The Obelisk Gate

INTERLUDE

You fall into my arms, and I take you to a safe place.

Safety is relative. You have driven off my unsavory brethren, those of my kind who would have killed you since they cannot control you. As I descend into Castrima, however, and emerge in a quiet space of familiarity, I smell iron on the air, amid the shit and stale breath and other scents of flesh, and smoke. The iron is a flesh scent, too: that variant of iron which is contained in blood. Outside, there are bodies along the walkways and steps. One even dangles from a ropeslide. The fighting is mostly over, however, because of two things. First, the invaders have realized they are trapped between the insect-infested surface and their enemies, who are greater in number now that most of the invading army is dead. Those who wish to live have surrendered; those who fear a worse death have flung themselves on the swords or crystals of Castrima.

The second thing that has stopped the fighting is the inescapable fact that the geode is badly damaged. All over the comm, the once-glowing crystals now flicker in irregular pulses. One of the longer ones has detached from the wall and broken, its dust and rubble scattered along the geode floor. On the ground level, warm water has stopped flowing into the communal pool, though occasionally there is a haphazard spurt of it. Several of the comm’s crystals are completely dark, dead, cracked—but within each, a darker shape can be seen, frozen and trapped. Humanoid.

Fools. That’s what you get for pissing off my rogga.

I lay you in a bed and make certain there is food and water nearby. Feeding you will be difficult, now that I have shed the quickened sheath I wore to friend you, but most likely someone will be along before I am forced to try. We are in Lerna’s apartment. I’ve put you in his bed. He will like that, I think. You will, too, once you want to feel human again.

I do not begrudge you these connections. You need them.

(I do not begrudge you these connections. You need them.)

But I position you carefully, so that you will be comfortable. And I place your arm atop the covers, so you will know as soon as you awaken that you must now make a choice.

Your right arm, which has become a thing of brown, solidified, concentrated magic. No crudeness here; your flesh is pure, perfect, wholesome. Every atom is as it should be, the arcane lattice precise and strong. I touch it once, briefly, though my fingers barely notice the pressure. Leftover longing from the flesh I wore so recently. I’ll get over it.

Your stone hand is shaped into a fist. There’s a crack across the back of it, perpendicular to the hand bones. Even as the magic reshaped you, you fought. (You fought. This is what you must become. You have always fought.)

Ah, I grow sentimental. A few weeks’ nostalgia in flesh and I forget myself.

Thus I wait. And hours or days later when Lerna returns to his apartment, stinking of other people’s blood and his own weariness, he stops short at the sight of me, standing watchman in his living room.

He’s still for only a moment. “Where is she?”

Yes. He’s worthy of you.

“In the bedroom.” He goes there immediately. There’s no need for me to follow. He’ll be back.

Some while later—minutes or hours, I know the words but they mean so little—he returns to the living room where I stand. He sits, heavily, and rubs his face.

“She will live,” I say unnecessarily.

“Yes.” He knows it’s a coma and he will tend you well until you wake. A moment later he lowers his hands and gazes at me. “You didn’t, uh.” He licks his lips. “Her arm.”

I know exactly what he means. “Not without her permission.”

His face twists. I’m faintly repelled before I remember that not long ago I, too, was so constantly, wetly, in motion. Glad that’s over with. “How honorable of you,” he says, in a tone that he probably means as an insult.

No more honorable than his decision not to eat your other arm. Some things are simple decency.

Some while later, probably not years because he hasn’t moved, possibly hours because he does look so very tired, he says, “I don’t know what we’re going to do now. Castrima’s dying.” As if to emphasize these words, the crystal around us stops glowing for a moment, dropping us into darkness lit harshly by the light from outside the apartment. Then the light returns. Lerna exhales, his breath redolent of fear-aldehydes. “We’re commless.”

It isn’t worth pointing out that they would have also been commless if their enemies had succeeded in slaughtering Essun and the other orogenes. He’ll figure it out eventually, in his plodding, sweaty way. But since there’s one thing he does not know, I speak it aloud.

“Rennanis is dead,” I say. “Essun killed it.”

“What?”

He heard me. He just doesn’t believe what he heard.

“You mean… she iced it? From here?”

No, she used magic, but all that matters is, “Everyone within its walls is now dead.”

He ponders this for eternities, or maybe seconds. “An Equatorial city would have vast storecaches. Enough to last us years.” Then his brow furrows. “Traveling there and bringing that many goods back would be a major undertaking.”

He isn’t a stupid man. I ponder the past while he figures things out. When he gasps, I pay attention to him again.

“Rennanis is empty.” He stares at me, then gets to his feet, thumping and sloshing across the room. “Evil Earth—Hoa, that’s what you’re saying! Intact walls, intact homes, storecaches… and who the rust are we going to have to fight for it? No one with sense goes north, these days. We could live there.”

At last. I return to my contemplations even as he mutters to himself and paces and finally laughs aloud. But then Lerna stops, staring at me. His eyes narrow in suspicion.

“You do nothing for us,” he says softly. “Only for her. Why are you telling me this?”

I shape my lips into a curve, and his jaw tightens in disgust. I shouldn’t have bothered. “Essun wants somewhere safe for Nassun,” I say.

Silence, for maybe an hour. Or a moment. “She doesn’t know where Nassun is.”

“The Obelisk Gate permits sufficient precision of perception.”

A flinch. I remember the words for movement: flinch, inhale, swallow, grimace. “Earthfires. Then—” He sobers and turns to look at the bedroom curtain.

Yes. When you wake, you will want to go find your daughter. I watch this realization soften Lerna’s face, weigh down the tension of his muscles, slacken his posture. I have no idea what any of these things means.

“Why?” It takes a year for me to realize he’s speaking to me and not himself. By the time I figure it out, however, he has finished the question. “Why do you stay with her? Are you just… hungry?”

I resist the urge to crush his head. “I love her, of course.” There; I’ve managed a civil tone.

“Of course.” Lerna’s voice has grown soft.

Of course.

He leaves then, to ferry the information I’ve given him to the comm’s other leaders. There follows a century, or a week, of frantic activity as the other people of the comm pack and prepare and gather their strength for what is sure to be a long, grueling, and—for a few—deadly journey. But they have no choice. Such is life, in a Season.

Sleep, my love. Heal. I’ll stand guard over you, and be at your side when you set forth again. Of course. Death is a choice. I will make certain of that, for you.

(But not for you.)