The Fifth Season

12 Syenite finds a new toy

MY COLLEAGUE IS ILL,” SYENITE tells Asael Leadership Allia as she sits facing the woman across a desk. “He sends his apologies for being unable to assist. I will clear the blockage in your harbor.”

“I’m sorry to hear of your senior’s illness,” says Asael, with a little smile that almost makes Syen’s hackles rise. Almost, because she knew it was coming and could thus brace for it. It still rankles.

“But I must ask,” Asael continues, looking overly concerned. “Will you be… sufficient?” Her eyes flick down to Syen’s fingers, where Syen has taken great care to put her rings on the four fingers a casual observer would be most likely to see. Her hands are folded, with the thumb of that hand tucked out of the way for the moment; let Asael wonder if there’s a fifth one there. But when Asael’s eyes meet Syen’s again, Syen sees only skepticism. She is unimpressed by four rings or even five.

And this is why I will never, ever take a mission with a ten-ringer again. Like she has a choice. She feels better thinking it anyway.

Syenite forces herself to smile, though she doesn’t have Alabaster’s knack for exaggerated politeness. She knows her smiles just look pissed-off. “In my last mission,” she says, “I was responsible for demolishing three buildings out of a block of five. This was in downtown Dibars, an area with several thousand inhabitants on a busy day, and not far from the Seventh University.” She uncrosses and recrosses her legs. The geomests had driven her half mad on that mission, constantly demanding reassurances that she wouldn’t create a shake any stronger than a 5.0. Sensitive instruments, important calibrations, something like that. “It took five minutes, and no rubble landed outside of the demolition zone. That was before I earned my latest ring.” And she’d kept the shake to a fourer, much to the geomests’ delight.

“I’m pleased to hear you’re so competent,” says Asael. There is a pause, which makes Syen brace herself. “With your colleague unable to contribute, however, I see no reason for Allia to pay for the services of two orogenes.”

“That’s between you and the Fulcrum,” Syen says, dismissively. She honestly doesn’t care. “I suspect you’ll get an argument from them because Alabaster is mentoring me on this trip, and overseeing my work even if he isn’t actually doing it.”

“But if he isn’t here—”

“That’s irrelevant.” It galls, but Syenite decides to explain. “He wears ten rings. He’ll be able to observe what I’m doing, and intervene if necessary, from his hotel room. He could do it while unconscious. Moreover, he’s been quelling shakes in this area for the past few days, as we’ve traveled through it. That’s a service he provides as a courtesy to local node maintainers — or to your comm, rather, since such a remote location doesn’t have a node station nearby.” As Asael’s expression tightens into a frown, probably at the perceived insult, Syen spreads her hands. “The biggest difference between him and me is that I’m the one who needs to see what she’s doing.”

“I… see.” Asael sounds deeply uneasy, as she should. Syen knows that it’s the job of any Fulcrum orogene to ease the fears of the stills, and here Syen has exacerbated Asael’s. But she’s begun to develop a nasty suspicion about who in Allia might want Alabaster dead, so it’s a good idea for her to dissuade Asael — or whoever Asael knows — from that plan. This pedantic minor bureaucrat has no idea how close her little city came to being flattened last night.

In the uncomfortable silence that falls, Syenite decides it’s time she asks some questions of her own. And maybe stirs the shit a little, to see what rises to the top. “I see that the governor wasn’t able to make it, today.”

“Yes.” Asael’s face goes gameswoman-blank, all polite smile and empty eyes. “I did convey your colleague’s request. Unfortunately, the governor was unable to make time in his schedule.”

“That’s a shame.” And then, because Syenite is beginning to understand why Alabaster is such an ass about this, she folds her hands. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t a request. Do you have a telegraph here? I’d like to send a message to the Fulcrum, let them know we’ll be delayed.”

Asael’s eyes narrow, because of course they have a telegraph, and of course Syenite meant that as another dig. “Delayed.”

“Well, yes.” Syen raises her eyebrows. She knows she’s not doing a good job of looking innocent, but she tries, at least. “How long do you think it will be before the governor is able to meet with us? The Fulcrum will want to know.” And she stands, as if to leave.

Asael tilts her head, but Syenite can see the tension in her shoulders. “I thought you were more reasonable than your colleague. You’re actually going to walk out of here, and not clear our harbor, in a fit of pique.”

“It isn’t a fit of pique.” Now Syen’s mad for real. Now she gets it. She looks down at Asael, who sits there, smug and secure in her big chair behind her big desk, and it’s an actual fight to keep her fists from clenching, her jaw muscles from flexing. “Would you tolerate this treatment, in our position?”

“Of course I would!” Asael straightens, surprised into an actual reaction for once. “The governor has no time for—”

“No, you wouldn’t tolerate it. Because if you were in my position, you’d be the representative of an independent and powerful organization, not some two-quartz backwater flunky. You would expect to be treated like a skilled expert who’s been learning her craft since childhood. Like someone who plies an important and difficult trade, and who’s come to perform a task that dictates your comm’s livelihood.”

Asael is staring at her. Syenite pauses, takes a deep breath. She must stay polite, and wield that politeness like a finely knapped glassknife. She must be cold and calm in her anger, lest a lack of self-control be dismissed as the mark of monstrosity. Once the heat behind her eyes has eased, she steps forward.

“And yet you haven’t shaken our hands, Asael Leader. You didn’t look us in the eye when we first met. You still haven’t offered that cup of safe that Alabaster suggested yesterday. Would you do that to a decreed ’mest from the Seventh University? Would you do it to a master geneer, come to repair the comm’s hydro? Would you do it to a representative of the Strongbacks’ Union for your own comm?”

Asael actually flinches as the analogies finally get through to her. Syenite waits in silence, letting it gather pressure. Finally Asael says, “I see.”

“Maybe you do.” She keeps waiting, and Asael sighs.

“What do you want? An apology? Then I apologize. You must remember, though, that most normal people have never seen an orogene, let alone had to do business with one, and—” She spreads her hands. “Isn’t it understandable that we might be… uncomfortable?”

“Discomfort is understandable. It’s the rudeness that isn’t.” Rust this. This woman doesn’t deserve the effort of her explanation. Syen decides to save that for someone who matters. “And that’s a really shitty apology. ‘I’m sorry you’re so abnormal that I can’t manage to treat you like a human being.’”

“You’re a rogga,” Asael snaps, and then has the gall to look surprised at herself.

“Well.” Syenite makes herself smile. “At least that’s out in the open.” She shakes her head and turns toward the door. “I’ll come back tomorrow. Maybe you’ll have had time to check the governor’s schedule by then.”

“You are under contract,” Asael says, her voice tight enough to quaver. “You are required to perform the service for which we have paid your organization.”

“And we will.” Syenite reaches the door and stops with her hand on the handle, shrugging. “But the contract doesn’t specify how long we have, upon arrival, to get it done.” She’s bluffing. She has no idea what’s in the contract. But she’s willing to bet Asael doesn’t, either; a deputy governor doesn’t sound important enough to know that sort of thing. “Thanks for the stay at the Season’s End, by the way. The beds are very comfortable. And the food’s delicious.”

That, of course, does it. Asael stands as well. “Stay here. I’ll go and speak with the governor.”

So Syen smiles pleasantly, and sits back down to wait. Asael leaves the room, and stays gone for long enough that Syen starts to doze off. She recovers when the door opens again, and another Coaster woman, elderly and portly, comes in with a chastened-looking Asael. The governor’s a man. Syenite sighs inwardly and braces herself for more weaponized politeness.

“Syenite Orogene,” the woman says, and despite her rising ire Syenite is impressed by the gravity of her presence. The “orogene” after Syen’s name isn’t necessary, of course, but it’s a nice bit of much-needed courtesy — so Syen rises, and the woman immediately steps forward and offers a hand for her to shake. Her skin is cool and dry and harder than Syenite expected. No calluses, just hands that have done their share of everyday labor. “My name is Heresmith Leadership Allia. I’m the lieutenant governor. The governor genuinely is too busy to meet with you today, but I’ve cleared enough time on my schedule, and I hope my greeting will be sufficient… especially as it comes with an apology for your poor treatment thus far. I can assure you that Asael will be censured for her behavior, to remind her that it’s always good leadership to treat others—all others — with courtesy.”

Well. The woman could be just playing a politician’s game, or she could be lying about being the lieutenant governor; maybe Asael’s found a very well-dressed janitor to play the part. Still, it’s an effort at compromise, and Syen will take it.

“Thank you,” she says, with genuine gratitude. “I’ll convey your apology to my colleague Alabaster.”

“Good. Please also tell him that Allia will pay your expenses, per our agreed-upon contract, for up to three days before and three after your clearing of the harbor.” And there’s an edge to her smile now, which Syenite knows she probably deserves. This woman, it seems, actually has read the contract.

Doesn’t matter, though. “I appreciate the clarification.”

“Is there anything else you need during your stay? Asael would be happy to provide a tour of the city, for example.”

Damn. Syen likes this woman. She stifles the urge to smile and glances at Asael, who’s managed to compose herself by this point; she gazes impassively back at Syenite. And Syen’s tempted to do what Alabaster probably would, and take Heresmith up on that tacit offer of Asael’s humiliation. But Syenite is tired, and this whole trip’s been hellish, and the sooner it’s over and she’s back home at the Fulcrum, the better.

“No need,” she says, and does Asael’s face twitch a little in suppressed relief? “I’d actually like to get a look at the harbor, if I may, so that I can assess the problem.”

“Of course. But surely you’d like refreshment first? At least a cup of safe.”

Syenite can’t help it now. Her lips twitch. “I don’t actually like safe, I should probably say.”

“No one does.” And there’s no mistaking the genuine smile on Heresmith’s face. “Anything else, then, before we go?”

Now it’s Syen’s turn to be surprised. “You’re coming with us?”

Heresmith’s expression grows wry. “Well, our comm’s livelihood is dependent on you, after all. It seems only proper.”

Oh, yeah. This one’s a keeper. “Then please proceed, Heresmith Leader.” Syenite gestures toward the door, and they all head out.

* * *

The harbor’s wrong.

They’re standing on a kind of boardwalk along the western curve of the harbor’s half circle. From there most of Allia can be seen, spreading up the caldera slopes that surround the waterfront. The city really is quite lovely. It’s a beautiful day, bright and warm, with a sky so deep and clear that Syenite thinks the stargazing at night should be amazing. Yet it’s what she can’t see — under the water, along the harbor bottom — that makes her skin crawl.

“That’s not coral,” she says.

Heresmith and Asael turn to her, both of them looking puzzled. “Pardon?” asks Heresmith.

Syenite moves away from them, going to the railing and extending her hands. She doesn’t need to gesture; she just wants them to know she’s doing something. A Fulcrum orogene always reassures clients of their awareness and understanding of the situation, even when those clients have no actual idea what’s going on. “The harbor floor. The top layer is coral.” She thinks. She’s never felt coral before, but it feels like what she expected: layers of wriggling bright life that she can pull from, if she needs to, to fuel her orogeny; and a solid core of ancient calcified death. But the coral heap sits atop a humped ridge in the floor of the harbor, and although it feels natural — there are usually folds like this in places where land meets sea, she’s read — Syenite can tell it’s not.

It’s absolutely straight, for one thing. And huge; the ridge spans the width of the harbor. But more importantly, it isn’t there.

The rock beneath the raised layers of silt and sand, that is: She can’t feel it. She should be able to, if it’s pushing up the seafloor like this. She can feel the weight of the water atop it, and the rock deformed by its weight and pressure underneath, and the strata around it, but not the actual obstruction itself. There might as well be a big empty hole on the bottom of the harbor… around which the entire harbor floor has shaped itself.

Syenite frowns. Her fingers spread and twitch, following the flow and curve of the sesuna. Soft slither of loose schist and sand and organic matter, cool press of solid bedrock, flow and dip. As she follows it, she belatedly remembers to narrate her explorations. “There’s something beneath the coral, buried in the ocean floor. Not far down. The rock underneath is compressed; it must be heavy…” But why can’t she feel it, if so? Why can she detect the obstruction only by its effect on everything nearby? “It’s strange.”

“Is it relevant?” That’s Asael, maybe trying to sound professional and intelligent in order to get back into Heresmith’s good graces. “All we need is for the coral blockage to be destroyed.”

“Yes, but the coral’s on top of it.” She searches for the coral and finds it all around the edges of the harbor; a theory forms. “That’s why this is the only place in the deep part of the harbor that’s blocked by coral. It’s growing on top of the thing, where the ocean floor has effectively been raised. Coral’s a thing of the shallows, but it can get plenty of sun-warmed water, along this ridge.”

“Rusting Earth. Does that mean the coral will just grow back?” That’s one of the men who came with Asael and Heresmith. They’re a bunch of clerks, as far as Syenite can tell, and she keeps forgetting they’re present until they speak. “The whole point of this is to clear the harbor for good.”

Syenite exhales and relaxes her sessapinae, opening her eyes so they’ll know she’s done. “Eventually, yes,” she says, turning to them. “Look, here’s what you’re dealing with. This is your harbor.” She cups her left hand in an approximate circle, two-thirds closed. Allia’s harbor is more irregular than this, but they get it, she sees as they step closer to her demonstration. So she lays the thumb of her right hand across the open part of the circle, almost but not quite closing it off. “This is the position of the thing. It’s slightly elevated at one end”—she wiggles the tip of her thumb—“because there’s a natural incline in the substrate. That’s where most of the coral is. The waters at the far end of the thing are deeper, and colder.” Awkwardly she waggles her hand to indicate the heel of her thumb. “That’s the open channel you’ve been using for port traffic. Unless this coral suddenly starts liking cold dark water, or another variety of coral shows up that does, then that part may never become occluded.”

But even as she says this, it occurs to her: Coral builds on itself. New creatures grow on the bones of their predecessors; in time, that will lift even the colder part of the harbor into the zone of optimal growth. And with perfect timing Asael frowns and says, “Except that channel has been closing, slowly but surely, over the years. We have accounts from a few decades ago that say we used to be able to accommodate boats across the middle of the harbor; we can’t, anymore.”

Underfires. When Syen gets back to the Fulcrum, she’s going to tell them to add rock-building marine life to the grit curriculum; ridiculous that it’s not something they learn already. “If this comm’s been around for many Seasons and you’re only just now having this problem, then obviously this isn’t the kind of coral that grows quickly.”

“Allia is only two Seasons old,” says Heresmith, with a pained smile at Syen. That’s a respectable achievement in and of itself. In the midlats and arctics, a lot of comms don’t last a single Season; the coasts are even more volatile. But of course, Heresmith thinks she’s talking to a born-and-bred Yumenescene.

Syenite tries to remember the stuff she didn’t sleep through in history creche. The Choking Season is the one that occurred most recently, a little over a hundred years ago; it was mild as Seasons have gone, killing mostly people in the Antarctic, near Mount Akok when it blew. Before that was the Acid Season? Or was it Boiling? She always gets those two mixed up. Whichever one it was, it was two or maybe three hundred years before Choking, and it was a bad one. Right — there were no seaside comms left after that one, so naturally Allia can only be a few decades younger, founded when the waters sweetened and receded and left the coastline habitable again.

“So that coral blocked the harbor over the course of four hundred years or so,” Syenite says, thinking aloud. “Maybe with a setback during Choking…” How does coral survive a Fifth Season? She has no idea, but it clearly needs warmth and light to thrive, so it must have died back during that one. “All right, let’s say it really grew into a blockage over a hundred years.”

“Fire-under-Earth,” says another woman, looking horrified. “You mean we might have to do this again in just a century?”

“We will still be paying the Fulcrum in a century,” says Heresmith, sighing, and the look she throws Syenite is not resentful, just resigned. “Your superiors charge dearly for your services, I’m afraid.”

Syenite resists the urge to shrug. It’s true.

They all look at each other, and then they look at her, and by this Syen knows: They’re about to ask her to do something stupid.

“That’s a very bad idea,” she says preemptively, holding up her hands. “Seriously. I’ve never shifted anything underwater before; that’s why I had a senior assigned to me.” Fat lot of good he’s been. “And more importantly, I don’t know what that thing is. It could be a massive gas or oil pocket that will poison your harbor waters for years.” It’s not. You know this because no oil or gas pocket is as perfectly straight and dense as this thing is, and because you can sess oil and gas. “It could even be the remnant of some especially stupid deadciv that seeded all its harbors with bombs.” Oh, that was brilliant. They’re staring at her now, horrified. She tries again.

“Commission a study,” she says. “Bring in some geomests who study marine floors, maybe some geneers who know something about…” She waggles a hand, guesses wildly. “Ocean currents. Figure out all the positives and negatives. Then call in someone like me.” She hopes it won’t be her again, specifically. “Orogeny should always be your last resort, not your first.”

That’s better. They’re listening. Two of the ones she doesn’t know start murmuring quietly to each other, and Heresmith has a thoughtful look on her face. Asael looks resentful, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything bad. Asael’s not very smart.

“I’m afraid we have to consider it,” says Heresmith at last, looking so deeply frustrated that Syenite feels sorry for her. “We can’t afford another contract with the Fulcrum, and I’m not certain we can afford a study; the Seventh University and Geneer Licensure charge almost as much as the Fulcrum for their services. But most importantly, we can’t afford to have the harbor blocked any longer — as you’ve guessed, we’re already losing business to several other Coaster ports that can accommodate the heavier-riding freight vessels. If we lose accessibility altogether, there will be no reason for this comm to continue existing.”

“And I’m sympathetic,” Syen begins, but then one of the men who’ve been murmuring in the background scowls at her.

“You’re also an agent of the Fulcrum,” he says, “and we contracted you to do a job.”

Maybe he’s not a clerk, then. “I know that. And I’ll do it right now, if you want.” The coral is nothing, she knows, now that she’s sessed it out. She can probably do that without rocking the boats in their moorings too much. “Your harbor can be usable tomorrow, if I get rid of the coral today—”

“But you were hired to clear the harbor,” says Asael. “Permanently, not some temporary fix. If the problem has turned out to be bigger than you think, that’s no excuse for not finishing the job.” Her eyes narrow. “Unless there’s some reason you’re so reluctant to shift the obstruction.”

Syen resists the urge to call Asael one of several names. “I’ve explained my reasoning, Leader. If it was my intention to cheat you in some way, why would I have told you anything about the obstruction? I would’ve just cleared the coral and let you figure it out the hard way when the stuff grows back.”

That sways some of them, she can see; both of the group’s men stop looking so suspicious. Even Asael falters out of her accusatory stance, straightening a little in unease. Heresmith, too, nods and turns to the others.

“I think we’ll need to discuss this with the governor,” she says, finally. “Present him all the options.”

“Respectfully, Leader Heresmith,” says one of the other women, frowning, “I don’t see another option. We either clear the harbor temporarily, or permanently. Either way we pay the Fulcrum the same amount.”

“Or you do nothing,” Syenite says. They all turn to stare at her, and she sighs. She’s a fool to even mention this; Earth knows what the seniors will do to her if she scuttles this mission. She can’t help it, though. These people face the economic destruction of their whole community. It’s not a Season, so they can move somewhere else, try to start over. Or they can dissolve, with all the comm’s families trying to find places in other communities—

— which should work except for those family members who are poor, or infirm, or elderly. Or those who have uncles or siblings or parents who turned out to be orogenes; nobody will take those. Or if the community they try to join has too many members of their use-caste already. Or.

Rust it.

“If my colleague and I go back now,” Syenite continues in spite of everything, “without doing anything, then we’ll be in breach of contract. You’ll be within your rights to demand your commission fee back, less our expenses for travel and local accommodations.” She’s looking dead at Asael as she says this; Asael’s jaw muscles flex. “Your harbor will still be usable, at least for a few years more. Use that time, and the money you saved, to either study what’s happening and figure out what’s down there… or move your comm to a better location.”

“That’s not an option,” says Asael, looking horrified. “This is our home.”

Syen cannot help thinking of a fusty-smelling blanket.

“Home is people,” she says to Asael, softly. Asael blinks. “Home is what you take with you, not what you leave behind.”

Heresmith sighs. “That’s very poetic, Syenite Orogene. But Asael is correct. Moving would mean the loss of our comm’s identity, and possibly the fracturing of our population. It would also mean losing everything we’ve invested in this location.” She gestures around, and Syenite understands what she means: You can move people easily, but not buildings. Not infrastructure. These things are wealth, and even outside of a Season, wealth means survival. “And there’s no guarantee we won’t face worse problems elsewhere. I appreciate your honesty — I do. Really. But, well… better the volcano we know.”

Syenite sighs. She tried. “What do you want to do, then?”

“It seems obvious, doesn’t it?”

It does. Evil Earth, it does.

“Can you do it?” asks Asael. And maybe she doesn’t mean it as a challenge. Maybe she’s just anxious, because after all what Syen is talking about here is the fate of the comm Asael’s been raised in and trained to guide and protect. And of course, as a Leader-born child, Asael would know nothing of this comm but its potential and welcome. She would never have reason to view her community with distrust or hatred or fear.

Syen doesn’t mean to resent her. But she’s already in a bad mood, and she’s tired because she didn’t get much sleep while saving Alabaster from poisoning the night before, and Asael’s question assumes that she is less than what she is. It’s one time too many, throughout this whole long, awful trip.

“Yes,” Syenite snaps, turning and extending her hands. “You should all step back at least ten feet.”

There are gasps from the group, murmurs of alarm, and she feels them recede quickly along the unfolding map of her awareness: hot bright jittering points moving out of easy reach. They’re still in slightly less easy reach. So’s their whole comm, really, a cluster of motion and life all around her, so easy to grasp and devour and use. But they don’t need to know that. She’s a professional, after all.

So she stabs the fulcrum of her power into the earth in a sharp, deep point so that her torus will be narrow and high rather than wide and deadly. And then she probes around the local substrate again, searching for the nearest fault or perhaps a remnant bit of heat from the extinct volcano that once formed Allia’s caldera. The thing in the harbor is heavy, after all; she’s going to need more than ambient power to shift it.

But as she searches, something very strange — and very familiar — happens. Her awareness shifts.

Suddenly she’s not in the earth anymore. Something pulls her away, and over, and down, and in. And all at once she is lost, flailing about in a space of black constricting cold, and the power that flows into her is not heat or motion or potential but something entirely else.

Something like what she felt last night when Alabaster comandeered her orogeny. But this isn’t Alabaster.

And she’s still in control, sort of. That is, she can’t stop what’s happening — she’s taken in too much power already; if she tries to let it go, she’ll ice half the comm and set off a shake that makes the shape of the harbor academic. But she can use the flood of power. She can steer it, for example, into the rock bed underneath the thing she can’t see. She can push up, which lacks finesse and efficiency but gets the rusting job done, and she can feel the enormous blankness that is the object rise in response. If Alabaster’s observing from his inn room, he must be impressed.

But where’s the power coming from? How am I—

She can realize, belatedly and with some horror, that water moves much like rock in response to a sudden infusion of kinetic energy — but it’s much, much faster to react. And she can react herself, faster than she’s ever done before because she’s brimming with strength, it’s practically coming out of her pores and, Earthfire, it feels unbelievably good, it is child’s play to stop the massive wave that’s building and about to swamp the harbor. She just disippates its force, sending some back out to sea, channeling the rest into soothing the waters as the thing from the ocean floor breaks free of its encumbering sediment — and the coral, which just slides off and shatters — and begins to rise.

But.

But.

The thing isn’t doing what she wants it to do. She’d intended to just shunt it to the side of the harbor; that way if the coral grows back, it still won’t block the channel. Instead—

— Evil Earth — what the rust — instead—

Instead, it’s moving on its own. She can’t hold it. When she tries, all the power that she held just trickles away, sucked off somewhere as quickly as it infused her.

Syen falls back into herself then, gasping as she sags against the wooden railing of the boardwalk. Only a few seconds have passed. Her dignity will not allow her to fall to her knees, but the railing’s the only thing keeping her up. And then she realizes no one will notice her weakness, because the boards beneath her feet, and the railing she’s clinging to, are all rattling in an ominous sort of way.

The shake siren begins wailing, deafeningly loud, from a tower right behind her. People are running on the quays below the boardwalk and the streets around it; if not for the siren, she would probably hear screams. With an effort Syen lifts her head to see Asael, Heresmith, and their party hurrying away from the boardwalk, keeping well away from any buildings, their faces stark with fear. Of course they leave Syenite behind.

But that is not the thing that finally pulls Syen out of self-absorption. What does is a sudden spray of seawater that wafts across the quays like rain, followed by a shadow that darkens this whole side of the harbor. She turns.

There, rising slowly from the water and shedding the remnants of its earthen shell as it begins to hum and turn, is an obelisk.

It’s different from the one Syen saw last night. That one, the purple one, she thinks is still a few miles off coast, though she doesn’t look that way to confirm its presence. The one before her dominates all her vision, all her thought, because it’s rusting huge and it’s not even completely out of the water yet. Its color is the deep red of garnets, its shape a hexagonal column with a sharp-pointed, irregular tip. It is completely solid, not shimmering or flickering in the half-real way of most obelisks; it is wider than several ships put end to end. And of course it is long enough, as it continues to rise and turn, to nearly block off the whole harbor. A mile from tip to tip.

But something’s wrong with it, which becomes clear as it rises. At the midpoint of the shaft, the clear, crystalline beauty of the thing gives way to cracks. Massive ones, ugly and black-tinged, as if some contaminant from the ocean floor has seeped in during all the centuries that the thing must have lain down there. The jagged, spidering lines spread across the crystal in a radiant pattern. Syenite can feel how the obelisk’s hum jitters and stutters here, incomprehensible energies struggling through the place of damage.

And at the center of the radiating cracks, she can see some kind of occlusion. Something small. Syenite squints, leaning harder on the railing as she cranes her neck to follow the rising mote. Then the obelisk turns a little more as if to face her, and all at once her blood ices over as she realizes what she’s seeing.

A person. There’s someone in the thing, stuck like a bug in amber, limbs splayed and still, hair a frozen spray. She can’t make out the face, not quite, but in her imagination the eyes are wide, the mouth open. Screaming.

That’s when she realizes she can make out an odd marbling along the figure’s skin, black-bruised through the dark red of the shaft. The sunlight flickers and she realizes its hair is clear, or at least translucent enough to be lost in the garnet around it. And there’s just something about what she’s seeing, something maybe she knows because for a moment she was a part of this obelisk, that’s where the power was coming from, something she won’t question too deeply because, Evil Earth, she can’t take this. The knowledge is there in her mind, impossible to deny no matter how much she might want to. When the reasoning mind is forced to confront the impossible again and again, it has no choice but to adapt.

So she accepts that what she is looking at is a broken obelisk that has lain unknown on the floor of Allia’s harbor for Earth knows how long. She accepts that what is trapped at its heart, what has somehow broken this massive, magnificent, arcane thing… is a stone eater.

And it’s dead.

* * *

Father Earth thinks in ages, but he never, ever sleeps. Nor does he forget.

— Tablet Two, “The Incomplete Truth,” verse two