The Stone Sky (The Broken Earth, #3) - N. K. Jemisin Page 0,87

… you are also glorious.”

Nassun loves him so much.

It’s why she gives up the illusion of power and goes back to sit beside him. But when she gets close, she sees just how much strain he’s under. “Your head hurts a lot.”

His smile fades. “It’s bearable.”

Troubled, she puts her hands on his shoulders. Dozens of nights of easing his pain have made it easy—but this time when she sends silver into him, the white-hot burn of lines between his cells does not fade. In fact, they blaze brighter, so sharply that Schaffa tenses and pulls away from her, rising to begin pacing again. He has plastered a smile on his face, more of a rictus as he prowls restlessly back and forth, but Nassun can tell that the smile-endorphins are doing nothing.

Why did the lines get brighter? Nassun tries to understand this by examining herself. Nothing of her silver is different; it flows in its usual clearly delineated lines. She turns her silver gaze on Schaffa—and then, belatedly, notices something stunning.

The vehimal is made of silver, and not just fine lines of it. It is surrounded by silver, permeated with it. What she perceives is a wave of the stuff, rippling in ribbons around herself and Schaffa, starting at the nose of the vehicle and enclosing them behind. This sheath of magic, she understands suddenly, is what’s pushing away the heat and pushing back on the pressure and tilting the lines of force within the vehimal so that gravity pulls toward its floor and not toward the center of the earth. The walls are only a framework; something about their structure makes it easier for the silver to flow and connect and form lattices. The gold filigree helps to stabilize the churn of energies at the front of the vehicle—or so Nassun guesses, since she cannot understand all the ways in which these magic mechanisms work together. It’s just too complex. It is like riding inside an obelisk. It’s like being carried by the wind. She had no idea the silver could be so amazing.

But there is something beyond the miracle of the vehimal’s walls. Something outside the vehimal.

At first Nassun isn’t sure what she’s perceiving. More lights? No. She’s looking at it all wrong.

It’s the silver, same as what flows between her own cells. It’s a single thread of silver—and yet it is titanic, curling away between a whorl of soft, hot rock and a high-pressure bubble of searing water. A single thread of silver … and it is longer than the tunnel they have traversed so far. She can’t find either of its ends. It’s wider than the vehimal’s circumference and then some. Yet otherwise it’s just as clear and focused as any one of the lines within Nassun herself. The same, just … immense.

And Nassun understands then, she understands, so suddenly and devastatingly that her eyes snap open and she stumbles backward with the force of the realization, bumping into another chair and nearly falling before she grabs it to hold herself upright. Schaffa makes a low, frustrated sound and turns in an attempt to respond to her alarm—but the silver within his body is so bright that when it flares, he doubles over, clutching at his head and groaning. He is in too much pain to fulfill his duty as a Guardian, or to act on his concern for her, because the silver in his body has grown to be as bright as that immense thread out in the magma.

Magic, Steel called the silver. The stuff underneath orogeny, which is made by things that live or once lived. This silver deep within Father Earth wends between the mountainous fragments of his substance in exactly the same way that they twine among the cells of a living, breathing thing. And that is because a planet is a living, breathing thing; she knows this now with the certainty of instinct. All the stories about Father Earth being alive are real.

But if the mantle is Father Earth’s body, why is his silver getting brighter?

No. Oh no.

“Schaffa,” Nassun whispers. He grunts; he has sagged to one knee, gasping shallowly as he clutches at his head. She wants to go to him, comfort him, help him, but she stands where she is, her breath coming too fast from rising panic at what she suddenly knows is coming. She wants to deny it, though. “Schaffa, p-please, that thing in your head, the piece of iron, you called it a corestone, Schaffa—” Her