The Fifth Season

by N. K. Jemisin

  And then you stop.

  Because, oh uncaring Earth. Look what you’ve done.

  The shake stops. The air hisses again, this time as warmer, moister air rushes into the space around you. The ground and your skin grow instantly damp with condensation. The rumble of the valley fades, leaving only screams and the creak of falling wood and the shake-siren that has only belatedly, forlornly, begun to wail.

  You close you eyes, aching and shaking and thinking, No. I killed Uche. By being his mother. There are tears on your face. And here you thought you couldn’t cry.

  But there’s no one between you and the gate now. The gate-minders who could, have fled; besides Rask and Karra, several more were too slow to get away. You shoulder the runny-sack and head for the gate opening, scrubbing at your face with one hand. You’re smiling, too, though, and it is a bitter, aching thing. You just can’t help acknowledging the irony of the whole thing. Didn’t want to wait for death to come for you. Right.

  Stupid, stupid woman. Death was always here. Death is you.

  * * *

  Never forget what you are.

  —Tablet One, “On Survival,” verse ten

  4

  Syenite, cut and polished

  THIS IS SHIT, SYENITE THINKS, behind the shield of her pleasant smile.

  She doesn’t let the affront show on her face, however. Nor does she shift even minutely in the chair. Her hands—four fingers ringed respectively in plain bands of carnelian, white opal, gold, and onyx—rest on her knees. They’re out of sight below the edge of the desk, from Feldspar’s perspective. She could clench them with Feldspar none the wiser. She doesn’t.

  “Coral reefs are challenging, you realize.” Feldspar, her own hands occupied with the big wooden cup of safe, smiles over its rim. She knows full well what’s behind Syenite’s smile. “Not like ordinary rock. Coral is porous, flexible. The fine control required to shatter it without triggering a tsunami is difficult to achieve.”

  And Syen could do it in her sleep. A two-ringer could do this. A grit could do it—though, admittedly, not without substantial collateral damage. She reaches for her own cup of safe, turning the wooden hemisphere in her fingers so that they will not shake, then taking a sip. “I appreciate that you have assigned me a mentor, senior.”

  “No, you don’t.” Feldspar smiles, too, and sips from her cup of safe, ringed pinky in the air while she does so. It’s as if they’re having a private contest, etiquette versus etiquette, best shit-eating grin take all. “If it’s any consolation, no one will think less of you.”

  Because everyone knows what this is really about. That doesn’t erase the insult, but it does give Syen a degree of comfort. At least her new “mentor” is a ten-ringer. That, too, is comforting, that they thought so much of her. She’ll scrape whatever morsels of self-esteem she can out of this.

  “He recently completed a circuit in the Somidlats,” Feldspar says, gently. There’s no actual gentleness to the conversation’s subject matter, but Syen appreciates the older woman’s effort. “Ordinarily we’d allow him more time to rest before setting him back on the road, but the quartent governor was insistent that we do something about Allia’s harbor blockage as soon as possible. You’re the one who’ll do the work; he’s just there to supervise. Getting there should take a month or so, if you don’t make many detours and travel at an easy pace—and there’s no hurry, given that the coral reef isn’t exactly a sudden problem.”

  At this, Feldspar looks fleetingly, but truly, annoyed. The quartent governor of Allia, or possibly Allia’s Leadership, must have been especially irritating. In the years since Feldspar became her assigned senior, Syen has never seen the old woman show any expression worse than a brittle smile. They both know the rules: Fulcrum orogenes—Imperial orogenes, blackjackets, the ones you probably shouldn’t kill, whatever people want to call them—must be always polite and professional. Fulcrum orogenes must project confidence and expertise whenever they are in public. Fulcrum orogenes must never show anger because it makes the stills nervous. Except Feldspar would never be so improper as to use a slur like the stills—but that is why Feldspar is a senior and has been given supervisory responsibilities, while Syenite merely grinds her own edges alone. She’ll have to demonstrate more professionalism if she wants Feldspar’s job. That, and she’ll apparently have to do a few other things.

  “When do I meet him?” Syenite asks. She takes a sip of safe so this question will seem casual. Just a bit of conversation between old friends.

  “Whenever you like.” Feldspar shrugs. “He has quarters in the seniors’ hall. We did send him a briefing and a request that he attend this meeting…” Again she looks mildly irritated. This whole situation must be terrible for her, just terrible. “… but it’s possible he missed the message, since as I said he’s been recovering from his circuit. Traveling the Likesh Mountains alone is difficult.”

  “Alone?”

  “Five-ringers and above are no longer required to have a partner or Guardian when traveling outside the Fulcrum.” Feldspar sips from her cup of safe, oblivious to Syenite’s shock. “At that point we are judged stable enough in our mastery of orogeny to be granted a modicum of autonomy.”

  Five rings. She has four. It’s bullshit that this has anything to do with orogenic mastery; if a Guardian has doubts about an orogene’s willingness to follow the rules, that orogene doesn’t make it to the first ring, let alone the fifth. But…“So it’ll be just him and me.”

  “Yes. We’ve found that arrangement to be most effective in circumstances like this.”

  Of course.

  Feldspar continues. “You’ll find him in Shaped Prominence.” That’s the complex of buildings that houses most of the Fulcrum’s complement of seniors. “Main tower, top floor. There are no set-aside quarters for the most senior orogenes because there are so few—he is our only ten-ringer, at present—but we could at least spare him a bit of extra space up there.”

  “Thank you,” Syen says, turning her cup again. “I’ll go see him after this.”

  Feldspar pauses for a long moment, her face going even more pleasantly unreadable than usual, and that is Syenite’s warning. Then Feldspar says: “As a ten-ringer, he has the right to refuse any mission short of a declared emergency. You should know that.”

  Wait. Syen’s fingers stop turning the cup, and her eyes flick up to meet those of the older woman. Is Feld saying what it sounds like she’s saying? Can’t be. Syen narrows her eyes, no longer bothering to conceal her suspicion. And yet. Feldspar has given her a way out. Why?

  Feldspar smiles thinly. “I have six children.”

  Ah.

  Nothing more to be said, then. Syen takes another sip, trying not to grimace at the chalky grit near the bottom of the cup. Safe is nutritious, but it’s not a drink anyone enjoys. It’s made from a plant milk that changes color in the presence of any contaminant, even spit. It’s served to guests and at meetings because, well, it’s safe. A polite gesture that says: I’m not poisoning you. At least, not right now.

  After that Syen takes her leave of Feldspar, then heads out of Main, the administrative building. Main sits amid a cluster of smaller buildings at the edge of the sprawling, half-wild expanse that comprises the Ring Garden. The garden is acres wide, and runs in a broad strip around the Fulcrum for several miles. It’s just that huge, the Fulcrum, a city in itself nestled within the greater body of Yumenes like… well. Syenite would’ve continued the thought with like a child in a woman’s belly, but that comparison seems especially grotesque today.

  She nods to her fellow juniors in passing as she recognizes them. Some of them are just standing or sitting around in knots and talking, while others lounge on patches of grass or flowers and read, or flirt, or sleep. Life for the ringed is easy, except during missions beyond the Fulcrum’s walls, which are brief and infrequent. A handful of grits tromp through along the wending cobbled path, all in a neat line overseen by juniors who’ve volunteered as instructors, b
ut grits aren’t permitted to enjoy the garden yet; that is a privilege reserved only for those who’ve passed their first-ring test and been approved for initiation by the Guardians.

  And as if the thought of Guardians summons them, Syen spies a few burgundy-uniformed figures standing in a knot near one of the Ring’s many ponds. There’s another Guardian on the other side of the pond, lounging in an alcove surrounded by rosebushes, appearing to listen politely while a young junior sings to a small seated audience nearby. Perhaps the Guardian is just listening politely; sometimes they do that. Sometimes they need to relax, too. Syen notes this Guardian’s gaze lingering on one of the audience members in particular, however: a thin, white youth who doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to the singer. He’s looking at his hands, instead, which are folded in his lap. There’s a bandage around two of his fingers, holding them together and straight.

  Syen moves on.

  She stops first at Curving Shield, one of many clusters of buildings that house the hundreds of junior orogenes. Her roommates aren’t home to see her fetch a few necessary items from her chest, for which she is painfully grateful. They’ll hear about her assignment soon enough through the rumor mill. Then she heads out again, eventually reaching Shaped Prominence. The tower is one of the older buildings of the Fulcrum complex, built low and wide of heavy white marble blocks and stolid angles atypical of the wilder, fanciful architecture of Yumenes. The big double doors open into a wide, graceful foyer, its walls and floor embossed with scenes from Sanzed history. She keeps her pace unhurried, nodding to the seniors she sees whether she recognizes them or not—she does want Feldspar’s job, after all—and taking the wide stairways gradually, pausing now and again to appreciate the artfully arranged patterns of light and shadow cast by the narrow windows. She’s not sure what makes the patterns so special, actually, but everyone says they’re stunning works of art, so she needs to be seen appreciating.

  On the topmost floor, where the plush hall-length rug is overlaid by a herringbone pattern of sunlight, she stops to catch her breath and appreciate something genuinely: silence. Solitude. There’s no one moving in this corridor, not even low-level juniors on cleaning or errand duty. She’s heard the rumors and now she knows they’re true: The ten-ringer has the whole floor to himself.

  This, then, is the true reward for excellence: privacy. And choice. After closing her eyes for a moment in aching want, Syen heads down the hall until she reaches the only door with a mat in front of it.

  In that moment, though, she hesitates. She knows nothing about this man. He’s earned the highest rank that exists within their order, which means no one really cares what he does anymore so long as he keeps any embarrassing behaviors private. And he is a man who has been powerless most of his life, only lately granted autonomy and privilege over others. No one will demote him for anything so trivial as perversion or abuse. Not if his victim is just another orogene.

  There’s no point to this. She doesn’t have a choice. With a sigh, Syenite knocks.

  And because she isn’t expecting a person so much as a trial to be endured, she’s actually surprised when an annoyed voice snaps from within, “What?”

  She’s still wondering how to reply to that when footsteps slap against stone—briskly, annoyed even in their sound—and the door whisks open. The man who stands there glaring at her is wearing a rumpled robe, one side of his hair flattened, fabric lines painting a haphazard map over his cheek. He’s younger than she expected. Not young; almost twice her age, at least forty. But she’d thought… well. She’s met so many six-and seven-ringers in their sixth and seventh decades that she’d expected a ten-ringer to be ancient. And calmer, dignified, more self-possessed. Something. He’s not even wearing his rings, though she can see a faint paler stripe on some of his fingers, in between his angry gesticulations.

  “What, in the name of every two-minute earth jerk?” When Syen just stares at him, he lapses into another tongue—something she’s never heard before, though the sound of it is vaguely Coaster, and distinctly pissed. Then he rubs a hand over his hair, and Syen almost laughs. His hair is dense, tight-curled stuff, the kind of hair that needs to be shaped if it’s to look stylish, and what he’s doing just messes it up more.

  “I told Feldspar,” he says, returning to perfectly fluent Sanzed and plainly struggling for patience, “and those other cackling meddlers on the senior advisory board to leave me alone. I just got off circuit, I haven’t had two hours to myself in the last year that weren’t shared with a horse or a stranger, and if you’re here to give me more orders, I’m going to ice you where you stand.”

  She’s pretty sure this is hyperbole. It’s the kind of hyperbole he shouldn’t use; Fulcrum orogenes just don’t joke about certain things. It’s one of the unspoken rules… but maybe a ten-ringer is beyond such things. “Not orders, exactly,” she manages, and his face twists.

  “Then I don’t want to hear whatever you’re here to tell me. Go the rust away.” And he starts to close the door in her face.

  She can’t believe it at first. What kind of—Really? It is indignity on top of indignity; bad enough to have to do this in the first place, but to be disrespected in the process?

  She jams a foot in the door’s path before it can build up much momentum and leans in to say, “I’m Syenite.”

  It doesn’t mean anything to him, she can see by his now-furious glare. He inhales to start shouting, she has no idea what but she doesn’t want to hear it, and before he can she snaps, “I’m here to fuck you, Earth burn it. Is that worth disturbing your beauty rest?”

  Part of her is appalled at her own language, and her own anger. The rest of her is satisfied, because that shuts him right the rust up.

  He lets her in.

  Now it’s awkward. Syen sits at the small table in his suite—a suite, he’s got a whole suite of furnished rooms to himself—and watches while he fidgets. He’s sitting on one of the room’s couches, pretty much perched on its edge. The far edge, she notes, as if he fears to sit too close to her.

  “I didn’t think it would start again this soon,” he says, looking at his hands, which are laced together before him. “I mean, they always tell me there’s a need, but that’s… I didn’t…” He sighs.

  “Then this isn’t the first time for you,” Syenite says. He only earned the right to refuse with his tenth ring.

  “No, no, but…” He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t always know.”

  “Didn’t know what?”

  He grimaces. “With the first few women… I thought they were interested.”

  “You—” Then she gets it. The deniability is always there, of course; even Feldspar never came right out and said Your assignment is to produce a child within a year with this man. That lack of acknowledgment is supposed to make it easier, somehow. She’s never seen the point: Why pretend the situation is anything other than what it is? But for him, she realizes, it wasn’t pretending. Which astounds her because, come on. How naive can he be?

  He glances at her and his expression grows pained. “Yes. I know.”

  She shakes her head. “I see.” It doesn’t matter. This isn’t about his intelligence. She stands up and unbuckles the belt of her uniform.

  He stares. “Just like that? I don’t even know you.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “I don’t like you.”

  The feeling is mutual, but Syen refrains from pointing out the obvious. “I finished menstruating a week ago. This is a good time. If you’d rather, you can just lie still and let me take care of things.” She’s not extraordinarily experienced, but it’s not plate tectonics. She gets her uniform jacket off, then pulls something out of the pocket to show him: a bottle of lubricant, still mostly full. He looks dimly horrified. “In fact, it’s probably better if you don’t move. This will be awkward enough as it is.”

  He stands up, too, actually backing away. The look of agitation on his face is—well, it’s not funny, not really. But Sye
nite cannot help feeling a modicum of relief at his reaction. No, not just relief. He is the weak one here, despite his ten rings. She’s the one who has to carry a child she doesn’t want, which might kill her and even if it doesn’t will change her body forever, if not her life—but here and now, at least, she is the one with all the power. It makes this… well, not right. But better, somehow, that she’s the one in control.

  “We don’t have to do this,” he blurts. “I can refuse.” He grimaces. “I know you can’t, but I can. So—”

  “Don’t refuse,” she says, scowling.

  “What? Why not?”

  “You said it: I have to do this. You don’t. If not you, it will be someone else.” Six children, Feldspar had. But Feldspar was never a particularly promising orogene. Syenite is. If Syen isn’t careful, if she pisses off the wrong people, if she lets herself get labeled difficult, they will kill her career and assign her permanently to the Fulcrum, leaving her nothing to do but lie on her back and turn men’s grunting and farting into babies. She’ll be lucky to have only six if that’s how things turn out.

  He’s staring as if he doesn’t understand, even though she knows he does. She says, “I want this over with.”

  Then he surprises her. She’s expecting more stammering and protests. Instead his hand clenches at his side. He looks away, a muscle working in his jaw. He still looks ridiculous in that robe with his hair askew, but the look on his face… he might as well have been ordered to submit himself to torture. She knows she’s no looker, at least not by Equatorial standards. Too much midlatter mongrel in her. But then, he’s obviously not well-bred, either: that hair, and skin so black it’s almost blue, and he’s small. Her height, that is, which is tall for either women or men—but he’s lean, not at all broad or intimidating. If his ancestors include any Sanzeds, they’re far back, and they gave him nothing of their physical superiority.

  “Over with,” he mutters. “Right.” The muscle in his jaw is practically jumping up and down, he’s grinding his teeth so hard. And—whoa. He’s not looking at her, and suddenly she’s glad. Because that’s hate, in his face. She’s seen it before in other orogenes—rust, she’s felt it herself, when she has the luxury of solitude and unfettered honesty—but she’s never let it show like that. Then he looks up at her, and she tries not to flinch.