She regarded him for a long moment, thoughtful. I stared at him. “Yeah,” I said. I couldn’t believe he actually seemed upset about it. “You’re a godling, and now you’ll live forever, and you’ve got all kinds of magic! Now nobody can make you get married, or keep you from dancing. Now, if you wanted, you could make every man in Darr free, just like that!”
I snapped my fingers—or tried to. But as I lifted my hand, there was a terrible, vertiginous moment in which my stomach dropped and the room spun and I felt myself diminish. I shuddered and closed my eyes. Yeine, however, touched my hand, and a moment later I felt better. Not good. Just not awful anymore.
“No, he can’t,” she said, sternly. “Or rather, he can, but if he does so in your presence, he will harm you. Power cannot be given, Shill; isn’t that what you finally understood? People can only take it—and then only what is already theirs by right. Only what they can claim, and hold, with their own hands. Anything more is dangerous to them and others. Anything less, however…” She squeezed my hand, and I looked up to see her smile. “Well, that’s where you come in, my big girl. Nahadoth and Itempas will be so proud.”
I grinned back, dizzyingly happy. I was myself at last, which was all the Three had ever really wanted me to be.
“Every man in Darr has the right to be free,” Eino said. He was on his feet now. A persistent little moon orbited his head; he couldn’t seem to get rid of it. This in no way diminished the grave determination in his face.
“Not at the expense of Darr’s women,” said Mikna. He rounded on her, and she lifted her chin, even though he was a god now and she was just a mortal. I felt that this was very brave of her.
“…No,” he agreed after a moment, to her obvious surprise. “But our strength should not diminish yours. It makes us all powerful, together.” He inclined his head to her.
Mikna seemed to consider this, and then after a moment she nodded back in silent acknowledgement.
“Then tell everybody this,” I said. It seemed so obvious all of a sudden. “You see it now, Eino; help all of the Darre see it, too. Show them who they were, and who they could become!” Then I would grow as they grew, and everything would be better!
“And yet,” Ia said, dampening my glee, because Ia, “Shill has done precisely what she claims should not be done; she has given power beyond imagining to mortals who cannot possibly be ready for it.” He stood with his arms folded on the edge of the room, beyond the clustering of folk around Yeine. For the first time I realized how lonely he seemed, over there by himself.
“Yes.” Yeine grew grave as well. “A plethora of new gods who haven’t a clue of what they are, or why this has happened; there will be trouble from it, I am certain. From many quarters, since our family was not ready for so many new additions, so soon.” She sighed. “And yet it is something I expected, as I said. Just…not now.”
“Mortals becoming gods.” Fahno, at the table with us, rubbed her eyes. “You expected this, Lady? Before you, no one had ever done it. And the confluence of circumstances required to make it happen—”
“Established a precedent,” Yeine said. “Made a path. Opened a door. It is the nature of this universe that once a thing becomes possible, it will happen somewhere, for however brief a time. Life spawns from lifelessness, gods from godlings; why should there not be a bridge in between, from the mortal to the immortal?” She abruptly looked pleased. “A new cycle of life. Fascinating.”
Ia grimaced. Maybe he was not fascinated. “It almost killed her, though.” He was looking at me.
“True.” Yeine watched me as well. “And what that means is that you cannot just empower any mortal, Shill, nor can you do it frequently. Certain conditions and circumstances must obviously be met, first, to facilitate the change; what those are, you will have to discover. So from here on, do try to exercise some discretion, why don’t you?”
I inhaled, delighted, because this was part of me, too. “I’m going to get really good at it.” And as I got better—“Oh, wow. I’ll be strong, one day.”
“One day, yes.” Yeine looked thoughtful. “Mortal life has always been, well, mortal. This universe that Nahadoth and Itempas and I have built is not eternal. There may be others, but when this one ends, mortalkind ends with it. But perhaps it need not end with death.”
We all fell silent at that, in wonder, in fear. I couldn’t imagine such a time ever coming to pass. But I understood this instinctively: because I existed, the end of mortal life—the rebirth of mortal life, into immortality—was possible. And if it was possible…
“I’ll work to make that happen,” I said, and even just this thought made me feel happy and right and full of light again.
Then I thought of something and glanced at Ia, and bit my lip. “But, um, maybe you could help me, Sibling, until then? I mean—you stopped me, when I would’ve spun myself away to nothing.”
He drew back, with an offended air. “I’ve done enough babysitting, Shill, thank you.” And with that he vanished.
I slumped, disappointed. Yeine shook her head and got to her feet, then leaned down to murmur in my ear.
“How convenient that you’re not a baby anymore. Isn’t it?”
I blinked, and then a slow grin spread across my lips. She winked, and straightened again. Well, then.
I put my hands on the table and pushed to my feet. “OK,” I said. “There’s lots to do! You mortals have to fix all the stuff that’s wrong with your realm, if you’re going to make it to the end of the universe.” I waggled a finger at Mikna, who lifted an eyebrow skeptically. Then I pointed at Eino. “You! Come with me. We have to find the other babies, and make sure they do not wreck stuff.”
A pained look crossed his face; his little pet moon glowed white with amusement. “You barely know what you’re doing yourself, Shill.”
“That is beside the point! I know more than you do; that means it’s my job to teach.” I put my hands on my hips, pleased with this plan. “I can help them find their natures, too! That’s what I do now, see.”
“I’m not certain this is wise,” said Fahno; she had the same look on her face as Eino.
“Empowerment does not always wait for wisdom,” said Yeine, “though that will doubtless come with time in Shill’s case. Hopefully soon.”
“Yes, but will we survive until then?”
“Hey! I’m right here.” I shook my head, then went over to Eino. “OK. Calm down about being a god. You can still do mortal stuff if you want. Marry and make babies and lead revolutions all you want. Right?”
Eino blinked in surprise, then looked at Fahno, who stared back at him as well. He bit his lip and looked away for a moment. “Beba.”
Fahno took a deep breath and stood. “If you want nothing more to do with us, I will understand.”
He flinched. “No! I’m still Darre, Beba. I’m still clan.”
She hesitated, lowered her eyes. “You have a new clan now.”
He set his jaw. “I have an old clan.” He went over to her, took her hands. She squeezed his hands, her eyes overbright, and Arolu came over, too. Eino folded his arms round them both, shaking, and there were lots of tears and whispers of things that probably should have been said long before.
Quietly, beyond us all, I felt Yeine vanish, and knew why. Eino might be Darre now, but Fahno was right; his attachment to his mortal life would not last long. It was as Zhakkarn had said, and as Yeine had learned herself: they were too small, too ephemeral, to grasp the whole of what we were. In the end, we would always leave them behind.
But that would happen on its own, with Eino. I didn’t need to push. Let him make his own farewells to mortality; he had forever, after all. And after all, someday mortalkind would be better. I wouldn’t push them, either—but when they were ready, I would be there, waiting. I would help them all I could.
I won’t push any of you, see? I didn’t give you anything, and you don’t owe me anything. Your power is yours; it has always been there. I’m just going to hel
p you reach it. What you do with it, from there on, is up to you.
Now come along, babies! Today I will teach you how not to smash planets by accident. Oh! And also: how to tell stories the Proper Way. You always have to finish with THE END, or Papa will give you such a look.
THE END.
Meet the Author
N. K. Jemisin is a career counselor, political blogger, and would-be gourmand living in New York City. She’s been writing since the age of ten, although her early works will never see the light of day. Find out more about the author at nkjemisin.com.
Photo credit: N. K. Jemisin
Also by N. K. Jemisin
THE INHERITANCE TRILOGY
The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms
The Broken Kingdoms
The Kingdom of Gods
The Awakened Kingdom (novella)
THE DREAMBLOOD DUOLOGY
The Killing Moon
The Shadowed Sun
If you enjoyed
THE AWAKENED KINGDOM,
look out for
THE FIFTH SEASON
Book One of the Broken Earth
by N. K. Jemisin
THIS IS THE WAY THE WORLD ENDS. AGAIN.
Three terrible things happen in a single day.
Essun, masquerading as an ordinary schoolteacher in a quiet small town, comes home to find that her husband has brutally murdered their son and kidnapped their daughter. Mighty Sanze, the empire whose innovations have been civilization’s bedrock for a thousand years, collapses as its greatest city is destroyed by a madman’s vengeance. And worst of all, across the heartland of the world’s sole continent, a great red rift is torn that spews enough ash to darken the sky for years. Or centuries.
But this is the Stillness, a land long familiar with struggle, where orogenes—those who wield the power of the earth as a weapon—are feared far more than the long cold night. Essun has remembered herself, and she will have her daughter back. She does not care if the world falls apart around her. Essun will break it herself, if she must, to save her daughter.
The first novel in a new series by award-winning author N. K. Jemisin, where a mother struggles to find her daughter in a post-apocalyptic world.
Chapter 1
The straw is so warm that Damaya doesn’t want to come out of it. Like a blanket, she thinks through the bleariness of half-sleep. Like the quilt her great-grandmother once sewed for her out of patches of uniform cloth. Years ago Muh Dear had worked for the Brevard militia as a seamstress, and got to keep the scraps from any repairs that required new cloth. The blanket she made for Damaya is mottled and dark, blue and green in rippling bands like columns of marching men, but it came from Muh Dear’s hands, so Damaya doesn’t care that it’s ugly. It smells sweet and gray and a bit fusty, so it is easy to imagine that the straw—which smells mildewy and like old manure with a hint of fruity, fungal sweetness—is Muh’s blanket. Even though the actual blanket is back in Damaya’s room, on the bed where she left it, and in which she will never sleep again.
She can hear voices outside the straw pile now: Mama and someone else talking as they draw closer. A rattle-creak as the barn door is unlocked, and they come inside; another rattle as the door shuts behind them. Then Mother raises her voice and calls, “DamaDama?”
Damaya curls up tighter, clenching her teeth. She hates that stupid nickname. She hates the way Mother says it, all light and sweet, like it’s actually a term of endearment and not a lie.
When Damaya doesn’t respond, Mother says: “She can’t have gotten out. My husband checked all the barn locks himself.”
“Nothing is secure for her kind.” This voice belongs to a man. Not her father or older brother, or the comm headman, or anyone she recognizes. This man’s voice is deep, and he speaks with an accent like none she’s ever heard: sharp and heavy, with long drawled o’s and a’s and crisp beginnings and ends to every word. Smart-sounding. Dangerous. He jingles faintly as he walks, so much that she wonders whether he’s wearing a big set of keys. Or perhaps he has a lot of money in his pockets? This thought makes Damaya curl in on herself, sick and trembling, because of course she’s heard the other children in creche whisper of child-markets in faraway cities of beveled stone. Not all places in the world are as civilized as the Nomidlats. She laughed off the whispers then, but everything is different now.
“Here,” says the man’s voice, not far off now. “Fresh spoor, I think.”
Mother makes a sound of disgust, and Damaya burns in shame as she realizes they’ve seen the corner she uses for a bathroom. It smells terrible there, even though she’s been throwing straw over it each time. “Squatting on the ground like an animal. I raised her better.”
“Is there a toilet here?” asks the child buyer, in a tone of polite curiosity. “Did you give her a bucket?”
Silence from Mother, which stretches on, and belatedly Damaya realizes the man has reprimanded Mother with those quiet questions. It isn’t the sort of reprimand Damaya is used to. The man hasn’t raised his voice or called anyone names. Yet Mother stands still and silenced as surely as if he’d followed the words with a smack to the head.
A giggle bubbles up in her throat, and at once she crams her fist into her mouth to stop it from spilling out. They’ll hear Damaya laugh at her mother’s embarrassment, and then the child buyer will know what a terrible child she really is. But is that such a bad thing? Maybe then her parents will get less for her. That alone almost makes her let the giggles loose—or screams so the buyer will think there’s something wrong with her—because Damaya hates her parents, she hates them, and anything that will make them suffer makes her feel better.
Then she bites down on her hand, hard, and hates herself, because of course they’re selling Damaya if she can think such thoughts.
Footsteps nearby. “Cold in here,” says the man.
“Not freezing,” says Mother, and Damaya almost giggles again at her sullen, defensive tone. Maybe the child buyer will smack Mother for giving him attitude.
But the child buyer ignores Mother. His footsteps come closer. Damaya can feel each step the way she feels everyone else’s steps, a beat against her eardrums with a faint echo that goes down into the barn’s dirt floor. She has always felt things in this two-layered way, and only lately has she come to understand what it means. His steps are heavier than most, though, echoing through the rock that lies a few feet below the soil, almost like he’s trying to make the earth shake. She’s never felt anyone whose steps go that deep.
And now he’s coming up the ladder, to the loft where she lies under the straw.
“Ah,” he says, reaching the top. “It’s warmer up here.”
“Dama!” Mother sounds furious now. “Get down here!”
Damaya scrunches herself up tighter under the straw and says nothing. The child buyer’s footsteps pace closer.
“You needn’t be afraid,” he says in that rolling voice. Closer. She feels the reverberation of his voice through the wood and down to the ground and into the rock and back again. Closer. “I’ve come to help you, Damaya Strongback.”
Another thing she hates, that he calls her by her use-name. She doesn’t have a strong back at all, and neither does Mother. All Strongback means is that some of her female ancestors were lucky enough to join a comm but too undistinguished to earn a more secure place within it. Strongbacks get dumped same as commless when times get hard, her brother Chaga has told her, to tease her. Especially if a comm has too much labor and not enough specialization, and especially during a Season. Of course, Chaga is a Resistant, like Father. All comms like to have them around no matter how hard the times, in case of sickness and famine and such.
The man’s footsteps stop just outside the straw pile. “You needn’t be afraid,” he says again, more softly now. Mother is still down on the ground level; she probably can’t hear him. “I won’t let your mother hurt you.”
Damaya inhales.
She’s not stupid. The man is a child buyer, and child buyers
do terrible things. But because he has said these words, and because some part of Damaya is tired of being afraid and angry, she uncurls. She pushes her way through the soft warm pile and sits up, peering out at the man through loose strands of hair and dirty straw.
He is as strange-looking as he sounds, and not from anywhere near Palela. His skin is almost white, it’s so paper-pale; he must smoke and curl up in strong sunlight. He has long limp hair, which together with the skin might mark him as an Arctic, though the color of it—a deep heavy black, like the soil near an old blow—doesn’t fit. Damaya’s creche teacher says Arctics go in more for brown or orange or yellow hair. Eastern Coasters’ hair is black like that, and when it’s curly it’s the next best thing to ashblow hair, but people from the east have black skin. And he’s big, not small like Arctics are supposed to be—taller and with broader shoulders than Father. But where Father’s big shoulders join a big chest and a big belly, this man sort of tapers. Everything about the stranger seems lean and elongated. Nothing about him makes racial sense.
But what strikes Damaya most is the child buyer’s eyes. They’re white, or nearly so. She can see the whites of his eyes, and then a silvery-gray disk of color that she can barely distinguish from the white, even up close. The pupils of his eyes are wide in the barn’s dimness, and startling amid the desert of colorlessness.
She’s heard of eyes like these, which are called icewhite in stories and stonelore. They’re rare, and always an ill omen. But then the child buyer smiles at Damaya, and she doesn’t even think twice before she smiles back. She trusts him immediately. She knows she shouldn’t, but she does.
“And here we are,” he says, still speaking softly so that Mother won’t hear. “Damaya Strongback, I presume?”
“Dama,” she says, automatically. People she likes get to call her that. “Just once, not DamaDama. I hate that.”
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