The Fifth Season

by N. K. Jemisin

  Damaya’s never heard anything like this. “What?”

  Binof looks annoyed. “That’s what I’m trying to find out! That’s what’s missing. Imperial history takes over after the Wandering Season. The Madness Season happened only a little while afterward, and Warlord Verishe—Emperor Verishe, the first Emperor—started Sanze then. She founded the Empire here, on land that everyone feared, and built a city around the thing they were all afraid of. That actually helped keep Yumenes safe in those early years. And later, after the Empire was more established, somewhere between the Season of Teeth and the Breathless Season, the Fulcrum was founded on this site. On purpose. On top of the thing they were all afraid of.”

  “But what—” Damaya trails off, understanding at last. “The histories don’t say what they were afraid of.”

  “Precisely. And I think it’s in there.” Binof points toward the open door.

  Damaya frowns. “Why are only Leaders supposed to know this?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. So are you coming in with me, or not?”

  Instead of answering, Damaya walks past Binof and into the brick-lined corridor. Binof curses, then trots after her, and because of that, they enter together.

  The tunnel opens out into a huge dark space. Damaya stops as soon as she feels airiness and breadth around her; it’s pitch black, but she can feel the shape of the ground ahead. She catches Binof, who’s blundering forward in a determined sort of way despite the dark—the fool—and says, “Wait. The ground’s pressed down up ahead.” She’s whispering, because that’s what one does in the dark. Her voice echoes; the echo takes a while to return. It’s a big space.

  “Pressed—what?”

  “Pressed down.” Damaya tries to explain it, but it’s always so hard to tell stills things. Another orogene would just know. “Like… like there’s been something really heavy here.” Something like a mountain. “The strata are deformed, and—there’s a depression. A big hole. You’ll fall.”

  “Rusting fuck,” Binof mutters. Damaya almost flinches, though she’s heard worse from some of her cruder fellow grits when the instructors weren’t around. “We need some light.”

  Lights appear on the ground up ahead, one by one. There is a faint clicking sound—which echoes as well—as each activates: small round white ones near their feet and in twin lines as they march forward, and then much larger ones that are rectangular and butter-yellow, spreading outward from the walkway lights. The yellow panels continue to activate in sequence, and spread, slowly forming an enormous hexagon and gradually illuminating the space in which they stand: a cavernous atrium with six walls, enclosed by what must be the roof of Main high above. The ceiling is so distant they can barely make out its radiating spoke of supports. The walls are featureless, the same plain stone that comprises the rest of Main, but most of the floor of this chamber has been covered over in asphalt, or something very like it—smooth, stonelike but not stone, slightly rough, durable.

  At the core of it, however, there is indeed a depression. That is an understatement: It’s a huge, tapering pit with flat-sided walls and neat, precise edges—six of them, cut as finely as one cuts a diamond. “Evil Earth,” Damaya whispers as she edges forward along the walkway to where the yellow lights limn the shape of the pit.

  “Yeah,” says Binof, sounding equally awed.

  It is stories deep, this pit, and steep. If she fell in, she would roll down its slopes and probably break every bone in her body at the bottom. But the shape of it nags at her, because it is faceted. Tapering to a point at the very bottom. No one digs a pit in that shape. Why would they? It would be almost impossible to get out of, even with a ladder that could reach so far.

  But then, no one has dug this pit. She can sess that: Something monstrously heavy punched this pit into the earth, and sat in the depression long enough to make all the rock and soil beneath it solidify into these smooth, neat planes. Then whatever-it-was lifted away, clean as a buttered roll from a pan, leaving nothing but the shape of itself behind.

  But wait; the walls of the pit are not wholly smooth. Damaya crouches for a closer look, while beside her, Binof just stares.

  There: Along every smooth slope, she can see thin, barely visible sharp objects. Needles? They push up through fine cracks in the smooth walls, jagged and random, like plant roots. The needles are made of iron; Damaya can smell the rust in the air. Scratch her earlier guess: If she fell into this pit, she would be shredded long before she ever hit the bottom.

  “I wasn’t expecting this,” Binof breathes at last. She’s speaking in a hush, maybe out of reverence, or fear. “Many things, but… not this.”

  “What is it?” asks Damaya. “What’s it for?”

  Binof shakes her head slowly. “It’s supposed to be—”

  “Hidden,” says a voice behind them, and they both jump and whirl in alarm. Damaya is standing closer to the edge of the pit, and when she stumbles there is a terrible, vertiginous moment in which she’s absolutely certain she’s going to fall in. In fact she relaxes, and doesn’t try to lean forward or rebalance herself or do any of the things that she would do if she had a chance of not falling. She is all-over heavy, and the pit yawns with inevitability behind her.

  Then Binof grabs her arm and yanks her forward, and abruptly she realizes she was still a good two or three feet from the edge. She would only have fallen in if she’d let herself fall in. This is such a strange thing that she almost forgets why she nearly fell, and then the Guardian comes down the walkway.

  The woman is tall and broad and bronze, pretty in a carved sort of way, with ashblow hair shorn into a bristly cap. She feels older than Schaffa, though this is difficult to tell; her skin is unmarked, her honey-colored eyes undented by crow’s feet. She just feels… heavier, in presence. And her smile is the same unnerving combination of peaceable and menacing as that of every Guardian Damaya has ever seen.

  Damaya thinks, I only need to be afraid if she thinks I’m dangerous.

  Here is the question, though: Is an orogene who goes where she knows she should not dangerous? Damaya licks her lips and tries not to look afraid.

  Binof doesn’t bother, darting a look between Damaya and the woman and the pit and the door. Damaya wants to tell her not to do whatever she’s thinking of—making a break for it, likely. Not with a Guardian here. But Binof is not an orogene; maybe that will protect her, even if she does something stupid.

  “Damaya,” the woman says, though Damaya has never met her before. “Schaffa will be disappointed.”

  “She’s with me,” Binof blurts, before Damaya can reply. Damaya looks at her in surprise, but Binof’s already talking, and now that she’s started, it seems as though nothing will stop her. “I brought her here. Ordered her here. She didn’t even know about the door and this—place—until I told her.”

  That isn’t true, Damaya wants to say, because she’d guessed that the place existed, just hadn’t known how to find it. But the Guardian is looking at Binof curiously, and that’s a positive sign because nobody’s hands have been broken yet.

  “And you are?” The Guardian smiles. “Not an orogene, I gather, despite your uniform.”

  Binof jumps a little, as if she’s forgotten that she’s been playing little lost grit. “Oh. Um.” She straightens and lifts her chin. “My name is Binof Leadership Yumenes. Your pardon for my intrusion, Guardian; I had a question that required an answer.”

  Binof’s talking differently, Damaya realizes suddenly: her words evenly spaced and voice steady, her manner not so much haughty as grave. As if the world’s fate depends upon her finding the answer to her question. As if she isn’t just some spoiled girl from a powerful family who decided on a whim to do something incredibly stupid.

  The Guardian stops, cocking her head and blinking as her smile momentarily fades. “Leadership Yumenes?” Then she beams. “How lovely! So young, and already you have a comm name. You are quite welcome among us, Binof Leader. If you had but told us you
were coming, we could have shown you what you wanted to see.”

  Binof flinches minutely at the rebuke. “I had a wish to see it for myself, I’m afraid. Perhaps that was not wise—but my parents are likely by now aware that I have come here, so please feel free to speak to them about it.”

  It’s a smart thing to do, Damaya is surprised to realize, because before now she has not thought of Binof as smart. Mentioning that others know where she’s gone.

  “I shall,” says the Guardian, and then she smiles at Damaya, which makes her stomach tighten. “And I shall speak to your Guardian, and we shall all speak together. That would be lovely, yes? Yes. Please.” She steps aside and bows a little, gesturing for them to precede her, and as polite as it looks, they both know it’s not a request.

  The Guardian leads them out of the chamber. As they all step into the brick tunnel again, the lights go out behind them. When the door is shut and the office is locked and they have proceeded into the Guardians’ wing, the woman touches Damaya’s shoulder to stop her while Binof keeps walking for a step or two. Then when Binof stops, looking at them in confusion, the Guardian says to Damaya, “Please wait here.” Then she moves to rejoin Binof.

  Binof looks at her, perhaps trying to convey something with her eyes. Damaya looks away, and the message fails as the Guardian leads her farther down the hall and into a closed door. Binof has already done enough harm.

  Damaya waits, of course. She’s not stupid. She’s standing in front of the door to a busy area; despite the hour, other Guardians emerge now and again, and look at her. She doesn’t look back, and something in this seems to satisfy them, so they move on without bothering her.

  After a few moments, the Guardian who caught them in the pit chamber returns and leads her through the door, with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Now. Let’s just talk a bit, why don’t we? I’ve sent for Schaffa; fortunately he’s in the city right now, and not out on circuit as usual. But until he gets here…”

  There’s a large, handsomely apportioned, carpeted area beyond the door, with many small desks. Some are occupied and some not, and the people who move between them wear a mix of black and burgundy uniforms. A very few aren’t wearing uniforms at all, but civilian clothing. Damaya stares at all of it in fascination until the Guardian puts a hand on her head and gently, but inexorably, steers her gaze away.

  Damaya is led into a small private office at the end of this chamber. The desk here is completely empty, however, and the room has a disused air. There’s a chair on either side of the desk, so Damaya takes the one meant for guests.

  “I’m sorry,” she says as the Guardian sits down behind the desk. “I-I didn’t think.”

  The Guardian shakes her head, as if this doesn’t matter. “Did you touch any of them?”

  “What?”

  “In the socket.” The Guardian’s still smiling, but they always smile; this means nothing useful. “You saw the extrusions from the socket walls. Weren’t you curious? There was one only an arm’s length below where you stood.”

  Socket? Oh, and the iron bits poking out of the walls. “No, I didn’t touch any of them.” Socket for what?

  The Guardian sits forward, and abruptly her smile vanishes. It doesn’t fade, and she doesn’t frown to replace it. All the expression just stops, in her face. “Did it call to you? Did you answer?”

  Something’s wrong. Damaya feels this suddenly, instinctively, and the realization dries the words from her mouth. The Guardian even sounds different—her voice is deeper, softer, almost hushed, as if she’s saying something she doesn’t want the others to hear.

  “What did it say to you?” The Guardian extends her hand, and even though Damaya puts her hand out immediately in obedient response, she does not want to. She does it anyway because Guardians are to be obeyed. The woman takes Damaya’s hand and holds it palm up, her thumb stroking the long crease. The lifeline. “You can tell me.”

  Damaya shakes her head in utter confusion. “What did what say to me?”

  “It’s angry.” The woman’s voice drops lower, going monotonous, and Damaya realizes she’s not trying to go unheard anymore. The Guardian is talking differently because that’s not her voice. “Angry and… afraid. I hear both gathering, growing, the anger and the fear. Readying, for the time of return.”

  It’s like… like someone else is inside the Guardian, and that is who’s talking, except using the Guardian’s face and voice and everything else. But as the woman says this, her hand begins to tighten on Damaya’s. Her thumb, which rests right on the bones that Schaffa broke a year and a half ago, begins to press in, and Damaya feels faint as some part of her thinks, I don’t want to be hurt again.

  “I’ll tell you whatever you want,” she offers, but the Guardian keeps pressing. It’s like she doesn’t even hear.

  “It did what it had to do, last time.” Press and tighten. This Guardian, unlike Schaffa, has longer nails; the thumbnail begins to dig into Damaya’s flesh. “It seeped through the walls and tainted their pure creation, exploited them before they could exploit it. When the arcane connections were made, it changed those who would control it. Chained them, fate to fate.”

  “Please don’t,” Damaya whispers. Her palm has begun to bleed. In almost the same moment there is a knock at the door. The woman ignores both.

  “It made them a part of it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Damaya says. It hurts. It hurts. She’s shaking, waiting for the snap of bone.

  “It hoped for communion. Compromise. Instead, the battle… escalated.”

  “I don’t understand! You’re not making any sense!” It’s wrong. Damaya’s raising her voice to a Guardian, and she knows better, but this isn’t right. Schaffa promised that he would hurt her only for a good reason. All Guardians operate on this principle; Damaya has seen the proof of it in how they interact with her fellow grits and the ringed orogenes. There is an order to life in the Fulcrum and this woman is breaking it. “Let go of me! I’ll do whatever you want, just let go!”

  The door opens and Schaffa flows in. Damaya’s breath catches, but he doesn’t look at her. His gaze is fixed on the Guardian who holds Damaya’s hand. He isn’t smiling as he moves to stand behind her. “Timay. Control yourself.”

  Timay’s not home, Damaya thinks.

  “It speaks only to warn, now,” she continues in a drone. “There will be no compromise next time—”

  Schaffa sighs a little, then jabs his fingers into the back of Timay’s skull.

  It’s not clear at first, from Damaya’s angle, that this is what he’s done. She just sees him make a sudden sharp, violent movement, and then Timay’s head jerks forward. She makes a sound so harsh and guttural that it is almost vulgar, and her eyes go wide. Schaffa’s face is expressionless as he does something, his arm flexing, and that’s when the first blood-lines wend around Timay’s neck, beginning to sink into her tunic and patter into her lap. Her hand, on Damaya’s, relaxes all at once, and her face goes slack.

  That is also when Damaya begins to scream. She keeps screaming as Schaffa twists his hand again, nostrils flaring with the effort of whatever he’s doing, and the sound of crunching bone and popping tendon is undeniable. Then Schaffa lifts his hand, holding something small and indistinct—too covered in gore—between his thumb and forefinger. Timay falls forward then, and now Damaya sees the ruin that was once the base of her skull.

  “Be silent, little one,” Schaffa says, mildly, and Damaya shuts up.

  Another Guardian comes in, looks at Timay, looks at Schaffa, and sighs. “Unfortunate.”

  “Very unfortunate.” Schaffa offers the blood-covered thing to this man, who cups his hands to receive it, carefully. “I would like this removed.” He nods toward Timay’s body.

  “Yes.” The man leaves with the thing Schaffa took from Timay, and then two more Guardians come in, sigh as the first one did, and collect her body from its chair. They drag her out, one of them pausing to mop up with a handkerchief the drops of
blood from the table where Timay fell. It’s all very efficient. Schaffa sits down in Timay’s place, and Damaya jerks her eyes to him only because she must. They gaze at each other in silence for a few moments.

  “Let me see,” Schaffa says gently, and she offers him her hand. Amazingly, it does not shake.

  He takes it with his left hand—the one that is still clean because it did not rip out Timay’s brain stem. He turns her hand, examining it carefully, making a face at the crescent of blood where Timay’s thumbnail broke the skin. A single drop of Damaya’s blood rolls off the edge of her hand, splatting onto the table right where Timay’s blood had been a moment before. “Good. I was afraid she’d hurt you worse than this.”

  “Wh—” Damaya begins. She can’t muster any more than that.

  Schaffa smiles, though this is edged with sorrow. “Something you should not have seen.”

  “What.” This takes a ten-ringer’s effort.

  Schaffa considers a moment, then says, “You are aware that we—Guardians—are… different.” He smiles, as if to remind her of how different. All Guardians smile a lot.

  She nods, mute.

  “There is a… procedure.” He lets go of her hand for a moment, touches the back of his own skull, beneath the fall of his long black hair. “A thing is done to make us what we are. An implantation. Sometimes it goes wrong and must then be removed, as you saw.” He shrugs. His right hand is still covered in gore. “A Guardian’s connections with his assigned orogenes can help to stave off the worst, but Timay had allowed hers to erode. Foolish.”

  A chilly barn in the Nomidlats; a moment of apparent affection; two warm fingers pressed to the base of Damaya’s skull. Duty first, he had said then. Something that will make me more comfortable.

  Damaya licks her lips. “Sh-she was. Saying things. Not making. Sense.”

  “I heard some of what she said.”

  “She wasn’t. Her.” Now Damaya’s the one not making sense. “She wasn’t who she was anymore. I mean, she was someone else. Talking as if… someone else was there.” In her head. In her mouth, speaking through it. “She kept talking about a socket. And ‘it’ being angry.”