Damaya stares back at him, realizing just how wrong she’s been. Mother has not sold Damaya. She and Father have given Damaya away. And Mother does not hate her; actually, she fears Damaya. Does that make a difference? Maybe. Damaya doesn’t know how to feel, in response to these revelations.
And the man, the man is not a child buyer at all. He is—
“You’re a Guardian?” she asks, even though by now she knows. He smiles again. She did not think Guardians were like this. In her head they are tall, cold-faced, bristling with weapons and secret knowledge. He’s tall, at least.
In most of the stories she’s been told, though, Guardians kill roggas like her.
“I am,” he says, and takes her hand. He likes to touch people a lot, she thinks. “I’m your Guardian.”
She frowns, but this is because she’s more confused than ever.
Mother sighs. “I can give you a blanket for her.”
“That will do, thank you.” And then the man falls silent, waiting. After a few breaths of this, Mother realizes he’s waiting for her. She nods jerkily, then leaves, her back stiff the whole way out of the barn. So then the man and Damaya are alone.
“Here,” he says, reaching up to his shoulders. He’s wearing something that must be a uniform: blocky shoulders and long stiff lines of sleeve and pant leg, burgundy cloth that looks sturdy but scratchy. Like Muh’s quilt. It has a short cape, more decorative than useful, but he pulls it off and wraps it around Damaya. It’s long enough to be a dress on her, and warm from his body.
“Thank you,” she says. “Who are you?”
“My name is Schaffa Guardian Warrant.”
She’s never heard of a place called Warrant, but it must exist, because what good is a comm name otherwise? “Guardian is a use-name?”
“It is for Guardians.” He drawls this, and her cheeks grow warm with embarrassment. “We aren’t much use to any comm, after all, in the ordinary course of things. It’s appropriate that we advertise this.”
Damaya frowns in confusion. “What, so they’ll kick you out when a Season comes? But…” Guardians are many things, she knows from the stories, but they are not unimportant. They must be strong to do what they do; they must be great warriors and hunters and sometimes—often—assassins. Comms need such people when hard times come.
Schaffa shrugs, moving away to sit on a bale of old hay. There’s another bale behind Damaya, but she keeps standing, because she likes being on the same level with him. Even sitting he’s taller, but at least not by so much.
“The orogenes of the Fulcrum serve the world,” he says. “You will have no use-name from here forth, because your usefulness lies in what you are, not merely some familial aptitude. From birth an orogene child can stop a shake; even without training, you are orogene. Within a comm or without one, you are orogene. With training, however, and with the guidance of other skilled orogenes at the Fulcrum, you can be useful not merely to a single comm, but the whole world.” He spreads his hands. “As a Guardian, via the orogenes in my care, I have taken on a similar purpose, with a similar breadth. It’s fitting that I share my charges’ possible fate.”
Damaya is so curious, so full of questions, that she doesn’t know which to ask first. “Do you have—” She stumbles over the concept, and the words, and the acceptance of herself. “Others, l-like me, I.” And she runs out of words.
Schaffa laughs, as if he senses her eagerness and it pleases him. “I am Guardian to six right now,” he says, inclining his head to let Damaya know that this is the right way to say it, to think it. “Including you.”
“And you brought them all to Yumenes? You found them all like this, like me—”
“Not exactly. The first three were given into my care when I became a Guardian. Later, when I had more experience, I was assigned to ride circuit in this part of the Nomidlats.” He spreads his hands. “When your parents reported their orogene child to Palela’s headman, he telegraphed word to Brevard, which sent it to Geddo, which sent it to Yumenes—and they in turn telegraphed word to me.” He sighs. “It’s only luck that I checked in at the node station near Brevard the day after the message arrived. Otherwise I wouldn’t have seen it for another two weeks.”
Damaya knows Brevard, though Yumenes is only legend to her, and the rest of the places Schaffa has mentioned are just words in a creche textbook. Brevard is the town closest to Palela, and it’s much bigger. It’s where Father and Chaga go to sell farmshares at the beginning of every growing season. Then she registers his words. Two more weeks in this barn, freezing and peeing in a corner. She’s glad he got the message in Brevard, too.
“You’re very lucky,” he says, perhaps reading her expression. His own has grown sober. “Not all parents do the right thing. Sometimes they don’t keep their child isolated as the Fulcrum and we Guardians recommend. Sometimes they do, but we get the message too late, and by the time a Guardian arrives a mob has carried the child off and beaten her to death. Don’t think too unkindly of your parents, Dama. You’re alive and well, and that is no small thing.”
Damaya squirms a little, unwilling to accept this. He sighs. “And sometimes,” he continues, “the parents of an orogene will try to hide the child. To keep her, untrained and without a Guardian. That always goes badly.”
This is the thing that’s been in her mind for the past two weeks, ever since that day at school. If her parents loved her, they would not have locked her in the barn. They would not have called this man. Mother would not have said those terrible things.
“Why can’t they—” she blurts, before she realizes he has said this on purpose. To see if Why can’t they just hide me and keep me here is something she’s been thinking—and now he knows the truth. Damaya’s hands clench on the cape where she’s holding it closed around herself, but Schaffa merely nods.
“First because they have another child, and anyone caught harboring an unregistered orogene is ejected from their comm as a minimum punishment.” Damaya has heard this, though she resents the knowledge. Parents who cared about her would risk, wouldn’t they? “Your parents could not have wanted to lose their home, their livelihood, and custody of both their children. But the greatest danger lies in what you are, Dama. You can no more hide that than you can the fact that you are female, or your clever young mind.” She blushes, unsure if this is praise. He smiles so she knows it is.
He continues: “Every time the earth moves, you will hear its call. In every moment of danger you will reach, instinctively, for the nearest source of warmth and movement. The ability to do this is to you as fists are to a strong man. It’s harder than you can imagine to not fight back, especially when the threat is imminent. Of course you’ll do what you must to protect yourself. And when you do, people will die.”
Damaya flinches. Schaffa smiles again, as kindly as always.
And Damaya thinks about that day.
It was after lunch, in the play-yard. She had eaten her bean roll while sitting by the pond with Limi and Shantare as she usually did while the other children played or threw food at each other. Some of the other kids were huddled in a corner of the yard, scratching in the dirt and muttering to each other; they had a geomesting test that afternoon. And then Zab had come over to the three of them, though he’d looked at Damaya in particular as he said, “Let me cheat off you.”
Limi giggled. She thought Zab liked Damaya. Damaya didn’t like him, though, because he was awful—always picking on Damaya, calling her names, poking her until she yelled at him to stop. So she said to Zab, “I’m not getting in trouble for you.”
And he’d said, “You won’t, if you do it right. Just move your paper over—”
“No,” she’d said again. “I’m not going to do it right. I’m not going to do it at all. Go away.” And then she’d turned back to Shantare, who had been talking before Zab interrupted.
Next thing Damaya knew, she was on the ground. Zab had shoved her off the rock using both hands, and she’d tumbled head over heels, literal
ly, landing on her back. Later—she’d had two weeks in the barn to think about it—she would recall the look of shock on his face, as if he hadn’t realized she would go over so easily. But at the time, all she had known was that she was on the ground. The muddy ground. Her whole back was cold and wet and foul, everything smelled of fermenting bog and crushed grass, it was in her hair and that was her best uniform and Mother was going to be furious and she was furious and so she’d grabbed the air and—
Damaya shivers. People will die. Schaffa nods as if he has heard this thought.
“You’re firemountain-glass, Dama.” He says this very softly. “You’re a gift of the earth—but Father Earth hates us, never forget, and his gifts are neither free nor safe. If we pick you up, hone you to sharpness, treat you with the care and respect you deserve, then you become useful. More than useful: valuable. But if we just leave you lying about, you’ll cut to the bone the first person who blunders across you. Or worse—you’ll shatter, and hurt many.”
Damaya remembers the look on Zab’s face. The air had gone cold for only an instant, billowing around her like a burst balloon. That was enough to make a crust of ice on the grass beneath her, and to make the sweatdrops go solid on Zab’s skin. They’d stopped and jerked and stared at each other.
She remembers his face. You almost killed me, she had seen there.
Schaffa, watching her closely, smiles.
“It isn’t your fault,” he says. “Most of what they say about orogenes isn’t true. There’s nothing you did to be born like this, nothing your parents did. Don’t be angry with them, or with yourself.”
And she begins to cry. Because, well. He’s right. All of it, everything he says, it’s right. She has hated Mother for putting her in here, she’s hated Father and Chaga for letting Mother do it, she hates herself for having been born what she is and disappointing them all. And now Schaffa knows just how weak and terrible she is.
“Shh,” he says, standing and coming over to her. He kneels and takes her hands; she starts crying harder. She can’t hold it in anymore. But Schaffa squeezes her hands sharply, enough to hurt, and she starts and draws breath and blinks at him through the blur. “You mustn’t, little one. Your mother will return soon. Never cry where they can see you.”
“Wh-what?”
He looks so sad—for Damaya?—as he reaches up and cups her cheek. “It isn’t safe.”
So she stops, though she doesn’t really understand. Once she’s wiped her cheeks, he examines her and thumbs away a tear that she’s missed, then nods after this inspection. “Your mother will probably be able to tell, but that will do for everyone else.”
The barn door creaks and Mother is back, this time with Father in tow. Father’s jaw is tight, and he doesn’t look at Damaya even though he hasn’t seen her since Mother put her in the barn. Both of them focus on Schaffa, who stands and moves a little in front of Damaya, nodding thanks as he accepts the folded blanket and twine-wrapped parcel that Mother gives him.
“We’ve watered your horse,” Father says, stiffly. “You want provender to carry?”
“No need,” says Schaffa. “If we make good time, we should make Brevard just after nightfall.”
Father frowns. “A hard ride.”
“Yes. But in Brevard, no one from this village will get the fine idea to come seek us out along the road, and make their farewells to Damaya in a ruder fashion.” Schaffa smiles thinly.
It takes a moment for Damaya to understand, and then she realizes: people from Palela want to kill Damaya. But that’s wrong, isn’t it? They can’t really, can they? She thinks of all the people she knows. The teachers from creche. The other children. The old ladies at the wellhouse who used to be friends with Muh.
Father thinks of this, too, she can see that in his face, and he frowns and opens his mouth to say what she’s thinking: They wouldn’t do something like that. But he stops before the words leave his mouth. And he glances at Damaya, once and with his face full of anguish, before remembering to look away again.
“Here you are,” Schaffa says to Damaya, holding out the blanket. It’s Muh’s. She stares at it, then looks at Mother, but Mother won’t look back.
Damaya swallows back tears because it isn’t safe to cry. Even when she pulls off Schaffa’s cloak and he wraps the blanket around her instead, familiar-fusty and scratchy and perfect, she keeps her face completely still. Schaffa’s eyes flick to hers; he nods, just a little, in approval. Then he takes her hand and leads her toward the barn door.
Mother and Father follow, but they don’t say anything. Damaya doesn’t say anything. She does glance at the house once, catching a glimpse of someone through a gap in the curtains before they flick shut. Chaga, her big brother, who taught her how to read and how to ride a donkey and how to skip rocks on a pond. He doesn’t even wave good-bye… but maybe this is not because he hates her.
Then Schaffa is lifting Damaya onto a horse bigger than any she’s ever seen, a big glossy bay with a long neck, and then Schaffa’s in the saddle behind her, tucking the blanket around her legs and shoes so she won’t chafe or get chilblains, and then they are away.
“Don’t look back,” Schaffa advises. “It’s easier that way.” So she doesn’t.
But later, she wishes that she had.
Also by N. K. Jemisin
The Inheritance Trilogy
The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms
The Broken Kingdoms
The Kingdom of Gods
The Awakened Kingdom (brand-new sequel)
Dreamblood
The Killing Moon
The Shadowed Sun
Praise for THE INHERITANCE TRILOGY
“A complex, edge-of-your-seat story with plenty of funny, scary, and bittersweet twists.”
—Publishers Weekly (Starred Review)
“An offbeat, engaging tale by a talented and original newcomer.”
—Kirkus
“An astounding debut novel… the worldbuilding is solid, the characterization superb, the plot complicated but clear.”
—RT Book Reviews (Top Pick!)
“A delight for the fantasy reader.”
—Library Journal (Starred Review)
“The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms… is an impressive debut, which revitalizes the trope of empires whose rulers have gods at their fingertips.”
—io9.com
“N. K. Jemisin has written a fascinating epic fantasy where the stakes are not just the fate of kingdoms but of the world and the universe.”
—sfrevu.com
“Many books are good, some are great, but few are truly important. Add to this last category The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms, N. K. Jemisin’s debut novel… In this reviewer’s opinion, this is the must-read fantasy of the year.”
—BookPage
“A similar blend of inventiveness, irreverence, and sophistication—along with sensuality—brings vivid life to the setting and other characters: human and otherwise…. The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms definitely leaves me wanting more of this delightful new writer.”
—Locus
“A compelling page-turner.”
—The Onion A.V. Club
“An absorbing story, an intriguing setting and world mythology, and a likable narrator with a compelling voice. The next book cannot come out soon enough.”
—fantasybookcafe.com
“The Broken Kingdoms… expands the universe of the series geographically, historically, magically and in the range of characters, while keeping the same superb prose and gripping narrative that made the first one such a memorable debut.”
—Fantasy Book Critic
“The Kingdom of Gods once again proves Jemisin’s skill and consistency as a storyteller, but what sets her apart from the crowd is her ability to imagine and describe the mysteries of the universe in language that is at once elegant and profane, and thus, true.”
—Shelf Awareness
Praise for the DREAMBLOOD DUOLOGY
“Ah, N. K. Jemisin, you c
an do no wrong.”
—Felicia Day
“The Killing Moon is a powerhouse and, in general, one hell of a story to read. Jemisin has arrived.”
—Bookworm Blues
“The author’s exceptional ability to tell a compelling story and her talent for world building have assured her place at the forefront of fantasy.”
—Library Journal (Starred Review)
“Jemisin excels at world building and the inclusion of a diverse mix of characters makes her settings feel even more real and vivid.”
—RT Book Reviews (Top Pick!)
“The novel also showcases some skillful, original world building. Like a lucid dreamer, Jemisin takes real-world influences as diverse as ancient Egyptian culture and Freudian/Jungian dream theory and unites them to craft a new world that feels both familiar and entirely new. It’s all refreshingly unique.”
—Slant Magazine
“Read this or miss out on one of the best fantasy books of the year so far.”
—San Francisco Book Review
“N. K. Jemisin is playing with the gods again—and it’s just as good as the first time.”
—io9.com
1. Initial compilation by First Scrivener and Order of the White Flame Ordinate Sefim Arameri, in the 55th year of the Bright. Subsequent revisions by First Scriveners Comman Knorn/Arameri (170), Latise Arameri (1144), Bir Get/Arameri (1721), and Viraine Derreye/Arameri (2224).
2. The subjects do not refer to themselves as such, but this terminology was agreed upon per the Munae Scrivan, 7th Reiterate, year 230 of the Bright.
3. Defined as magic per Litaria standard terminology, 1st progression.
4. See On Magic, volume 12.
5. As observed in the Pells War, the Ulan Uprising, and other occasions.
6. Hereinafter referred to as aetheric per Litaria standard terminology, 4th progression.
The Inheritance Trilogy Page 125
