There’s no danger. Nassun only manifested the torus for an instant, as a warning against further violence on his part. Jija keeps screaming, though, as Nassun gazes down at her huddled, panicking father. Perhaps she should feel pity, or regret. What she actually feels, however, is cold fury toward her mother. She knows it’s irrational. It is no one’s fault except Jija’s that Jija is too afraid of orogenes to love his own children. Once, however, Nassun could love her father without qualification. Now, she needs someone to blame for the loss of that perfect love. She knows her mother can bear it.
You should have had us with someone stronger, she thinks at Essun, wherever she is.
It takes care to walk across the slick floor without slipping, and Nassun has to jiggle the latch for a few seconds to scrape it open. By the time she does, Jija has stopped screaming behind her, though she can still hear him breathing hard and uttering a little moan with every exhalation. She doesn’t want to look back at him. She makes herself do it anyway, though, because she wants to be a good orogene, and good orogenes cannot afford self-deception.
Jija jerks as if her gaze has the power to burn.
“Bye, Daddy,” she says. He does not reply in words.
And the last tear she shed, as he burned her alive with ice, broke like the Shattering upon the ground. Stone your heart against roggas, for there is nothing but rust in their souls!
18
you, counting down
WHEN THE SANZED WOMAN IS GONE, I pull you aside. Figuratively speaking.
“The one you call Gray Man doesn’t want to prevent the opening of the Gate,” I say. “I lied.”
You’re so wary of me now. It troubles you, I can see; you want to trust me, even as your very eyes remind you of how I’ve deceived you. But you sigh and say, “Yeah. I thought there might be more to it.”
“He’ll kill you because you can’t be manipulated,” I say, ignoring the irony. “Because if you open the Gate, you would restore the Moon and end the Seasons. What he really wants is someone who will open the Gate for his purposes.”
You understand the players now, if not the totality of the game. You frown. “So which purpose would that be? Transformation? Status quo?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“Suppose not.” You rub a hand over your locs, which you’ve retwisted recently. “I guess that’s why he’s trying to get Castrima to kick out all its roggas?”
“Yes. He’ll find a way to make you do what he wants, Essun, if he can. If he can’t… you’re no use to him. Worse. You’re the enemy.”
You sigh with the weariness of the Earth, and do not reply other than to nod and walk away. I am so afraid as I watch you leave.
As you have in other moments of despair, you go to Alabaster.
There’s not much left of him anymore. Since he gave up his legs he spends his days in a drugged stupor, tucked up against Antimony like a pup nursing its mother. Sometimes you don’t ask for lessons when you come to see him. That’s a waste, because you’re pretty sure the only reason he’s forced himself to keep living is so that he can pass on the art of global destruction to you. He’s caught you at it a few times: You’ve woken up curled next to his nest to find him gazing down at you. He doesn’t chide you for it. Probably doesn’t have the strength to chide. You’re grateful.
He’s awake now as you settle beside him, though he doesn’t move much. Antimony has moved fully into the nest with him these days, and you rarely see her in any pose other than “living chair” for him—kneeling, legs spread, her hands braced on her thighs. Alabaster rests against her front, which is only possible now because, perversely, the few burns on his back healed even as his legs rotted. Fortunately she has no breasts to make the position less comfortable, and apparently her simulated clothing isn’t sharp or rough. Alabaster’s eyes shift to follow as you sit, like a stone eater’s. You hate that this comparison occurs to you.
“It’s happening again,” you say. You don’t bother to explain the “it.” He always knows. “How did you… at Meov. You tried. How?” Because you can’t find it in yourself anymore to bother fighting for this place, or building a life here. All your instincts say to grab your runny-sack, grab your people, and run before Castrima turns against you. That’s a probable death sentence, the Season having well and truly set in topside, but staying seems more certain.
He draws in a deep, slow breath, so you know he means to answer. It just takes him a while to muster the words. “Didn’t mean to. You were pregnant; I was… lonely. I thought it would do. For a while.”
You shake your head. Of course he knew you were pregnant before you did. That’s all irrelevant now. “You fought for them.” It takes effort to emphasize the last word, but you do. For you and Corundum and Innon, sure, but he fought for Meov, too. “They would’ve turned on us, too, one day. You know they would have.” When Corundum proved too powerful, or if they’d managed to drive off the Guardians only to have to leave Meov and move elsewhere. It was inevitable.
He makes an affirmative sound.
“Then why?”
He lets out a long, slow sigh. “There was a chance they wouldn’t.” You shake your head. The words are so impossible to believe that they sound like gibberish. But he adds, “Any chance was worth trying.”
He does not say for you, but you feel it. It is a subtext that is nearly sessable beneath the words’ surface. So your family could have a normal life among other people, as one of them. Normal opportunities. Normal struggles. You stare at him. On impulse you lift your hand to his face, drawing fingers over his scarred lips. He watches you do this and offers you that little quarter-smile, which is all he can muster these days. It’s more than you need.
Then you get up and head out to try to salvage Castrima’s thin, cracked nothing of a chance.
Ykka has called a vote for the next morning—twenty-four hours after Rennanis’s “offer.” Castrima needs to deliver some kind of response, but she doesn’t think it should be up to only her informal council. You can’t see what difference the vote will make, except to emphasize that if the comm gets through the night intact it will be a rusting miracle.
People look at you as you walk through the comm. You keep your gaze ahead and try not to let them visibly affect you.
In brief, private visits you pass Ykka’s orders on to Cutter and Temell, and tell them to spread the word. Temell usually takes the kids out for lessons anyway; he says he’ll visit his students at home and encourage them to form study groups of two and three, in the homes of trusted adults. You want to say, “No adults are trustworthy,” but he knows that. There’s no way around it, so it’s pointless to say aloud.
Cutter says he’ll pass on the word to the few other adult roggas. Not all of them have the skill to throw a torus or control themselves well; except for you and Alabaster, they’re all ferals. But Cutter will make sure the ones who can’t stick near those who can. His face is impassive as he adds, “And who’ll watch your back?”
Which means he’s offering. The revulsion that shivers through you at this idea is surprising. You’ve never really trusted him, though you don’t understand why. Something about the fact that he’s hidden all his life—which is hypocritical as hell after your ten years in Tirimo. But then, sweet flaking rust, do you trust anyone? As long as he does his job it doesn’t matter. You force yourself to nod. “Come find me after you’re done, then.” He agrees.