point. What does Castrima being destroyed have to do with… giving the world one people? What’s this gray man up to?”
“I don’t know.” Hoa’s still looking at you. It’s not as unnerving as it should be. “I tried to ask him. It didn’t go well.”
“Guess,” you say. Because you know full well there’s a reason he asked the gray man in the first place.
Hoa’s eyes shift down. Your distrust hurts. “He wants to make sure the Obelisk Gate is never opened again.”
“The what?” Ykka asks. But you’re leaning your head back against the wall, floored and horrified and wondering. Of course. Alabaster. What easier way to wipe out people who depend on food and sunlight to survive than to simply let this Season wear on until they are extinct? Leaving nothing but the stone eaters to inherit the darkening Earth. And to make sure it happens, kill the only person with the power to end it.
Only person besides you, you realize with a chill. But no. You can manipulate an obelisk, but you haven’t got a clue how to activate two hundred of the rusting things at once. And can Alabaster do it anymore? Every use of orogeny kills him slowly. Flaking rust—you’re the only one left who even has the potential to open the Gate. But if Gray Man’s pet army kills both of you, his purpose is served either way.
“It means Gray Man wants to wipe out orogenes in particular,” you say to Ykka. You’re abbreviating heavily, not lying. That’s what you tell yourself. That’s what you need to tell Ykka, so that she never learns that orogenes have the potential power to save the world, and so that she never attempts to access an obelisk herself. This is what Alabaster must have constantly had to do with you—telling you some of the truth because you deserve it, but not enough that you’ll skewer yourself on it. Then you think of another bone you can throw. “Hoa was trapped in an obelisk for a while. He said it’s the only thing that can stop them.”
Not the only way, he’d said. But maybe Hoa’s giving you only the safe truths, too.
“Well, shit,” Ykka says, annoyed. “You can do obelisk stuff. Throw one at him.”
You groan. “That wouldn’t work.”
“What would, then?”
“I have no idea! That’s what I’ve been trying to learn from Alabaster all this time.” And failing, you don’t want to say. Ykka can guess it, anyway.
“Great.” Ykka abruptly seems to wilt. “You’re right; I need to sleep. I had Esni mobilize the Strongbacks to secure weapons in the comm. Ostensibly they’re making them ready for use if we have to fight off these Equatorials. In truth…” She shrugs, sighs, and you understand. People are frightened right now. Best not to tempt fate.
“You can’t trust the Strongbacks,” you say softly.
Ykka looks up at you. “Castrima isn’t wherever you came from.”
You want to smile, though you don’t because you know how ugly the smile will be. You’re from so many places. In every one of them you learned that roggas and stills can never live together. Ykka shifts a little at the look on your face anyway. She tries again: “Look, how many other comms would’ve let me live after learning what I was?”
You shake your head. “You were useful. That worked for the Imperial Orogenes, too.” But being useful to others is not the same thing as being equal.
“Fine, then I’m useful. We all are. Kill or exile the roggas and we lose Castrima-under. Then we’re at the mercy of a bunch of people who would as soon treat all of us like roggas, just because our ancestors couldn’t pick a race and stick to it—”
“You keep saying ‘we,’” you say. It is gentle. It bothers you to puncture her illusions.
She stops, and a muscle in her jaw flexes once or twice. “Stills learned to hate us. They can learn differently.”
“Now? With an enemy literally at the gate?” You’re so tired. So tired of all this shit. “Now is when we’ll see the worst of them.”
Ykka watches you for a long moment. Then she slumps—completely, her back bowing and her head hanging and her ashblow hair sliding off to the sides of her neck until it looks utterly ridiculous, a butterfly mane. It hides her face. But she draws in a long, weary breath, and it sounds almost like a sob. Or a laugh.
“No, Essun.” She rubs her face. “Just… no. Castrima is my home, same as theirs. I’ve worked for it. Fought for it. Castrima wouldn’t be here if not for me—and probably some of the other roggas who risked themselves to keep it all going, over the years. I’m not giving up.”
“It isn’t giving up to look out for yourself—”
“Yes. It is.” She lifts her head. It wasn’t a sob or a laugh. She’s furious. Just not at you. “You’re saying these people—my parents, my creche teachers, my friends, my lovers—You’re saying just leave them to their fate. You’re saying they’re nothing. That they’re not people at all, just beasts whose nature it is to kill. You’re saying roggas are nothing but, but prey and that’s all we’ll ever be! No! I won’t accept that.”
She sounds so determined. It makes your heart ache, because you felt the same way she did, once. It would be nice to still feel that way. To have some hope of a real future, a real community, a real life… but you have lost three children relying on stills’ better nature.
You grab the runny-sack and get up to leave, rubbing a hand over your locs. Hoa vanishes, reading your cue that the conversation is over. Later, then. When you’re almost at the curtain, though, Ykka stops you with what she says.