Everyone stares at you. You look at Ykka. You’re breathing hard because that degree of fine focus is much, much harder than shifting a hillside. “Need anything shaken?”
She blinks, sessing instantly what you mean. Then she grabs your arm. There is—what? An inversion. A channeling-away, as you would do to an obelisk, except there is no obelisk, and you aren’t doing the channeling even though it’s your orogeny. All at once you hear people exclaim outside, and you glance through the infirmary’s door. The infirmary is a built-building, not carved from one of the giant crystals of the geode; inside it’s lit only by electric lamps. Outside, however, through the uncurtained doorway, you can see the geode crystals glowing noticeably brighter, all over the comm.
You stare at Ykka. She nods back at you in a matter-of-fact, collegial way, as if you should have any clue what she’s just done or as if you should be comfortable with a feral doing something that a ringed Fulcrum orogene can’t. Then Ykka steps over to grab another pair of forceps to help. Lerna’s pulling on one of the beetles again despite his scalded fingers, and this time the thing is coming off. A proboscis as long as its body slides out of the boiled flesh, and—you can’t look anymore.
(You glimpse Ruby Hair again, from the corner of your eye. She’s ignoring Hoa, who stands still as a statue between you, and now she’s smiling at Ykka. Her lips are parted just a little. You glimpse a hint of shining teeth. You blot this from your awareness.)
So you retreat to the far end of the infirmary, to sit down beside Alabaster’s cushion pile. He’s still bent over, breathing like a bellows, although the stone eater has taken hold of his shoulder with one viselike hand to keep him mostly upright. Belatedly you realize he’s holding one of his stumpy wrists to his belly, and—oh, Earth. The gray-brown rock that once only capped his right wrist now sleeves up to his elbow.
He lifts his head; sweat sheens his face. He looks as weary as if he just shut down another supervolcano, although this time he’s at least conscious, and smiling.
“Ever the good pupil, Syen,” he murmurs. “But rusting Earth, is it costly to teach you.”
The shock of understanding rings through you like silence. Alabaster can’t do orogeny anymore. Not without… consequences. Impulse makes you look at Antimony, and your gorge rises as you realize the stone eater’s gaze is fixed on his newly stoned arm. She doesn’t move, however. After a moment Alabaster manages to straighten, throwing a grateful look at her for the supportive hand. “Later,” he says softly. You know this means eat my arm later. She adjusts her hand to support him from behind instead.
The urge to push her aside, put your hand in place to hold him up, is so powerful that you can’t look at this, either.
You push yourself up, brush past everyone else to get outside the infirmary, and then you sit down on the low, flattened tip of a crystal that is only just beginning to grow out of the geode wall. No one bothers you, though you feel the pressure of gazes and hear the echo of whispers. You don’t mean to stay long, but you do. You don’t know why.
Eventually a shadow falls over your feet. You look up to see Lerna standing there. Beyond him, Ykka is walking away with another man who is trying to talk to her; she seems to be angrily ignoring him. The rest of the crowd has dispersed at last, though you can see through the open doorway that there’s still more people in the infirmary than usual, perhaps visiting the poor half-cooked Hunter.
Lerna isn’t looking at you. He’s staring at the far wall of the geode, which is lost in the hazy glow from dozens of crystals between here and there. He’s also smoking a cigarette. The stench of it, and the yellowish color of the outer wrapping, tells you it’s a mellow: derminther mela leaves and flower buds, mildly narcotic when dried. The Somidlats are famous for them, to the degree that the Somidlats can be famous for anything. You’re still surprised to see him smoking one, though. He’s a doctor. Mellows are bad for you.
“You all right?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer at first, taking a long drag on the cigarette. You’re starting to think he won’t speak, when he says, “I’m going to kill him when I go back in there.”
Then you understand. The bugs burned through skin, muscle, maybe even down to bone. With a team of Yumenescene doctors and cutting-edge biomestric drugs, maybe the man could be kept alive long enough to heal—and even then he might never walk again. With just whatever equipment and medicines Castrima has to hand, the best Lerna can do is amputate. The man might survive it. But this is a Season, and every comm-dweller must earn their shelter from the ash and cold. Few comms have use for a legless Hunter, and this comm is already supporting one burned invalid.
(Ykka walking away, ignoring a man who sounds like he is arguing for a life.)
So Lerna is very much not all right. You decide to change the subject, slightly. “I’ve never seen anything like those bugs.”
“The locals say they’re called boilbugs, though no one knew why before now. They breed around streams, carry water inside themselves. Animals eat them during droughts. Usually they’re carrion eaters. Harmless.” Lerna flicks ash from his forearm. He’s wearing only a loose sleeveless shirt due to Castrima’s warmth. The skin of his forearms is flecked with… something. You look away. “Things change during a Season, though.”
Yes. Cooked carrion probably lasts longer.
“You could’ve gotten those things off him the instant you walked in the door,” Lerna adds.
You blink. Then it registers in your mind that this statement was an attack. It’s so mildly delivered, from such an unexpected quarter, that you’re too surprised to be angry. “I couldn’t,” you say. “At least, I didn’t know I could. Alabaster—”
“I don’t expect anything from him. He came to die here, not live here.” Lerna pivots to face you, and all of a sudden you realize that his placid manner has been concealing absolute rage. His gaze is cool, but it’s visible in everything else: his white lips, the flex of muscle in his jaw, his flaring nostrils. “Why are you here, Essun?”
You flinch. “You know why. I came to find Nassun.”
“Nassun’s out of your reach. Your goals have changed; now you’re here to survive, same as the rest of us. Now you’re one of us.” His lip curls in something that might be contempt. “I’m saying this because if I don’t make you understand, you might have a rusting fit and kill us all.”
You open your mouth to reply. He takes a step toward you, though, and it’s so aggressive that you actually sit up. “Tell me you won’t, Essun. Tell me I won’t have to leave this comm in the dead of the night, hoping nobody you’ve pissed off catches me and slits my throat. Tell me I’m not going to have to go back out there, to fight for my life and watch people I try to help die again and again and again, until I get eaten by rusting bugs—”
He cuts himself off with a choked sound, turning away sharply. You stare at his tense back and say nothing, because there’s nothing you can say. This is the second time he’s mentioned your murder of Tirimo. And is that surprising? He was born there, grew up there; Lerna’s mother was still living there when you left. You think. Maybe you killed her, too, that last day.
There’s nothing you can say, not with guilt souring your mouth, but you try anyway. “I’m sorry.”
He laughs. It doesn’t even sound like him, it’s so ugly and angry. Then he resumes his former posture, gazing at the far geode wall. He’s more in control of himself now; the muscle in his jaw isn’t jumping quite so much. “Prove you’re sorry.”
You shake your head, in confusion rather than refusal. “How?”