“Is that why you changed back? To face him?” You didn’t see the bit of rag that contained his rocks while you were in the bedroom. Maybe it caught fire and is just charred cloth amid the rest, purpose served.
“I changed back because it was time.” There’s that tone of resignation again. He sounded that way when you first realized what he was. Like he knows he’s lost something in your eyes, and he can’t get it back, and he has no choice but to accept that—but he doesn’t have to like it. “I could have kept that shape only for a limited time. I made a choice to decrease the time, and increase the chance you will survive.”
“Oh?”
Beyond him, in your room, you suddenly notice that the leftover shell of his, er, egg, is melting. Sort of. It is dissolving and lightening in color and merging back into the clear material of the crystal, parting around the detritus of your belongings as it rejoins its former substance and solidifies again. You stare at that instead of him for a moment, fascinated.
Until he says, “They want you dead, Essun.”
“They—” You blink. “Who?”
“Some of my kind. Some merely want to use you. I won’t let them.”
You frown. “Which? You won’t let them kill me, or you won’t let them use me?”
“Either.” The echoing voice grows sharp suddenly. You remember him crouching, baring his teeth like some feral beast. It occurs to you, with the suddenness of an epiphany, that you haven’t seen as many stone eaters around lately. Ruby Hair, Butter Marble, Ugly Dress, Toothshine, all the regulars; not a glimpse in months. Ykka even remarked on the sudden absence of “hers.”
“You ate her,” you blurt.
There is a pause. “I’ve eaten many,” Hoa says. It is inflectionless.
You remember him giggling and calling you weird. Curling against you to sleep. Earthfires, you can’t deal with this.
“Why me, Hoa?” You spread your hands. They are ordinary, middle-aged woman hands. A bit dry. You helped with the leather-tanning crew a few days ago, and the solution made your skin crack and peel. You’ve been rubbing them with some of the nuts you got in the previous week’s comm share, even though fat is precious and you should be eating it rather than using it for your vanity. In your right palm there is a small, white, thumbnail-shaped crescent. On cold days that hand’s bones ache. Ordinary woman hands.
“There’s nothing special about me,” you say. “There must be other orogenes with the potential to access the obelisks. Earthfires, Nassun—” No. “Why are you here?” You mean, why has he attached himself to you.
He is silent for a moment. Then: “You asked if I was all right.”
This makes no sense for a moment, and then it does. Allia. A beautiful sunny day, a looming disaster. As you hovered in agony amid the cracked, dissonant core of the garnet obelisk, you saw him for the first time. How long had he been in that thing? Long enough for it to be buried beneath Seasons’ worth of sediment and coral growth. Long enough to be forgotten, like all the dead civilizations of the world. And then you came along and asked how he was doing. Evil Earth, you thought you hallucinated that.
You take a deep breath and get up, going to the entrance of the apartment. The comm is quiet, as far as you can tell. Some people are going about their usual business, but there are fewer of them around than usual. The ones following routine are no proof of peace; people went about their business in Tirimo, too, right before they tried to kill you.
Tonkee didn’t come home again last night, but this time you’re not so sure that she’s with Hjarka or up in the green room. There is a catalyst alive in Castrima now, accelerating unseen chemical reactions, facilitating unexpected outcomes. Join us and live, the gray one had told them, but not with your roggas.
Will the people of Castrima stop to think that no Equatorial comm really wants a sudden influx of mongrel Midlatters, and at best will make slaves or meat of them? Your mothering instinct is alive with warning. Look after your own, it whispers in the back of your mind. Gather them close and guard them well. You know what happens when you turn your back for even a minute.
You shoulder the runny-sack that’s still in your hand. Keeping it with you isn’t even a question at this point. Then you turn to Hoa. “Come with me.”
Hoa’s suddenly smiling again. “I don’t walk anymore, Essun.”
Oh. Right. “I’m going to Ykka’s, then. Meet me there.”
He does not nod, simply vanishes. No wasted movement. Eh, you’ll get used to it.
People don’t look at you as you cross the bridges and walkways of the comm. The center of your back itches from their stares as you pass. You cannot help thinking of Tirimo again.
Ykka’s not in her apartment. You look around, follow the patterns of movement in the comm with your eyes, and finally head toward the Flat Top. She cannot still be there. You’ve gone home, watched a child turn into a stone eater, slept several hours. She can’t be.
She is. You see that only a few people are still on the Flat Top now—a gaggle of maybe twenty, sitting or pacing, looking angry and exasperated and troubled. For the twenty you see, there are surely another hundred gathering in apartments and the baths and the storage rooms, having the same conversation in hushed tones with small groups. But Ykka is here, sitting on one of the divans that someone has brought from her apartment, still talking. She’s hoarse, you realize as you draw close. Visibly exhausted. But still talking. Something about supply lines from one of the southern allied comms, which she’s directing at a man who is walking in circles with his arms folded, scoffing at everything she says. It’s fear; he’s not listening. Ykka’s trying to reason with him anyway. It’s ridiculous.
Look after your own.
You step around people—some of whom flinch away from you—and stop beside her. “I need to talk to you in private.”
Ykka stops midsentence and blinks up at you. Her eyes are red and sticky-dry. She hasn’t had any water for a while. “What about?”
“It’s important.” As a sop to courtesy you nod to the people sitting around her. “Sorry.”
She sighs and rubs her eyes, which just makes them redder. “Fine.” She gets up, then pauses to face the remaining people. “Vote’s tomorrow morning. If I haven’t convinced you… well. You know what to do, then.”
They watch in silence as you lead her away.
Back in her apartment, you pull the front curtain shut and open the one that leads into her private rooms. Not much to this space to indicate her status: She’s got two pallets and a lot of pillows, but her clothes are just in a basket, and the books and scrolls on one side of the room are just stacked on the floor. No bookcases, no dresser. The food from her comm share is stacked haphazardly against one wall, beside a familiar gourd that the Castrimans tend to use for storing drinking water. You snag the gourd with your elbow and pick from the food pile a dried orange, a stick of dry bean curd that Ykka’s been soaking with some mushrooms in a shallow pan, and a small slab of salt fish. It’s not exactly a meal, but it’s nutrition. “On the bed,” you say, gesturing with your chin and bringing the food to her. You hand her the gourd first.
Ykka, who has observed all this in increasing irritation, snaps, “You’re not my type. Is this why you dragged me here?”
“Not exactly. But while you’re here, you need to rest.” She looks mutinous. “You can’t convince anyone of anything—” Let alone people whose hate can’t be reasoned with. “—if you’re too exhausted to think straight.”
She grumbles, but it is a measure of how tired she is that she actually goes to the bed and sits down on its edge. You nod at the gourd, and she dutifully drinks—three quick swallows and down for now, as the lorists advise after dehydration. “I stink. I need a bath.”