“An obelisk,” she whispers. And then she can sess and guess what happened, as clearly as if she were there.
Long ago, an obelisk sat here, at the bottom of this cavern, one of its points jammed into the ground like some kind of bizarre plant. At some point, the obelisk lifted free of the pit, to float and shimmer like its fellows above the strange immensity of the city—and then something went very, very wrong. The obelisk … fell. Where it struck the earth, Nassun imagines she can hear the echo of the concussion; it did not merely fall, it drove its way in, punching through and churning down and down and down, powered by all the force of concentrated silver within its core. Nassun can’t track its path for more than a mile or so down, but there’s no reason to think it didn’t just keep going. To where, she cannot guess.
And in its wake, channeled straight up from the most molten part of the earth, came a literal fountain of earthfire to bury this city.
There’s still nothing around that looks like a way to supply power to the station. Nassun notices, though, that the cavern’s illumination comes from enormous pylons of blue light near the base of the glass column. These make up the lower-and innermost tier of the chamber. Something is making that light.
Schaffa, too, has come to the same conclusion. “The tunnel ends here,” he says, gesturing toward the blue pylons and the column’s base. “There’s nowhere else to go but to the foot of this monstrosity. But are you certain you want to follow in the footsteps of whoever did this?”
Nassun bites her bottom lip. She does not. Here is the wrongness that she sessed from the stair, though she cannot tell its source yet. Still … “Steel wants me to see whatever is down there.”
“Are you certain you want to do what he wishes, Nassun?”
She isn’t. Steel cannot be trusted. But she’s already committed herself to the path of destroying the world; whatever Steel wants cannot be worse than this. So when Nassun nods, Schaffa simply inclines his head in acquiescence, and offers her his hand so that they can walk down the road to the pylons together.
Walking past the tiers feels like moving through a graveyard, and Nassun feels compelled to a respectful silence for that reason. Between the buildings, she can make out carbonized walkways, melted-glass troughs that must have once held plants, strange posts and structures whose purpose she isn’t sure she’d be able to fathom even if they weren’t half-melted. She decides that this post is for tying horses, and that frame is where the tanners racked drying hides. Remapping the familiar onto the strange doesn’t work very well, of course, because nothing about this city is normal. If the people who lived here rode mounts, they were not horses. If they made pottery or tools, those were not shaped from clay or obsidian, and the crafters who made such things were not merely knappers. These are people who built, and then lost control of, an obelisk. There is no telling what wonders and horrors filled their streets.
In her anxiety, Nassun reaches up to touch the sapphire, mostly just to reassure herself that she can do so through tons of cooled lava and petrifying decayed city. It is as easy to connect to here as it was up there, which is a relief. It tugs at her gently—or as gently as any obelisk does—and for a moment she lets herself be drawn into its flowing, watery light. It does not frighten her to be so drawn in; to the degree that one can trust an inanimate object, Nassun trusts the sapphire obelisk. It is the thing that told her about Corepoint, after all, and now she senses another message in the shimmering interstices of its tight-packed lines—
“Up ahead,” she blurts, startling herself.
Schaffa stops and looks at her. “What?”
Nassun has to shake her head, drawing her mind back into itself and out of all that blue. “The … the place to put in power. Is up ahead, like Steel said. Past the track.”
“Track?” Schaffa turns, gazing down the sloping walkway. Up ahead is the second tier—a smooth, featureless plane of more of that not-stone white stuff. The people who built the obelisks seem to have used that stuff in all their oldest and most enduring ruins.
“The sapphire … knows this place,” she tries to explain. It’s a fumbling sort of explanation, as hard as trying to describe orogeny to a still. “Not this place specifically, but somewhere like it …” She reaches for it again, asking for more without words, and is nearly overwhelmed with a blue flicker of images, sensations, beliefs. Her perspective changes. She stands at the center of three tiers, no longer in a cavern but facing a blue horizon across which pleasant clouds churn and race and vanish and are reborn. The tiers around her teem with activity—though it all blurs together, and what she can discern of the few instants of stillness makes no sense. Strange vehicles like the car she saw in the tunnel run along the sides of buildings, following tracks of differently colored light. The buildings are covered in green, vines and grassy rooftops and flowers curling over lintels and walls. People, hundreds of them, go in and out of these, and walk up and down the paths in unbroken blurs of motion. She cannot see their faces, but she catches glimpses of black hair like Schaffa’s, earrings of artfully curled vine motifs, a dress swirling about ankles, fingers flicking while adorned with sheaths of colored lacquer.
And everywhere, everywhere, is the silver that lies beneath heat and motion, the stuff of the obelisks. It spiders and flows, converging not just into trickles but rivers, and when she looks down she sees that she stands in a pool of liquid silver, soaking in through her feet—
Nassun staggers a little as she comes back this time, and Schaffa’s hand lands firmly on her shoulder to steady her. “Nassun.”
“I’m all right,” she says. She isn’t sure of that, but she says it anyway because she doesn’t want him to worry. And because it is easier to say this than I think I was an obelisk for a minute.
Schaffa moves around to crouch in front of her, gripping her shoulders. The concern in his expression almost, almost, eclipses the weary lines, the hint of distraction, and the other signs of struggle that are building beneath the surface of him. His pain is worse, here underground. He hasn’t said that it is, and Nassun doesn’t know why it’s getting worse, but she can tell.
But. “Don’t trust the obelisks, little one,” he says. This does not seem nearly as strange or wrong a thing for him to say as it should. On impulse Nassun hugs Schaffa; he holds her tight, rubbing comfort into her back. “We allowed a few to progress,” he murmurs in her ear. Nassun blinks, remembering poor, mad, murderous Nida, who said the same thing once. “Back in the Fulcrum. I was permitted to remember that much because it’s important. The few who reached ninth-or tenth-ring status … they were always able to sense the obelisks, and the obelisks could sense them in turn. They would have drawn you to them one way or another. They’re missing something, incomplete somehow, and that’s what they need an orogene to provide.
“But the obelisks killed them, my Nassun.” He presses his face into her hair. She’s filthy and hasn’t truly washed since Jekity, but his words strip away such mundane thoughts. “The obelisks … I remember. They will change you, remake you, if they can. That’s what that rusting stone eater wants.”
His arms tighten for an instant, with a hint of his old strength, and it is the most beautiful feeling in the world. She knows in this moment that he will never falter, never not be there when she needs him, never devolve into a mere fallible human being. And she loves him more than life for his strength.
“Yes, Schaffa,” she promises. “I’ll be careful. I won’t let them win.”
Him, she thinks, and she knows he thinks it too. She won’t let Steel win. At least not without getting what she wants first.
So they are resolved. When Nassun pulls back, Schaffa nods before getting to his feet. They go forward again.
The innermost tier sits in the glass column’s blue, gloomy shadow. The pylons are bigger than they looked from afar—perhaps twice as tall as Schaffa, three or four times as wide, and humming faintly now that Nassun and Schaffa are close enough to hear. They’re arranged in a ring around
what must have once been the resting place of an obelisk, like a buffer protecting the outer two tiers. Like a fence, separating the bustling life of the city from … this.
This: At first Nassun thinks it is a thicket of thorns. The thornvines curl and tangle along the ground and up the inner surface of the pylons, filling all the available space between them and the glass column itself. Then she sees that they aren’t thornvines: no leaves. No thorns. Just these curling, gnarling, ropelike twists of something that looks woody but smells a little like fungus.
“How odd,” Schaffa says. “Something alive at last?”
“M-maybe they aren’t alive?” They do look dead, though they stand out by being still recognizably plants and not crumbled bits of decay on the ground. Nassun does not like it here, amid these ugly vines and in the shadow of the glass column. Is that what the pylons are for, to cut off sight of the vines’ grotesquerie from the rest of the city? “And maybe they grew here after … the rest.”
Then she blinks, noticing something new about the vine nearest her. It’s different from the others around it. Those are obviously dead, withered and blackened and broken off in places. This one, however, looks as though it might be alive. It is ropy and knotted in places, with a wood-like surface that looks old and rough, but whole. Debris litters the floor beneath it—grayish lumps and dust, scraps of dry-rotted cloth, and even a moldering length of frayed rope.
There is a thing Nassun has resisted doing since entering the cavern of the glass column; some things she doesn’t quite want to know. Now, however, she closes her eyes and reaches inside the vine with her sense of the silver.
At first it’s hard. The cells of the thing—because it is alive, more like a fungus than a plant, but there is also something artificial and mechanical about the way it has been made to function—press together so tightly that she doesn’t expect to see any silver between them. More dense than the stuff in people’s bodies. The arrangement of its substance is almost crystalline, in fact, cells lined up in neat little matrices, which she’s never seen in a living thing before.
And now that Nassun has seen down into the interstices of the vine’s substance, she can see that it doesn’t have any silver in it. What it has instead are … She isn’t sure how to describe it. Negative spaces? Where silver should be, but isn’t. Spaces that can be filled with silver. And as she gingerly explores them, fascinated, she begins to notice the way they pull at her perception, more and more, until—with a gasp, Nassun jerks her perception free.
You’ll see what to do, Steel has said. It should be obvious.
Schaffa, who has crouched to peer at the bit of rope, pauses and glances at her, frowning. “What is it?”
She stares back at him, but she doesn’t have the words to say what needs to be done. The words do not exist. She knows, however, what she needs to do. Nassun takes a step closer to the living vine.
“Nassun,” Schaffa says, his voice tight and warning with sudden alarm.
“I have to, Schaffa,” she says. She’s already lifting her hands. This is where all the silver of the outer cavern has been going, she realizes now; these vines have been eating it up. Why? She knows why, in the deepest and most ancient design of her flesh. “I have to, um, power the system.”
Then, before Schaffa can stop her, Nassun wraps both hands around the vine.
It does not hurt. That’s the trap of it. The sensation that spreads throughout her body is pleasant, in fact. Relaxing. If she could not perceive the silver, or the way the vine instantly starts dragging every bit of silver out of the spaces between her cells, she would think it was doing something good for her. As it is, it will kill her in moments.
She has access to more silver than just her own, though. Lazily, through the languor, Nassun reaches for the sapphire—and the sapphire responds instantly, easily.
Amplifiers, Alabaster called them, long before Nassun was ever born. Batteries is how you think of them, and how you once explained them to Ykka.
What Nassun understands the obelisks to be is simply engines. She’s seen engines at work—the simple pump-and-turbine things that regulated geo and hydro back in Tirimo, and occasionally more complex things like grain elevators. What she understands about engines would fill less than a thimble, but this much is clear even to a ten-year-old: To work, engines need fuel.
So she flows with the blue, and the sapphire’s power flows through her. The vine in her hands seems to gasp at the sudden influx, though this is just her imagination, she’s sure. Then it hums in her hands, and she sees how the empty, yawning spaces of its matrices fill and flow with glimmering silver light, and something immediately shunts that light away to somewhere else—
A loud clack echoes through the cavern. This is followed by other, fainter clacks, ramping up to a rhythm, and then a rising, low hum. The cavern brightens suddenly as the blue pylons turn white and blaze brighter, as do the tired yellow lights that they followed down the mosaic tunnel. Nassun flinches even in the depths of the sapphire, and in half a breath Schaffa has grabbed her away from the vine. His hands shake as he holds her close, but he doesn’t say anything, his relief palpable as he lets Nassun flop against him. She’s suddenly so drained that only his grip holds her up.
And in the meantime, something is coming along the track.
It is a ghostly thing, iridescent beetle green, graceful and sleek and nearly silent as it emerges from somewhere behind the glass column. Nothing of it makes sense to Nassun’s eyes. The bulk of it is roughly teardrop-shaped, though its narrower, pointy end is asymmetrical, the tip curving high off the ground in a way that makes her think of a crow’s beak. It’s huge, easily the size of a house, and yet it floats a few inches above the track, unsupported. The substance of it is impossible to guess, though it seems to have … skin? Yes; up close, Nassun can see that the surface of the thing has the same finely wrinkled texture as thick, well-worked leather. Here and there on that skin she glimpses odd, irregular lumps, each perhaps the size of a fist; they seem to have no visible purpose.
It blurs and flickers, though, the thing. From solidity to translucence and back, just like an obelisk.
“Very good,” says Steel, who is suddenly in front of them and to one side of the thing.
Nassun is too drained to flinch, though she’s recovering. Schaffa’s hands tighten on her shoulders in reflex, then relax. Steel ignores them both. One of the stone eater’s hands is upraised toward the strange floating thing, like a proud artist displaying his latest creation. He says, “You gave the system rather more power than absolutely necessary. The overflow has gone into lighting, as you can see, and other systems such as environmental controls. Pointless, but I suppose it does no harm. They’ll run down again in a few months, without any source to provide additional power.”
Schaffa’s voice is very soft and cold. “This could have killed her.”
Steel is still smiling. Nassun finally begins to suspect that this is Steel’s attempt to mock a Guardian’s frequent smiles. “Yes, if she hadn’t used the obelisk.” There is nothing of apology in his tone. “Death is what usually happens when someone charges the system. Orogenes capable of channeling magic can survive it, however—as can Guardians, who usually can draw upon an outside source.”
Magic? Nassun thinks in fleeting confusion.
But Schaffa stiffens. Nassun is confused by his fury at first, and then she realizes: Ordinary Guardians, the uncontaminated kind, draw silver from the earth and put it into the vines. Guardians like Umber and Nida can probably do the same, though they would try only if it served Father Earth’s interests. But Schaffa, despite his corestone, cannot rely on the Earth’s silver, and cannot draw more of it at will. If Nassun was in danger from the vine, that was because of Schaffa’s inadequacy.
Or so Steel means to suggest. Nassun stares at him incredulously, then turns back to Schaffa. She’s getting some of her strength back already. “I knew I could do it,” she says. Schaffa is still glaring at Steel. Nassun balls up h
er fists in his shirt and tugs to make him look at her. He blinks and does so, in surprise. “I knew! And I wouldn’t have let you do the vines, Schaffa. It’s because of me that—”
She falters then, her throat closing with impending tears. Some of this is just nerves and exhaustion. Much of it, though, is the sense of guilt that has been lurking and growing within her for months, only now spilling out because she’s too tired to keep it in. It’s her fault that Schaffa has lost everything: Found Moon, the children he cared for, the companionship of his fellow Guardians, the reliable power that should have come from his corestone, even peaceful sleep at night. She’s why he’s down here in the dust of a dead city, and why they’re about to entrust themselves to machinery older than Sanze and maybe the whole Stillness, to go to an impossible place and do an impossible thing.
Schaffa sees all this instantly, with the skill of a longtime caretaker of children. The frown clears from his face, and he shakes his head and crouches to face her. “No,” he says. “Nothing is your fault, my Nassun. No matter what it has cost me, and no matter what it may cost yet, always remember that I—that I—”
His expression falters. For a fleeting instant, that horrible, blurry confusion is there, threatening to wipe away even this moment in which he means to declare his strength to her. Nassun catches her breath and focuses on him in the silver and bares her teeth as she sees that the corestone in him is alive again, working viciously along his nerves and spidering over his brain, even now trying to force him to heel.
The Stone Sky Page 17
