“‘A commandment is set in stone,’” she tells Schaffa solemnly. His eyes are open again. He blinks, perhaps in reaction to the sound, though she knows this is meaningless.
The words are a thing she read in the strange handwritten book—the one that told her how to use a smaller network of obelisks as a “spare key” to subvert the onyx’s power over the Gate. The man who wrote the book was probably crazy, as evidenced by the fact that he apparently loved Nassun’s mother long ago. That is strange and wrong and yet somehow unsurprising. As big as the world is, Nassun is beginning to realize it’s also really small. The same stories, cycling around and around. The same endings, again and again. The same mistakes eternally repeated.
“Some things are too broken to be fixed, Schaffa.” Inexplicably, she thinks of Jija. The ache of this silences her for a moment. “I … I can’t make anything better. But I can at least make sure the bad things stop.” With that, she gets up to leave.
She does not see Schaffa’s face turn, like the Moon sliding into shadow, to watch her go.
It’s dawn when you decide to change the world. You’re still asleep in the bedroll that Lerna has brought up to the roof of the yellow-X building. You and he spent the night under the water tower, listening to the ever-present rumble of the Rifting and the snap of occasional lightning strikes. Probably should’ve had sex there one more time, but you didn’t think about it and he didn’t suggest, so oh well. That’s gotten you into enough trouble, anyway. Had no business relying solely on middle age and starvation for birth control.
He watches as you stand and stretch, and it’s a thing you’ll never fully understand or be comfortable with—the admiration in his gaze. He makes you feel like a better person than you are. And this is what makes you regret, again, endlessly, that you cannot stay to see his child born. Lerna’s steady, relentless goodness is a thing that should be preserved in the world, somehow. Alas.
You haven’t earned his admiration. But you intend to.
You head downstairs and stop. Last night, in addition to Lerna, you let Tonkee and Hjarka and Ykka know that it was time—that you would leave after breakfast in the morning. You left the question of whether they could come with you or not open and unstated. If they volunteer, it’s one thing, but you’re not going to ask. What kind of person would you be to pressure them into that kind of danger? They’ll be in enough, just like the rest of humanity, as it is.
You weren’t counting on finding all of them in the lobby of the yellow-X building as you come downstairs. All of them busy tucking away bedrolls and yawning and frying sausages and complaining loudly about somebody drinking up all the rusting tea. Hoa is there, perfectly positioned to see you come downstairs. There’s a rather smug smile on his stone lips, but that doesn’t surprise you. Danel and Maxixe do, the former up and doing some kind of martial exercises in a corner while the latter dices another potato for the pan—and yes, he’s built a campfire in the building lobby, because that’s what commless people do sometimes. Some of the windows are broken; the smoke’s going out through them. Hjarka and Tonkee are a surprise, too; they’re still asleep, curled together in a pile of furs.
But you really, really weren’t expecting Ykka to walk in, with an air of something like her old brashness and with her eye makeup perfectly applied, once again. She looks around the lobby, taking you in along with the rest, and puts her hands on her hips. “Catch you rusters at a bad time?”
“You can’t,” you blurt. It’s hard to talk. Knot in your throat. Ykka especially; you stare at her. Evil Earth, she’s wearing her fur vest again. You thought she’d left that behind in Castrima-under. “You can’t come. The comm.”
Ykka rolls her dramatically decorated eyes. “Well, fuck you, too. But you’re right, I’m not coming. Just here to see you off, along with whoever goes with you. I really should be having you killed, since you’re effectively ashing yourselves out, but I suppose we can overlook that little technicality for now.”
“What, we can’t come back?” Tonkee blurts. She’s sitting up finally, though at a distinct lean, and with her hair badly askew. Hjarka, muttering imprecations at being awake, has gotten up and handed her a plate of potato hash from the pile Maxixe has already cooked.
Ykka eyes her. “You? You’re traveling to an enormous, perfectly preserved obelisk-builder ruin. I’ll never see you again. But sure, I suppose you could come back, if Hjarka manages to drag you to your senses. I need her, at least.”
Maxixe yawns loudly enough to draw everyone’s attention. He’s naked, which lets you see that he’s looking better at last—still nearly skeletal, but that’s half the comm these days. He’s coughing less, though, and his hair’s starting to grow fuller, although so far it’s only at that hilarious bottlebrush stage before ashblow hair develops enough weight to flop decently. It’s the first time you’ve seen his leg-stumps unclothed, and you belatedly realize the scars are far too neat to have been done by some commless raider with a hacksaw. Well, that’s his story to tell. You say to him, “Don’t be stupid.”
Maxixe looks mildly annoyed. “I’m not going, no. But I could be.”
“No, you rusting couldn’t,” Ykka snaps. “I already told you, we need a Fulcrum rogga here.”
He sighs. “Fine. But no reason I can’t at least see you off. Now stop asking questions and come get some food.” He reaches for his clothes and starts to pull them on. You obediently go over to the fire to eat something. No morning sickness yet; that’s a bit of luck.
As you eat, you watch everyone and find yourself overwhelmed, and also a little frustrated. Of course it’s touching that they’ve come like this to say goodbye. You’re glad of it; you can’t even pretend otherwise. When have you ever left a place this way—openly, nonviolently, amid laughter? It feels … you don’t know how it feels. Good? You don’t know what to do with that.
You hope more of them decide to stay behind, though. As it is, Hoa’s going to be hauling a rusting caravan through the earth.
But when you eye Danel, you blink in surprise. She’s cut her hair again; really doesn’t seem to like it long. Fresh shaving on the sides, and … black tint, on her lips. Earth knows where she found it, or maybe she made it herself out of charcoal and fat. But it’s suddenly hard to see her as the Strongback general she was. Wasn’t. It changes things, somehow, to understand that you go to face a fate that an Equatorial lorist wants to record for posterity. Now it’s not just a caravan. It’s a rusting quest.
The thought pulls a snort-laugh out of you, and everyone pauses in what they’re doing to stare. “Nothing,” you say, waving a hand and setting the empty plate aside. “Just … shit. Come on, then, whoever’s coming.”