So she resolves to do something about it. It’s the thing she learned to do back in Found Moon, though to a lesser degree: She sometimes lets the little corestone in his sessapinae have some of her silver. She doesn’t know why it works, but she recalls seeing the Guardians in Found Moon all taking bits of silver from their charges and exhaling afterward, as if it eased something in them to give the corestone someone else to chew on.
Schaffa, however, has not taken silver from her or anyone else since the day she offered all of hers to him – the day she realized the true nature of the metal shard in his brain. She thinks maybe she understands why he stopped. Something changed between them that day, and he can no longer bring himself to feed on her like some sort of parasite. But that is why Nassun sneaks him magic now. Because something changed between them, and he’s not a parasite if she needs him, too, and if she gives what he will not take.
(One day soon, she will learn the word symbiosis and nod, pleased to have a name for it at last. But long before that, she will have already decided that family will do.)
When Nassun gives Schaffa her silver, though he is asleep, his body swallows it so quickly that she must snatch her hand away to avoid losing too much. She can spare only dribbles. Any more and she will be the one tired and unable to travel the next day. Even that tiny amount is enough to let him sleep, however – and as the days pass, Nassun finds herself gradually making more silver, somehow. It’s a welcome change; now she can ease his pain better without wearying herself. Every time she sees Schaffa settle into a deep, peaceful sleep, she feels proud and good, even though she knows she isn’t. Doesn’t matter. She is determined to be a better daughter to Schaffa than she was to Jija. Everything will be better, until the end.
Schaffa sometimes tells stories in the evenings, while dinner cooks. In them, the Yumenes of the past is a place both wondrous and strange, as alien as the bottom of the sea. (It is always the Yumenes of the past. Recent Yumenes is lost to him, along with his memories of the Schaffa he used to be.) Even the idea of Yumenes is hard for Nassun to comprehend: millions of people, none of them farmers or miners or anything that fits within the range of her experience, many of them obsessed with strange fads and politics and alignments far more complex than those of caste or race. Leaders, but also the elite Yumenescene Leadership families. Strongbacks of the union and those without, varying by their connections and financial security. Innovators from generations-old families who competed to be sent off to the Seventh University, and Innovators who merely built and repaired trinkets out of the city’s shantytowns. It is strange to realize that much of Yumenes’s strangeness was simply because it lasted so long. It had old families. Books in its libraries that were older than Tirimo. Organizations that remembered, and avenged, slights from three or four Seasons back.
Schaffa also tells her about the Fulcrum, although not much. There is another memory hole here, deep and fathomless as an obelisk – though Nassun finds herself unable to resist probing its edges. It is a space that her mother once inhabited, after all, and in spite of everything, this fascinates her. Schaffa remembers Essun poorly, however, even when Nassun works up the courage to ask direct questions about the matter. He tries to answer Nassun, but his speech is halting when he does, and the look that crosses his face is pained, troubled, paler than usual. She therefore forces herself to ask these questions slowly, hours or days apart, to give him time to recover in between. What she learns is little more than she has already guessed about her mother and the Fulcrum and life before the Season. It helps to hear it, nevertheless.
The miles pass like this, in memory and edged-around pain.
Conditions in the Antarctics grow worse by the day. The ashfall is no longer intermittent, and the landscape has begun to turn into a still life of hills and ridges and dying plants chiseled in gray-white. Nassun starts to miss the sight of the sun. One night they hear the squeals of what must be a large kirkhusa romp out hunting, though fortunately the sound is distant. One day they pass a pond whose surface is mirror-gray from floating ash; the water underneath is disturbingly still, given that the pond is fed by a rapid stream. Although their canteens are low, Nassun looks at Schaffa, and Schaffa nods in silent, wary agreement. There’s nothing overtly wrong, but… well. Surviving a Season is as much a matter of having the right instincts as having the right tools. They avoid the still water, and live.
On the evening of the twenty-ninth day, they reach a place where the Imperial Road abruptly plateaus and veers southward. Nassun sesses that the road edges along something that feels a bit like a crater rim. They have crested the ridge that surrounds this circular, unusually flat region, and the road follows the ridge in an arc around the zone of old damage, resuming its westward track on the other side. In the middle, though, Nassun at last beholds a wonder.
The Old Man’s Pucker is a sommian – a caldera inside a caldera. This one is unusual in being so perfectly formed; from what Nassun has read, usually the outer, older caldera is badly damaged by the eruption that creates the inner, newer caldera. In this case the outer one is an intact, nearly perfect circle, though heavily eroded by time and forested over; Nassun can’t really see it under the greenery, though she can sess it clearly. The inner caldera is a little more oblong, and it gleams so brightly from a distance that Nassun can guess what happened without even sessing it. The eruption must have been so hot, at least at one point, that the whole geological formation nearly destroyed itself. What remains has gone to glass, naturally tempered enough that not even centuries of weathering has damaged it much. The volcano that created this sommian is extinct now, its ancient magma chamber long since emptied, not even a whiff of leftover heat lingering. Once upon a time, though, the Pucker was the site of a truly awesome – and horrific – puncturing of the world’s crust.
As Steel instructed, they camp for the night a mile or two back from the Pucker. In the small hours before dawn, Nassun wakes, hearing a distant screech, but Schaffa soothes her. “I’ve heard that now and again,” he says softly, over the crackling of the fire. He insisted on a watch this time, so Nassun took the earlier shift. “Something in the Pucker forest. It doesn’t seem to be coming this way.”
She believes him. But neither of them sleeps well that night.
In the morning, they rise before dawn and start up the road. In the early-morning light, Nassun stares at the deceptively still double crater before them. Up close, it’s easier to see that there are breaks in the inner caldera’s walls at regular intervals; someone meant for people to be able to get inside. The outer caldera’s floor is completely overgrown, however, yellow-green and waving with a forest of treelike grass that has apparently choked out every other form of vegetation in the area. There’s no sess of even game trails across it.
The real surprise, though, is underneath the Pucker.
“Steel’s deadciv ruin,” she says. “It’s underground.”
Schaffa glances at her in surprise, but he does not protest. “In the magma chamber?”
“Maybe?” Nassun can’t believe it, either, at first, but the silver does not lie. She notices something else strange as she expands her sesunal awareness of the area. The silver mirrors the perturbations of topography and the forest here – the same way it does everywhere. Yet the silver here is brighter, somehow, and it seems to flow more readily from plant to plant and rock to rock. These blend to become larger, dazzling flows that all run together like streams, until the ruin sits within a pool of glimmering, churning light. She can’t make out details, there’s so much of it – just empty space, and an impression of buildings. It’s huge, this ruin. A city, like no city Nassun has ever sessed.
But she has sessed this torrential churn of silver before. She cannot help turning to glance back toward the sapphire that is faintly visible some miles off. They’ve outpaced it, but it’s still following.
“Yes,” Schaffa says. He’s been watching her, and missing nothing as she makes the connections. “I don’t remember this city, but I know of others like it. The obelisks were made in such places.”
She shakes her head, trying to fathom it all. “What happened to this city? There must have been a lot of people here once.”