The Stone Sky Read online

  Ykka sighs, too, looking at the dead man. Then she eyes Danel. “I’m sorry.”

  Danel smiles thinly. “We tried. And you said it yourself: He wasn’t very bright.”

  Ykka nods. For some reason she glances up at you for a moment. You have no idea what lesson you’re supposed to take from this. “Unlock the manacles,” she says. You’re confused for an instant before you realize it’s an order for the guards. One of them moves over to speak to the other, and they start sorting through a ring of keys. Then Ykka looks disgusted with herself as she says heavily, “Who’s on quartermaster duty today? Memsid? Tell him and some of the other Resistants to come handle this.” She jerks her head toward Phauld.

  Everyone goes still. No one protests, though. The Hunters have been finding more game and forage, but Castrima has a lot of people who need more protein than they’ve been getting, and the desert is coming. It was always going to come to this.

  After a moment of silence, though, you step over to Ykka. “You sure about this?” you ask softly. One of the guards comes over to unlock Danel’s ankle chains. Danel, who tried to kill every living member of Castrima. Danel, who tried to kill you.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Ykka shrugs. Her voice is loud enough that the prisoners can hear her. “We’ve been short on Strongbacks since Rennanis attacked. Now we’ve got six replacements.”

  “Replacements who’ll stab us—or maybe just you—in the back first chance!”

  “If I don’t see them coming and kill them first, yeah. But that would be pretty stupid of them, and I killed the stupidest one for a reason.” You get the sense that Ykka’s not trying to scare the Rennanis people. She’s just stating facts. “See, this is what I keep trying to tell you, Essie: The world isn’t friends and enemies. It’s people who might help you, and people who’ll get in your way. Kill this lot and what do you get?”

  “Safety.”

  “Lots of ways to be safe. Yeah, there’s now a bigger chance I’ll get shanked in the night. More safety for the comm, though. And the stronger the comm is, the better the chance we’ll all get to Rennanis alive.” She shrugs, then glances around at the stone forest. “Whoever built this is one of us, with real skill. We’re going to need that.”

  “What, now you want to adopt …” You shake your head, incredulous. “Violent bandit ferals?”

  But then you stop. Because once upon a time, you loved a violent pirate feral.

  Ykka watches while you remember Innon and mourn him anew. Then, with remarkable gentleness, she says, “I play a longer game than just making it to the next day, Essie. Maybe you ought to try it for a change.”

  You look away, feeling oddly defensive. The luxury of thinking beyond the next day isn’t something you’ve ever had much of a chance to try. “I’m not a headwoman. I’m just a rogga.”

  Ykka tilts her head in ironic acknowledgment. You don’t use that word nearly as often as she does. When she says it, it’s pride. When you use it, it’s assault.

  “Well, I’m both,” Ykka says. “A headwoman, and a rogga. I choose to be both, and more.” She steps past you, and throws her next words at you over her shoulder, as if they’re meaningless. “You didn’t think about any of us while you were using those obelisks, did you? You thought about destroying your enemies. You thought about surviving—but you couldn’t get beyond that. That’s why I’ve been so pissed at you, Essie. Months in my comm, and still all you are is ‘just a rogga.’”

  She walks off then, yelling to everyone in earshot that the rest break is over. You watch until she vanishes amid the stretching, grumbling crowd, then you glance over at Danel, who’s since stood up and is rubbing the red mark on one of her wrists. There’s a carefully neutral look on the woman’s face as she watches you.

  “She dies, you die,” you say. If Ykka won’t look after herself, you’ll do what you can for her.

  Danel lets out a brief, amused breath. “That’s true whether you threaten me or not. Not like anybody else here would give me a chance.” She throws you a skeptical look, all her Sanzed pride completely intact despite the change in circumstances. “You really aren’t very good at this, are you?”

  Earthfires and rustbuckets. You walk away, because if Ykka already thinks less of you for destroying all threats, she’s really not going to like it if you start killing people who annoy you, for sheer pique.

  2562: Niner shake in Western Coastals, epicenter somewhere in Baga Quartent. Lorist accounts from the time note that the shake “turned the ground to liquid.” (Poetic?) One fishing village survived intact. From a villager’s written account: “Bastard roggye killed lah shake then we killed hym.” Report filed at the Fulcrum (shared with permission) by Imperial Orogene who later visited the area notes also that an underwater oil reservoir off the coast could have been breached by the shake, but the unregistered rogga in the village prevented this. Would have poisoned water and beaches for miles down the coast.

  —Project notes of Yaetr Innovator Dibars

  4

  Nassun, wandering in the wilderness

  SCHAFFA IS KIND ENOUGH TO guide the other eight children of Found Moon out of Jekity along with Nassun and himself. He tells the headwoman that they’re all going on a training trip some miles away so that the comm won’t be disturbed by additional seismics. Since Nassun has just returned the sapphire to the sky—loudly, thanks to the thunderclap of displaced air; dramatically, because suddenly there it was overhead, huge and deep blue and too close—the headwoman just about falls over herself to provide the children with runny-sacks containing travel food and supplies so they can hurry on their way. These aren’t the kinds of top-notch supplies one needs for a long journey. No compasses, only moderately good boots, the kinds of rations that won’t last more than a couple of weeks before going bad. Still, it’s much better than leaving empty-handed.

  None of the people of the comm know that Umber and Nida are dead. Schaffa carried their bodies into the Guardians’ dorm and laid them out on their respective beds, arranged in dignified poses. This worked better for Nida, who looked more or less intact but for the nape of her neck, than Umber, whose head was a ruin. Schaffa then threw dirt over the bloodstains. Jekity will figure it out eventually, but by that time, Found Moon’s children will be out of reach, if not safe.

  Jija, Schaffa left piled where Nassun felled him. The corpse is nothing but a pile of pretty rocks, really, until one looks closely at some of the pieces.

  The children are subdued as they leave the comm that has sheltered them, in some cases for years. They leave via the rogga steps, as they have come to be informally (and rudely) called—the series of basalt columns on the comm’s north side that only orogenes can traverse. Wudeh’s orogeny is steadier than Nassun has ever sessed it when he takes them down to ground level by pushing one of the pieces of columnar basalt back into the ancient volcano. Still, she can see the look of despair on his face, and it makes her ache inside.

  They walk westward as a group, but before they’ve gone a mile, one or two of the children are quietly weeping. Nassun, whose eyes have remained dry even through stray thoughts like I killed my father and Daddy, I miss you, grieves with them. It’s cruel that they must suffer this, being ashed out during a Season, because of what she has done. (Because of what Jija tried to do, she tries to tell herself, but she does not believe this.) Yet it would be crueler still to leave them in Jekity, where the commfolk will eventually realize what has happened and turn on the children.

  Oegin and Ynegen, the twins, are the only ones who look at Nassun with anything resembling understanding. They were the first to come outside after Nassun snatched the sapphire out of the sky. While the others mostly saw Schaffa fight Umber, and Steel kill Nida, those two saw what Jija tried to do to Nassun. They understand that Nassun fought back as anyone would have. Everyone, though, remembers that she killed Eitz. Some have since forgiven her for that, as Schaffa predicted—especially shy, scarred Peek, who privately spoke to Nassun of what she did to the
grandmother who stabbed her in the face so long ago. Orogene children learn early what it means to regret.

  That doesn’t mean they don’t still fear Nassun, though, and fear lends a clarity that cuts right through childish rationalizations. They are not killers at heart, after all … and Nassun is.

  (She does not want to be, any more than you do.)

  Now the group stands at a literal crossroads, where a local trail running northeast to southeast meets the more westerly Jekity-Tevamis Imperial Road. Schaffa says the Imperial Road will eventually lead to a highroad, which is something Nassun has heard of but never seen in all her travels. The crossroads, however, is the place where Schaffa has chosen to inform the other children that they can follow him no longer.

  Shirk is the only one who protests this. “We won’t eat much,” she says to Schaffa, a little desperately. “You … you don’t have to feed us. You could just let us follow you. We’ll find our own food. I know how!”

  “Nassun and I will likely be pursued,” Schaffa says. His voice is unfailingly gentle. Nassun knows that this delivery actually makes the words worse; his gentleness makes it easy to see that Schaffa truly cares. Farewells are easier when they are cruel. “We will also be making a long journey that’s very dangerous. You’re safer on your own.”

  “Safer commless,” Wudeh says, and laughs. It’s the most bitter sound Nassun has ever heard him utter.

  Shirk has started to cry. The tears leave streaks of startling cleanliness in the ash that’s beginning to gray her face. “I don’t understand. You took care of us. You like us, Schaffa, more than even Nida and Umber did! Why would you … if you were just going to—to …”

  “Stop it,” says Lashar. She’s gotten taller in the past year, like a good well-bred Sanzed girl. While most of her my-grandfather-was-an-Equatorial arrogance has faded with time, she still defaults to hauteur when she’s upset about something. She’s folded her arms and is looking away from the trail, off at a group of bare foothills in the near distance. “Have some rusting pride. We’ve been ashed, but we’re still alive and that’s what matters. We can take shelter in those hills for the night.”

  Shirk glares at her. “There isn’t any shelter! We’re going to starve to death, or—”

  “We won’t.” Deshati, who’s been looking at the ground while she scuffs the still-thin ash with one foot, looks up suddenly. She’s watching Schaffa as she speaks to Shirk and the others. “There are places we can live. We just have to get them to open the gates.”

  There’s a tight, determined look on her face. Schaffa turns a sharp gaze on Deshati, and to her credit, she does not flinch. “You mean to force your way in?” he asks her.

  “That’s what you want us to do, isn’t it? You wouldn’t be sending us away if you weren’t okay with us … doing what we have to.” She tries to shrug. She’s too tense for such a casual gesture; it makes her look briefly twitchy, as if with a palsy. “We wouldn’t still be alive if you weren’t okay with that.”

  Nassun looks at the ground. It’s her fault that the other children’s choices have been whittled down to this. There was beauty in Found Moon; among her fellow children, Nassun has known the delight of reveling in what she is and what she can do, among people who understand and share that delight. Now something once wholesome and good is dead.

  You’ll kill everything you love, eventually, Steel has told her. She hates that he is right.

  Schaffa regards the children for a long, thoughtful moment. His fingers twitch, perhaps remembering another life and another self who could not have endured the idea of unleashing eight young Misalems upon the world. That version of Schaffa, however, is dead. The twitch is only reflexive.

  “Yes,” he says. “That is what I want you to do, if you need to hear it said aloud. You have a better chance in a large, thriving comm than you do on your own. So allow me to make a suggestion.” Schaffa steps forward and crouches to look Deshati in the eye, reaching out also to grip Shirk’s thin shoulder. He says to all of them, with that same gentle intensity that he used before, “Kill only one, initially. Pick someone who tries to harm you—but only one, even if more than one tries. Disable the others, but take your time killing that one person. Make it painful. Make sure your target screams. That’s important. If the first one that you kill remains silent … kill another.”

  They stare back at him. Even Lashar seems nonplussed. Nassun, however, has seen Schaffa kill. He has given up some of who he was, but what remains is still an artist of terror. If he has seen fit to share the secrets of his artistry with them, they’re lucky. She hopes they appreciate it.

  He goes on. “When the killing is done, make it clear to those present that you acted only in self-defense. Then offer to work in the dead person’s place, or to protect the rest from danger—but they’ll recognize the ultimatum. They must accept you into the comm.” He pauses, then fixes his icewhite gaze on Deshati. “If they refuse, what do you do?”

  She swallows. “K-kill them all.”

  He smiles again, for the first time since leaving Jekity, and cups the back of her head in fond approval.

  Shirk gasps a little, shocked out of tears. Oegin and Ynegen hold each other, their expressions empty of anything but despair. Lashar’s jaw has tightened, her nostrils flaring. She means to take Schaffa’s words to heart. Deshati does, too, Nassun can tell … but it will kill something in Deshati to do so.

  Schaffa knows this. When he stands to kiss Deshati’s forehead, there is so much sorrow in the gesture that Nassun aches afresh. “‘All things change during a Season,’” he says. “Live. I want you to live.”

  A tear spills from one of Deshati’s eyes before she can blink it away. She swallows audibly. But then she nods and steps away from him, and backs up to stand with the others. There’s a gulf between them now: Schaffa and Nassun on one side, Found Moon’s children on the other. The ways have parted. Schaffa does not show discomfort with this. He should; Nassun notices that the silver is alive and throbbing within him, protesting his choice to allow these children to go free. He does not show the pain, though. When he’s doing what he feels is right, pain only strengthens him.

  He stands. “And should the Season ever show real signs of abating … flee. Scatter and blend in elsewhere as best you can. The Guardians aren’t dead, little ones. They will return. And once word spreads of what you’ve done, they’ll come for you.”

  The regular Guardians, Nassun knows he means—the “uncontaminated” ones, like he used to be. Those Guardians have been missing since the start of the Season, or at least Nassun hasn’t heard of any joining comms or being seen on the road. Return suggests they’ve all gone somewhere specific. Where? Somewhere that Schaffa and the other contaminated ones did not or could not go.

  But what matters is that this Guardian, however contaminated, is helping them. Nassun feels a sudden surge of irrational hope. Surely Schaffa’s advice will keep them safe, somehow. So she swallows and adds, “All of you are really good at orogeny. Maybe the comm you pick … maybe they’ll …”

  She trails off, unsure of what she wants to say. Maybe they’ll like you, is what she’s thinking, but that just seems foolish. Or maybe you can be useful, but that’s not how it used to work. Comms used to hire Fulcrum orogenes only for brief periods, or so Schaffa has told her, to do needed work and then leave. Even comms near hot spots and fault lines hadn’t wanted orogenes around permanently, no matter how much they’d needed them.

  Before Nassun can think of a way to grope out the words, however, Wudeh glares at her. “Shut up.”

  Nassun blinks. “What?”

  Peek hisses at Wudeh, trying to shush him, but he ignores her. “Shut up. I rusting hate you. Nida used to sing to me.” Then, without warning, he bursts into sobs. Peek looks confused, but some of the others surround him, murmuring and patting comfort into him.

  Lashar watches this, then throws a last reproachful look at Nassun before saying, to Schaffa, “We’ll be on our way, then. Thank you,
Guardian, for … for what it’s worth.”

  She turns and begins herding them away. Deshati walks with her head down, not looking back. Ynegen lingers for a moment between the groups, then glances at Nassun and whispers, “Sorry.” Then she, too, leaves, hurrying to catch up with the others.

  As soon as the children are completely out of sight, Schaffa puts a hand on Nassun’s shoulder to steer her away, westward along the Imperial Road.

  After several miles of silence, she says, “Do you still think it would have been better to kill them?”

  “Yes.” He glances at her. “And you know that as well as I do.”

  Nassun sets her jaw. “I know.” All the more reason to stop this. Stop everything.

  “You have a destination in mind,” Schaffa says. It’s not a question.

  “Yes. I … Schaffa, I have to go to the other side of the world.” This feels rather like saying I need to go to a star, but since that’s not too far off from what she actually needs to do, she decides not to feel self-conscious about this smaller absurdity.

  To her surprise, however, he tilts his head instead of laughing. “To Corepoint?”

  “What?”

  “A city on the other side of the world. There?”

  She swallows, bites her lip. “I don’t know. I just know that what I need is—” She doesn’t have the words for it, and instead makes a pantomime with her cupped hands and waggling fingers, sending imaginary wavelets to clash and mesh with each other. “The obelisks … pull on that place. It’s what they’re made to do. If I go there, I think I might be able to, uh, pull back? I can’t do it anywhere else, because …” She can’t explain it. Lines of force, lines of sight, mathematical configurations; all of the knowledge that she needs is in her mind, but cannot be reproduced by her tongue. Some of this is a gift from the sapphire, and some is application of theories her mother taught her, and some is simply from tying theory to observation and wrapping the whole thing in instinct. “I don’t know which city over there is the right one. If I get closer, and travel around a little, maybe I can—”