The Stone Sky (The Broken Earth #3)(43)

“It will kill her,” you blurt.

“Very likely, yes.”

Oh, Earth. “But you can track her again? You lost her after Castrima.”

“Yes, now that she is attuned to an obelisk.”

Again, though, that odd hesitation is in his voice. Why? Why would it bother him that – Oh. Oh, rusty burning Earth. Your voice shakes as you understand. “Which means that any stone eater can ‘perceive’ her now. Is that what you’re saying?” Castrima all over again. Ruby Hair and Butter Marble and Ugly Dress, may you never see those parasites again. Fortunately, Hoa killed most of them. “Your kind get interested in us then, right? When we start using obelisks, or when we’re close to being able to.”

“Yes.” Inflectionless, that one soft word, but you know him by now.

“Earthfires. One of you is after her.”

You didn’t think stone eaters were capable of sighing, but sure enough the sound emerges from Hoa’s chest. “The one you call Gray Man.”

Cold runs through you. But yes. You’d guessed already, really. There have been, what, three orogenes in the world lately who mastered connecting to the obelisks? Alabaster and you and now Nassun. Uche, maybe, briefly – and maybe there was even a stone eater lurking about Tirimo back then. Rusting bastard must be terribly disappointed that Uche died by filicide rather than stoning.

Your jaw tightens as your mouth tastes of bile. “He’s manipulating her.” To activate the Gate and transform herself into stone, so that she can be eaten. “That’s what he tried to do at Castrima, force Alabaster, or me, or – rust it, or Ykka, any of us, to try to do something beyond our ability so we might turn ourselves into —” You put a hand on the stone marker of your breast.

“There have always been those who use despair and desperation as weapons.” This is delivered softly, as if in shame.

Suddenly you’re furious with yourself, and your impotence. Knowing that you’re the real target of your own anger doesn’t stop you from taking it out on him. “Seems to me all of you do that!”

Hoa has positioned himself to gaze out at the dull red horizon, a statue paying homage to nostalgia in pensive shadowed lines. He does not turn, but you hear hurt in his voice. “I haven’t lied to you.”

“No, you’ve just withheld the truth so much it’s the same fucking thing!” You rub your eyes. Had to take the goggles off to put your shirt back on, and now you’ve got ash in them. “You know what, just – I don’t want to hear anything else right now. I need to rest.” You get to your feet. “Take me back.”

His hand is abruptly extended in your direction. “One more thing, Essun.”

“I told you —”

“Please. You need to know this.” He waits until you settle into a fuming silence. Then he says, “Jija is dead.”

You freeze.

***

In this moment I remind myself of why I continue to tell this story through your eyes rather than my own: because, outwardly, you’re too good at hiding yourself. Your face has gone blank, your gaze hooded. But I know you. I know you. Here is what’s inside you.

***

You surprise yourself by being surprised. Surprised, that is, and not angry, or thwarted, or sad. Just… surprised. But that is because your first thought, after relief that Nassun’s safe now, is…

Isn’t she?

And then you surprise yourself by being afraid. You aren’t sure of what, but it’s a stark, sour thing in your mouth. “How?” you ask.

Hoa says, “Nassun.”

The fear increases. “She couldn’t have lost control of her orogeny, she hasn’t done that since she was five —”

“It was not orogeny. And it was intentional.”

There, at last: the foreshock of a Rifting-level shake, inside you. It takes you a moment to say aloud, “She killed him? On purpose?”

“Yes.”

You fall silent then, dazed, troubled. Hoa’s hand is still extended toward you. An offer of answers. You aren’t sure you want to know, but… but you take his hand anyway. Perhaps it’s for comfort. You don’t imagine that his hand folds about your own and squeezes, just a little, in a way that makes you feel better. Still he waits. You’re very, very glad for his consideration.

“Is he… Where is,” you begin, when you feel ready. You’re not ready. “Is there a way I can go there?”

“There?”

You’re pretty sure he knows where you mean. He’s just making sure you know what you’re asking for.

You swallow hard and try to reason it out. “They were in the Antarctics. Jija didn’t keep her on the road forever. She had somewhere safe, time to get stronger.” A lot stronger. “I can hold my breath underground, if you… Take me to where she w —” But no. That’s not really where you want to go. Stop dancing around it. “Take me to where Jija is. To… to where he died.”

Hoa doesn’t move for perhaps half a minute. You’ve noticed this about him. He takes varying amounts of time to respond to conversational cues. Sometimes his words nearly overlap yours when he replies, and sometimes you think he hasn’t heard you before he finally gets around to replying. You don’t think he’s thinking during that time, or anything. You think it just doesn’t mean anything to him – one second or ten, now or later. He heard you. He’ll get around to it eventually.