The Inheritance Trilogy

by N. K. Jemisin

  “N-nothing,” I mumbled, then tried to close the door. He slapped it open with his free hand, pushing me back and stepping inside. I would have protested, but the words died in my throat as he looked me up and down with an expression that would have made my grandmother proud.

  “You’re letting them win, aren’t you?” he asked.

  I think my mouth might have dropped open. He sighed. “Sit down.”

  I closed my mouth. “How do you—”

  “I know nearly everything that happens in this place, Yeine. The upcoming ball, for example, and what will happen afterward. Halfbloods usually aren’t told, but I have connections.” He gently took me by the shoulders. “You’ve found out, too, I suspect, which is why you’re sitting here going to rot.”

  On another occasion I would have been pleased that he’d finally called me by my name. Now I shook my head dumbly and rubbed my temples where a weary ache had settled. “T’vril, you don’t—”

  “Sit down, you silly fool, before you pass out and I have to call Viraine. Which, incidentally, you don’t want me to do. His remedies are effective but highly unpleasant.” He took my hand and guided me over to my table.

  “I came because they told me you hadn’t ordered breakfast or a midday meal, and I thought you might be starving yourself again.” Sitting me and the tray down, he picked up a dish of some sort of sectioned fruit, speared a piece on a fork, and thrust this at my face until I ate it. “You seemed a sensible girl when you first came here. Gods know this place has a way of knocking the sense out of a person, but I never expected you to yield so easily. Aren’t you a warrior, or something like that? The rumors have you swinging through trees half-naked with a spear.”

  I glared at him, affront cutting through my muddle. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “So you’re not dead yet. Good.” He took my chin between his fingers, peering into my eyes. “And they haven’t defeated you yet. Do you understand?”

  I jerked away from him, clinging to my anger. It was better than despair, if just as useless. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. My people… I came here to help them, and instead they’re in more danger because of me.”

  “Yes, so I’ve heard. You do realize that both Relad and Scimina are consummate liars, don’t you? Nothing you’ve done caused this. Scimina’s plans were set in motion long before you ever arrived in Sky. That’s how this family does things.” He held a hunk of cheese to my mouth. I had to bite off a piece, chew it, and swallow just to get his hand out of the way.

  “If that’s—” He pushed more fruit at me; I batted the fork aside and the fruit flew off somewhere near my bookcases. “If that’s true, then you know there’s nothing I can do! Darr’s enemies are preparing to attack. My land is weak; we can’t fight off one army, let alone however many are gathering against us!”

  He nodded, sober, and held up a new chunk of fruit for me. “That sounds like Relad. Scimina is usually more subtle. But it could be either of them, frankly. Dekarta hasn’t given them much time to work, and they both get clumsy under pressure.”

  The fruit tasted like salt in my mouth. “Then tell me—” I blinked back tears. “What am I supposed to do, T’vril? You say I’m letting them win, but what else can I do?”

  T’vril set down the dish and took my hands, leaning forward. I realized suddenly that his eyes were green, though a deeper shade than my own. I had never before considered the fact that we were relatives. So few of the Arameri felt human to me, much less like family.

  “You fight,” he said, his voice low and intent. His hands gripped my own fiercely enough to hurt. “You fight in whatever way you can.”

  It might have been the strength of his grip, or the urgency of his voice, but abruptly I realized something. “You want to be heir yourself, don’t you?”

  He blinked in surprise, and then a rueful smile crossed his face. “No,” he said. “Not really. No one would want to be heir under these conditions; I don’t envy you that. But…” He looked away, toward the windows, and I saw it in his eyes: a terrible frustration that must have been burning in him all his life. The unspoken knowledge that he was just as smart as Relad or Scimina, just as strong, just as deserving of power, just as capable of leadership.

  And if the chance were ever given to him, he would fight to keep it. To use it. He would fight even if he had no hope of victory, because to do otherwise was to concede that the stupid, arbitrary assignment of fullblood status had anything to do with logic; that the Amn truly were superior to all other races; that he deserved to be nothing more than a servant.

  As I deserved to be nothing more than a pawn. I frowned.

  T’vril noticed. “That’s better.” He put the dish of fruit in my hands and stood up. “Finish eating and get dressed. I want to show you something.”

  I had not realized that it was a holiday. Fire Day; some Amn celebration I’d heard of, but never paid much attention to. When T’vril brought me out of my room, I heard the sounds of laughter and Senmite music drifting through the corridors. I had never liked the music of this continent; it was strange and arrhythmic, full of eerie minors, the sort of thing only people with refined tastes were supposed to be able to comprehend or enjoy.

  I sighed, thinking we were headed in that direction. But T’vril cast a grim look that way and shook his head. “No. You don’t want to attend that celebration, Cousin.”

  “Why not?”

  “That party is for highbloods. You’d certainly be welcome, and as a halfblood I could go, too, but I would suggest that you avoid social events with our fullblooded relatives if you actually want to enjoy yourself. They have… odd notions of what constitutes fun.” His grim look warned me off further questioning. “This way.”

  He led me in the complete opposite direction, down several levels and angling toward the palace’s heart. The corridors were bustling with activity, though I saw only servants as we walked, all of them moving so hurriedly that they barely had time to bob a greeting at T’vril. I doubt they even noticed me.

  “Where are they all going?” I asked.

  T’vril looked amused. “To work. I’ve scheduled everyone on rotating short shifts, so they’ve probably waited until the last minute to leave. Didn’t want to miss any of the fun.”

  “Fun?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” We rounded a curve and I saw a wide set of translucent doors before us. “Here we are; the centeryard. Now, you’re friendly with Sieh so I imagine the magic will work for you, but if it doesn’t—if I disappear—just return to the hall and wait, and I’ll come back out to get you.”

  “What?” I was growing used to feeling stupid.

  “You’ll see.” He pushed the doors open.

  The scene beyond was almost pastoral—would have been if I hadn’t known I was in the middle of a palace hovering a half mile above the earth. We looked into some sort of vast atrium at the center of the palace, in which rows of tiny cottages bordered a cobblestone path. It surprised me to realize that the cottages were made, not of the pearly material that comprised the rest of the palace, but of ordinary stone and wood and brick. The style of the cottages varied wildly from that of the palace, too—the first sharp angles and straight lines I’d seen—and from cottage to cottage. Many of the designs were foreign to my eye, Tokken and Mekatish and others, including one with a striking bright-gold rooftop that might have been Irtin. I glanced up, realizing that the centeryard sat within a vast cylinder in the body of the palace; directly above was a circle of perfectly clear blue sky.

  But the whole place was silent and still. I saw no one in or around the cottages; not even wind stirred.

  T’vril took my hand and pulled me over the threshold—and I gasped as the stillness broke. In a moment’s flicker there were suddenly many people about, all around us, laughing and milling and exclaiming in a cacophony of joy that would not have startled me so much if it hadn’t come out of nowhere. There was music, too, more pleasant than the Sen
mite but still nothing I was used to. It came from much closer, somewhere in the middle of the cottages. I made out a flute and a drum, and a babel of languages—the only one I recognized was Kenti—before someone grabbed my arm and spun me around.

  “Shaz, you came! I thought—” The Amn man who’d caught my hand started when he saw my face, then paled further. “Oh, demons.”

  “It’s all right,” I said quickly. “An honest mistake.” From behind I could pass for Tema, Narshes, or half the other northern races—and it had not escaped me that he’d called me by a boy’s name. That was clearly not the source of his horror. His eyes had locked on my forehead and the fullblood circle there.

  “It’s all right, Ter.” T’vril came up beside me and put a hand on my shoulder. “This is the new one.”

  Relief restored color to the man’s face. “Sorry, miss,” he said, bobbing a greeting to me. “I just… well.” He smiled sheepishly. “You understand.”

  I reassured him again, though I was not entirely sure that I did understand. The man wandered off after that, leaving T’vril and me to ourselves—inasmuch as we could be alone amid such a horde. I could see now that everyone present wore lowblood marks; they were all servants. There must have been nearly a thousand people in the centeryard’s sprawling space. T’vril was so good at keeping them unobtrusive that I’d had no idea there were this many servants in Sky, though I suppose I should have guessed they would outnumber the highbloods.

  “Don’t blame Ter,” T’vril said. “Today’s one of the few days we can be free of rank considerations. He wasn’t expecting to see that.” He nodded toward my forehead.

  “What is this, T’vril? Where did these people…?”

  “A little favor from the Enefadeh.” He gestured toward the entrance we’d just walked through, and upward. There was a faint, glasslike sheen to the air all around the centeryard, which I had not noticed before. We stood within a huge, transparent bubble of—something. Magic, whatever it was.

  “No one with a mark higher than quarterblood sees anything, even if they pass through the barrier,” T’vril said. “An exception was made for me, and, as you saw, we can bring others through if we choose. This means we can celebrate without highbloods coming here to ogle our ‘quaint common-folk customs’ like we’re animals in a zoo.”

  I understood at last, and smiled as I did. It was probably only one of many small rebellions that the lowblood servants quietly fomented against their higher-born relations. If I stayed in Sky longer I would probably see others…

  But, of course, I would not live long enough for that.

  That thought sobered me at once, despite the music and gaiety around me. T’vril flashed me a grin and let go my hand. “Well, you’re here now. Enjoy yourself for a while, hmm?” And almost at the moment he let me go, a woman grabbed him and pulled him into the mass of people. I saw a flash of his red hair among other heads, and then he was gone.

  I stood where he’d left me, feeling oddly bereft. The servants celebrated on around me, but I was not part of it. Nor could I relax amid so much noise and chaos, however joyous. None of these people were Darre. None of them were under threat of execution. None of them had gods’ souls stuffed into their bodies, tainting all that they thought and felt.

  Yet T’vril had brought me here in an attempt to cheer me up, and it would’ve been churlish to leave right away. So I looked around for some quiet spot where I might sit out of the way. My eyes caught on a familiar face—or at least, it seemed familiar at first. A young man watched me from the steps of one of the cottages, smiling as if he knew me, at least. He was a little older than me, pretty-faced and slender, Tema-looking but with completely un-Tema eyes of faded green—

  I caught my breath and went over to him. “Sieh?”

  He grinned. “Glad to see you out.”

  “You’re…” I gaped a moment longer, then closed my mouth. I had known all along that Nahadoth was not the only one among the Enefadeh who could change his form. “So this is your doing?” I gestured at the barrier, which now I could see above us as well, like a dome.

  He shrugged. “T’vril’s people do favors for us all year; it’s fitting we should pay them back. We slaves must stick together.”

  There was a bitterness in his tone that I had not heard before. It felt oddly comforting in comparison with my own mood, so I sat down on the steps beside him, near his legs. Together we watched the celebration in silence for a long while. After a time I felt his hand touch my hair, stroking it, and that comforted me further still. Whatever form he took, he was still the same Sieh.

  “They grow and change so fast,” he said softly, his eyes on a group of dancers near the musicians. “Sometimes I hate them for that.”

  I glanced up at him in surprise; this was a strange mood indeed for him. “You gods are the ones who made us this way, aren’t you?”

  He glanced at me, and for a jarring, painful instant I saw confusion on his face. Enefa. He had spoken as if I was Enefa.

  Then the confusion passed, and he shared with me a small, sad smile. “Sorry,” he said.

  I could not feel bitter about it, given the sorrow in his face. “I do seem to look like her.”

  “That’s not it.” He sighed. “It’s just that sometimes—well, it feels like she died only yesterday.”

  The Gods’ War had occurred over two thousand years before, by most scholars’ reckonings. I turned away from Sieh and sighed, too, at the width of the gulf between us.

  “You’re not like her,” he said. “Not really.”

  I didn’t want to talk about Enefa, but I said nothing. I drew up my knees and rested my chin on them. Sieh resumed stroking my hair, petting me like a cat.

  “She was reserved like you, but that’s the only similarity. She was… cooler than you. Slower to anger—although she had the same kind of temper as you, I think, magnificent when it finally blew. We tried hard not to anger her.”

  “You sound like you were afraid of her.”

  “Of course. How could we not be?”

  I frowned in confusion. “She was your mother.”

  Sieh hesitated, and in it I heard an echo of my earlier thoughts about the gulf between us. “It’s… difficult to explain.”

  I hated that gulf. I wanted to breach it, though I had no idea if it was even possible. So I said, “Try.”

  His hand paused on my hair, and then he chuckled, his voice warm. “I’m glad you’re not one of my worshippers. You’d drive me mad with your demands.”

  “Would you even bother answering any prayers that I made?” I could not help smiling at the idea.

  “Oh, of course. But I might sneak a salamander into your bed to get back at you.”

  I laughed, which surprised me. It was the first time all day that I’d felt human. It didn’t last long as laughs went, but when it passed, I felt better. On impulse, I shifted to lean against his legs, putting my head on his knee. His hand never left my hair.

  “I needed no mother’s milk when I was born.” Sieh spoke slowly, but I did not sense a lie this time. I think it was just difficult for him to find the right words. “There was no need to protect me from danger or sing me lullabies. I could hear the songs between the stars, and I was more dangerous to the worlds I visited than they could ever be to me. And yet, compared to the Three, I was weak. Like them in many ways, but obviously inferior. Naha was the one who convinced her to let me live and see what I might become.”

  I frowned. “She was going to… kill you?”

  “Yes.” He chuckled at my shock. “She killed things all the time, Yeine. She was death as well as life, the twilight along with the dawn. Everyone forgets that.”

  I turned to stare at him, which made him draw his hand back from my hair. There was something in that gesture—something regretful and hesitant, not befitting a god at all—that suddenly angered me. It was there in his every word. However incomprehensible relationships between gods might be, he had been a child and Enefa his mother, and
he had loved her with any child’s abandon. Yet she had almost killed him, as a breeder culls a defective foal.

  Or as a mother smothers a dangerous infant…

  No. That had been entirely different.

  “I’m beginning to dislike this Enefa,” I said.

  Sieh started in surprise, stared at me for a long second, then burst out laughing. It was infectious, though nonsensical; humor born of pain. I smiled as well.

  “Thank you,” Sieh said, still chuckling. “I hate taking this form; it always makes me maudlin.”

  “Be a child again.” I liked him better that way.

  “Can’t.” He gestured toward the barrier. “This takes too much of my strength.”

  “Ah.” I wondered suddenly which was the default state for him: the child? Or this world-weary adult who slipped out whenever he let his guard down? Or something else altogether? But that seemed too intimate and possibly painful a question to ask, so I did not. We fell silent awhile longer, watching the servants dance.

  “What will you do?” Sieh asked.

  I laid my head back on his knee and said nothing.

  Sieh sighed. “If I knew how to help you, I would. You know that, don’t you?”

  The words warmed me more than I’d expected. I smiled. “Yes. I know, though I can’t say I understand it. I’m just a mortal like the rest of them, Sieh.”

  “Not like the rest.”

  “Yes.” I looked at him. “However… different I might be—” I did not like saying it aloud. No one stood near enough to us to overhear, but it seemed foolish to take chances. “You said it yourself. Even if I lived to be a hundred, my life would still be only an eyeblink of yours. I should be nothing to you, like these others.” I nodded toward the throng.

  He laughed softly; the bitterness had returned. “Oh, Yeine. You really don’t understand. If mortals were truly nothing to us, our lives would be so much easier. And so would yours.”

  I could say nothing to that. So I fell silent, and he did, too, and around us the servants celebrated on.