Shades in Shadow (6 page)

Glee discusses this with her father sometimes as they sit in another guesthouse, sharing a table purely to save space, eating meals on separate checks. “This serves mortals, certainly,” she says, “but would it not serve better to get
them
to make the world better? If you could get the selfish ones to see that their greed harms everyone, including themselves—”

“Impossible,” Itempas says. “Selfishness is mortals' nature. I did not command them to build a society that arbitrarily treats some as important and others as not, yet they have done so.”
In his name,
he does not add. They both find this offensive enough that there's no need to mention it.

“
Change
is mortals' nature, too,” Glee says quietly. Itempas grimaces in distaste.

“Only under duress,” he says. “They must have
reasons
to change.”

She considers this, tapping her fingers on the table in her impatience, trying to come up with reasons that would work, and only belatedly notices that he is watching her.

“This isn't your burden,” he says when she frowns. His voice is gentle.

“Of course it is,” she snaps, and then bites down on her temper so that she can remain respectful.

He falls silent, and although nothing about him has overtly changed, she believes she has surprised him.

After a year or so of contemplation—she has never been so uncertain before—Glee proposes a way to enact the change they have discussed. Itempas listens and does not reply for another three months and towns. This is unusual for him; it is his nature, like her own, to make decisions at the speed of light. That he takes so long to answer tells her he agrees with her, at least in principle. He just needs time to adjust.

But he does ask her, one evening, “Why?”

It is her mother's question, though for him it has multiple meanings: Why does she care? Why is she so determined to help him? Why is she bothering to spend the precious life she possesses, a life he has bent his own rules to create, on a task that may ultimately be futile? Now Glee has a better answer: “Because I know mortalkind can be better, and I'm willing to give my life to make it so.” She pauses. Hesitates. “I would appreciate help, however.”

Still not
the
answer, but not an embarrassment, either. Itempas is silent, and that is the end of the conversation.

But a few days later, wordlessly, Itempas begins the process of accepting this necessary change. It is fascinating, watching how he does this. And pitiful.

They have just concluded their business in the latest town, where Itempas nearly drowned trying to help a fishing boat haul in its catch with old fraying nets and a captain who did not heed the dire weather reports. Because other mortals' lives were at stake, Itempas could use magic to save them, translocating everyone from the boat to the shore just as the mast sank beneath the waves. As a crowd gathers 'round to exclaim over the miracle of survivors, and to shout at the captain who sits ashamed nearby, Glee goes to her father, who stands watching all of this with a sterner-than-usual set to his face. There is more to it than the captain's negligence, Glee understands. The boat's nets were frayed because the captain could barely afford to keep his business afloat. His business was in danger because the price of fish is being artificially controlled by the Nobles' Consortium in order to please several of the wealthier islander merchants, who run large fish distribution enterprises. The same people who curse the captain now have happily bought the cheap fish that made him so desperate for just one more catch. Now the man has lost his livelihood altogether, as have his crew members—but the price of fish will stay low, driving other captains into other storms and causing other wrecks from which there will be no magical rescue.

It is painfully clear even to Glee, who has less of a jaded eye toward human foibles, that these people will never believe themselves complicit in the lives lost. They accept that this is the way the world works, in part because it is all they know and in part because it is all they
wish
to know. They are Itempans, probably, all of them. Comfortable with the status quo.

They must be made to see a better way. It can be done quickly, but that would be violent, clumsy, crude. Itempas is not a god of revolution. Sea change, though, the transformation of attitudes and refinement of higher principles over generations? Yes. An exertion of positive influence here. A pressure against injustice there. It is what the Bright should have been, but the Bright went wrong because the Arameri were merely human. It can be done again, done right, with a god's hand on the tiller.

Now Itempas stands at a literal crossroads, dusty and tree-shaded, where two old wagon tracks meet near the coast. They are on the Senm continent again, and if he follows the pattern she has come to expect of him, he will turn north; there's a small mining village in that direction that looks promising Instead, he stands staring at the sign for longer than Glee can hold her breath.

She feels the moment when he makes the choice to begin, to change, because the whole universe utters a little shocked gasp. Then, slowly, gratingly, he turns southeast. The road going in this direction is wider, better kept, and the sign that points down its length reads
SKY-IN-SHADOW
.

It's easier for him, once he's walking. Putting one foot in front of the other is repeating an action he took before. But well before dark she finds an excuse to ask them to stop, and after she has built her separate fire and made herself some food—more than she needs, so, sadly, the excess will go to waste if she cannot give it to someone else, but look here is another person who needs it—he all but falls onto his bedroll. He refuses to eat from the parcel of conveniently leftover roasted groundnut and fowl in herbs. For the rest of the night he shivers and sweats, not actually sleeping but barely conscious nevertheless. When she touches his forehead, he is feverish. The infection that is
change
must run its course within him.

Glee keeps a surreptitious watch over him and contemplates the revelation that mortals can be stronger than gods under certain circumstances. Daughters can be stronger than fathers. The knowledge changes her, too, just a little.

And the next morning, when the sunrise makes him better, she is not wholly surprised when he sits up slowly, looking at her through bloodshot eyes. “I will help you,” he grates out.

It is the new purpose that they both need. She sees him take a deep breath after this declaration, some of the nausea fading from his expression. He sits up straighter, pushing his shoulders back. Makes another decision, this one apparently easy in light of the previous night's cataclysmic paradigm shift.

“I would speak of a thing,” he says, as if to the fire. “You may listen if you wish. There is an order that comes of the implementation of justice, rather than the avoidance of conflict. Striking the blow to create this order requires tangibility, manifestation,
intention
, and in the past this has taken the form of a sword of white metal whose name cannot be said aloud without unraveling this realm.” His eyes shift to her for a moment. “Why might you utilize such a sword, if it became available to you?”

It is the third
why
that her parents have presented to her, and it is perhaps the most dangerous of them. After all, she is merely mortal—fickle, changeable, weak. What he describes is a degree of power that perhaps only a god can wield successfully, because only a god is ruled by purpose. But mortals are not so very different from gods sometimes, when the cause is great enough…and after all, Glee is only half mortal. The gift that he offers comes with risk—but it is a risk that she knows is hers to choose, if she wants it. He will not deny her.

So she smiles, because at last she has an answer to this
why
that satisfies her and that is worthy of his question.

“I would utilize it,” she says, “because I am your daughter. Why else?”

He does not smile. However, for the briefest of instants, his eyeblinks become irregular and rapid, and he looks away. By this she knows: she has made him unbearably proud.

There will be trials to come, naturally. Worlds do not change easily, and certainly not without risk. But this world
will
change, now, because Glee has decided that it must. This is why she needed him, after all: to understand herself. Now that she does…well. She smiles at the fire and contemplates the new order that she means to build. It is only a matter of time.

Then when Glee gets up to head to her bedroll, she stops and puts a hand on her father's shoulder for a moment. Without looking, he reaches up to cover it. It is a meaningless gesture, performed for no particular reason. Not even a ritual. Just chance. Then they part, and there is nothing more that need be said between them. Everything is exactly as it should be.

N.K. Jemisin

N. K. Jemisin
is a Brooklyn author whose short fiction and novels have been multiply nominated for the Hugo, the World Fantasy Award, and the Nebula, shortlisted for the Crawford and the Tiptree, and have won the Locus Award. Her website is nkjemisin.com.

The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms

The Broken Kingdoms

The Kingdom of Gods

The Awakened Kingdom
(e-only novella)

Shades in Shadow: An Inheritance Triptych
(e-only novella)

The Killing Moon

The Shadowed Sun

The Fifth Season

The Obelisk Gate

by N. K. Jemisin

THIS IS THE WAY THE WORLD ENDS. FOR THE LAST TIME.

A season of endings has begun.

It starts with the great red rift across the heart of the world's sole continent, spewing ash that blots out the sun.

It starts with death, with a murdered son and a missing daughter.

It starts with betrayal, and long-dormant wounds rising up to fester.

This is the Stillness, a land long familiar with catastrophe, where the power of the earth is wielded as a weapon. And where there is no mercy.

Y
OU ARE SHE
. S
HE IS
you. You are Essun. Remember? The woman whose son is dead.

You're an orogene who's been living in the little nothing town of Tirimo for ten years. Only three people here know what you are, and two of them you gave birth to.

Well. One left who knows, now.

For the past ten years you've lived as ordinary a life as possible. You came to Tirimo from elsewhere; the townsfolk don't really care where or why. Since you were obviously well educated, you became a teacher at the local creche for children aged ten to thirteen. You're neither the best teacher nor the worst; the children forget you when they move on, but they learn. The butcher probably knows your name because she likes to flirt with you. The baker doesn't because you're quiet, and because like everyone else in town he just thinks of you as Jija's wife. Jija's a Tirimo man born and bred, a stoneknapper of the Resistant use-caste; everyone knows and likes him, so they like you peripherally. He's the foreground of the painting that is your life together. You're the background. You like it that way.

You're the mother of two children, but now one of them is dead and the other is missing. Maybe she's dead, too. You discover all of this when you come home from work one day. House empty, too quiet, tiny little boy all bloody and bruised on the den floor.

And you… shut down. You don't mean to. It's just a bit much, isn't it? Too much. You've been through a lot, you're very strong, but there are limits to what even you can bear.

Two days pass before anyone comes for you.

You've spent them in the house with your dead son. You've risen, used the toilet, eaten something from the coldvault, drunk the last trickle of water from the tap. These things you could do without thinking, by rote. Afterward, you returned to Uche's side.

(You fetched him a blanket during one of these trips. Covered him up to his ruined chin. Habit. The steampipes have stopped rattling; it's cold in the house. He could catch something.)

Late the next day, someone knocks at the house's front door. You do not stir yourself to answer it. That would require you to wonder who is there and whether you should let them in. Thinking of these things would make you consider your son's corpse under the blanket, and why would you want to do that? You ignore the door knock.

Someone bangs at the window in the front room. Persistent. You ignore this, too.

Finally, someone breaks the glass on the house's back door. You hears footsteps in the hallway between Uche's room and that of Nassun, your daughter.

(Nassun, your daughter.)

The footsteps reach the den and stop. “Essun?”

You know this voice. Young, male. Familiar, and soothing in a familiar way. Lerna, Makenba's boy from down the road, who went away for a few years and came back a doctor. He's not a boy anymore, hasn't been for a while, so you remind yourself again to start thinking of him as a man.

Oops, thinking. Carefully, you stop.

He inhales, and your skin reverberates with his horror when he draws near enough to see Uche. Remarkably, he does not cry out. Nor does he touch you, though he moves to Uche's other side and peers at you intently. Trying to see what's going on inside you?
Nothing, nothing
. He then peels back the blanket for a good look at Uche's body.
Nothing, nothing.
He pulls the blanket up again, this time over your son's face.

“He doesn't like that,” you say. It's your first time speaking in two days. Feels strange. “He's afraid of the dark.”

After a moment's silence, Lerna pulls the sheet back down to just below Uche's eyes.

“Thank you,” you say.

Lerna nods. “Have you slept?”

“No.”

So Lerna comes around the body and takes your arm, drawing you up. He's gentle, but his hands are firm, and he does not give up when at first you don't move. Just exerts more pressure, inexorably, until you have to rise or fall over. He leaves you that much choice. You rise. Then with the same gentle firmness he guides you toward the front door. “You can rest at my place,” he says.

You don't want to think, so you do not protest that you have your own perfectly good bed, thank you. Nor do you declare that you're fine and don't need his help, which isn't true. He walks you outside and down the block, keeping a grip on your elbow the whole time. A few others are gathered on the street outside. Some of them come near the two of you, saying things to which Lerna replies; you don't really hear any of it. Their voices are blurring noise that your mind doesn't bother to interpret. Lerna speaks to them in your stead, for which you would be grateful if you could bring yourself to care.

He gets you to his house, which smells of herbs and chemicals and books, and he tucks you into a long bed that has a fat gray cat on it. The cat moves out of the way enough to allow you to lie down, then tucks itself against your side once you're still. You would take comfort from this if the warmth and weight did not remind you a little of Uche, when he naps with you.

Napped with you. No, changing tense requires thought.
Naps
.

“Sleep,” Lerna says, and it is easy to comply.

You sleep a long time. At one point you wake. Lerna has put food on a tray beside the bed: clear broth and sliced fruit and a cup of tea, all long gone to room temperature. You eat and drink, then go into the bathroom. The toilet does not flush. There's a bucket beside it, full of water, which Lerna must have put there for this purpose. You puzzle over this, then feel the imminence of thought and have to fight, fight,
fight
to stay in the soft warm silence of thoughtlessness. You pour some water down the toilet, put the lid back down, and go back to bed.

In the dream, you're in the room while Jija does it. He and Uche are as you saw them last: Jija laughing, holding Uche on one knee and playing “earthshake” while the boy giggles and clamps down with his thighs and waggles his arms for balance. Then Jija suddenly stops laughing, stands up—throwing Uche to the floor—and begins kicking him. You know this is not how it happened. You've seen the imprint of Jija's fist, a bruise with four parallel marks, on Uche's belly and face. In the dream Jija kicks, because dreams are not logical.

Uche keeps laughing and waggling his arms, like it's still a game, even as blood covers his face.

You wake screaming, which subsides into sobs that you cannot stop. Lerna comes in, tries to say something, tries to hold you, and finally makes you drink a strong, foul-tasting tea. You sleep again.

“Something happened up north,” Lerna tells you.

You sit on the edge of the bed. He's in a chair across from you. You're drinking more nasty tea; your head hurts worse than a hangover. It's nighttime, but the room is dim. Lerna has lit only half the lanterns. For the first time you notice the strange smell in the air, not quite disguised by the lanternsmoke: sulfur, sharp and acrid. The smell has been there all day, growing gradually worse. It's strongest when Lerna's been outside.

“The road outside town has been clogged for two days with people coming from that direction.” Lerna sighs and rubs his face. He's fifteen years younger than you, but he no longer looks it. He has natural gray hair like many Cebaki, but it's the new lines in his face that make him seem older—those, and the new shadows in his eyes. “There's been some kind of shake. A big one, a couple of days ago. We felt nothing here, but in Sume—” Sume is in the next valley over, a day's ride on horseback. “The whole town is…” He shakes his head.

You nod, but you know all this without being told, or at least you can guess. Two days ago, as you sat in your den staring at the ruin of your child, something came toward the town: a convulsion of the earth so powerful you have never sessed its like. The word
shake
is inadequate. Whatever-it-was would have collapsed the house on Uche, so you put something in its way—a breakwater of sorts, composed of your focused will and a bit of kinetic energy borrowed from the thing itself. Doing this required no thought; a newborn could do it, although perhaps not so neatly. The shake split and flowed around the valley, then moved on.

Lerna licks his lips. Looks up at you, then away. He's the other one, besides your children, who knows what you are. He's known for a while, but this is the first time he's been confronted by the actuality of it. You can't really think about that, either.

“Rask isn't letting anyone leave or come in.” Rask is Rask Innovator Tirimo, the town's elected headman. “It's not a full-on lockdown, he says, not yet, but I was going to head over to Sume, see if I could help. Rask said no, and then he set the damn miners on the wall to supplement the Strongbacks while we send out scouts. Told them specifically to keep
me
within the gates.” Lerna clenches his fists, his expression bitter. “There are people out there on the Imperial Road. A lot of them are sick, injured, and that rusty bastard won't let me
help
.”

“First guard the gates,” you whisper. It is a rasp. You screamed a lot after that dream of Jija.

“What?”

You sip more tea to soothe the soreness. “Stonelore.”

Lerna stares at you. He knows the same passages; all children learn them, in creche. Everyone grows up on campfire tales of wise lorists and clever geomests warning skeptics when the signs begin to show, not being heeded, and saving people when the lore proves true.

“You think it's come to that, then,” he says, heavily. “Fire-under-Earth, Essun, you can't be serious.”

You are serious. It has come to that. But you know he will not believe you if you try to explain, so you just shake your head.

A painful, stagnating silence falls. After a long moment, delicately, Lerna says, “I brought Uche back here. He's in the infirmary, the, uh, in the coldcase. I'll see to, uh… arrangements.”

You nod slowly.

He hesitates. “Was it Jija?”

You nod again.

“You, you saw him—”

“Came home from creche.”

“Oh.” Another awkward pause. “People said you'd missed a day, before the shake. They had to send the children home; couldn't find a substitute. No one knew if you were home sick, or what.” Yes, well. You've probably been fired. Lerna takes a deep breath, lets it out. With that as forewarning, you're almost ready. “The shake didn't hit us, Essun. It passed around the town. Shivered over a few trees and crumbled a rock face up by the creek.” The creek is at the northernmost end of the valley, where no one has noticed a big chalcedony geode steaming. “Everything in and around town is fine, though. In almost a perfect circle. Fine.”

There was a time when you would have dissembled. You had reasons to hide then, a life to protect.

“I did it,” you say.

Lerna's jaw flexes, but he nods. “I never told anyone.” He hesitates. “That you were… uh, orogenic.”

He's so polite and proper. You've heard all the uglier terms for what you are. He has, too, but he would never say them. Neither would Jija, whenever someone tossed off a careless
rogga
around him.
I don't want the children to hear that kind of language,
he always said—

It hits fast. You abruptly lean over and dry-heave. Lerna starts, jumping to grab something nearby—a bedpan, which you haven't needed. But nothing comes out of your stomach, and after a moment the heaves stop. You take a cautious breath, then another. Wordlessly, Lerna offers a glass of water. You start to wave it away, then change your mind and take it. Your mouth tastes of bile.

“It wasn't me,” you say at last. He frowns in confusion and you realize he thinks you're still talking about the shake. “Jija. He didn't find out about me.” You think. You shouldn't think. “I don't know how, what, but Uche—he's little, doesn't have much control yet. Uche must have done something, and Jija realized—”

That your children are like you. It is the first time you've framed this thought completely.

Lerna closes his eyes, letting out a long breath. “That's it, then.”

That's not it. That should never have been enough to provoke a father to murder his own child. Nothing should have done that.

He licks his lips. “Do you want to see Uche?”

What for? You looked at him for two days. “No.”

With a sigh, Lerna gets to his feet, still rubbing a hand over his hair. “Going to tell Rask?” you ask. But the look Lerna turns on you makes you feel boorish. He's angry. He's such a calm, thoughtful boy; you didn't think he could get angry.

“I'm not going to tell Rask anything,” he snaps. “I haven't said anything in all this time and I'm not going to.”

“Then what—”

“I'm going to go find Eran.” Eran is the spokeswoman for the Resistant use-caste. Lerna was born a Strongback, but when he came back to Tirimo after becoming a doctor, the Resistants adopted him; the town had enough Strongbacks already, and the Innovators lost the shard-toss. Also, you've claimed to be a Resistant. “I'll let her know you're all right, have her pass that on to Rask.
You
are going to rest.”

“When she asks you why Jija—”

Lerna shakes his head. “Everyone's guessed already, Essun. They can read maps. It's clear as diamond that the center of the circle was this neighborhood. Knowing what Jija did, it hasn't been hard for anyone to jump to conclusions as to
why
. The timing's all wrong, but nobody's thinking that far.” While you stare at him, slowly understanding, Lerna's lip curls. “Half of them are appalled, but the rest are glad Jija did it. Because
of course
a three-year-old has the power to start shakes a thousand miles away in Yumenes!”