The Fifth Season

by N. K. Jemisin

  “Believe me, it’s been an ongoing debate.” Ykka sighs and leans against the railing, which makes you twitch. It’s a long way down if she slips, and some of the crystals on the geode floor are sharp-looking. “No one was willing to live here for a long time. Castrima used this place and the tunnels leading to it as a storecache, though never for essentials like food or medicine. But in all that time, there’s never been so much as a crack in the walls, even after shakes. We were further convinced by history: The comm that controlled this area during the last Season—a real, proper comm, with walls and everything—got overrun by a commless band. The whole comm was burned to the ground, all their vital stores taken. The survivors had a choice between moving down here, and trying to survive up there with no heat and no walls and every bunch of scavengers around homing in on the easy pickings left. So they were our precedent.”

  Necessity is the only law, says stonelore.

  “Not that it went well.” Ykka straightens and gestures for you to follow her again. All of you start down a broad, flat ramp that gently slopes toward the floor of the cavern. You realize only belatedly that it’s a crystal, and you’re walking down its side. Someone’s paved the thing with concrete for traction, but past the edges of the gray strip you can see softly glowing white. “Most of the people who moved down here during that Season died, too. They couldn’t make the air mechanisms work; staying here for more than a few days at a time meant suffocation. And they didn’t have any food, so even though they were warm and safe and had plenty of water, most of them starved before the sun returned.”

  It’s an old tale, freshened only by the unique setting. You nod absently, trying not to stumble as your attention is caught by an older man riding across the cavern while suspended from a pulley and cable, his butt snuggly tucked into a loop of rope. Ykka pauses to wave; the man waves back and glides on.

  “The survivors of that nightmare started the trading post that eventually became Castrima. They passed down stories about this place, but still, no one wanted to live here… until my great-grandmother realized why the mechanisms didn’t work. Until she got them working, just by walking through that entrance.” Ykka gestures back the way you came. “Worked for me, too, when I first came down here.”

  You stop. Everyone goes on without you for a moment. Hoa is the first to notice that you’re not following. He turns and looks at you. There is something guarded in his expression that was not there before, you notice distantly, through horror and wonder. Later, when you’ve had time to get past this, you and he will have to talk. Now there are more important considerations.

  “The mechanisms,” you say. Your mouth is dry. “They run on orogeny.”

  Ykka nods, half-smiling. “That’s what the geneers think. Of course, the fact that it’s all working now makes the conclusion obvious.”

  “Is it—” You grope for the words, fail. “How?”

  Ykka laughs, shaking her head. “I have no idea. It just works.”

  That, more than everything else she’s shown you, terrifies you.

  Ykka sighs and puts her hands on her hips. “Essun,” she says, and you twitch. “That’s your name, right?”

  You lick your lips. “Essun Resis—” And then you stop. Because you were about to give the name you gave to people in Tirimo for years, and that name is a lie. “Essun,” you say again, and stop there. Limited lying.

  Ykka glances at your companions. “Tonkee Innovator Dibars,” says Tonkee. She throws an almost embarrassed look at you, then looks down at her feet.

  “Hoa,” says Hoa. Ykka gazes at him a moment longer, as if she expects more, but he offers nothing.

  “Well, then.” Ykka opens her arms, as if to encompass the whole geode; she gazes at all of you with her chin lifted, amost in defiance. “This is what we’re trying to do here in Castrima: survive. Same as anyone. We’re just willing to innovate a little.” She inclines her head to Tonkee, who chuckles nervously. “We might all die doing it, but rust, that might happen anyway; it’s a Season.”

  You lick your lips. “Can we leave?”

  “What the rust do you mean, can we leave? We’ve barely had time to explore—” Tonkee begins, looking angry, and then abruptly she realizes what you mean. Her sallow face grows more so. “Oh.”

  Ykka’s smile is sharp as diamond. “Well. You’re not stupid; that’s good. Come on. We’ve got some people to meet.”

  She beckons for you to follow again, resuming her walk down the slope, and she does not answer your question.

  * * *

  In actual practice the sessapinae, paired organs located at the base of the brain stem, have been found to be sensitive to far more than local seismic movements and atmospheric pressure. In tests, reactions have been observed to the presence of predators, to others’ emotions, to distant extremes of heat or cold, and to the movements of celestial objects. The mechanism of these reactions cannot be determined.

  —Nandvid Innovator Murkettsi, “Observations of sesunal variation in overdeveloped individuals,” Seventh University biomestry learning-comm. With appreciation to the Fulcrum for cadaver donation.

  19

  Syenite on the lookout

  THEY’VE BEEN IN MEOV FOR three days when something changes. Syenite has spent those three days feeling very much out of place, in more ways than one. The first problem is that she can’t speak the language—which Alabaster tells her is called Eturpic. A number of Coaster comms still speak it as a native tongue, though most people also learn Sanze-mat for trading purposes. Alabaster’s theory is that the people of the islands are mostly descended from Coasters, which seems fairly obvious from their predominant coloring and common kinky hair—but since they raid rather than trade, they had no need to retain Sanze-mat. He tries to teach Eturpic to her, but she’s not really in a “learn something new” sort of mood. That’s because of the second problem, which Alabaster points out to her after they’ve had enough time to recover from their travails: They can’t leave. Or rather, they’ve got nowhere to go.

  “If the Guardians tried to kill us once, they’ll try again,” he explains. This is as they stroll along one of the arid heights of the island; it’s the only way they can get any real privacy, since otherwise hordes of children follow them around and try to imitate the strange sounds of Sanze-mat. There’s plenty to do here—the children are in creche most of the evenings, after everyone’s done fishing and crabbing and whatnot for the day—but it’s clear that there’s not a lot of entertainment.

  “Without knowing what it is we’ve done to provoke the Guardians’ ire,” Alabaster continues, “it would be folly itself to go back to the Fulcrum. We might not even make it past the gates before somebody throws another disruption knife.”

  Which is obvious, now that Syenite thinks it through. Yet there’s something else that’s obvious, whenever she looks at the horizon and sees the smoking hump that is what’s left of Allia. “They think we’re dead.” She tears her eyes away from that lump, trying not to imagine what must have become of the beautiful little seaside comm she remembers. All of Allia’s alarms, all their preparations, were shaped around surviving tsunami, not the volcano that has obviously, impossibly occurred instead. Poor Heresmith. Not even Asael deserved the death she probably suffered.

  She cannot think about this. Instead she focuses on Alabaster. “That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? Being dead in Allia allows us to be alive, and free, here.”

  “Exactly!” Now Alabaster’s grinning, practically dancing in place. She’s never seen him so excited before. It’s like he’s not even aware of the price that’s been paid for their freedom… or maybe he just doesn’t care. “There’s hardly any contact with the continent, here, and when there is, it’s not exactly friendly. Our assigned Guardians can sense us if they’re near enough, but none of their kind ever come here. These islands aren’t even on many maps!” Then he sobers. “But on the continent there’d be no question of us escaping the Fulcrum. Every Guardian east of Yumenes
will be sniffing about the remains of Allia for hints as to whether we’ve survived. They’re probably circulating posters bearing our likenesses to the Imperial Road Patrol and quartent militias in the region. I suppose I’ll be made out as Misalem reborn, and you my willing accomplice. Or maybe you’ll finally get some respect, and they’ll decide you’re the mastermind.”

  Yes, well.

  He’s right, though. With a comm destroyed in such a horrible way, the Fulcrum will need scapegoats to blame. Why not the two roggas on site, who should have been more than skilled enough to contain any seismic event between them? Allia’s destruction represents a betrayal of everything the Fulcrum promises the Stillness: tame and obedient orogenes, safety from the worst shakes and blows. Freedom from fear, at least till the next Fifth Season comes. Of course the Fulcrum will vilify them in every way possible, because otherwise people will break down its obsidian walls and slaughter everyone inside down to the littlest grit.

  It does not help that Syen can sess, now that her sessapinae are no longer numb, just how bad things are in Allia. It’s at the edge of her awareness—which is itself a surprise; for some reason she can reach much farther now than she could before. Still, it’s clear: In the flat plane of the Maximal plate’s eastern edge, there is a shaft burned straight down and down and down, into the very mantle of the planet. Beyond that Syen cannot follow—and she does not need to, because she can tell what made this shaft. Its edges are hexagonal, and it has exactly the same circumference as the garnet obelisk.

  And Alabster is giddy. She could hate him for that alone.

  His smile fades as he sees her face. “Evil Earth, are you ever happy?”

  “They’ll find us. Our Guardians can track us. ”

  He shakes his head. “Mine can’t.” You remember the strange Guardian in Allia alluding to this. “As for yours, when your orogeny was negated, he lost you. It cuts off everything, you know, not just our abilities. He’ll need to touch you for the connection to work again.”

  You had no idea. “He won’t stop looking, though.”

  Alabaster pauses. “Did you like being in the Fulcrum so much?”

  The question startles her, and angers her further. “I could at least be myself there. I didn’t have to hide what I am.”

  He nods slowly, something in his expression telling her that he understands all too well what she’s feeling. “And what are you, when you’re there?”

  “Fuck. You.” She’s too angry, all of a sudden, to know why she’s angry.

  “I did.” His smirk makes her burn hot as Allia must be. “Remember? We’ve fucked Earth knows how many times, even though we can’t stand each other, on someone else’s orders. Or have you made yourself believe you wanted it? Did you need a dick—any dick, even my mediocre, boring one—that bad?”

  She doesn’t reply in words. She’s not thinking or talking anymore. She’s in the earth and it’s reverberating with her rage, amplifying it; the torus that materializes around her is high and fine and leaves an inch-wide ring of cold so fierce that the air hisses and sears white for an instant. She’s going to ice him to the Arctics and back.

  But Alabaster only sighs and flexes a little, and his torus blots out hers as easily as fingers snuffing a candle. It’s gentle compared to what he could do, but the profundity of having her fury so swiftly and powerfully stilled makes her stagger. He steps forward as if to help her, and she jerks away from him with a half-voiced snarl. He backs off at once, holding up his hands as if asking for a truce.

  “Sorry,” he says. He genuinely sounds it, so she doesn’t storm off right then. “I was just trying to make a point.”

  He’s made it. Not that she hadn’t known it before: that she is a slave, that all roggas are slaves, that the security and sense of self-worth the Fulcrum offers is wrapped in the chain of her right to live, and even the right to control her own body. It’s one thing to know this, to admit it to herself, but it’s the sort of truth that none of them use against each other—not even to make a point—because doing so is cruel and unnecessary. This is why she hates Alabaster: not because he is more powerful, not even because he is crazy, but because he refuses to allow her any of the polite fictions and unspoken truths that have kept her comfortable, and safe, for years.

  They glare at each other for a moment longer, then Alabaster shakes his head and turns to leave. Syenite follows, because there’s really nowhere else to go. They head back down to the cavern level. As they descend the stairs, Syenite has no choice but to face the third reason she feels so out of place in Meov.

  Floating now in the comm’s harbor is a huge, graceful sailing vessel—maybe a frigate, maybe a galleon, she doesn’t know either of these words from boat—that dwarfs all the smaller vessels combined. Its hull is a wood so dark that it’s almost black, patched with paler wood here and there. Its sails are tawny canvas, also much-mended and sun-faded and water-marked… and yet, somehow despite the stains and patches, the whole of the ship is oddly beautiful. It is called the Clalsu, or at least that’s what the word sounds like to her ears, and it sailed in two days after Syenite and Alabaster arrived in Meov. Aboard it were a good number of the comm’s able-bodied adults, and a lot of ill-gotten gain from several weeks’ predation along the coastal shipping lanes.

  The Clalsu has also brought to Meov its captain—the headman’s second, actually, who is only second by virtue of the fact that he spends more time away from the island than on it. Otherwise, Syen would have known the instant this man bounded down the gangplank to greet the cheering crowd that he was Meov’s true leader, because she can tell without understanding a word that everyone here loves him and looks up to him. Innon is his name: Innon Resistant Meov in the mainlander parlance. A big man, black-skinned like most of the Meovites, built more like a Strongback than a Resistant and with personality enough to outshine any Yumenescene Leader.

  Except he’s not really a Resistant, or a Strongback, or a Leader, not that any of those use names really mean much in this comm that rejects so much of Sanzed custom. He’s an orogene. A feral, born free and raised openly by Harlas—who’s a rogga, too. All their leaders are roggas, here. It’s how the island has survived through more Seasons than they’ve bothered to count.

  And beyond this fact… well. Syen’s not quite sure how to deal with Innon.

  As a case in point, she hears him the instant they come into the main entry cavern of the comm. Everyone can hear him, since he talks as loudly within the caverns as he apparently does when on the deck of his ship. He doesn’t need to; the caverns echo even the slightest sound. He’s just not the sort of man to limit himself, even when he should.

  Like now.

  “Syenite, Alabaster!” The comm has gathered around its communal cookfires to share the evening meal. Everyone’s sitting on stone or wooden benches, relaxing and chatting, but there’s a big knot of people seated around Innon where he’s been regaling them with… something. He switches to Sanze-mat at once, however, since he’s one of the few people in the comm who can speak it, albeit with a heavy accent. “I have been waiting for you both. We saved good stories for you. Here!” He actually rises and beckons to them as if yelling at the top of his lungs wasn’t enough to get their attention, and as if a six-and-a-half-foot-tall man with a huge mane of braids and clothes from three different nations—all of it garish—would be hard to spot amid the crowd.

  Yet Syenite finds herself smiling as she steps into the ring of benches where Innon has, apparently, kept one open just for them. Other members of the comm murmur greetings, which Syen is beginning to recognize; out of politeness, she attempts to stammer something similar back, and endures their chuckles when she gets it wrong. Innon grins at her and repeats the phrase, properly; she tries again and sees nods all around. “Excellent,” Innon says, so emphatically that she cannot help but believe him.

  Then he grins at Alabaster, beside her. “You’re a good teacher, I think.”

  Alabaster ducks his head a little. “N
ot really. I can’t seem to stop my pupils from hating me.”

  “Mmm.” Innon’s voice is low and deep and reverberates like the deepest of shakes. When he smiles, it’s like the surface breach of a vesicle, something bright and hot and alarming, especially up close. “We must see if we can change that, hmm?” And he looks at Syen, unabashed in his interest, and plainly not caring when the other members of the comm chuckle.

  That’s the problem, see. This ridiculous, loud, vulgar man has made no secret of the fact that he wants Syenite. And unfortunately—because otherwise this would be easy—there’s something about him that Syen actually finds herself attracted to. His ferality, perhaps. She’s never met anyone like him.

  Thing is, he seems to want Alabaster, too. And Alabaster doesn’t seem disinterested, either.

  It’s a little confusing.

  Once he has successfully flustered both of them, Innon turns his infinite charm on his people. “Well! Here we are, with food aplenty and fine new things that other people have made and paid for.” He shifts into Eturpic then, repeating the words for everyone; they chuckle at the last part, largely because many of them have been wearing new clothes and jewelry and the like since the ship came in. Then Innon continues, and Syen doesn’t really need Alabaster to explain that Innon is telling everyone a story—because Innon does this with his whole body. He leans forward and speaks more softly, and everyone is riveted to whatever tense moment he is describing. Then he pantomimes someone falling off something, and makes the sound of a splat by cupping his hands and squeezing air from between his palms. The small children who are listening practically fall over laughing, while the older kids snicker and the adults smile.

  Alabaster translates a little of it for her. Apparently Innon is telling everyone about their most recent raid, on a small Coaster comm some ten days’ sailing to the north. Syen’s only half-listening to ’Baster’s summation, mostly paying attention to the movements of Innon’s body and imagining him performing entirely different movements, when suddenly Alabaster stops translating. When she finally notices this, surprised, he’s looking at her intently.