“Bullshit,” you say, frowning. “No comm is that bad.”
Danel just lets out a single bitter snort. It makes you uneasy.
“Just think about it,” she says finally, and gets up to leave.
***
“I agree that Danel should come with us,” Lerna says, later that night when you tell him about the conversation. “She’s a good fighter. Knows the road. And she’s right: she has no reason to betray us.”
You’re half-asleep, because of the sex. It’s an anticlimactic thing now that it’s finally happened. What you feel for Lerna will never be intense, or guilt-free. You’ll always feel too old for him. But, well. He asked you to show him the truncated breast and you did, thinking that would mark the end of his interest in you. The sandy patch is crusty and rough amid the smoother brown of your torso – like a scab, though the wrong color and texture. His hands were gentle as he examined the spot and pronounced it sound enough to need no further bandaging. You told him that it didn’t hurt. You didn’t say that you were afraid you couldn’t feel anything anymore. That you were changing, hardening in more ways than one, becoming nothing but the weapon everyone keeps trying to make of you. You didn’t say, Maybe you’re better off with unrequited love.
But even though you didn’t say any of these things, after the examination he looked at you and replied, “You’re still beautiful.” You apparently needed to hear that a lot more than you realized. And now here you are.
So you process his words slowly because he’s made you feel relaxed and boneless and human again, and it’s a good ten seconds before you blurt, “‘Us’?”
He just looks at you.
“Shit,” you say, and drape an arm over your eyes.
The next day, Castrima enters the desert.
***
There comes a time of greater hardship for you.
All Seasons are hardship, Death is the fifth, and master of all, but this time is different. This is personal. This is a thousand people trying to cross a desert that is deadly even when acid rain isn’t sheeting from the sky. This is a group force-march along a highroad that is shaky and full of holes big enough to drop a house through. Highroads are built to withstand shakes, but there’s a limit, and the Rifting definitely surpassed it. Ykka decided to take the risk because even a damaged highroad is faster to travel than the desert sand, but this takes a toll. Every orogene in the comm has to stay on alert, because anything worse than a microshake while you’re up here could spell disaster. One day Penty, too exhausted to pay attention to her own instincts, steps on a patch of cracked asphalt that’s completely unstable. One of the other rogga kids snatches her away just as a big piece simply falls through the substructure of the road. Others are less careful, and less lucky.
The acid rain was unexpected. Stonelore does not discuss the ways in which Seasons can impact weather, because such things are unpredictable at the best of times. What happens here is not entirely surprising, however. Northward, at the equator, the Rifting pumps heat and particulates into the air. Moisture-laden tropical winds coming off the sea hit this cloud-seeding, energy-infusing wall, which whips them into storm. You remember being worried about snow. No. It’s endless, miserable rain.
(The rain is not so very acid, as these things go. In the Season of Turning Soil – long before Sanze, you would not know of it – there was rain that stripped animals’ fur and peeled the skins off oranges. This is nothing compared to that, and diluted as it is by water. Like vinegar. You’ll live.)
Ykka sets a brutal pace while you’re on the highroad. On the first day everyone makes camp well after nightfall, and Lerna does not come to the tent after you wearily put it up. He’s busy tending half a dozen people who are going lame from slips or twisted ankles, and two elders who are having breathing problems, and the pregnant woman. The latter three are doing all right, he tells you when he finally crawls into your bedroll, near dawn; Ontrag the potter lives on spite, and the pregnant woman has both her household and half the Breeders taking care of her. What’s troubling are the injuries. “I have to tell Ykka,” he says as you push a slab of rain-soaked cachebread and sour sausage into his mouth, then cover him up and make him lie still. He chews and swallows almost without noticing. “We can’t keep going at this pace. We’ll start losing people if we don’t —”
“She knows,” you tell him. You’ve spoken as gently as you can, but it still silences him. He stares until you lie back down beside him – awkwardly, with only one arm, but successfully. Eventually exhaustion overwhelms anguish, and he sleeps.
You walk with Ykka one day. She’s setting the pace like a good comm leader should, pushing no one harder than herself. At the lone midday rest stop, she takes off one boot and you see that her feet are streaked with blood from blisters. You look at her, frowning, and it’s eloquent enough that she sighs. “Never got around to requisitioning better boots,” she says. “These are too loose. Always figured I’d have more time.”
“If your feet rot off,” you begin, but she rolls her eyes and points toward the supply pile in the middle of the camp.
You glance at it in confusion, start to resume your scolding, and then pause. Think. Look at the supply pile again. If every wagon carries a crate of the salted cachebread and another of sausage, and if those casks are pickled vegetables, and those are the grains and beans…
The pile is so small. So little, for a thousand people who have weeks yet to go through the Merz.
You shut up about the boots. Though she gets some extra socks from someone; that helps.
It shocks you that you’re doing as well as you are. You’re not healthy, not exactly. Your menstrual cycle has stopped, and it’s probably not menopause yet. When you undress to basin-wash, which is sort of pointless in the constant rain but habit is habit, you notice that your ribs show starkly beneath loose skin. That’s only partly because of all the walking, though; some of it is because you keep forgetting to eat. You feel tired at the end of the day, but it’s a distant, detached sort of thing. When you touch Lerna – not for sex, you don’t have the energy, but cuddling for warmth saves calories, and he needs the comfort – it feels good, but in an equally detached way. You feel as though you’re floating above yourself, watching him sigh, listening to someone else yawn. Like it’s happening to someone else.
This is what happened to Alabaster, you remember. A detachment from the flesh, as it became no longer flesh. You resolve to do a better job of eating at every opportunity.
Three weeks into the desert, as expected, the highroad veers off to the west. From there on, Castrima must descend to the ground and contend with desert terrain up close and personal. It’s easier, in some ways, because at least the ground isn’t likely to crumble away beneath your feet. On the other hand, sand is harder to walk on than asphalt. Everyone slows down. Maxixe earns his keep by drawing enough of the moisture out of the topmost layer of sand and ash and icing it a few inches down, to firm it up beneath everyone’s feet. It exhausts him to do this on a constant basis, though, so he saves it for the worst patches. He tries to teach Temell how to do the same trick, but Temell’s an ordinary feral; he can’t manage the necessary precision. (You could have done it once. You don’t let yourself think about this.)
Scouts sent forth to try to find a better path all come back and report the same thing: rusting sand-ash-mud everywhere. There is no better path.
Three people got left behind on the highroad, unable to walk any further because of sprains or breaks. You don’t know them. In theory, they’ll catch up once they’ve recovered, but you can’t see how they’ll recover with no food or shelter. Here on the ground it’s worse: a half-dozen broken ankles, one broken leg, one wrenched back among the Strongbacks pulling the wagons, all in the first day. After a while, Lerna stops going to them unless they ask for his help. Most don’t ask. There’s nothing he can do, and everyone knows it.
On a chilly day, Ontrag the potter just sits down and says she doesn’t feel like going any further. Ykka actually argues with her, which you weren’t expecting. Ontrag has passed on her skill of pottery to two younger comm members. She’s redundant, long past childbearing; it should be an easy headwoman’s choice, by the rules of Old Sanze and the tenets of stonelore. But in the end, Ontrag herself has to tell Ykka to shut up and walk away.