The Inheritance Trilogy

by N. K. Jemisin

  Could I trust what I saw? Did I dare? After all, he would soon be powerful again. What did it cost him to pretend love now and thus motivate me to follow through with their plan?

  I lowered my eyes, pained. I had been in Sky so long that I no longer trusted even myself.

  “I did not kill your mother,” Dekarta said.

  I started and turned to him. He’d spoken so softly that for a moment I thought I’d misheard. “What?”

  “I didn’t kill her. I would never have killed her. If she had not hated me I would have begged her to return to Sky, even bring you along.” To my shock, I saw wetness on Dekarta’s cheeks; he was crying. And glaring at me through his tears. “I would even have tried to love you, for her sake.”

  “Uncle,” said Scimina; her tone bordered on the insolent, practically vibrating with impatience. “While I can appreciate your kindness toward our cousin—”

  “Be silent,” Dekarta snarled at her. His diamond-pale eyes fixed on her so sharply that she actually flinched. “You don’t know how close I came to killing you when I heard of Kinneth’s death.”

  Scimina went stiff, echoing Dekarta’s own posture. Predictably she did not obey his order. “That would have been your privilege, my lord. But I had no part in Kinneth’s death; I paid no attention to her or this mongrel daughter of hers. I don’t even know why you chose her as today’s sacrifice.”

  “To see if she was a true Arameri,” Dekarta said very softly. His eyes drifted back to mine. It took three full heartbeats for me to realize what he meant, and the blood drained from my face as I did.

  “You thought I killed her,” I whispered. “Father of All, you honestly believed that.”

  “Murdering those we love best is a long tradition in our family,” Dekarta said.

  Beyond us, the eastern sky had grown very bright.

  I spluttered. It took me several tries to muster a coherent sentence through my fury, and when I did it was in Darre. I only realized it when Dekarta looked more confused than offended by my curses. “I am not Arameri!” I finished, fists clenched at my sides. “You eat your own young, you feed on suffering, like monsters out of some ancient tale! I will never be one of you in anything but blood, and if I could burn that out of myself I would!”

  “Perhaps you aren’t one of us,” Dekarta said. “Now I see that you are innocent, and by killing you I only destroy what remains of her. There is a part of me which regrets this. But I will not lie, Granddaughter. There is another part of me that will rejoice in your death. You took her from me. She left Sky to be with your father, and to raise you.”

  “Do you wonder why?” I gestured around the glass chamber, at gods and blood relatives come to watch me die. “You killed her mother. What did you think she would do, get over it?”

  For the first time since I had met him, there was a flicker of humanity in Dekarta’s sad, self-deprecating smile. “I suppose I did. Foolish of me, wasn’t it?”

  I could not help it; I echoed his smile. “Yes, Grandfather. It was.”

  Viraine touched Dekarta’s shoulder then. A patch of gold had grown against the eastern horizon, bright and warning. Dawn was coming. The time for confessions had passed.

  Dekarta nodded, then gazed at me for a long, silent moment before speaking. “I’m sorry,” he said very softly. An apology that covered many transgressions. “We must begin.”

  Even then, I did not say what I believed. I did not point at Viraine and name him my mother’s killer. There was still time. I could have asked Dekarta to see to him before completing the succession, as a last tribute to Kinneth’s memory. I don’t know why I didn’t—No. I do. I think in that moment, vengeance and answers ceased to have meaning for me. What difference would it make to know why my mother had died? She would still be dead. What good did it do me to punish her killer? I would be dead, too. Would any of this give meaning to my death, or hers?

  There is always meaning in death, child. You will understand, soon.

  Viraine began a slow circuit of the room. He raised his hands, lifted his face, and—still walking—began to speak.

  “Father of the sky and of the earth below you, master of all creation, hear your favored servants. We beg your guidance through the chaos of transition.”

  He stopped in front of Relad, whose face looked waxy in the gray light. I did not see the gesture that Viraine made, but Relad’s sigil suddenly glowed white, like a tiny sun etched upon his forehead. He did not wince or show any sign of pain, though the light made him look paler still. Nodding to himself, Viraine moved on around the room, now passing behind me. I turned my head to follow him; for some reason it bothered me to have him out of sight.

  “We beg your assistance in subduing your enemies.” Behind me, Nahadoth had turned his face away from the rising dawn. The black aura around him had begun to wisp away, as it had on the night of Scimina’s torture. Viraine touched Nahadoth’s forehead. A sigil appeared out of nowhere, also white-hot, and Nahadoth hissed as if this caused him further pain. But the leaking of his aura stopped, and when he lifted his head, panting, the dawn’s light no longer seemed to bother him. Viraine moved on.

  “We beg your blessing upon your newest chosen,” he said, and touched Scimina’s forehead. She smiled as her sigil ignited, the white light illuminating her face in stark angles and eager, fierce planes.

  Viraine came to stand before me then, with the plinth between us. As he passed behind it, my eyes were again drawn to the Stone of Earth. I had never dreamt it would look so singularly unimpressive.

  The lump shivered. For just an instant, a perfect, beautiful silver seed floated there before fading back into the dark lump.

  If Viraine had been looking at me in that moment, all might have been lost. I understood what had happened and realized the danger all in a single icy bolt of intuition, and it showed on my face. The Stone was like Nahadoth, like all the gods bound here on earth; its true form was hidden behind a mask. The mask made it seem ordinary, unimportant. But for those who looked upon it and expected more—especially those who knew its true nature—it would become more. It would change its shape to reflect all that they knew.

  I was condemned, and the Stone was to be my executioners’ blade. I should have seen it as a menacing, terrible thing. That I saw beauty and promise was a clear warning to any Arameri that I intended to do more than just die today.

  Fortunately Viraine was not looking at me. He had turned to face the eastern sky, as had everyone else in the room. I looked from face to face, seeing pride, anxiety, expectation, bitterness. The last was Nahadoth, who alone besides me did not look at the sky. His gaze found mine instead, and held it. Perhaps that was why we alone were not affected as the sun crested the distant horizon, and power made the whole world shiver like a jolted mirror.

  From the instant the sun sinks out of mortal sight until the last light fades: that is twilight. From the instant the sun crests the horizon ’til it no longer touches earth: that is dawn.

  I looked around in surprise, and caught my breath as before me, the Stone blossomed.

  That was the only word that could fit what I saw. The ugly lump shivered, then unfolded, layers peeling away to reveal light. But this was not the steady white light of Itempas, nor the wavering unlight of Nahadoth. This was the strange light I had seen in the oubliette, gray and unpleasant, somehow leaching the color from everything nearby. There was no shape to the Stone now, not even the silver apricotseed. It was a star, shining, but somehow strengthless.

  Yet I felt its true power, radiating at me in waves that made my skin crawl and my stomach churn. I stepped back inadvertently, understanding now why T’vril had warned off the servants. There was nothing wholesome in this power. It was part of the Goddess of Life, but she was dead. The Stone was just a grisly relic.

  “Name your choice to lead our family, Granddaughter,” said Dekarta.

  I turned away from the Stone, though its radiance made that side of my face itch. My sight went blurry for a m
oment. I felt weak. The thing was killing me and I hadn’t even touched it.

  “R-Relad,” I said. “I choose Relad.”

  “What?” Scimina’s voice, stunned and outraged. “What did you say, you mongrel?”

  Movement behind me. It was Viraine; he had come around to my side of the plinth. I felt his hand on my back, supporting me when the Stone’s power made me sway, dizzy. I took it as comfort and made a greater effort to stand. As I did so, Viraine shifted a bit and I caught a glimpse of Kurue. Her expression was grim, resolute.

  I thought I understood why.

  The sun, as was its wont, was moving quickly. Already half of its bulk was above the horizon line. Soon it would no longer be dawn, but day.

  Dekarta nodded, unruffled by Scimina’s sudden spluttering. “Take the Stone, then,” he commanded me. “Make your choice real.”

  My choice. I lifted a shaking hand to take the Stone, and wondered if death would hurt. My choice.

  “Do it,” whispered Relad. He was leaning forward, his whole body taut. “Do it, do it, do it…”

  “No!” Scimina again, a scream. I saw her lunge at me from the corner of my eye.

  “I’m sorry,” Viraine whispered behind me, and suddenly everything stopped.

  I blinked, not sure what had happened. Something made me look down. There, poked through the bodice of my ugly dress, was something new: the tip of a knife blade. It had emerged from my body on the right side of my sternum, just beside the swell of my breast. The cloth around it was changing, turning a strange wet black.

  Blood, I realized. The Stone’s light stole the color even from that.

  Lead weighed my arm. What had I been doing? I could not remember. I was very tired. I needed to lie down.

  So I did.

  And I died.

  28

  Twilight and Dawn

  I REMEMBER WHO I AM NOW.

  I have held on to myself, and I will not let that knowledge go.

  I carry the truth within myself, future and past, inseparable.

  I will see this through.

  In the glass-walled chamber, many things happen at once. I move among my former companions, unseen, yet seeing all.

  My body falls to the floor, unmoving but for the blood spreading around it. Dekarta stares at me, perhaps seeing other dead women. Relad and Scimina begin shouting at Viraine, their faces distorted. I do not hear their words. Viraine, gazing down at me with a peculiarly empty expression, shouts something as well, and all of the Enefadeh are frozen in place. Sieh trembles, feline muscles bunched and straining. Zhakkarn, too, quivers, her massive fists clenched. Two of them make no effort to move, I notice, and because I notice, I see them up close. Kurue stands straight, her expression calm but resigned. There is a shadow of sorrow about her, hugging close like the cloak of her wings, but it is not something the others can see.

  Nahadoth—ah. The shock in his expression is giving way to anguish as he stares at me. The me on the floor bleeding out, not the me who watches him. How can I be both? I wonder fleetingly, before dismissing the question. It doesn’t matter.

  What matters is that there is real pain in Nahadoth’s eyes, and it is more than the horror of a lost chance at freedom. It is not a pure pain, though; he, too, sees other dead women. Would he mourn me at all if I did not carry his sister’s soul?

  That is an unfair question and small-hearted of me.

  Viraine crouches and yanks the knife out of my corpse. More blood spills at this, but not much. My heart has already stopped. I have fallen onto my side, half-curled as if in sleep, but I am not a god. I will not wake up.

  “Viraine.” Someone. Dekarta. “Explain yourself.”

  Viraine gets to his feet, glancing at the sky. The sun is three-quarters above the horizon. A strange look crosses his face, a hint of fear. Then it is gone, and he looks down at the bloody knife in his hand and then lets it drop to the floor. The clattering sound is distant, but my vision focuses in close on his hand. My blood has splattered his fingers. They tremble just slightly.

  “It was necessary,” he says, half to himself. Then he pulls himself together and says, “She was a weapon, my lord. Lady Kinneth’s last strike at you, with the collusion of the Enefadeh. There’s no time to explain now, but suffice it to say that if she had touched the Stone, made her wish, all the world would have suffered for it.”

  Sieh has managed to straighten, perhaps because he has stopped trying to kill Viraine. His voice is lower in his cat form, a half snarl. “How did you know?”

  “I told him.”

  Kurue.

  The others stare at her, disbelieving. But she is a goddess. Even as a traitor she will not yield her dignity.

  “You have forgotten yourselves,” she says, looking at each of her fellow Enefadeh in turn. “We have been too long at the mercy of these creatures. Once we would never have stooped so low as to rely on a mortal—especially not a descendant of the very mortal who betrayed us.” She looks at my corpse and sees Shahar Arameri. I carry the burdens of so many dead women. “I would rather die than beg her for my freedom. I would rather kill her and use her death to buy Itempas’s mercy.”

  There is a held breath of silence, at her words. It is not shock; it is rage.

  Sieh breaks it first, growling out soft, bitter laughter. “I see. You killed Kinneth.”

  All the humans in the room start, except Viraine. Dekarta drops his cane, because his gnarled hands have clenched into half fists. He says something. I do not hear it.

  Kurue does not seem to hear him, either, though she inclines her head to Sieh. “It was the only sensible course of action. The girl had to die here, at dawn.” She points at the Stone. “The soul will linger near its fleshly remnant. And in a moment Itempas will arrive to collect and destroy it at last.”

  “And our hopes with it,” says Zhakkarn, her jaw tight.

  Kurue sighs. “Our mother is dead, Sister. Itempas won. I hate it, too—but it’s time we accepted this. What did you think would happen if we did manage to free ourselves? Just the four of us, against the Bright Lord and dozens of our brothers and sisters? And the Stone, you realize. We have no one to wield it for us, but Itempas has his Arameri pets. We would end up enslaved again, or worse. No.”

  Then she turns to glare at Nahadoth. How could I have failed to recognize the look in her eyes? It has always been there. She looks at Nahadoth the way my mother probably looked at Dekarta, with sorrow inseparable from contempt. That should have been enough to warn me.

  “Hate me for it if you like, Naha. But remember that if you had only swallowed your foolish pride and given Itempas what he wanted, none of us would be here. Now I will give him what he wants, and he’s promised to set me free for it.”

  Nahadoth speaks very softly. “You’re the fool, Kurue, if you think Itempas will accept anything short of my capitulation.”

  He looks up then. I have no flesh in this vision, this dream, but I want to shiver. His eyes are black through black. The skin around them is crazed with lines and cracks, like a porcelain mask on the verge of shattering. What gleams through these cracks is neither blood nor flesh; it is an impossibly black glow that pulses like a heartbeat. When he smiles, I cannot see his teeth.

  “Isn’t that true… Brother?” His voice holds echoes of emptiness. He is looking at Viraine.

  Viraine, half-silhouetted by the dawning sun, turns to Nahadoth—but it is my eyes he seems to meet. The watching, floating me. He smiles. The sorrow and fear in that smile is something that only I, out of this whole room, can possibly understand. I know this instinctively, though I do not know why.

  Then, just before the sun’s bottommost curve lifts free of the horizon, I recognize what I have seen in him. Two souls. Itempas, like both his siblings, also has a second self.

  Viraine flings back his head and screams, and from his throat vomits hot, searing white light. It floods the room in an instant, blinding me. I imagine the people in the city below, and in the surrounding countrysi
de, will see this light from miles away. They will think it is a sun come to earth, and they will be right.

  In the brightness I hear the Arameri crying out, except Dekarta. He alone has witnessed this before. When the light fades, I look upon Itempas, Bright Lord of the Sky.

  The library etching was surprisingly accurate, though the differences are profound. His face is even more perfect, with lines and symmetry that put mere etching to shame. His eyes are the gold of a blazing noonday sun. Though white like Viraine’s, his hair is shorter and tighter-curled than even my own. His skin is darker, too, matte-smooth and flawless. (This surprises me, though it shouldn’t. How it must gall the Amn.) I can see, in this first glance, why Naha loves him.

  And there is love in Itempas’s eyes, too, as he steps around my body and its nimbus of coagulating blood. “Nahadoth,” he says, smiling and extending his hands. Even in my fleshless state, I shiver. The things his tongue does to those syllables! He has come to seduce the god of seduction, and oh, has he come prepared.

  Nahadoth is abruptly free to rise to his feet, which he does. But he does not take the proffered hands. He walks past Itempas to where my body lies. My corpse is fouled with blood all along one side, but he kneels and lifts me anyhow. He holds me against himself, cradling my head so it does not flop back on my limp neck. There is no expression on his face. He simply looks at me.

  If this gesture is calculated to offend, it works. Itempas lowers his hands slowly, and his smile fades.

  “Father of All.” Dekarta bows with precarious dignity, unsteady without his cane. “We are honored by your presence once again.” Murmurs from the sides of the room: Relad and Scimina make their greetings as well. I do not care about them. I exclude them from my perception.

  For a moment I think Itempas will not answer. Then he says, still gazing at Nahadoth’s back, “You still wear the sigil, Dekarta. Call a servant and finish the ritual.”