The Stone Sky (The Broken Earth #3)(33)

Above that deep-rooted fulcrum, at the center of a torus that has not yet begun to spin, crouches a body etched out in silver. For the first time, in comparison, you notice that an orogene’s silver is both brighter and less complex than that of the plants and insects around it. The same… er, amount, if that word applies, if not capacity or potential or aliveness, but not the same design. This orogene’s silver is concentrated into a relative few bright lines that all align in similar directions. They don’t flicker, and neither does his torus. He – you guess that, but it feels right – is listening.

Ykka, another outline of precise, concentrated silver, nods in satisfaction. She climbs up on top of some of the wagon cargo so her voice will carry better.

“I’m Ykka Rogga Castrima,” she calls. You guess that she points at you. “She’s a rogga, too. So’s he.” Temell. “So are those kids over there. We don’t kill roggas here.” She pauses. “You hungry? We’ve got a little to spare. You don’t need to try to take it.”



That fulcrum doesn’t budge.

Something else does, though – from the other side of the stone forest, as thin, attenuated agglomerations of silver suddenly blur into chaotic movement and come charging toward you. Other raiders; Evil Earth, you were all so focused on the rogga that you didn’t even notice the ones behind you. You hear them now, though, voices rising, cursing, feet pounding on ashy sand. The Strongbacks near the barrier of stakes on that side cry warning. “They’re attacking,” you call.

“No shit,” Ykka snaps, drawing a glassknife.

You retreat to within the tent circle, acutely aware of your vulnerability in a way that’s strange and deeply unpleasant. It’s worse because you can still sess, and because your instincts prompt you to respond when you see where you could help. A cluster of attackers comes at a part of the perimeter that’s light on stakes and defenders, and you open your eyes so you can actually see them trying to fight their way in. They’re typical commless raiders – filthy, emaciated, dressed in an ash-faded combination of rags and newer, pilfered clothing. You could take out all six in half a breath, with a single precision torus.

But you can also feel how… what? How aligned you are. Ykka’s silver is concentrated like that of the other roggas you’ve observed, but hers is still layered, jagged, a little jittery. It flows every-which-way within her as she jumps down from the cargo wagon and shouts for people to help the sparse Strongbacks near that cluster of raiders, running to help herself. Your magic flows with smooth clarity, every line matching perfectly in direction and flow to every other line. You don’t know how to change it back to the way it was, if that’s even possible. And you know instinctively that using the silver when you’re like this will pack every particle of your body together as neatly as a mason lays a wall of bricks. You’ll be stone the same way.

So you fight your instincts and hide, much as that rankles. There are others here, crouching amid the central circle of tents – the comm’s smaller children, its bare handful of elders, one woman so pregnant that she can’t move with any real flexibility even though she’s got a loaded crossbow in her hands, two knife-wielding Breeders who’ve obviously been charged with defending her and the children.

When you poke your head up to observe the fighting, you catch a glimpse of something stunning. Danel, having appropriated one of the spear-whittled sticks that form the fence, is using it to carve a bloody swath through the raiders. She’s phenomenal, spinning and stabbing and blocking and stabbing again, twirling the stick in between attacks as if she’s fought commless a million times. That’s not just being an experienced Strongback; that’s something else. She’s just too good. But it follows, doesn’t it? Not like Rennanis made her the general of their army for her charm.

It isn’t much of a fight in the end. Twenty or thirty scrawny commless against trained, fed, prepared comm members? This is why comms survive Seasons, and why long-term commlessness is a death sentence. This lot was probably desperate; there can’t have been much traffic along the road in the past few months. What were they thinking?

Their orogene, you realize. That’s who they expected to win this fight for them. But he’s still not moving, orogenically or physically.

You get up, walking past the lingering knots of fighting. Self-consciously adjusting your mask, you step off the road and slip through the perimeter stakes, moving into the deeper darkness of the stone forest. The firelight of the camp leaves you night-blind, so you stop a moment to allow your eyes to adjust. No telling what kinds of traps the commless have left here; you shouldn’t be doing this alone. Again you’re surprised, though, because between one blink and the next, you suddenly begin to see in silver. Insects, leaf litter, a spiderweb, even the rocks – all of it now flickers in wild, veined patterns, their cells and particulates etched out by the lattice that connects them.

And people. You stop as you make them out, well camouflaged against the silver bloom of the forest. The rogga is still where he’s been, a brighter etching against more delicate lines. But there are also two small shapes crouched in a cavelet, about twenty feet further into the forest. Two other bodies, somehow high overhead atop the jagged, curving rocks of the forest. Lookouts, maybe? None of them move much. Can’t tell if they’ve seen you, or if they’re watching the battle somehow. You’re frozen, startled by this sudden shift in your perception. Is this some by-product of learning to see silver in yourself and the obelisks? Maybe once you can do that, you see it everywhere. Or maybe you’re hallucinating all of it now, like an afterimage against your eyelids. After all, Alabaster never mentioned being able to see like this – but then, when did Alabaster ever try to be a good teacher?