You’re desperate to get her attention, to get her to react, something. Anything. You grope and then say, to her back, “I—I—I know about Jija!”
That makes her falter to a halt. Jija’s death is still a raw wound within her that Schaffa has cleaned and stitched, but that will not heal for some time. That you know what she has done makes her hunch in shame. That it was necessary, self-defense, frustrates her. That you have reminded her of this, now, tips the shame and frustration into anger.
“I have to help Schaffa,” she says again. Her shoulders are going up in a way that you recognize from a hundred afternoons in your makeshift crucible, and from when she was two and learned the word no. There’s no reasoning with her when she gets like this. Words become irrelevant. Actions mean more. But what actions could possibly convey the morass of your feelings right now? You look back at the others helplessly. Hjarka is holding Tonkee back; Tonkee’s gaze is fixed on the sky and the assemblage there of more obelisks than you’ve seen in your whole life. Danel is a little apart from the rest, her hands behind her back, her black lips moving in what you recognize as a lorist mnemonic exercise to help her absorb everything she sees and hears, verbatim. Lerna—
You forgot. Lerna is not here. But if he were here, you suspect, he would be warning you. He was a doctor. Wounds of the family weren’t really within his purview … but anyone can see that something here has festered.
You trot after her again. “Nassun. Nassun, rust it, look at me when I’m talking to you!” She ignores you, and it’s a slap in the face—the kind that clears your head, though, and not the kind that makes you want to fight. Okay. She won’t hear you until she’s helped … Schaffa. You push past this thought, though it is like plodding through muck full of bones. Okay. “L-let me help you!”
This actually gets Nassun to slow down, and then stop. Her expression is wary, so wary, when she turns back. “Help me?”
You look beyond her and see then that she was heading for another of the pylon buildings—this one with a broad, railed staircase going up its sloping side. The view of the sky would be excellent at the top … Irrationally you conclude that you have to keep her from going up there. “Yes.” You hold out your hand again. Please. “Tell me what you need. I’ll … Nassun.” You’re out of words. You’re willing her to feel what you feel. “Nassun.”
It’s not working. She says, in a voice as hard as stone, “I need to use the Obelisk Gate.”
You flinch. I told you this already, weeks ago, but apparently you did not believe. “What? You can’t.”
You’re thinking: It will kill you.
Her jaw tightens. “I will.”
She’s thinking: I don’t need your permission.
You shake your head, incredulous. “To do what?” But it’s too late. She’s done. You said you would help but then hesitated. She is Schaffa’s daughter, too, in her heart of hearts; Earthfires, two fathers and you of all people to shape her, is it any wonder that she’s turned out the way she has? To her, hesitation is the same thing as no. She doesn’t like it when people say no to her.
So Nassun turns her back on you again and says, “Don’t follow me anymore, Mama.”
You immediately start after her again, of course. “Nassun—”
She whips back around. She’s in the ground, you sess it, and she’s in the air, you see the lines of magic, and suddenly the two weave together in a way that you can’t even comprehend. The stuff of Corepoint’s ground, which is metals and pressed fibers and substances for which you have no name, layered over volcanic rock, heaves beneath your feet. Out of old habit, years spent containing your children’s orogenic tantrums, you react even as you stagger, setting a torus into the ground that you can use to cancel her orogeny. It doesn’t work, because she isn’t just using orogeny.
She sesses it, though, and her eyes narrow. Your gray eyes, like ash. And an instant later, a wall of obsidian slams up from the ground in front of you, tearing through the fiber and metal of the city’s infrastructure, forming a barrier between you and her that spans the road.
The force of this upheaval flings you to the ground. When the stars clear from your vision and the dust dissipates enough, you stare up at the wall in shock. Your daughter did this. To you.
Someone grabs you and you flinch. It’s Tonkee.
“I don’t know if it’s occurred to you,” she says, hauling you to your feet, “but your child seems like she’s got your temper. So, you know, maybe you shouldn’t get too pushy.”
“I don’t even know what she did,” you murmur, dazed, though you nod thanks to Tonkee for helping you up. “That wasn’t … I don’t …” There was no Fulcrum-esque precision in what Nassun did, even though you taught her Fulcrum fundamentals. You lay your hand against the wall in confusion, and feel the lingering flickers of magic within its substance, dancing from particle to particle as they fade. “She’s blending magic and orogeny. I’ve never seen that before.”
I have. We called it tuning.
Meanwhile. No longer hampered by you, Nassun has climbed the pylon steps. She stands atop it now, surrounded by turning, bright red warning symbols that dance in the air. A heavy, faintly sulfurous breeze wafts up from Corepoint’s great hole, lifting the stray hairs from her twin plaits. She wonders if Father Earth is relieved to have manipulated her into sparing its life.
Schaffa will live if she turns every person in the world into stone eaters. That is all that matters.
“First, the network,” she says, lifting her eyes to the sky. The twenty-seven obelisks flicker from solid to magic in unison as she reignites them. She spreads her hands before her.
On the ground below her, you flinch as you sess—feel—are attuned to—the lightning-fast activation of twenty-seven obelisks. They act as one in this instant, thrumming so powerfully together that your teeth itch. You wonder why Tonkee isn’t grimacing the way you are, but Tonkee is only a still.