orbitbooks.

net
orbitshortfiction.com
 Begin Reading
Table of Contents
A Preview of The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms
A Preview of The Killing Moon
Orbit Newsletter
Copyright Page

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the
permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the authors intellectual property. If you would like to use material
from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at
permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the authors rights.
For all those who have to fight for the respect that everyone else is given
without question
 PROLOGUE

you are here

LETS START WITH THE END of the world, why dont we? Get it over with and move on to more
interesting things.
First, a personal ending. There is a thing she will think over and over in the days to come, as she
imagines how her son died and tries to make sense of something so innately senseless. She will cover
Uches broken little body with a blanketexcept his face, because he is afraid of the darkand she
will sit beside it numb, and she will pay no attention to the world that is ending outside. The world has
already ended within her, and neither ending is for the first time. Shes old hat at this by now.
What she thinks then, and thereafter, is: But he was free.
And it is her bitter, weary self that answers this almost-question every time her bewildered,
shocked self manages to produce it:
He wasnt. Not really. But now he will be.
* * *
But you need context. Lets try the ending again, writ continentally.
Here is a land.
It is ordinary, as lands go. Mountains and plateaus and canyons and river deltas, the usual.
Ordinary, except for its size and its dynamism. It moves a lot, this land. Like an old man lying
restlessly abed it heaves and sighs, puckers and farts, yawns and swallows. Naturally this lands
people have named it the Stillness. It is a land of quiet and bitter irony.
The Stillness has had other names. It was once several other lands. Its one vast, unbroken
continent at present, but at some point in the future it will be more than one again.
Very soon now, actually.
The end begins in a city: the oldest, largest, and most magnificent living city in the world. The city
is called Yumenes, and once it was the heart of an empire. It is still the heart of many things, though
the empire has wilted somewhat in the years since its first bloom, as empires do.
Yumenes is not unique because of its size. There are many large cities in this part of the world,
chain-linked along the equator like a continental girdle. Elsewhere in the world villages rarely grow
into towns, and towns rarely become cities, because all such polities are hard to keep alive when the
earth keeps trying to eat them but Yumenes has been stable for most of its twenty-seven centuries.
Yumenes is unique because here alone have human beings dared to build not for safety, not for
comfort, not even for beauty, but for bravery. The citys walls are a masterwork of delicate mosaics
and embossing detailing its peoples long and brutal history. The clumping masses of its buildings
are punctuated by great high towers like fingers of stone, hand-wrought lanterns powered by the
modern marvel of hydroelectricity, delicately arching bridges woven of glass and audacity, and
architectural structures called balconies that are so simple, yet so breathtakingly foolish, that no one
has ever built them before in written history. (But much of history is unwritten. Remember this.) The
streets are paved not with easy-to-replace cobbles, but with a smooth, unbroken, and miraculous
substance the locals have dubbed asphalt. Even the shanties of Yumenes are daring, because theyre
just thin-walled shacks that would blow over in a bad windstorm, let alone a shake. Yet they stand, as
they have stood, for generations.
At the core of the city are many tall buildings, so it is perhaps unsurprising that one of them is
larger and more daring than all the rest combined: a massive structure whose base is a star pyramid
of precision-carved obsidian brick. Pyramids are the most stable architectural form, and this one is
pyramids times five because why not? And because this is Yumenes, a vast geodesic sphere whose
faceted walls resemble translucent amber sits at the pyramids apex, seeming to balance there lightly
though in truth, every part of the structure is channeled toward the sole purpose of supporting it. It
looks precarious; that is all that matters.
The Black Star is where the leaders of the empire meet to do their leaderish things. The amber
sphere is where they keep their emperor, carefully preserved and perfect. He wanders its golden halls
in genteel despair, doing what he is told and dreading the day his masters decide that his daughter
makes a better ornament.
None of these places or people matter, by the way. I simply point them out for context.
But here is a man who will matter a great deal.
You can imagine how he looks, for now. You may also imagine what hes thinking. This might be
wrong, mere conjecture, but a certain amount of likelihood applies nevertheless. Based on his
subsequent actions, there are only a few thoughts that could be in his mind in this moment.
He stands on a hill not far from the Black Star s obsidian walls. From here he can see most of the
city, smell its smoke, get lost in its gabble. Theres a group of young women walking along one of
the asphalt paths below; the hill is in a park much beloved by the citys residents. (Keep green land
within the walls, advises stonelore, but in most communities the land is fallow-planted with legumes
and other soil-enriching crops. Only in Yumenes is greenland sculpted into prettiness.) The women
laugh at something one of them has said, and the sound wafts up to the man on a passing breeze. He
closes his eyes and savors the faint tremolo of their voices, the fainter reverberation of their footsteps
like the wingbeats of butterflies against his sessapinae. He cant sess all seven million residents of the
city, mind you; hes good, but not that good. Most of them, though, yes, they are there. Here. He
breathes deeply and becomes a fixture of the earth. They tread upon the filaments of his nerves; their
voices stir the fine hairs of his skin; their breaths ripple the air he draws into his lungs. They are on
him. They are in him.
But he knows that he is not, and will never be, one of them.
Did you know, he says, conversationally, that the first stonelore was actually written in stone?
So that it couldnt be changed to suit fashion or politics. So it wouldnt wear away.
I know, says his companion.
Hnh. Yes, you were probably there when it was first set down, I forget. He sighs, watching the
women walk out of sight. Its safe to love you. You wont fail me. You wont die. And I know the
price up front.
 His companion does not reply. He wasnt really expecting a response, though a part of him hoped.
He has been so lonely.
But hope is irrelevant, as are so many other feelings that he knows will bring him only despair if
he considers them again. He has considered this enough. The time for dithering is past.
A commandment, the man says, spreading his arms, is set in stone.
Imagine that his face aches from smiling. Hes been smiling for hours: teeth clenched, lips drawn
back, eyes crinkled so the crows feet show. There is an art to smiling in a way that others will
believe. It is always important to include the eyes; otherwise, people will know you hate them.
Chiseled words are absolute.
He speaks to no one in particular, but beside the man stands a womanof sorts. Her emulation of
human gender is only superficial, a courtesy. Likewise the loose drapelike dress that she wears is not
cloth. She has simply shaped a portion of her stiff substance to suit the preferences of the fragile,
mortal creatures among whom she currently moves. From a distance the illusion would work to pass
her off as a woman standing still, at least for a while. Up close, however, any hypothetical observer
would notice that her skin is white porcelain; that is not a metaphor. As a sculpture, she would be
beautiful, if too relentlessly realistic for local tastes. Most Yumenescenes prefer polite abstraction
over vulgar actuality.
When she turns to the manslowly; stone eaters are slow aboveground, except when they arent
this movement pushes her beyond artful beauty into something altogether different. The man has
grown used to it, but even so, he does not look at her. He does not want revulsion to spoil the moment.
What will you do? he asks her. When its done. Will your kind rise up through the rubble and
take the world in our stead?
No, she says.
Why not?
Few of us are interested in that. Anyway, youll still be here.
The man understands that she means you in the plural. Your kind. Humanity. She often treats him as
though he represents his whole species. He does the same to her. You sound very certain.
She says nothing to this. Stone eaters rarely bother stating the obvious. Hes glad, because her
speech annoys him in any case; it does not shiver the air the way a human voice would. He doesnt
know how that works. He doesnt care how it works, but he wants her silent now.
He wants everything silent.
End, he says. Please.
And then he reaches forth with all the fine control that the world has brainwashed and backstabbed
and brutalized out of him, and all the sensitivity that his masters have bred into him through
generations of rape and coercion and highly unnatural selection. His fingers spread and twitch as he
feels several reverberating points on the map of his awareness: his fellow slaves. He cannot free
them, not in the practical sense. Hes tried before and failed. He can, however, make their suffering
serve a cause greater than one citys hubris, and one empires fear.
So he reaches deep and takes hold of the humming tapping bustling reverberating rippling
vastness of the city, and the quieter bedrock beneath it, and the roiling churn of heat and pressure
beneath that. Then he reaches wide, taking hold of the great sliding-puzzle piece of earthshell on
which the continent sits.
Lastly, he reaches up. For power.
He takes all that, the strata and the magma and the people and the power, in his imaginary hands.
Everything. He holds it. He is not alone. The earth is with him.
 Then he breaks it.
* * *
Here is the Stillness, which is not still even on a good day.
Now it ripples, reverberates, in cataclysm. Now there is a line, roughly eastwest and too straight,
almost neat in its manifest unnaturalness, spanning the girth of the lands equator. The lines origin
point is the city of Yumenes.
The line is deep and raw, a cut to the quick of the planet. Magma wells in its wake, fresh and
glowing red. The earth is good at healing itself. This wound will scab over quickly in geologic terms,
and then the cleansing ocean will follow its line to bisect the Stillness into two lands. Until this
happens, however, the wound will fester with not only heat but gas and gritty, dark ashenough to
choke off the sky across most of the Stillnesss face within a few weeks. Plants everywhere will die,
and the animals that depend on them will starve, and the animals that eat those will starve. Winter will
come early, and hard, and it will last a long, long time. It will end, of course, like every winter does,
and then the world will return to its old self. Eventually.
Eventually.
The people of the Stillness live in a perpetual state of disaster preparedness. Theyve built walls
and dug wells and put away food, and they can easily last five, ten, even twenty-five years in a world
without sun.
Eventually meaning in this case in a few thousand years.
Look, the ash clouds are spreading already.
* * *
While were doing things continentally, planetarily, we should consider the obelisks, which float
above all this.
The obelisks had other names once, back when they were first built and deployed and used, but no
one remembers those names or the great devices purpose. Memories are fragile as slate in the
Stillness. In fact, these days no one really pays much attention to the things at all, though they are huge
and beautiful and a little terrifying: massive crystalline shards that hover amid the clouds, rotating
slowly and drifting along incomprehensible flight paths, blurring now and again as if they are not
quite realthough this may only be a trick of the light. (It isnt.) Its obvious that the obelisks are
nothing natural.
It is equally obvious that they are irrelevant. Awesome, but purposeless: just another grave-marker
of just another civilization successfully destroyed by Father Earths tireless efforts. There are many
other such cairns around the world: a thousand ruined cities, a million monuments to heroes or gods
no one remembers, several dozen bridges to nowhere. Such things are not to be admired, goes the
current wisdom in the Stillness. The people who built those old things were weak, and died as the
weak inevitably must. More damning is that they failed. The ones who built the obelisks just failed
harder than most.
But the obelisks exist, and they play a role in the worlds end, and thus are worthy of note.
* * *
Back to the personal. Need to keep things grounded, ha ha.
The woman I mentioned, the one whose son is dead. She was not in Yumenes, thankfully, or this
would be a very short tale. And you would not exist.
 Shes in a town called Tirimo. In the parlance of the Stillness a town is one form of comm, or
communitybut as comms go Tirimo is barely large enough to merit that name. Tirimo sits in a
valley of the same name, at the foot of the Tirimas Mountains. The nearest body of water is an
intermittent creek the locals call Little Tirika. In a language that no longer exists except in these
lingering linguistic fragments, eatiri meant quiet. Tirimo is far from the glittering, stable cities of
the Equatorials, so people here build for the inevitability of shakes. There are no artful towers or
cornices, just walls built out of wood and cheap brown local bricks, set upon foundations of hewn
stone. No asphalted roads, just grassy slopes bisected by dirt paths; only some of those paths have
been overlaid with wooden boards or cobblestones. It is a peaceful place, although the cataclysm that
just occurred in Yumenes will soon send seismic ripples southward to flatten the entire region.
In this town is a house like any other. This house, which sits along one of these slopes, is little
more than a hole dug into the earth that has been lined with clay and bricks to make it waterproof,
then roofed over with cedar and cut sod. The sophisticated people of Yumenes laugh (laughed) at such
primitive digs, when they deign (deigned) to speak of such things at allbut for the people of
Tirimo, living in the earth is as sensible as it is simple. Keeps things cool in summer and warm in
winter; resilient against shakes and storms alike.
The womans name is Essun. She is forty-two years old. Shes like most women of the midlats: tall
when she stands, straight-backed and long-necked, with hips that easily bore two children and breasts
that easily fed them, and broad, limber hands. Strong-looking, well-fleshed; such things are valued in
the Stillness. Her hair hangs round her face in ropy fused locks, each perhaps as big around as her
pinky finger, black fading to brown at the tips. Her skin is unpleasantly ocher-brown by some
standards and unpleasantly olive-pale by others. Mongrel midlatters, Yumenescenes call (called)
people like herenough Sanzed in them to show, not enough to tell.
The boy was her son. His name was Uche; he was almost three years old. He was small for his age,
big-eyed and button-nosed, precocious, with a sweet smile. He lacked for none of the traits that human
children have used to win their parents love since the species evolved toward something resembling
reason. He was healthy and clever and he should still be alive.
This was the den of their home. It was cozy and quiet, a room where all the family could gather
and talk or eat or play games or cuddle or tickle one another. She liked nursing Uche here. She thinks
he was conceived here.
His father has beaten him to death here.
* * *
And now for the last bit of context: a day later, in the valley that surrounds Tirimo. By this time the
first echoes of the cataclysm have already rippled past, although there will be aftershakes later.
At the northernmost end of this valley is devastation: shattered trees, tumbled rock faces, a
hanging pall of dust that has not dissippated in the still, sulfur-tinged air. Where the initial shock wave
hit, nothing remains standing: it was the sort of shake that jolts everything to pieces and rattles those
pieces into pebbles. There are bodies, too: small animals that could not run away, deer and other large
beasts that faltered in their escape and were crushed by rubble. A few of the latter are people who
were unlucky enough to be traveling along the trade road on precisely the wrong day.
The scouts from Tirimo who came this way to survey the damage did not climb over the rubble;
they just looked at it through longeyes from the remaining road. They marveled that the rest of the
valleythe part around Tirimo proper, several miles in every direction forming a near-perfect circle
was unscathed. Well, really, they did not marvel, precisely. They looked at each other in grim
unease, because everyone knows what such apparent fortune means. Look for the center of the circle,
stonelore cautions. Theres a rogga in Tirimo, somewhere.
A terrifying thought. But more terrifying are the signs coming out of the north, and the fact that
Tirimos headman ordered them to collect as many of the fresher animal carcasses as they could on
the circuit back. Meat that has not gone bad can be dried, the furs and hides stripped and cured. Just in
case.
The scouts eventually leave, their thoughts preoccupied by just in case. If they had not been so
preoccupied, they might have noticed an object sitting near the foot of the newly sheared cliff,
unobtrusively nestled between a listing gnarlfir and cracked boulders. The object would have been
notable for its size and shape: a kidney-shaped oblong of mottled chalcedony, dark green-gray,
markedly different from the paler sandstone tumbled around it. If they had gone to stand near it, they
would have noticed that it was chest-high and nearly the length of a human body. If they had touched
it, they might have been fascinated by the density of the objects surface. Its a heavy-looking thing,
with an ironlike scent reminiscent of rust and blood. It would have surprised them by being warm to
the touch.
Instead, no one is around when the object groans faintly and then splits, fissioning neatly along its
long axis as if sawed. There is a loud scream-hiss of escaping heat and pressured gas as this happens,
which sends any nearby surviving forest creatures skittering for cover. In a near-instantaneous
flicker, light spills from the edges of the fissure, something like flame and something like liquid,
leaving scorched glass on the ground around the objects base. Then the object grows still for a long
while. Cooling.
Several days pass.
After a time, something pushes the object apart from within and crawls a few feet before
collapsing. Another day passes.
Now that it has cooled and split, a crust of irregular crystals, some clouded white and some red as
venous blood, line the objects inner surface. Thin pale liquid puddles near the bottom of each halfs
cavity, though most of the fluid the geode contained has soaked away into the ground underneath.
The body that the geode contained lies facedown amid the rocks, naked, his flesh dry but still
heaving in apparent exhaustion. Gradually, however, he pushes himself upright. Every movement is
deliberate and very, very slow. It takes a long time. Once he is upright, he stumblesslowlyto the
geode, and leans against its bulk to support himself. Thus braced, he bendsslowlyand reaches
within it. With a sudden, sharp movement he breaks off the tip of a red crystal. It is a small piece,
perhaps the size of a grape, jagged as broken glass.
The boyfor that is what he resemblesputs this in his mouth and chews. The noise of this is
loud, too: a grind and rattle that echoes around the clearing. After a few moments of this, he swallows.
Then he begins to shiver, violently. He wraps his arms around himself for a moment, uttering a soft
groan as if it has suddenly occurred to him that he is naked and cold and this is a terrible thing.
With an effort, the boy regains control of himself. He reaches into the geodemoving faster now
and pulls loose more of the crystals. He sets them in a small pile atop the object as he breaks them
loose. The thick, blunt crystal shafts crumble beneath his fingers as if made of sugar, though they are
in fact much, much harder. But he is in fact not actually a child, so this is easy for him.
At last he stands, wavering and with his arms full of milky, bloody stone. The wind blows sharply
for an instant, and his skin prickles in response. He twitches at this, fast and jerky as a clockwork
puppet this time. Then he frowns down at himself. As he concentrates, his movements grow smoother,
more evenly paced. More human. As if to emphasize this, he nods to himself, perhaps in satisfaction.
 The boy turns then, and begins walking toward Tirimo.
* * *
This is what you must remember: the ending of one story is just the beginning of another. This has
happened before, after all. People die. Old orders pass. New societies are born. When we say the
world has ended, its usually a lie, because the planet is just fine.
But this is the way the world ends.
This is the way the world ends.
This is the way the world ends.
For the last time.
 1
you, at the end

YOU ARE SHE. SHE IS you. You are Essun. Remember? The woman whose son is dead.
Youre an orogene whos 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 youve lived as ordinary a life as possible. You came to Tirimo from
elsewhere; the townsfolk dont 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. Youre 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 doesnt because youre
quiet, and because like everyone else in town he just thinks of you as Jijas wife. Jijas a Tirimo man
born and bred, a stoneknapper of the Resistant use-caste; everyone knows and likes him, so they like
you peripherally. Hes the foreground of the painting that is your life together. Youre the
background. You like it that way.
Youre the mother of two children, but now one of them is dead and the other is missing. Maybe
shes 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 dont mean to. Its just a bit much, isnt it? Too much. Youve been
through a lot, youre very strong, but there are limits to what even you can bear.
Two days pass before anyone comes for you.
Youve spent them in the house with your dead son. Youve 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 Uches side.
(You fetched him a blanket during one of these trips. Covered him up to his ruined chin. Habit. The
steampipes have stopped rattling; its cold in the house. He could catch something.)
Late the next day, someone knocks at the houses 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 sons 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 houses back door. You hears footsteps in the hallway
between Uches 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, Makenbas
boy from down the road, who went away for a few years and came back a doctor. Hes not a boy
anymore, hasnt 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 Uches other side and
peers at you intently. Trying to see whats going on inside you? Nothing, nothing. He then peels back
the blanket for a good look at Uches body. Nothing, nothing. He pulls the blanket up again, this time
over your sons face.
He doesnt like that, you say. Its your first time speaking in two days. Feels strange. Hes afraid
of the dark.
After a moments silence, Lerna pulls the sheet back down to just below Uches eyes.
Thank you, you say.
Lerna nods. Have you slept?
No.
So Lerna comes around the body and takes your arm, drawing you up. Hes gentle, but his hands
are firm, and he does not give up when at first you dont 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 dont want to think, so you do not protest that you have your own perfectly good bed, thank
you. Nor do you declare that youre fine and dont need his help, which isnt 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 dont really hear any of it. Their voices are blurring noise that your mind doesnt 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 youre 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. Theres 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, youre 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 floorand begins kicking him. You know this is not how it happened. Youve
seen the imprint of Jijas fist, a bruise with four parallel marks, on Uches belly and face. In the dream
Jija kicks, because dreams are not logical.
Uche keeps laughing and waggling his arms, like its 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. Hes in a chair across from you. Youre drinking more nasty tea;
your head hurts worse than a hangover. Its 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. Its
strongest when Lernas been outside.
The road outside town has been clogged for two days with people coming from that direction.
Lerna sighs and rubs his face. Hes fifteen years younger than you, but he no longer looks it. He has
natural gray hair like many Cebaki, but its the new lines in his face that make him seem olderthose,
and the new shadows in his eyes. Theres 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 days 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 waya 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. Hes the other one, besides your children, who
knows what you are. Hes known for a while, but this is the first time hes been confronted by the
actuality of it. You cant really think about that, either.
Rask isnt letting anyone leave or come in. Rask is Rask Innovator Tirimo, the towns elected
headman. Its 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 wont 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 its come to that, then, he says, heavily. Fire-under-Earth, Essun, you cant 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. Hes in the infirmary, the, uh, in the coldcase. Ill 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 youd missed a day, before the shake. They had to
send the children home; couldnt find a substitute. No one knew if you were home sick, or what. Yes,
well. Youve probably been fired. Lerna takes a deep breath, lets it out. With that as forewarning,
youre almost ready. The shake didnt 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.
Lernas jaw flexes, but he nods. I never told anyone. He hesitates. That you were uh,
orogenic.
Hes so polite and proper. Youve 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 dont 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 havent 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 wasnt me, you say at last. He frowns in confusion and you realize he thinks youre still
talking about the shake. Jija. He didnt find out about me. You think. You shouldnt think. I dont
know how, what, but Uchehes little, doesnt have much control yet. Uche must have done
something, and Jija realized
That your children are like you. It is the first time youve framed this thought completely.
Lerna closes his eyes, letting out a long breath. Thats it, then.
Thats 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. Hes angry. Hes such a calm, thoughtful
boy; you didnt think he could get angry.
Im not going to tell Rask anything, he snaps. I havent said anything in all this time and Im not
going to.
Then what
Im 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, youve
claimed to be a Resistant. Ill let her know youre all right, have her pass that on to Rask. You are
going to rest.
When she asks you why Jija
Lerna shakes his head. Everyones guessed already, Essun. They can read maps. Its clear as
diamond that the center of the circle was this neighborhood. Knowing what Jija did, it hasnt been
hard for anyone to jump to conclusions as to why. The timings all wrong, but nobodys thinking that
far. While you stare at him, slowly understanding, Lernas 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!
You shake your head, half startled by Lernas anger and half unable to reconcile your bright,
giggly boy with people who think he wouldthat he couldBut then, Jija thought it.
You feel queasy again.
Lerna takes another deep breath. Hes been doing this throughout your conversation; its a habit of
his that youve seen before. His way of calming himself. Stay here and rest. Ill be back soon.
He leaves the room. You hear him doing purposeful-sounding things at the front of the house.
After a few moments, he leaves to go to his meeting. You contemplate rest and decide against it.
Instead you rise and go into Lernas bathroom, where you wash your face and then stop when the hot
water coming through the tap spits and abruptly turns brown-red and smelly, then slows to a trickle.
Broken pipe somewhere.
Something happened up north, Lerna said.
Children are the undoing of us, someone said to you once, long ago.
Nassun, you whisper to your reflection. In the mirror are the eyes your daughter has inherited
from you, gray as slate and a little wistful. He left Uche in the den. Where did he put you?
No answer. You shut off the tap. Then you whisper to no one in particular, I have to go now.
Because you do. You need to find Jija, and anyway you know better than to linger. The townsfolk will
be coming for you soon.
* * *
The shake that passes will echo. The wave that recedes will come back. The mountain that
rumbles will roar.
Tablet One, On Survival, verse five
 2
Damaya, in winters past

THE STRAW IS SO WARM that Damaya doesnt want to come out of it. Like a blanket, she thinks through
the bleariness of half-sleep; like the quilt her great-grandmother once sewed for her out of patches of
uniform cloth. Years ago and before she died, Muh Dear worked for the Brevard militia as a
seamstress, and got to keep the scraps from any repairs that required new cloth. The blanket she made
for Damaya was mottled and dark, navy and taupe and gray and green in rippling bands like columns
of marching men, but it came from Muh Dear s hands, so Damaya never cared that it was ugly. It
always smelled sweet and gray and a bit fusty, so it is easy now to imagine that the strawwhich
smells mildewy and like old manure yet with a hint of fungal fruitinessis Muhs blanket. The actual
blanket is back in Damayas room, on the bed where she left it. The bed in which she will never sleep
again.
She can hear voices outside the straw pile now: Mama and someone else talking as they draw
closer. Theres a rattle-creak as the barn door is unlocked, and then they come inside. Another rattle
as the door shuts behind them. Then Mother raises her voice and calls, DamaDama?
Damaya curls up tighter, clenching her teeth. She hates that stupid nickname. She hates the way
Mother says it, all light and sweet, like its actually a term of endearment and not a lie.
When Damaya doesnt respond, Mother says: She cant have gotten out. My husband checked all
the barn locks himself.
Alas, her kind cannot be held with locks. This voice belongs to a man. Not her father or older
brother, or the comm headman, or anyone she recognizes. This mans voice is deep, and he speaks
with an accent like none shes ever heard: sharp and heavy, with long drawled os and as and crisp
beginnings and ends to every word. Smart-sounding. He jingles faintly as he walks, so much so that
she wonders whether hes wearing a big set of keys. Or perhaps he has a lot of money in his pockets?
Shes heard that people use metal money in some parts of the world.
The thought of keys and money makes Damaya curl in on herself, because of course shes also
heard the other children in creche whisper of child-markets in faraway cities of beveled stone. Not all
places in the world are as civilized as the Nomidlats. She laughed off the whispers then, but
everything is different now.
Here, says the mans voice, not far off now. Fresh spoor, I think.
Mother makes a sound of disgust, and Damaya burns in shame as she realizes theyve seen the
corner she uses for a bathroom. It smells terrible there, even though shes been throwing straw down
as a cover each time. Squatting on the ground like an animal. I raised her better.
Is there a toilet in here? asks the child-buyer, in a tone of polite curiosity. Did you give her a
bucket?
Silence from Mother, which stretches on, and belatedly Damaya realizes the man has reprimanded
Mother with those quiet questions. It isnt the sort of reprimand Damaya is used to. The man hasnt
raised his voice or called anyone names. Yet Mother stands still and shocked as surely as if hed
followed the words with a smack to the head.
A giggle bubbles up in her throat, and at once she crams her fist into her mouth to stop it from
spilling out. Theyll hear Damaya laugh at her mother s embarrassment, and then the child-buyer will
know what a terrible child she really is. Is that such a bad thing? Maybe her parents will get less for
her. That alone almost makes the giggles break free, because Damaya hates her parents, she hates
them, and anything that will make them suffer makes her feel better.
Then she bites down on her hand, hard, and hates herself, because of course Mother and Father are
selling Damaya if she can think such thoughts.
Footsteps nearby. Cold in here, says the man.
We would have kept her in the house if it was cold enough to freeze, says Mother, and Damaya
almost giggles again at her sullen, defensive tone.
But the child-buyer ignores Mother. His footsteps come closer, and theyre strange. Damaya can
sess footsteps. Most people cant; they sess big things, shakes and whatnot, but not anything so
delicate as a footfall. (She has known this about herself all her life but only recently realized it was a
warning.) Its harder to perceive when shes out of direct contact with the ground, everything
conveyed through the wood of the barns frame and the metal of the nails holding it togetherbut
still, even from a story up, she knows what to expect. Beat beat, the step and then its reverberation into
the depths, beat beat, beat beat. The child-buyer s steps, though, go nowhere and do not echo. She can
only hear them, not sess them. Thats never happened before.
And now hes coming up the ladder, to the loft where she huddles under the straw.
Ah, he says, reaching the top. Its warmer up here.
DamaDama! Mother sounds furious now. Get down here!
Damaya scrunches herself up tighter under the straw and says nothing. The child-buyer s footsteps
pace closer.
You neednt be afraid, he says in that rolling voice. Closer. She feels the reverberation of his
voice through the wood and down to the ground and into the rock and back again. Closer. Ive come
to help you, Damaya Strongback.
Another thing she hates, her use name. She doesnt have a strong back at all, and neither does
Mother. All Strongback means is that her female ancestors were lucky enough to join a comm but
too undistinguished to earn a more secure place within it. Strongbacks get dumped same as commless
when times get hard, her brother Chaga told her once, to tease her. Then hed laughed, like it was
funny. Like it wasnt true. Of course, Chaga is a Resistant, like Father. All comms like to have them
around no matter how hard the times, in case of sickness and famine and such.
The mans footsteps stop just beyond the straw pile. You neednt be afraid, he says again, more
softly now. Mother is still down on the ground level and probably cant hear him. I wont let your
mother hurt you.
Damaya inhales.
Shes not stupid. The man is a child-buyer, and child-buyers do terrible things. But because he has
said these words, and because some part of Damaya is tired of being afraid and angry, she uncurls.
She pushes her way through the soft warm pile and sits up, peering out at the man through coils of
hair and dirty straw.
He is as strange-looking as he sounds, and not from anywhere near Palela. His skin is almost
white, hes so paper-pale; he must smoke and curl up in strong sunlight. He has long flat hair, which
together with the skin might mark him as an Arctic, though the color of ita deep heavy black, like
the soil near an old blowdoesnt fit. Eastern Coasters hair is black like that, except fluffy and not
flat, but people from the east have black skin to match. And hes bigtaller, and with broader
shoulders, than Father. But where Father s big shoulders join a big chest and a big belly, this man sort
of tapers. Everything about the stranger seems lean and attenuated. Nothing about him makes racial
sense.
But what strikes Damaya most are the child-buyer s eyes. Theyre white, or nearly so. She can see
the whites of his eyes, and then a silvery-gray disc of color that she can barely distinguish from the
white, even up close. The pupils of his eyes are wide in the barns dimness, and startling amid the
desert of colorlessness. Shes heard of eyes like these, which are called icewhite in stories and
stonelore. Theyre rare, and always an ill omen.
But then the child-buyer smiles at Damaya, and she doesnt even think twice before she smiles
back. She trusts him immediately. She knows she shouldnt, but she does.
And here we are, he says, still speaking softly so that Mother wont hear. DamaDama
Strongback, I presume?
Just Damaya, she says, automatically.
He inclines his head gracefully, and extends a hand to her. So noted. Will you join us, then,
Damaya?
Damaya doesnt move and he does not grab her. He just stays where he is, patient as stone, hand
offering and not taking. Ten breaths pass. Twenty. Damaya knows shell have to go with him, but she
likes that he makes it feel like a choice. So at last, she takes his hand and lets him pull her up. He keeps
her hand while she dusts off as much of the straw as she can, and then he tugs her closer, just a little.
One moment.
Hnh? But the child-buyer s other hand is already behind her head, pressing two fingers into the
base of her skull so quickly and deftly that she doesnt startle. He shuts his eyes for a moment, shivers
minutely, and then exhales, letting her go.
Duty first, he says, cryptically. She touches the back of her head, confused and still feeling the
lingering sensation of his fingers pressure. Now lets head downstairs.
What did you do?
Just a little ritual, of sorts. Something that will make it easier to find you, should you ever
become lost. She cannot imagine what this means. Come, now; I need to tell your mother youll be
leaving with me.
So it really is true. Damaya bites her lip, and when the man turns to head back to the ladder, she
follows a pace or two behind.
Well, thats that, says the child-buyer as they reach Mother on the ground floor. (Mother sighs at
the sight of her, perhaps in exasperation.) If you could assemble a package for herone or two
changes of clothing, any travel food you can provide, a coatwell be on our way.
Mother draws up in surprise. We gave away her coat.
Gave it away? In winter?
He speaks mildly, but Mother looks abruptly uncomfortable. Shes got a cousin who needed it.
We dont all have wardrobes full of fancy clothes to spare. And Here Mother hesitates, glancing at
Damaya. Damaya just looks away. She doesnt want to see if Mother looks sorry for giving away the
coat. She especially doesnt want to see if Mother s not sorry.
And youve heard that orogenes dont feel cold the way others do, says the man, with a weary
sigh. Thats a myth. I assume youve seen your daughter take cold before.
Oh, I. Mother looks flustered. Yes. But I thought
That Damaya might have been faking it. That was what shed said to Damaya that first day, after
she got home from creche and while they were setting her up in the barn. Mother had raged, her face
streaked with tears, while Father just sat there, silent and white-lipped. Damaya had hidden it from
them, Mother said, hidden everything, pretended to be a child when she was really a monster, that was
what monsters did, she had always known there was something wrong with Damaya, shed always
been such a little liar
The man shakes his head. Nevertheless, she will need some protection against the cold. It will
grow warmer as we approach the Equatorials, but well be weeks on the road getting there.
Mother s jaw flexes. So youre really taking her to Yumenes, then.
Of course I The man stares at her. Ah. He glances at Damaya. They both look at Damaya,
their gazes like an itch. She squirms. So even thinking I was coming to kill your daughter, you had
the comm headman summon me.
Mother tenses. Dont. It wasnt, I didnt At her sides, her hands flex. Then she bows her head,
as if she is ashamed, which Damaya knows is a lie. Mother isnt ashamed of anything shes done. If
she was, why would she do it?
Ordinary people cant take care of of children like her, says Mother, very softly. Her eyes dart
to Damayas, once, and away, fast. She almost killed a boy at school. Weve got another child, and
neighbors, and Abruptly she squares her shoulders, lifting her chin. And its any citizens duty,
isnt it?
True, true, all of it. Your sacrifice will make the world better for all. The words are a stock
phrase, praise. The tone is uniquely not. Damaya looks at the man again, confused now because child-
buyers dont kill children. That would defeat the point. And whats this about the Equatorials? Those
lands are far, far to the south.
The child-buyer glances at Damaya and somehow understands that she does not understand. His
face softens, which should be impossible with those frightening eyes of his.
To Yumenes, the man says to Mother, to Damaya. Yes. Shes young enough, so Im taking her
to the Fulcrum. There she will be trained to use her curse. Her sacrifice, too, will make the world
better.
Damaya stares back at him, realizing just how wrong shes been. Mother has not sold Damaya. She
and Father have given Damaya away. And Mother does not hate her; actually, she fears Damaya. Is
there a difference? Maybe. Damaya doesnt know how to feel in response to these revelations.
And the man, the man is not a child-buyer at all. He is
Youre 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. Hes tall, at least.
I am, he says, and takes her hand. He likes to touch people a lot, she thinks. Im your Guardian.
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 hes waiting for her to go fetch it. 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. Hes 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 Muhs quilt. It has a short cape, more decorative than useful, but he pulls it off and
wraps it around Damaya. Its 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.
Shes 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 arent
much use to any comm, after all, in the ordinary course of things.
Damaya frowns in confusion. What, so theyll kick you out when a Season comes? But
Guardians are many things, she knows from the stories: great warriors and hunters and sometimes
oftenassassins. Comms need such people when hard times come.
Schaffa shrugs, moving away to sit on a bale of old hay. Theres another bale behind Damaya, but
she keeps standing, because she likes being on the same level with him. Even sitting hes 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 all the Stillness. He spreads his hands.
As a Guardian, via the orogenes in my care, I have taken on a similar purpose, with a similar
breadth. Therefore its fitting that I share my charges possible fate.
Damaya is so curious, so full of questions, that she doesnt know which to ask first. Do you have
She stumbles over the concept, the words, 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 like this, like me
Not exactly. Some were given into my care, born within the Fulcrum or inherited from other
Guardians. Some I have found since being assigned to ride circuit in this part of the Nomidlats. He
spreads his hands. When your parents reported their orogenic child to Palelas headman, he
telegraphed word to Brevard, which sent it to Geddo, which sent it to Yumenesand they in turn
telegraphed word to me. He sighs. Its only luck that I checked in at the node station near Brevard
the day after the message arrived. Otherwise I wouldnt 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 its much
bigger. Its 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 pooping in a corner. Shes
glad he got the message in Brevard, too.
Youre very lucky, he says, perhaps reading her expression. His own has grown sober. Not all
parents do the right thing. Sometimes they dont 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. Dont think unkindly of your
parents, Dama. Youre 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 thats 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 cant they she blurts, before she realizes he has said this on purpose. To see if why cant
they just hide me and keep me here is something shes been thinkingand now he knows the truth.
Damayas hands clench on the cape where shes 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 knows this, though she resents the
knowledge. Parents who cared about her would risk, wouldnt they? Your parents could not have
wanted to lose their home, their livelihood, and custody of both their children. They chose to keep
something rather than lose everything. 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. When a threat is imminent, of course youll do what you must to
protect yourself. And when you do, people will die.
Damaya flinches. Schaffa smiles again, as kindly as always. And then 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 geomestry test that afternoon. And then Zab had come over to the three of them, though
hed looked at Damaya in particular as he said, Let me cheat off you.
Limi giggled. She thought Zab liked Damaya. Damaya didnt like him, though, because he was
awfulalways picking on Damaya, calling her names, poking her until she yelled at him to stop and
got in trouble with their teacher for doing it. So she said to Zab, Im not getting in trouble for you.
Hed said: You wont, if you do it right. Just move your paper over
No, shed said again. Im not going to do it right. Im not going to do it at all. Go away. Shed
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. She tumbled head over heels literally, landing on her back. Latershed had two weeks in the
barn to think about itshe would recall the look of shock on his face, as if he hadnt 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 this was her best uniform and Mother was going to be furious and
she was furious and so shed grabbed the air and
Damaya shivers. People will die. Schaffa nods as if he has heard this thought.
Youre firemountain-glass, Dama. He says this very softly. Youre a gift of the earthbut
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 valuable. But if we just
leave you lying about, youll cut to the bone the first person who blunders across you. Or worse
youll shatter, and hurt many.
Damaya remembers the look on Zabs 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 Zabs skin. Theyd stopped and jerked and stared at each other.
She remembers his face. You almost killed me, she had seen there.
Schaffa, watching her closely, has never stopped smiling.
It isnt your fault, he says. Most of what they say about orogenes isnt true. Theres nothing you
did to be born like this, nothing your parents did. Dont be angry with them, or with yourself.
She begins to cry, because hes right. All of it, everything he says, its right. She hates Mother for
putting her in here, shes hated Father and Chaga for letting Mother do it, she hates herself for being
born as 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. But Schaffa squeezes her hands sharply, enough to hurt, and she starts and draws breath and
blinks at him through the blur. You mustnt, little one. Your mother will return soon. Never cry
where they can see you.
Wh-what?
He looks so sadfor Damaya?as he reaches up and cups her cheek. It isnt safe.
She has no idea what this means.
Regardless, she stops. Once shes wiped her cheeks, he thumbs away a tear that shes missed, then
nods after a quick inspection. Your mother will probably be able to tell, but that should 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
doesnt look at Damaya even though he hasnt 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.
Weve watered your horse, Father says, stiffly. You want provender to carry?
No need, says Schaffa. If we make good time, we should reach 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.
It takes a moment for Damaya to understand, and then she realizes: People from Palela want to kill
Damaya. But thats wrong, isnt it? They cant really, can they? She thinks of all the people she knows.
The teachers from creche. The other children. The old ladies at the roadhouse who used to be friends
with Muh before she died.
Father thinks this, too; she can see that in his face, and he frowns and opens his mouth to say what
shes thinking: They wouldnt do something like that. But he stops before the words leave his mouth.
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. Its Muhs. She stares at it, then
looks at Mother, but Mother wont look back.
It isnt safe to cry. Even when she pulls off Schaffas cloak and he wraps the blanket around her
instead, familiar-fusty and scratchy and perfect, she keeps her face completely still. Schaffas 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 dont say anything. Damaya doesnt say anything. She does
glance at the house once, catching a glimpse of someone through a gap in the curtains before the
curtains 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 doesnt even wave goodbye but this is not because he hates her.
She sees that, now.
Schaffa lifts Damaya onto a horse bigger than any shes ever seen, a big glossy bay with a long
neck, and then Schaffas in the saddle behind her, tucking the blanket around her legs and shoes so she
wont chafe or get chilblains, and then they are away.
Dont look back, Schaffa advises. Its easier that way. So she doesnt. Later, she will realize he
was right about this, too.
Much later, though, she will wish that she had done it anyway.
* * *
[obscured] the icewhite eyes, the ashblow hair, the filtering nose, the sharpened teeth, the salt-
split tongue.
Tablet Two, The Incomplete Truth, verse eight
 3
youre on your way

YOURE STILL TRYING TO DECIDE who to be. The self youve been lately doesnt make sense anymore;
that woman died with Uche. Shes not useful, unobtrusive as she is, quiet as she is, ordinary as she is.
Not when such extraordinary things have happened.
But you still dont know where Nassun is buried, if Jija bothered to bury her. Until youve said
farewell to your daughter, you have to remain the mother that she loved.
So you decide not to wait for death to come.
It is coming for youperhaps not right now, but soon. Even though the big shake from the north
missed Tirimo, everyone knows it should have hit. The sessapinae do not lie, or at least not with such
jangling, nerve-racking, mind-screaming strength. Everyone from newborns to addled elders sessed
that one coming. And by now, with refugees wandering down the road from less fortunate towns and
villagesrefugees who are all heading southwardthe folk of Tirimo will have begun to hear
stories. They will have noticed the sulfur on the wind. They will have looked up at the increasingly
strange sky, and seen the change there as an ill omen. (It is.) Perhaps the headman, Rask, has finally
sent someone over to see about Sume, the town in the next valley over. Most Tirimos have family
there; the two towns have been trading goods and people for generations. Comm comes before all
else, of course, but as long as nobodys starving, kin and race can mean something, too. Rask can still
afford to be generous, for now. Maybe.
And once the scouts return and report the devastation that you know theyll find in Sumeand the
survivors that you know they wont find, or at least not in any great numberdenial will no longer be
possible. That will leave only fear. Frightened people look for scapegoats.
So you make yourself eat, this time carefully not thinking of other times and other meals with Jija
and the kids. (Uncontrollable tears would be better than uncontrollable vomiting, but hey, you cant
choose your grief.) Then, letting yourself quietly out through Lernas garden door, you go back to
your house. No ones around, outside. They must all be at Rasks waiting for news or duty
assignments.
In the house, one of the storecaches hidden beneath the rugs holds the familys runny-sack. You sit
on the floor in the room where Uche was beaten to death, and there you sort through the sack, taking
out anything you wont need. The set of worn, comfortable travel-clothing for Nassun is too small;
you and Jija put this pack together before Uche was born, and youve been neglectful in not
refreshing it. A brick of dried fruit has molded over in fuzzy white; it might still be edible, but youre
not desperate enough for that. (Yet.) The sack contains papers that prove you and Jija own your house,
and other papers showing that youre current on your quartent taxes and were both registered Tirimo
comm and Resistant use-caste members. You leave this, your whole financial and legal existence for
the past ten years, in a little discarded pile with the moldy fruit.
The wad of money in a rubber walletpaper, since theres so much of itwill be irrelevant once
people realize how bad things are, but until then its valuable. Good tinder once its not. The obsidian
skinning knife that Jija insisted upon, and which youre unlikely to ever useyou have better, natural
weaponsyou keep. Trade goods, or at least a visual warn-off. Jijas boots can also be traded, since
theyre in good condition. Hell never wear them again, because soon you will find him, and then you
will end him.
You pause. Revise that thought to something that better befits the woman youve chosen to be.
Better: You will find him and ask him why he did what he did. How he could do it. And you will ask
him, most importantly, where your daughter is.
Repacking the runny-sack, you then put it inside one of the crates Jija used for deliveries. No one
will think twice of seeing you carry it around town, because until a few days ago you did so often, to
help out Jijas ceramics and tool-knapping business. Eventually it will occur to someone to wonder
why youre filling delivery orders when the headman is probably on the brink of declaring Seasonal
Law. But most people will not think of it at first, which is what matters.
As you leave, you pass the spot on the floor where Uche lay for days. Lerna took the body and left
the blanket; the blood splatters are not visible. Still, you do not look in that direction.
Your house is one of several in this corner of town, nestled between the southern edge of the wall
and the town greenland. You picked the house, back when you and Jija decided to buy it, because its
isolated on a narrow, tree-shrouded lane. Its a straight run across the green to the town center, which
Jija always liked. That was something you and he always argued about: You didnt like being around
other people more than necessary, while Jija was gregarious and restless, frustrated by silence
The surge of absolute, grinding, head-pounding rage catches you by surprise. You have to stop in
the doorway of your home, bracing your hand against the door frame and sucking in deep breaths so
that you dont start screaming, or perhaps stabbing someone (yourself?) with that damn skinning
knife. Or worse, making the temperature drop.
Okay. You were wrong. Nausea isnt so bad as a response to grief, comparatively speaking.
But you have no time for this, no strength for this, so you focus on other things. Any other things.
The wood of the doorsill, beneath your hand. The air, which you notice more now that youre outside.
The sulfur smell doesnt seem to be getting worse, at least for now, which is perhaps a good thing.
You sess that there are no open earth vents nearbywhich means this is coming from up north, where
the wound is, that great suppurating rip from coast to coast that you know is there even though the
travelers along the Imperial Road have only brought rumors of it so far. You hope the sulfur
concentration doesnt get much worse, because if it does people will start to retch and suffocate, and
the next time it rains the creeks fish will die and the soil will sour
Yes. Better. After a moment youre able to walk away from the house at last, your veneer of calm
back firmly in place.
Not many people are out and about. Rask must have finally declared an official lockdown. During
lockdown the comms gates are shutand you guess by the people moving about near one of the wall
watchtowers that Rask has taken the preemptive step of putting guards in place. Thats not supposed to
happen till a Season is declared; privately you curse Rasks caution. Hopefully he hasnt done
anything else that will make it harder for you to slip away.
The market is shut down, at least for the time being, so that no one will hoard goods or fix prices.
A curfew starts at dusk, and all businesses that arent crucial for the protection or supply of the town
are required to close. Everyone knows how things are supposed to go. Everyone has assigned duties,
but many of these are tasks that can be done indoors: weaving storage baskets, drying and preserving
all perishable food in the house, repurposing old clothing and tools. Its all Imperially efficient and
lore-letter, following rules and procedures that are simultaneously meant to be practical and to keep a
large group of anxious people busy. Just in case.
Still, as you walk the path around the greens edgeduring lockdown no one walks on it, not
because of any rule but because such times remind them that the green is cropland to be and not just a
pretty patch of clover and wildflowersyou spy a few other Tirimo denizens out and about.
Strongbacks, mostly. One group is building the paddock and shed that will segregate a corner of the
green for livestock. Its hard work, building something, and the people doing it are too engrossed in
the task to pay much heed to a lone woman carrying a crate. A few faces you vaguely recognize as
you walk, people youve seen before at the market or via Jijas business. You catch a few glances
from them, too, but these are fleeting. They know your face enough that you are Not Stranger. For
now, theyre too busy to remember that you may also be roggas mother.
Or to wonder from which parent your dead rogga child might have inherited his curse.
In the town center there are more people about. Here you blend in, walking at the same pace as
everyone else, nodding if nodded to, trying to think about nothing so that your face falls into bored,
disengaged lines. Its busy around the headmans office, block captains and caste spokespeople
coming in to report what lockdown duties have been completed before heading back out to organize
more. Others mill about, clearly hoping for word on whats happened in Sume and elsewherebut
even here, no one cares about you. And why should they? The air stinks of broken earth and
everything past a twenty-mile radius has been shattered by a shake greater than any living person has
ever known. People have more important matters to concern them.
That can change quickly, though. You dont relax.
Rasks office is actually a small house nestled between the stilted grain-caches and the
carriageworks. As you stand on tiptoe to see above the crowd, youre unsurprised to see Oyamar,
Rasks second, standing on its porch and talking with two men and a woman who are wearing more
mortar and mud than clothing. Shoring up the well, probably; thats one of the things stonelore
advises in the event of a shake, and which Imperial lockdown procedure encourages, too. If Oyamar
is here, then Rask is elsewhere either working orknowing Rasksleeping, after having worn
himself out in the three days since the event. He wont be at home because people can find him too
easily there. But because Lerna talks too much, you know where Rask hides when he doesnt want to
be disturbed.
Tirimos library is an embarrassment. The only reason they have one is that some previous
headwomans husbands grandfather raised a stink and wrote letters to the quartent governor until
finally the governor funded a library to shut him up. Few people have used it since the old man died,
but although there are always motions to shut it down at the all-comm meetings, those motions never
get quite enough votes to proceed. So it lingers: a ratty old shack not much bigger than the den of
your house, packed nearly full with shelves of books and scrolls. A thin child could walk between the
shelves without contorting; youre neither thin nor a child, so you have to slip in sideways and sort of
crabwalk. Bringing the crate is out of the question: You set it down just inside the door. But that
doesnt matter, because theres no one here to peek inside itexcept Rask, whos curled up on a tiny
pallet at the back of the shack, where the shortest shelf leaves a space just wide enough for his body.
As you finally manage to push your way between the stacks, Rask starts out of a snore and blinks
up at you, already beginning to scowl at whoever has disturbed him. Then he thinks, because hes a
levelheaded fellow and thats why Tirimo elected him, and you see in his face the moment when you
go from being Jijas wife to Uches mother to roggas mother to, oh Earth, rogga, too.
Thats good. Makes things easier.
Im not going to hurt anyone, you say quickly, before he can recoil or scream or whatever he
has tensed to do. And to your own surprise, at these words Rask blinks and thinks again, and the panic
recedes from his face. He sits up, leaning his back against a wooden wall, and regards you for a long,
thoughtful moment.
You didnt come here just to tell me that, I assume, he says.
You lick your lips and try to hunker down in a crouch. Its awkward because theres not much
room. You have to brace your butt against a shelf, and your knees encroach more than you like on
Rasks space. He half-smiles at your obvious discomfort, then his smile fades as he remembers what
you are, and then he frowns to himself as if both reactions annoy him.
You say, Do you know where Jija might have gone?
Rasks face twitches. Hes old enough to be your father, just, but hes the least paternal man youve
ever met. Youve always wanted to sit down somewhere and have a beer with him, even though that
doesnt fit the ordinary, meek camouflage youve built around yourself. Most of the people in town
think of him that way, despite the fact that as far as you know he doesnt drink. The look that comes
into his face in this moment, however, makes you think for the first time that he would make a good
father, if he ever had children.
So thats it, he says. His voice is gravelly with sleep. He kill the kid? Thats what people think,
but Lerna said he wasnt sure.
You nod. You couldnt say the word yes to Lerna, either.
Rasks eyes search your face. And the kid was?
You nod again, and Rask sighs. He does not, you note, ask whether you are anything.
Nobody saw which way Jija went, he says, shifting to draw his knees up and rest one arm on
them. People have been talking about thethe killingbecause its easier than talking about He
lifts and drops his hands in a helpless gesture. Lots of gossip, I mean, and a lot of its more mud than
stone. Some people saw Jija load up your horse cart and go off with Nassun
Your thoughts stutter. With Nassun?
Yeah, with her. Why Then Rask understands. Oh, shit, shes one, too?
You try not to start shaking. You do clench your fists in an effort to prevent this, and the earth far
below you feels momentarily closer, the air immediately around you cooler, before you contain your
desperation and joy and horror and fury.
I didnt know she was alive, is all you say, after what feels like a very long moment.
Oh. Rask blinks, and that compassionate look returns. Well, yeah. She was when they left,
anyway. Nobody knew anything was wrong, or thought anything of it. Most people figured it was just
a father trying to teach his firstborn the business, or keep a bored child out of trouble, the usual. Then
that shit up north happened, and everybody forgot about it till Lerna said hed found you and and
your boy. He pauses here, jaw flexing once. Never wouldve figured Jija for the type. He hit you?
You shake your head. Never. It might have been easier to bear, somehow, if Jija had been violent
beforehand. Then you could have blamed yourself for poor judgment or complacency, and not just
for the sin of reproducing.
 Rask takes a deep, slow breath. Shit. Just shit. He shakes his head, rubs a hand over the gray
fuzz of his hair. Hes not a born-gray, like Lerna and others with ashblow hair; you remember when
his hair was brown. You going after him? His gaze flickers away and back. It is not quite hope, but
you understand what he is too tactful to say. Please leave town as soon as possible.
You nod, happy to oblige. I need you to give me a gate pass.
Done. He pauses. You know you cant come back.
I know. You make yourself smile. I dont really want to.
Dont blame you. He sighs, then shifts again, uncomfortable. My my sister
You didnt know Rask had a sister. Then you understand. What happened to her?
He shrugs. The usual. We lived in Sume, then. Somebody realized what she was, told a bunch of
other somebodies, and they came and took her in the night. I dont remember much about it. I was
only six. My folks moved here with me after that. His mouth twitches, not really smiling. Swhy I
never wanted kids, myself.
You smile, too. I didnt, either. Jija had, though.
Rusting Earth. He closes his eyes for a moment, then abruptly gets to his feet. You do, too, since
otherwise your face will be entirely too close to his stained old trousers. Ill walk you to the gate, if
youre going now.
This surprises you. Im going now. But you dont have to. Youre not sure this is a good idea,
really. It might draw more attention than you want. But Rask shakes his head, his jaw set and grim.
I do. Come on.
Rask
He looks at you, and this time you are the one who winces. This isnt about you anymore. The mob
that took his sister from him wouldnt have dared to do so if hed been a man at the time.
Or maybe theyd have just killed him, too.
He carries the crate as you walk down Seven Seasons, the towns main street, all the way up to
Main Gate. Youre twitchy, trying to look confident and relaxed even though you feel anything but. It
would not have been your choice to walk this route, through all these people. Rask draws all the
attention at first, as people wave or call out to him or come over to ask him if theres any news but
then they notice you. People stop waving. They stop approaching and startat a distance, in twos and
threeswatching. And occasionally following. Theres nothing to this except the usual small-town
nosiness, at least on the surface. But you see these knots of people also whispering, and you feel them
staring, and that sets all your nerves a-jangle in the worst way.
Rask hails the gate guards as you approach. A dozen or so Strongbacks who are probably miners
and farmers under ordinary circumstances are there, just milling about in front of the gate with no
real organization. Two are up in the crows nests built atop the wall, where they can overlook the
gate; two are standing near the gates eyeholes at ground level. The rest are just there, looking bored
or talking or joking with one another. Rask probably chose them for their ability to intimidate,
because all of them are Sanzed-big and look like they can handle themselves even without the
glassknives and crossbows they carry.
The one who steps forward to greet Rask is actually the smallest of thema man you know,
though you dont remember his name. His children have been in your classes at the town creche. He
remembers you, too, you see, when his eyes fix on you and narrow.
Rask stops and sets the crate down, opening it and handing you the runny-sack. Karra, he says to
the man you know. Everything okay here?
Was till now, Karra says, not taking his eyes off you. The way hes looking at you makes your
skin tighten. A couple of the other Strongbacks are watching, too, glancing from Karra to Rask and
back, ready to follow someones lead. One woman is openly glaring at you, but the rest seem content
to glance at you and away in quick slashes.
Good to hear, Rask says. You see him frown a little, perhaps as he reads the same signals youre
picking up on. Tell your people to open the gate for a minute, will you?
Karra doesnt take his eyes off you. Think thats a good idea, Rask?
Rask scowls and steps sharply up to Karra, getting right in his face. Hes not a big man, Rask
hes an Innovator, not a Strongback, not that it really matters anymoreand right now he doesnt
need to be. Yeah, Rask says, his voice so low and tight that Karra focuses on him at last with a
stiffening of surprise. I do. Open the gate, if you dont mind. If youre not too rusting busy.
You think of a line from stonelore, Structures, verse three. The body fades. A leader who lasts
relies on more.
Karras jaw flexes, but after a moment he nods. You try to look absorbed in shrugging on the
runny-sack. The straps are loose. Jija was the last one to try it on.
Karra and the other gate-minders get moving, working on the system of pulleys that helps to
winch the gate open. Most of Tirimos wall is made of wood. Its not a wealthy comm with the
resources to import good stone or hire the number of masons needed, although theyre doing better
than poorly managed comms, or newcomms that dont even have a wall yet. The gate, though, is
stone, because a gate is the weakest point of every comm wall. They only need to open it a little for
you, and after a few slow, grinding moments and calls from those hauling to those spotting for
approaching intruders, they stop.
Rask turns to you, plainly uncomfortable. Sorry aboutabout Jija, he says. Not about Uche, but
maybe thats for the best. You need to keep your head clear. About all of it, shit. Hope you find the
bastard.
You only shake your head. Your throat is tight. Tirimo has been your home for ten years. You only
started to think of it as suchhomearound the time of Uches birth, but thats more than you ever
expected to do. You remember chasing Uche across the green after he first learned to run. You
remember Jija helping Nassun build a kite and fly it, badly; the kites remmants are still in a tree
somewhere on the eastern side of town.
But it is not as hard to leave as you thought it would be. Not now, with your former neighbors
stares sliding over your skin like rancid oil.
Thanks, you mutter, meaning for it to cover many things, because Rask didnt have to help you.
He has damaged himself by doing so. The gate-minders respect him less now, and theyll talk. Soon
everyone will know hes a rogga-lover, which is dangerous. Headmen cant afford that kind of
weakness when a Seasons coming on. But for the moment what matters most to you is this moment
of public decency, which is a kindness and an honor you never expected to receive. You arent sure
how to react to it.
He nods, uncomfortable as well, and turns away as you start toward the gap in the gate. Perhaps he
does not see Karra nod to another of the gate-minders; perhaps he does not see the latter woman
quickly shoulder her weapon and orient it on you. Perhaps, you will think later, Rask would have
stopped the woman, or somehow prevented everything to come, if he had seen.
You see her, though, mostly out of the periphery of your vision. Then everything happens too fast
to think. And because you dont think, because youve been trying not to think and this means youre
out of the habit, because thinking means you will remember that your family is dead and everything
that meant happiness is now a lie and thinking of that will make you break and start screaming and
screaming and screaming
and because once upon a time and in another life you learned to respond to sudden threats in a
very particular way, you
reach for the air around you and pull and
brace your feet against the earth beneath you and anchor and narrow and
when the woman fires the crossbow, the bolt blurs toward you. Just before the bolt hits, it bursts
into a million glittering, frozen flecks.
(Naughty, naughty, chides a voice in your head. The voice of your conscience, deep and male. You
forget this thought almost the instant it occurs. That voice is from another life.)
Life. You look at the woman who just tried to kill you.
What theShit! Karra stares at you, as if stunned by your failure to fall down dead. He
crouches, hands balled into fists, nearly jumping up and down in his agitation. Shoot her again! Kill
her! Shoot, Earth damn it, before
What the fuck are you doing? Rask, finally noticing whats happening, turns back. Its too late.
Down below your feet and everyone elses, a shake begins.
Its hard to tell, at first. There is no warning jangle of sesuna, as there would be if the movement
of the earth came from the earth. Thats why people like these fear people like you, because youre
beyond sense and preparation. Youre a surprise, like a sudden toothache, like a heart attack. The
vibration of what youre doing rises, fast, to become a rumble of tension that can be perceived with
ears and feet and skin if not sessapinae, but by this point its too late.
Karra frowns, looking at the ground beneath his feet. Crossbow Woman pauses in the middle of
loading another bolt, eyes widening as she stares at the shivering string of her weapon.
You stand surrounded by swirling flecks of snow and disintegrated crossbow bolt. Around your
feet, there is a two-foot circle of frost riming the packed earth. Your locks waft gently in the rising
breeze.
You cant. Rask whispers the words, his eyes widening at the look on your face. (You dont
know what you look like right now, but it must be bad.) He shakes his head as if denial will stop this,
taking a step back and then another. Essun.
You killed him, you say to Rask. This is not a rational thing. You mean you-plural, even though
youre speaking to you-specific. Rask didnt try to kill you, had nothing to do with Uche, but the
attempt on your life has triggered something raw and furious and cold. You cowards. You animals,
who look at a child and see prey. Jijas the one to blame for Uche, some part of you knows thatbut
Jija grew up here in Tirimo. The kind of hate that can make a man murder his own son? It came from
everyone around you.
Rask inhales. Essun
And then the valley floor splits open.
The initial jolt of this is violent enough to knock everyone standing to the ground and sway every
house in Tirimo. Then those houses judder and rattle as the jolt smooths into a steady, ongoing
vibration. Saider s Cart-Repair Shop is the first to collapse, the old wooden frame of the building
sliding sideways off its foundation. There are screams from inside, and one woman manages to run
out before the door frame crumples inward. On the eastern edge of town, closest to the mountain
ridges that frame the valley, a rockslide begins. A portion of the eastern comm wall and three houses
are buried beneath a sudden grinding slurry of mud and trees and rocks. Far below the ground, where
no one but you can detect, the clay walls of the underground aquifer that supplies the village wells are
breached. The aquifer begins to drain. They will not realize for weeks that you killed the town in this
moment, but they will remember when the wells run dry.
Those who survive the next few moments will, anyhow. From your feet, the circle of frost and
swirling snow begins to expand. Rapidly.
It catches Rask first. He tries to run as the edge of your torus rolls toward him, but hes simply too
close. It catches him in mid-lunge, glazing his feet and solidifying his legs and eating its way up his
spine until, in the span of a breath, he falls to the ground stone-stiff, his flesh turning as gray as his
hair. The next to be consumed by the circle is Karra, whos still screaming for someone to kill you.
The shout dies in his throat as he falls, flash-frozen, the last of his warm breath hissing out through
clenched teeth and frosting the ground as you steal the heat from it.
You arent just inflicting death on your fellow villagers, of course. A bird perched on a nearby
fence falls over frozen, too. The grass crisps, the ground grows hard, and the air hisses and howls as
moisture and density is snatched from its substance but no one has ever mourned earthworms.
Fast. The air swirls briskly all down Seven Seasons now, making the trees rustle and anyone
nearby cry out in alarm as they realize whats happening. The ground hasnt stopped moving. You
sway with the ground, but because you know its rhythms, it is easy for you to shift your balance with
it. You do this without thinking, because there is only room left in you for one thought.
These people killed Uche. Their hate, their fear, their unprovoked violence. They.
(He.)
Killed your son.
(Jija killed your son.)
People run out into the streets, screaming and wondering why there was no warning, and you kill
any of them who are stupid or panicked enough to come near.
Jija. They are Jija. The whole rusting town is Jija.
Two things save the comm, however, or at least most of it. The first is that most of the buildings
dont collapse. Tirimo might be too poor to build with stone, but most of its builders are ethical and
well paid enough to use only techniques that stonelore recommends: the hanging frame, the center
beam. Second, the fault line of the valleywhich youre currently peeling apart with a thoughtis
actually a few miles to the west. Because of these things, most of Tirimo will survive this, at least until
the wells die.
Because of these things. And because of the terrified, bouncing scream of a little boy as his father
runs out of a madly swaying building.
You pivot toward the sound instantly, habitually, orienting on the source with a mother s ears. The
man clutches the boy with both arms. He doesnt even have a runny-sack; the first and only thing he
took the time to grab was his son. The boy looks nothing like Uche. But you stare as the child bounces
and reaches back toward the house for something the man has left behind (favorite toy? the boys
mother?), and suddenly, finally, you think.
And then you stop.
Because, oh uncaring Earth. Look what youve done.
The shake stops. The air hisses again, this time as warmer, moister air rushes into the space
around you. The ground and your skin grow instantly damp with condensation. The rumble of the
valley fades, leaving only screams and the creak of falling wood and the shake-siren that has only
belatedly, forlornly, begun to wail.
You close you eyes, aching and shaking and thinking, No. I killed Uche. By being his mother.
There are tears on your face. And here you thought you couldnt cry.
But theres no one between you and the gate now. The gate-minders who could, have fled; besides
Rask and Karra, several more were too slow to get away. You shoulder the runny-sack and head for
the gate opening, scrubbing at your face with one hand. Youre smiling, too, though, and it is a bitter,
aching thing. You just cant help acknowledging the irony of the whole thing. Didnt want to wait for
death to come for you. Right.
Stupid, stupid woman. Death was always here. Death is you.
* * *
Never forget what you are.
Tablet One, On Survival, verse ten
 4
Syenite, cut and polished

THIS IS SHIT, SYENITE THINKS, behind the shield of her pleasant smile.
She doesnt let the affront show on her face, however. Nor does she shift even minutely in the
chair. Her handsfour fingers ringed respectively in plain bands of carnelian, white opal, gold, and
onyxrest on her knees. Theyre out of sight below the edge of the desk, from Feldspar s
perspective. She could clench them with Feldspar none the wiser. She doesnt.
Coral reefs are challenging, you realize. Feldspar, her own hands occupied with the big wooden
cup of safe, smiles over its rim. She knows full well whats behind Syenites smile. Not like ordinary
rock. Coral is porous, flexible. The fine control required to shatter it without triggering a tsunami is
difficult to achieve.
And Syen could do it in her sleep. A two-ringer could do this. A grit could do itthough,
admittedly, not without substantial collateral damage. She reaches for her own cup of safe, turning the
wooden hemisphere in her fingers so that they will not shake, then taking a sip. I appreciate that you
have assigned me a mentor, senior.
No, you dont. Feldspar smiles, too, and sips from her cup of safe, ringed pinky in the air while
she does so. Its as if theyre having a private contest, etiquette versus etiquette, best shit-eating grin
take all. If its any consolation, no one will think less of you.
Because everyone knows what this is really about. That doesnt erase the insult, but it does give
Syen a degree of comfort. At least her new mentor is a ten-ringer. That, too, is comforting, that they
thought so much of her. Shell scrape whatever morsels of self-esteem she can out of this.
He recently completed a circuit in the Somidlats, Feldspar says, gently. Theres no actual
gentleness to the conversations subject matter, but Syen appreciates the older womans effort.
Ordinarily wed allow him more time to rest before setting him back on the road, but the quartent
governor was insistent that we do something about Allias harbor blockage as soon as possible.
Youre the one wholl do the work; hes just there to supervise. Getting there should take a month or
so, if you dont make many detours and travel at an easy paceand theres no hurry, given that the
coral reef isnt exactly a sudden problem.
At this, Feldspar looks fleetingly, but truly, annoyed. The quartent governor of Allia, or possibly
Allias Leadership, must have been especially irritating. In the years since Feldspar became her
assigned senior, Syen has never seen the old woman show any expression worse than a brittle smile.
They both know the rules: Fulcrum orogenesImperial orogenes, blackjackets, the ones you
probably shouldnt kill, whatever people want to call themmust be always polite and professional.
Fulcrum orogenes must project confidence and expertise whenever they are in public. Fulcrum
orogenes must never show anger because it makes the stills nervous. Except Feldspar would never be
so improper as to use a slur like the stillsbut that is why Feldspar is a senior and has been given
supervisory responsibilities, while Syenite merely grinds her own edges alone. Shell have to
demonstrate more professionalism if she wants Feldspar s job. That, and shell apparently have to do
a few other things.
When do I meet him? Syenite asks. She takes a sip of safe so this question will seem casual. Just
a bit of conversation between old friends.
Whenever you like. Feldspar shrugs. He has quarters in the seniors hall. We did send him a
briefing and a request that he attend this meeting Again she looks mildly irritated. This whole
situation must be terrible for her, just terrible. but its possible he missed the message, since as I
said hes been recovering from his circuit. Traveling the Likesh Mountains alone is difficult.
Alone?
Five-ringers and above are no longer required to have a partner or Guardian when traveling
outside the Fulcrum. Feldspar sips from her cup of safe, oblivious to Syenites shock. At that point
we are judged stable enough in our mastery of orogeny to be granted a modicum of autonomy.
Five rings. She has four. Its bullshit that this has anything to do with orogenic mastery; if a
Guardian has doubts about an orogenes willingness to follow the rules, that orogene doesnt make it
to the first ring, let alone the fifth. ButSo itll be just him and me.
Yes. Weve found that arrangement to be most effective in circumstances like this.
Of course.
Feldspar continues. Youll find him in Shaped Prominence. Thats the complex of buildings that
houses most of the Fulcrums complement of seniors. Main tower, top floor. There are no set-aside
quarters for the most senior orogenes because there are so fewhe is our only ten-ringer, at present
but we could at least spare him a bit of extra space up there.
Thank you, Syen says, turning her cup again. Ill go see him after this.
Feldspar pauses for a long moment, her face going even more pleasantly unreadable than usual,
and that is Syenites warning. Then Feldspar says: As a ten-ringer, he has the right to refuse any
mission short of a declared emergency. You should know that.
Wait. Syens fingers stop turning the cup, and her eyes flick up to meet those of the older woman.
Is Feld saying what it sounds like shes saying? Cant be. Syen narrows her eyes, no longer bothering
to conceal her suspicion. And yet. Feldspar has given her a way out. Why?
Feldspar smiles thinly. I have six children.
Ah.
Nothing more to be said, then. Syen takes another sip, trying not to grimace at the chalky grit near
the bottom of the cup. Safe is nutritious, but its not a drink anyone enjoys. Its made from a plant milk
that changes color in the presence of any contaminant, even spit. Its served to guests and at meetings
because, well, its safe. A polite gesture that says: Im not poisoning you. At least, not right now.
After that Syen takes her leave of Feldspar, then heads out of Main, the administrative building.
Main sits amid a cluster of smaller buildings at the edge of the sprawling, half-wild expanse that
comprises the Ring Garden. The garden is acres wide, and runs in a broad strip around the Fulcrum
for several miles. Its just that huge, the Fulcrum, a city in itself nestled within the greater body of
Yumenes like well. Syenite wouldve continued the thought with like a child in a womans belly, but
that comparison seems especially grotesque today.
She nods to her fellow juniors in passing as she recognizes them. Some of them are just standing
or sitting around in knots and talking, while others lounge on patches of grass or flowers and read, or
flirt, or sleep. Life for the ringed is easy, except during missions beyond the Fulcrums walls, which
are brief and infrequent. A handful of grits tromp through along the wending cobbled path, all in a
neat line overseen by juniors whove volunteered as instructors, but grits arent permitted to enjoy the
garden yet; that is a privilege reserved only for those whove passed their first-ring test and been
approved for initiation by the Guardians.
And as if the thought of Guardians summons them, Syen spies a few burgundy-uniformed figures
standing in a knot near one of the Rings many ponds. Theres another Guardian on the other side of
the pond, lounging in an alcove surrounded by rosebushes, appearing to listen politely while a young
junior sings to a small seated audience nearby. Perhaps the Guardian is just listening politely;
sometimes they do that. Sometimes they need to relax, too. Syen notes this Guardians gaze lingering
on one of the audience members in particular, however: a thin, white youth who doesnt seem to be
paying much attention to the singer. Hes looking at his hands, instead, which are folded in his lap.
Theres a bandage around two of his fingers, holding them together and straight.
Syen moves on.
She stops first at Curving Shield, one of many clusters of buildings that house the hundreds of
junior orogenes. Her roommates arent home to see her fetch a few necessary items from her chest,
for which she is painfully grateful. Theyll hear about her assignment soon enough through the
rumor mill. Then she heads out again, eventually reaching Shaped Prominence. The tower is one of
the older buildings of the Fulcrum complex, built low and wide of heavy white marble blocks and
stolid angles atypical of the wilder, fanciful architecture of Yumenes. The big double doors open into
a wide, graceful foyer, its walls and floor embossed with scenes from Sanzed history. She keeps her
pace unhurried, nodding to the seniors she sees whether she recognizes them or notshe does want
Feldspar s job, after alland taking the wide stairways gradually, pausing now and again to
appreciate the artfully arranged patterns of light and shadow cast by the narrow windows. Shes not
sure what makes the patterns so special, actually, but everyone says theyre stunning works of art, so
she needs to be seen appreciating.
On the topmost floor, where the plush hall-length rug is overlaid by a herringbone pattern of
sunlight, she stops to catch her breath and appreciate something genuinely: silence. Solitude. Theres
no one moving in this corridor, not even low-level juniors on cleaning or errand duty. Shes heard
the rumors and now she knows theyre true: The ten-ringer has the whole floor to himself.
This, then, is the true reward for excellence: privacy. And choice. After closing her eyes for a
moment in aching want, Syen heads down the hall until she reaches the only door with a mat in front
of it.
In that moment, though, she hesitates. She knows nothing about this man. Hes earned the highest
rank that exists within their order, which means no one really cares what he does anymore so long as
he keeps any embarrassing behaviors private. And he is a man who has been powerless most of his
life, only lately granted autonomy and privilege over others. No one will demote him for anything so
trivial as perversion or abuse. Not if his victim is just another orogene.
Theres no point to this. She doesnt have a choice. With a sigh, Syenite knocks.
And because she isnt expecting a person so much as a trial to be endured, shes actually surprised
when an annoyed voice snaps from within, What?
Shes still wondering how to reply to that when footsteps slap against stonebriskly, annoyed
even in their soundand the door whisks open. The man who stands there glaring at her is wearing a
rumpled robe, one side of his hair flattened, fabric lines painting a haphazard map over his cheek.
Hes younger than she expected. Not young; almost twice her age, at least forty. But shed thought
well. Shes met so many six-and seven-ringers in their sixth and seventh decades that shed expected a
ten-ringer to be ancient. And calmer, dignified, more self-possessed. Something. Hes not even
wearing his rings, though she can see a faint paler stripe on some of his fingers, in between his angry
gesticulations.
What, in the name of every two-minute earth jerk? When Syen just stares at him, he lapses into
another tonguesomething shes never heard before, though the sound of it is vaguely Coaster, and
distinctly pissed. Then he rubs a hand over his hair, and Syen almost laughs. His hair is dense, tight-
curled stuff, the kind of hair that needs to be shaped if its to look stylish, and what hes doing just
messes it up more.
I told Feldspar, he says, returning to perfectly fluent Sanzed and plainly struggling for patience,
and those other cackling meddlers on the senior advisory board to leave me alone. I just got off
circuit, I havent had two hours to myself in the last year that werent shared with a horse or a
stranger, and if youre here to give me more orders, Im going to ice you where you stand.
Shes pretty sure this is hyperbole. Its the kind of hyperbole he shouldnt use; Fulcrum orogenes
just dont joke about certain things. Its one of the unspoken rules but maybe a ten-ringer is beyond
such things. Not orders, exactly, she manages, and his face twists.
Then I dont want to hear whatever youre here to tell me. Go the rust away. And he starts to
close the door in her face.
She cant believe it at first. What kind ofReally? It is indignity on top of indignity; bad enough
to have to do this in the first place, but to be disrespected in the process?
She jams a foot in the door s path before it can build up much momentum and leans in to say, Im
Syenite.
It doesnt mean anything to him, she can see by his now-furious glare. He inhales to start shouting,
she has no idea what but she doesnt want to hear it, and before he can she snaps, Im here to fuck
you, Earth burn it. Is that worth disturbing your beauty rest?
Part of her is appalled at her own language, and her own anger. The rest of her is satisfied,
because that shuts him right the rust up.
He lets her in.
Now its awkward. Syen sits at the small table in his suitea suite, hes got a whole suite of
furnished rooms to himselfand watches while he fidgets. Hes sitting on one of the rooms couches,
pretty much perched on its edge. The far edge, she notes, as if he fears to sit too close to her.
I didnt think it would start again this soon, he says, looking at his hands, which are laced
together before him. I mean, they always tell me theres a need, but thats I didnt He sighs.
Then this isnt the first time for you, Syenite says. He only earned the right to refuse with his
tenth ring.
No, no, but He takes a deep breath. I didnt always know.
Didnt know what?
He grimaces. With the first few women I thought they were interested.
You Then she gets it. The deniability is always there, of course; even Feldspar never came
right out and said Your assignment is to produce a child within a year with this man. That lack of
acknowledgment is supposed to make it easier, somehow. Shes never seen the point: Why pretend the
situation is anything other than what it is? But for him, she realizes, it wasnt pretending. Which
astounds her because, come on. How naive can he be?
He glances at her and his expression grows pained. Yes. I know.
She shakes her head. I see. It doesnt matter. This isnt about his intelligence. She stands up and
unbuckles the belt of her uniform.
He stares. Just like that? I dont even know you.
You dont need to.
I dont like you.
The feeling is mutual, but Syen refrains from pointing out the obvious. I finished menstruating a
week ago. This is a good time. If youd rather, you can just lie still and let me take care of things.
Shes not extraordinarily experienced, but its not plate tectonics. She gets her uniform jacket off, then
pulls something out of the pocket to show him: a bottle of lubricant, still mostly full. He looks dimly
horrified. In fact, its probably better if you dont move. This will be awkward enough as it is.
He stands up, too, actually backing away. The look of agitation on his face iswell, its not funny,
not really. But Syenite cannot help feeling a modicum of relief at his reaction. No, not just relief. He
is the weak one here, despite his ten rings. Shes the one who has to carry a child she doesnt want,
which might kill her and even if it doesnt will change her body forever, if not her lifebut here and
now, at least, she is the one with all the power. It makes this well, not right. But better, somehow,
that shes the one in control.
We dont have to do this, he blurts. I can refuse. He grimaces. I know you cant, but I can. So

Dont refuse, she says, scowling.

What? Why not?
You said it: I have to do this. You dont. If not you, it will be someone else. Six children,
Feldspar had. But Feldspar was never a particularly promising orogene. Syenite is. If Syen isnt
careful, if she pisses off the wrong people, if she lets herself get labeled difficult, they will kill her
career and assign her permanently to the Fulcrum, leaving her nothing to do but lie on her back and
turn mens grunting and farting into babies. Shell be lucky to have only six if thats how things turn
out.
Hes staring as if he doesnt understand, even though she knows he does. She says, I want this
over with.
Then he surprises her. Shes expecting more stammering and protests. Instead his hand clenches at
his side. He looks away, a muscle working in his jaw. He still looks ridiculous in that robe with his
hair askew, but the look on his face he might as well have been ordered to submit himself to
torture. She knows shes no looker, at least not by Equatorial standards. Too much midlatter mongrel
in her. But then, hes obviously not well-bred, either: that hair, and skin so black its almost blue, and
hes small. Her height, that is, which is tall for either women or menbut hes lean, not at all broad
or intimidating. If his ancestors include any Sanzeds, theyre far back, and they gave him nothing of
their physical superiority.
Over with, he mutters. Right. The muscle in his jaw is practically jumping up and down, hes
grinding his teeth so hard. Andwhoa. Hes not looking at her, and suddenly shes glad. Because
thats hate, in his face. Shes seen it before in other orogenesrust, shes felt it herself, when she has
the luxury of solitude and unfettered honestybut shes never let it show like that. Then he looks up at
her, and she tries not to flinch.
You werent born here, he says, cold now. Belatedly she realizes its a question.
No. She doesnt like being the one on the receiving end of the questions. Were you?
 Oh, yes. I was bred to order. He smiles, and its strange seeing a smile layered over all that hate.
Not even as haphazardly as our child will be. Im the product of two of the Fulcrums oldest and
most promising lineages, or so Im told. I had a Guardian practically from birth. He shoves his
hands into the pockets of his rumpled robe. Youre a feral.
This comes out of nowhere. Syen actually spends a second wondering if this is some new way of
saying rogga and then realizing what he really means. Oh, that is just the limit. Look, I dont care
how many rings you wear
Thats what they call you, I mean. He smiles again, and his bitterness so resonates with her own
that she falls silent in confusion. If you didnt know. Feralsthe ones from outsideoften dont
know, or care. But when an orogene is born from parents who werent, from a family line thats
never shown the curse before, thats how they think of you. A wild mutt to my domesticated purebred.
An accident, to my plan. He shakes his head; it makes his voice shake. What it actually means is that
they couldnt predict you. Youre the proof that theyll never understand orogeny; its not science, its
something else. And theyll never control us, not really. Not completely.
Syen isnt sure what to say. She didnt know about the feral thing, about being different somehow
though now that she thinks about it, most of the other orogenes she knows were Fulcrum-bred. And
yeah, shes noticed how they look at her. She just thought that was because they were Equatorials and
she was from the Nomidlats, or because she got her first ring before they did. And yet, now that hes
said this is being feral a bad thing?
It must be. If the problem is that ferals are not predictable well, orogenes have to prove
themselves reliable. The Fulcrum has a reputation to maintain; thats part of this. Sos the training, and
the uniform, and the endless rules they must follow, but the breeding is part of it, too, or why is she
here?
Its somewhat flattering to think that despite her feral status, they actually want something of her
infused into their breeding lines. Then she wonders why a part of her is trying to find value in
degradation.
Shes so lost in thought that he surprises her when he makes a weary sound of capitulation.
Youre right, he says tersely, all business now because, well, there was really only one way this
could end. And staying businesslike will allow both of them to maintain some semblance of dignity.
Sorry. Youre rusting Earth. Yeah. Lets just get this done.
So they go into his bedroom and he strips and lies down and tries for a while to work himself up
to it, which doesnt go well. The hazard of having to do this with an older man, Syen decidesthough
really, its probably more the fact that sex doesnt usually go well when you dont feel like having it.
She keeps her expression neutral as she sits beside him and brushes his hands out of the way. He looks
embarrassed, and she curses because if he gets self-conscious about it, this will take all day.
He comes around once she takes over, though, perhaps because he can shut his eyes and imagine
that her hands belong to whoever he wants. So then she grits her teeth and straddles him and rides
until her thighs ache and her breasts grow sore from bouncing. The lube only helps a little. He
doesnt feel as good as a dildo or her fingers. Still, his fantasies must be sufficient, because after a
while he makes a strained sort of whimper and then its done.
Shes pulling on her boots when he sighs and sits up and looks at her so bleakly that she feels
vaguely ashamed of what shes done to him.
What did you say your name was? he asks.
Syenite.
That the name your parents gave you? When she glares back at him, his lips twitch in something
less than a smile. Sorry. Just jealous.
Jealous?
Fulcrum-bred, remember? Ive only ever had the one name.
Oh.
He hesitates. This is apparently hard for him. You, uh, you can call me
She cuts him off, because she knows his name already and anyway she doesnt intend to call him
anything but you, which should be enough to distinguish him from their horses. Feldspar says were
to leave for Allia tomorrow. She gets her second boot on and stands to kick the heel into place.
Another mission? Already? He sighs. I should have known.
Yes, he should have. Youre mentoring me, and helping me clear some coral out of a harbor.
Right. He knows its a bullshit mission, too. Theres only one reason theyd send him along for
something like this. They gave me a briefing dossier yesterday. Guess Ill finally read it. Meet at the
stableyard at noon?
Youre the ten-ringer.
He rubs his face with both hands. She feels a little bad, but only a little.
Fine, he says, all business again. Noon it is.
So she heads out, sore and annoyed that she smells faintly like him, and tired. Probably its just
stress thats wearing her outthe idea of a month on the road with a man she cannot stand, doing
things she doesnt want to do, on behalf of people she increasingly despises.
But this is what it means to be civilizeddoing what her betters say she should, for the ostensible
good of all. And its not like she gains no benefit from this: a year or so of discomfort, a baby she
doesnt have to bother raising because it will be turned over to the lower creche as soon as its born,
and a high-profile mission completed under the mentorship of a powerful senior. With the experience
and boost to her reputation, shell be that much closer to her fifth ring. That means her own
apartment; no more roommates. Better missions, longer leave, more say in her own life. Thats worth
it. Earthfire yes, its worth it.
She tells herself this all the way back to her room. Then she packs to leave, tidies up so shell
come home to order and neatness, and takes a shower, methodically scrubbing every bit of flesh she
can reach until her skin burns.
* * *
Tell them they can be great someday, like us. Tell them they belong among us, no matter
how we treat them. Tell them they must earn the respect which everyone else receives by
default. Tell them there is a standard for acceptance; that standard is simply perfection. Kill
those who scoff at these contradictions, and tell the rest that the dead deserved annihilation for
their weakness and doubt. Then theyll break themselves trying for what theyll never
achieve.
Erlsset, twenty-third emperor of the Sanzed Equatorial Affiliation, in the thirteenth year of
the Season of Teeth. Comment recorded at a party, shortly before the founding of the Fulcrum.
 5
youre not alone

NIGHT HAS FALLEN, AND YOU sit in the lee of a hill in the dark.
Youre so tired. Takes a lot out of a you, killing so many people. Worse because you didnt do
nearly as much as you could have done, once you got all worked up. Orogeny is a strange equation.
Take movement and warmth and life from your surroundings, amplify it by some indefinable process
of concentration or catalysis or semi-predictable chance, push movement and warmth and death from
the earth. Power in, power out. To keep the power in, though, to not turn the valleys aquifer into a
geyser or shatter the ground into rubble, takes an effort that makes your teeth and the backs of your
eyes ache. You walked a long time to try to burn off some of what you took in, but it still brims under
your skin even as your body grows weary and your feet hurt. You are a weapon meant to move
mountains. A mere walk cant take that out of you.
Still, you walked until darkness fell, and then you walked some more, and now youre here,
huddled and alone at the edge of an old fallow field. Youre afraid to start a fire, even though its
getting cool. Without a fire you cant see much, but also nothing can see you: a woman alone, with a
full pack and only a knife to defend herself. (Youre not helpless, but an attacker wouldnt know that
till it was too late, and youd rather not kill anyone else today.) In the distance you can see the dark arc
of a highroad, rising above the plains like a taunt. Highroads usually have electric lanterns, courtesy
of Sanze, but youre not surprised this ones dark: Even if the shake from the north hadnt occurred,
Seasonal standard procedure is to shut down all nonessential hydro and geo. Its too far to be worth
the detour, anyway.
Youre wearing a jacket, and theres nothing to fear in the field but mice. Sleeping without a fire
wont kill you. You can see relatively well anyway, despite the lack of fire or lanterns. Rippling bands
of clouds, like hoed rows in the garden you once kept, have covered the sky above. Theyre easy to
see because something to the north has underlit the clouds in bands of redglow and shadow. When
you stare that way, theres an uneven line of mountains against the northern horizon, and the flicker of
a distant bluish gray obelisk where its lower tip peeks through a knot of clouds, but these things tell
you nothing. Closer by theres a flitter of what might be a colony of bats out feeding. Late for bats,
but all things change during a Season, the stonelore warns. All living things do what they must to
prepare, and survive.
The source of the glow is beyond the mountains, as if the setting sun went the wrong way and got
stuck there. You know whats causing this glow. It must be an awesome thing to see up close, that great
terrible rent spewing fire into the sky, except you dont ever want to see it.
And you wont, because youre heading south. Even if Jija hadnt started out going in that
direction, he would surely have turned south after the shake from the north passed through. Thats the
only sane way to go.
Of course, a man who would beat his own child to death might not still fit the label of sane. And a
woman who found that child and stopped thinking for three days hmm, not you, either. Nothing to
do but follow your crazy, though.
Youve eaten something from your pack: cachebread smeared with salty akaba paste from the jar
you stuffed into it a lifetime and a family ago. Akaba keeps well after its opened, but not forever, and
now that youve opened it youll have to eat it for the next few meals until its gone. Thats okay
because you like it. Youve drunk water from the canteen that you filled a few miles back, at a
roadhouses well pump. Thered been people there, several dozen, some of them camping around the
roadhouse and some of them just stopping there briefly. All of them had the look youre starting to
identify as slow-building panic. Because everyones finally begun to realize what the shake and the
redglow and the clouded sky all mean, and to be outside of a communitys gates at a time like this is
in the long runa death sentence, except for a handful who are willing to become brutal enough or
depraved enough to do what they must. Even those only have a chance at survival.
None of the people at the roadhouse wanted to believe they had that in them, you saw as you
looked around, assessing faces and clothes and bodies and threats. None of them looked like survival
fetishists or would-be warlords. What you saw at that roadhouse were ordinary people, some still
caked in filth after digging themselves out of mudslides or collapsed buildings, some still bleeding
from wounds haphazardly bandaged, or untreated entirely. Travelers, caught away from home;
survivors, whose homes no longer existed. You saw an old man, still wearing a sleeping gown half
ragged and dusty on one side, sitting with a youth clad in only a long shirt and smears of blood, both
of them hollow-eyed with grief. You saw two women holding each other, rocking in an effort at
comfort. You saw a man your own age with the look of a Strongback, who gazed steadily at his big,
thick-fingered hands and perhaps wondered if he was hale enough, young enough, to earn a place
somewhere.
These are the stories the stonelore prepared you for, tragic as they are. There is nothing in
stonelore about husbands killing children.
Youre leaning on an old post that someone jammed up against the hill, maybe the remnants of a
fence that ended here, drifting off with your hands tucked into your jacket pockets and your knees
drawn up. And then, slowly, you become aware that something has changed. Theres no sound to alert
you, other than the wind and the small prickles and rustles of the grass. No smell transcends the faint
sulfur scent that youve already gotten used to. But theres something. Something else. Out there.
Someone else.
Your eyes snap open, and half your mind falls into the earth, ready to kill. The rest of your mind
freezesbecause a few feet away, sitting crosslegged on the grass and looking at you, is a little boy.
You dont realize what he is at first. Its dark. Hes dark. You wonder if hes from an eastern
Coastal comm. But his hair moves a little when the wind soughs again, and you can tell that some of
its straight as the grass around you. Westcoaster, then? The rest of it seems stuck down with hair
pomade or something. No. Youre a mother. Its dirt. Hes covered in dirt.
Bigger than Uche, not quite as big as Nassun, so maybe six or seven years old. You actually arent
sure hes a he; confirmation of that will come later. For now you make a judgment call. He sits in a
hunched way that would look odd in an adult and is perfectly normal for a child who hasnt been told
to sit up straight. You stare at him for a moment. He stares back at you. You can see the pale glisten of
his eyes.
Hello, he says. A boys voice, high and bright. Good call.
Hello, you say, at last. There are horror tales that start this way, with bands of feral commless
children who turn out to be cannibals. Bit early for that sort of thing, though, the Season having just
started. Where did you come from?
He shrugs. Unknowing, maybe uncaring. Whats your name? Im Hoa.
Its a small, strange name, but the world is a big, strange place. Stranger, though, that he gives only
one name. Hes young enough that he might not have a comm name yet, but he had to have inherited
his father s use-caste. Just Hoa?
Mmm-hmm. He nods and twists aside and sets down some kind of parcel, patting it as if to make
sure its safe. Can I sleep here?
You look around, and sess around, and listen. Nothing moving but the grass, no one around but the
boy. Doesnt explain how he approached you in total silencebut then, hes small, and you know
from experience that small children can be very quiet if they want to be. Usually that means theyre up
to something, though. Who else are you with, Hoa?
Nobody.
Its too dim for him to see your eyes narrow, but somehow he reacts to this anyway, leaning
forward. Really! Its just me. I saw some other people by the road, but I didnt like them. I hid from
them. A pause. I like you.
Lovely.
Sighing, you tuck your hands back into your pockets and draw yourself out of earth-readiness.
The boy relaxes a littlethat much you can seeand starts to lie down on the bare earth.
Wait, you say, and reach for your pack. Then you toss him the bedroll. He catches it and looks
confused for a few moments, then figures it out. Happily he rolls it out and then curls up on top of it,
like a cat. You dont care enough to correct him.
Maybe hes lying. Maybe he is a threat. Youll make him leave in the morning because you dont
need a child tagging along; hell slow you down. And someone must be looking for him. Some
mother, somewhere, whose child is not dead.
For tonight, however, you can manage to be human for a little while. So you lean back against the
post, and close your eyes to sleep.
The ash begins to fall in the morning.
* * *
They are an arcane thing, you understand, an alchemical thing. Like orogeny, if orogeny
could manipulate the infinitesimal structure of matter itself rather than mountains. Obviously
they possess some sort of kinship with humanity, which they choose to acknowledge in the
statue-like shape we most often see, but it follows that they can take other shapes. We would
never know.
Umbl Innovator Allia, A Treatise on Sentient Non-Humans, Sixth University, 2323
Imperial/Year Two Acid Season
 6
Damaya, grinding to a halt

THE FIRST FEW DAYS ON the road with Schaffa are uneventful. Not boring. There are boring parts, like
when the Imperial Road along which they ride passes through endless fields of kirga stalks or
samishet, or when the fields give way to stretches of dim forest so quiet and close that Damaya hardly
dares speak for fear of angering the trees. (In stories, trees are always angry.) But even this is a
novelty, because Damaya has never gone beyond Palelas borders, not even to Brevard with Father
and Chaga at market time. She tries not to look like a complete yokel, gawping at every strange thing
they pass, but sometimes she cannot help it, even when she feels Schaffa chuckling against her back.
She cannot bring herself to mind that he laughs at her.
Brevard is cramped and narrow and high in a way that she has never before experienced, so she
hunches in the saddle as they ride into it, looking up at the looming buildings on either side of the
street and wondering if they ever collapse in on passersby. No one else seems to notice that these
buildings are ridiculously tall and crammed right up against each other, so it must have been done on
purpose. There are dozens of people about even though the sun has set and, to her reckoning,
everyone should be getting ready for bed.
Except no one is. They pass one building so bright with oil lanterns and raucous with laughter that
she is overcome with curiosity enough to ask about it. An inn, of sorts, Schaffa replies, and then he
chuckles as though shes asked the question thats in her mind. But we wont be staying at that one.
Its really loud, she agrees, trying to sound knowledgeable.
Hmm, yes, that, too. But the bigger problem is that its not a good place to bring children. She
waits, but he doesnt elaborate. Were going to a place Ive stayed at several times before. The food
is decent, the beds are clean, and our belongings arent likely to walk off before morning.
Thus do they pass Damayas first night in an inn. Shes shocked by all of it: eating in a room full
of strangers, eating food that tastes different from what her parents or Chaga made, soaking in a big
ceramic basin with a fire under it instead of an oiled half-barrel of cold water in the kitchen, sleeping
in a bed bigger than hers and Chagas put together. Schaffas bed is bigger still, which is fitting
because hes huge, but she gawps at it nevertheless as he drags it across the inn rooms door. (This, at
least, is familiar; Father did it sometimes when there were rumors of commless on the roads around
town.) He apparently paid extra for the bigger bed. I sleep like an earthshake, he says, smiling as if
this is some sort of joke. If the beds too narrow, Ill roll right off.
 She has no idea what he means until the middle of that night, when she wakes to hear Schaffa
groaning and thrashing in his sleep. If its a nightmare, its a terrible one, and for a while she wonders
if she should get up and try to wake him. She hates nightmares. But Schaffa is a grown-up, and
grown-ups need their sleep; thats what her father always said whenever she or Chaga did something
that woke him up. Father was always angry about it, too, and she does not want Schaffa angry with
her. Hes the only person who cares about her in all the world. So she lies there, anxious and
undecided, until he actually cries out something unintelligible, and it sounds like hes dying.
Are you awake? She says it really softly, because obviously he isntbut the instant she speaks,
he is.
What is it? He sounds hoarse.
You were She isnt sure what to say. Having a nightmare sounds like something her mother
would say to her. Does one say such things to big, strong grown-ups like Schaffa? Making a noise,
she finishes.
Snoring? He breathes a long weary sigh into the dark. Sorry. Then he shifts, and is silent for
the rest of the night.
In the morning Damaya forgets this happened, at least for a long while. They rise and eat some of
the food that has been left at their door in a basket, and take the rest with them as they resume the trip
toward Yumenes. In the just-after-dawn light Brevard is less frightening and strange, perhaps because
now she can see piles of horse dung in the gutters and little boys carrying fishing poles and
stablehands yawning as they heft crates or bales. There are young women carting buckets of water
into the local bathhouse to be heated, and young men stripping to the waist to churn butter or pound
rice in sheds behind the big buildings. All these things are familiar, and they help her see that Brevard
is just a bigger version of a small town. Its people are no different from Muh Dear or Chagaand to
the people who live here, Brevard is probably as familiar and tedious as she found Palela.
They ride for half a day and stop for a rest, then ride for the rest of the day, until Brevard is far
behind and theres nothing but rocky, ugly shatterland surrounding them for miles around. Theres an
active fault nearby, Schaffa explains, churning out new land over years and decades, which is why in
places the ground seems sort of pushed up and bare. These rocks didnt exist ten years ago, he says,
gesturing toward a huge pile of crumbling gray-green stone that looks sharp-edged and somehow
damp. But then there was a bad shakea niner. Or so I hear; I was on circuit in another quartent.
Looking at this, though, I can believe it.
Damaya nods. Old Father Earth does feel closer, here, than in Palelaor, not closer, thats not
really the word for it, but she doesnt know what words would work better. Easier to touch, maybe, if
she were to do so. And, and it feels fragile, somehow, the land all around them. Like an eggshell
laced with fine lines that can barely be seen, but which still spell imminent death for the chick inside.
Schaffa nudges her with his leg. Dont.
Startled, Damaya does not think to lie. I wasnt doing anything.
You were listening to the earth. Thats something.
How does Schaffa know? She hunches a little in the saddle, not sure whether she should apologize.
Fidgeting, she settles her hands on the pommel of the saddle, which feels awkward because the saddle
is huge like everything that belongs to Schaffa. (Except her.) But she needs to do something to distract
herself from listening again. After a moment of this, Schaffa sighs.
I suppose I can expect no better, he says, and the disappointment in his tone bothers her
immediately. It isnt your fault. Without training youre like dry tinder, and right now were
traveling past a roaring fire thats kicking up sparks. He seems to think. Would a story help?
 A story would be wonderful. She nods, trying not to seem too eager. All right, Schaffa says.
Have you heard of Shemshena?
Who?
He shakes his head. Earthfires, these little midlatter comms. Didnt they teach you anything in that
creche of yours? Nothing but lore and figuring, I imagine, and the latter only so you could time crop
plantings and such.
Theres no time for more than that, Damaya says, feeling oddly compelled to defend Palela.
Kids in Equatorial comms probably dont need to help with the harvest
I know, I know. But its still a shame. He shifts, getting more comfortable in his saddle. Very
well; Im no lorist, but Ill tell you of Shemshena. Long ago, during the Season of Teeththats,
hmm, the third Season after Sanzes founding, maybe twelve hundred years ago?an orogene named
Misalem decided to try to kill the emperor. This was back when the emperor actually did things, mind,
and long before the Fulcrum was established. Most orogenes had no proper training in those days;
like you, they acted purely on emotion and instinct, on the rare occasions that they managed to
survive childhood. Misalem had somehow managed to not only survive, but to train himself. He had
superb control, perhaps to the fourth or fifth ring-level
What?
He nudges her leg again. Rankings used by the Fulcrum. Stop interrupting. Damaya blushes and
obeys.
Superb control, Schaffa continues, which Misalem promptly used to kill every living soul in
several towns and cities, and even a few commless warrens. Thousands of people, in all.
Damaya inhales, horrified. It has never occurred to her that roggasshe stops herself. She. She is
a rogga. All at once she does not like this word, which she has heard most of her life. Its a bad word
shes not supposed to say, even though the grown-ups toss it around freely, and suddenly it seems
uglier than it already did.
Orogenes, then. It is terrible to know that orogenes can kill so many, so easily. But then, she
supposes that is why people hate them.
Her. That is why people hate her.
Why did he do that? she asks, forgetting that she should not interrupt.
Why, indeed? Perhaps he was a bit mad. Schaffa leans down so that she can see his face,
crossing his eyes and waggling his eyebrows. This is so hilarious and unexpected that Damaya
giggles, and Schaffa gives her a conspiratorial smile. Or perhaps Misalem was simply evil.
Regardless, as he approached Yumenes he sent word ahead, threatening to shatter the entire city if its
people did not send the Emperor out to meet him, and die. The people were saddened when the
Emperor announced that he would meet Misalems termsbut they were relieved, too, because what
else could they do? They had no idea how to fight an orogene with such power. He sighs. But when
the Emperor arrived, he was not alone: with him was a single woman. His bodyguard, Shemshena.
Damaya squirms a little, in excitement. She must have been really good, if she was the Emperor s
bodyguard.
Oh, she wasa renowned fighter of the finest Sanzed lineages. Moreover, she was an Innovator
in use-caste, and thus she had studied orogenes and understood something of how their power
worked. So before Misalems arrival, she had every citizen of Yumenes leave town. With them they
took all the livestock, all the crops. They even cut down the trees and shrubs and burned them, burned
their houses, then doused the fires to leave only cold wet ash. That is the nature of your power, you
see: kinetic transferrence, sesunal catalysis. One does not move a mountain by will alone.
 What is
No, no. Schaffa cuts her off gently. There are many things I must teach you, little one, but that
part you will learn at the Fulcrum. Let me finish. Reluctantly, Damaya subsides.
I will say this much. Some of the strength you need, when you finally learn how to use your
power properly, will come from within you. Schaffa touches the back of her head as he did that time
in the barn, two fingers just above the line of her hair, and she jumps a little because there is a sort of
spark when he does this, like static. Most of it, however, must come from elsewhere. If the earth is
already moving, or if the fire under the earth is at or near the surface, you may use that strength. You
are meant to use that strength. When Father Earth stirs, he unleashes so much raw power that taking
some of it does no harm to you or anyone else.
The air doesnt turn cold? Damaya tries, really tries, to restrain her curiosity, but the story is too
good. And the idea of using orogeny in a safe way, a way that will cause no harm, is too intriguing.
No one dies?
She feels him nod. Not when you use earth-power, no. But of course, Father Earth never moves
when one wishes. When there is no earth-power nearby, an orogene can still make the earth move, but
only by taking the necessary heat and force and motion from the things around her. Anything that
moves or has warmthcampfires, water, the air, even rocks. And, of course, living things.
Shemshena could not take away the ground or the air, but she most certainly could, and did, take away
everything else. When she and the Emperor met Misalem at the obsidian gates of Yumenes, they were
the only living things in the city, and there was nothing left of the city but its walls.
Damaya inhales in awe, trying to imagine Palela empty and denuded of every shrub and backyard
goat, and failing. And everybody just went? Because she said?
Well, because the emperor said, but yes. Yumenes was much smaller in those days, but it was still
a vast undertaking. Yet it was either that or allow a monster to make hostages of them. Schaffa
shrugs. Misalem claimed he had no desire to rule in the Emperor s stead, but who could believe that?
A man willing to threaten a city to get what he wants will stop at nothing.
That makes sense. And he didnt know what Shemshena had done until he got to Yumenes?
No, he didnt know. The burning was done by the time he arrived; the people had traveled away in
a different direction. So as Misalem faced the Emperor and Shemshena, he reached for the power to
destroy the cityand found almost nothing. No power, no city to destroy. In that moment, while
Misalem floundered and tried to use what little warmth he could drag from the soil and air,
Shemshena flung a glassknife over and into the torus of his power. It didnt kill him, but it distracted
him enough to break his orogeny, and Shemshena took care of the rest with her other knife. Thus was
ended the Old Sanze Empirespardon; the Sanzed Equatorial Affiliationsgreatest threat.
Damaya shivers in delight. She has not heard such a good story in a long time. And its true? Even
better. Shyly she grins up at Schaffa. I liked that story. Hes good at telling them, too. His voice is so
deep and velvety. She could see all of it in her head as he talked.
I thought you might. That was the origin of the Guardians, you know. As the Fulcrum is an order
of orogenes, we are the order that watches the Fulcrum. For we know, as Shemshena did, that despite
all your terrible power, you are not invincible. You can be beaten.
He pats Damayas hands on the saddle-pommel, and she doesnt squirm anymore, no longer liking
the story quite as much. While he told it, she imagined herself as Shemshena, bravely facing a terrible
foe and defeating him with cleverness and skill. With every you and your that Schaffa speaks,
however, she begins to understand: He does not see her as a potential Shemshena.
And so we Guardians train, he continues, perhaps not noticing that she has gone still. They are
deep into the shatterland now; sheer, jagged rock faces, as high as the buildings in Brevard, frame the
road on both sides for as far as the eye can see. Whoever built the road must have carved it, somehow,
out of the earth itself. We train, he says again, as Shemshena did. We learn how orogenic power
works, and we find ways to use this knowledge against you. We watch for those among your kind who
might become the next Misalems, and we eliminate them. The rest we take care of. He leans over to
smile at her again, but Damaya does not smile back this time. I am your Guardian now, and it is my
duty to make certain you remain helpful, never harmful.
When he straightens and falls silent, Damaya does not prompt him to tell another story, as she
might have done. She doesnt like the one he just told, not anymore. And she is somehow, suddenly
certain: He did not intend for her to like it.
The silence lingers as the shatterlands finally begin to subside, then become rolling green hillside.
Theres nothing out here: no farms, no pastures, no forests, no towns. There are hints that people
once lived here: She sees a crumbling, moss-overgrown hump of something in the distance that might
have been a fallen-over silo, if silos were the size of mountains. And other structures, too regular and
jagged to be natural, too decayed and strange for her to recognize. Ruins, she realizes, of some city
that must have died many, many Seasons ago, for there to be so little of it left now. And beyond the
ruins, hazy against the cloud-drifted horizon, an obelisk the color of a thundercloud flickers as it
slowly turns.
Sanze is the only nation that has ever survived a Fifth Season intactnot just once, but seven
times. She learned this in creche. Seven ages in which the earth has broken somewhere and spewed
ash or deadly gas into the sky, resulting in a lightless winter that lasted years or decades instead of
months. Individual comms have often survived Seasons, if they were prepared. If they were lucky.
Damaya knows the stonelore, which is taught to every child even in a little backwater like Palela. First
guard the gates. Keep storecaches clean and dry. Obey the lore, make the hard choices, and maybe
when the Season ends there will be people who remember how civilization should work.
But only once in known history has a whole nation, many comms all working together, survived.
Thrived, even, over and over again, growing stronger and larger with each cataclysm. Because the
people of Sanze are stronger and smarter than everyone else.
Gazing at that distant, winking obelisk, Damaya thinks, Smarter even than the people who built
that?
They must be. Sanze is still here, and the obelisk is just another deadciv leftover.
Youre quiet now, says Schaffa after a while, patting her hands on the pommel to bring her out
of her reverie. His hand is more than twice the size of hers, warm and comforting in its hugeness.
Still thinking about the story?
She has been trying not to, but of course, she has. A little.
You dont like that Misalem is the villain of the tale. That you are like Misalem: a potential threat,
without a Shemshena to control you. He says this matter-of-factly, not as a question.
Damaya squirms. How does he always seem to know what shes thinking? I dont want to be a
threat, she says in a small voice. Then, greatly daring, she adds, But I dont want to be
controlled either. I want to be She gropes for the words, then remembers something her brother
once told her about what it meant to grow up. Responsible. For myself.
An admirable wish, Schaffa says. But the plain fact of the matter, Damaya, is that you cannot
control yourself. It isnt your nature. You are lightning, dangerous unless captured in wires. Youre
firea warm light on a cold dark night to be sure, but also a conflagration that can destroy
everything in its path
 I wont destroy anybody! Im not bad like that! Suddenly its too much. Damaya tries to turn to
look at him, though this overbalances her and makes her slip on the saddle. Schaffa immediately
pushes her back to face forward, with a firm gesture that says without words, sit properly. Damaya
does so, gripping the pommel harder in her frustration. And then, because she is tired and angry and
her butt hurts from three days on horseback, and because her whole life has gone wrong and it hits her
all at once that she will never again be normal, she says more than she means to. And anyway, I dont
need you to control me. I can control myself!
Schaffa reins the horse to a snorting halt.
Damaya tenses in dread. Shes smarted off to him. Her mother always whopped her in the head
when she did that back home. Will Schaffa whop her now? But Schaffa sounds as pleasant as usual as
he says, Can you really?
What?
Control yourself. Its an important question. The most important, really. Can you?
In a small voice, Damaya says, I I dont
Schaffa puts a hand on hers, where they rest atop the saddle-pommel. Thinking that he means to
swing down from the saddle, she starts to let go so he can get a grip. He squeezes her right hand to
hold it in place, though he lets the left one go. How did they discover you?
She knows, without having to ask, what he means. In creche, she says in a small voice. At lunch.
I was A boy pushed me.
Did it hurt? Were you afraid, or angry?
She tries to remember. It feels so long ago, that day in the yard. Angry. But that had not been all,
had it? Zab was bigger than her. He was always after her. And it had hurt, just a little, when hed
pushed her. Afraid.
Yes. It is a thing of instinct, orogeny, born of the need to survive mortal threat. Thats the danger.
Fear of a bully, fear of a volcano; the power within you does not distinguish. It does not recognize
degree.
As Schaffa speaks, his hand on hers has grown heavier, tighter.
Your power acts to protect you in the same way no matter how powerful, or minor, the perceived
threat. You should know, Damaya, how lucky you are: Its common for an orogene to discover
themselves by killing a family member or friend. The people we love are the ones who hurt us the
most, after all.
Hes upset, she thinks at first. Maybe hes thinking of something terriblewhatever it is that makes
him thrash and groan in the night. Did someone kill a family member or best friend of his? Is that
why his hand presses down on hers so hard? Sch-Schaffa, she says, suddenly afraid. She does not
know why.
Shhh, he says, and adjusts his fingers, aligning them carefully with her own. Then he bears
down harder, so that the weight of his hand presses on the bones of her palm. He does this
deliberately.
Schaffa! It hurts. He knows it hurts. But he does not stop.
Now, nowcalm down, little one. There, there. When Damaya whimpers and tries to pull away
it hurts, the steady grind of his hand, the unyielding cold metal of the pommel, her own bones
where they crush her fleshSchaffa sighs and folds his free arm around her waist. Be still, and be
brave. Im going to break your hand now.
Wha
Schaffa does something that causes his thighs to tighten with effort and his chest to bump her
forward, but she barely notices these things. All her awareness has focused on her hand, and his hand,
and the horrid wet pop and jostle of things that have never moved before, the pain of which is sharp
and immediate and so powerful that she screams. She scrabbles at his hand with her free one,
desperate and thoughtless, clawing. He yanks her free hand away and presses it against her thigh so
that she claws only at herself.
And through the pain, she becomes suddenly aware of the cold, reassuring peace of the stone
beneath the horses feet.
The pressure eases. Schaffa lifts her broken hand, adjusting his grip so that she can see the
damage. She keeps screaming, mostly from the sheer horror of seeing her hand bent in a way it
should not be, the skin tenting and purpled in three places like another set of knuckles, the fingers
already stiffening in spasm.
The stone beckons. Deep within it there is warmth and power that can make her forget pain. She
almost reaches for that promise of relief. And then she hesitates.
Can you control yourself?
You could kill me, Schaffa says into her ear, and despite everything she falls silent to hear him.
Reach for the fire within the earth, or suck the strength from everything around you. I sit within your
torus. This has no meaning for her. This is a bad place for orogeny, given that you have no training
one mistake and youll shift the fault beneath us, and trigger quite the shake. That might kill you,
too. But if you manage to survive, youll be free. Find some comm somewhere and beg your way in,
or join a pack of commless and get along as best you can. You can hide what you are, if youre clever.
For a while. It never lasts, and it will be an illusion, but for a time you can feel normal. I know you
want that more than anything.
Damaya barely hears it. The pain throbs throughout her hand, her arm, her teeth, obliterating any
fine sensation. When he stops speaking she makes a sound and tries again to pull away. His fingers
tighten warningly, and she stills at once.
Very good, he says. Youve controlled yourself through pain. Most young orogenes cant do
that without training. Now comes the real test. He adjusts his grip, big hand enveloping her smaller
one. Damaya cringes, but this is gentle. For now. Your hand is broken in at least three places, I would
guess. If its splinted, and if you take care, it can probably heal with no permanent damage. If I crush
it, however
She cannot breathe. The fear has filled her lungs. She lets out the last of the air in her throat and
manages to shape it round a word. No!
Never say no to me, he says. The words are hot against her skin. He has bent to murmur them
into her ear. Orogenes have no right to say no. I am your Guardian. I will break every bone in your
hand, every bone in your body, if I deem it necessary to make the world safe from you.
He wouldnt crush her hand. Why? He wouldnt. While she trembles in silence, Schaffa brushes his
thumb over the swollen knots that have begun to form on the back of her hand. There is something
contemplative about this gesture, something curious. Damaya cant watch. She closes her eyes, feeling
tears run freely from her lashes. Shes queasy, cold. The sound of her own blood pounds in her ears.
Wh-why? Her voice is hitchy. It takes effort to draw breath. It seems impossible that this is
happening, on a road in the middle of nowhere, on a sunny, quiet afternoon. She doesnt understand.
Her family has shown her that love is a lie. It isnt stone-solid; instead it bends and crumbles away,
weak as rusty metal. But she had thought that Schaffa liked her.
Schaffa keeps stroking her broken hand. I love you, he says.
She flinches, and he soothes her with a soft shush in her ear, while his thumb keeps stroking the
hand hes broken. Never doubt that I do, little one. Poor creature locked in a barn, so afraid of
herself that she hardly dares speak. And yet there is the fire of wit in you along with the fire of the
earth, and I cannot help but admire both, however evil the latter might be. He shakes his head and
sighs. I hate doing this to you. I hate that its necessary. But please understand: I have hurt you so that
you will hurt no one else.
Her hand hurts. Her heart pounds and the pain throbs with it, BURN burn, BURN burn, BURN
burn. It would feel so good to cool that pain, whispers the stone beneath her. That would mean killing
Schaffa, howeverthe last person in the world who loves her.
Schaffa nods, as if to himself. You need to know that I will never lie to you, Damaya. Look under
your arm.
It takes an effort of ages for Damaya to open her eyes, and to then move her other arm aside. As
she does, however, she sees that his free hand holds a long, beveled, black glass poniard. The sharp
tip rests on the fabric of her shirt, just beneath her ribs. Aimed at her heart.
Its one thing to resist a reflex. Another altogether to resist the conscious, deliberate desire to kill
another person, for self-defense or any other reason. As if to suggest this desire, Schaffa taps the
glassknife against her side. The tip is sharp enough to sting even through her clothing. But it seems
you can, as you said, control yourself.
And with that Schaffa pulls the knife from her side, twirls it expertly along his fingers, and slides
it into his belt sheath without looking. Then he takes her broken hand in both of his. Brace yourself.
She cant, because she doesnt understand what he means to do. The dichotomy between his gentle
words and cruel actions has confused her too much. Then she screams again as Schaffa begins to
methodically set each of her hand bones. This takes only seconds. It feels like much more.
When she flops against him, dazed and shaking and weak, Schaffa urges the horse forward again,
this time at a brisk trot. Damaya is past pain now, barely noticing as Schaffa keeps her injured hand in
his own, this time tucking it against her body to minimize accidental jostling. She does not wonder at
this. She thinks of nothing, does nothing, says nothing. There is nothing left in her to say.
The green hills fall behind them, and the land grows flat again. She pays no attention, watching the
sky and that distant smoky gray obelisk, which never seems to shift position even as the miles pass.
Around it, the sky grows bluer and begins to darken into black, until even the obelisk becomes
nothing more than a darker smudge against the emerging stars. At last, as the suns light fades from
the evening, Schaffa reins the horse just off the road and dismounts to make camp. He lifts Damaya
off the horse and down, and she stands where he put her while he clears the ground and kicks small
rocks into a circle to make a fire. Theres no wood out here, but he pulls from his bags several
chunks of something and uses them to start a fire. Coal, to judge by the stink, or dried peat. She
doesnt really pay attention. She just stands there while he removes the saddle from the horse and
tends the animal, and while he lays out the bedroll and puts a little pot into the flames. The aroma of
cooking food soon rises over the fires oily stink.
I want to go home, Damaya blurts. Shes still holding her hand against her chest.
Schaffa pauses in his dinner-making, then looks up at her. In the flickering light of the fire his
icewhite eyes seem to dance. You no longer have a home, Damaya. But you will, soon, in Yumenes.
Youll have teachers there, and friends. A whole new life. He smiles.
Her hand has mostly gone numb since he set the bones, but there is a lingering dull throb. She
closes her eyes, wishing it would go away. All of it. The pain. Her hand. The world. The smell of
something savory wafts past, but she has no appetite for it. I dont want a new life.
Silence greets her for a moment, then Schaffa sighs and rises, coming over. She twitches back
from him, but he kneels before her and puts his hands on her shoulders.
Do you fear me? he asks.
For a moment the desire to lie rises within her. It will not please him, she thinks, for her to speak
the truth. But she hurts too much, and she is too numb right now, for fear or duplicity or the desire to
please. So she speaks the truth: Yes.
Good. You should. Im not sorry for the pain Ive caused you, little one, because you needed to
learn the lesson of that pain. What do you understand about me now?
She shakes her head. Then she makes herself answer, because of course that is the point. I have to
do what you say or youll hurt me.
And?
She closes her eyes tighter. In dreams, that makes the bad creatures go away.
And, she adds, youll hurt me even when I do obey. If you think you should.
Yes. She can actually hear his smile. He nudges a stray braid away from her cheek, letting the
backs of his fingers brush her skin. What I do is not random, Damaya. Its about control. Give me no
reason to doubt yours, and I will never hurt you again. Do you understand?
She does not want to hear the words, but she does hear them, in spite of herself. And in spite of
herself, some part of her relaxes just a little. She doesnt respond, though, so he says, Look at me.
Damaya opens her eyes. Against the firelight, his head is a dark silhouette framed by darker hair.
She turns away.
He takes hold of her face and pulls it back, firmly. Do you understand?
Of course it is a warning.
I understand, she says.
Satisfied, he lets go of her. Then he pulls her over to the fire and gestures for her to sit on a rock
he has rolled over, which she does. When he gives her a small metal dish full of lentil soup, she eats
awkwardly, since she isnt left-handed. She drinks from the canteen he hands her. Its difficult when
she needs to pee; she stumbles over the uneven ground in the dark away from the fire, which makes
her hand throb, but she manages. Since theres only one bedroll, she lies down beside him when he
pats that spot. When he tells her to sleep, she closes her eyes againbut she does not fall asleep for a
long while.
When she does, however, her dreams are full of jolting pain and heaving earth and a great hole of
white light that tries to swallow her, and it seems only a moment later that Schaffa shakes her awake.
Its still the middle of the night, though the stars have shifted. She does not remember, at first, that he
has broken her hand; in that moment, she smiles at him without thinking. He blinks, then smiles back
in genuine pleasure.
You were making a noise, he says.
She licks her lips, not smiling anymore, because she has remembered, and because she doesnt
want to tell him how much the nightmare frightened her. Or the waking.
Was I snoring? she asks. My brother says I do that a lot.
He regards her for a moment in silence, his smile fading. She is beginning to dislike his little
silences. That they are not simply pauses in the conversation or moments in which he gathers his
thoughts; they are tests, though she isnt sure of what. He is always testing her.
Snoring, he says at last. Yes. Dont worry, though. I wont tease you about it like your brother
did. And Schaffa smiles, as if this is supposed to be funny. The brother she no longer has. The
nightmares that have consumed her life.
But he is the only person left whom she can love, so she nods and closes her eyes again, and
relaxes beside him. Good night, Schaffa.
Good night, little one. May your dreams be ever still.
* * *
BOILING SEASON: 18421845 Imperial. A hot spot beneath Lake Tekkaris erupted,
aerosolizing sufficient steam and particulate matter to trigger acidic rain and sky occlusion
over the Somidlats, the Antarctics, and the eastern Coastal comms. The Equatorials and
northern latitudes suffered no harm, however, thanks to prevailing winds and ocean currents,
so historians dispute whether this qualifies as a true Season.
The Seasons of Sanze, textbook for year 12 creche
 7
you plus one is two

IN THE MORNING YOU RISE and move on, and the boy comes with you. The two of you trudge south
through hill country and falling ash.
The child is an immediate problem. Hes filthy, for one. You couldnt see this the night before in
the dark, but hes absolutely covered in dried and drying mud, stuck-on twigs, and Earth knows what
else. Caught in a mudslide, probably; those happen a lot during shakes. If so, hes lucky to be alive
but still when he wakes up and stretches, you grimace at the smears and flakes of dirt hes left on your
bedroll. It takes you twenty minutes to realize hes naked under all the mess.
When you question him about thisand everything elsehes cagey. He shouldnt be old enough
to be effectively cagey, but he is. He doesnt know the name of the comm hes from or the people who
birthed him, who apparently are not very many in number. He says he doesnt have any parents. He
doesnt know his use namewhich, you are certain, is a blatant lie. Even if his mother didnt know
his father, he wouldve inherited her use-caste. Hes young, and maybe orphaned, but not too young to
know his place in the world. Children far younger than this boy understand things like that. Uche was
only three and he knew that he was an Innovator like his father, and that this was why all his toys were
tools and books and items that could be used for building things. And he knew, too, that there were
things he could not discuss with anyone except his mother, and even then only when they were alone.
Things about Father Earth and his whispers, way-down-below things as Uche had called them
But youre not ready to think about that.
Instead you ponder the mystery of Hoa, because theres so very much to ponder. Hes a squat little
thing, you notice when he stands up; barely four feet tall. He acts maybe ten years old, so hes either
small for his age or has a manner too old for his body. You think its the latter, though youre not sure
why you think this. You cant tell much else about him, except that hes probably lighter-skinned; the
patches where hes shed mud are gray-dirty, not brown-dirty. So maybe hes from somewhere near
the Antarctics, or the western continental coast, where people are pale.
And now hes here, thousands of miles away in the northeastern Somidlats, alone and naked. Okay.
Well, maybe something happened to his family. Maybe they were comm-changers. Lots of people
do that, pick up roots and spend months or years traveling cross-continent to beg their way into a
comm where theyll stick out like pale flowers in a dun meadow
Maybe.
 Right.
Anyway.
Hoa also has icewhite eyes. Real, actual icewhite. Scared you a bit when you woke up in the
morning and he looked at you: all that dark mud surrounding two points of glaring silvery-blue. He
doesnt look quite human, but then people with icewhite eyes rarely do. Youve heard that in Yumenes,
among the Breeder use-caste, icewhite eyes arewereespecially desirable. Sanzeds liked that
icewhite eyes were intimidating, and a little creepy. They are. But the eyes arent what makes Hoa
creepy.
Hes inordinately cheerful, for one. When you rose the morning after he joined you, he was
already awake, and playing with your tinderbox. There was nothing in the meadow with which to
make a fireonly the meadowgrass, which wouldve burned up in seconds even if you could have
found enough dry, and probably touched off a grassfire in the processso you hadnt taken the box
out of your pack the night before. But he had it, humming idly to himself as he twirled the flint in his
fingers, and that meant hed been digging in your pack. It didnt put you in the best of moods for the
day. The image stuck in your mind, though, as you packed up: a child whod obviously been through
some disaster, sitting naked in the middle of a meadow, surrounded by falling ashand yet, playing.
Humming, even. And when he saw you awake and looking, he smiled.
This is why youve decided to keep him with you, even though you think hes lying about not
knowing where he comes from. Because. Well. He is a child.
So when youve got your pack on, you look at him, and he looks back at you. Hes clutching to his
chest that bundle you glimpsed the night beforea wad of rags tied around something, is all you can
tell. It rattles a little when he squeezes it. You can tell that hes anxious; those eyes of his cant hide
anything. His pupils are huge. He fidgets a little, shifting onto one foot and using the other to scratch
the back of his calf.
Come on, you say, and turn away to head back to the Imperial Road. You try not to notice his
soft exhalation, and the way he trots to catch up to you after a moment.
When you step onto the road again, there are a few people moving along it in knots and trickles,
nearly all of them going south. Their feet stir up the ash, which is light and powdery for now. Big
flakes: no need for masks yet, for those who remembered to pack one. A man walks beside a rickety
cart and half-spavined horse; the cart is full of belongings and old people, though the walking man is
hardly younger. All of them stare at you as you step from behind the hill. A group of six women who
have clearly banded together for safety whisper among themselves at the sight of youand then one
of them says loudly to another, Rusting Earth, look at her, no! Apparently you look dangerous. Or
undesirable. Or both.
Or maybe its Hoas appearance that puts them off, so you turn to the boy. He stops when you do,
looking worried again, and you feel abruptly ashamed for letting him walk around like this, even if
you didnt ask to have some strange child tagging along.
You look around. Theres a creek on the other side of the road. No telling how long before you
reach another roadhouse; theyre supposed to be stationed every twenty-five miles on an Imperial
Road, but the shake from the north might have damaged the next one. There are more trees around
nowyoure leaving the plainsbut not enough to provide any real cover, and many of the trees are
broken, anyway, after the shake from the north. The ashfall helps, a little; you cant see more than a
mile off. What you can see, though, is that the plainsland around the road is beginning to give way to
rougher territory. You know from maps and talk that below the Tirimas mountains theres an ancient,
probably-sealed minor fault, a strip of young forest thats grown up since the last Season, and then in
perhaps a hundred miles the plains become salt flats. Beyond that is desert, where comms become few
and far between, and where they tend to be even more heavily defended than comms in more
hospitable parts.
(Jija cant be going as far as the desert. That would be foolish; who would take him in there?)
There will be comms along the road between here and the salt plains, youre certain. If you can get
the boy decent-looking, one of them will probably take him in.
Come with me, you say to the boy, and veer off the road. He follows you down the gravel bed;
you notice how sharp some of the rocks are and add good boots to the list of things you need to get
for him. He doesnt cut his feet, thankfullythough he does slip on the gravel at one point, badly
enough that he falls and rolls down the slope. You hurry over when he stops rolling, but hes already
sitting up and looking disgruntled, because hes landed square in the mud at the edge of the creek.
Here, you say, offering him a hand up.
He looks at the hand, and for a moment youre surprised to see something like unease on his face.
Im okay, he says then, ignoring your hand and pushing himself to his feet. The mud squelches as
he does it. Then he brushes past you to collect the rag bundle, which he lost hold of during the fall.
Fine, then. Ungrateful little brat.
You want me to wash, he says, a question.
Howd you guess?
He doesnt seem to notice the sarcasm. Setting his bundle down on the gravel bank, he walks
forward into the water until it rises to about his waist, then he squats to try to scrub himself. You
remember and rummage in your pack until you find the slab of soap. He turns at your whistle and you
toss it to him. You flinch when he misses the catch entirely, but he immediately dives under and
resurfaces with it in his hands. Then you laugh, because hes staring at the soap like hes never seen
such a thing.
Rub it on your skin? You pantomime doing it: sarcasm again. But he straightens and smiles a
little as if that actually clarified something for him, and then he obeys.
Do your hair, too, you say, rummaging in the pack again and shifting so you can keep an eye on
the road. Some of the people passing by up there glance down at you, curiosity or disapproval in their
gaze, but most dont bother looking. You like it that way.
Your other shirt is what you were looking for. Itll be like a dress on the boy, so you cut a short
length off the spool of twine in your pack, which he can use to belt the shirt below his hips for
modesty and to retain a little warmth around his torso. It wont do in the long term, of course. Lorists
say that it doesnt take long for things to turn cold when a Season begins. Youll have to see if the next
town you pass is willing to sell you clothes and additional supplies, if they havent already
implemented Seasonal Law.
Then the boy comes out of the water, and you stare.
Well. Thats different.
Free of mud, his hair is ashblow-coarse, that perfect weatherproof texture the Sanzed value so
much, already beginning to stiffen and pouf up as it dries. It will be long enough to keep his back
warm, at least. But it is white, not the normal gray. And his skin is white, not just pale; not even
Antarctic people are ever quite that colorless, not that youve seen. His eyebrows are white, above his
icewhite eyes. White white white. He almost disappears amid the falling ash as he walks.
Albino? Maybe. Theres also something off about his face. You wonder what youre seeing, and
then you realize: Theres nothing Sanzed about him, except the texture of his hair. Theres a broadness
to his cheekbones, an angularity to his jaw and eyes, that seems wholly alien to your eyes. His mouth
is full-lipped but narrow, so much so that you think he might have trouble eating, though obviously
thats not true or he wouldnt have survived to this age. His short stature is part of it, too. Hes not just
small but stocky, as if his people are built for a different kind of sturdiness than the ideal that Old
Sanze has spent millennia cultivating. Maybe his race are all this white, then, whoever they are.
But none of this makes sense. Every race in the world these days is part Sanzed. They did rule the
Stillness for centuries, after all, and they continue to do so in many ways. And they werent always
peaceful about it, so even the most insular races bear the Sanzed stamp whether their ancestors wanted
the admixture or not. Everyone is measured by their standard deviations from the Sanzed mean. This
boys people, whoever they are, have clearly managed to remain outliers.
What in fire-under-Earth are you? you say, before it occurs to you that this might hurt his
feelings. A few days of horror and you forget everything about taking care of children.
But the boy only looks surprisedand then he grins. Fire-under-Earth? Youre weird. Am I clean
enough?
Youre so thrown by him calling you weird that only much later do you realize he avoided the
question.
You shake your head to yourself, then hold out a hand for the soap, which he gives to you. Yes.
Here. And you hold up the shirt for him to slip his arms and head into. He does this a bit clumsily, as
if hes not used to being dressed by someone else. Still, its easier than getting Uche dressed; at least
this boy doesnt wiggle
You stop.
You go away for a bit.
When you return to yourself, the sky is brighter and Hoa has stretched out on the nearby low
grass. At least an hour has passed. Maybe more.
You lick your lips and focus on him uncomfortably, waiting for him to say something about
your absence. He just perks up once he sees youre back, gets to his feet, and waits.
Okay, then. You and he might get along, after all.
After that you get back on the road. The boy walks well despite having no shoes; you watch him
closely for signs of limping or weariness, and you stop more frequently than you would have on
your own. He seems grateful for the chance to rest, but aside from that, he does all right. A real little
trouper.
You cant stay with me, you say, though, during one of your rest breaks. Might as well not let
him get his hopes up. Ill try to find you a comm; well be stopping at several along the way, if
theyll open the gates to trade. But I have to move on, even if I find you a place. Im looking for
someone.
Your daughter, the boy says, and you stiffen. A moment passes. The boy ignores your shock,
humming and petting his little bundle of rags like its a pet.
How did you know that? you whisper.
Shes very strong. Im not sure its her, of course. The boy looks back at you and smiles,
oblivious to your stare. Theres a bunch of you in that direction. That always makes it hard.
There are a lot of things that probably should be in your mind right now. You only muster the
wherewithal to speak one of them aloud. You know where my daughter is.
He hums again, noncommitally. Youre sure he knows just how insane this all sounds. Youre sure
hes laughing, somewhere behind that innocent mask of a face.
How?
He shrugs. I just know.
 How? Hes not an orogene. Youd know your own. Even if he was, orogenes cant track each
other like dogs, homing in from a distance as if orogeny has a smell. Only Guardians can do anything
like that, and then only if the rogga is ignorant or stupid enough to let them.
He looks up, and you try not to flinch. I just know, all right? Its something I can do. He looks
away. Its something Ive always been able to do.
You wonder. But. Nassun.
Youre willing to buy a lot of cockamamie things if any of them can help you find her.
Okay, you say. Slowly, because this is crazy. Youre crazy, but now youre aware that the boy
probably is, too, and that means you need to be careful. But on the thin chance that hes not crazy, or
that his crazy actually works the way he says it does
How how far is she?
Many days walking. Shes going faster than you.
Because Jija took the cart and horse. Nassuns still alive. You have to pause after this. Too much
to feel, too much to contain. Rask told you Jija left Tirimo with her then, but youve been afraid to let
yourself think of her as alive now. Even though a part of you doesnt want to believe that Jija could
kill his own daughter, the rest of you not only believes it but anticipates it to some degree. An old
habit, bracing yourself for pain to come.
The boy nods, watching you; his little face is oddly solemn now. Theres really not much thats
childlike about this child, you notice absently, belatedly.
But if he can find your daughter, he can be the Evil Earth incarnate and you wont give a damn.
So you rummage in the pack and find your canteen, the one with the good water; you refilled the
other at the creek but need to boil it first. After you take a swig yourself, however, you hand it to him.
When hes finished drinking, you give him a handful of raisins. He shakes his head and hands them
back. Im not hungry.
You havent eaten.
I dont eat much. He picks up his bundle. Maybe hes got supplies in there. Doesnt matter. You
dont really care, anyway. Hes not your kid. He just knows where your kid is.
You break camp and resume the journey south, this time with the boy walking beside you, subtly
leading the way.
* * *
Listen, listen, listen well.
There was an age before the Seasons, when life and Earth, its father, thrived alike. (Life had
a mother, too. Something terrible happened to Her.) Earth our father knew He would need
clever life, so He used the Seasons to shape us out of animals: clever hands for making things
and clever minds for solving problems and clever tongues for working together and clever
sessapinae to warn us of danger. The people became what Father Earth needed, and then more
than He needed. Then we turned on Him, and He has burned with hatred for us ever since.
Remember, remember, what I tell.
Lorist recitation, The Making of the Three Peoples, part one
 8
Syenite on the highroad

IT EVENTUALLY BECOMES NECESSARY FOR Syenite to ask her new mentor s name. Alabaster, he tells her
which she assumes someone gave him ironically. She needs to use his name fairly often because he
keeps falling asleep in his saddle during the long days of riding, which leaves her to do all the work
of paying attention to their route and watching out for potential hazards, as well as keeping herself
entertained. He wakes readily when she speaks his name, which at first leads her to believe hes just
faking it in order to avoid talking to her. When she says this, he looks annoyed and says, Of course
Im really asleep. If you want anything useful out of me tonight, youll let me sleep.
Which pisses her off, because its not like hes the one whos got to have a baby for empire and
Earth. Its also not like the sex takes any great effort on his part, brief and boring as it is.
But perhaps a week into their trip, she finally notices what hes doing during their daily rides and
even at night, while theyre lying tired and sticky in the sleeping bag they share. She can be forgiven
for missing it, she thinks, because its a constant thing, like a low murmur in a room full of chattering
peoplebut hes quelling all the shakes in the area. All of them, not just the ones people can feel. All
the tiny, infinitesimal flexes and adjustments of the earth, some of which are building momentum to
greater movement and some of which are essentially random: Wherever she and Alabaster pass, those
movements go still for a time. Seismic stillness is common in Yumenes, but should not exist out here
in the hinterlands where node network coverage is thin.
Once Syenite figures this out, she is confused. Because theres no point to quelling microshakes,
and indeed, doing so might make things worse the next time a larger shake occurs. They were very
careful to teach her this, back when she was a grit learning basic geomestry and seismology: The
earth does not like to be restrained. Redirection, not cessation, is the orogenes goal.
She ponders this mystery for several days as they pass along the YumenesAllia Highroad,
beneath a turning obelisk that glints like a mountain-sized tourmaline whenever its solid enough to
catch the sunlight. The highroad is the fastest route between the two quartent capitals, built as straight
as possible in ways that only Old Sanze would dare: elevated along lengthy stone bridges and
crossing vast canyons, and occasionally even tunneling through mountains too high to climb. This
means the trip to the coast will take only a few weeks if they take it easyhalf what it would take via
lowroad travel.
But rusted reeking Earth, highroads are dull. Most people think theyre deathtraps waiting to be
sprung, despite the fact that theyre usually safer than ordinary roads; all Imperial Roads were built
by teams of the best geoneers and orogenes, deliberately placed only in locations deemed
permanently stable. Some of them have survived multiple Seasons. So for days at a time Syenite and
Alabaster encounter only hard-driving merchant caravanners, mailpost-riders, and the local quartent
patrolall of whom give Syenite and Alabaster the eye upon noticing their black Fulcrum uniforms,
and do not deign to speak to them. There are few comms lining the routes turnoffs, and almost no
shops at which to buy supplies, although there are regular platforms along the road itself with
prepared areas and lean-tos for camping. Syen has spent every evening swatting bugs beside a fire,
with nothing to do but glare at Alabaster. And have sex with him, but that only kills a few minutes.
This, though, is interesting. What are you doing that for? Syenite finally asks, three days after
she first noticed him quelling microshakes. Hes just done it again now, while they wait for dinner
cachebread heated with slabs of beef and soaked prunes, yum yum. He yawned as he did it, though of
course it must have taken some effort. Orogeny always costs something.
Doing what? he asks as he shuts down a subsurface aftershock and pokes at the fire in apparent
boredom. She wants to hit him.
That.
His eyebrows rise. Ah. You can feel it.
Of course I can feel it! Youre doing it all the time!
Well, you didnt say anything before now.
Because I was trying to figure out what you were doing.
He looks perplexed. Then maybe you shouldve asked.
Shes going to kill him. Something of this must translate through the silence, because he grimaces
and finally explains. Im giving the node maintainers a break. Every microshake I settle eases the
burden on them.
Syen knows of the node maintainers, of course. As the Imperial Roads link the former vassals of
the old empire with Yumenes, so do the nodes connect far-flung quartents with the Fulcrum, to extend
its protections as far as possible. All over the continentat whatever points the senior orogenes have
determined is best for manipulating nearby faults or hot spotsthere is an outpost. Within that
outpost is stationed a Fulcrum-trained orogene whose sole task is to keep the local area stable. In the
Equatorials, the nodes zones of protection overlap, so theres nary a twitch; this, and the Fulcrums
presence at its core, is why Yumenes can build as it does. Beyond the Equatorials, though, the zones
are spaced to provide the greatest protection for the largest populations, and there are gaps in the net.
Its just not worthwhileat least, not according to the Fulcrum seniorsto put nodes near every little
farming or mining comm in the hinterlands. People in those places fend for themselves as best they
can.
Syen doesnt know any of the poor fools assigned to such tedious duty, but shes very, very glad
no one has ever suggested it for her. Its the sort of thing they give to orogenes wholl never make it
to fourth ringthe ones who have lots of raw power and little control. At least they can save lives,
even if theyre doomed to spend their own lives in relative isolation and obscurity.
Maybe you should leave the micros to the node maintainers, Syenite suggests. The food is warm
enough; she uses a stick to push it out of the fire. In spite of herself, her mouth is watering. Its been a
long day. Earth knows they probably need something to keep them from dying of boredom.
Shes intent on the food at first, and doesnt notice his silence until she offers him his portion.
Then she frowns, because that look is on his face again. That hatred. And this time at least a little of it
is directed at her.
 Youve never been to a node, I take it.
What the rust? No. Why would I possibly go to one?
Because you should. All roggas should.
Syenite flinches, just a little, at his rogga. The Fulcrum gives demerits to anyone who says it, so
she doesnt hear it muchjust the odd muttered epithet from people riding past them, or grits trying
to sound tough when the instructors arent around. Its such an ugly word, harsh and guttural; the
sound of it is like a slap to the ear. But Alabaster uses it the way other people use orogene.
He continues, still in the same cold tone: And if you can feel what Im doing, then you can do it,
too.
This startles Syen more, and angers her more. Why in Earthfires would I quell microshakes?
Then Ill be And then she stops herself, because she was about to say as tired and useless as you,
and thats just rude. But then it occurs to her that he has been tired and useless, maybe because hes
been doing this.
If its important enough that hes been wearing himself out to do it, then maybe its wrong of her
to refuse out of hand. Orogenes have to look out for each other, after all. She sighs. All right. I guess
I can help some poor fool whos stuck in the back end of beyond with nothing to do but keep the land
steady. At least it will pass the time.
He relaxes, just a little, and shes surprised to see him smile. He hardly ever does that. But no, that
muscle in his jaw is still going twitch twitch twitch. Hes still upset about something. Theres a node
station about two days ride from the next highroad turnoff.
Syen waits for this statement to conclude, but he starts eating, making a little sound of pleasure that
has more to do with him being hungry than with the food being especially delicious. Since shes
hungry, too, Syenite tucks inand then she frowns. Wait. Are you planning to go to this station? Is
that what youre saying?
We are going, yes. Alabaster looks up at her, a quick flash of command in his expression, and all
of a sudden she hates him more than ever.
Its completely irrational, her reaction to him. Alabaster outranks her by six rings and would
probably outrank her by more if the ring rankings went past ten; shes heard the rumors about his
skill. If they ever fought, he could turn her torus inside out and flash-freeze her in a second. For that
alone she should be nice to him; for the potential value of his favor, and her own goals for
advancement within the Fulcrums ranks, she should even try to like him.
But shes tried being polite with him, and flattering, and it doesnt work. He just pretends to
misunderstand or insults her until she stops. Shes offered all the little gestures of respect that seniors
at the Fulcrum usually seem to expect from juniors, but these just piss him off. Which makes her
angryand strangely, this state of affairs seems to please him most.
So although she would never do this with another senior, she snaps, Yes, sir, and lets the rest of
the evening pass in resentful, reverberating silence.
They go to bed and she reaches for him, as usual, but this time he rolls over, putting his back to
her. Well do it in the morning, if we still have to. Isnt it time for you to menstruate by now?
Which makes Syenite feel like the worlds biggest boor. That he hates the sex as much as she does
isnt in question. But its horrible that hes been waiting for a break and she hasnt been counting. She
does so now, clumsily because she cant remember the exact day the last one started, andhes right.
Shes late.
At her surprised silence he sighs, already halfway to sleep. Doesnt mean anything yet if youre
late. Travelings hard on the body. He yawns. In the morning, then.
 In the morning they copulate. There are no better words she can use for the actvulgarities dont
fit because its too dull, and euphemisms arent necessary to downplay its intimacy because its not
intimate. Its perfunctory, an exercise, like the stretches shes learned to do before they start riding for
the day. More energetic this time because hes rested first; she almost enjoys it, and he actually makes
some noise when he comes. But thats it. When theyre done he lies there watching while she gets up
and does a quick basin bath beside the fire. Shes so used to this that she starts when he speaks. Why
do you hate me?
Syenite pauses, and considers lying for a moment. If this were the Fulcrum, she would lie. If he
were any other senior, obsessed with propriety and making sure that Fulcrum orogenes comport
themselves well at all times, she would lie. Hes made it clear, however, that he prefers honesty,
however indelicate. So she sighs. I just do.
He rolls onto his back, looking up at the sky, and she thinks thats the end of the conversation until
he says, I think you hate me because Im someone you can hate. Im here, Im handy. But what you
really hate is the world.
At this Syen tosses her washcloth into the bowl of water shes been using and glares at him. The
world doesnt say inane things like that.
Im not interested in mentoring a sycophant. I want you to be yourself with me. And when you
are, you can barely speak a civil word to me, no matter how civil I am to you.
Hearing it put that way, she feels a little guilty. What do you mean, then, that I hate the world?
You hate the way we live. The way the world makes us live. Either the Fulcrum owns us, or we
have to hide and be hunted down like dogs if were ever discovered. Or we become monsters and try
to kill everything. Even within the Fulcrum we always have to think about how they want us to act. We
can never just be. He sighs, closing his eyes. There should be a better way.
There isnt.
There must be. Sanze cant be the first empire thats managed to survive a few Seasons. We can
see the evidence of other ways of life, other people who became mighty. He gestures away from the
highroad, toward the landscape that spreads all around them. Theyre near the Great Eastern Forest;
nothing but a carpet of trees rising and falling for as far as the eye can see. Except
except, just at the edge of the horizon, she spots something that looks like a skeletal metal hand,
clawing its way out of the trees. Another ruin, and it must be truly massive if she can see it from here.
We pass down the stonelore, Alabaster says, sitting up, but we never try to remember anything
about whats already been tried, what else might have worked.
Because it didnt work. Those people died. Were still alive. Our way is right, theirs was wrong.
He throws her a look she interprets as I cant be bothered to tell you how stupid you are, although
he probably doesnt mean it that way. Hes right; she just doesnt like him. I realize you only have the
education the Fulcrum gave you, but think, will you? Survival doesnt mean rightness. I could kill you
right now, but that wouldnt make me a better person for doing so.
Maybe not, but it wouldnt matter to her. And she resents his casual assumption of her weakness,
even though hes completely right. All right. She gets up and starts dressing, pulling her clothes on
with quick jerks. Tell me what other way there is, then.
He doesnt say anything for a moment. She turns to look at him finally, and hes looking uneasy.
Well He edges into the statement. We could try letting orogenes run things.
She almost laughs. That would last for about ten minutes before every Guardian in the Stillness
shows up to lynch us, with half the continent in tow to watch and cheer.
They kill us because theyve got stonelore telling them at every turn that were born evilsome
kind of agents of Father Earth, monsters that barely qualify as human.
Yes, but you cant change stonelore.
Stonelore changes all the time, Syenite. He doesnt say her name often, either. It gets her
attention. Every civilization adds to it; parts that dont matter to the people of the time are forgotten.
Theres a reason Tablet Two is so damaged: someone, somewhere back in time, decided that it wasnt
important or was wrong, and didnt bother to take care of it. Or maybe they even deliberately tried to
obliterate it, which is why so many of the early copies are damaged in exactly the same way. The
archeomests found some old tablets in one of the dead cities on Tapita Plateautheyd written down
their stonelore, too, ostensibly to pass it on to future generations. But what was on the tablets was
different, drastically so, from the lore we learned in school. For all we know, the admonition against
changing the lore is itself a recent addition.
She didnt know that. It makes her frown. It also makes her not want to believe him, or maybe
thats just her dislike for him surfacing again. But stonelore is as old as intelligence. Its all thats
allowed humankind to survive through Fifth Season after Fifth Season, as they huddle together while
the world turns dark and cold. The lorists tell stories of what happens when peoplepolitical leaders
or philosophers or well-meaning meddlers of whatever typetry to change the lore. Disaster
inevitably results.
So she doesnt believe it. Whered you hear about tablets on Tapita?
Ive been taking assignments outside the Fulcrum for twenty years. I have friends out here.
Friends who talk to an orogene? About historical heresy? It sounds ridiculous. But then again
well. Okay, so how do you change the lore in a way that
Shes not paying attention to the ambient strata, because the argument has engrossed her more than
she wants to admit. He, however, is apparently still quelling shakes even as they speak. Plus hes a ten-
ringer, so its fitting that he abruptly inhales and jerks to his feet as if pulled by strings, turning
toward the western horizon. Syen frowns and follows his gaze. The forest on that side of the highroad
is patchy from logging and bifurcated by two lowroads branching away through the trees. Theres
another deadciv ruin, a dome thats more tumbled stone than intact, in the far distance, and she can see
three or four small walled comms dotting the treescape between here and there. But she doesnt know
what hes reacting to
and then she sesses it. Evil Earth, its a big one! An eighter or niner. No, bigger. Theres a hot
spot about two hundred miles away, beneath the outskirts of a small city called Mehi but that cant
be right. Mehi is at the edge of the Equatorials, which means its well within the protective network of
nodes. Why
It doesnt matter why. Not when Syen can see this shake making all the land around the highroad
shiver and all the trees twitch. Something has gone wrong, the network has failed, and the hot spot
beneath Mehi is welling toward the surface. The proto-shakes, even from here, are powerful enough
to make her mouth taste of bitter old metal and the beds of her fingernails to itch. Even the most sess-
numb stills can feel these, a steady barrage of wavelets rattling their dishes and making old people
gasp and clutch their heads while babies suddenly cry. If nothing stops this upwelling, the stills will
feel a lot more when a volcano erupts right under their feet.
What Syenite starts to turn to Alabaster, and then she stops in shock, because he is on his
hands and knees growling at the ground.
An instant later she feels it, a shock wave of raw orogeny rippling out and down through the
pillars of the Highroad and into the loose schist of the local ground. Its not actual force, just the
strength of Alabaster s will and the power it fuels, but she cannot help watching on two levels as his
power racesfaster than she could ever gotoward that distant radiating churn.
And before Syen even realizes whats happening, Alabaster has grabbed her, in some way that
shes never experienced before. She feels her own connection to the earth, her own orogenic
awareness, suddenly co-opted and steered by someone else, and she does not like it one bit. But when
she tries to reclaim control of her power it burns, like friction, and in the real world she yelps and
falls to her knees and she has no idea whats happening. Alabaster has chained them together
somehow, using her strength to amplify his own, and theres not a damned thing she can do about it.
And then they are together, diving into the earth in tandem, spiraling through the massive, boiling
well of death that is the hot spot. Its hugemiles wide, bigger than a mountain. Alabaster does
something, and something shoots away and Syenite cries out in sudden agony that stills almost at
once. Redirected. He does it again and this time she realizes what hes doing: cushioning her from the
heat and pressure and rage of the hot spot. Its not bothering him because he has become heat and
pressure and rage as well, attuning himself to it as Syen has only ever done with small heat chambers
in otherwise stable stratabut those were campfire sparks in comparison to this firestorm. There is
nothing in her that can equal it. So he uses her power, but he also vents the force that she cant
process, sending it elsewhere before it can overwhelm her awareness and and actually, shes not
sure what would happen. The Fulcrum teaches orogenes not to push past their own limits; it does not
speak of what happens to those who do.
And before Syenite can think through this, before she can muster the wherewithal to help him if
she cannot escape him, Alabaster does something else. A sharp punch. Something has been pierced,
somewhere. At once the upward pressure of the magma bubble begins to ebb. He pulls them back, out
of the fire and into the still-shuddering earth, and she knows what to do here because these are just are
shakes, not Father Earths rage incarnate. Abruptly something changes and his strength is at her
disposal. So much strength; Earth, hes a monster. But then it becomes easy, easy to smooth the ripples
and seal the cracks and thicken the broken strata so that a new fault does not form here where the land
has been stressed and weakened. She can sess lines of striation across the lands surface with a clarity
that she has never known before. She smooths them, tightens the earths skin around them with a
surgical focus she has never previously been able to achieve. And as the hot spot settles into just
another lurking menace and the danger passes, she comes back to herself to find Alabaster curled into
a ball in front of her and a scorchlike pattern of frost all around them both which is already
sublimating into vapor.
Shes on her hands and knees, shaking. When she tries to move, it takes real effort not to fall onto
her face. Her elbows keep trying to buckle. But she makes herself do it, crawl a foot or two to reach
Alabaster, because he looks dead. She touches his arm and the muscle is hard through the uniform
fabric, cramped and locked instead of limp; she thinks thats a good sign. Tugging him a little, she
gets closer and sees that his eyes are open, wide, and staringnot with the blank emptiness of death
but with an expression of pure surprise.
Its just like Hessionite said, he whispers suddenly, and she jumps because she didnt think he
was conscious.
Wonderful. Shes on a highroad in the middle of nowhere, half dead after her orogeny has been
used by someone else against her will, with no one to help her but the rustbrained and ridiculously
powerful ass who did it in the first place. Trying to pull herself together after after
Actually, she has no idea what just happened. It makes no sense. Seismics dont just happen like
that. Hot spots that have abided for aeons dont just suddenly explode. Something triggers them: a
plate shift somewhere, a volcanic eruption somewhere else, a ten-ringer having a tantrum, something.
And since it was so powerful an event, she shouldve sessed the trigger. Shouldve had some warning
besides Alabaster s gasp.
And what the rust did Alabaster do? She cant wrap her head around it. Orogenes cannot work
together. Its been proven; when two orogenes try to exert the same influence over the same seismic
event, the one with the greater control and precision takes precedence. The weaker one can keep
trying and will burn themselves outor the stronger one can punch through their torus, icing them
along with everything else. Its why the senior orogenes run the Fulcrumthey arent just more
experienced, they can kill anyone who crosses them, even though theyre not supposed to. And its
why ten-ringers get choices: Nobodys going to force them to do anything. Except the Guardians, of
course.
But what Alabaster did is unmistakable, if inexplicable.
Rust it all. Syenite shifts to sit before she flops over. The world spins unprettily and she props her
arms on her updrawn knees and puts her head down for a while. They havent gone anywhere today,
and they wont be going anywhere, either. Syen doesnt have the strength to ride, and Alabaster looks
like he might not make it off the bedroll. He never even got dressed; hes just curled up there bare-
assed and shaking, completely useless.
So its left to Syen to eventually get up and rummage through their packs, finding a couple of
derminther melasmall melons with a hard shell that burrow underground during a Season, or so
the geomests sayand rolling them into the remnants of their fire, which shes very glad they hadnt
gotten around to smothering yet. Theyre out of kindling and fuel, but the coals should be enough to
cook the mela so theyll have dinner in a few hours. She pulls a fodder bundle out of the pile for the
horses to share, pours some water into a canvas bucket so they can drink, looks at the pile of their
droppings and thinks about shoveling it off the highroads edge so they dont have to smell it.
Then she crawls back to the bedroll, which is thankfully dry after its recent icing. There she flops
down at Alabaster s back, and drifts. She doesnt sleep. The minute contortions of the land as the hot
spot recedes keep jerking at her sessapinae, keeping her from relaxing completely. Still, just lying
there is enough to restore her strength somewhat, and her mind goes quiet until the cooling air pulls
her back to herself. Sunset.
She blinks, finding that she has somehow ended up spooned behind Alabaster. Hes still in a ball,
but this time his eyes are closed and body relaxed. When she sits up, he jerks a little and pushes
himself up as well.
We have to go to the node station, he blurts in a rusty voice, which really doesnt surprise her at
all.
No, she says, too tired to be annoyed, and finally giving up the effort of politeness for good.
Im not riding a horse off the highroad in the dark while exhausted. Were out of dried peat, and
running low on everything else; we need to go to a comm to buy more supplies. And if you try to
order me to go to some node in the ass end of beyond instead, youll need to bring me up on charges
for disobedience. Shes never disobeyed an order before, so shes a little fuzzy on the consequences.
Really, shes too tired to care.
He groans and presses the heels of his hands to his forehead as if to push away a headache, or
maybe drive it deeper. Then he curses in that language she heard him use before. She still doesnt
recognize it, but shes even more certain that its one of the Coaster creoleswhich is odd, given that
he says he was bred and raised at the Fulcrum. Then again, somebody had to raise him for those first
few years before he got old enough to be dumped in the grit pool. Shes heard that a lot of the eastern
Coaster races are dark-skinned like him, too, so maybe theyll hear the language being spoken once
they get to Allia.
If you dont go with me, Ill go alone, he snaps, finally speaking in Sanze-mat. And then he gets
up, fumbling around for his clothing and pulling it on, like hes serious. Syenite stares as he does this,
because hes shaking so hard he can hardly stand up straight. If he gets on a horse in this condition,
hell just fall off.
Hey, she says, and he continues his feverish preparations as if he cant hear her. Hey. He jerks
and glares, and belatedly she realizes he didnt hear her. Hes been listening to something entirely
different all this timethe earth, his inner crazy, who knows. Youre going to kill yourself.
I dont care.
This is She gets up, goes over to him, grabs his arm just as hes reaching for the saddle. This
is stupid, you cant
Dont you tell me what I cant do. His arm is wire in her hand as he leans in to snarl the words
into her face. Syen almost jerks back but up close she sees his bloodshot whites, the manic gleam,
the blown look of his pupils. Somethings wrong with him. Youre not a Guardian. You dont get to
order me around.
Have you lost your mind? For the first time since shes met him, shes uneasy. He used her
orogeny so easily, and she has no idea how he did it. Hes so skinny that she could probably beat him
senseless with relative ease, but hed just ice her after the first blow.
He isnt stupid. She has to make him see. I will go with you, she says firmly, and he looks so
grateful that she feels bad for her earlier uncomplimentary thoughts. At first light, when we can take
the switchback pass down to the lowroads without breaking our horses legs and our own necks. All
right?
His face constricts with anguish. Thats too long
Weve already slept all day. And when you talked about this before, you said it was a two-day
ride. If we lose the horses, how much longer will it take?
That stops him. He blinks and groans and stumbles back, thankfully away from the saddle.
Everythings red in the light of sunset. Theres a rock formation in the distance behind him, a tall
straight cylinder of a thing that Syenite can tell isnt natural at a glance; either it was pushed up by an
orogene, or its yet another ancient ruin, better camouflaged than most. With this as his backdrop,
Alabaster stands gazing up at the sky as if he wants to start howling. His hands flex and relax, flex and
relax.
The node, he says, at last.
Yes? She stretches the word out, trying not to let him hear the humoring the crazy man note of
her voice.
He hesitates, then takes a deep breath. Another, calming himself. You know shakes and blows
never just come out of nowhere like that. The trigger for this one, the shift that disrupted that hot
spots equilibrium, was the node.
How can you Of course he can tell, hes a ten-ringer. Then she catches his meaning. Wait,
youre saying the node maintainer set that thing off?
Thats exactly what Im saying. He turns to her, his hands flexing into fists again. Now do you
see why I want to get there?
She nods, blankly. She does. Because an orogene who spontaneously creates a supervolcano does
not do so without generating a torus the size of a town. She cannot help but look out over the forest,
in the direction of the node. She cant see anything from here, but somewhere out there, a Fulcrum
orogene has killed everything in a several-mile radius.
 And then theres the possibly more important question, which is: Why?
All right, Alabaster blurts suddenly. We need to leave first thing in the morning, and go as fast
as we can. Its a two-day trip if we take it easy, but if we push the horses He speeds up his words
when she opens her mouth, and rides over her objection like a man obsessed. If we push them, if we
leave before dawn, we can get there by nightfall.
Its probably the best shes going to get out of him. Dawn, then. She scratches at her hair. Her
scalp is gritty with road dust; she hasnt been able to wash in three days. They were supposed to pass
over Adea Heights tomorrow, a mid-sized comm where she wouldve pressed to stay at an inn but
hes right. They have to get to that node. Well have to stop at the next stream or roadhouse, though.
Were low on water for the horses.
He makes a sound of frustration at the needs of mortal flesh. But he says, Fine.
Then he hunkers down by the coals, where he picks up one of the cooled mela and cracks it open,
eating with his fingers and chewing methodically. She doubts he tastes it. Fuel. She joins him to eat the
other mela, and the rest of the night passes in silence, if not restfulness.
The next dayor really, later in the nightthey saddle up and start cautiously toward the
switchback road that will take them off the highroad and down to the lands below. By the time they
reach ground level the suns up, so at that point Alabaster takes the lead and pushes his horse to a full
canter, interspersed with walking jags to let them rest. Syens impressed; shed thought he would just
kill the horses in the grip of whatever urgency possesses him. Hes not stupid, at least. Or cruel.
So at this pace they make good time along the more heavily traveled and intersecting lowroads,
where they bypass light carters and casual travelers and a few local militia unitsall of whom
quickly make way for them, as Syen and Alabaster come into view. Its almost ironic, she thinks: Any
other time, their black uniforms would make others give them a wide berth because no one likes
orogenes. Now, however, everyone must have felt what almost happened with the hot spot. They clear
the way eagerly now, and there is gratitude and relief in their faces. The Fulcrum to the rescue. Syen
wants to laugh at them all.
They stop for the night and sleep a handful of hours and start again before dawn, and still its
almost full dark by the time the node station appears, nestled between two low hills at the top of a
winding road. The roads not much better than a dirtpacked wilderness trail with a bit of aged,
cracking asphalt laid along it as a nod to civilization. The station itself is another nod. Theyve passed
dozens of comms on the way here, each displaying a wild range of architecturewhatever s native to
the region, whatever fads the wealthier comm members have tried to bring in, cheap imitations of
Yumenescene styles. The station is pure Old Empire, though: great looming walls of deep red scoria
brick around a complex comprising three small pyramids and a larger central one. The gates are
some kind of steely metal, which makes Syen wince. No one puts metal gates on anything they
actually want to keep secure. But then, theres nothing in the station except the orogene who lives
here, and the staff that supports him or her. Nodes dont even have storecaches, relying instead on
regular resupply caravans from nearby comms. Few would want to steal anything within its walls.
Syens caught off guard when Alabaster abruptly reins his horse well before they reach the gates,
squinting up at the station. What?
No ones coming out, he says, almost to himself. No ones moving beyond the gate. I cant hear
anything coming from inside. Can you?
She hears only silence. How many people should be here? The node maintainer, a Guardian,
and?
Node maintainers dont need Guardians. Usually theres a small troop of six to ten soldiers,
Imperials, posted at the station to protect the maintainer. Cooks and the like to serve them. And theres
always at least one doctor.
So many headscratchers in so few words. An orogene who doesnt need a Guardian? Node
maintainers are below fourth ring; lowringers are never allowed outside the Fulcrum without
Guardians, or at least a senior to supervise. The soldiers she understands; sometimes superstitious
locals dont draw much distinction between Fulcrum-trained orogenes and any other kind. But why a
doctor?
Doesnt matter. Theyre probably all dead, she saysbut even as she says this, her reasoning
falters. The forest around them should be dead, too, for miles around, trees and animals and soil
flash-frozen and thawed into slush. All the people traveling the road behind them should be dead. How
else could the node maintainer have gotten enough power to disturb that hot spot? But everything
seems fine from here, except the silence of the node station.
Abruptly Alabaster spurs his horse forward, and theres no time for more questions. They ride up
the hill and toward the locked, closed gates that Syen cant see a way to open, if theres no one inside
to do it for them. Then Alabaster hisses and leans forward and for an instant a blistering, narrow
torus flickers into viewnot around them, but around the gate. Shes never seen anyone do that,
throw their torus somewhere else, but apparently tenth-ringers can. Her horse utters a nervous little
whicker at the sudden vortex of cold and snow before them, so she reins it to a halt, and it shies back a
few extra steps. In the next moment something groans and there is a cracking sound beyond the gate.
Alabaster lets the torus go as one of the big steel doors drifts open; hes already dismounting.
Wait, give it time to warm up, Syen begins, but he ignores her and heads toward the gates, not
even bothering to watch his step on the slippery frost-flecked asphalt.
Rusting Earthfires. So Syen dismounts and loops the horses reins around a listing sapling. After
the days hard ride shell have to let them cool down before she feeds or waters them, and she should
rub them down at leastbut something about this big, looming, silent building unnerves her. Shes
not sure what. So she leaves the horses saddled. Just in case. Then she follows Alabaster in.
Its quiet inside the compound, and dark. No electricity for this backwater, just oil lamps that have
gone out. Theres a big open-air courtyard just past the metal main gates, with scaffolds on the inner
walls and nearby buildings to surround any visitors on all sides with convenient sniper positions.
Same kind of oh-so-friendly entryway as any well-guarded comm, really, though on a much smaller
scale. But theres no one in this courtyard, although Syen spies a table and chairs to one side where
the people who usually stand guard must have been playing cards and eating snacks not so long ago.
The whole compound is silent. The ground is scoria-paved, scuffed and uneven from the passage of
many feet over many years, but she hears no feet moving on it now. Theres a horse shed on one side
of the courtyard, but its stalls are shut and still. Boots covered in dried mud line the wall nearest the
gate; some have been tossed or piled there rather than positioned neatly. If Alabaster s right about
Imperial soldiers being stationed here, theyre clearly the sort who arent much for inspection-
readiness. Figures; being assigned to a place like this probably isnt a reward.
Syen shakes her head. And then she catches a whiff of animal musk from the horse shed, which
makes her tense. She smells horses, but cant see them. Edging closerher hands clench before she
makes herself unclench themshe peers over the first stalls door, then glances into the other stalls
for a full inventory.
Three dead horses, sprawled on their sides in the straw. Not bloating yet, probably because only
the animals limbs and heads are limp with death. The barrel of each corpse is crusted with ice and
condensation, the flesh still mostly hard-frozen. Two days thaw, she guesses.
 Theres a small scoria-bricked pyramid at the center of the compound, with its own stone inner
gatesthough these stand open for the time being. Syenite cant see where Alabaster s gone, but she
guesses hes within the pyramid, since thats where the node maintainer will be.
She climbs up on a chair and uses a nearby bit of matchflint to light one of the oil lamps, then
heads inside herselfmoving faster now that she knows what shell find. And yes, within the
pyramids dim corridors she sees the soldiers and staffers who once lived here: some sprawled in
mid-run, some pressed against the walls, some lying with arms outstretched toward the center of the
building. Some of them tried to flee what was coming, and some tried to get to its source to stop it.
They all failed.
Then Syen finds the node chamber.
Thats what it has to be. Its in the middle of the building, through an elegant archway decorated
with paler rose marble and embossed tree-root designs. The chamber beyond is high and vaulted and
dim, but emptyexcept at the rooms center, where theres a big thing. She would call it a chair, if
it was made of anything but wires and straps. Not very comfortable-looking, except in that it seems to
hold its occupant at an easy recline. The node maintainer is seated in it, anyway, so it must be
Oh. Oh.
Oh bloody, burning Earth.
Alabaster s standing on the dais that holds the wire chair, looking down at the node maintainer s
body. He doesnt look up as she comes near. His face is still. Not sad, or bleak. Just a mask.
Even the least of us must serve the greater good, he says, with no irony in his voice.
The body in the node maintainer s chair is small, and naked. Thin, its limbs atrophied. Hairless.
There are thingstubes and pipes and things, she has no words for themgoing into the stick-arms,
down the goggle-throat, across the narrow crotch. Theres a flexible bag on the corpses belly,
attached to its belly somehow, and its full ofugh. The bag needs to be changed.
She focuses on all this, these little details, because it helps. Because theres a part of her thats
gibbering, and the only way she can keep that part internal and silent is to concentrate on everything
shes seeing. Ingenious, really, what theyve done. She didnt know it was possible to keep a body
alive like this: immobile, unwilling, indefinite. So she concentrates on figuring out how theyve done
it. The wire framework is a particular bit of genius; theres a crank and a handle nearby, so the whole
aparatus can be flipped over to facilitate cleaning. The wire minimizes bedsores, maybe. Theres a
stench of sickness in the air, but nearby is a whole shelf of bottled tinctures and pills; understandable,
since it would take better antibiotics than ordinary comm-made penicillin to do something like this.
Perhaps one of the tube things is for putting that medicine into the node maintainer. And this one is
for pushing in food, and that one is for taking away urine, oh, and that cloth wrapping is for sopping
up drool.
But she sees the bigger picture, too, in spite of her effort to concentrate on the minutiae. The node
maintainer: a child, kept like this for what must have been months or years. A child, whose skin is
almost as dark as Alabaster s, and whose features might be a perfect match for his if they werent so
skeletal.
What. Its all she can say.
Sometimes a rogga cant learn control. Now she understands that his use of the slur is
deliberate. A dehumanizing word for someone who has been made into a thing. It helps. Theres no
inflection in Alabaster s voice, no emotion, but its all there in his choice of words. Sometimes the
Guardians catch a feral whos too old to train, but young enough that killings a waste. And
sometimes they notice someone in the grit pool, one of the especially sensitive ones, who cant seem
to master control. The Fulcrum tries to teach them for a while, but if the children dont develop at a
pace the Guardians think is appropriate, Mother Sanze can always find another use for them.
As Syen cant take her eyes off the bodys, the boys, face. His eyes are open, brown but
clouded and gelid in death. Shes distantly surprised shes not vomiting. As this? Underfires,
Alabaster, I know children who were taken off to the nodes. I didnt this doesnt
Alabaster unstiffens. She hadnt realized how stiff he was holding himself until he bends enough to
slide a hand under the boys neck, lifting his oversize head and turning it a little. You should see
this.
She doesnt want to, but she looks anyway. There, across the back of the childs shaved head, is a
long, vining, keloided scar, embellished with the dots of long-pulled stitches. Its just at the juncture
of skull and spine.
Rogga sessapinae are larger and more complex than those of normal people. When shes seen
enough, Alabaster drops the childs head. It thumps back into its wire cradle with a solidity and
carelessness that makes her jump. Its a simple matter to apply a lesion here and there that severs the
roggas self-control completely, while still allowing its instinctive use. Assuming the rogga survives
the operation.
Ingenious. Yes. A newborn orogene can stop an earthshake. Its an inborn thing, more certain even
than a childs ability to suckleand its this ability that gets more orogene children killed than
anything else. The best of their kind reveal themselves long before theyre old enough to understand
the danger.
But to reduce a child to nothing but that instinct, nothing but the ability to quell shakes
She really should be vomiting.
From there, its easy. Alabaster sighs, as if hes giving an especially boring lecture at the
Fulcrum. Drug away the infections and so forth, keep him alive enough to function, and youve got
the one thing even the Fulcrum cant provide: a reliable, harmless, completely beneficial source of
orogeny. Just as Syenite cant understand why shes not sick, shes not sure why hes not screaming.
But I suppose someone made the mistake of letting this one wake up.
His eyes flick away, and Syenite follows Alabaster s gaze to the body of a man over by the far
wall. This ones not dressed like one of the soldiers. Hes wearing civilian clothes, nice ones.
The doctor? Shes managed to adopt the detached, steady voice that Alabaster s using. Its easier.
Maybe. Or some local citizen who paid for the privilege. Alabaster actually shrugs, gesturing
toward a still-livid bruise on the boys upper thigh. Its in the shape of a hand, finger marks clearly
visible even against the dark skin. Im told there are many who enjoy this sort of thing. A
helplessness fetish, basically. They like it more if the victim is aware of what theyre doing.
Oh, oh Earth, Alabaster, you cant mean
He rides over her words again, as if she hasnt spoken. Problem is, the node maintainers feel
terrible pain whenever they use orogeny. The lesions, see. Since they cant stop themselves from
reacting to every shake in the vicinity, even the microshakes, its considered humane to keep them
constantly sedated. And all orogenes react, instinctively, to any perceived threat
Ah. That does it.
Syen stumbles away to the nearest wall and retches up the dried apricots and jerky she made
herself swallow a-horseback on the way to the station. Its wrong. Its all so wrong. She thoughtshe
didnt thinkshe didnt know
Then as she wipes her mouth, she looks up and sees Alabaster watching.
Like I said, he concludes, very softly. Every rogga should see a node, at least once.
 I didnt know. She slurs the words around the back of her hand. The words dont make sense but
she feels compelled to say them. I didnt.
You think that matters? Its almost cruel, the emotionlessness of his voice and face.
It matters to me!
You think you matter? All at once he smiles. Its an ugly thing, cold as the vapor that curls off
ice. You think any of us matter beyond what we can do for them? Whether we obey or not. He jerks
his head toward the body of the abused, murdered child. You think he mattered, after what they did to
him? The only reason they dont do this to all of us is because were more versatile, more useful, if
we control ourselves. But each of us is just another weapon, to them. Just a useful monster, just a bit
of new blood to add to the breeding lines. Just another fucking rogga.
She has never heard so much hate put into one word before.
But standing here, with the ultimate proof of the worlds hatred dead and cold and stinking
between them, she cant even flinch this time. Because. If the Fulcrum can do this, or the Guardians or
the Yumenescene Leadership or the geomests or whoever came up with this nightmare, then theres
no point in dressing up what people like Syenite and Alabaster really are. Not people at all. Not
orogenes. Politeness is an insult in the face of what shes seen. Rogga: This is all they are.
After a moment, Alabaster turns and leaves the room.
* * *
They make camp in the open courtyard. The stations buildings hold all the comforts Syens been
craving: hot water, soft beds, food that isnt just cachebread and dried meat. Out here in the courtyard,
though, the bodies arent human.
Alabaster sits in silence, staring into the fire that Syenites built. Hes wrapped in a blanket,
holding the cup of tea shes made; she did, at least, replenish their stores from those of the station. She
hasnt seen him drink from the cup. It mightve been nice, she thinks, if she couldve given him
something stronger to drink. Or not. Shes not really sure what an orogene of his skill could do,
drunk. Theyre not supposed to drink for that exact reason but rust reason, right now. Rust
everything.
Children are the undoing of us, Alabaster says, his eyes full of the fire.
Syenite nods, though she doesnt understand it. Hes talking. That has to be a good thing.
I think I have twelve children. Alabaster pulls the blanket more closely about himself. Im not
sure. They dont always tell me. I dont always see the mothers, after. But Im guessing its twelve.
Dont know where most of them are.
Hes been tossing out random facts like this all evening, when he talks at all. Syenite hasnt been
able to bring herself to reply to most of the statements, so it hasnt been much of a conversation. This
one, though, makes her speak, because shes been thinking about it. About how much the boy in the
wire chair resembles Alabaster.
She begins, Our child
He meets her eyes and smiles again. Its kindly this time, but shes not sure whether to believe that
or the hatred beneath the smiles surface.
Oh, this is only one possible fate. He nods at the stations looming red walls. Our child could
become another me burning through the ring ranks and setting new standards for orogeny, a Fulcrum
legend. Or she could be mediocre and never do anything of note. Just another four-or five-ringer
clearing coral-blocked harbors and making babies in her spare time.
He sounds so rusting cheerful that its hard to pay attention to the words and not just his tone. The
tone soothes, and some part of her craves soothing right now. But his words keep her on edge,
stinging like sharp glass fragments amid smooth marbles.
Or a still, she says. Even two roggas Its hard to say the word, but harder to say orogene,
because the more polite term now feels like a lie. Even we can make a still.
I hope not.
You hope not? Thats the best fate she can imagine for their child.
Alabaster stretches out his hands to the fire to warm them. Hes wearing his rings, she realizes
suddenly. He hardly ever does, but sometime before they reached the station, even with fear for his
child burning in his blood, he spared a thought for propriety and put them on. Some of them glitter in
the firelight, while others are dull and dark; one on each finger, thumbs included. Six of Syenites
fingers itch, just a little, for their nakedness.
Any child of two ringed Fulcrum orogenes, he says, should be an orogene, too, yes. But its not
that exact a thing. Its not science, what we are. Theres no logic to it. He smiles thinly. To be safe,
the Fulcrum will treat any children born to any rogga as potential roggas themselves, until proven
otherwise.
But once theyve proven it, after that, theyll be people. It is the only hope she can muster.
Maybe someone will adopt them into a good comm, send them to a real creche, let them earn a use
name
He sighs. Theres such weariness in it that Syen falls silent in confusion and dread.
No comm would adopt our child, he says. The words are deliberate and slow. The orogeny
might skip a generation, maybe two or three, but it always comes back. Father Earth never forgets the
debt we owe.
Syenite frowns. Hes said things like this before, things that hark to the lorists tales about
orogenesthat they are a weapon not of the Fulcrum, but of the hateful, waiting planet beneath their
feet. A planet that wants nothing more than to destroy the life infesting its once-pristine surface. There
is something in the things Alabaster says that makes her think he believes those old tales, at least a
little. Maybe he does. Maybe it gives him comfort to think their kind has some purpose, however
terrible.
She has no patience for mysticism right now. Nobody will adopt her, fine. She chooses her
arbitrarily. What, then? The Fulcrum doesnt keep stills.
Alabaster s eyes are like his rings, reflecting the fire in one moment, dull and dark the next. No.
She would become a Guardian.
Oh, rust. That explains so much.
At her silence, Alabaster looks up. Now. Everything youve seen today. Unsee it.
What?
That thing in the chair wasnt a child. Theres no light in his eyes now. It wasnt my child, or
anyone elses. It was nothing. It was no one. We stabilized the hot spot and figured out what caused it
to almost blow. Weve checked here for survivors and found none, and thats what well telegraph to
Yumenes. Thats what well both say if were questioned, when we get back.
I, I dont know if I can The boys slack-jawed, dead gaze. How horrible, to be trapped in an
endless nightmare. To awaken to agony, and the leer of some grotesque parasite. She can feel nothing
but pity for the boy, relief for his release.
You will do exactly as I say. His voice is a whip, and she glares at him, instantly furious. If you
mourn, mourn the wasted resource. If anyone asks, youre glad hes dead. Feel it. Believe it. He
almost killed more people than we can count, after all. And if anyone asks how you feel about it, say
you understand thats why they do these things to us. You know its for our own good. You know its
for everyones.
You rusting bastard, I dont know
He laughs, and she flinches, because the rage is back now, whiplash-quick. Oh, dont push me
right now, Syen. Please dont. Hes still laughing. Ill get a reprimand if I kill you.
Its a threat, at last. Well, then. Next time he sleeps. Shell have to cover his face while she stabs
him. Even lethal knife wounds take a few seconds to kill; if he focuses his orogeny on her in that brief
window, shes dead. Hes less likely to target her accurately without eyes, though, or if hes distracted
by suffocation
But Alabaster is still laughing. Hard. Thats when Syenite becomes aware of a hovering jitter in the
ambient. A looming almost in the strata beneath her feet. She frowns, distracted and alerted and
wondering if its the hot spot againand then, belatedly, she realizes that the sensation is not jittering,
its jerking in a rhythmic sort of way. In time with the harsh exhalations of Alabaster s laughter.
While she stares at him in chilled realization, he even slaps his knee with one hand. Still laughing,
because what he wants to do is destroy everything in sight. And if his half-dead, half-grown son could
touch off a supervolcano, theres really no telling what that boys father could do if he set his mind to
it. Or even by accident, if his control slips for a moment.
Syens hands clench into fists on her knees. She sits there, nails pricking her palms, until he finally
gets ahold of himself. It takes a while. Even when the laughter s done he puts his face into his hands
and chuckles now and again, shoulders shaking. Maybe hes crying. She doesnt know. Doesnt really
care, either.
Eventually he lifts his head and takes a deep breath, then another. Sorry about that, he says at last.
The laughter has stopped, but hes all cheer again. Lets talk about something else, why dont we?
Where the rust is your Guardian? She hasnt unclenched her hands. Youre mad as a bag of
cats.
He giggles. Oh, I made sure she was no threat years ago.
Syen nods. You killed her.
No. Do I look stupid? Giggling to annoyance in half a breath. Syen is terrified of him and no
longer ashamed to admit it. But he sees this, and something in his manner changes. He takes another
deep breath, and slumps. Shit. I Im sorry.
She says nothing. He smiles a little, sadly, like he doesnt expect her to. Then he gets up and goes
to the sleeping bag. She watches while he lies down, his back to the fire; she watches him until his
breathing slows. Only then does she relax.
Though she jumps, again, when he speaks very softly.
Youre right, he says. Ive been crazy for years. If you stay with me for long, you will be, too.
If you see enough of this, and understand enough of what it all means. He lets out a long sigh. If you
kill me, youll be doing the whole world a favor. After that he says nothing more.
Syen considers his last words for longer than she probably should.
Then she curls up to sleep as best she can on the hard courtyard stones, wrapped in a blanket and
with a saddle as an especially torturous sort of pillow. The horses shift restlessly, the way they have
been all evening; they can smell the death in the station. But eventually, they sleep, and Syenite does,
too. She hopes Alabaster eventually does the same.
Back along the highroad they just traveled, the tourmaline obelisk drifts out of sight behind a
mountain, implacable in its course.
 * * *
Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall; Death is the fifth, and master of all.
Arctic proverb
 INTERLUDE

A break in the pattern. A snarl in the weft. There are things you should be noticing, here. Things that are missing, and
conspicuous by their absence.
Notice, for example, that no one in the Stillness speaks of islands. This is not because islands do not exist or are
uninhabited; quite the contrary. It is because islands tend to form near faults or atop hot spots, which means they are ephemeral
things in the planetary scale, there with an eruption and gone with the next tsunami. But human beings, too, are ephemeral things
in the planetary scale. The number of things that they do not notice are literally astronomical.
People in the Stillness do not speak of other continents, either, though it is plausible to suspect they might exist elsewhere.
No one has traveled around the world to see that there arent any; seafaring is dangerous enough with resupply in sight and
tsunami waves that are only a hundred feet high rather than the legendary mountains of water said to ripple across the unfettered
deep ocean. They simply take as given the bit of lore passed down from braver civilizations that says theres nothing else.
Likewise, no one speaks of celestial objects, though the skies are as crowded and busy here as anywhere else in the universe.
This is largely because so much of the peoples attention is directed toward the ground, not the sky. They notice whats there:
stars and the sun and the occasional comet or falling star. They do not notice whats missing.
But then, how can they? Who misses what they have never, ever even imagined? That would not be human nature. How
fortunate, then, that there are more people in this world than just humankind.
 9
Syenite among the enemy

THEY REACH ALLIA A WEEK later, beneath a bright blue midday sky that is completely clear except for
a winking purple obelisk some ways off-coast.
Allias big for a Coaster commnothing like Yumenes, of course, but respectably sized; a proper
city. Most of its neighborhoods and shops and industrial districts are packed into the steep-sided bowl
of a natural harbor formed from an old caldera that has collapsed on one side, with several days of
outlying settlement in every direction. On the way in, Syenite and Alabaster stop at the first cluster of
buildings and farmhouses they see, ask around, andin between ignoring the glares elicited by their
black uniformslearn that several lodging-houses are nearby. They skip the first one they couldve
gone to, because a young man from one of the farmhouses decides to follow them for a few miles,
reining his horse back to keep it out of what he probably thinks is their range. Hes alone, and he says
nothing, but one young man can easily become a gang of them, so they keep going in hopes his
hatred wont outlast his boredomand eventually he does turn his horse and head back the way they
came.
The next lodging-house isnt as nice as the first, but its not bad, either: a boxy old stucco building
thats seen a few Seasons but is sturdy and well kept. Someones planted rosebushes at every corner
and let ivy grow up its walls, which will probably mean its collapse when the next Season comes, but
thats not Syenites problem to worry about. It costs them two Imperial mother-of-pearls for a shared
room and stabling for two horses for the night: such a ridiculously obvious gouging that Syenite
laughs at the proprietor before she catches herself. (The woman glares back at them.) Fortunately, the
Fulcrum understands that orogenes in the field sometimes have to bribe citizens into decent behavior.
Syenite and Alabaster have been generously provisioned, with a letter of credit that will allow them to
draw additional currency if necessary. So they pay the proprietor s price, and the sight of all that nice
white money makes their black uniforms acceptable for at least a little while.
Alabaster s horse has been limping since the push to the node station, so before they settle in they
also see a drover and trade for an uninjured animal. What they get is a spirited little mare who gives
Alabaster such a skeptical look that Syenite cannot help laughing again. Its a good day. And after a
good nights rest in actual beds, they move on.
Allias main gates are a massive affair, even more ostentatiously large and embellished than those
of Yumenes. Metal, though, rather than proper stone, which makes them look like the garish imitation
they are. Syen cant understand how the damn things are supposed to actually secure anything, despite
the fact that theyre fifty feet tall and made of solid plates of bolted chromium steel, with a bit of
filigree for decoration. In a Season, the first acid rain will eat those bolts apart, and one good sixer
will warp the precision plates out of alignment, making the great huge things impossible to close.
Everything about the gates screams that this is a comm with lots of new money and not enough lorists
talking to its Leadership caste.
The gate crew seems to consist of only a handful of Strongbacks, all of them wearing the pretty
green uniforms of the comms militia. Most are sitting around reading books, playing cards, or
otherwise ignoring the gates back-and-forth commerce; Syen fights not to curl her lip at such poor
discipline. In Yumenes they would be armed, visibly standing guard, and at least making note of every
inbound traveler. One of the Strongbacks does do a double take at the sight of their uniforms, but then
waves them through with a lingering glance at Alabaster s many-ringed fingers. He doesnt even look
at Syens hands, which leaves her in a very foul mood by the time they finally traverse the towns
labyrinthine cobbled streets and reach the governor s mansion.
Allia is the only large city in the entire quartent. Syen cant remember what the other three comms
of the quartent are called, or what the nation was called before it became a nominal part of Sanze
some of the old nations reclaimed their names after Sanze loosened control, but the quartent system
worked better, so it didnt really matter. She knows its all farming and fishing country, as backwater
as any other coastal region. Despite all this, the governor s mansion is impressively beautiful, with
artful Yumenescene architectural details all over it like cornices and windows made of glass and, ah
yes, a single decorative balcony overlooking a vast forecourt. Completely unnecessary
ornamentation, in other words, which probably has to be repaired after every minor shake. And did
they really have to paint the whole building bright yellow? It looks like some kind of giant
rectangular fruit.
At the mansion gates they hand off their horses to a stablehand and kneel in the forecourt to have
their hands soaped and washed by a household Resistant servant, which is a local tradition to reduce
the chance of spreading disease to the comms Leadership. After that, a very tall woman, almost as
black-skinned as Alabaster and dressed in a white variation on the militias uniform, comes to the
court and gestures curtly for them to follow. She leads them through the mansion and into a small
parlor, where she closes the door and moves to sit at the rooms desk.
It took you both long enough to get here, she says by way of greeting, looking at something on
her desk as she gestures peremptorily for them to sit. They take the chairs on the other side of the
desk, Alabaster crossing his legs and steepling his fingers with an unreadable expression on his face.
We expected you a week ago. Do you want to proceed to the harbor right way, or can you do it from
here?
Syenite opens her mouth to reply that shed rather go to the harbor, since shes never shaken a
coral ridge before and being closer will help her understand it better. Before she can speak, however,
Alabaster says, Im sorry; who are you?
Syenites mouth snaps shut and she stares at him. Hes smiling politely, but theres an edged quality
to the smile that immediately puts Syenite on alert. The woman stares at him, too, practically radiating
affront.
My name is Asael Leadership Allia, she says, slowly, as if speaking to a child.
Alabaster, he replies, touching his own chest and nodding. My colleague is Syenite. But forgive
me; I didnt want just your name. We were told the quartent governor was a man.
Thats when Syenite understands, and decides to play along. She doesnt understand why hes
decided to do this, but then theres no real way to understand anything he does. The woman doesnt
get it; her jaw flexes visibly. I am deputy governor.
Most quartents have a governor, a lieutenant governor, and a seneschal. Maybe a comm thats
trying so hard to outdo the Equatorials needs extra layers of bureaucracy. How many deputy
governors are there? Syenite asks, and Alabaster makes a tut sound.
We must be polite, Syen, he says. Hes still smiling, but hes furious; she can tell because hes
flashing too many teeth. Were only orogenes, after all. And this is a member of the Stillnesss most
esteemed use-caste. We are merely here to wield powers greater than she can comprehend in order to
save her regions economy, while she He waggles a finger at the woman, not even trying to hide
his sarcasm. She is a pedantic minor bureaucrat. But Im sure shes a very important pedantic minor
bureaucrat.
The woman isnt pale enough for her skin to betray her, but thats all right: Her rock-stiff posture
and flared nostrils are clue enough. She looks from Alabaster to Syenite, but then her gaze swings
back to him, which Syen completely understands. Nobodys more irritating than her mentor. She feels
a sudden perverse pride.
There are six deputy governors, she says at last, answering Syenites question even as she glares
shards at Alabaster s smiling face. And the fact that I am a deputy governor should be irrelevant. The
governor is a very busy man, and this is a minor matter. Therefore a minor bureaucrat should be
more than sufficient to deal with it. Yes?
It is not a minor matter. Alabaster s not smiling anymore, although hes still relaxed, fingers
tapping each other. He looks like hes considering getting angry, though Syen knows hes already
there. I can sess the coral obstruction from here. Your harbor s almost unusable; youve probably
been losing heavier-hauling merchant vessels to other Coaster comms for a decade, if not longer.
Youve agreed to pay the Fulcrum such a vast sumI know its vast because youre getting methat
youd better hope the cleared harbor restores all that lost trade, or youll never pay off the debt
before the next tsunami wipes you out. So we? The two of us? He gestures briefly at Syen, then re-
steeples his fingers. Were your whole rusting future.
The woman is utterly still. Syenite cannot read her expression, but her body is stiff, and shes
drawn back ever so slightly. In fear? Maybe. More likely in reaction to Alabaster s verbal darts, which
have surely stricken tender flesh.
And he continues. So the least you could do is first offer us some hospitality, and then introduce
us to the man who made us travel several hundred miles to solve your little problem. Thats courtesy,
yes? Thats how officials of note are generally treated. Wouldnt you agree?
In spite of herself, Syen wants to cheer.
Very well, the woman manages at last, with palpable brittleness. I will convey your request
to the governor. Then she smiles, her teeth a white flash of threat. Ill be sure to convey your
disappointment with our usual protocol regarding guests.
If this is how you usually treat guests, Alabaster says, glancing around with that perfect
arrogance only a lifelong Yumenescene can display to its fullest, then I think you should convey our
disappointment. Really, right to business like this? Not even a cup of safe to refresh us after our long
journey?
I was told that you had stopped in the outlying districts for the night.
Yes, and that took the edge off. The accommodations were also less than optimal. Which is
unfair, Syen thinks, since the lodging-house had been warm and its beds comfortable; the proprietor
had been scrupulously courteous once she had money in hand. But theres no stopping him. When
was the last time you traveled fifteen hundred miles, Deputy Governor? I assure you, youll need
more than a days rest to recover.
The womans nostrils all but flare. Still, shes Leadership; her family must have trained her
carefully in how to bend with blows. My apologies. I did not think.
No. You didnt. All at once Alabaster rises, and although he keeps the movement smooth and
unthreatening, Asael flinches back as if hes about to come at her. Syen gets up, toobelatedly, since
Alabaster caught her by surprisebut Asael doesnt even look at her. Well stay the night in that inn
we passed on the way here, Alabaster says, ignoring the womans obvious unease. About two streets
over. The one with the stone kirkhusa in front? Cant recall the name.
Seasons End. The woman says it almost softly.
Yes, that sounds right. Shall I have the bill sent here?
Asael is breathing hard now, her hands clenched into fists atop the desk. Syens surprised, because
the inns a perfectly reasonable request, if a bit priceyah, but thats the problem, isnt it? This
deputy governor has no authorization to pay for their accommodations. If her superiors are annoyed
enough about this, theyll take the cost out of her pay.
But Asael Leadership Allia does not drop her polite act and just start shouting at them, as Syen
half-expects. Of course, she sayseven managing a smile, for which Syen almost admires her.
Please return tomorrow at this time, and I will further instruct you then.
So they leave, and head down the street to the very fancy inn that Alabaster has secured for them.
As they stand at the window of their roomsharing again, and theyre taking care not to order
particularly expensive food, so that no one can call their request for accommodation exhorbitant
Syenite examines Alabaster s profile, trying to understand why he still radiates fury like a furnace.
Bravo, she says. But was that necessary? Id rather get the job done and start back as soon as
possible.
Alabaster smiles, though the muscles of his jaw flex repeatedly. I wouldve thought youd like
being treated like a human being for a change.
I do. But what difference does it make? Even if you pull rank now, it wont change how they feel
about us
No, it wont. And I dont care how they feel. They dont have to rusting like us. What matters is
what they do.
Thats all well and good for him. Syenite sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose between thumb
and forefinger, trying for patience. Theyll complain. And Syenite, since this is technically her
assignment, will be the one censured for it.
Let them. He turns away from the window then and heads toward the bathroom. Call me when
the food comes. Im going to soak until I turn pruney.
Syenite wonders if there is any point in hating a crazy man. Its not like hell notice, anyway.
Room service arrives, bringing a tray of modest but filling local food. Fish is cheap in most
Coaster comms, so Syen has treated herself by ordering a temtyr fillet, which is an expensive delicacy
back in Yumenes. They only serve it every once in a while in the Fulcrum eateries. Alabaster comes
out of the bathroom in a towel, indeed looking pruneywhich is when Syen finally notices how
whipcord thin he has become in the past few weeks of traveling. Hes muscle and bone, and all hes
ordered to eat is a bowl of soup. Granted, its a big bowl of hearty seafood stew, which someone has
garnished with cream and a dollop of some kind of beet chutney, but he clearly needs more.
Syenite has a side dish of garlic yams and carmelized silvabees, in addition to her own meal, on a
separate smaller plate. She deposits this on his tray.
 Alabaster stares at it, then at her. After a moment his expression softens. So thats it. You prefer a
man with more meat on his bones.
Hes joking; they both know she wouldnt enjoy sex with him even if she found him attractive.
Anyone would, yes.
He sighs, then obediently begins eating the yams. In between biteshe doesnt seem hungry, just
grimly determinedhe says, I dont feel it anymore.
What?
He shrugs, which she thinks is less confusion and more his inability to articulate what he means.
Much of anything, really. Hunger. Pain. When Im in the earth He grimaces. Thats the real
problem: not his inability to say it, but the fact that words are inadequate to the task. She nods to show
that shes understood. Maybe someday someone will create a language for orogenes to use. Maybe
such a language has existed, and been forgotten, in the past. When Im in the earth, the earth is all I
can sess. I dont feelthis. He gestures around the room, at his body, at her. And I spend so much
time in the earth. Cant help it. When I come back, though, its like its like some of the earth comes
with me, and He trails off. But she thinks she understands. Apparently this is just something that
happens past the seventh or eighth ring. The Fulcrum has me on a strict dietary regimen, but I havent
been following it much.
Syen nods, because thats obvious. She puts her sweetweed bun on his plate, too, and he sighs
again. Then he eats everything on his plate.
They go to bed. And later, in the middle of the night, Syenite dreams that she is falling upward
through a shaft of wavering light that ripples and refracts around her like dirty water. At the top of the
shaft, something shimmers there and away and back again, like it is not quite real, not quite there.
She starts awake, unsure of why she suddenly feels like something is wrong, but certain that she
needs to do something about it. She sits up, rubbing her face blearily, and only as the remnants of the
dream fade does she become aware of the hovering, looming sense of doom that fills the air around
her.
In confusion she looks down at Alabasterand finds him awake beside her, oddly stiff, his eyes
wide and staring and his mouth open. He sounds like hes gargling, or trying to snore and failing
pathetically. What the rust? He doesnt look at her, doesnt move, just keeps making that ridiculous
noise.
And meanwhile his orogeny gathers, and gathers, and gathers, until the entire inside of her skull
aches. She touches his arm, finds it clammy and stiff, and only belately understands that he cant move.
Baster? She leans over him, looking into his eyes. They dont look back at her. Yet she can
clearly sess something there, awake and reacting within him. His power flexes as his muscles seem to
be unable, and with every gargling breath she feels it spiral higher, curl tighter, ready to snap at any
moment. Burning, flaking rust. He cant move, and hes panicking.
Alabaster! Orogenes should never, ever panic. Ten-ringer orogenes especially. He cant answer
her, of course; she says it mostly to let him know shes here, and shes helping, so hopefully hell
calm down. Its some kind of seizure, maybe. Syenite throws off the covers and rolls onto her knees
and puts her fingers into his mouth, trying to pull his tongue down. She finds his mouth full of spit;
hes drowning in his own damn drool. This prompts her to turn him roughly onto his side, tilting his
head so the spit will run out, and they are both rewarded by the sound of his first clear breath. But its
shallow, that breath, and it takes him far too long to inhale it. Hes struggling. Whatever it is thats got
him, its paralyzing his lungs along with everything else.
The room rocks, just a little, and throughout the inn Syenite hears voices rise in alarm. The cries
end quickly, however, because nobodys really worried. Theres no sess of impending shake. Theyre
probably chalking it up to a strong wind gust against the buildings side for now.
Shit shit shit Syenite crouches to get into his line of sight. Baster, you stupid cannibalson
rusterrein it in. Im going to help you, but I cant do that if you kill us all!
His face doesnt react, his breathing doesnt change, but that looming sense of doom diminishes
almost at once. Better. Good. NowI have to go and find a doctor
The jolt that shakes the building is sharper this time; she hears dishes rattle and clink on their
discarded food cart. So thats a no. I cant help you! I dont know what this is! Youre going to die if

His whole body jerks. She isnt sure whether thats something deliberate or some kind of
convulsion. But she realizes it was a warning a moment later, when that thing happens again: his
power, clamping on to hers like a vise. She grits her teeth and waits for him to use her to do whatever
he needs to do but nothing happens. He has her, and she can feel him doing something. Flailing, sort
of. Searching, and finding nothing.
What? Syenite peers into his slack face. What are you looking for?
No response. But its obviously something he cant find without moving on his own.
Which makes no sense. Orogenes dont need eyes to do what they do. Infants in the crib can do
what they do. But, butshe tries to think. Before, when this happened on the highroad, he had first
turned toward the source of distress. She pictures the scene in her mind, trying to understand what he
did and how he did it. No, thats not right; the node station had been slightly to the northwest, and hed
stared dead west, at the horizon. Shaking her head at her own foolishness even as she does it, Syenite
jumps up and hurries to the window, opening it and peering out. Nothing to see but the sloping streets
and stuccoed buildings of the city, quiet at this late hour. The only activity is down the road, where she
can glimpse the dock and the ocean beyond: People are loading a ship. The sky is patchy with clouds,
nowhere near dawn. She feels like an idiot. And then
Something clenches in her mind. From the bed behind her she hears Alabaster make a harsh
sound, feels the tremor of his power. Something caught his attention. When? When she looked at the
sky. Puzzled, she does it again.
There. There. She can almost feel his elation. And then his power folds around her, and she stops
seeing with anything like eyes.
Its like the dream she had. Shes falling, up, and this somehow makes sense. All around her, the
place shes falling through, is color and faceted flickering, like waterexcept its purple-pale instead
of blue or clear, low-quality amethyst with a dollop of smoky quartz. She flails within it, sure for an
instant that shes drowning, but this is something she perceives with sessapinae and not skin or lungs;
she cant be flailing because its not water and shes not really here. And she cant drown because,
somehow, Alabaster has her.
Where she flails, he is purposeful. He drags her up, falling faster, searching for something, and
she can almost hear the howl of it, feel the drag of forces like pressure and temperature gradually
chilling and prickling her skin.
Something engages. Something else shunts open. Its beyond her, too complex to perceive in full.
Something pours through somewhere, warms with friction. Someplace inside her smooths out,
intensifies. Burns.
And then she is elsewhere, floating amid immense gelid things, and there is something on them,
among them
a contaminant
 That is not her thought.
And then its all gone. She snaps back into herself, into the real world of sight and sound and
hearing and taste and smell and sessreal sess, sess the way its supposed to work, not whatever-the-
rust Alabaster just didand Alabaster is vomiting on the bed.
Revolted, Syen jerks away, then remembers that hes paralyzed; he shouldnt be able to move at
all, let alone vomit. Nevertheless, hes doing it, having half-pushed himself up off the bed so that he
can heave effectively. Obviously the paralysis has eased.
He doesnt throw up much, just a teaspoon or two of greasy-looking white-clear stuff. They ate
hours ago; there shouldnt be anything in his upper digestive tract at all. But she remembers
a contaminant
and realizes belatedly whats come out of him. And further, she realizes how hes done it.
When he finally gets it all up, and spits a few times for emphasis or good measure, he flops back
onto the bed on his back, breathing hard, or maybe just enjoying the sensation of being able to
breathe at will.
Syenite whispers, What in the rusted burning Earth did you just do?
He laughs a little, opening his eyes to roll them toward her. She can tell its another of those
laughs he does when he really wants to express something other than humor. Misery this time, or
maybe weary resignation. Hes always bitter. How he shows it is just a matter of degree.
F-focus, he says, between pants. Control. Matter of degree.
Its the first lesson of orogeny. Any infant can move a mountain; thats instinct. Only a trained
Fulcrum orogene can deliberately, specifically, move a boulder. And only a ten-ringer, apparently,
can move the infinitesimal substances floating and darting in the interstices of his blood and nerves.
It should be impossible. She shouldnt believe that hes done this. But she helped him do it, so she
cant do anything but believe the impossible.
Evil Earth.
Control. Syenite takes a deep breath to master her nerves. Then she gets up, fetches a glass of
water, and brings it over. Hes still weak; she has to help him sit up to sip from the glass. He spits out
the first mouthful of that, too, onto the floor at her feet. She glares. Then she grabs pillows to prop
under his back, helps him into a recline, and pulls the unstained part of the blanket over his legs and
lap. That done, she moves to the chair across from the bed, which is big and more than plush enough
to sleep in for the night. Shes tired of dealing with his bodily fluids.
After Alabaster s caught his breath and regained a little of his strengthshe is not uncharitable
she speaks very quietly. Tell me what the rust youre doing.
He seems unsurprised by the question, and doesnt move from where hes slumped on the pillows,
his head lolling back. Surviving.
On the highroad. Just now. Explain it.
I dont know if I can. Or if I should.
She keeps her temper. Shes too scared not to. What do you mean, if you should?
He takes a long, slow, deep breath, clearly savoring it. You dont have control yet. Not enough.
Without that if you tried to do what I just did youd die. But if I tell you how I did it He takes a
deep breath, lets it out. You may not be able to stop yourself from trying.
Control over things too small to see. It sounds like a joke. It has to be a joke. Nobody has that
kind of control. Not even ten-ringers. Shes heard the stories; they can do amazing things. Not
impossible things.
They are the gods in chains, Alabaster breathes, and she realizes hes falling asleep. Exhausted
from fighting for his lifeor maybe working miracles is just harder than it seems. The tamers of
the wild earth, themselves to be bridled and muzzled.
Whats that? Hes quoting something.
Stonelore.
Bullshit. Thats not on any of the Three Tablets.
Tablet Five.
Hes so full of shit. And hes drifting off. Earth, shes going to kill him.
Alabaster! Answer my rusting question. Silence. Earth damn it. What is it you keep doing to
me?
He exhales, long and heavily, and she thinks hes out. But he says, Parallel scaling. Pull a carriage
with one animal and it goes only so far. Put two in a line, the one in front tires out first. Yoke them
side by side, synchronize them, reduce the friction lost between their movements, and you get more
than you would from both animals individually. He sighs again. Thats the theory, anyway.
And youre what, the yoke?
Shes joking. But he nods.
A yoke. Thats worse. Hes been treating her like an animal, forcing her to work for him so he
wont burn out. How are you She rejects the word how, which assumes possibility where none
should exist. Orogenes cant work together. One torus subsumes another. The greater degree of
control takes precedence. Its a lesson they both learned in the grit crucibles.
Well, then. Hes so close to sleep that the words are slurred. Guess it didnt happen.
Shes so furious that shes blind with it for an instant; the world goes white. Orogenes cant afford
that kind of rage, so she releases it in words. Dont give me that shit! I dont want you to ever do that
to me again But how can she stop him? Or Ill kill you, do you hear? You have no right!
Saved my life. Its almost a mumble, but she hears it, and it stabs her anger in the back.
Thanks.
Because really, can she blame a drowning man for grabbing anyone nearby to save himself?
Or to save thousands of people?
Or to save his son?
Hes asleep now, sitting beside the little puddle of ick he threw up. Of course thats on her side of
the bed. In disgust, Syen drags her legs up to curl into the plush chair and tries to get comfortable.
Only when she settles does it occur to her whats happened. The core of it, not just the part about
Alabaster doing the impossible.
When she was a grit, she did kitchen duty sometimes, and every once in a while they would open a
jar of fruit or vegetables that had gone bad. The funky ones, those that had cracked or come partially
open, were so foul-smelling that the cooks would have to open windows and set some grits on
fanning duty to get the stench out. But far worse, Syen had learned, were the jars that didnt crack. The
stuff inside them looked fine; opened, it didnt smell bad. The only warning of danger was a little
buckling of the metal lid.
Kill you deader than swapthrisk bite, the head cook, a grizzled old Resistant, would say as he
showed them the suspect jar so they could know what to watch for. Pure poison. Your muscles lock
up and stop working. You cant even breathe. And its potent. I could kill everybody in the Fulcrum
with this one jar. And he would laugh, as if that notion were funny.
Mixed into a bowl of stew, a few drops of that taint would be more than enough to kill one
annoying middle-aged rogga.
Could it have been an accident? No reputable cook would use anything from a pucker-lidded jar,
but maybe the Seasons End Inn hires incompetents. Syenite had placed the order for the food herself,
speaking with the child whod come up to see if they needed anything. Had she specified whose order
was whose? She tries to remember what she said. Fish and yams for me. So they wouldve been able
to guess that the stew was for Alabaster.
Why not dose them both, then, if someone at the inn hates roggas enough to try to kill them? Easy
enough to drop some toxic vegetable juice into all the food, not just Alabaster s. Maybe they have,
and it just hasnt affected her yet? But she feels fine.
Youre being paranoid, she tells herself.
But its not her imagination that everyone hates her. Shes a rogga, after all.
Frustrated, Syen shifts in the chair, wrapping her arms around her knees and trying to make
herself sleep. Its a losing game. Her heads too full of questions, and her bodys too used to hard
ground barely padded by a bedroll. She ends up sitting up for the rest of the night, gazing out the
window at a world that has begun to make less and less sense, and wondering what the rust shes
supposed to do about it.
But in the morning when she leans out the window to inhale the dew-laden air in a futile attempt to
shake herself to alertness, she happens to glance up. There, winking in the dawn light, is a great
hovering shard of amethyst. Just an obeliskone she vaguely remembers seeing the day before, as
they were riding into Allia. Theyre always beautiful, but so are the lingering stars, and she hardly
pays attention to either in the normal course of affairs.
She notices this one now, however. Because today, its a lot closer than it was yesterday.
* * *
Set a flexible central beam at the heart of all structures. Trust wood, trust stone, but metal
rusts.
Tablet Three, Structures, verse one
 10
you walk beside the beast

YOU THINK, MAYBE, YOU NEED to be someone else.

Youre not sure who. Previous yous have been stronger and colder, or warmer and weaker; either
set of qualities is better suited to getting you through the mess youre in. Right now youre cold and
weak, and that helps no one.
You could become someone new, maybe. Youve done that before; its surprisingly easy. A new
name, a new focus, then try on the sleeves and slacks of a new personality to find the perfect fit. A few
days and youll feel like youve never been anyone else.
But. Only one you is Nassuns mother. Thats whats forestalled you so far, and ultimately its the
deciding factor. At the end of all this, when Jija is dead and its finally safe to mourn your son if
she still lives, Nassun will need the mother shes known all her life.
So you must stay Essun, and Essun will have to make do with the broken bits of herself that Jija
has left behind. Youll jigsaw them together however you can, caulk in the odd bits with willpower
wherever they dont quite fit, ignore the occasional sounds of grinding and cracking. As long as
nothing important breaks, right? Youll get by. You have no choice. Not as long as one of your
children could be alive.
* * *
You wake to the sounds of battle.
You and the boy have camped at a roadhouse for the night, amid several hundred other people who
clearly had the same idea. No ones actually sleeping in the roadhousewhich in this case is little
more than a windowless stone-walled shack with a well pump insidebecause by unspoken
agreement it is neutral territory. And likewise none of the several dozen camps of people arrayed
around the roadhouse have made much effort to interact, because by unspoken agreement they are all
terrified enough to stab first and ask questions later. The world has changed too quickly and too
thoroughly. Stonelore might have tried to prepare everyone for the particulars, but the all-
encompassing horror of the Season is still a shock that no one can cope with easily. After all, just a
week ago, everything was normal.
You and Hoa settled down and built a fire for the night in a nearby clearing amid the plainsgrass.
You have no choice but to split a watch with the child, even though you fear hell just fall asleep; with
this many people around its too dangerous to be careless. Thieves are the greatest potential problem,
since youve got a full runny-sack and the two of you are just a woman and a boy traveling alone.
Fires a danger, too, with all these people who dont know the business end of a matchflint spending
the night in a field of dying grass. But youre exhausted. Its only been a week since you were living
your own cushy, predictable life, and its going to take you a while to get back up to traveling
condition. So you order the boy to wake you as soon as the peat block burns out. That shouldve
given you four or five hours.
But its many hours later, almost dawn, when people start screaming on the far side of the
makeshift camp. Shouts rise on this side as people around you cry alarm, and you struggle out of the
bedroll and to your feet. Youre not sure whos screaming. Youre not sure why. Doesnt matter. You
just grab the runny-sack with one hand and the boy with the other, and turn to run.
He jerks away before you can do so, and grabs his little rag bundle. Then he takes your hand
again, his icewhite eyes very wide in the dimness.
Then youall of you, everyone nearby as well as you and the boyare running, running, farther
into the plains and away from the road because thats the direction the first screams came from, and
because thieves or commless or militias or whoever is causing the trouble will probably use the road
to leave when theyve finished whatever theyre doing. In the ashy predawn half-light all the people
around you are merely half-real shadows running in parallel. For a time, the boy and the sack and the
ground under your feet are the only parts of the world that exist.
A long while later your strength gives out, and you finally stagger to a halt.
What was that? Hoa asks. He doesnt sound out of breath at all. The resilience of children. Of
course, you didnt run the whole way; youre too flabby and unfit for that. The bottom line was to
keep moving, which you did do, walking when you couldnt muster the breath to run.
I didnt see, you reply. It doesnt really matter what it was, anyway. You rub at a cramp in your
side. Dehydration; you take out your canteen to drink. But when you do, you grimace at its near-
empty slosh. Of course you didnt take the chance to fill it while you were at the roadhouse. Youd
been planning to do that come morning.
I didnt see, either, says the boy, turning back and craning his neck as if he ought to be able to.
Everything was quiet and then He shrugs.
You eye him. You didnt fall asleep, did you? You saw the fire before you fled. It was down to a
smolder. He shouldve woken you hours ago.
No.
You give him the look that has cowed two of your own and several dozen other peoples children.
He draws back from it, looking confused. I didnt.
Why didnt you wake me when the peat burned down?
You needed to sleep. I wasnt sleepy.
Damnation. That means he will be sleepy later. Earth eat hardheaded children.
Does your side hurt? Hoa steps closer, looking anxious. Are you hurt?
Just a stitch. Itll go away eventually. You look around, though visibility in the ashfall is iffy past
twenty feet or so. Theres no sign that anyone else is nearby, and you cant hear any other sounds
from the area around the roadhouse. Theres no sound around you, in fact, but the very soft tipple of
ash on the grass. Logically, the other people who were camped around the roadhouse cant be that far
awaybut you feel completely alone, aside from Hoa. Were going to have to go back to the
roadhouse.
For your things?
 Yes. And water. You squint in the direction of the roadhouse, useless as that is when the plain just
fades into white-gray haze a short ways off. You cant be sure the next roadhouse will be usable. It
might have been taken over by would-be warlords, or destroyed by panicked mobs; it might be
malfunctioning.
You could go back. You turn to the boy, who is sitting down on the grassand to your surprise,
hes got something in his mouth. He didnt have any food before oh. He knots his rag bundle firmly
shut and swallows before speaking again. To the creek where you made me take a bath.
Thats a possibility. The creek vanished underground again not far from where you used it; thats
only a days walk away. But its a days walk back the way you came, and
And nothing. Going back to the stream is the safest option. Your reluctance to do this is stupid and
wrong.
But Nassun is somewhere ahead.
What is he doing to her? you ask, softly. He must know what she is, by now.
The boy only watches. If he worries about you, he doesnt let it show on his face.
Well, youre about to give him more reason for concern. Well go back to the roadhouse. Its
been long enough. Thieves or bandits or whatever wouldve taken what they wanted by now and
moved on.
Unless what they wanted was the roadhouse. Several of the Stillnesss oldest comms started as
sources of water seized by the strongest group in a given area, and held against all comers until a
Season ended. Its the great hope of the commless in such timesthat with no comm willing to take
them in, they might forge their own. Still, few commless groups are organized enough, sociable
enough, strong enough, to do it successfully.
And few have had to contend with an orogene who wanted the water more than they did.
If they want to keep it, you say, and you mean it, even though this is such a small thing, you just
want water, but in that moment every obstacle looms large as a mountain and orogenes eat mountains
for breakfast, theyd better let me have some.
The boy, whom you half-expect to run away screaming after this statement, merely gets to his feet.
You purchased clothing for him at the last comm you passed, along with the peat. Now hes got good
sturdy walking boots and good thick socks, two full changes of clothing, and a jacket thats
remarkably similar to your own. Apart from his bizarre looks, the matching garb makes you look
like youre together. That sort of thing sends unspoken messages of organization, shared focus,
group membership; its not much, but every little deterrent helps. Such a formidable pair we are, crazy
woman and changeling child.
Come on, you say, and start walking. He follows.
Its quiet as you approach the roadhouse. You can tell youre close by the disturbances in the
meadow: Heres someones abandoned campsite, with still-smoldering fire; theres someones torn
runny-sack, trailed by supplies grabbed and dropped in flight. Theres a ring of pulled grass,
campfire coals, and an abandoned bedroll that mightve been yours. You scoop it up in passing and
roll it up, jabbing it through the straps of your sack to tie properly later. And then, sooner than you
were expecting, there is the roadhouse itself.
You think at first theres no one here. You cant hear anything but your own footsteps, and your
breath. The boy is mostly silent, but his footsteps are oddly heavy against the asphalt when you step
back onto the road. You glance at him, and he seems to realize it. He stops, looking intently at your
feet as you keep walking. Watching how you roll from heel to toes, not so much planting a step as
peeling your feet off the ground and carefully reapplying them. Then he begins doing the same thing,
and if you didnt need to pay attention to your surroundingsif you werent distracted by the racing
of your own heartyou would laugh at the surprise on his little face when his own footfalls become
silent. Hes almost cute.
But thats when you step into the roadhouse, and realize youre not alone.
First you notice just the pump and the cement casing its set into; thats really all the roadhouse is,
a shelter for the pump. Then you see a woman, who is humming to herself as she pulls away one
large canteen and sets another, empty and even larger, in its place beneath the spigot. She bustles
around the casing to work the pump mechanism, busy as you please, and only sees you after shes
started working the lever again. Then she freezes, and you and she stare at each other.
Shes commless. No one whos suffered only recent homelessness would be so filthy. (Except the
boy, a part of your mind supplies, but theres a difference between disaster filth and unwashed filth.)
This womans hair is matted, not in clean, well-groomed locks like yours but from sheer neglect; it
hangs in moldy, uneven clumps from her head. Her skin isnt just covered in dirt; the dirt is ground
in, a permanent fixture. Theres iron ore in some of it and its rusted from the moisture in her skin,
tinting the pattern of her pores red. Some of her clothes are freshgiven how much you saw
abandoned around the roadhouse, easy to guess where she got thoseand the pack at her feet is one
of three, each one fat with supplies and dangling an already-filled canteen. But her body odor is so
high and ripe that you hope shes taking all that water to use for a bath.
Her eyes flick over you and Hoa, assessing just as quickly and thoroughly, and then after a
moment she shrugs a little and finishes pumping, filling the large canteen in two strokes. Then she
takes it, caps it, attaches it again to one of the big packs at her feet, andso deftly that youre a little
awedscoops up all three and scuttles back. Have at.
Youve seen commless before, of course; everyone has. In cities that want cheaper labor than
Strongbacksand where the Strongbacks union is weakthey live in shantytowns and beg on the
streets. Everywhere else, they live in the spaces between comms, forests and the edges of deserts and
such, where they survive by hunting game and building encampments out of scraps. The ones who
dont want trouble raid fields and silos on the outskirts of comm territories; the ones who like a fight
raid small, poorly defended comms and attack travelers along the lesser quartent roads. Quartent
governors dont mind a little of this. Keeps everyone sharp, and reminds troublemakers of how they
could end up. Too many thefts, though, or too violent an attack and militias get sent out to hunt the
commless down.
None of that matters now. We dont want any trouble, you say. Were just here for water, same
as you.
The woman, whos been looking with curiosity at Hoa, flicks her gaze back to you. Not like Im
starting any. Rather deliberately she caps another canteen shes filled. Got more of these to fill,
though, so. She jerks her chin at your pack and the canteen dangling from it. Yours wont take
long.
Hers are truly huge. Theyre also probably heavy as logs. Are you waiting for others to come?
Nope. The woman grins, flashing remarkably good teeth. If shes commless now, she didnt start
out that way; those gums havent known much malnutrition. Gonna kill me?
You have to admit, you werent expecting that.
She must have someplace nearby, Hoa says. Youre pleased to see that hes at the door, looking
outward. Still on guard. Smart boy.
Yep, says the woman, cheerfully unperturbed that they have sussed out her ostensible secret.
Gonna follow me?
 No, you say, firmly. Were not interested in you. Leave us be and well do the same.
Solid by me.
You unsling your canteen and edge over to the pump. Its awkward; the thing is meant to be
worked by one person while another holds a container.
The woman puts a hand on the pump, silently offering. You nod, and she pumps for you. You drink
your fill first, and then theres tense silence while the canteen fills. Nerves make you break it. You
took a big risk coming here. Everyone else is probably coming back soon.
A few, and not soon. And you took the same big risk.
True.
So. The woman nods toward her pile of filled canteens, and belatedly you seewhat is that?
Atop one of the canteens mouths is some kind of little contraption made of sticks, twisted leaves, and
a piece of crooked wire. It clicks softly as you stare. Running a test, anyway.
What?
She shrugs, eyeing you, and you realize it then: This woman is no more an ordinary commless
than you are a still.
That shake from the north, she says. It was at least a ninerand that was just what we felt on the
surface. It was deep, too. She pauses abruptly, actually cocking her head away from you and
frowning, as if shes heard something startling, though theres nothing there but the wall. Never seen
a shake like that. Weird wave pattern to it. Then she focuses on you again, bird-quick. Probably
breached a lot of aquifers. Theyll repair themselves over time, of course, but in the short term, no
telling what kinds of contaminants might be around here. I mean, this is perfect land for a city, right?
Flat, ready access to water, nowhere near a fault. Means there probably was one here, at some point.
You know what kinds of nasty things cities leave behind when they die?
Youre staring at her now. Hoa is, too, but he stares at everyone like that. Then the thing in the
canteen finishes clicking, and the commless woman bends over to pluck it free. It had been dangling a
strip of somethingtree bark?into the water.
Safe, she proclaims, and then belatedly seems to notice you staring. She frowns a little and holds
up the little strip. Its made from the same plant as safe. You know? The greeting tea? But I treated it
with a little something extra, to catch those substances safe doesnt catch.
Theres nothing, you blurt, and then you fall silent, uneasy, when she focuses sharply on you.
Now you have to finish. I mean theres nothing safe misses that would hurt people. Thats the
only reason anyone drinks it, because it tastes like boiled ass.
Now the woman looks annoyed. Thats not true. Where the rust did you learn that? Its
something you used to teach in the Tirimo creche, but before you can say this she snaps, Safe doesnt
work as well if its in a cold solution; everybody knows that. Needs to be room temperature or
lukewarm. It also doesnt catch things that kill you in a few months instead of a few minutes. Fat lot of
good itll do you to survive today, only to come down with skinpeel next year!
Youre a geomest, you blurt. It seems impossible. Youve met geomests. Theyre everything
people think orogenes are when theyre feeling charitable: arcane, unfathomable, possessed of
knowledge no mortal should have, disturbing. No one but a geomest would know so many useless
facts, so thoroughly.
I am not. The woman draws herself up, almost swelling in her fury. I know better than to pay
attention to those fools at the University. Im not stupid.
You stare again, in utter confusion. Then your canteen overflows and you scramble to find the cap
for it. She stops pumping, then tucks the little bark contraption into a pocket among her voluminous
skirts and starts to disassemble one of the smaller packs at her feet, her movements brisk and
efficient. She pulls free a canteenthe same size as yoursand tosses it aside, then when the small
packs empty, she tosses that aside, too. Your eyes lock on to both items. It would be easier on you if
the boy could carry his own supplies.
Youd better grab, if youre going to, the woman says, and though shes not looking at you, you
realize she intentionally set the items out for you. Im not staying, and you shouldnt, either.
You edge over to take the canteen and the empty small pack. The woman stands again to help you
fill the new canteen before resuming her rummaging through her own stuff. While you tie on your
canteen and the bedroll you grabbed earlier, and transfer a few items from your pack into the smaller
one for the boy, you say, Do you know what happened? Who did what? You gesture vaguely in the
direction of the screams that woke you up.
I doubt it was a who, the woman says. She tosses away several packets of gone-off food, a
childs set of pants that might be big enough for Hoa, and books. Who puts books in a runny-sack?
Though the woman glances at the title of each before throwing it aside. People dont react as quickly
as nature to changes like this.
You attach the second canteen to your own pack for now, since you know better than to make Hoa
carry too much weight. Hes just a boy, and a poorly grown one at that. Since the commless woman
clearly doesnt want them, you also pick up the pants from the small pile of discards thats growing
beside her. She doesnt seem to care.
You ask, What, you mean that was some kind of animal attack?
Didnt you see the body?
Didnt know there was a body. People screamed and started running, so we did, too.
The woman sighs. Thats not unwise, but it does lose you opportunities. As if to illustrate her
point she tosses aside another pack that shes just emptied and stands, shouldering the two that remain.
One of them is more worn and obviously comfortable than the other: her own. Shes used twine to
lash the heavy canteens together so that they nestle against the small of her back, supported by the not-
insubstantial curve of her ass, rather than hanging as most canteens do. Abruptly she glowers at you.
Dont follow me.
Wasnt planning to. The small packs ready to be given to Hoa. You strap on your own, check to
make sure everythings secure and comfy.
I mean it. She leans forward a little, her whole face almost feral in its fierceness. You dont
know what Im going back to. I could live in a walled compound with fifty other rusters just like me.
We might have tooth-files and a juicy stupid people recipe book.
Okay, okay. You take a step back, which seems to mollify her. Now she goes from fierce to
relaxed, and resumes settling her packs for comfort. Youve got what you want, too, so its time to get
out of here. The boy looks pleased by his new pack when you hand it to him; you help him put it on
properly. As you do this, the commless woman passes you to leave, and some vestige of your old self
makes you say, Thanks, by the way.
Anytime, she says airily, heading through the doorand abruptly she stops. Shes staring at
something. The look on her face makes all the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. Quickly you go
to the door as well, to see what shes seeing.
Its a kirkhusaone of the long-bodied, furry creatures midlatters keep as pets instead of dogs,
since dogs are too expensive for anyone except the most ostentatious Equatorials. Kirkhusa look
more like big land-bound otters than canines. Theyre trainable, cheap as anything because they eat
only the leaves of low bushes and the insects that grow on them. And theyre even cuter than puppies
when theyre small but this kirkhusa isnt cute. Its big, a good hundred pounds of healthy, sleek-
furred flesh. Someones loved it dearly, at least until lately: Thats a fine leather collar still round its
neck. Its growling, and as it slinks out of the grass and up onto the road, you see red blooms in the
fur around its mouth and on its clawed, prehensile paws.
Thats the problem with kirkhusa, see. The reason everyone can afford them. They eat leaves
until they taste enough ash, which triggers some instinct within them thats normally dormant. Then
they change. Everything changes during a Season.
Shit, you whisper.
The commless woman hisses beside you, and you tense, feeling your awareness descend briefly
into the earth. (You drag it back, out of habit. Not around other people. Not unless you have no other
choice.) Shes moved to the edge of the asphalt, where she was probably about to bolt into the
meadow and toward a distant stand of trees. But not far from the road, around the place where people
screamed earlier, you see the grass moving violently and hear the soft houghs and squeals of other
kirkhusahow many, you cant tell. Theyre busy, though. Eating.
This one used to be a pet. Maybe it remembers its human master fondly. Maybe it hesitated when
the others attacked, and failed to earn more than a taste of the meat that will be its new staple diet until
the Season ends. Now it will go hungry if it doesnt rethink its civilized ways. It pads back and forth
on the asphalt, chittering to itself as if in indecisionbut it doesnt leave. Its got you and Hoa and the
commless woman boxed in while it wrestles with its conscience. Poor, poor thing.
You set your feet and murmur to Hoaand the woman, if she feels like listeningDont move.
But before you can find something harmless to latch on to, a rock inclusion you can shift or a
water source you can geyser that will give you an excuse to snatch the warmth from the air and the
life from this overgrown squirrel, Hoa glances at you and steps forward.
I said, you begin, grabbing his shoulder to yank him backbut he doesnt yank. Its like trying
to move a rock thats wearing a jacket; your hand just slips off the leather. Underneath it, he doesnt
move at all.
The protest dies in your mouth as the boy continues to move forward. Hes not simply being
disobedient, you realize; theres too much purpose in his posture. Youre not sure he even noticed
your attempt to stop him.
And then the boy is facing the creature, a few feet away. Its stopped prowling, and stands tensed as
ifwait. What? Not as if its going to attack. It lowers its head and twitches its stubby tail, once,
uncertainly. Defensively.
The boys back is to you. You cant see his face, but all at once his stocky little frame seems less
little, and less harmless. He lifts a hand and extends it toward the kirkhusa, as if offering it to sniff. As
if its still a pet.
The kirkhusa attacks.
Its fast. Theyre quick animals anyway, but you see the twitch of its muscles and then its five feet
closer, its mouth is open, and its teeth have closed around the boys hand up to the middle of his
forearm. And, oh Earth, you cant watch this, a child dying in front of you as Uche did not, how could
you let either happen, you are the worst person in the whole world.
But maybeif you can concentrate, ice the animal and not the boyyou lower your gaze to try to
concentrate as the commless woman gasps and the boys blood splatters the asphalt. Watching Hoas
mauling will make it harder; what matters is saving his life, even if he loses the arm. But then
Silence falls.
You look up.
 The kirkhusa has stopped moving. Its still where it was, teeth locked on Hoas arm, its eyes wild
with something that is more fear than fury. Its even shaking, faintly. You hear it make the most
fleeting of aborted sounds, just a hollow squeal.
Then the kirkhusas fur starts to move. (What?) You frown, squint, but its easy to see, close as the
beast is. Each individual hair of its fur waggles, seemingly in a different direction all at the same time.
Then it shimmers. (What?) Stiffens. All at once you realize that not only are its muscles stiff, but the
flesh that covers them is stiff, too. Not just stiff but solid.
And then you notice: The whole kirkhusa is solid.
What.
You dont understand what youre seeing, so you keep staring, comprehending in pieces. Its eyes
have become glass, its claws crystal, its teeth some sort of ocher filament. Where there was
movement, now there is stillness; its muscles are rock-hard, and that is not a metaphor. Its fur was just
the last part of its body to change, twisting about as the follicles underneath transformed into
something else.
You and the commless woman both stare.
Wow.
Really. Thats what youre thinking. Youve got nothing better. Wow.
Thats enough to get you moving, at least. You edge forward until you can see the whole tableau
from a better angle, but nothing really changes. The boy still seems fine, although his arm is still
halfway down the things gullet. The kirkhusa is still pretty damn dead. Well. Pretty, and damn dead.
Hoa glances at you, and all at once you realize how deeply unhappy he looks. Like hes ashamed.
Why? Hes saved all of your lives, even if the method was You dont know what this is.
Did you do this? you ask him.
He lowers his eyes. I hadnt meant for you to see this, yet.
Okay. Thats something to think about later. What did you do?
He presses his lips shut.
Now he decides to sulk. But then, maybe nows not the time for this conversation, given that his
arm is stuck in a glass monster s teeth. The teeth have pierced his skin; theres blood welling and
dripping down its no-longer-flesh lower jaw. Your arm. Let me You look around. Let me find
something to break you out.
Hoa seems to remember his arm, belatedly. He glances at you again, plainly not liking that youre
watching, but then sighs a little in resignation. And he flexes his arm, before you can warn him not to
do anything that might wound him further.
The kirkhusas head shatters. Great chunks of heavy stone thud to the ground; glittering dust
sprays. The boys arm is bleeding more, but free. He flexes his fingers a little. Theyre fine. He
lowers the arm to his side.
You react to his wound, reaching for his arm because that is something you can comprehend and
do something about. But he pulls away quickly, covering the marks with his other hand. Hoa, let me

Im fine, he says, quietly. We should go, though.

The other kirkhusa are still close, though theyre busy chewing on some poor fool in the
plainsgrass. That meal wont last them forever. Worse, its only a matter of time before other
desperate people make the choice to brave the roadhouse again, hoping the bad things have gone.
One of the bad things is still right here, you think, looking at the kirkhusas topless lower jaw. You
can see the rough nodules on the back of its tongue, now gleaming in crystal. Then you turn to Hoa,
who is holding his bloody arm and looking miserable.
Its the misery, finally, that pushes the fear back down inside you, replaces it with something more
familiar. Did he do this because he didnt know you could defend yourself? For some other,
unfathomable reason? In the end, it doesnt matter. You have no idea what to do with a monster who
can turn living things into statuary, but you do know how to handle an unhappy child.
Also, you have a lot of experience with children who are secretly monsters.
So you offer your hand. Hoa looks surprised. He stares at it, then at you, and there is something in
his gaze that is entirely human, and grateful for your acceptance in that moment. It makes you feel a
little more human, too, amazingly.
He takes your hand. His grip seems no weaker despite his wounds, so you pull him along as you
turn south and start walking again. The commless woman wordlessly follows, or maybe shes
walking in the same direction, or maybe she just thinks theres strength in numbers. None of you say
anything because theres nothing to say.
Behind you, in the meadow, the kirkhusa keep eating.
* * *
Beware ground on loose rock. Beware hale strangers. Beware sudden silence.
Tablet One, On Survival, verse three
 11
Damaya at the fulcrum of it all

THERES AN ORDER TO LIFE in the Fulcrum.

Waking comes with dawn. Since thats what Damaya always did back on the farm, this is easy for
her. For the other gritsand thats what she is now, an unimportant bit of rock ready to be polished
into usefulness, or at least to help grind other, better rockswaking comes when one of the
instructors enters the dormitory and rings a painfully loud bell, which makes them all flinch even if
theyre already awake. Everyone groans, including Damaya. She likes this. It makes her feel like shes
part of something.
They rise and make their beds, folding the top sheets military-style. Then they shuffle into the
showers, which are white with electric lights and shining with tile, and which smell of herbal cleaners
because the Fulcrum hires Strongbacks and commless from Yumenes shantytowns to come and clean
them. For this and other reasons the showers are wonderful. Shes never been able to use hot water
every day like this, tons of it just falling from holes in the ceiling like the most perfect rain ever. She
tries not to be obvious about it, because some of the other grits are Equatorials and would laugh at
her, the bumpkin overwhelmed by the novelty of easy, comfortable cleanliness. But, well, she is.
After that the grits brush their teeth and come back to the dormitory room to dress and groom
themselves. Their uniforms are stiff gray fabric pants and tunics with black piping, girls and boys
alike. Children whose hair is long and locked or thin enough to be combed and pulled back must do
so; children whose hair is ashblow or kinky or short must make sure its shaped neatly. Then the grits
stand in front of their beds, waiting while instructors come in and move down the rows for inspection.
They want to make sure the grits are actually clean. The instructors check the beds, too, to make sure
no ones peed in theirs or done a shoddy job of folding the corners. Grits who arent clean are sent
back for another showerthis one cold, with the instructor standing there watching to make sure its
done right. (Damaya makes sure shell never have to do this, because it doesnt sound fun at all.) Grits
who havent dressed and groomed themselves or tended the bed properly are sent to Discipline,
where they receive punishments suited to the infraction. Uncombed hair gets cut very short; repeat
offenders are shaven bald. Unbrushed teeth merit mouthwashing with soap. Incorrect dress is
corrected with five switches across the naked buttocks or back, incorrect bedmaking with ten. The
switches do not break the skininstructors are trained to strike just enoughbut they do leave welts,
which are probably meant to chafe underneath the stiff fabric of the uniforms.
 You are representatives of us all, the instructors say, if any grit dares to protest this treatment.
When youre dirty, all orogenes are dirty. When youre lazy, were all lazy. We hurt you so youll do
the rest of us no harm.
Once Damaya would have protested the unfairness of such judgments. The children of the Fulcrum
are all different: different ages, different colors, different shapes. Some speak Sanze-mat with
different accents, having originated from different parts of the world. One girl has sharp teeth
because it is her races custom to file them; another boy has no penis, though he stuffs a sock into his
underwear after every shower; another girl has rarely had regular meals and wolfs down every one
like shes still starving. (The instructors keep finding food hidden in and around her bed. They make
her eat it, all of it, in front of them, even if it makes her sick.) One cannot reasonably expect sameness
out of so much difference, and it makes no sense for Damaya to be judged by the behavior of children
who share nothing save the curse of orogeny with her.
But Damaya understands now that the world is not fair. They are orogenes, the Misalems of the
world, born cursed and terrible. This is what is necessary to make them safe. Anyway, if she does
what shes supposed to, no unexpected things happen. Her bed is always perfect, her teeth clean and
white. When she starts to forget what matters, she looks at her right hand, which twinges now and
again on cold days, though the bones healed within a few weeks. She remembers the pain, and the
lesson that it taught.
After inspection there is breakfastjust a bit of fruit and a piece of sausage in the Sanzed fashion,
which they pick up in the dormitory foyer and eat on the way. They walk in small groups to lessons in
the various courts of the Fulcrum that the older grits call crucibles, though thats not what theyre
supposed to be called. (There are many things the grits say to each other that they can never say to the
adults. The adults know, but pretend they dont. The world is not fair, and sometimes it makes no
sense.)
In the first crucible, which is roofed over, the first hours of the day are spent in chairs with a
slateboard and a lecture by one of the Fulcrums instructors. Sometimes there are oral examinations,
with questions peppered at the grits one by one until someone falters. The grit who falters will have to
clean the slateboards. Thus do they learn to work calmly under pressure.
What was the name of the first Old Sanze emperor?
A shake in Erta emits push waves at 6:35 and seven seconds, and vibrational waves at 6:37 and
twenty-seven seconds. What is the lag time? This question becomes more complex if it is asked of
older grits, going into logarithms and functions.
Stonelore advises, Watch for the center of the circle. Where is the fallacy in this statement?
This is the question that lands on Damaya one day, so she stands to answer: The statement
explains how one may estimate the location of an orogene by map, she says. It is incorrect
oversimplifiedbecause an orogenes region of consumption is not circular, it is toroidal. Many
people then fail to understand that the zone of effect extends downward or upward as well, and can be
deformed in other three-dimensional ways by a skilled orogene.
Instructor Marcasite nods approval for this explanation, which makes Damaya feel proud. She
likes being right. Marcasite continues: And since stonelore would be harder to remember if it was
full of phrases like watch for the inverted fulcrum of a conical torus, we get centers and circles.
Accuracy is sacrificed in the name of better poetry.
This makes the class laugh. Its not that funny, but theres a lot of nervous tension on quiz days.
After lectures there is lunch in the big open-air court set aside for that purpose. This court has a
roof of oiled canvas strips on slats, which can be rolled shut on rainy daysalthough Yumenes,
which is far inland, rarely has such days. So the grits usually get to sit at long bench-tables under a
bright blue sky as they giggle and kick each other and call each other names. Theres lots of food to
make up for the light breakfast, all of it varied and delicious and rich, though much of it is from
distant lands and Damaya does not know what some of it is called. (She eats her share anyway. Muh
Dear taught her never to waste food.)
This is Damayas favorite time of day, even though she is one of the grits who sit alone at an
empty table. Many of the other children do this, she has noticedtoo many to dismiss them all as
those whove failed to make friends. The others have a look to them that she is rapidly learning to
recognizea certain furtiveness of movement, a hesitancy, a tension about the eyes and jawline.
Some of them bear the marks of their old lives in a more obvious way. There is a gray-haired western
Coaster boy whos missing an arm above the elbow, though he is deft enough at managing without it.
A Sanzed girl maybe five years older has the twisting seams of old burn scars all down one side of
her face. And then there is another grit even newer than Damaya, whose left hand is in a special
leather binding like a glove without fingers, which fastens around the wrist. Damaya recognizes this
binding because she wore it herself while her hand healed, during her first few weeks at the Fulcrum.
They do not look at each other much, she and these others who sit off to themselves.
After lunch the grits travel through the Ring Garden in long, silent lines overseen by the
instructors so that they will not talk or stare too obviously at the adult orogenes. Damaya does stare,
of course, because theyre supposed to. Its important that they see what awaits them once they begin
earning rings. The garden is a wonder, as are the orogenes themselves: adult and elderly of every
conformation, all healthy and beautifulconfident, which makes them beautiful. All are starkly
forbidding in their black uniforms and polished boots. Their ringed fingers flick and flash as they
gesture freely, or turn the pages of books they dont have to read, or brush back a lover s curling hair
from one ear.
What Damaya sees in them is something she does not understand at first, though she wants it with a
desperation that surprises and unnerves her. As those first weeks pass into months and she grows
familiar with the routine, she begins to understand what it is that the older orogenes display: control.
They have mastered their power. No ringed orogene would ice the courtyard just because some boy
shoved her. None of these sleek, black-clad professionals would bat so much as an eyelash at either a
strong earthshake, or a familys rejection. They know what they are, and they have accepted all that
means, and they fear nothingnot the stills, not themselves, not even Old Man Earth.
If to achieve this Damaya must endure a few broken bones, or a few years in a place where no one
loves or even likes her, that is a small price to pay.
Thus she pours herself into the afternoon training in Applied Orogeny. In the practice crucibles,
which are situated within the innermost ring of the Fulcrum complex, Damaya stands in a row with
other grits of a similar level of experience. There, under an instructor s watchful gaze, she learns
how to visualize and breathe, and to extend her awareness of the earth at will and not merely in
reaction to its movements or her own agitation. She learns to control her agitation, and all the other
emotions that can induce the power within her to react to a threat that does not exist. The grits have no
fine control at this stage, so none of them are allowed to actually move anything. The instructors can
tell, somehow, when theyre about toand because the instructors all have rings, they can pierce any
childs developing torus in a way that Damaya does not yet understand, administering a quick,
stunning slap of icy cold air as a warning. It is a reminder of the seriousness of the lessonand it
also lends credence to a rumor that the older grits have whispered in the dark after lights out. If you
make too many mistakes in the lessons, the instructors ice you.
 It will be many years before Damaya understands that when the instructors kill an errant student, it
is meant not as a goad, but as a mercy.
After Applied comes dinner and free hour, a time in which they may do what they please, allowed
in deference to their youth. The newest grits usually fall into bed early, exhausted by the effort of
learning to control invisible, semivoluntary muscles. The older children have better stamina and
more energy, so theres laughter and play around the dormitory bunks for a while, until the
instructors declare lights-out. The next day, it all begins again.
Thus do six months pass.
* * *
One of the older grits comes over to Damaya at lunch. The boy is tall and Equatorial, though he
doesnt look fully Sanzed. His hair has the ashblow texture, but its backwater blond in color. Hes got
the broad shoulders and developing bulk of Strongback, which makes her wary at once. She still sees
Zab everywhere.
The boy smiles, though, and there is no menace in his manner as he stops beside the small table
she inhabits alone. Can I sit down?
She shrugs, because she doesnt want him to but is curious despite herself. He puts down his tray
and sits. Im Arkete, he says.
Thats not your name, she replies, and his smile falters a little.
Its the name my parents gave me, he says, more seriously, and its the name I intend to keep
until they find a way to take it from me. Which theyll never do because, yknow, its a name. But if
youd rather, Im officially called Maxixe.
The highest-quality grade of aquamarine, used almost exclusively for art. It suits him; hes a
handsome boy despite his obvious Arctic or Antarctic heritage (she doesnt care, but Equatorials do),
and that makes him dangerous in the sharp-faceted way that handsome big boys have always been. She
decides to call him Maxixe because of this. What do you want?
Wow, youre really working on your popularity. Maxixe starts eating, resting his elbows on the
table while he chews. (But he checks to make sure there are no instructors around to chide him on his
manners, first.) You know how these things are supposed to work, right? The good-looking popular
guy suddenly shows interest in the mousy girl from the country. Everyone hates her for it, but she
starts to gain confidence in herself. Then the guy betrays her and regrets it. Its awful, but afterward
she finds herself, realizes she doesnt need him, and maybe theres some other stuff that happens
he waggles his fingers in the airand finally she turns into the most beautiful girl ever because she
likes herself. But it wont work at all if you dont stammer and blush and pretend you dont like me.
Shes utterly confused by this salad of words. It annoys her so much that she says, I dont like
you.
Ouch. He pantomimes being stabbed in the heart. In spite of herself, his antics do make Damaya
relax a little. This makes him grin, in turn. Ah, thats better. What, dont you read books? Or didnt
you have lorists in whatever midlatter hole you came from?
She doesnt read books, because shes not very good at reading yet. Her parents taught her enough
to get by, and the instructors have assigned her a weekly regimen of additional reading to improve
her skills in this area. But shes not about to admit that. Of course we had lorists. They taught us
stonelore and told us how to prepare
Urgh. You had real lorists. The boy shakes his head. Where I grew up, nobody listened to them
except creche teachers and the most boring geomests. What everybody liked instead were the pop
loristsyou know, the kind who perform in ampitheaters and bars? Their stories dont teach
anything. Theyre just fun.
Damaya has never heard of this, but maybe its some Equatorial fad that never made it to the
Nomidlats. But lorists tell stonelore. Thats the whole point. If these people dont even do that,
shouldnt they be called I dont know, something else?
Maybe. He shrugs and reaches over to steal a piece of cheese from her plate; shes so flustered
by the pop lorist thing that she doesnt protest. The real lorists have been complaining about them to
the Yumenescene Leadership, but thats all I know about it. They brought me here two years ago, and I
havent heard anything since. He sighs. I hope the pop lorists dont go away, though. I like them,
even if their stories are a little stupid and predictable. Course, their stories are set in real creches, not
places like this. His lips twitch down at the corners as he looks around at their surroundings in faint
disapproval.
Damaya knows full well what he means, but she wants to know if hell say. Places like this?
His eyes slide sidelong back to hers. Flashing his teeth in a smile that probably charms more
people than it alarms, he says, Oh, you know. Beautiful, wonderful, perfect places full of love and
light.
Damaya laughs, then stops herself. Then shes not sure why she did either.
Yeah. The boy resumes eating with relish. Took me a while to laugh after I got here, too.
She likes him, a little, after this statement.
He doesnt want anything, she realizes after a time. He makes small talk and eats her food, which is
all right since she was mostly finished anyway. He doesnt seem to mind when she calls him Maxixe.
She still doesnt trust him, but he just seems to want someone to talk to. Which she can understand.
Eventually he stands and thanks herFor this scintillating conversation, which was almost
entirely one-sided on his partand then heads off to rejoin his friends. She puts it out of her mind
and goes on about her day.
Except. The next day, something changes.
It starts that morning in the shower, when someone bumps into her hard enough to make her drop
her washcloth. When she looks around, none of the boys or girls sharing the shower with her look in
her direction, or apologize. She chalks it up to an accident.
When she gets out of the shower, however, someone has stolen her shoes. They were with her
clothes, which shed prepared before the shower and laid out on her bed to speed up the process of
getting dressed. She always does this, every morning. Now theyre gone.
She looks for them methodically, trying to make sure she hasnt forgotten them somewhere even
though she knows she hasnt. And when she looks around at the other grits, who are carefully not
looking at her as the instructors call inspection and she can do nothing but stand there in her
impeccable uniform and bare feet, she knows whats happening.
She fails inspection and is punished with a scrub-brushing, which leaves her soles raw and
stinging for the rest of the day inside the new shoes they give her.
This is only the beginning.
That evening at dinner, someone puts something in the juice she is given with her meal. Grits with
poor table manners are given kitchen duty, which means they have access to everyones food. She
forgets this, and does not think about the odd taste of the juice until it becomes hard to focus and her
head starts hurting. Even then shes not sure whats happening, as she stumbles and lurches on her way
back to the dormitory. One of the instructors pulls her aside, frowning at her lack of coordination,
and sniffs her breath. How much have you had to drink? the man asks.
 Damaya frowns, confused at first because she just had a regular-sized glass of juice. The reason it
takes her a while to understand is that shes drunk: Someone has slipped alcohol into her juice.
Orogenes arent supposed to drink. Ever. The power to move mountains plus inebriation equals
disaster waiting to happen. The instructor who stopped Damaya is Galena, one of the younger four-
ringers, who runs the afternoon orogeny drills. Hes merciless in the crucible, but for whatever
reason he takes pity on her now. Galena takes her out of lineup and brings her to his own quarters,
which are fortunately nearby. There he puts Damaya on a couch and commands her to sleep it off.
In the morning, as Damaya drinks water and winces at the awful taste in her mouth, Galena sits her
down and says, You need to deal with this now. If any of the seniors had caught you He shakes his
head. Its an offense so severe that theres no standing punishment. It would be terrible; thats all either
of them needs to understand.
It doesnt matter why the other grits have decided to bully her. All that matters is that theyre doing
it, and that these are no harmless pranks. Theyre trying to get her iced. Galenas right; Damayas got
to deal with this. Now.
She decides she needs an ally.
Theres another girl among the loners that shes noticed. Everyone notices this girl; theres
something wrong with her. Her orogeny is a precarious, pent thing, a dagger constantly poised to
plunge into the earthand training has only made it worse, because now the knife is sharper. Thats
not supposed to happen. Selu is her name, and she hasnt yet earned or been given an orogene name,
but the other grits call her Crack to be funny, and that is the name that has stuck. She even answers to
that name, since she cant seem to stop them from using it.
Everyones already whispering that she wont make it. Which means shes perfect.
Damaya makes her move on Crack at breakfast the next day. (She drinks only water now, which
she has drawn from a nearby fountain. She has to eat the food they serve her, but she inspects it
carefully before putting anything in her mouth.) Hi, she says, setting her tray down.
Crack eyes her. Really? Things are bad enough that you need me?
Its a good sign that they can be honest with each other right off. Yes, Damaya says, and sits
since Crack hasnt really objected. Theyre messing with you, too, arent they? Of course they are.
Damaya hasnt seen whatever theyre doing, but it only makes sense. Theres an order to life in the
Fulcrum.
Crack sighs. This makes the room reverberate faintly, or so it feels for an instant. Damaya makes
herself not react, because a good partnership should not begin with a display of fear. Crack sees this
and relaxes, just a little. The judder of imminent disaster fades.
Yeah, Crack says, softly. Damaya realizes all of a sudden that Crack is angry, though she keeps
her gaze on her plate. Its there in the way she holds her fork too tightly, and the way her expression is
too blank. All at once Damaya wonders: Is Cracks control really a problem? Or is it simply that her
tormentors have done their best to make her crack? So what do you want to do about it?
Damaya outlines her plan. After an initial flinch, Crack realizes she is serious. They finish eating
in silence, while Crack thinks it over. At last, Crack says, Im in.
The plan is really quite simple. They need to find the head of the serpent, and the best way to do
that is to use bait. They decide on Maxixe, because of course Maxixe must be involved. Damayas
troubles began right after his ostensibly friendly overtures. They wait until hes in the shower one
morning, laughing with his friends, and then Damaya returns to her bunk. Where are my shoes? she
asks, loudly.
The other grits look around; some of them groan, all too ready to believe that bullies would be
uncreative enough to pull the same trick twice. Jasper, whos only been in the Fulcrum a few months
longer than Damaya, scowls. Nobody took your shoes this time, he says. Theyre in your trunk.
How do you know? Did you take them? Damaya moves to confront him, and he bristles and
meets her in the middle of the room, his shoulders back with affront.
I didnt take your crap! If theyre lost, you lost them.
I dont lose things. She jabs him in the chest with a finger. Hes a Nomidlatter like her, but thin
and pale; probably from some comm close to the Arctic. He turns red when hes angry; the other kids
make fun of this, but not much, because he teases other kids more loudly. (Good orogeny is
deflection, not cessation.) If you didnt take them, then you know who did. She jabs him again, and
he swats her hand away.
Dont touch me, you stupid little pig. Ill break your rusting finger.
What is this?
They all jump and fall silent and turn. In the doorway, ready to begin evening inspection, is
Carnelian, one of the few seniors among the instructors. Hes a big man, bearded and older and
severe, with six rings; theyre all afraid of him. In token of which, the grits immediately scramble
into their places before the bunks, standing at attention. Damaya, in spite of herself, feels a bit of
trepidationuntil she catches Cracks eye, and Crack gives her a small nod. The distraction was
enough.
I said, what is this? Carnelian comes into the room once theyre assembled. He focuses on
Jasper, whos still apple-red, though probably with fear rather than anger this time. Is there some
problem?
Jasper glares at Damaya. Not with me, Instructor.
When Carnelian turns to her, she is ready. Someone stole my shoes, Instructor.
Again? This is a good sign. Last time, Carnelian simply berated her for losing her own shoes
and making excuses. You have proof it was Jasper who stole them?
Heres the tricky part. Shes never been good at lying. I know it was a boy. They disappeared
during the last shower, and all the girls were in there with me. I counted.
Carnelian sighs. If youre trying to blame someone else for your shortcomings
Shes always doing that, says a red-haired eastern Coaster girl.
Shes got a lot of shortcomings, says a boy who looks like he comes from the same comm, if
hes not a relative of hers outright. Half the grits snicker.
Search the boys chests. Damaya speaks over their laughter. Its something she didnt ask for last
time, because she wasnt sure where the shoes would be. This time she is sure. There wasnt much
time to get rid of the shoes. They have to still be here. Look in their chests.
Thats not fair, says one tiny Equatorial boy, who looks barely old enough to be out of the
toddlers creche.
No, it isnt, says Carnelian, his scowl deepening as he looks at her. Be very certain before you
ask me to violate your fellow trainees privacy. If youre wrong, we wont go easy on you this time.
She still remembers the sting of brush-scrubbed feet. I understand, Instructor.
Carnelian sighs. Then he turns to the boys side of the dormitory room. Open your trunks, all of
you. Lets get this over with.
Theres a lot of grumbling as they open their chests, and enough glares that Damaya knows shes
made things worse for herself. They all hate her now. Which is fine; if theyre going to hate her,
shed rather they do it for a reason. But that might change once this game has played out.
Maxixe opens his chest along with the rest, sighing mortally as he does so, and her shoes are right
there on top of the folded uniforms. When Damaya sees his expression change from annoyance to
confusion and then mortification, she feels bad. She doesnt like hurting people. But she watches
closely, and the instant Maxixes expression changes to fury, he swings around and glares at someone.
She follows his glare, tense, ready
to see that hes looking at Jasper. Yes. That was what she expected. Hes the one, then.
Jasper, though, has suddenly gone pale. He shakes his head as if trying to throw off Maxixes
accusatory look; it doesnt work.
Instructor Carnelian sees all of this. A muscle in his jaw flexes as he glances toward Damaya
again. He looks almost angry with her. But why? He must understand that she has to do this.
I see, he says, as if responding to her thought. Then he focuses on Maxixe. Do you have
anything to say for yourself?
Maxixe doesnt protest his innocence. She can see by the slump of his shoulders and the shaking of
his fists that he knows theres no point. But hes not going down alone. With his head down, he says,
Jasper took her shoes last time.
I did not! Jasper backs away from his bunk and the inspection line, into the middle of the room.
Hes trembling all over. Even his eyes are trembling; he looks ready to cry. Hes lying, hes just
trying to pass this off on someone else But when Carnelian turns to Jasper, Jasper flinches and
goes still. He almost spits the next words. She sold them for me. Traded them to one of the cleaning
commless in exchange for liquor.
And then he points at Crack.
Damaya inhales, everything inside her going still with shock. Crack?
Crack.
You rusting cannibalson whore! Crack clenches her fists. You let that old pervert feel you up
for liquor and a letter, you know full well he wouldnt give it to us just for shoes
It was from my mother! Jasper s definitely crying now. I didnt want him to, to, but I couldnt
they wouldnt let me write to her
You liked it, Crack sneers. I told you Id tell if you said anything, didnt I? Well, I saw you. He
had his fingers in you and you moaned like it felt good, just like the little wannabe Breeder you are,
only Breeders have standards
This is wrong. This is all wrong. Everyones staring at each other, at Crack as she rants, at
Damaya, at Jasper as he weeps, at Carnelian. The room is full of gasps and murmurings. That feeling
is back: the pent, fraught, not-quite-reverberation that is Cracks orogeny unfurling itself, and
everyone in the room is twitching with it. Or maybe theyre twitching at the words and what they
mean, because these arent things grits should know, or do. Getting in trouble, sure, theyre kids and
kids do that. Getting in trouble like this, no.
No! Jasper wails the word at Crack. I told you not to tell! Hes sobbing openly now. His mouth
works but nothing more comes out thats intelligible, nothing but a low, despairing moanor maybe
its just a continuation of the word no. Impossible to tell, because everyone else is making noise now,
some of them hissing at Crack to shut up, some sniffing with Jasper, some of them giggling
nervously at Jasper s tears, some of them stage-whispering at each other for confirmation of things
they knew but didnt believe
Enough. The room goes silent with Carnelians quiet command, except for Jasper s soft
hitching. After a moment, Carnelians jaw flexes. You, you, and you. He points at Maxixe, Jasper,
and Crack. Come with me.
He walks out of the room. The three grits look at each other, and its a wonder none of them
combust from the sheer hatred in these looks. Then Maxixe curses and moves to follow Carnelian.
Jasper scrubs a forearm across his face and does the same, his head hanging and fists tight. Crack
glares around the room, defiantuntil her eyes meet Damayas. Then Crack flinches.
Damaya stares back, because shes too stunned to look away. And because she is furious with
herself. This is what comes of trusting others. Crack was not her friend, wasnt even someone she
liked, but shed thought they could at least help each other. Now shes found the head of the snake
thats been trying to eat her, and its halfway down the gullet of a completely different snake. The
result is something too obscene to look at, let alone kill.
Better you than me, Crack says softly, into the rooms silence. Damaya hasnt said anything,
hasnt demanded an explanation, but Crack gives one anyway, right there in front of everyone. No one
says a word. No one even breathes loudly. That was the idea. One more slip-up and Im done for, but
you, youre Little Citizen Perfect. Top scores on all the tests, perfect control in Applied, not a wrinkle
out of place. The instructors wouldnt really do much to you, not yet. And while they were trying to
figure out how their star pupil suddenly went wrong, everyone would stop waiting for me to blow up
a mountain. Or trying to make me do it for a while, anyway. Her smile fades, and she looks away.
That was the idea.
Damaya cant say anything. She cant even think. So after a while Crack shakes her head, sighs,
and moves to follow the others after Carnelian.
The room is still. Nobody looks at anybody else.
Then theres a stir at the door as two other instructors come in and begin examining Cracks bunk
and trunk. The grits watch as one woman lifts the mattress, and the other ducks under it. Theres a
brief ripping sound, and the instructor reappears with a big brown flask, half full, in one hand. She
opens the flask and sniffs its contents, grimaces, and nods to the other woman. They both leave.
When the echoes of their steps fade, Damaya goes to Maxixes trunk to retrieve her shoes. She
closes the lid; the sound is very loud in the silence. No one moves until she goes back to her own
bunk and sits down to put the shoes on.
As if this is a signal, there are several sighs, and some of the others start moving, tooretrieving
books for the next lesson, filing off to first crucible, going over to the sideboard where breakfast
waits. When Damaya goes to the sideboard herself, another girl glances at her, then away, quickly.
Sorry, she mutters. Im the one who pushed you in the shower.
Damaya looks at her and sees lurking fear making the skin around her eyes tight.
Its okay, she says, softly. Dont worry about it.
The other grits never give Damaya trouble again. A few days later Maxixe returns with broken
hands and haunted eyes; he never speaks to Damaya again. Jasper does not return, but Carnelian tells
them hes been sent to the satellite Fulcrum up in Arctic, since the Fulcrum of Yumenes holds too
many bad memories for him. This was meant as a kindness, perhaps, but Damaya knows an exile
when she sees one.
It could be worse, though. No one ever sees or mentions Crack again.
* * *
FUNGUS SEASON: 602 Imperial. A series of oceanic eruptions during the eastern Equatorial
monsoons increased humidity in the region and obscured sunlight for six months. While this
was a mild Season as such things go, its timing created perfect conditions for a fungal bloom
that spread across the Equatorials into the northern and southern midlats, wiping out then-
staple-crop miroq (now extinct). The resulting famine is included in the official geomestric
record, extending the Seasons length to four years (two years for the fungus blight to run its
course, two more for agriculture and food distribution systems to recover). Nearly all
affected comms were able to subsist on their own stores, thus proving the efficacy of
Imperial reforms and Seasonal planning. In its aftermath, many comms of the Nomidlats and
Somidlats voluntarily joined the Empire, beginning its Golden Age.
The Seasons of Sanze
 12
Syenite finds a new toy

MY COLLEAGUE IS ILL, SYENITE tells Asael Leadership Allia as she sits facing the woman across a
desk. He sends his apologies for being unable to assist. I will clear the blockage in your harbor.
Im sorry to hear of your senior s illness, says Asael, with a little smile that almost makes
Syens hackles rise. Almost, because she knew it was coming and could thus brace for it. It still
rankles.
But I must ask, Asael continues, looking overly concerned. Will you be sufficient? Her eyes
flick down to Syens fingers, where Syen has taken great care to put her rings on the four fingers a
casual observer would be most likely to see. Her hands are folded, with the thumb of that hand tucked
out of the way for the moment; let Asael wonder if theres a fifth one there. But when Asaels eyes
meet Syens again, Syen sees only skepticism. She is unimpressed by four rings or even five.
And this is why I will never, ever take a mission with a ten-ringer again. Like she has a choice. She
feels better thinking it anyway.
Syenite forces herself to smile, though she doesnt have Alabaster s knack for exaggerated
politeness. She knows her smiles just look pissed-off. In my last mission, she says, I was
responsible for demolishing three buildings out of a block of five. This was in downtown Dibars, an
area with several thousand inhabitants on a busy day, and not far from the Seventh University. She
uncrosses and recrosses her legs. The geomests had driven her half mad on that mission, constantly
demanding reassurances that she wouldnt create a shake any stronger than a 5.0. Sensitive
instruments, important calibrations, something like that. It took five minutes, and no rubble landed
outside of the demolition zone. That was before I earned my latest ring. And shed kept the shake to a
fourer, much to the geomests delight.
Im pleased to hear youre so competent, says Asael. There is a pause, which makes Syen brace
herself. With your colleague unable to contribute, however, I see no reason for Allia to pay for the
services of two orogenes.
Thats between you and the Fulcrum, Syen says, dismissively. She honestly doesnt care. I
suspect youll get an argument from them because Alabaster is mentoring me on this trip, and
overseeing my work even if he isnt actually doing it.
But if he isnt here
Thats irrelevant. It galls, but Syenite decides to explain. He wears ten rings. Hell be able to
observe what Im doing, and intervene if necessary, from his hotel room. He could do it while
unconscious. Moreover, hes been quelling shakes in this area for the past few days, as weve traveled
through it. Thats a service he provides as a courtesy to local node maintainersor to your comm,
rather, since such a remote location doesnt have a node station nearby. As Asaels expression
tightens into a frown, probably at the perceived insult, Syen spreads her hands. The biggest
difference between him and me is that Im the one who needs to see what shes doing.
I see. Asael sounds deeply uneasy, as she should. Syen knows that its the job of any Fulcrum
orogene to ease the fears of the stills, and here Syen has exacerbated Asaels. But shes begun to
develop a nasty suspicion about who in Allia might want Alabaster dead, so its a good idea for her to
dissuade Asaelor whoever Asael knowsfrom that plan. This pedantic minor bureaucrat has no
idea how close her little city came to being flattened last night.
In the uncomfortable silence that falls, Syenite decides its time she asks some questions of her
own. And maybe stirs the shit a little, to see what rises to the top. I see that the governor wasnt able
to make it, today.
Yes. Asaels face goes gameswoman-blank, all polite smile and empty eyes. I did convey your
colleagues request. Unfortunately, the governor was unable to make time in his schedule.
Thats a shame. And then, because Syenite is beginning to understand why Alabaster is such an
ass about this, she folds her hands. Unfortunately, it wasnt a request. Do you have a telegraph here?
Id like to send a message to the Fulcrum, let them know well be delayed.
Asaels eyes narrow, because of course they have a telegraph, and of course Syenite meant that as
another dig. Delayed.
Well, yes. Syen raises her eyebrows. She knows shes not doing a good job of looking innocent,
but she tries, at least. How long do you think it will be before the governor is able to meet with us?
The Fulcrum will want to know. And she stands, as if to leave.
Asael tilts her head, but Syenite can see the tension in her shoulders. I thought you were more
reasonable than your colleague. Youre actually going to walk out of here, and not clear our harbor,
in a fit of pique.
It isnt a fit of pique. Now Syens mad for real. Now she gets it. She looks down at Asael, who
sits there, smug and secure in her big chair behind her big desk, and its an actual fight to keep her
fists from clenching, her jaw muscles from flexing. Would you tolerate this treatment, in our
position?
Of course I would! Asael straightens, surprised into an actual reaction for once. The governor
has no time for
No, you wouldnt tolerate it. Because if you were in my position, youd be the representative of
an independent and powerful organization, not some two-quartz backwater flunky. You would expect
to be treated like a skilled expert whos been learning her craft since childhood. Like someone who
plies an important and difficult trade, and whos come to perform a task that dictates your comms
livelihood.
Asael is staring at her. Syenite pauses, takes a deep breath. She must stay polite, and wield that
politeness like a finely knapped glassknife. She must be cold and calm in her anger, lest a lack of self-
control be dismissed as the mark of monstrosity. Once the heat behind her eyes has eased, she steps
forward.
And yet you havent shaken our hands, Asael Leader. You didnt look us in the eye when we first
met. You still havent offered that cup of safe that Alabaster suggested yesterday. Would you do that to
a decreed mest from the Seventh University? Would you do it to a master geneer, come to repair the
comms hydro? Would you do it to a representative of the Strongbacks Union for your own comm?
Asael actually flinches as the analogies finally get through to her. Syenite waits in silence, letting it
gather pressure. Finally Asael says, I see.
Maybe you do. She keeps waiting, and Asael sighs.
What do you want? An apology? Then I apologize. You must remember, though, that most
normal people have never seen an orogene, let alone had to do business with one, and She spreads
her hands. Isnt it understandable that we might be uncomfortable?
Discomfort is understandable. Its the rudeness that isnt. Rust this. This woman doesnt deserve
the effort of her explanation. Syen decides to save that for someone who matters. And thats a really
shitty apology. Im sorry youre so abnormal that I cant manage to treat you like a human being.
Youre a rogga, Asael snaps, and then has the gall to look surprised at herself.
Well. Syenite makes herself smile. At least thats out in the open. She shakes her head and turns
toward the door. Ill come back tomorrow. Maybe youll have had time to check the governor s
schedule by then.
You are under contract, Asael says, her voice tight enough to quaver. You are required to
perform the service for which we have paid your organization.
And we will. Syenite reaches the door and stops with her hand on the handle, shrugging. But the
contract doesnt specify how long we have, upon arrival, to get it done. Shes bluffing. She has no
idea whats in the contract. But shes willing to bet Asael doesnt, either; a deputy governor doesnt
sound important enough to know that sort of thing. Thanks for the stay at the Seasons End, by the
way. The beds are very comfortable. And the foods delicious.
That, of course, does it. Asael stands as well. Stay here. Ill go and speak with the governor.
So Syen smiles pleasantly, and sits back down to wait. Asael leaves the room, and stays gone for
long enough that Syen starts to doze off. She recovers when the door opens again, and another
Coaster woman, elderly and portly, comes in with a chastened-looking Asael. The governor s a man.
Syenite sighs inwardly and braces herself for more weaponized politeness.
Syenite Orogene, the woman says, and despite her rising ire Syenite is impressed by the gravity
of her presence. The orogene after Syens name isnt necessary, of course, but its a nice bit of
much-needed courtesyso Syen rises, and the woman immediately steps forward and offers a hand
for her to shake. Her skin is cool and dry and harder than Syenite expected. No calluses, just hands
that have done their share of everyday labor. My name is Heresmith Leadership Allia. Im the
lieutenant governor. The governor genuinely is too busy to meet with you today, but Ive cleared
enough time on my schedule, and I hope my greeting will be sufficient especially as it comes with
an apology for your poor treatment thus far. I can assure you that Asael will be censured for her
behavior, to remind her that its always good leadership to treat othersall otherswith courtesy.
Well. The woman could be just playing a politicians game, or she could be lying about being the
lieutenant governor; maybe Asaels found a very well-dressed janitor to play the part. Still, its an
effort at compromise, and Syen will take it.
Thank you, she says, with genuine gratitude. Ill convey your apology to my colleague
Alabaster.
Good. Please also tell him that Allia will pay your expenses, per our agreed-upon contract, for up
to three days before and three after your clearing of the harbor. And theres an edge to her smile
now, which Syenite knows she probably deserves. This woman, it seems, actually has read the
contract.
Doesnt matter, though. I appreciate the clarification.
 Is there anything else you need during your stay? Asael would be happy to provide a tour of the
city, for example.
Damn. Syen likes this woman. She stifles the urge to smile and glances at Asael, whos managed to
compose herself by this point; she gazes impassively back at Syenite. And Syens tempted to do what
Alabaster probably would, and take Heresmith up on that tacit offer of Asaels humiliation. But
Syenite is tired, and this whole trips been hellish, and the sooner its over and shes back home at the
Fulcrum, the better.
No need, she says, and does Asaels face twitch a little in suppressed relief? Id actually like to
get a look at the harbor, if I may, so that I can assess the problem.
Of course. But surely youd like refreshment first? At least a cup of safe.
Syenite cant help it now. Her lips twitch. I dont actually like safe, I should probably say.
No one does. And theres no mistaking the genuine smile on Heresmiths face. Anything else,
then, before we go?
Now its Syens turn to be surprised. Youre coming with us?
Heresmiths expression grows wry. Well, our comms livelihood is dependent on you, after all. It
seems only proper.
Oh, yeah. This ones a keeper. Then please proceed, Heresmith Leader. Syenite gestures toward
the door, and they all head out.
* * *
The harbor s wrong.
Theyre standing on a kind of boardwalk along the western curve of the harbor s half circle. From
there most of Allia can be seen, spreading up the caldera slopes that surround the waterfront. The city
really is quite lovely. Its a beautiful day, bright and warm, with a sky so deep and clear that Syenite
thinks the stargazing at night should be amazing. Yet its what she cant seeunder the water, along
the harbor bottomthat makes her skin crawl.
Thats not coral, she says.
Heresmith and Asael turn to her, both of them looking puzzled. Pardon? asks Heresmith.
Syenite moves away from them, going to the railing and extending her hands. She doesnt need to
gesture; she just wants them to know shes doing something. A Fulcrum orogene always reassures
clients of their awareness and understanding of the situation, even when those clients have no actual
idea whats going on. The harbor floor. The top layer is coral. She thinks. Shes never felt coral
before, but it feels like what she expected: layers of wriggling bright life that she can pull from, if she
needs to, to fuel her orogeny; and a solid core of ancient calcified death. But the coral heap sits atop a
humped ridge in the floor of the harbor, and although it feels naturalthere are usually folds like this
in places where land meets sea, shes readSyenite can tell its not.
Its absolutely straight, for one thing. And huge; the ridge spans the width of the harbor. But more
importantly, it isnt there.
The rock beneath the raised layers of silt and sand, that is: She cant feel it. She should be able to,
if its pushing up the seafloor like this. She can feel the weight of the water atop it, and the rock
deformed by its weight and pressure underneath, and the strata around it, but not the actual obstruction
itself. There might as well be a big empty hole on the bottom of the harbor around which the entire
harbor floor has shaped itself.
Syenite frowns. Her fingers spread and twitch, following the flow and curve of the sesuna. Soft
slither of loose schist and sand and organic matter, cool press of solid bedrock, flow and dip. As she
follows it, she belatedly remembers to narrate her explorations. Theres something beneath the
coral, buried in the ocean floor. Not far down. The rock underneath is compressed; it must be
heavy But why cant she feel it, if so? Why can she detect the obstruction only by its effect on
everything nearby? Its strange.
Is it relevant? Thats Asael, maybe trying to sound professional and intelligent in order to get
back into Heresmiths good graces. All we need is for the coral blockage to be destroyed.
Yes, but the corals on top of it. She searches for the coral and finds it all around the edges of the
harbor; a theory forms. Thats why this is the only place in the deep part of the harbor thats blocked
by coral. Its growing on top of the thing, where the ocean floor has effectively been raised. Corals a
thing of the shallows, but it can get plenty of sun-warmed water, along this ridge.
Rusting Earth. Does that mean the coral will just grow back? Thats one of the men who came
with Asael and Heresmith. Theyre a bunch of clerks, as far as Syenite can tell, and she keeps
forgetting theyre present until they speak. The whole point of this is to clear the harbor for good.
Syenite exhales and relaxes her sessapinae, opening her eyes so theyll know shes done.
Eventually, yes, she says, turning to them. Look, heres what youre dealing with. This is your
harbor. She cups her left hand in an approximate circle, two-thirds closed. Allias harbor is more
irregular than this, but they get it, she sees as they step closer to her demonstration. So she lays the
thumb of her right hand across the open part of the circle, almost but not quite closing it off. This is
the position of the thing. Its slightly elevated at one endshe wiggles the tip of her thumb
because theres a natural incline in the substrate. Thats where most of the coral is. The waters at
the far end of the thing are deeper, and colder. Awkwardly she waggles her hand to indicate the heel
of her thumb. Thats the open channel youve been using for port traffic. Unless this coral suddenly
starts liking cold dark water, or another variety of coral shows up that does, then that part may never
become occluded.
But even as she says this, it occurs to her: Coral builds on itself. New creatures grow on the bones
of their predecessors; in time, that will lift even the colder part of the harbor into the zone of optimal
growth. And with perfect timing Asael frowns and says, Except that channel has been closing, slowly
but surely, over the years. We have accounts from a few decades ago that say we used to be able to
accommodate boats across the middle of the harbor; we cant, anymore.
Underfires. When Syen gets back to the Fulcrum, shes going to tell them to add rock-building
marine life to the grit curriculum; ridiculous that its not something they learn already. If this
comms been around for many Seasons and youre only just now having this problem, then obviously
this isnt the kind of coral that grows quickly.
Allia is only two Seasons old, says Heresmith, with a pained smile at Syen. Thats a respectable
achievement in and of itself. In the midlats and arctics, a lot of comms dont last a single Season; the
coasts are even more volatile. But of course, Heresmith thinks shes talking to a born-and-bred
Yumenescene.
Syenite tries to remember the stuff she didnt sleep through in history creche. The Choking Season
is the one that occurred most recently, a little over a hundred years ago; it was mild as Seasons have
gone, killing mostly people in the Antarctic, near Mount Akok when it blew. Before that was the Acid
Season? Or was it Boiling? She always gets those two mixed up. Whichever one it was, it was two or
maybe three hundred years before Choking, and it was a bad one. Rightthere were no seaside
comms left after that one, so naturally Allia can only be a few decades younger, founded when the
waters sweetened and receded and left the coastline habitable again.
So that coral blocked the harbor over the course of four hundred years or so, Syenite says,
thinking aloud. Maybe with a setback during Choking How does coral survive a Fifth Season?
She has no idea, but it clearly needs warmth and light to thrive, so it must have died back during that
one. All right, lets say it really grew into a blockage over a hundred years.
Fire-under-Earth, says another woman, looking horrified. You mean we might have to do this
again in just a century?
We will still be paying the Fulcrum in a century, says Heresmith, sighing, and the look she
throws Syenite is not resentful, just resigned. Your superiors charge dearly for your services, Im
afraid.
Syenite resists the urge to shrug. Its true.
They all look at each other, and then they look at her, and by this Syen knows: Theyre about to ask
her to do something stupid.
Thats a very bad idea, she says preemptively, holding up her hands. Seriously. Ive never
shifted anything underwater before; thats why I had a senior assigned to me. Fat lot of good hes
been. And more importantly, I dont know what that thing is. It could be a massive gas or oil pocket
that will poison your harbor waters for years. Its not. You know this because no oil or gas pocket is
as perfectly straight and dense as this thing is, and because you can sess oil and gas. It could even be
the remnant of some especially stupid deadciv that seeded all its harbors with bombs. Oh, that was
brilliant. Theyre staring at her now, horrified. She tries again.
Commission a study, she says. Bring in some geomests who study marine floors, maybe some
geneers who know something about She waggles a hand, guesses wildly. Ocean currents. Figure
out all the positives and negatives. Then call in someone like me. She hopes it wont be her again,
specifically. Orogeny should always be your last resort, not your first.
Thats better. Theyre listening. Two of the ones she doesnt know start murmuring quietly to each
other, and Heresmith has a thoughtful look on her face. Asael looks resentful, but that doesnt
necessarily mean anything bad. Asaels not very smart.
Im afraid we have to consider it, says Heresmith at last, looking so deeply frustrated that
Syenite feels sorry for her. We cant afford another contract with the Fulcrum, and Im not certain
we can afford a study; the Seventh University and Geneer Licensure charge almost as much as the
Fulcrum for their services. But most importantly, we cant afford to have the harbor blocked any
longeras youve guessed, were already losing business to several other Coaster ports that can
accommodate the heavier-riding freight vessels. If we lose accessibility altogether, there will be no
reason for this comm to continue existing.
And Im sympathetic, Syen begins, but then one of the men whove been murmuring in the
background scowls at her.
Youre also an agent of the Fulcrum, he says, and we contracted you to do a job.
Maybe hes not a clerk, then. I know that. And Ill do it right now, if you want. The coral is
nothing, she knows, now that shes sessed it out. She can probably do that without rocking the boats in
their moorings too much. Your harbor can be usable tomorrow, if I get rid of the coral today
But you were hired to clear the harbor, says Asael. Permanently, not some temporary fix. If the
problem has turned out to be bigger than you think, thats no excuse for not finishing the job. Her
eyes narrow. Unless theres some reason youre so reluctant to shift the obstruction.
Syen resists the urge to call Asael one of several names. Ive explained my reasoning, Leader. If
it was my intention to cheat you in some way, why would I have told you anything about the
obstruction? I wouldve just cleared the coral and let you figure it out the hard way when the stuff
grows back.
 That sways some of them, she can see; both of the groups men stop looking so suspicious. Even
Asael falters out of her accusatory stance, straightening a little in unease. Heresmith, too, nods and
turns to the others.
I think well need to discuss this with the governor, she says, finally. Present him all the
options.
Respectfully, Leader Heresmith, says one of the other women, frowning, I dont see another
option. We either clear the harbor temporarily, or permanently. Either way we pay the Fulcrum the
same amount.
Or you do nothing, Syenite says. They all turn to stare at her, and she sighs. Shes a fool to even
mention this; Earth knows what the seniors will do to her if she scuttles this mission. She cant help it,
though. These people face the economic destruction of their whole community. Its not a Season, so
they can move somewhere else, try to start over. Or they can dissolve, with all the comms families
trying to find places in other communities
which should work except for those family members who are poor, or infirm, or elderly. Or
those who have uncles or siblings or parents who turned out to be orogenes; nobody will take those.
Or if the community they try to join has too many members of their use-caste already. Or.
Rust it.
If my colleague and I go back now, Syenite continues in spite of everything, without doing
anything, then well be in breach of contract. Youll be within your rights to demand your
commission fee back, less our expenses for travel and local accommodations. Shes looking dead at
Asael as she says this; Asaels jaw muscles flex. Your harbor will still be usable, at least for a few
years more. Use that time, and the money you saved, to either study whats happening and figure out
whats down there or move your comm to a better location.
Thats not an option, says Asael, looking horrified. This is our home.
Syen cannot help thinking of a fusty-smelling blanket.
Home is people, she says to Asael, softly. Asael blinks. Home is what you take with you, not
what you leave behind.
Heresmith sighs. Thats very poetic, Syenite Orogene. But Asael is correct. Moving would mean
the loss of our comms identity, and possibly the fracturing of our population. It would also mean
losing everything weve invested in this location. She gestures around, and Syenite understands what
she means: You can move people easily, but not buildings. Not infrastructure. These things are wealth,
and even outside of a Season, wealth means survival. And theres no guarantee we wont face worse
problems elsewhere. I appreciate your honestyI do. Really. But, well better the volcano we
know.
Syenite sighs. She tried. What do you want to do, then?
It seems obvious, doesnt it?
It does. Evil Earth, it does.
Can you do it? asks Asael. And maybe she doesnt mean it as a challenge. Maybe shes just
anxious, because after all what Syen is talking about here is the fate of the comm Asaels been raised
in and trained to guide and protect. And of course, as a Leader-born child, Asael would know nothing
of this comm but its potential and welcome. She would never have reason to view her community with
distrust or hatred or fear.
Syen doesnt mean to resent her. But shes already in a bad mood, and shes tired because she
didnt get much sleep while saving Alabaster from poisoning the night before, and Asaels question
assumes that she is less than what she is. Its one time too many, throughout this whole long, awful
trip.
Yes, Syenite snaps, turning and extending her hands. You should all step back at least ten feet.
There are gasps from the group, murmurs of alarm, and she feels them recede quickly along the
unfolding map of her awareness: hot bright jittering points moving out of easy reach. Theyre still in
slightly less easy reach. Sos their whole comm, really, a cluster of motion and life all around her, so
easy to grasp and devour and use. But they dont need to know that. Shes a professional, after all.
So she stabs the fulcrum of her power into the earth in a sharp, deep point so that her torus will be
narrow and high rather than wide and deadly. And then she probes around the local substrate again,
searching for the nearest fault or perhaps a remnant bit of heat from the extinct volcano that once
formed Allias caldera. The thing in the harbor is heavy, after all; shes going to need more than
ambient power to shift it.
But as she searches, something very strangeand very familiarhappens. Her awareness shifts.
Suddenly shes not in the earth anymore. Something pulls her away, and over, and down, and in.
And all at once she is lost, flailing about in a space of black constricting cold, and the power that
flows into her is not heat or motion or potential but something entirely else.
Something like what she felt last night when Alabaster comandeered her orogeny. But this isnt
Alabaster.
And shes still in control, sort of. That is, she cant stop whats happeningshes taken in too
much power already; if she tries to let it go, shell ice half the comm and set off a shake that makes
the shape of the harbor academic. But she can use the flood of power. She can steer it, for example,
into the rock bed underneath the thing she cant see. She can push up, which lacks finesse and
efficiency but gets the rusting job done, and she can feel the enormous blankness that is the object rise
in response. If Alabaster s observing from his inn room, he must be impressed.
But wheres the power coming from? How am I
She can realize, belatedly and with some horror, that water moves much like rock in response to a
sudden infusion of kinetic energybut its much, much faster to react. And she can react herself,
faster than shes ever done before because shes brimming with strength, its practically coming out of
her pores and, Earthfire, it feels unbelievably good, it is childs play to stop the massive wave thats
building and about to swamp the harbor. She just disippates its force, sending some back out to sea,
channeling the rest into soothing the waters as the thing from the ocean floor breaks free of its
encumbering sedimentand the coral, which just slides off and shattersand begins to rise.
But.
But.
The thing isnt doing what she wants it to do. Shed intended to just shunt it to the side of the
harbor; that way if the coral grows back, it still wont block the channel. Instead
Evil Earthwhat the rustinstead
Instead, its moving on its own. She cant hold it. When she tries, all the power that she held just
trickles away, sucked off somewhere as quickly as it infused her.
Syen falls back into herself then, gasping as she sags against the wooden railing of the boardwalk.
Only a few seconds have passed. Her dignity will not allow her to fall to her knees, but the railings
the only thing keeping her up. And then she realizes no one will notice her weakness, because the
boards beneath her feet, and the railing shes clinging to, are all rattling in an ominous sort of way.
The shake siren begins wailing, deafeningly loud, from a tower right behind her. People are
running on the quays below the boardwalk and the streets around it; if not for the siren, she would
probably hear screams. With an effort Syen lifts her head to see Asael, Heresmith, and their party
hurrying away from the boardwalk, keeping well away from any buildings, their faces stark with fear.
Of course they leave Syenite behind.
But that is not the thing that finally pulls Syen out of self-absorption. What does is a sudden spray
of seawater that wafts across the quays like rain, followed by a shadow that darkens this whole side of
the harbor. She turns.
There, rising slowly from the water and shedding the remnants of its earthen shell as it begins to
hum and turn, is an obelisk.
Its different from the one Syen saw last night. That one, the purple one, she thinks is still a few
miles off coast, though she doesnt look that way to confirm its presence. The one before her
dominates all her vision, all her thought, because its rusting huge and its not even completely out of
the water yet. Its color is the deep red of garnets, its shape a hexagonal column with a sharp-pointed,
irregular tip. It is completely solid, not shimmering or flickering in the half-real way of most
obelisks; it is wider than several ships put end to end. And of course it is long enough, as it continues
to rise and turn, to nearly block off the whole harbor. A mile from tip to tip.
But somethings wrong with it, which becomes clear as it rises. At the midpoint of the shaft, the
clear, crystalline beauty of the thing gives way to cracks. Massive ones, ugly and black-tinged, as if
some contaminant from the ocean floor has seeped in during all the centuries that the thing must have
lain down there. The jagged, spidering lines spread across the crystal in a radiant pattern. Syenite can
feel how the obelisks hum jitters and stutters here, incomprehensible energies struggling through the
place of damage.
And at the center of the radiating cracks, she can see some kind of occlusion. Something small.
Syenite squints, leaning harder on the railing as she cranes her neck to follow the rising mote. Then
the obelisk turns a little more as if to face her, and all at once her blood ices over as she realizes what
shes seeing.
A person. Theres someone in the thing, stuck like a bug in amber, limbs splayed and still, hair a
frozen spray. She cant make out the face, not quite, but in her imagination the eyes are wide, the
mouth open. Screaming.
Thats when she realizes she can make out an odd marbling along the figures skin, black-bruised
through the dark red of the shaft. The sunlight flickers and she realizes its hair is clear, or at least
translucent enough to be lost in the garnet around it. And theres just something about what shes
seeing, something maybe she knows because for a moment she was a part of this obelisk, thats where
the power was coming from, something she wont question too deeply because, Evil Earth, she cant
take this. The knowledge is there in her mind, impossible to deny no matter how much she might want
to. When the reasoning mind is forced to confront the impossible again and again, it has no choice
but to adapt.
So she accepts that what she is looking at is a broken obelisk that has lain unknown on the floor of
Allias harbor for Earth knows how long. She accepts that what is trapped at its heart, what has
somehow broken this massive, magnificent, arcane thing is a stone eater.
And its dead.
* * *
Father Earth thinks in ages, but he never, ever sleeps. Nor does he forget.
Tablet Two, The Incomplete Truth, verse two
 13
youre on the trail

THIS IS WHAT YOU ARE at the vein, this small and petty creature. This is the bedrock of your life.
Father Earth is right to despise you, but do not be ashamed. You may be a monster, but you are also
great.
* * *
The commless woman is called Tonkee. Thats the only name she gives you: no use name, no comm
name. Youre sure she is, despite her protestations, a geomest; she admits itsort ofwhen you ask
her why shes following you. Hes just too damn interesting, Tonkee says, jerking her chin toward
Hoa. If I didnt try to figure him out, my old masters at the uni would hire assassins to hunt me down.
Not that they havent done that already! She laughs like a horse, all bray and big white teeth. Id love
a sample of his blood, but fat lot of good that will do me without proper equipment. So Ill settle for
observation.
(Hoa looks annoyed at this, and pointedly makes an effort to keep you between himself and
Tonkee as you walk.)
The uni she referred to, you are certain, is the Seventh University in Dibarsthe most famous
center of learning for mests and lorists in all the Stillness, located in the second-largest city of the
Equatorials. And if that prestitious place is where Tonkee trained, rather than at some jumped-up
regional creche for adults, or at the knee of some local tinkerer, then she has fallen very far indeed.
But youre too polite to say this aloud.
Tonkee does not live in an enclave of cannibals, despite her creative threats. You discover this
when she leads you to her home that afternoon. Her home is a cave situated in a vesiclethe ancient
fallen-in remains of a solidified lava bubble, this one once as big as a small hill. Now its a secluded
glen in a pocket of forest, with curving columns of gleaming black glass interspersed among the
trees. There are all sorts of odd little cavelets tucked into its sides, where smaller bubbles mustve
nestled against the larger, and Tonkee warns you that some of the ones on the far side of the vesicle
are home to forest cats and other animals. Most of them are no threat, normally, but everything
changes in a Season, so youre careful to follow Tonkees lead.
Tonkees cavern is full of contraptions, books, and junk shes scavenged, amid a lot of actually
useful things like lanterns and storecache food. The cavern smells of fragrant resins from the fires
shes burned, but it quickly takes on Tonkees stench once shes in and bustling about. You resign
yourself to endure it, though Hoa doesnt seem to notice or maybe care; you envy his stoicism.
Fortunately it turns out that Tonkee did indeed bring all that water with her for a bath. She does this in
front of you, shamelessly stripping down and squatting by a wooden basin to scrub at her pits and
crotch and the rest. Youre a little surprised to notice a penis somewhere amid this process, but, well,
not like any comms going to make her a Breeder. She finishes up by rinsing her clothes and hair with
a murky green solution that she claims is antifungal. (You have your doubts.)
Anyway, the place smells much better when shes done, so you spend a remarkably pleasant and
cozy night there on your bedrollshes got spares, but you dont want to risk liceand even let Hoa
curl up against you, though you turn your back to him so he wont cuddle. He does not try.
The next day you resume the journey south, with Tonkee the commless geomest and Hoa the
whatever he is. Because youre pretty sure by now that hes not human. That doesnt bother you;
officially speaking, youre not human, either. (Per the Second Yumenescene Lore Councils
Declaration on the Rights of the Orogenically Afflicted, a thousand-ish years ago.) What does bother
you is that Hoa wont talk about it. You ask about what he did to the kirkhusa and he refuses to answer.
You ask him why he wont answer, and he just looks miserable and says, Because I want you to like
me.
It almost makes you feel normal, traveling with these two. The road demands most of your
attention, in any case. The ashfall only gets heavier over the next few days, until you finally do pull
the masks out of your runny-sackyou have four, fortunately, horriblyand hand them around. Its
clumpy ash for now, not the floating haze of death that stonelore warns against, but no sense being
incautious. Other people have broken out their masks, too, you see when they materialize out of the
grayness, their skin and hair and clothing hardly distinguishable from the ash-painted landscape, their
eyes grazing over you and away. The masks make everyone equally unknown and unknowable, which
is good. No one pays attention to you or Hoa or Tonkee, not anymore. Youre happy to join the
indistinct masses.
By the end of a week, the crowds of people traveling along the road have begun to thin into knots
and, occasionally, trickles. Everyone who has a comm is hurrying back there, and the thinning crowds
mean most of them are finding somewhere to settle in. Now only those journeying farther than usual
remain on the road, or people who dont have a home to return tolike the hollow-eyed Equatorials
youve seen, many of them sporting terrible burns or injuries that come from falling debris. The
Equatorials are a brewing problem, because theres a lot of them on the road even if the injured ones
are mostly getting sick with infection and starting to die. (You pass at least one or two people every
day who just sit there on the edges of the road, pale or flushed, curled up or shaking, waiting for the
end to come.) Theres plenty left who seem hale enough, though, and theyre commless now. Thats
always a problem.
You talk to a small group of these folk at the next roadhouse: five women of wildly varied ages
and a very young, uncertain-looking man. This lot have removed most of the flowing, uselessly
pretty garments that people in the Equatorial cities used to consider fashionable, you notice;
somewhere along the way theyve stolen or traded for sturdy clothes and proper travel gear. But each
of them sports some remnant of the old life: The oldest woman wears a headscarf of frilly, stained
blue satin; the youngest has gauzy sleeves poking out from under the heavier, more practical cloth of
her tunic; the young man has a sash around his waist that is soft and peach colored and there solely
for decoration, as far as you can tell.
Except its not really decoration. You notice how they look at you when you walk up: a sweep of
the eyes, an inspection of your wrists or neck or ankles, a frown as you are found wanting. The
impractical cloth has one very practical use: It is the marker of a new tribe in the process of being
born. A tribe to which you do not belong.
Not a problem. Yet.
You ask them what happened in the north. You know, but being aware of a geological event and
knowing what that event means in the real human sense are two very different things. They tell you,
once youve held up your hands and made it clear you offer no (visible) threat.
I was on my way home from a concert, says one of the younger women, who does not introduce
herself but should beif she is not alreadya Breeder. Shes what Sanzed women are supposed to
look like, tall and strong and bronze and almost offensively healthy, with nice even features and wide
hips, all of it crowned with a shock of gray ashblow hair thats almost like a pelt about her shoulders.
She jerks her head toward the young man, who lowers his gaze demurely. Just as pretty; probably a
Breeder, too, though a bit on the scrawny side. Well, hell beef up if hes got five women to service
for his keep. He was playing at the improvisation hall on Shemshena Street; this was in Alebid. The
music was so beautiful
She trails off, and for a moment you see her detach from the here and now. You know Alebid is
wasa mid-sized city comm, known for its art scene. Then she snaps back, because of course she is a
good Sanzed girl, and Sanzeds hold little truck with daydreamers.
She continues: We saw something sort oftear, off to the north. Along the horizon, I mean. We
could see this red light flare up at one point, then it spread off to the east and west. I couldnt tell
how far away, but we could see it reflected on the underside of the clouds. Shes drifting again, but
remembering something terrible this time, and so her face is hard and grim and angry. Thats more
socially acceptable than nostalgia. It spread fast. We were just standing in the street, watching it grow
and trying to figure out what we were seeing, and sessing, when the ground started to shake. Then
somethinga cloudobscured the red, and we realized it was coming toward us.
It had not been a pyroclastic cloud, you know, or she wouldnt be here talking to you. Just an ash
storm, then. Alebid is well south of Yumenes; all they got was the dregs of whatever more northerly
comms did. And thats good, because those dregs alone almost broke the much-further-south Tirimo.
By rights Alebid should have been pebbles.
An orogene saved this girl, you suspect. Yes, theres a node station near Alebid, or there was.
Everything was still standing, she says, confirming your guess. But the ash that followedno
one could breathe. The ash was getting in peoples mouths, into their lungs, turning into cement. I tied
my blouse around my face; it was made of the same stuff as a mask. Thats the only thing that saved
me. Us. She glances at her young man, and you realize the scrap around his wrist is part of what used
to be a womans garment, by the color. It was evening, after a beautiful day. Its not like anybody had
their runny-sacks with them.
Silence falls. This time everyone in the group lets it go on, and drifts with her for a moment. The
memorys just that bad. You remember, too, that not many Equatorials even have runny-sacks. The
nodes have been more than enough to keep the biggest cities safe for centuries.
So we ran, the woman concludes abruptly, with a sigh. And we havent stopped.
You thank them for the information, and leave before they can ask questions in return.
As the days pass, you hear other, similar, stories. And you notice that none of the Equatorials you
meet are from Yumenes, or any comms from the same approximate latitude. Alebid is as far north as
the survivors run.
Doesnt matter, though. Youre not going north. And no matter how much it bothers youwhats
happened, what it meansyou know better than to dwell too much on it. Your heads crowded enough
with ugly memories.
So you and your companions keep going through the gray days and ruddy nights, and all that
really concerns you is keeping your canteen filled and your food stores topped up, and replacing
your shoes when they start to wear thin. Doing all this is easy, for now, because people are still
hoping this will be just a brief Seasona year without a summer, or two, or three. Thats how most
Seasons go, and comms that remain willing to trade during such times, profiting off others poor
planning, generally come out of it wealthy. You know betterthis Season will be much, much longer
than anyone could have planned forbut that wont stop you from taking advantage of their
misconception.
Now and again you stop at comms you pass on the road, some of them huge and sprawling with
granite walls that loom overhead, some of them protected merely by fencewire, sharpened sticks, and
poorly armed Strongbacks. The prices are beginning to go strange. One comm will take currency,
and you use up nearly all of yours buying Hoa his own bedroll. The next wont take currency at all,
but they will take useful tools, and youve got one of Jijas old knapping hammers at the bottom of
your bag. That buys you a couple weeks worth of cachebread and three jars of sweet nut paste.
You share the food out among the three of you, because thats important. Stonelores full of
admonitions against hoarding within a groupand you are a group by now, whether you want to
admit it or not. Hoa does his part, staying up most of the night to keep watch; he doesnt sleep much.
(Or eat anything. But after a while you try not to notice that, the same way you try not to think about
him turning a kirkhusa into stone.) Tonkee doesnt like approaching comms, even though with fresh
clothing and no-worse-than-usual body odor she can pass for just another displaced person rather
than a commless. So that parts on you. Still, Tonkee helps where she can. When your boots wear out
and the comm youve approached wont take anything you offer, Tonkee surprises you by holding
out a compass. Compasses are priceless, with the sky clouded over and no visibility through the
ashfall. You ought to be able to get ten pairs of boots for it. But the woman doing the comms trading
has you over a barrel and she knows it, so you get only two pairs of boots, one for you and another
for Hoa, since his are already starting to look worn. Tonkee, who has her own spare boots dangling
from her pack, dismisses the price when you complain about it later. There are other ways to find
our way, she says, and then she stares at you in a way that makes you uneasy.
You dont think she knows youre a rogga. But who can really say, with her?
The miles roll on. The road forks often because there are a lot of big comms in this part of the
midlats, and also because the Imperial Road intersects comm roads and cowpaths, rivers and old
metal tracks that were used for transportation in some way or another by some ancient deadciv or
another. These intersections are why they put Imperial Roads where they do; roads have always been
the lifeblood of Old Sanze. Unfortunately that means its easy to get lost if you dont know where
youre goingor if you dont have a compass, or a map, or a sign saying filicidal fathers this way.
The boy is your savior. Youre willing to believe that he can somehow sense Nassun because for a
while hes better than a compass, pointing unerringly in the direction that you should go whenever
you reach a crossroads. For the most part you follow the Imperial Roadthis one is Yumenes-
Ketteker, though Ketteker s all the way in the Antarctics and you pray you wont have to go that far. At
one point Hoa takes you down a comm road that cuts between Imperial segments and probably saves
you a lot of time, especially if Jija just stayed on the main roads the whole way. (The shortcut is a
problem because the comm that built it is bristling with well-armed Strongbacks who shout and fire
crossbow warning shots when they see you. They do not open their gates to trade. You feel their
sights on you long after youve passed by.) When the road meanders away from due south, though,
Hoas less certain. When you ask, he says that he knows the direction in which Nassun is traveling, but
he cannot sense the specific route she and Jija took. He can only point out the path thats most likely to
get you there.
As the weeks pass, he begins to have trouble with even that. You stand with Hoa at one crossroads
for a full five minutes while he chews his lip, until finally you ask him whats wrong.
There are a lot of you in one place now, he says uneasily, and you change the subject quickly
because if Tonkee doesnt know what you are, then she will after a conversation like that.
A lot of you, though. People? No, that doesnt make sense. Roggas? Gathering together? That
makes even less sense. The Fulcrum died with Yumenes. There are satellite Fulcrums in Arcticfar
north, past the now-impassible central latitude of the continentand Antarctic, but youre months
away fom the latter. Any orogenes left on the roads now are people like her, hiding what they are and
trying to survive same as the rest. It wouldnt make sense for them to gather into a group; that would
increase the chance of discovery.
At the crossroads Hoa picks a path, and you follow, but you can tell by the frown on his face that
its a guess.
Its nearby, Hoa finally tells you, one night while youre eating cachebread and nut paste and
trying not to wish it was something better. Youre starting to crave fresh vegetables, but those are
going to be in short supply very soon if they arent already, so you try to ignore the craving. Tonkee
is off somewhere, probably shaving. Shes run out of something in the past few days, some biomest
potion she keeps in her pack and tries not to let you see her drinking even though you dont care, and
shes been sprouting beard stubble every few days because of the lack. Its made her irritable.
The place with all the orogenes, Hoa continues. I cant find anything past them. Theyre like
little lights. Its easy to see just one by itself, Nassun, but together they make one very bright light, and
she passed close to it or through it. Now I cant He seems to grope for the words. There are no
words for some things. I cant, uh
Sess? you suggest.
He frowns. No. That isnt what I do.
You decide not to ask what he does.
I cant I cant know anything else. The bright light keeps me from focusing on any little light.
How manyyou leave out the word, in case Tonkees coming backare there?
I cant tell. More than one. Less than a town. But more are heading there.
This worries you. They cant all be chasing stolen daughters and murderous husbands. Why?
How do they know to go there?
I dont know.
Well, thats helpful.
All you know for sure is that Jija headed south. But south covers a lot of territorymore than a
third of the continent. Thousands of comms. Tens of thousands of square miles. Wheres he going?
You dont know. What if he turns east, or west? What if he stops?
Theres a notion. Could they have stopped there? Jija and Nassun, in that place?
I dont know. They went that way, though. I didnt lose them until here.
So you wait till Tonkee comes back, and you tell her where youre going. You dont tell her why,
and she doesnt ask. You dont tell her what youre going into, eitherbecause, really, you dont
know. Maybe someones trying to build a new Fulcrum. Maybe there was a memo. Regardless, its
good to have a clear destination again.
You ignore the feeling of unease as you start down the road thathopefullyNassun traveled.
* * *
Judge all by their usefulness: the leaders and the hearty, the fecund and the crafty, the wise and
the deadly, and a few strong backs to guard them all.
Tablet One, On Survival, verse nine
 14
Syenite breaks her toys

REMAIN AT LOCATION. AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS, reads the telegram from Yumenes.

Syenite offers this to Alabaster wordlessly, and he glances at it and laughs. Well, well. Im
beginning to think youve just earned yourself another ring, Syenite Orogene. Or a death sentence. I
suppose well see when we get back.
Theyre in their room at the Seasons End Inn, naked after their usual evening fuck. Syenite gets
up, naked and restless and annoyed, to pace around the rooms confines. Its a smaller room than the
one they had a week ago, since their contract with Allia is now fulfilled and the comm will no longer
pay for their boarding.
When we get back? She glares at him as she paces. He is completely relaxed, a long-boned
positive space against the beds negative whiteness, in the dim evening light. She cannot help thinking
of the garnet obelisk when she looks at him: He is just as should-not-be, just as not-quite-real, just as
frustrating. She cannot understand why hes not upset. What is this remain at location bullshit? Why
wont they let us come back?
He tsks at her. Language! You were such a proper thing back at the Fulcrum. What happened?
I met you. Answer the question!
Maybe they want to give us a vacation. Alabaster yawns and leans over to take a piece of fruit
from the bag on the nightstand. Theyve been buying their own food for the past week. At least hes
eating without being reminded, now. Boredom is good for him. What does it matter whether we
waste our time here, or on the road back to Yumenes, Syen? At least here we can be comfortable.
Come back to bed.
She bares her teeth at him. No.
He sighs. To rest. Weve done our duty for the night. Earthfires, do you want me to leave for a
while so you can masturbate? Will that put you in a better mood?
It would, actually, but she wont admit that to him. She does come back to the bed, finally, for lack
of anything better to do. He hands her an orange slice, which she accepts because theyre her favorite
fruit and theyre cheap here. Theres a lot to be said for living in a Coaster comm, shes thought more
than once since coming here. Mild weather, good food, low cost of living, meeting people from
every land and region as they flow through the port for travel and trade. And the ocean is a beautiful,
entrancing thing; she has stood at the window and stared out at it for hours. If not for the tendency of
Coaster comms to be wiped off the map every few years by tsunami well.
I just dont understand, she says, for what feels like the ten thousandth time. Baster s probably
getting tired of her complaining, but shes got nothing else to do, so hell have to endure it. Is this
some kind of punishment? Was I not supposed to find a giant floating whatevertherust hidden at the
bottom of a harbor during a routine coral-clearing job? She throws up her hands. As if anyone
couldve anticipated that.
Most likely, Alabaster says, they want you on hand for whenever the geomests arrive, in case
theres more potential business for the Fulcrum in it.
Hes said this before, and she knows its probably true. Geomests have already been converging
on the city, in factand archaeomests, and lorists, and biomests, and even a few doctors who are
concerned about the effect that an obelisk so close will have on Allias populace. And the charlatans
and cranks have come, too, of course: metallorists and astronomests and other junk science
practitioners. Anyone with a bit of training or a hobby, from every comm in the quartent and
neighboring ones. The only reason Syenite and Alabaster have even gotten a room is that theyre the
ones who discovered the thing, and because they got in early; otherwise, every inn and lodging-house
in the quartent is full to brimming.
No ones really cared about the damn obelisks before now. Then again, no ones ever seen one
hovering so close, clearly visible and stuffed with a dead stone eater, above a major population
center.
But beyond interviewing Syenite for her perspective on the raising of the obeliskshes already
starting to wince every time a stranger is introduced to her as Somefool Innovator Whereverthe
mests havent wanted anything from her. Which is good, since shes not authorized to negotiate on
behalf of the Fulcrum. Alabaster might be, but she doesnt want him bargaining with anyone for her
services. She doesnt think hed intentionally sign her up for anything she doesnt want; hes not a
complete ass. Its just the principle of the thing.
And worse, she doesnt quite believe Alabaster. The politics of being left here dont make sense.
The Fulcrum should want her back in the Equatorials, where she can be interviewed at Seventh by
Imperial Scholars, and where the seniors can control how much the mests have to pay for access to
her. They should want to interview her themselves, and better understand that strange power shes now
felt three times, and which she finally understands is somehow coming from obelisks.
(And the Guardians should want to talk to her. They always have their own secrets to keep. It
disturbs her most of all that theyve shown no interest.)
Alabaster has warned her not to talk about this part of it. No one needs to know that you can
connect to the obelisks, he said, the day after the incident. He was still weak then, barely able to get out
of bed after his poisoning; turns out hed been too orogenically exhausted to do anything when she
raised the obelisk, despite her boasting to Asael about his long-distance skill. Yet weak as he was, hed
grabbed her hand and gripped it hard to make sure she listened. Tell them you just tried to shift the
strata and the thing popped up on its own, like a cork underwater; even our own people will believe
that. Its just another deadciv artifact that doesnt make any sense; nobody will question you about it if
you dont give them a reason to. So dont talk about it. Not even to me.
Which of course makes her want to talk about it even more. But the one time she tried after Baster
recovered, he glared at her and said nothing, until she finally took the hint and went to go do
something else.
And that pisses her off more than anything else.
Im going for a walk, she says finally, and gets to her feet.
 Okay, says Alabaster, stretching and getting up; she hears his joints pop. Ill go with you.
I didnt ask for company.
No, you didnt. Hes smiling at her again, but in that hard-edged way shes beginning to hate.
But if youre going out alone, at night, in a strange comm where someones already tried to kill one
of us, then youre rusting well going to have company.
At this, Syenite flinches. Oh. But thats the other subject they cant talk about, not because
Alabaster s forbidden it but because neither of them knows enough to do more than speculate. Syenite
wants to believe that the simplest explanation is the most likely: Someone in the kitchen was
incompetent. Alabaster has pointed out the flaw in this, however: No one else at the inn, or in the city,
has gotten sick. Syenite thinks there might be a simple explanation for this, tooAsael told the
kitchen workers to contaminate only Alabaster s food. Thats the kind of thing angry Leaders tend to
do, at least in all the stories about them, which abound with poisonings and convoluted, indirect
viciousness. Syen prefers stories about Resistants overcoming impossible odds, or Breeders saving
lives through clever political marriages and strategic reproduction, or Strongbacks tackling their
problems with good honest violence.
Alabaster, being Alabaster, seems to think there was more to his near-death brush. And Syenite
doesnt want to admit that he might be right.
Fine, then, she says, and gets dressed.
Its a pleasant evening. The suns just setting as they walk down a sloping avenue that leads toward
the harbor. Their shadows stretch long before them, and the buildings of Allia, which are mostly
stuccoed sandy-pale in color, briefly bloom with deeper jewel tones of red and violet and gold. The
avenue theyre on intersects a meandering side street that ends at a small cove off the harbor s busier
area; when they stop here to take in the view, Syen can see a group of the comms adolescents playing
and laughing along the black-sand beach. They are all lean and brown and healthy, and obviously
happy. Syen finds herself staring, and wondering if that is what its like to grow up normal.
Then the obeliskwhich is easily visible at the end of the avenue theyre standing on, where the
thing hovers perhaps ten or fifteen feet above the harbor watersemits another of the low, barely
perceptible pulses that its been spitting out since Syenite raised it, and that makes her forget about the
kids.
Somethings wrong with that thing, Alabaster says, very softly.
Syenite looks at him, annoyed and on the brink of saying, What, now you want to talk about it?
when she notices that hes not looking at it. Hes scuffing the ground with one foot, his hands in his
pockets, appearingoh. Syen almost laughs. Appearing, for the moment, like a bashful young man
whos about to suggest something naughty to his pretty female companion. The facts that he is not
young, or bashful, and that it doesnt matter if shes pretty or hes naughty because theyre already
fucking, aside. A casual observer would not realize he was paying any attention to the obelisk.
Which abruptly makes Syenite realize: No one sesses its pulse but them. The pulse is not a pulse,
exactly. Its not brief, or rhythmic; more a momentary throb that she sesses now and again, at random
and ominously, like a toothache. But if the other people of the comm had sessed that last one, they
wouldnt be laughing and playing and winding down comfortably at the end of a long golden day.
They would all be out here watching this massive, looming thing to which Syenite is increasingly
beginning to apply the adjective dangerous in her head.
Syen takes a clue from Baster and reaches for his arm, cuddling close as if she actually likes him.
She keeps her voice to a murmur, even though she has no clue who or what hes trying to conceal the
conversation from. There are people out on the street as the citys business day winds down, but
nobodys nearby, or paying attention to them for that matter. I keep waiting for it to rise, like the
others.
Because its hanging far, far too close to the ground, or the water s surface as it were. Every other
obelisk Syen has ever seenincluding the amethyst that saved Alabaster s life, and which is still
drifting a few miles offshorefloats amid the lowest layer of clouds, or higher.
Its listing to one side, too. Like its barely able to stay up at all.
What? And she cannot help looking up at it, though Baster immediately squeezes her arm to make
her look away again. But that brief glimpse was enough to confirm what he said: The obelisk is
indeed listing, just a little, its top end tilted toward the south. It must wobble, very slowly, as it turns.
The slant is so slight that she wouldnt have noticed it at all if they hadnt been standing on a street
surrounded by straight-walled buildings. Now she cant unsee it.
Lets go this way, she suggests. Theyve lingered here too long. Alabaster obviously agrees, and
they start down the side street to the cove, strolling casually.
Its why theyre keeping us here.
Syens not paying attention to him when he says this. In spite of herself shes distracted by the
beauty of the sunset, and the long, elegant streets of the comm itself. And another couple, passing on
the sidewalk; the taller woman nods to them even though both Syen and Baster are wearing their
black uniforms. Its strange, that little gesture. And nice. Yumenes is a marvel of human achievement,
the pinnacle of ingenuity and geneering; if it lasts a dozen Seasons, this paltry little Coaster comm
will never even come close to matching it. But in Yumenes, no one would ever have deigned to nod to
a rogga, no matter how pleasant the day.
Then Alabaster s last words penetrate her ruminations. What?
He keeps his pace easy, matching hers despite his naturally longer gait. We cant talk in the room.
Its risky even to talk out here. But you wanted to know why theyre keeping us here, telling us not to
come back: Thats why. That obelisk is failing.
That much is obvious, butWhats that got to do with us?
You raised it.
She scowls before she remembers to school her expression. It raised itself. I just moved all the
crap that was holding it down, and maybe woke it up. That her mind insists it was sleeping before is
not something shes willing to question too deeply.
And thats more control over an obelisk than anyone has ever managed in nearly three thousand
years of Imperial history. Baster shrugs a little. If I were a jumped-up little five-ring pedant
reading a telegram about this, its what Id think, and its how Id react: by trying to control the person
who can control that. His eyes flick toward the obelisk. But its not the jumped-up pedants at the
Fulcrum we have to worry about.
Syen doesnt know what the rust hes on about. It isnt that his words dont ring true; she can
completely imagine someone like Feldspar pulling something like this. But why? To reassure the
local population, by keeping a ten-ringer on hand? The only people who know Baster s here are a
bunch of bureaucrats who are probably too busy dealing with the sudden influx of mests and tourists
to care. To be able to do something, should the obelisk suddenly do something? That makes no
sense. And who else is she supposed to worry about? Unless
She frowns.
You said something, earlier. Something about connecting to an obelisk? What did that mean?
Andand you did something, that night. She throws an uneasy look at him, but he doesnt glare at
her this time. Hes gazing down at the cove, as if entranced by the view, but his eyes are sharp and
serious. He knows what shes talking about. She hesitates a moment more, then says, You can do
something with those things, cant you? Oh Earth, shes a fool. You can control them! Does the
Fulcrum know that?
No. And you dont know it, either. His dark eyes slide to hers for a moment, then away.
Why are you being so Its not even secretive. Hes talking to her. But its as if he suspects
someone of listening to them, somehow. No one could hear us in the room. And she nods pointedly
toward a gaggle of children running past, one of them jostling Alabaster and apologizing; the streets
narrow. Apologizing. Really.
You dont know that. The buildings main support column is whole-hewn granite, didnt you
notice? The foundation looks to be the same. If it sits directly on the bedrock His expression
grows momentarily uneasy, and then he blanks his face.
Whats that got to do with And then she understands. Oh. Oh. Butno, that cant be right.
Youre saying someone could hear us through the walls? Through the, the stone itself? Shes never
heard of anything like that. It makes sense, of course, because its how orogeny works; when Syen is
anchored in the earth, she can sess not only the stone that her awareness is tied to, but anything that
touches it. Even if she cant perceive the thing itself, as with the obelisk. Still, to feel not just tectonic
vibrations, but sound? It cant be true. Shes never heard of a rogga with that kind of fine sensitivity.
He looks at her directly for a long moment. I can. When she stares back, he sighs. I always
could. You can, too, probablyit just isnt clear, yet. Its just minute vibrations to you now. Around
my eighth or ninth ring is when I started to distinguish patterns amid the vibrations. Details.
She shakes her head. But youre the only ten-ringer.
Most of my children have the potential to wear ten rings.
Syenite flinches, suddenly remembering the dead child in the node station near Mehi. Oh. The
Fulcrum controls all the node maintainers. What if they have some way to force those poor damaged
children to listen, and to spit back what they listen to, like some kind of living telegraph receivers? Is
that what he fears? Is the Fulcrum like a spider, perching in Yumeness heart and using the web of
nodes to listen in on every conversation in the Stillness?
But she is distracted from these speculations by something that niggles at the back of her mind.
Something Alabaster just said. His damn influence, making her question all the assumptions shes
grown up with. Most of my children have the potential to wear ten rings, hed said, but there are no
other ten-ringers in the Fulcrum. Rogga children are sent to the nodes only if they cant control
themselves. Arent they?
Oh.
No.
She decides not to mention this epiphany aloud.
He pats her hand, perhaps playacting again, perhaps really trying to soothe her. Of course he
knows, probably better than she, what theyve done to his children.
Then he repeats: The seniors at the Fulcrum arent who we have to worry about.
Who else could he mean? The seniors are a mess, granted. Syen keeps an eye on their politics,
because one day shell be among them and its important to understand who holds power and who
only looks like they do. There are at least a dozen factions, along with the usual rogues: brown-
nosers and idealists and those who would glassknife their own mothers to get ahead. But all at once it
occurs to Syenite to consider who they answer to.
The Guardians. Because no one would really trust a group of filthy roggas to manage their own
affairs, any more than Shemshena would have trusted Misalem. No one in the Fulcrum talks about the
Guardians politics, probably because no one in the Fulcrum understands them. The Guardians keep
their own counsel, and they object to inquiries. Vehemently.
Not for the first time Syenite wonders: To whom do the Guardians answer?
As Syens considered this, theyve reached the cove, and stopped at its railed boardwalk. The
avenue ends here, its cobbles vanishing beneath a drift of sand and then the raised wooden walkway.
Not far off theres a different sandy beach from the one they saw earlier. Children run up and down
the boardwalks steps, squealing in play, and beyond them Syen can see a gaggle of old women
wading nude in the harbor s waters. She notices the man who sits on the railing, a few feet down from
where they stand, only because hes shirtless, and because hes looking at them. The former gets her
attention for a momentthen shes polite and looks awaybecause Alabaster s not much to look at
and its been a while since she had sex she actually enjoyed. The latter is something she would ignore,
ordinarily, because in Yumenes she gets stared at by strangers all the time.
But.
Shes standing at the railing with Baster, relaxed and more comfortable than shes been in a while,
listening to the children play. Its hard to keep her mind on the cryptic stuff theyre discussing. The
politics of Yumenes seem so very far from here, mysterious but unimportant, and untouchable. Like
an obelisk.
But.
But. She notices, belatedly, that Baster has gone stiff beside her. And although his face is turned
toward the beach and the children, she can tell that hes not paying attention to them. That is when it
finally occurs to her that people in Allia dont stare, not even at a couple of blackjackets out for an
evening stroll. Asael aside, most of the people shes met in this comm are too well-mannered for
something like that.
So she looks back at the man on the railing. He smiles at her, which is kind of nice. Hes older,
maybe by ten years or so, and hes got a gorgeous body. Broad shoulders, elegant deltoids under
flawless skin, a perfectly tapered waist.
Burgundy pants. And the shirt that hangs over the railing beside him, which he has ostensibly taken
off in order to soak up some of the sunlight, is also burgundy. Only belatedly does she notice the
peculiar, familiar buzz at the back of her sessapinae that warns of a Guardians presence.
Yours? asks Alabaster.
Syenite licks her lips. I was hoping he was yours.
No. And then Alabaster makes a show of stepping forward to rest his hands against the railing,
bowing his head as if he means to lean on it and stretch his shoulders. Dont let him touch you with
his bare skin.
This is a whisper; she barely catches it. And then Alabaster straightens and turns to the young man.
Something on your mind, Guardian?
The Guardian laughs softly and hops down from the railing. Hes at least part Coaster, all-over
brown and kinky-haired; a bit on the pale side, but aside from this he fits right in among the citizens
of Allia. Well. No. He blends in superficially, but theres that indefinable something about him thats in
every Guardian Syenites had the misfortune to interact with. No one in Yumenes ever mistakes a
Guardian for an orogeneor for a still, for that matter. Theres just something different about them,
and everyone notices.
Yes, actually, the Guardian says. Alabaster Tenring. Syenite Fourring. That alone makes
Syenite grind her teeth. She would prefer the generic Orogene, if she has to be called anything besides
her name. Guardians, of course, understand perfectly well the difference between a four-ringer and a
ten-ringer. I am Edki Guardian Warrant. My, but youve both been busy.
As we should be, says Alabaster, and Syenite cannot help looking at him in surprise. Hes tensed
in a way shes never seen, the cords of his neck taut, his hands splayed andready? ready for what?
she does not know why the word ready even occurred to herat his sides. Weve completed our
assignment for the Fulcrum, as you can see.
Oh, indeed. A fine job. Edki glances off then, almost casually, toward that listing, throbbing
accident of an obelisk. Syenite is watching his face, however. She sees the Guardians smile vanish as
if it were never there. That cant be good. Would that you had done only the job you were told to do,
however. Such a willful creature you are, Alabaster.
Syenite scowls. Even here, she is condescended to. I did this job, Guardian. Is there some
problem with my work?
The Guardian turns to look at her in surprise, and thats when Syenite realizes shes made a
mistake. A big one, because his smile doesnt return. Did you, now?
Alabaster hisses andEvil Earth, she feels it when he stabs his awareness into the strata, because it
goes so unbelievably deep. The strength of him makes her whole body reverberate, not just her
sessapinae. She cant follow it; hes past her range in the span of a breath, easily piercing to the
magma even though its miles down. And his control of all that pure earth energy is perfect. Amazing.
He could shift a mountain with this, easily.
But why?
The Guardian smiles, suddenly. Guardian Leshet sends her regards, Alabaster.
While Syenite is still trying to parse this, and the fact that Alabaster is about to fight a Guardian,
Alabaster stiffens all over. You found her?
Of course. We must talk of what you did to her. Soon.
SuddenlySyenite does not know when he drew it, or where fromthere is a black glassknife in
his hand. Its blade is wide, but ridiculously short, maybe only two inches in length. Barely enough to
be called a knife at all.
What the rust is he going to do with that, pare our nails?
And why is he drawing a weapon on two Imperial Orogenes in the first place? Guardian, she
tries, maybe theres been some kind of misun
The Guardian does something. Syenite blinks, but the tableau is as before: She and Alabaster face
Edki on a boardwalk stark with shadows and bloody sunset light, with children and old ladies playing
beyond them. But something has changed. Shes not sure what, until Alabaster makes a choking sound
and lunges at her, knocking her to the ground a few feet away.
How such a skinny man has the weight to throw her, Syenite will never know. She hits the planks
hard enough to jar the breath out of herself; through a blur she sees some of the children who had
been playing nearby stop and stare. One of them laughs. Then she struggles up, furious, her mouth
already opening to curse Alabaster to Earth and back.
But Alabaster is on the ground, too, only a foot or two away. Hes lying on his belly, his eyes fixed
on her, andand hes making a strange sound. Not much of one. His mouths open wide, but the noise
that comes out of it is more like the squeak of a childs toy, or a metallorists air bladder. And hes
shivering all over, as if he cant move more than that, which doesnt make sense because nothings
wrong with him. Syens not sure what to think until, belatedly, she realizes
hes screaming.
Why did you think I would aim at her? Edki is staring at Alabaster, and Syenite shivers because
the look on his face is gleeful, it is delighted, even as Alabaster lies there shuddering helplessly
with the knife that Edki once held now buried in the hollow of Alabaster s shoulder. Syen stares at it,
stunned that she missed it before. It stands out starkly even against the black of Baster s tunic. You
have always been a fool, Alabaster.
And there is a new glassknife in Edkis hand now. This one is long and viciously narrow: a
chillingly familiar poniard.
Why Syenite cant think. Her hands ache as she scrabbles backward along the boardwalk
planks, trying to get to her feet and away all at once. Instinctively she reaches for the earth beneath her
and thats when she finally realizes what the Guardian has done, because theres nothing in her that
can reach. She cannot sess the earth past a few feet below her hands and backside; nothing but sand
and salty dirt and earthworms. There is an unpleasant ringing ache in her sessapinae when she tries to
reach farther. Its like when she hits her elbow and shuts off all the sensation from there to the tips of
her fingers; like that part of her mind has gone to sleep. Its tingling, coming back. But for now,
theres nothing there.
She has heard grits whisper of this after lights-out. All Guardians are strange, but this is what
makes them what they are: Somehow, they can stop orogeny with a flick of their will. And some of
them are especially strange, specialized to be stranger than the rest. Some of them do not have
orogene charges and are never allowed near untrained children, because they are dangerous merely
by proximity. These Guardians do nothing but track down the most powerful rogue orogenes, and
when they find them well. Syenite never particularly wanted to know what they did, before now, but
it seems shes about to find out. Underfires, shes as numb to the earth as the most rust-brained elder.
Is this what its like for stills? Is this all they feel? She has envied their normalcy her whole life, until
now.
But. As Edki walks toward her with the poniard ready, there is a tightness around his eyes, a grim
set to his mouth, which makes her think of how she feels when she has a bad headache. This is what
makes her blurt: A-are you, ah, all right? She has no idea why she asks this.
At this, Edki cocks his head; the smile returns to his face, gentle and surprised. How kind you are.
Im fine, little one. Just fine. But hes still coming at her.
She scrambles backward again, tries to get to her feet again, tries again to reach for power, and
fails in all three efforts. Even if she could succeed, thoughhes a Guardian. Its her duty to obey. Its
her duty to die, if he wills it.
This is not right.
Please, she says, desperate, wild with it. Please, we havent done anything wrong, I dont
understand, I dont
You need not understand, he says, with perfect kindness. You need do only one thing. And then
he lunges, aiming the poniard at her chest.
Later she will understand the sequence of events.
Later she will realize everything occurred in the span of a gasp. For now, however, it is slow. The
passage of time becomes meaningless. She is aware only of the glassknife, huge and sharp, its facets
gleaming in the fading dusk. It seems to come at her gradually, gracefully, drawing out her duty-
bound terror.
This has never been right.
She is aware only of the gritty wood beneath her fingers, and the useless pittance of warmth and
movement that is all she can sess beneath that. Cant shift much more than a pebble with that.
She is aware of Alabaster, twitching because he is convulsing, how did she not realize this before,
he is not in control of his own body, there is something about the glassknife in his shoulder that has
rendered him helpless for all his power, and the look on his face is of helpless fear and agony.
She becomes aware that she is angry. Furious. Duty be damned. What this Guardian is doing, what
all Guardians do, is not right.
And then
And then
And then
She becomes aware of the obelisk.
(Alabaster, twitching harder, opens his mouth wider, his eyes fixing on hers despite the
uncontrollability of the rest of his flesh. The fleeting memory of his warning rings in her mind,
though in that instant she cannot recall the words.)
The knife is halfway to her heart. She is very very aware of this.
We are the gods in chains and this is not. Rusting. Right.
So she reaches again, not down but up, not straight but to the side
No, Alabaster is shaping his mouth to say, through his twitches.
and the obelisk draws her into its shivering, jittering bloodred light. She is falling up. She is
being dragged up, and in. She is completely out of control, oh Father Earth, Alabaster was right, this
thing is too much for her
and she screams because she has forgotten that this obelisk is broken. It hurts as she grinds
across the zone of damage, each of the cracks seaming through her and shattering her and splitting
her into pieces, until
until she stops, hovering and curled in agony, amid the cracked redness.
It isnt real. It cannot be real. She feels herself also lying on sandy wooden boards with fading
sunlight on her skin. She does not feel the Guardians glassknife, or at least not yet. But she is here,
too. And she sees, though sessapinae are not eyes and the sight is all in her imagination:
The stone eater at the core of the obelisk floats before her.
Its her first time being close to one. All the books say that stone eaters are neither male nor
female, but this one resembles a slender young man formed of white-veined black marble, clothed in
smooth robes of iridescent opal. Itshis?limbs, marbled and polished, splay as if frozen in mid-
fall. His head is flung back, his hair loose and curling behind him in a splash of translucence. The
cracks spread over his skin and the stiff illusion of his clothing, into him, through him.
Are you all right? she wonders, and she has no idea why she wonders it, even as she herself cracks
apart. His flesh is so terribly fissured; she wants to hold her breath, lest she damage him further. But
that is irrational, because she isnt here and this isnt real. She is on a street about to die, but this stone
eater has been dead for an age of the world.
The stone eater closes his mouth, and opens his eyes, and lowers his head to look at her. Im
fine, he says. Thank you for asking.
And then
the obelisk
shatters.
 15
youre among friends

YOU REACH THE PLACE WITH all the orogenes, and its not at all what you were expecting. Its
abandoned, for one thing. Its not a comm, for another.
Not in any real sense of the word. The road gets wider as you approach, flattening into the land
until it vanishes completely near the middle of town. A lot of comms do this, get rid of the road to
encourage travelers to stop and trade, but those comms usually have some place to trade in, and you
cant see anything here that looks like a storefront or marketplace or even an inn. Worse, it doesnt
have a wall. Not a stone pile, not a wire fence, not even a few sharpened sticks jabbed into the ground
around the town perimeter. Theres nothing to separate this community from the land around it, which
is forested and covered in scraggly underbrush that makes perfect cover for an attacking force.
But in addition to the towns apparent abandonment, and lack of a wall, there are other oddities.
Lots of them, you notice as you and the others look around. There arent enough fields, for one. A
comm that can hold a few hundred people, as this one seems to be able to do, should have more than
the single (stripped bare) hectare of scraggly choya stalks that you noticed on the way in. It should
have a bigger pasture than the small plot of dried-out green you see near the towns center. You dont
see a storehouse, either, elevated or otherwise. Okay, maybe thats hidden; lots of comms do that. But
then you notice that all the buildings are in wildly varied styles: this one tall and city-narrow, that one
wide and flat to the ground like something from a warmer climate, yet another that looks to be a sod-
covered dome half set into the earth like your old house in Tirimo. Theres a reason most comms
pick a style and stick to it: Uniformity sends a visual message. It warns potential attackers that the
comms members are equally unified in purpose and the willingness to defend themselves. This
comms visual message is confused. Uncaring, maybe. Something you cant interpret. Something
that makes you more nervous than if the comm had been teeming with hostile people instead.
You and the others proceed warily, slowly, through the empty streets of the town. Tonkees not
even pretending to be at ease. Shes got twin glassknives in her hands, stark and black-bladed; you
dont know where shes been hiding them although that skirt of hers could conceal an army. Hoa
seems calm, but who can really tell what Hoa feels? He seemed calm when he turned a kirkhusa into a
statue, too.
You dont pull your knife. If there really are lots of roggas here, theres only one weapon that will
save you if they take exception to your presence.
 You sure this is the right place? you say to Hoa.
Hoa nods emphatically. Which means that there are lots of people here; theyre just hiding. But
why? And how could they have seen you coming through the ashfall?
Cant have been gone long, Tonkee mutters. Shes staring at a dead garden near one of the
houses. Its been picked over by travelers or the former inhabitants, anything edible among its dried
stalks gone. These houses look in good repair. And that garden was healthy until a couple of months
ago.
Youre momentarily surprised to realize youve been on the road for two months. Two months
since Uche. A little less since the ash started to fall.
Then, swiftly, you focus on the here and now. Because after the three of you stop in the middle of
town and stand there awhile in confusion, the door of one of the nearby buildings opens, and three
women come out on the porch.
The first one you pay attention to has a crossbow in her hands. For a minute thats all you see,
same as that last day in Tirimo, but you dont immediately ice her because the crossbow isnt aimed at
you. Shes just got it leaned against one arm, and although theres a look on her face that warns you
she has no problem using it, you also think she wont do it without provocation. Her skin is almost as
white as Hoas, although thankfully her hair is simply yellow and her eyes are a nice normal brown.
Shes petite, small-boned and poorly fleshed and narrow-hipped in a way that would prompt the
average Equatorial to make snide remarks about bad breeding. An Antarctic, probably from a comm
too poor to feed its kids well. Shes a long way from home.
The one who draws your eye next is nearly her opposite, and quite possibly the most intimidating
woman youve ever seen. It has nothing to do with her looks. Those are just Sanzed: the expected pouf
of slate-gray hair and the expected deep brown skin and the expected size and visible strength of
build. Her eyes are shockingly blackshocking not because black eyes are particularly rare, but
because shes wearing smoky gray eyeshadow and dark eyeliner to accentuate them further. Makeup,
while the world is ending. You dont know whether to be awed or affronted by that.
And she wields those black-clad eyes like piercing weapons, holding each of your gazes at
eyepoint for an instant before finally examining the rest of your gear and clothing. Shes not quite as
tall as Sanzeds like their womenshorter than youbut shes wearing a thick brown-fur vest that
hangs to her ankles. The vest sort of makes her look like a small, yet fashionable, bear. Theres
something in her face, though, that makes you flinch a little. Youre not sure what it is. Shes grinning,
showing all her teeth; her gaze is steady, neither welcoming nor uneasy. Its the steadiness that you
recognize, finally, from seeing it a few times before: confidence. That kind of utter, unflinching
embrace of self is common in stills, but you werent expecting to see it here.
Because shes a rogga, of course. You know your own when you sess it. And she knows you.
All right, the woman says, putting her hands on her hips. How many in your party, three? I
assume you dont want to be parted.
You sort of stare at her for a breath or two. Hello, you say at last. Uh.
Ykka, she says. You realize its a name. Then she adds, Ykka Rogga Castrima. Welcome. And
you are?
You blurt: Rogga? You use this word all the time, but hearing it like this, as a use name,
emphasizes its vulgarity. Naming yourself rogga is like naming yourself pile of shit. Its a slap in the
face. Its a statementof what, you cant tell.
That, ah, isnt one of the seven common use names, says Tonkee. Her voice is wry; you think
shes trying to make a joke to cover nerves. Or even one of the five lesser-accepted ones.
 Lets call this one new. Ykkas gaze flickers over each of your companions, assessing, then back
to you. So your friends know what you are.
Startled, you look at Tonkee, whos staring at Ykka the way she stares at Hoa when Hoa isnt
hiding behind youas if Ykka is a fascinating new mystery to maybe get a blood sample from.
Tonkee meets your gaze for a moment with such an utter lack of surprise or fear that you realize
Ykkas right; she probably figured it out sometime ago.
Rogga as a use name. Tonkees thoughtful as she focuses on Ykka again. So many implications
to that one. And Castrima; thats not one of the Imperial Registry-listed Somidlats comm names,
either, although Ill admit I might just have forgotten it. Theres hundreds, after all. I dont think I
have, though; Ive got a good memory. This a newcomm?
Ykka inclines her head, partly in affirmation and partly in ironic acknowledgment of Tonkees
fascination. Technically. This version of Castrima has been around for maybe fifty years. It isnt
really a comm at all, officiallyjust another lodging stop for people heading along the Yumenes
Mecemera and YumenesKetteker routes. We get more business than most because there are mines in
the area.
She pauses then, gazing at Hoa, and for a moment her expression tightens. You look at Hoa, too,
puzzled, because granted, hes strange-looking, but youre not sure what hes done to merit that kind
of tension from a stranger. Thats when you finally notice that Hoa has gone utterly still, and his little
face has sharpened from its usual cheerfulness into something taut and angry and almost feral. Hes
glaring at Ykka like he wants to kill her.
No. Not Ykka. You follow his gaze to the third member of Ykkas party, whos stayed slightly
behind the other two till now, and whom you havent really paid attention to because Ykkas so eye-
catching. A tall, slender womanand then you stop, frowning, because all at once youre not sure
about that designation. The female part, sure; her hair is Antarctic-lank and deep red in color,
decoratively long, framing features that are finely lined. Its clear she means to be read as a woman,
though shes only wearing a long, loose sleeveless gown that should be far too thin for the cooling
air.
But her skin. Youre staring, its rude, not the best way to start things off with these people, but you
cant help it. Her skin. Its not just smooth, its glossy, sort of. Almost polished. Shes either got the
most amazing complexion youve ever seen, oror that isnt skin.
The red-haired woman smiles, and the sight of her teeth confirms it even as you shiver to your
bones.
Hoa hisses like a cat in reply to that smile. And as he does so, finally, terribly, you see his teeth
clearly for the first time. He never eats in front of you, after all. He never shows them when he smiles.
Theyre colored in where hers are transparent, enamel-white as a kind of camouflagebut not so
different from the red-haired womans in shape. Not squared but faceted. Diamondine.
Evil Earth, mutters Tonkee. You feel that she speaks for the both of you.
Ykka glances sharply at her companion. No.
The red-haired womans eyes flick toward Ykka. No other part of her moves, the rest of her body
remaining stock-still. Statue-still. It can be done without harm to you or your companions. Her
mouth doesnt move, either. The voice sounds oddly hollow, echoing up from somewhere inside her
chest.
I dont want anything done. Ykka puts her hands on her hips. This my place, and youve
agreed to abide by my rules. Back off.
The blond woman shifts a little. She doesnt bring the crossbow up, but you think shes ready to do
so at a moments notice. For whatever good that will do. The red-haired woman doesnt move for a
moment, and then she closes her mouth to hide those awful diamond teeth. As she does this, you
realize several things at once. The first is that she wasnt actually smiling. It was a threat display, like
the way a kirkhusa draws back its lips to bare its fangs. The second is that with her mouth closed and
that placid expression, she looks far less unnerving.
The third realization you have is that Hoa was making the same threat display. But he relaxes, and
closes his mouth, as the red-haired woman eases back.
Ykka exhales. She focuses on you again.
I think perhaps, she says, youd better come inside.
Im not sure thats the best idea in the world, Tonkee says to you, pleasantly.
Neither am I, says the blond woman, glaring at Ykkas head. You sure about that, Yeek?
Ykka shrugs, though you think shes not nearly as nonchalant as she seems. When am I sure about
anything? But it seems like a good idea, for now.
Youre not sure you agree. Stillstrange comm or not, mythical creatures or not, unpleasant
surprises or not, you came here for a reason.
Did a man and a girl come through here? you ask. Father and daughter. The man would be
about my age, the girl eight Two months. Youve almost forgotten. Nine years old. She You
falter. Stutter. Sh-she looks like me.
Ykka blinks, and you realize youve genuinely surprised her. Clearly she was braced for entirely
different questions. No, she says, and
and theres a sort of skip inside you.
It hurts to hear that simple no. It hits like a hachet blow, and the salt in the wound is Ykkas look
of honest perplexity. That means shes not lying. You flinch and sway with the impact, with the death
of all your hopes. It occurs to you through a haze of floating not-quite-thought that youve been
expecting something since Hoa told you about this place. You were beginning to think you would find
them here, have a daughter again, be a mother again. Now you know better.
SEssun? Hands grasp your forearms. Whose? Tonkee. Her hands are rough with hard living.
You hear her calluses rasp on the leather of your jacket. Essunoh, rust, dont.
Youve always known better. How dare you expect anything else? Youre just another filthy, rusty-
souled rogga, just another agent of the Evil Earth, just another mistake of sensible breeding practices,
just another mislaid tool. You should never have had children in the first place, and you shouldnt
have expected to keep them once you did, and whys Tonkee pulling on your arms?
Because youve lifted your hands to your face. Oh, and youve burst into tears.
You should have told Jija, before you ever married him, before you slept with him, before you
even looked at him and thought maybe, which you had no right to ever think. Then if the urge to kill a
rogga had hit him, he wouldve inflicted it on you, not Uche. Youre the one who deserves to die,
after all, ten thousand times the population of two comms.
Also, you might be screaming a little.
You shouldnt be screaming. You should be dead. You should have died before your children. You
should have died at birth, and never lived to bear them.
You should have
You should have
Something sweeps through you.
It feels a little like the wave of force that came down from the north, and which you shunted away,
on that day the world changed. Or maybe a little like the way you felt when you walked into the house
after a tiring day and saw your boy lying on the floor. A waft of potential, passing on unutilized. The
brush of something intangible but meaningful, there and gone, as shocking by its absence as its
existence in the first place.
You blink and lower your hands. Your eyes are blurry and they hurt; the heels of your hands are
wet. Ykka is off the porch and standing in front of you, just a couple of feet away. Shes not touching
you, but you stare at her anyway, realizing she just didsomething. Something you dont understand.
Orogeny, certainly, but deployed in a way youve never experienced before.
Hey, she says. Theres nothing like compassion on her face. Still, her voice is softer as she
speaks to youthough maybe thats only because shes closer. Hey. You okay now?
You swallow. Your throat hurts. No, you say. (That word again! You almost giggle, but you
swallow and the urge vanishes.) No. But Im I can keep it together.
Ykka nods slowly. See that you do. Beyond her, the blond woman looks skeptical about the
possibility of this.
Then, with a heavy sigh, Ykka turns to Tonkee and Hoathe latter of whom looks deceptively
calm and normal now. Normal by Hoa standards, anyway.
All right, then, she says. Heres how it is. You can stay or you can go. If you decide to stay, Ill
take you into the comm. But you need to know up front: Castrima is something unique. Were trying
something very different here. If this Season turns out to be short, then were going to be up a lava
lake when Sanze comes down on us. But I dont think this Season will be short.
She glances at you, sidelong, not quite for confirmation. Confirmations not the word for it, since
there was never doubt. Any rogga knows it like they know their own name.
This Season wont be short, you agree. Your voice is hoarse, but youre recovering. It will last
decades. Ykka lifts an eyebrow. Yeah, shes right; youre trying to be gentle for the sake of your
companions, and they dont need gentleness. They need truth. Centuries.
Even thats an understatement. Youre pretty sure this one will last at least a thousand years. Maybe
a few thousand.
Tonkee frowns a little. Well, everything does point to either a major epeirogenic deformation, or
possibly just a simple disruption of isostasy throughout the entire plate network. But the amount of
orogenesis needed to overcome that much inertia is prohibitive. Are you sure?
Youre staring at her, grief momentarily forgotten. Sos Ykka, and the blond woman. Tonkee
grimaces in irritation, glowering particularly at you. Oh, for rusts sake, stop acting all surprised.
The secrets are done now, right? You know what I am and I know what you are. Do we have to keep
pretending?
You shake your head, though youre not really responding to her question. You decide to answer
her other question instead. Im sure, you say. Centuries. Maybe more.
Tonkee flinches. No comm has stores enough to last that long. Not even Yumenes.
Yumeness fabled vast storecaches are slag in a lava tube somewhere. Part of you mourns the
waste of all that food. Part of you figures, well, that much quicker and more merciful an end for the
human race.
When you nod, Tonkee falls into a horrified silence. Ykka looks from you to Tonkee, and
apparently decides to change the subject.
There are twenty-two orogenes here, she says. You flinch. I expect there will be more as time
passes. You all right with that? She looks at Tonkee in particular.
As subject changes go, its perfect for distracting everyone. How? asks Tonkee at once. How
are you making them come here?
 Never mind that. Answer the question.
You couldve told Ykka not to bother. Im fine with it, Tonkee says immediately. Youre
surprised shes not visibly salivating. So much for her shock over the inevitable death of humanity.
All right. Ykka turns to Hoa. And you. There are a few others of your kind here, too.
More than you think, Hoa says, very softly.
Yeah. Well. Ykka takes this with remarkable aplomb. You heard how it is. If you want to stay
here, you follow the rules. No fighting. No She waggles her fingers and bares her teeth. This is
surprisingly comprehensible. And you do as I say. Got it?
Hoa cocks his head a little, his eyes glittering in pure menace. Its as shocking to see as his
diamond teeth; youd started thinking of him as a rather sweet creature, if a bit eccentric. Now youre
not sure what to think. You dont command me.
Ykka, to your greater amazement, leans over and puts her face right in front of his.
Let me put it this way, she says. You can keep doing what youve obviously been doing, trying
to be as avalanche-subtle as your kind ever gets, or I can start telling everyone what all of you are
really up to.
And Hoa flinches. His eyesonly his eyesflick toward the not-woman on the porch. The one
on the porch smiles again, though she doesnt show her teeth this time, and theres a rueful edge to it.
You dont know what any of this means, but Hoa seems to sag a little.
Very well, he says to Ykka, with an odd formality. I agree to your terms.
Ykka nods and straightens, letting her gaze linger on him for a moment longer before she turns
away.
What I was going to say before your little, ah, moment, was that weve taken in a few people,
she says to you. She says this over her shoulder, as she turns and walks back up the steps of the house.
No men traveling with girls, I dont think, but other travelers looking for a place, including some
from Cebak Quartent. We adopted them if we thought they were useful. Its what any smart comm
does at times like these: kicking out the undesirable, taking in those with valuable skills and attributes.
The comms that have strong leaders do this systematically, ruthlessly, with some degree of cold
humanity. Less well-run comms do it just as ruthlessly but more messily, like the way Tirimo got rid
of you.
Jijas just a stoneknapper. Useful, but knappings not exactly a rare skill. Nassun, though, is like
you and Ykka. And for some reason, the people of this comm seem to want orogenes around.
I want to meet those people, you say. Theres a slim chance that Jija or Nassun is in disguise. Or
that someone else might have seen them, on the road. Or that well. It really is a slim chance.
Youll take it, though. Shes your daughter. Youll take anything, to find her.
All right, then. Ykka turns and beckons. Come on in, and Ill show you a marvel or three. As if
she hasnt already done so. But you move to follow her, because neither myths nor mysteries can hold
a candle to the most infinitesimal spark of hope.
* * *
The body fades. A leader who would last relies on more.
Tablet Three, Structures, verse two
 16
Syen in the hidden land

SYENITE WAKES UP COLD ON one side of her body. Its her left sidehip and shoulder and most of her
back. The source of the cold, a sharp wind, blows almost painfully through the hair all along the back
of her skull, which means her hair must have come loose from its Fulcrum-regulation bun. Also,
theres a taste like dirt in her mouth, though her tongue is dry.
She tries to move and hurts all over, dully. Its a strange kind of pain, not localized, not throbbing
or sharp or anything that specific. More like her whole body is one big bruise. She groans
inadvertently as she wills a hand to move and finds hard ground beneath it. She pushes against it
enough to feel like shes in control of herself again, though she doesnt actually manage to get up. All
she does successfully is open her eyes.
Crumbling silvery stone beneath her hand and in front of her face: monzonite, maybe, or one of
the lesser schists. She can never remember the subvolcanic rocks because the grit instructor for
geomestry back at the Fulcrum was unbelievably boring. A few feet away, the whatever-it-is stone is
broken by clovers and a scraggle of grass and some kind of bushy-leafed weed. (She paid even less
attention in biomestry.) The plants stir restlessly in the wind, though not much, because her body
shields them from the worst of it.
Blow that, she thinks, and is pushed awake by mild shock at her own mental crudeness.
She sits up. It hurts and its hard to do, but she does it, and this allows her to see that shes lying on
a gentle slope of rock, surrounded by more weeds. Beyond that is the unbroken expanse of the lightly
clouded sky. Theres an ocean smell, but its different from what shes gotten used to in the past few
weeks: less briny, more rarefied. The air is drier. The suns position makes it late morning, and the
cold feels like late winter.
But it should be late afternoon. And Allia is Equatorial; the temperature should be balmy. And the
cold, hard ground shes lying on should be warm, sandy ground. So where the burning rusty fuck is
she?
Okay. She can figure this out. The rock shes lying on sesses high above sea level, relatively close
to a familiar boundary: Thats the edge of the Maximal, one of the two main tectonic plates that make
up the Stillness. The Minimals way up north. And shes sessed this plate edge before: Theyre not far
from Allia.
But theyre not in Allia. In fact, theyre not on the continent at all.
 Reflexively Syenite tries to do more than just sess, reaching toward the plate edge as shes done a
few times before
and nothing happens.
She sits there for a moment, more chilled than the wind can account for.
But she is not alone. Alabaster lies curled nearby, his long limbs folded fetal, either unconscious
or dead. No; his side rises and falls, slowly. Okay, thats good.
Beyond him, at the top of the slope, stands a tall, slender figure clad in a white flowing robe.
Startled, Syen freezes for a moment. Hello? Her voice is a croak.
The figurea woman, Syen guessesdoes not turn. Shes looking away, at something over the
rise that Syenite cannot see. Hello.
Well, thats a start. Syen forces herself to relax, although this is difficult when she cannot reach
toward the earth for the reassurance of power. Theres no reason to be alarmed, she chides herself;
whoever this woman is, if shed wanted to harm them, she could have easily done so by now. Where
are we?
An island, perhaps a hundred miles off the eastern coast.
An island? Thats terrifying. Islands are death traps. The only worse places to live are atop fault
lines and in dormant-but-not-extinct volcano calderas. But yes, now Syenite hears the distant sough of
waves rolling against rocks, somewhere below the slope on which they lie. If theyre only a hundred
miles from the Maximals edge, then that puts them entirely too close to an underwater fault line.
Basically on top of it. This is why people dont live on islands, for Earths sake; they could die in a
tsunami any minute.
She gets to her feet, suddenly desperate to see how bad the situation is. Her legs are stiff from
lying on stone, but she stumbles around Alabaster anyway until shes standing on the slope beside the
woman. There she sees:
Ocean, as far as the eye can see, open and unbroken. The rock slope drops off sharply a few feet
from where shes standing, becoming a sheer jagged cliff that stands some few hundred feet above the
sea. When she eases up to that edge and looks down, froth swirls about knifelike rocks far below;
falling means death. Quickly she steps back.
How did we get here? she whispers, horrified.
I brought you.
You Syenite rounds on the woman, anger already spiking through shock. Then the anger dies,
leaving the shock to reign uncontested.
Make a statue of a woman: not tall, hair in a simple bun, elegant features, a graceful pose. Leave its
skin and clothing the color of old warm ivory, but dab in deeper shading at irises and hairblack in
both casesand at the fingertips. The color here is a faded and rusty gradient, ground in like dirt. Or
blood.
A stone eater.
Evil Earth, Syenite whispers. The woman does not respond.
There is a groan behind them that forestalls anything else Syenite might have said. (But what can
she say? What?) She tears her eyes from the stone eater and focuses on Alabaster, whos stirring and
clearly feeling no better than Syenite about it. But she ignores him for the moment as she finally
thinks of something to say.
Why? she asks. Why did you bring us here?
To keep him safe.
Its just like the lorists say. The stone eater s mouth doesnt open when she speaks. Her eyes dont
move. She might as well be the statue she appears to be. Then sense reasserts itself, and Syenite
notices what the creature has said. To keep him safe? Again, the stone eater does not reply.
Alabaster groans again, so Syenite finally goes to him, helping him sit up as he begins to stir. His
shirt pulls at the shoulder and he hisses, and belatedly she remembers the Guardians throwing knife.
Its gone now, but the shallow wound is stuck to the cloth of his shirt with dried blood. He swears as
he opens his eyes. Decaye, shisex unrelabbemet. Its the strange language shes heard him use
before.
Speak Sanze-mat, she snaps, though shes not really irritated with him. She keeps her eyes on the
stone eater, but the stone eater continues not to move.
Flaking, fucking rust, he says, grabbing at the injured area. Hurts.
Syenite swats his hand away. Dont bother it. You might reopen the wound. And they are
hundreds of miles from civilization, separated from it by water as far as the eye can see in most
directions. At the mercy of a creature whose race is the very definition of enigmatic, and also deadly.
Weve got company.
Alabaster comes fully awake, blinking at Syenite and then looking beyond her; his eyes widen a
little at the sight of the stone eater. Then he groans. Shit. Shit. What have you done this time?
Somehow, Syenite is not entirely surprised to realize Alabaster knows a stone eater.
Ive saved your life, the stone eater says.
What?
The stone eater s arm rises, so steadily that the motion surpasses graceful and edges into
unnatural. No other part of her moves. Shes pointing. Syenite turns to follow the gesture and sees the
western horizon. But this horizon is broken, unlike the rest: Theres a flat line of sea and sky to the
left and right, but at the midpoint of this line is a pimple, fat and red-glowing and smoky.
Allia, says the stone eater.
* * *
Theres a village on the island, it turns out. The island is nothing but rolling hills and grass and solid
rockno trees, no topsoil. An utterly useless place to live. And yet as they reach the other side of the
island, where the cliffs are a bit less jagged, they see another semicircular cove not unlike the one at
Allia. (Not unlike the one that was at Allia.) The similarity stops there, howeverbecause this harbor
is much smaller, and this village is carved directly into the sheer cliff face.
Its hard to tell at first. Initially Syen thinks that what shes seeing are the mouths of caverns,
irregularly dotting the jagged rock face. Then she realizes the cave mouths are all uniformly shaped,
even if they vary in size: straight lines across the bottom of the opening and up its sides, arching to a
graceful point across the top. And around each opening, someone has carved out the facade of a
building: elegant pillars, a beveled rectangle of a doorway, elaborate corbels of curled flowers and
cavorting animals. Shes seen stranger. Not much, grantedbut living in Yumenes, in the shadow of
the Black Star and the Imperial Palace that crowns it, and in the Fulcrum with its walls of molded
obsidian, makes one inured to oddities of art and architecture.
She doesnt have a name, Alabaster tells her as they walk down a set of railed stone steps theyve
found, which seem to wend toward the village. Hes talking about the stone eater, who left them at the
top of the steps. (Syen looked away for a moment and when she glanced back the stone eater was
gone. Alabaster has assured her that she is still nearby. How he knows this, Syen isnt sure she wants
to know.)
I call her Antimony. You know, because shes mostly white? Its a metal instead of stone, because
shes not a rogga, and anyway Alabaster was taken.
Cute. And sheitanswers to that.
She does. He glances back at Syenite, which is a precarious sort of thing to do considering the
steps here are very, very sheer. Even though theres a railing, anyone who takes a header down these
stairs is likely to just flip over the railing and fall to a messy death down the rock face. She doesnt
mind it, anyway, and I figure shed object if she did.
Why did she bring us here? To save them. All right, they can see Allia smoking, over the water.
But Antimonys kind usually ignores and avoids humankind, unless humans piss them off.
Alabaster shakes his head, focusing on his footing again. Theres no why to anything they do.
Or if there is, they never bother telling us. Ive stopped asking, frankly; waste of breath. Antimony has
been coming to me for the past, hmm, five years? Usually when no one else is around. He makes a
soft, rueful sound. I used to think I was hallucinating her.
Yes, well. And she doesnt tell you anything?
She just says shes here for me. I cant decide whether its a supportive statementyou know,
Im here for you, Baster, Ill always love you, never mind that Im a living statue that only looks
like a pretty woman, Ive got your backor something more sinister. Does it matter, though? If she
saved our lives?
Syen supposes not. And where is she now?
Gone.
Syen resists the urge to kick him down the steps. Into, ah She knows what shes read, but it
does seem sort of absurd to say it aloud. Into the earth?
I suppose so. They move through rock like its air; Ive seen them do it. He pauses on one of the
stairs frequent landings, which almost makes Syenite run into the back of him. You do know thats
probably how she got us here, right?
Its something Syens been trying not to think about. Even the idea of being touched by the stone
eater is unnerving. To think further of being carried by the creature, dragged down beneath miles of
solid rock and ocean: She cannot help shuddering. A stone eater is a thing that defies reasonlike
orogeny, or deadciv artifacts, or anything else that cannot be measured and predicted in a way that
makes sense. But where orogeny can be understood (somewhat) and controlled (with effort), and
where deadciv artifacts can at least be avoided until they rise from the rusting ocean right in front of
you, stone eaters do as they please, go where they will. Lorists tales are generous with warnings
regarding these creatures; no one tries to stop them.
This thought makes Syen herself stop, and Alabaster continues for another flight before he
realizes shes not following. The stone eater, she says, when he turns back to her with an annoyed
look. The one in the obelisk.
Not the same one, he says, with the sort of patience one reserves for people who are being
particularly stupid but dont deserve to be told that to their faces because theyve had a hard day. I
told you, Ive known this one awhile.
That isnt what I meant. You idiot. The stone eater that was in the obelisk looked at me, before
before. It moved. It wasnt dead.
Alabaster stares at her. When did you see this?
I She gestures, helplessly. There arent words for it. There was it was when I I think I
saw it. Or maybe she hallucinated it. Some kind of life-flashing-before-her-eyes vision, triggered by
the Guardians knife? It felt so real.
Alabaster regards her for a long moment, his mobile face still in that way she is beginning to
associate with his disapproval. You did something that shouldve killed you. It didnt, but only
because of sheer dumb luck. If you saw things Im not surprised.
Syenite nods, not protesting his assessment. She felt the obelisks power in those moments. It
would have killed her, had it been whole. As it is, she feels burned, sort of numb, in its wake. Is that
why she cant work orogeny anymore? Or is that the lingering effect of whatever the Guardian did?
What happened back there? she asks him, frustrated. Theres so much that makes no sense in all
of this. Why did someone try to kill Alabaster? Why did a Guardian come to finish the job? What did
any of that have to do with the obelisk? Why are they here, on a death-trap island in the middle of the
rusting sea? Whats happening now? Baster, Earth eat us, you know more than youre saying.
His expression grows pained, but he finally sighs and folds his arms. I dont, you know.
Whatever you might think, I really dont have all the answers. I have no idea why you think I do.
Because he knows so much else that she doesnt. And because hes a ten-ringer: He can do things
she cant imagine, cant even describe, and some part of her thinks he can probably understand things
she cant, too. You knew about that Guardian.
Yes. Now he looks angry, though not at her. Ive run into that kind before. But I dont know why
he was there. I can only guess.
Thats better than nothing!
He looks exasperated. Okay, then. A guess: Someone, or many someones, knew about that broken
obelisk in Allias harbor. Whoever that was, they also knew that a ten-ringer would likely notice the
thing the instant he started sessing around down there. And since all it took to reactivate it was a four-
ringer sessing around, it stands to reason that these mysterious Someones had no idea just how
sensitive, or how dangerous, the obelisk really was. Or neither you nor I would ever have made it to
Allia alive.
Syenite frowns, putting a hand on the railing to steady herself when an especially harsh gust of
wind soughs up the cliff walls. Someones.
Groups. Factions, in some conflict we know nothing about and have only blundered into through
sheer dumb luck.
Factions of Guardians?
He snorts derisively. You say that like its impossible. Do all roggas have the same goals, Syen?
Do all stills? Even the stone eaters probably have their spats with one another.
And Earth only knows what thats like. So one of these, ah, factions, dispatched thatGuardian
to kill us. No. Not once Syenite had told the Guardian that shed been the one to activate the obelisk.
To kill me.
Alabaster nods, somber. I imagine hes the one who poisoned me, too, thinking Id be the one to
trigger the obelisk. Guardians dont like to discipline us where the stills can see, if they can avoid it;
might earn us inappropriate public sympathy. That broad-daylight attack was a last resort. He shrugs,
frowning as he considers it. I guess were lucky he didnt try to poison you instead. Even for me, it
shouldve worked. Paralysis of any kind tends to affect the sessapinae, too; I wouldve been
completely helpless. If.
If he hadnt been able to summon power from the amethyst obelisk, harnessing Syenites
sessapinae to do what his could not. Now that Syen better understands what he did that night, its
somehow worse. She cocks her head at him. No one really knows what youre capable of, do they?
Alabaster sighs a little, looking away. I dont even know what Im capable of, Syen. The things
the Fulcrum taught me I had to leave them behind, past a certain point. I had to make my own
training. And sometimes, it seems, if I can just think differently, if I can shed enough of what they
taught me and try something new, I might He trails off, frowning in thought. I dont know. I
really dont. But I guess its just as well that I dont, or the Guardians wouldve killed me a long time
ago.
Its half-babble, but Syenite sighs in understanding. So who has the ability to send killer
Guardians out to, to Hunt down ten-ringers. Scare the piss out of four-ringers.
All Guardians are killers, he snaps, bitterly. As for who has the power to command a Guardian
forth, I have no idea. Alabaster shrugs. Rumor has it the Guardians answer to the Emperor
supposedly the Guardians are the last bit of power he possesses. Or maybe thats a lie, and the
Yumenes Leadership families control them like they do everything else. Or are they controlled by the
Fulcrum itself? No idea.
I heard they controlled themselves, Syen says. Its probably just grit gossip.
Maybe. The Guardians are certainly as quick to kill stills as roggas when it comes to maintaining
their secrets, or if a still just gets in their way. If they have a hierarchy, only the Guardians themselves
recognize it. As for how they do what they do He takes a deep breath. Its some sort of surgical
procedure. Theyre all the children of roggas, but not roggas themselves, because theres something
about their sessapinae that makes this procedure work better on them. Theres an implant involved.
Into the brain. Earth knows how they learned that, or when they started doing it, but it gives them the
ability to negate orogeny. And other abilities. Worse ones.
Syenite flinches, remembering the sound of ripping tendons. The palm of her hand stings sharply.
He didnt try to kill you, though, she says. Shes looking at his shoulder, which is still visibly
darker colored than the cloth around it, though the walk has probably loosened the dried blood so it
no longer sticks to the wound. Theres a bit of fresh dampness there; its bleeding again, but
thankfully not much. That knife
Alabaster nods grimly. A Guardian specialty. Their knives look like ordinary blow glass, but they
arent. Theyre like the Guardians themselves, somehow disrupting whatever it is in an orogene that
makes us what we are. He shudders. Never knew how it felt before; it hurt like Earthfire. And no,
he says quickly, forestalling Syens open mouth, I dont know why he hit me with it. Hed already
stilled us both; I was just as helpless as you.
And that. Syenite licks her lips. Can you are you still
Yes. It goes away after a few days. He smiles at her look of relief. I told you, Ive run into
Guardians like that before.
Why did you tell me not to let him touch me? With his skin?
Alabaster goes silent. Syenite thinks at first hes just being stubborn again, then she really looks at
his expression and sees the shadows in it. After a moment, he blinks. I knew another ten-ringer, when
I was younger. When I was He was a mentor, sort of. Like Feldspar is, for you.
Feldspar isntnever mind.
He ignores her anyway, lost in memory. I dont know why it happened. But one day we were
walking the Ring, just out enjoying a nice evening He falters abruptly, then looks at her with a
wry, if pained, expression. We were looking for someplace to be alone.
Oh. Maybe that explains a few things. I see, she says unnecessarily.
He nods, unnecessarily. Anyway, this Guardian shows up. Shirtless, like the one you saw. He
didnt say anything about why hed come, either. He just attacked. I didnt seeit happened fast.
Like in Allia. Baster rubs a hand over his face. He put Hessionite in a choke hold, but not hard
enough to actually choke him. The Guardian needed skin-to-skin contact. Then he just held Hess, and,
and grinned while it happened. Like it was the most beautiful thing in the world, the sick fuck.
 What? She almost doesnt want to know, and yet she does. What does the Guardians skin do?
Alabaster s jaw flexes, the muscles knotting. It turns your orogeny inward. I guess. I dont know a
better way to explain it. But everything inside us that can move apart plates and seal faults and so on,
all that power were born with Those Guardians turn it back on us.
I, I dont But orogeny doesnt work on flesh, not directly. If it did
Oh.
He falls silent. Syenite does not prompt him to go on, this time.
Yeah. So. Alabaster shakes his head, then glances toward the stone-cut cliff village. Shall we go
on?
Its hard to talk, after that story. Baster. She gestures at herself, at her uniform, which is dusty
but still plainly an Imperial Orogenes blackjacket. Neither of us can so much as shake a pebble right
now. We dont know these people.
I know. But my shoulder hurts, and Im thirsty. You see any free-flowing water around here?
No. And no food. And theres no way to swim back to the mainland, not across such a long
expanse. Thats if Syenite knew how to swim, which she doesnt, and if the ocean wasnt teeming with
monsters like the tales say, which it probably is.
Fine, then, she says, and pushes past him to lead the way. Let me talk to them first, so you dont
get us killed. Crazy ruster.
Alabaster chuckles a little as if hes heard her unvoiced thought, but he does not protest, resuming
the descent in her wake.
The stairs level out, eventually, into a smooth-carved walkway that curves along the cliff wall
some hundred feet above the highest waterline. Syen figures that means the comm is safe from
tsunami because of its elevation. (She cant be sure, of course. All this water is still strange to her.) It
also almost makes up for the lack of a protective wallalthough, all things considered, the ocean
makes for a pretty effective barrier between these people and anyone from outside their comm, if it
can be called that. There are a dozen or so boats docked below, bobbing at jetties that look as though
theyre made of piled stone overlaid haphazardly with boardsugly and primitive in comparison
with Allias neat piers and pylons, but effective. And the boats are strange-looking too, at least
compared to the boats shes seen: Some are simple, elegant things that look as if they might have been
carved whole from tree trunks, braced on each side by some sort of strut. Some are larger and have
sails, but even these are of a completely foreign design to what shes used to seeing.
There are people at and around the boats, some of them carting baskets to and fro, others working
on an elaborate rigging of sails on one of them. They dont look up; Syenite resists the urge to call
down to them. She and Alabaster have already been seen, anyhow. At the first of the cavern mouths up
aheadeach of which is huge, now that theyre on the ground level and can get a good looka
knot of people has begun to gather.
Syenite licks her lips and takes a deep breath as they draw near. They dont look hostile. Hello,
she ventures, and then waits. No one tries to kill her immediately. So far, so good.
The twenty or so people waiting for them mostly look bemused at the sight of her and Alabaster.
The group is mostly children of varying ages, a few younger adults, a handful of elders, and a
leashed kirkhusa that seems friendly, to judge by the wag of its stubby tail. The people are definitely
Eastcoasters, mostly tall and dark like Alabaster though with a sprinkling of paler citizens, and she
spots at least one pouf of ashblow hair lifting in the constant breeze. They also dont look alarmed,
which is good, though Syen gets the distinct impression theyre not used to surprise visitors.
Then an older man with an air of Leadership, or maybe just leadership, steps forward. And says
something completely incomprehensible.
Syen stares at him. She cant even tell what language that is, although its familiar somehow. Then
oh, of rusting courseAlabaster sort of jerks and says something back in the same tongue, and all
at once everyone chuckles and murmurs and relaxes. Except Syenite.
She glares at him. Translation?
I told them you were afraid Id get us killed if I spoke first, he says, and she considers killing
him right then and there.
So it goes. They start talking, the people of this strange village and Alabaster, while Syen cant do
anything but stand there trying not to look frustrated. Alabaster pauses to translate when he can,
though he stumbles over some of what the strangers are saying; theyre all talking really fast. She
gets the impression that hes summarizing. A lot. But it turns out that the comm is called Meov, and the
man who has stepped forward is Harlas, their headman.
Also, theyre pirates.
* * *
Theres no way to grow food here, Alabaster explains. They do what they have to do, to get by.
This is later, after the people of Meov have invited them into the vaulted halls which make up their
comm. Its all inside the cliffunsurprising since the island consists of little more than a straight
column of undifferentiated rockwith some of the caverns natural and others carved by unknown
means. All of it is surprisingly beautiful, too, with artfully vaulted ceilings, aqueduct arches running
along many walls, and enough torch and lantern light that none of it feels claustrophobic. Syen
doesnt like the feel of all that rock hovering overhead and waiting to crush them next time theres a
shake, but if she must be stuck inside a death trap, at least this one is cozy.
The Meovites have put them up in a guesthouseor rather, a house thats been abandoned for a
while and isnt in too much disrepair. She and Alabaster have been given food from the communal
fires, access to the communal baths, and a couple of changes of clothing in the local style. Theyve
even been allotted a modicum of privacythough this is difficult, as curious children keep peeking
through their carved, curtainless windows to giggle at them and then run away. Its almost cute.
Syen sits now on a pile of folded blankets, which seem to have been made for the purpose of
sitting, watching as Alabaster winds a length of clean rag around his injured shoulder, holding the
other end in his teeth for a moment to tighten it into a bandage. He could ask her for help, of course,
but he doesnt, so she doesnt offer.
They dont trade much with the mainland, he continues as he works. All theyve really got to
offer is fish, and the mainland Coaster comms have plenty of that. So Meov raids. They attack vessels
along the main trading routes, or extort comms for protection from attacksyes, their attacks. Dont
ask me how it works; thats just what the headman told me.
It sounds precarious. What are they even doing here? Syen looks around at the rough-carved
walls and ceiling. Its an island. I mean, these caverns are nice, sort of, until the next shake or
tsunami wipes the whole thing off the map. And like you said, theres no way to grow food. Do they
even have storecaches? What happens if theres a Season?
Then theyll die, I guess. Baster shrugs, mostly to settle his newly tied bandage. I asked them
that, too, and they just sort of laughed the question off. You notice this island sits on top of a hot
spot?
Syen blinks. She hadnt noticed, but then her orogeny is as numb as a hammered finger. His is, too,
but the numbness is relative, apparently. How deep?
 Very. Its unlikely to blow anytime soon, or everbut if it ever does, there will be a crater here
instead of islands. He grimaces. Course, thats if a tsunami doesnt get the island first, close as we
are to the plate boundary here. Therere so many ways to die in this place. But they know about all of
themseriouslyand as far as I can tell, they dont care. At least theyll die free, they say.
Free of what? Living?
Sanze. Alabaster grins when Syens mouth falls open. According to Harlas, this comms part of
a string of small island comms all along the archipelagothats the word for a group of islands, if
you didnt knowthat extends from here down almost to the Antarctic, created by that hot spot. Some
of the comms in that chain, this one included, have been around ten Seasons or longer
Bullshit!
and they dont even remember when Meov was founded and, uh, carved, so maybe its older
than that. Theyve been around since before Sanze. And as far as they know, Sanze either doesnt know
or doesnt care that theyre here. They were never annexed. He shakes his head. The Coaster comms
are always accusing each other of hosting the pirates, and no one with sense sails this far out; maybe
nobody knows these island comms are out here. I mean, they probably know the islands exist, but they
must not think anyone would be stupid enough to live on them.
No one should be. Syen shakes her head, amazed at these peoples audacity. When another comm
child pokes her head above the windowsill, blatantly staring at them, Syen cant help smiling, and the
girls eyes grow round as saucers before she bursts out laughing, babbles something in their choppy
language, and then gets pulled away by her comrades. Brave, crazy little thing.
Alabaster chuckles. She said, The mean one actually smiles!
Rusting brat.
I cant believe they are crazy enough to live here, she says, shaking her head. I cant believe
this island hasnt shaken apart, or been blown to slag, or been swamped a hundred times over.
Alabaster shifts a little, looking cagey, and by this Syen knows to brace herself. Well, they
survive in large part because they live on fish and seaweed, see. The oceans dont die during a Season
the way the land or a smaller body of water does. If you can fish, theres always food. I dont think
they even have storecaches. He looks around, thoughtful. If they can keep the place stable against
shakes and blows, then I guess it would be a good place to live.
But how could they
Roggas. He looks at her and grins, and she realizes hes been waiting to tell her this. Thats
how theyve survived all this time. They dont kill their roggas, here. They put them in charge. And
theyre really, really, glad to see us.
* * *
The stone eater is folly made flesh. Learn the lesson of its creation, and beware its gifts.
Tablet Two, The Incomplete Truth, verse seven
 17
Damaya, in finality

THINGS CHANGE. THERE IS AN order to life in the Fulcrum, but the world is never still. A year passes.
After Crack disappears, Maxixe never speaks to Damaya again. When he sees her in the corridors,
or after inspection, he simply turns away. If he catches her looking at him, he scowls. He doesnt catch
her often, though, because she doesnt look at him often. She doesnt mind that he hates her. He was
only a potential friend, anyway. She knows better, now, than to want such a thing, or to believe that
she will ever deserve one.
(Friends do not exist. The Fulcrum is not a school. Grits are not children. Orogenes are not
people. Weapons have no need of friends.)
Still, its hard, because without friends shes bored. The instructors have taught her to read as her
parents did not, but she can only do so much of that before the words start to flip and jitter on the page
like pebbles during a shake. The library doesnt have a lot of books that are just for fun and not
utilitarian, anyway. (Weapons do not need fun, either.) Shes only allowed to practice her orogeny
during Applied, and even though she sometimes lies in her bunk and imagines the lessons over again
for extra practicean orogenes power is in her focus, after alltheres only so much of that she can
do, too.
So to occupy her Free Hour, and any other hour when she isnt busy or sleeping, she wanders
around the Fulcrum.
No one stops grits from doing this. No one guards the grit dormitory during Free Hour or
afterward. The instructors do not enforce a curfew; Free Hour can be Free Night, if a grits willing to
struggle through the next day sleepy. Nor do the adults do anything to prevent the grits from leaving
the building. Any child caught in the Ring Garden, which is off-limits to the unringed, or approaching
the gates that lead out of the Fulcrum, will have to answer to the seniors. But anything less and the
sanctions will be mild, bearable; the usual punishment befitting the crime. Thats it.
No one gets expelled from the Fulcrum, after all. Dysfunctional weapons are simply removed
from the stockpile. And functional weapons should be smart enough to take care of themselves.
Thus Damaya keeps to the Fulcrums least interesting areas in her wanderingsbut this leaves
plenty to explore, because the Fulcrum complex is huge. Apart from the Garden and the grit training
grounds there are clusters of living quarters that house the ringed orogenes, libraries and theaters, a
hospital, and places where all the adult orogenes do their work when theyre not off on assignments
beyond the Fulcrum. There are also miles of obsidian-paved walkways and greenland that hasnt been
left fallow or kept prepared for a possible Fifth Season; instead, its landscaped. Its just there to be
pretty. Damaya figures that means someone should look at it.
So it is through all this that Damaya walks, in the late hours of the evening, imagining where and
how she will live once she joins the ranks of the ringed. The adults in this area mostly ignore her,
coming and going about their business, talking with each other or muttering to themselves alone,
focused on their adulty things. Some of them notice her, but then shrug and keep walking. They were
grits once. Only on one occasion does a woman stop and ask, Are you supposed to be here?
Damaya nods and walks past her, and the woman does not pursue.
The administrative buildings are more interesting. She visits the large practice chambers that the
ringed orogenes use: great ampitheater-like halls, roofless, with mosaic rings etched into the bare
ground in concentric circles. Sometimes there are huge blocks of basalt lying about, and sometimes
the ground is disturbed, but the basalt is gone. Sometimes she catches adults in the chambers,
practicing; they shift the blocks around like childrens toys, pushing them deep into the earth and
raising them again by will alone, blurring the air around themselves with deadly rings of cold. It is
exhilarating, and intimidating, and she follows what theyre doing as best she can, though that isnt
much. Shes got a long way to go before she can even begin to do some of these things.
Its Main that fascinates Damaya most. This building is the core of the Fulcrum complex: a vast
domed hexagon larger than all the other buildings combined. It is in this building that the business of
the Fulcrum gets done. Here ringed orogenes occupy the offices and push the papers and pay the bills,
because of course they must do all of these things themselves. No one will have it said that orogenes
are useless drains on the resources of Yumenes; the Fulcrum is fiscally and otherwise self-sufficient.
Free Hour is after the main working hours for the building, so its not as busy as it must be during the
day, but whenever Damaya wanders the place, she notices that many of the offices are still lit with
candles and the occasional electric lantern.
The Guardians have a wing in Main, too. Now and again Damaya sees burgundy uniforms amid
the clusters of black, and when she does, she turns the other way. Not out of fear. They probably see
her, but they dont bother her, because shes not doing anything shes been told not to do. It is as
Schaffa told her: One need only fear Guardians in specific, limited circumstances. She avoids them,
however, because as she grows more skilled, she begins to notice a strange sensation whenever shes
in a Guardians presence. It is a a buzzy feeling, a jagged and acrid sort of thing, something more
heard and tasted than sessed. She does not understand it, but she notices that she is not the only
orogene to give the Guardians a wide berth.
In Main, there are the wings that have fallen into disuse because the Fulcrum is larger than it needs
to be, or so Damayas instructors have told her when she asks them about this. No one knew how
many orogenes there were in the world before the Fulcrum was built, or perhaps the builders thought
that more orogenes would survive childhood to be brought here than has proven true over time.
Regardless, the first time Damaya pushes open a conspicuous-looking door that no one seems to be
using and finds dark, empty hallways beyond it, she is instantly intrigued.
Its too dark to see very far within. Nearby she can make out discarded furniture and storage
baskets and the like, so she decides against exploring immediately. The chance that she could hurt
herself is too great. Instead she heads back to the grit dorms, and all through the next few days, she
prepares. Its easy to take a small glassknife used for cutting meat from one of the meal trays, and the
dorm has plenty of oil lanterns that she can appropriate without anyone caring, so she does. She
makes a knapsack out of a pillowcase that she nabs while on laundry dutyit has a tattered edge and
was in the discard pileand finally when she feels ready, she sets forth.
Its slow going, at first. With the knife she marks the walls here and there so she wont get lost
until she realizes this part of Main has exactly the same structure as the rest of Main: a central
corridor with periodic stairwells, and doors on either side leading into rooms or suites of rooms. Its
the rooms that she likes most, though many of them are boring. Meeting rooms, more offices, the
occasional space large enough to serve as a lecture hall, though mostly these seem to be used for
storage of old books and clothing.
But the books! A good many of them are the frivolous sort of tales that the library has so few of
romances and adventures and bits of irrelevant lore. And sometimes the doors lead to amazing things.
She discovers a floor that was once apparently used as living quartersperhaps in some boom year
when there were too many orogenes to house comfortably in the apartment buildings. For whatever
reason, however, it appears that many of the inhabitants simply walked off and left their belongings
behind. Damaya discovers long, elegant dresses in the closets, dry-rotted; toys meant for toddlers;
jewelry that her mother would have salivated to wear. She tries on some of it and giggles at herself in
the flyspecked mirror, and then stops, surprised by the sound of her own laughter.
There are stranger things. A room full of plush, ornate chairsworn and moth-eaten nowall
arranged in a circle to face each other: why, she can only imagine. A room she does not understand
until later, after her explorations have taken her into the buildings of the Fulcrum that are dedicated to
research: Then she knows that what she has found is a kind of laboratory, with strange containers and
contraptions that she eventually learns are used for analysis of energy and manipulation of chemicals.
Perhaps geomests do not deign to study orogeny, and orogenes are left to do that for themselves, too?
She can only guess.
And there is more, endlessly more. It becomes the thing she looks forward to the most in any
given day, after Applied. She gets in trouble now and again in learning creche because sometimes she
daydreams of things shes found, and misses questions during quizzes. She takes care not to slack off
so much that the teachers question her, even though she suspects they know about her nighttime
explorations. Shes even seen a few of them while she wanders, lounging about and seeming oddly
human in their off-hours. They dont bother her about it, though, which pleases her mightily. Its nice
to feel as if she has a secret to share with them, even though she doesnt really. There is an order to
life in the Fulcrum, but this is her order; she sets it, and no one else disrupts it. It is good to have
something she keeps for herself.
And then, one day, everything changes.
* * *
The strange girl slips into the line of grits so unobtrusively that Damaya almost doesnt notice.
Theyre walking through the Ring Garden again, on their way back to the grit dormitory after
Applied, and Damaya is tired but pleased with herself. Instructor Marcasite praised her for only icing
a two-foot torus around herself while simultaneously stretching her zone of control to an
approximate depth of one hundred feet. Youre almost ready for the first ring test, he told her at the
end of the lesson. If this is true, she could end up taking the test a year earlier than most grits, and first
of any in her year group.
Because Damaya is so caught up in the glow of this thought, and because its the evening of a long
day and everyones weary and the Garden is sparsely populated and the instructors are chatting with
each other, almost no one sees the strange girl slip into line just ahead of Damaya. Even Damaya
almost misses it, because the girl has cleverly waited until theyre turning a curve round a hedge;
between one step and another she is there, matching their pace, keeping her gaze forward as most of
the others do. But Damaya knows she was not there before.
For a moment Damaya is taken aback. She doesnt know all the other grits well, but she does know
them on sight, and this girl isnt one of them. Who is she, then? She wonders whether she should say
something.
Abruptly the girl glances back and catches Damaya staring. She grins and winks; Damaya blinks.
When the girl turns away again, she keeps following, too flustered now to tattle.
They proceed through the Garden and into the barracks and then the instructors depart for the
evening, leaving the grits to Free Hour before bedtime. The other kids disperse, some going to fetch
food from the sideboard, the newer ones dragging off to bed. A few of the more energetic grits
immediately start some sort of silly game, chasing each other round the bunk beds. As usual they
ignore Damaya and anything Damaya is doing.
So Damaya turns to the grit who is not a grit. Who are you?
Is that really what you want to ask? The girl looks honestly puzzled. She is Damayas age, tall
and lanky and more sallow-skinned than most young Sanzeds, and her hair is curled and dark instead
of stiff and gray. Shes wearing a grits uniform, and shes actually tied her hair back the same way
the other grits with loose hair have done. Only the fact that shes a total stranger breaks the illusion.
I mean, you dont actually care who I am, do you? the girl continues, still looking almost
offended by Damayas first question. If I were you, Id want to know what I was doing here.
Damaya stares at her, speechless. In the meantime, the girl looks around, frowning a little. I
thought a lot of other people would notice me. There arent that many of youwhat, thirty in this
room? Thats less than in my creche, and I would notice if somebody new suddenly popped in
Who are you? Damaya demands, half-hissing the words. Instinctively, though, she keeps her
voice down, and for added measure grabs the girls arm, hauling her over to an out-of-the-way
corner where people are less likely to notice. Except everyones had years of practice at paying no
attention to Damaya, so they dont. Tell me or I yell for the instructors.
Oh, thats better. The girl grins. Much more what I was expecting! But its still weird that youre
the only one And then her expression changes to one of alarm when Damaya inhales and opens
her mouth, clearly preparing to shout. Quickly she blurts, My names Binof! Binof! And you are?
Its such a commonplace sort of thing to say, the pattern of courtesy that Damaya used for most of
her life before coming to the Fulcrum, that she answers automatically. Damaya Strong She has
not thought of her use name, or the fact that it no longer applies to her, in so long that she is shocked
to almost hear herself say it. Damaya. What are you doing here? Where did you come from? Why
are you She gestures helplessly at the girl, encompassing the uniform, the hair, Binofs existence.
Shhh. Now you want to ask a million questions? Binof shakes her head. Listen, Im not going to
stay, and Im not going to get you in trouble. I just need to knowhave you seen anything weird
around here somewhere? Damaya stares at her again, and Binof grimaces. A place. With a shape.
Sort of. A biga thing that She makes a series of complicated gestures, apparently trying to
pantomime what she means. It is completely nonsensical.
Except, it isnt. Not entirely.
The Fulcrum is circular. Damaya knows this even though she can only get a sense of it when she
and the other grits transit the Ring Garden. The Black Star looms to the west of the Fulcrums
grounds, and to the north Damaya has seen a cluster of buildings tall enough to peek over the
obsidian walls. (She often wonders what the inhabitants of those buildings think, looking down on
Damaya and her kind from their lofty windows and rooftops.) But more significantly, Main is
circular, tooalmost. Damaya has wandered its dark hallways often enough by now, with only a
lantern and her fingers and sessapinae to guide her, that when she sees Binof make a hexagonal shape
with her hands, she knows at once what the strange girl means.
See, Mains walls and corridors arent wide enough to account for all the space the building
occupies. The buildings roof covers an area at its heart, into which its working and walking spaces
do not extend; there must be a huge empty chamber within. Courtyard, maybe, or a theater, though
there are other theaters in the Fulcrum. Damaya has found the walls around this space, and followed
them, and they are not circular; there are planes and angles. Six of each. But if there is a door that
opens into this hexagonal central room, it isnt anywhere in the unused wingsnot that shes found
yet.
A room without doors, Damaya murmurs, without thinking. It is what she started calling the
unseen chamber in her head, on the day she realized it must exist. And Binof inhales and leans
forward.
Yes. Yes. Is that what its called? Is it in that big building at the center of the Fulcrum complex?
Thats where I thought it might be. Yes.
Damaya blinks and scowls. Who. Are. You. The girls right; thats not really what she means to
say. Still, it covers all the salient questions at once.
Binof grimaces. She glances around, thinks a moment, sets her jaw, and finally says, Binof
Leadership Yumenes.
It almost means nothing to Damaya. In the Fulcrum, no one has use names or comm names.
Anyone who was Leadership, before being taken by the Guardians, isnt anymore. The grits who were
born here or brought in young enough have a rogga name, and anyone else is required to take one
when they earn their first ring. Thats all they get.
But then intuition turns a key here and makes various clues click together there, and suddenly
Damaya realizes Binof is not merely expressing misplaced loyalty to a social convention that no
longer applies. It does apply to Binof, because Binof is not an orogene.
And Binofs not just any still: shes a Leader, and shes from Yumenes, which makes her a child of
one of the most powerful families in the Stillness. And she has snuck into the Fulcrum, pretending to
be an orogene.
Its so impossible, so insane, that Damayas mouth falls open. Binof sees that she understands, and
edges closer, dropping her voice. I told you, Im not going to get you into trouble. Ill go, now, and
find that room, and all I ask is that you dont tell anyone yet. But you wanted to know why Im here.
Thats why Im here. That room is what Im looking for.
Damaya closes her mouth. Why?
I cant tell you. When Damaya glares, Binof holds up her hands. Thats for your safety, and
mine. Theres things only Leaders are supposed to know, and Im not even supposed to know them
yet. If anyone learns I told you, then She hesitates. I dont know what they would do to either of
us, but I dont want to find out.
Crack. Damaya nods, absently. Theyll catch you.
Probably. But when they do, Ill just tell them who I am. The girl shrugs, with the ease of
someone who has never known true fear in her life. They wont know why Im here. Someone will
call my parents and Ill be in trouble, but I get in trouble all the time anyway. If I can find out the
answers to some questions first, though, itll be worth it. Now, wheres that room without doors?
Damaya shakes her head, seeing the trap at once. I could get in trouble for helping you. She isnt
a Leader, or a person; no one will save her. You should leave, however you got here. Now. I wont
tell anyone, if you do.
No. Binof looks smug. I went to a lot of trouble to get in here. And anyway, youre already in
trouble, because you didnt shout for an instructor the minute you realized I wasnt a grit. Now youre
my accomplice. Right?
Damaya starts, her stomach constricting as she realizes the girl is right. Shes also furious,
because Binof is trying to manipulate her, and she hates that. Its better if I shout now than let you
blunder off and get caught later. And she gets up and heads for the dormitory door.
Binof gasps and trots after her quickly, catching her arm and speaking in a harsh whisper. Dont!
Pleaselook, I have money. Three red diamond chips and a whole alexandrite! Do you want
money?
Damayas growing angrier by the minute. What the rust would I need with money?
Privileges, then. The next time you leave the Fulcrum
We dont leave. Damaya scowls and yanks her arm out of Binofs grip. How did this fool of a
still even get in here? There are guards, members of the city militia, at all the doors that lead out of
the Fulcrum. But those guards are there to keep orogenes in, not stills outand perhaps this Leader
girl with her money and her privileges and her fearlessness would have found a way in even if the
guards had tried to stop her. Were here because its the only place we can be safe from people like
you. Get out.
Suddenly Damaya has to turn away, clenching her fists and concentrating hard and taking quick
deep breaths, because shes so angry that the part of herself that knows how to shift fault lines is
starting to wander down into the earth. Its a shameful breach of control, and she prays none of the
instructors sense it, because then she will no longer be thought of as almost ready for the first ring
test. Not to mention that she might end up icing this girl.
Infuriatingly, Binof leans around her and says, Oh! Are you angry? Are you doing orogeny?
What does it feel like?
The questions are so ridiculous, her lack of fear so nonsensical, that Damayas orogeny fizzles.
Shes suddenly not angry anymore, just astonished. Is this what all Leaders are like as children? Palela
was so small that it didnt have any; people of the Leader use-caste generally prefer to live in places
that are worth leading. Maybe this is just what Yumenescene Leaders are like. Or maybe this girl is just
ridiculous.
As if Damayas silence is an answer in itself, Binof grins and dances around in front of her. Ive
never had a chance to meet an orogene before. The grown-ups, I mean, the ones with rings who wear
the black uniforms, but not a kid like me. Youre not as scary as the lorists said you would be. But
then, lorists lie a lot.
Damaya shakes her head. I dont understand anything about you.
To her surprise, Binof sobers. You sound like my mom. She looks away for a moment, then
presses her lips together and glowers at Damaya in apparent determination. Will you help me find
this room, or not? If you wont help, at least dont say anything.
In spite of everything, Damaya is intriguedby the girl, by the possibility of finding a way into
the room without doors, by the novelty of her own intrigue. She has never gone exploring with
someone, before. It is exciting. She shifts and looks around uncomfortably, but a part of her has
already decided, hasnt it? Okay. But Ive never found a way in, and Ive been exploring Main for
months.
Main, is that what the big building is called? And yes, Im not surprised; there probably isnt an
easy way in. Or maybe there was once, but its closed off now. Oblivious as Damaya stares again,
Binof rubs her chin. I have an idea of where to look, though. Ive seen some old structural
drawings Well, anyway, it would be on the southern side of the building. Ground level.
That is not in the unused wing, inconveniently. Still, she says, I know the way, and its heartening
to see Binof brighten at these words.
She leads Binof the way she usually goes, walking the way she usually walks. Strangely, perhaps
because she is nervous this time, she notices more people noticing her. There are more double takes
than usual, and when she spies Instructor Galena by chance on her way past a fountainGalena, who
once caught her drunk and saved her life by not reporting ithe actually smiles before turning his
attention back to his chatty companion. Thats when Damaya finally realizes why people are looking:
because they know about the strange quiet grit who goes wandering all the time. Theyve probably
heard about Damaya via rumors or something, and they like that shes finally brought someone else
with her. They think shes made a friend. Damaya would laugh, if the truth werent so unfunny.
Strange, says Binof as they walk one of the obsidian paths through one of the lesser gardens.
What?
Well, I keep thinking everyones going to notice me. But instead, almost no ones paying
attention. Even though were the only kids out here.
Damaya shrugs, and keeps walking.
Youd think someone would stop us and ask questions, or something. We could be doing
something unsafe.
Damaya shakes her head. If one of us gets hurt and someone finds us before we bleed out, theyll
take us to the hospital. And then Damaya will have a mark on her record that might prevent her from
taking the ring test. Everything she does right now could interfere with that. She sighs.
Thats nice, says Binof, but maybe its a better idea to stop kids before they do things that might
get them hurt.
Damaya stops in the middle of the lawn path and turns to Binof. We arent kids, she says,
annoyed. Binof blinks. Were gritsImperial Orogenes in training. Thats what you look like, so
thats what everyone assumes you are. Nobody gives a damn whether a couple of orogenes get hurt.
Binof is staring at her. Oh.
And youre talking too much. Grits dont. We only relax in the dorms, and only when there are
no instructors around. If youre going to pretend to be one of us, get it right.
All right, all right! Binof holds up both hands as if to appease her. Im sorry, I just She
grimaces as Damaya glares at her. Right. No more talking.
She shuts up, so Damaya resumes walking.
They reach Main and head inside the way Damaya always does. Only this time she turns right
instead of left, and heads downstairs instead of up. The ceilings are lower in this corridor, and the
walls are decorated in a way she has never seen before, with little frescoes painted at intervals that
depict pleasant, innocuous scenes. After a while she begins to worry, because theyre getting closer
and closer to a wing that she has never explored and doesnt want to: the Guardians. Where on the
south side of the building?
What? Preoccupied with looking aroundwhich makes her stand out even more than the
endless talking didBinof blinks at Damaya in surprise. Oh. Just somewhere on the south side.
She grimaces at Damayas glare. I dont know where! I just know there was a door, even if there isnt
one anymore. Cant you She waggles her fingers. Orogenes are supposed to be able to do things
like that.
What, find doors? Not unless theyre in the ground. But even as Damaya says this, she frowns,
because well. She can sort of sess where doors are, by inference. Load-bearing walls feel much
like bedrock, and door frames feel like gaps in strataplaces where the pressure of the building
against the ground is lesser. If a door somewhere on this level has been covered over, would its frame
have been removed, too? Maybe. But would that place not feel different from the walls around it?
Shes already turning, splaying her fingers the way she tends to do when shes trying to stretch her
zone of control farther. In the Applied crucibles there are markers undergroundsmall blocks of
marble with words etched into one surface. It takes a very fine degree of control to not only find the
blocks but determine the word; its like tasting a page of a book and noticing the minute differences
between the ink and the bare page and using that to read. But because she has been doing this over and
over and over under the instructors watchful eye, she realizes that the same exercise works for this
purpose.
Are you doing orogeny? Binof asks eagerly.
Yes, so shut up before I ice you by accident. Thankfully Binof actually obeys, even though
sessing isnt orogeny and theres no danger of icing anyone. Damayas just grateful for the silence.
She gropes along the walls of the building. They are like shadows of force compared to the stolid
comfort of rock, but if shes delicate, she can trace them. And there and there and there along the
buildings inner walls, the ones that enclose that hidden chamber, she can feel where the walls are
interrupted. Inhaling, Damaya opens her eyes.
Well? Binofs practically salivating.
Damaya turns, walking along the wall a ways. When she gets to the right place and stops, theres a
door there. Its risky opening doors in occupied wings; this is probably someones office. The
corridor is quiet, empty, but Damaya can see lights underneath some of the doors, which means that at
least a few people are working late. She knocks first. When there is no answer, she takes a deep breath
and tries the latch. Locked.
Hang on, Binof says, rummaging in her pockets. After a moment she holds up something that
looks like a tool Damaya once used to pick bits of shell out of the kurge nuts that grew on her
familys farm. I read about how to do this. Hopefully its a simple lock. She begins fiddling with the
tool in the lock, her face set in a look of concentration.
Damaya waits awhile, leaning casually against the wall and listening with both ears and sessapinae
for any vibration of feet or approaching voicesor worse, the buzz of an approaching Guardian. Its
after midnight by now, though, and even the most dedicated workers are either planning to sleep in
their offices or have left for the night, so no one troubles them during the agonizingly long time it
takes for Binof to figure out how to use the thing.
Thats enough, Damaya says after an eternity. If anyone comes along and catches them here,
Damaya wont be able to play it off. Come back tomorrow and well try this again
I cant, says Binof. Shes sweating and her hands are shaking, which isnt helping matters. I
gave my nurses the slip for one night, but that wont work again. I almost got it last time. Just give me
another minute.
So Damaya waits, growing more and more anxious, until finally there is a click and Binof gasps
in surprise. Was that it? I think that was it! She tries the door, and it swings open. Earths flaming
farts, it worked!
The room beyond is indeed someones office: Theres a desk and two high-backed chairs, and
bookcases line the walls. The desk is bigger than most, the chairs more elaborate; whoever works
here is someone important. It is jarring for Damaya to see an office thats still in use after so many
months of seeing the disused offices of the old wings. Theres no dust, and the lanterns are already lit,
though low-wick. So strange.
Binoff looks around, frowning; no sign of a door within the office. Damaya brushes past her,
going over to what looks like a closet. She opens it: brooms and mops, and a spare black uniform
hanging on the rod.
Thats it? Binof curses aloud.
No. Because Damaya can sess that this office is too short, from door to far wall, to match the
width of the building. This closet isnt deep enough to account for the difference.
Tentatively she reaches past the broom and pushes on the wall. Nothing; its solid brick. Well, that
was an idea.
Oh, right. Binof shoulders in with her, feeling the walls all over the closet and shoving the spare
uniform out of the way. These old buildings always have hidden doors, leading down into the
storecaches or
There arent any storecaches in the Fulcrum. Even as she says it, she blinks, because shes never
thought about this before. What are they supposed to do if theres a Season? Somehow she doesnt
think the people of Yumenes will be willing to share their food with a bunch of orogenes.
Oh. Right. Binof grimaces. Well, still, this is Yumenes, even if it is the Fulcrum. Theres always

And she freezes, her eyes widening as her fingers trip over a brick thats loose. She grins, pushes
at one end until the other end pops out; using this, she pulls it loose. Theres a latch underneath, made
of what looks like cast iron.
Theres always something going on beneath the surface, Binof breathes.
Damaya draws near, wondering. Pull it.
Now youre interested? But Binof indeed wraps her hand around the latch, and pulls.
That whole wall of the closet swings loose, revealing an opening beyond lined with the same
brick. The narrow tunnel there curves out of sight almost immediately, into darkness.
Damaya and Binof both stare into it, neither taking that first step.
Whats in there? Damaya whispers.
Binof licks her lips, staring into the shadowed tunnel. Im not sure.
Bullshit. Its a shameful thrill to talk like this, like one of the ringed grown-ups. You came here
hoping to find something.
Lets go see first Binof tries to push past her, and Damaya catches her arm. Binof jumps, arm
tightening beneath Damayas hand; she glares down at it as if in affront. Damaya doesnt care.
No. Tell me what youre looking for, or Ill shut this door after you and start a shake to bring the
wall down and trap you in there. Then Ill go tell the Guardians. This is a bluff. It would be the
stupidest thing on Father Earth to use unauthorized orogeny right under the noses of the Guardians,
and then to go tell them shes done it. But Binof doesnt know that.
I told you, only Leaders can know this! Binof tries to shake her off.
Youre a Leader; change the rule. Isnt that also what youre supposed to do?
Binof blinks and stares at her. For a long moment she is silent. Then she sighs, rubs her eyes, and
the tension goes out of her thin arm. Fine. Okay. She takes a deep breath. Theres something, an
artifact, at the heart of the Fulcrum.
What kind of artifact?
Im not sure. Im really not! Binof raises her hands quickly, shaking off Damaya in the process,
but Damayas not trying to hold her anymore. All I know is that somethings missing from the
history. Theres a hole, a gap.
 What?
In history. Binof glares at Damaya as if this is supposed to mean something. You know, the
stuff the tutors teach you? About how Yumenes was founded?
Damaya shakes her head. Beyond a line she barely remembers in creche about Yumenes being the
first city of the Old Sanze Empire, she cannot remember ever hearing about its founding. Perhaps
Leaders get a better education.
Binof rolls her eyes, but explains. There was a Season. The one right before the Empire was
founded was Wandering, when north suddenly shifted and crops failed because birds and bugs
couldnt find them. After that warlords took over in most areaswhich is what always used to
happen, after a Season. There was nothing but stonelore to guide people then, and rumors, and
superstition. And it was because of rumors that no one settled in this region for a really long time.
She points down, at their feet. Yumenes was the perfect place for a city: good weather, in the middle
of a plate, water but nowhere near the ocean, all that. But people were afraid of this place and had
been for ages, because there was something here.
Damayas never heard anything like this. What?
Binof looks annoyed. Thats what Im trying to find out! Thats whats missing. Imperial history
takes over after the Wandering Season. The Madness Season happened only a little while afterward,
and Warlord VerisheEmperor Verishe, the first Emperorstarted 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 dont say what they were
afraid of.
Precisely. And I think its in there. Binof points toward the open door.
Damaya frowns. Why are only Leaders supposed to know this?
I dont know. Thats why Im 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; its pitch black, but she can feel the shape of the ground ahead. She catches Binof,
whos blundering forward in a determined sort of way despite the darkthe fooland says, Wait.
The grounds pressed down up ahead. Shes whispering, because thats what one does in the dark.
Her voice echoes; the echo takes a while to return. Its a big space.
Pressedwhat?
Pressed down. Damaya tries to explain it, but its always so hard to tell stills things. Another
orogene would just know. Like like theres been something really heavy here. Something like a
mountain. The strata are deformed, andtheres a depression. A big hole. Youll fall.
Rusting fuck, Binof mutters. Damaya almost flinches, though shes heard worse from some of
her cruder fellow grits when the instructors werent around. We need some light.
Lights appear on the ground up ahead, one by one. There is a faint clicking soundwhich echoes
as wellas 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 itsmooth, stonelike but not stone, slightly rough, durable.
At the core of it, however, there is indeed a depression. That is an understatement: Its a huge,
tapering pit with flat-sided walls and neat, precise edgessix 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 wasnt expecting this, Binof breathes at last. Shes speaking in a hush, maybe out of reverence,
or fear. Many things, but not this.
What is it? asks Damaya. Whats it for?
Binof shakes her head slowly. Its 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
shes absolutely certain shes going to fall in. In fact she relaxes, and doesnt 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 shed 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 crows 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 Im 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 doesnt bother, darting a look between Damaya and the woman and the pit and the door.
Damaya wants to tell her not to do whatever shes thinking ofmaking 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.
Shes with me, Binof blurts, before Damaya can reply. Damaya looks at her in surprise, but
Binofs already talking, and now that shes started, it seems as though nothing will stop her. I
brought her here. Ordered her here. She didnt even know about the door and thisplaceuntil I told
her.
That isnt true, Damaya wants to say, because shed guessed that the place existed, just hadnt
known how to find it. But the Guardian is looking at Binof curiously, and thats a positive sign
because nobodys 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 shes forgotten that shes 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.
Binofs talking differently, Damaya realizes suddenly: her words evenly spaced and voice steady,
her manner not so much haughty as grave. As if the worlds fate depends upon her finding the answer
to her question. As if she isnt 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, Im afraid. Perhaps that
was not wisebut my parents are likely by now aware that I have come here, so please feel free to
speak to them about it.
Its 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 shes 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 its 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 Damayas 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. Shes not stupid. Shes standing in front of the door to a busy area;
despite the hour, other Guardians emerge now and again, and look at her. She doesnt 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. Lets just talk a bit, why dont we? Ive
sent for Schaffa; fortunately hes in the city right now, and not out on circuit as usual. But until he gets
here
Theres 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 arent 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. Theres a chair on either side of the desk, so Damaya
takes the one meant for guests.
Im sorry, she says as the Guardian sits down behind the desk. I-I didnt think.
The Guardian shakes her head, as if this doesnt matter. Did you touch any of them?
What?
In the socket. The Guardians still smiling, but they always smile; this means nothing useful.
You saw the extrusions from the socket walls. Werent you curious? There was one only an arms
length below where you stood.
Socket? Oh, and the iron bits poking out of the walls. No, I didnt touch any of them. Socket for
what?
The Guardian sits forward, and abruptly her smile vanishes. It doesnt fade, and she doesnt frown
to replace it. All the expression just stops, in her face. Did it call to you? Did you answer?
Somethings wrong. Damaya feels this suddenly, instinctively, and the realization dries the words
from her mouth. The Guardian even sounds differenther voice is deeper, softer, almost hushed, as
if shes saying something she doesnt 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 Damayas 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?
Its angry. The womans voice drops lower, going monotonous, and Damaya realizes shes not
trying to go unheard anymore. The Guardian is talking differently because thats not her voice.
Angry and afraid. I hear both gathering, growing, the anger and the fear. Readying, for the time of
return.
Its like like someone else is inside the Guardian, and that is whos talking, except using the
Guardians face and voice and everything else. But as the woman says this, her hand begins to tighten
on Damayas. 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 dont want to be hurt again.
Ill tell you whatever you want, she offers, but the Guardian keeps pressing. Its like she doesnt
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 Damayas 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 dont, 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 dont understand, Damaya says. It hurts. It hurts. Shes shaking, waiting for the snap of bone.
It hoped for communion. Compromise. Instead, the battle escalated.
I dont understand! Youre not making any sense! Its wrong. Damayas raising her voice to a
Guardian, and she knows better, but this isnt 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! Ill do whatever you want, just let go!
The door opens and Schaffa flows in. Damayas breath catches, but he doesnt look at her. His
gaze is fixed on the Guardian who holds Damayas hand. He isnt smiling as he moves to stand behind
her. Timay. Control yourself.
Timays 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 Timays skull.
Its not clear at first, from Damayas angle, that this is what hes done. She just sees him make a
sudden sharp, violent movement, and then Timays head jerks forward. She makes a sound so harsh
and guttural that it is almost vulgar, and her eyes go wide. Schaffas face is expressionless as he does
something, his arm flexing, and thats when the first blood-lines wend around Timays neck,
beginning to sink into her tunic and patter into her lap. Her hand, on Damayas, 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 hes doing, and the sound of crunching bone and popping
tendon is undeniable. Then Schaffa lifts his hand, holding something small and indistincttoo
covered in gorebetween 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 Timays 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. Its all
very efficient. Schaffa sits down in Timays 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 handthe one that is still clean because it did not rip out Timays brain
stem. He turns her hand, examining it carefully, making a face at the crescent of blood where Timays
thumbnail broke the skin. A single drop of Damayas blood rolls off the edge of her hand, splatting
onto the table right where Timays blood had been a moment before. Good. I was afraid shed hurt
you worse than this.
Wh Damaya begins. She cant 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 weGuardiansare 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 Guardians 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 Damayas 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 wasnt. Her. Now Damayas the one not making sense. She wasnt 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.
Schaffa inclines his head. Father Earth, of course. It is a common delusion.
Damaya blinks. What? Its angry. What?
And youre right; Timay wasnt herself any longer. Im sorry she hurt you. Im sorry you had to
see that. Im so sorry, little one. And there is such genuine regret in his voice, such compassion in
his face, that Damaya does what she has not since a cold dark night in a Nomidlats barn: She begins to
cry.
After a moment Schaffa gets up and comes around the table and picks her up, sitting in the chair
and letting her curl in his lap to weep on his shoulder. There is an order to life in the Fulcrum, see,
and it is this: If one has not displeased them, the Guardians are the closest thing to safety a rogga will
ever have. So Damaya cries for a long timenot just because of what shes seen tonight. She cries
because she has been inexpressibly lonely, and Schaffa well. Schaffa loves her, in his tender and
terrifying way. She does not pay attention to the bloody print his right hand leaves on her hip, or the
press of his fingersfingers strong enough to killagainst the base of her skull. Such things are
irrelevant, in the grand scale.
When the storm of weeping subsides, though, Schaffa strokes her back with his clean hand. How
are you feeling, Damaya?
She does not lift her head from his shoulder. He smells of sweat and leather and iron, things that
she will forever associate with comfort and fear. Im all right.
Good. I need you to do something for me.
What?
He squeezes her gently, encouraging. Im going to take you down the hall, to one of the
crucibles, and there you will face the first ring test. I need you to pass it for me.
Damaya blinks, frowning, and lifts her head. He smiles at her, tenderly. By this she understands, in
a flash of intuition, that this is a test of more than her orogeny. After all, most roggas are told of the
test in advance, so that they can practice and prepare. This is happening for her now, without warning,
because it is her only chance. She has proven herself disobedient. Unreliable. Because of this, Damaya
will need to also prove herself useful. If she cannot
I need you to live, Damaya. Schaffa touches his forehead to her own. My compassionate one.
My life is so full of death. Please; pass this test for me.
There are so many things she wants to know. What Timay meant; what will happen to Binof; what
is the socket and why was it hidden; what happened to Crack last year. Why Schaffa is even giving her
this much of a chance. But there is an order to life in the Fulcrum, and her place within it is not to
question a Guardians will.
But
But
But. She turns her head, and looks at that single drop of her blood on the table.
This is not right.
Damaya?
It isnt right, what theyre doing to her. What this place does to everyone within its walls. What
hes making her do, to survive.
Will you do it? For me?
She still loves him. That isnt right, either.
If I pass. Damaya closes her eyes. She cant look at him and say this. Not without letting him see
the it isnt right in her eyes. I, I picked a rogga name.
He does not chide her on her language. Have you, now? He sounds pleased. What?
She licks her lips. Syenite.
Schaffa sits back in the chair, sounding thoughtful. I like it.
You do?
Of course I do. You chose it, didnt you? Hes laughing, but in a good way. With her, not at her.
It forms at the edge of a tectonic plate. With heat and pressure it does not degrade, but instead grows
stronger.
He does understand. She bites her lip and feels fresh tears threaten. It isnt right that she loves him,
but many things in the world are not right. So she fights off the tears, and makes her decision. Crying
is weakness. Crying was a thing Damaya did. Syenite will be stronger.
Ill do it, Syenite says, softly. Ill pass the test for you, Schaffa. I promise.
My good girl, Schaffa says, and smiles, holding her close.
* * *
[obscured] those who would take the earth too closely unto themselves. They are not masters
of themselves; allow them no mastery of others.
Tablet Two, The Incomplete Truth, verse nine
 18
you discover wonders down below

YKKA TAKES YOU INTO THE house from which she and her companions emerged. Theres little
furniture inside, and the walls are bare. Theres scuffing on the floor and walls, a lingering smell of
food and stale body musk; someone did live here, until recently. Maybe until the Season began. The
house is only a shell now, though, as you and the others cut through to a cellar door. At the bottom of
the steps you find a large, empty chamber lit only by wood-pitch torches.
Heres where you first start to realize this is more than just a bizarre community of people and
not-people: The walls of the cellar are solid granite. Nobody quarries into granite just to build a
cellar, and and youre not sure anyone dug this. Everyone stops while you go to one of the walls
and touch it. You close your eyes and reach. Yes, there is the feel of something familiar here. Some
rogga shaped this perfectly smooth wall, using will and a focus finer than you can imagine. (Though
not the finest focus youve ever sessed.) Youve never heard of anyone doing anything like this with
orogeny. Its not for building.
Turning, you see Ykka watching you. Your work?
She smiles. No. This and other hidden entrances have been around for centuries, long before
me.
The people in this comm have worked with orogenes for that long? Shed said the comm was
only fifty years old.
Ykka laughs. No, I just mean that this world has passed through many hands down the Seasons.
Not all of them were quite as stupid as ours about the usefulness of orogenes.
We arent stupid about it now, you say. Everyone understands perfectly well how to use us.
Ooh. Ykka grimaces, pityingly. Fulcrum trained? The ones who survive it always seem to
sound like you.
You wonder how many Fulcrum-trained orogenes this woman has met. Yes.
Well. Now youll see how much more were capable of when were willing. And Ykka gestures
toward a wide opening in the wall a few feet beyond her, which you hadnt noticed in your fascination
with the cellar s construction. A faint draft wafts into the cellar from beyond it. Therere also three
people loitering at the mouth of the opening, watching you with varied expressions of hostility,
wariness, amusement. Theyre not carrying any weaponsthose are propped against the wall nearby
and theyre not conspicuous about it, but you realize these are the gate guards this comm should
have, for the gate this comm doesnt have. Here, in this cellar.
The blond woman speaks quietly with one of the guards; this emphasizes even more how tiny she
is, a foot shorter and probably a hundred pounds lighter than the smallest of them. Her ancestors
really shouldve done her a few favors and slept with a Sanzed or two. Anyway, then you move on
and the guards stay behind, two taking seats on chairs nearby, the third heading back up the steps,
presumably to keep a lookout from within the empty buildings topside.
You make the paradigm shift then: The abandoned village up there is this comms wall.
Camouflage rather than a barrier.
Camouflage for what, though? You follow Ykka through the opening and into the dark beyond.
The core of this place has always been here, she explains as you walk down a long dark tunnel
that might be an abandoned mine shaft. Theres tracks for carts, though theyre so old and sunken into
the gritty stone that you cant really see them. Just awkward ridges beneath your feet. The wooden
bracers of the tunnel look old, as do the wall sconces that hold cord-strung electric lightsthey look
like they were originally made to hold wooden torches and got retrofitted by some geneer. The lights
are still working, which means the comms got functional geo or hydro or both; better than Tirimo
already. Its warm in the shaft, too, but you dont see any of the usual heating pipes. Its just warm, and
getting warmer as you follow the gently sloping floor downward.
I told you there were mines in the area. Thats how they found these, back in the day. Someone
cracked a wall they shouldnt have and blundered into a whole warren of tunnels nobody knew were
there. Ykka falls silent for a long while as the shaft widens out, and you all go down a set of
dangerous-looking metal steps. Theres a lot of them. They look old, tooand yet strangely, the
metal doesnt seem distressed or rusted out. Its smooth and shiny and all-over whole. The steps arent
shaky at all.
After a time you notice, belatedly, that the red-haired stone eater is gone. She didnt follow you
down into the shaft. Ykka doesnt seem to notice, so you touch her arm. Wheres your friend?
Though you sort of know.
Myoh, that one. Moving the way we do is hard for them, so theyve got their own ways of
getting about. Including ways I would never have guessed. She glances at Hoa, whos come down the
steps with you. He looks back at her, coldly, and she breathes out a laugh. Interesting.
At the bottom of the stairs theres another tunnel, though it looks different for some reason.
Curved at its top rather than squared, and the supports are some sort of thick, silvery stone columns,
which arch partway up the walls like ribs. You can almost taste the age of these corridors through the
pores of your skin.
Ykka resumes. Really, all the bedrock in this area is riddled with tunnels and intrusions, mines on
top of mines. One civilization after another, building on what went before.
Aritussid, says Tonkee. Jyamaria. The lower Ottey States.
Youve heard of Jyamaria, from the history you used to teach in creche. It was the name of a large
nation, the one that started the road system Sanze later improved upon, and which once spread over
most of what is now the Somidlats. It died around ten Seasons ago. The rest of the names are probably
those of other deadcivs; that seems like the sort of thing geomests would care about, even if no one
else does.
Dangerous, you say, as you try not to be too obvious with your unease. If the rock heres been
compromised so much
Yes, yes. Though thats a risk with any mining, as much because of incompetence as shakes.
Tonkee is turning and turning as she walks, taking it all in and still not bumping into anyone;
amazing. That northern shake was severe enough that even this should have come down, she says.
Youre right. That shakewere calling it the Yumenes Rifting, since nobodys come up with a
better name yetwas the worst the worlds seen in an age. I dont think Im exaggerating by saying
so. Ykka shrugs and glances back at you. But of course, the tunnels didnt collapse, because I was
here. I didnt let them.
You nod, slowly. Its no different than what you did for Tirimo, except Ykka must have taken care
to protect more than just the surface. The area must be relatively stable anyway, or these tunnels
wouldve all collapsed ages ago.
But you say: You wont always be around.
When Im not, someone else will do it. She shrugs. Like I said, theres a lot of us here now.
About that Tonkee pivots on one foot and suddenly her whole attention is on Ykka. Ykka
laughs.
Kind of single-minded, arent you?
Not really. You suspect Tonkee is still simultaneously taking note of the supports and wall
composition, counting your paces, whatever, all while she talks. So how are you doing it? Luring
orogenes here.
Luring? Ykka shakes her head. Its not that sinister. And its hard to describe. Theres a a
thing I do. Like She falls silent.
And all at once, you stumble while youre walking. Theres no obstruction on the floor. Its just
suddenly difficult to walk in a straight line, as if the floor has developed an invisible downward slope.
Toward Ykka.
You stop and glare at her. She stops as well, turning to smile at you. How are you doing that?
you demand.
I dont know. She spreads her hands at your disbelieving look. Its just something I tried, a few
years ago. And not too long after I started doing it, a man came to town and said hed felt me from
miles away. Then two kids showed up; they didnt even realize what they were reacting to. Then
another man. Ive kept doing it since.
Doing what? Tonkee asks, looking from you to Ykka.
Only roggas feel it, Ykka explains, though by this point youve figured that out for yourself.
Then she glances at Hoa, who is watching both of you, utterly still. And them, I realized later.
About that, Tonkee blurts.
Earthfires and rustbuckets, you ask too many questions. This comes from the blond woman,
who shakes her head and gestures for all of you to keep walking.
There are faint occasional noises up ahead now, and the air is moving, noticeably. But how can
that be? You must be a mile down, maybe twice that. The breeze is warm and tinged with scents
youve almost forgotten after weeks of breathing sulfur and ash through a mask. A bit of cooking
food here, a waft of rotting garbage there, a breath of burning wood. People. Youre smelling people.
Lots of them. And theres a lightmuch stronger than the strings of electric lights along the walls
straight ahead.
An underground comm? Tonkee says what youre thinking, though she sounds more skeptical.
(You know more about impossible things than she does.) No, nobodys that stupid.
Ykka only laughs.
Then as the peculiar light starts to brighten the shaft around you, and the air moves faster and the
noise grows, theres a place where the tunnel opens out and becomes a wide ledge with a metal railing
for safety. A scenic viewpoint, because some geneer or Innovator understood exactly how newcomers
would react. You do exactly as that long-ago designer intended: You stare in openmouthed, abject
wonder.
Its a geode. You can sess that, the way the rock around you abruptly changes to something else.
The pebble in the stream, the warp in the weft; countless aeons ago a bubble formed in a flow of
molten mineral within Father Earth. Within that pocket, nurtured by incomprehensible pressures and
bathed in water and fire, crystals grew. This ones the size of a city.
Which is probably why someone built a city in this one.
You stand before a vast, vaulted cavern that is full of glowing crystal shafts the size of tree trunks.
Big tree trunks. Or buildings. Big buildings. They jut forth from the walls in an utterly haphazard
jumble: different lengths, different circumferences, some white and translucent and a few smoky or
tinged with purple. Some are stubby, their pointed tips ending only a few feet away from the walls that
grew thembut many stretch from one side of the vast cavern into the indistinct distance. They form
struts and roads too steep to climb, going in directions that make no sense. It is as if someone found
an architect, made her build a city out of the most beautiful materials available, then threw all those
buildings into a box and jumbled them up for laughs.
And theyre definitely living in it. As you stare, you notice narrow rope bridges and wooden
platforms everywhere. There are dangling lines strung with electric lanterns, ropes and pulleys
carrying small lifts from one platform to another. In the distance a man walks down a wooden
stairway built around a titanic slanted column of white; two children play on the ground far below, in
between stubby crystals the size of houses.
Actually, some of the crystals are houses. They have holes cut in themdoors and windows. You
can see people moving around inside some of them. Smoke curls from chimney holes cut in pointed
crystal tips.
Evil, eating Earth, you whisper.
Ykka stands with hands on her hips, watching your reaction with something like pride in her
expression. We didnt do most of this, she admits. The recent additions, the newer bridges, yes, but
the shaft-hollowing had already been done. We dont know how they managed it without shattering the
crystals. The walkways that are made of metalits the same stuff as the steps in the tunnels we just
passed through. The geneers have no idea how its made; metallorists and alchemists have orgasms
when they see it. There are mechanisms up thereShe points toward the barely visible ceiling of the
cavern, hundreds of feet above your heads. You barely hear her, your mind numb, your eyes
beginning to ache from staring without blinkingthat pump bad air into a layer of porous earth that
filters and disperses it back onto the surface. Other pumps bring in good air. There are mechanisms
just outside the geode that divert water from an underground hot spring a ways off, through a turbine
that gives us electric powertook ages to figure that part outand also bring it in for day-to-day
use. She sighs. But to be really honest, we dont know how half the stuff weve found here works.
All of it was built long ago. Long before Old Sanze ever existed.
Geodes are unstable once their shells are breached. Even Tonkee sounds floored. In your
peripheral vision she is still for the first time since you met her. It doesnt make sense to even think
of building inside one. And why are the crystals glowing?
Shes right. They are.
Ykka shrugs, folding her arms. No idea. But the people who built this wanted it to last, even
through a shake, so they did things to the geode to make sure that would happen. And it did but they
didnt. When people from Castrima found this, it was full of skeletonssome so old they turned to
dust as soon as we touched them.
 So your comm forebears decided to move everyone into a giant deadciv artifact that killed the
last few people who risked it, you drawl. Its weak snark, though. Youre too shaken to really get the
tone right. Of course. Why not repeat a colossal mistake?
Believe me, its been an ongoing debate. Ykka sighs and leans against the railing, which makes
you twitch. Its 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,
theres 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 Seasona real, proper comm, with walls
and everythinggot 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 its a crystal, and youre walking down its side. Someones 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 couldnt make the air mechanisms work;
staying here for more than a few days at a time meant suffocation. And they didnt have any food, so
even though they were warm and safe and had plenty of water, most of them starved before the sun
returned.
Its 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 didnt 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 youre 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 youve 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. Thats what the geneers think. Of course, the fact that its 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 shes shown you, terrifies you.
Ykka sighs and puts her hands on her hips. Essun, she says, and you twitch. Thats 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 were trying to do here in Castrima: survive.
Same as anyone. Were 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; its a Season.
You lick your lips. Can we leave?
What the rust do you mean, can we leave? Weve barely had time to explore Tonkee begins,
looking angry, and then abruptly she realizes what you mean. Her sallow face grows more so. Oh.
Ykkas smile is sharp as diamond. Well. Youre not stupid; thats good. Come on. Weve 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

THEYVE 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 cant speak the
languagewhich 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 hairbut since they raid rather than trade, they had
no need to retain Sanze-mat. He tries to teach Eturpic to her, but shes not really in a learn something
new sort of mood. Thats because of the second problem, which Alabaster points out to her after
theyve had enough time to recover from their travails: They cant leave. Or rather, theyve got
nowhere to go.
If the Guardians tried to kill us once, theyll try again, he explains. This is as they stroll along
one of the arid heights of the island; its 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. Theres
plenty to do herethe children are in creche most of the evenings, after everyones done fishing and
crabbing and whatnot for the daybut its clear that theres not a lot of entertainment.
Without knowing what it is weve 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 theres something else thats obvious,
whenever she looks at the horizon and sees the smoking hump that is whats left of Allia. They think
were 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 Allias 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. Thats what youre saying, isnt it?
Being dead in Allia allows us to be alive, and free, here.
Exactly! Now Alabaster s grinning, practically dancing in place. Shes never seen him so excited
before. Its like hes not even aware of the price thats been paid for their freedom or maybe he just
doesnt care. Theres hardly any contact with the continent, here, and when there is, its not exactly
friendly. Our assigned Guardians can sense us if theyre near enough, but none of their kind ever
come here. These islands arent even on many maps! Then he sobers. But on the continent thered
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 weve survived. Theyre probably circulating posters bearing
our likenesses to the Imperial Road Patrol and quartent militias in the region. I suppose Ill be made
out as Misalem reborn, and you my willing accomplice. Or maybe youll finally get some respect,
and theyll decide youre the mastermind.
Yes, well.
Hes 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? Allias 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. Its at the edge of her awarenesswhich is itself a surprise; for some reason she
can reach much farther now than she could before. Still, its clear: In the flat plane of the Maximal
plates eastern edge, there is a shaft burned straight down and down and down, into the very mantle of
the planet. Beyond that Syen cannot followand 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?
Theyll find us. Our Guardians can track us.
He shakes his head. Mine cant. 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. Hell need to touch you for the connection to work again.
You had no idea. He wont 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 didnt have to
hide what I am.
He nods slowly, something in his expression telling her that he understands all too well what shes
feeling. And what are you, when youre there?
Fuck. You. Shes too angry, all of a sudden, to know why shes angry.
I did. His smirk makes her burn hot as Allia must be. Remember? Weve fucked Earth knows
how many times, even though we cant stand each other, on someone elses orders. Or have you made
yourself believe you wanted it? Did you need a dickany dick, even my mediocre, boring onethat
bad?
She doesnt reply in words. Shes not thinking or talking anymore. Shes in the earth and its
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. Shes
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. Its 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 doesnt storm off right then. I was just trying to
make a point.
Hes made it. Not that she hadnt 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. Its one thing to know this, to admit it to herself, but its
the sort of truth that none of them use against each othernot even to make a pointbecause 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 theres 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 comms harbor is a huge, graceful sailing vesselmaybe a frigate, maybe a
galleon, she doesnt know either of these words from boatthat dwarfs all the smaller vessels
combined. Its hull is a wood so dark that its 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
thats 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 comms 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 captainthe headmans 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 Meovs 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 hes 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. Hes an orogene. A feral, born
free and raised openly by Harlaswhos a rogga, too. All their leaders are roggas, here. Its how the
island has survived through more Seasons than theyve bothered to count.
And beyond this fact well. Syens 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 doesnt need to; the caverns echo even the slightest sound. Hes 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. Everyones sitting on stone or wooden benches, relaxing and chatting, but theres a big knot of
people seated around Innon where hes been regaling them with something. He switches to Sanze-
mat at once, however, since hes 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 wasnt 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
nationsall of it garishwould 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. Youre a good teacher, I think.
Alabaster ducks his head a little. Not really. I cant seem to stop my pupils from hating me.
Mmm. Innons voice is low and deep and reverberates like the deepest of shakes. When he
smiles, its 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.
Thats the problem, see. This ridiculous, loud, vulgar man has made no secret of the fact that he
wants Syenite. And unfortunatelybecause otherwise this would be easytheres something about
him that Syen actually finds herself attracted to. His ferality, perhaps. Shes never met anyone like
him.
Thing is, he seems to want Alabaster, too. And Alabaster doesnt seem disinterested, either.
Its 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 doesnt really need Alabaster to explain that Innon is telling everyone
a storybecause 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. Syens only half-listening to
Baster s summation, mostly paying attention to the movements of Innons body and imagining him
performing entirely different movements, when suddenly Alabaster stops translating. When she
finally notices this, surprised, hes looking at her intently.
Do you want him? he asks her.
Syen grimaces, mostly out of embarrassment. Hes spoken softly, but theyre right there next to
Innon, and if he suddenly decides to pay attention Well, what if he does? Maybe it would make
things easier to get it all out into the open. She would really prefer to have a choice about that, though,
and as usual Alabaster s not giving her one. You dont have a subtle bone in your body, do you?
No, I dont. Tell me.
What, then? Is this some kind of challenge? Because shes seen the way Alabaster looks at Innon.
Its almost cute, watching a forty-year-old man blush and stammer like a virgin. Want me to back
off?
 Alabaster flinches and looks almost hurt. Then he frowns as if confused by his own reaction
which makes two of themand draws away a little. His mouth pulls to one side as he murmurs, If I
said yes, would you? Would you really?
Syenite blinks. Well, she did suggest it. But would she? All of a sudden, she doesnt know.
When she fails to respond, though, Alabaster s expression twists in frustration. He mumbles
something that might be Never mind, then gets up and steps out of the story circle, taking care not
to disturb anyone else as he goes. It means Syenite loses the ability to follow the tale, but thats all
right. Innon is a joy to watch even without words, and since she doesnt have to pay attention to the
story, she can consider Alabaster s question.
After a while the tale ends, and everyone claps; almost immediately there are calls for another
story. In the general mill as people get up for second helpings from the massive pot of spiced shrimp,
rice, and smoked sea-bubble that is tonights meal, Syenite decides to go find Alabaster. She not sure
what shes going to say, but well. He deserves some kind of answer.
She finds him in their house, where hes curled up in a corner of the big empty room, a few feet
from the bed of dried seagrass and cured animal furs theyve been sleeping on. He hasnt bothered to
light the lanterns; she makes him out as a darker blot against the shadows. Go away, he snaps when
she steps into the room.
I live here, too, she snaps back. Go somewhere else if you want to cry or whatever youre
doing. Earth, she hopes hes not crying.
He sighs. It doesnt sound like hes crying, although hes got his legs drawn up and his elbows
propped on his knees and his heads half buried in his hands. He could be. Syen, youre such a
steelheart.
So are you, when you want to be.
I dont want to be. Not always. Rust, Syen, dont you ever get tired of it all? He stirs a little. Her
eyes have adjusted, and she sees that hes looking at her. Dont you ever just want to to be human?
She comes into the house and leans against the wall next to the door, crossing her arms and her
ankles. We arent human.
Yes. We. Are. His voice turns fierce. I dont give a shit what the something-somethingth council
of big important farts decreed, or how the geomests classify things, or any of that. That were not
human is just the lie they tell themselves so they dont have to feel bad about how they treat us
This, too, is something all roggas know. Only Alabaster is vulgar enough to say it aloud. Syenite
sighs and leans her head back against the wall. If you want him, you idiot, just tell him so. You can
have him. And just like that, his question is answered.
Alabaster falls silent in mid-rant, staring at her. You want him, too.
Yeah. It costs her nothing to say this. But Im okay if She shrugs a little. Yeah.
Alabaster takes a deep breath, then another. Then a third. She has no idea what any of those breaths
means.
I should make the same offer you just did, he says, at last. Do the noble thing, or at least pretend
to. But I In the shadows, he hunches more, tightening his arms around his knees. When he speaks
again, his voice is barely audible. Its just been so long, Syen.
Not since hes had a lover, of course. Just since hes had a lover he wanted.
Theres laughter from the center of the gathering-cavern, and now people are moving along the
corridors, chattering and breaking up for the night. They can both hear Innons big voice rumbling
not far off; even when hes just having a normal conversation, practically everyone can hear him. She
hopes hes not a shouter, in bed.
 Syen takes a deep breath. Want me to go get him? And just to be clear, she adds, For you?
Alabaster is silent for a long moment. She can feel him staring at her, and theres a kind of
emotional pressure in the room that she cant quite interpret. Maybe hes insulted. Maybe hes touched.
Rust if shell ever be able to figure him out and rust if she knows why shes doing this.
Then he nods, rubs a hand over his hair, and lowers his head. Thank you. The words are almost
cold, but she knows that tone, because shes used it herself. Any time shes needed to hold on to her
dignity with fingernails and pent breath.
So she leaves and follows that rumble, eventually finding Innon near the communal cookfire in
deep conversation with Harlas. Everyone else has dissippated by now, and the cavern echoes in a
steady overlapping drone of fussy toddlers fighting sleep, laughter, talking, and the hollow creaking
of the boats in the harbor outside as they rock in their moorings. And over all of it, the hiss-purr of
the sea. Syenite settles herself against a wall nearby, listening to all these exotic sounds, and waiting.
After perhaps ten minutes, Innon finishes his conversation and rises. Harlas heads away, chuckling
over something Innons said; ever the charmer. As Syen expected, Innon then comes over to lean
against the wall beside her.
My crew think I am a fool to pursue you, he says casually, gazing up at the vaulted ceiling as if
theres something interesting up there. They think you dont like me.
Everyone thinks I dont like them, Syenite says. Most of the time, its true. I do like you.
He looks at her, thoughtful, which she likes. Flirting unnerves her. Much better to be
straightforward like this. I have met your kind before, he says. The ones taken to the Fulcrum. His
accent mangles this into fool crumb, which she finds especially fitting. You are the happiest one Ive
seen.
Syenite snorts at the jokeand then, seeing the wry twist to his lips, the heavy compassion in his
gaze, she realizes hes not joking at all. Oh. Alabaster s pretty happy.
No, he isnt.
No. He isnt. But this is why Syenite doesnt like jokes much, either. She sighs. Im here for
him, actually.
Oh? So you have decided to share?
Hes She blinks as the words register. Uh?
Innon shrugs, which is an impressive gesture given how big he is, and how it sets all his braids a-
rustle. You and he are already lovers. It was a thought.
What a thought. Er no. I dontuh. No. There are things shes not ready to think about.
Maybe later. A lot later.
He laughs, though not at her. Yes, yes. You have come, then, what? To ask me to see to your
friend?
Hes not But here she is procuring him a lover for the night. Rust.
Innon laughssoftly, for himand shifts to lean sideways against the wall, perpendicular to
Syenite so that she will not feel boxed in, even though hes close enough that she can feel his body
heat. Something big men do, if they want to be considerate rather than intimidating. She appreciates
his thoughtfulness. And she hates herself for deciding in Alabaster s favor, because, Earthfires, he
even smells sexy as he says, You are a very good friend, I think.
Yes, I rusting am. She rubs her eyes.
Now, now. Everyone sees that you are the stronger of the pair. Syenite blinks at this, but hes
completely serious. He lifts a hand and draws a finger down the side of her face from temple to chin,
a slow tease. Many things have broken him. He holds himself together with spit and endless smiling,
but all can see the cracks. You, though; you are dented, bruised, but intact. It is kind of you. Looking
out for him like so.
No one ever looks out for me. Then she shuts her mouth so hard that her teeth snap. She hadnt
meant to say that.
Innon smiles, but it is a gentle, kindly thing. I will, he says, and leans down to kiss her. It is a
scratchy sort of kiss; his lips are dry, his chin beginning to hair over. Most Coaster men dont seem to
grow beards, but Innon might have some Sanze in him, especially with all that hair. In any case, his
kiss is so soft despite the scratchiness that it feels more like a thank-you than an attempt to seduce.
Probably because thats what he intends. Later, I promise I will.
Then he leaves, heading for the house she shares with Alabaster, and Syenite gazes after him and
thinks belatedly, Now where the rust am I supposed to sleep tonight?
It turns out to be a moot question, because shes not sleepy. She goes to the ledge outside the
cavern, where there are others lingering to take in the night air or talk where half the comm cant
hear them, and she is not the only one standing wistfully at the railing, looking out over the water at
night. The waves roll in steadily, making the smaller boats and the Clalsu rock and groan, and the
starlight casts thin, diffuse reflections upon the waves that seem to stretch away into forever.
Its peaceful here, in Meov. Its nice to be who she is in a place that accepts her. Nicer still to know
that she has nothing to fear for it. A woman Syen met in the bathsone of the Clalsu crew, most of
whom speak at least a little Sanze-matexplained it to her as they sat soaking in water warmed by
rocks the children heat in the fire as part of their daily chores. Its simple, really. With you, we live,
shed said to Syen, shrugging and letting her head fall back against the edge of the bath, and
apparently not caring about the strangeness in her own words. On the mainland, everyone is
convinced that with roggas nearby, they will all die.
And then the woman said something that truly unnerved Syen. Harlas is old. Innon sees much
danger, on raids. You and the laughing onethat is the locals term for Alabaster, since the ones
who dont speak Sanze-mat have trouble pronouncing his nameyou have babies, give us one, yes?
Or we have to go steal, from the mainland.
The very idea of these people, who stick out like stone eaters in a crowd, trying to infiltrate the
Fulcrum to kidnap a grit, or grabbing some feral child just ahead of the Guardians, makes Syenite
shiver. Shes not sure she likes the idea of them greedily hoping she catches pregnant, either. But
theyre no different from the Fulcrum in that, are they? And here, any child that she and Alabaster
have wont end up in a node station.
She lingers out on the ledge for a few hours, losing herself in the sound of the waves and
gradually letting herself lapse into a kind of not-thinking fugue. Then she finally notices that her back
is aching and her feet hurt, and the wind off the water is getting chilly; she cant just stand out here all
night. So she heads back into the cavern, not really sure where she means to go, just letting her feet
carry her where they will. Which is probably why she eventually ends up back outside her house,
standing in front of the curtain that passes for privacy and listening to Alabaster weep through it.
Its definitely him. She knows that voice, even though its choked now with sobs and half muffled.
Barely audible, really, despite the lack of doors and windows but she knows the why of that, doesnt
she? Everyone who grows up in the Fulcrum learns to cry very, very quietly.
It is this thought, and the sense of camaraderie that follows it, that makes her reach up, slowly, and
tug the curtain aside.
Theyre on the mattress, thankfully half covered in fursnot that it matters, since she can see
clothing discarded about the room, and the air smells of sex, so its obvious what theyve been up to.
Alabaster is curled up on his side, his back to her, bony shoulders shaking. Innons sitting up on one
elbow, stroking his hair. His eyes flick up when Syenite opens the curtain, but he doesnt seem upset,
or surprised. In factand in light of their previous conversation she really shouldnt be surprised, but
she ishe lifts a hand. Beckoning.
Shes not sure why she obeys. And shes not sure why she undresses as she walks across the room,
or why she lifts up the furs behind Alabaster and slides into the redolent warmth with him. Or why,
once shes done this, she curves herself against his back, and drapes an arm over his waist, and looks
up to see Innons sad smile of welcome. But she does.
Syen falls asleep like this. As far as she can tell, Alabaster cries for the rest of the night, and Innon
stays up to comfort him the whole time. So when she wakes the next morning and claws her way out
of bed and stumbles over to the chamber pot to throw up noisily into it, they both sleep through it.
There is no one to comfort her as she sits there shaking in the aftermath. But that is nothing new.
Well. At least the people of Meov wont have to go steal a baby, now.
* * *
Put no price on flesh.
Tablet One, On Survival, verse six
 INTERLUDE

There passes a time of happiness in your life, which I will not describe to you. It is unimportant. Perhaps you think it wrong that I
dwell so much on the horrors, the pain, but pain is what shapes us, after all. We are creatures born of heat and pressure and
grinding, ceaseless movement. To be still is to be not alive.
But what is important is that you know it was not all terrible. There was peace in long stretches, between each crisis. A
chance to cool and solidify before the grind resumed.
Here is what you need to understand. In any war, there are factions: those wanting peace, those wanting more war for a
myriad of reasons, and those whose desires transcend either. And this is a war with many sides, not just two. Did you think it
was just the stills and the orogenes? No, no. Remember the stone eaters and the Guardians, toooh, and the Seasons. Never
forget Father Earth. He has not forgotten you.
So while sheyourested, those are the forces that gathered round. Eventually they began their advance.
 20
Syenite, stretched and snapped back

ITS NOT QUITE WHAT SYENITE had in mind for the rest of her life, sitting around being useless, so she
goes to find Innon one day as the Clalsu crew is outfitting the ship for another raiding run.
No, he says, staring at her like shes insane. You are not being a pirate when you just had a
baby.
I had the baby two years ago. She can only change so many diapers, pester people for lessons in
Eturpic so often, and help with the net-fishing so many times before she goes mad. Shes done with
nursing, which is the excuse Innons used up to now to put her offand which was pointless anyway,
since in Meov that sort of thing is done communally, same as everything else. When shes not around,
Alabaster just takes the baby to one of the other mothers in the comm, just as Syen fed their babies in
turn if they happened to be hungry while she was nearby and full of milk. And since Baster does most
of the diaper changes and sings little Corundum to sleep, and coos at him and plays with him and
takes him for walks and so on, Syenite has to keep busy somehow.
Syenite. He stops in the middle of the loading ramp that leads into the ships hold. Theyre
putting storage barrels of water and food aboard, along with baskets of more esoteric things
buckets of chain for the catapult, bladders of pitch and fish oil, a length of heavy cloth meant to serve
as a replacement sail should they require it. When Innon stops with Syenite standing down-ramp from
him, everything else stops, and when there are loud complaints from the dock, he lifts his head and
glowers until everyone shuts up. Everyone, of course, except Syenite.
Im bored, she says in frustration. Theres nothing to do here except fish and wait for you and
the others to come back from a raid, and gossip about people I dont know, and tell stories about
things I dont care about! Ive spent my whole life either training or working, for Earths sake; you
cant expect me to just sit around and look at water all day.
Alabaster does.
Syenite rolls her eyes, although this is true. When Alabaster isnt with the baby, he spends most of
his days up on the heights above the colony, gazing out at the world and thinking unfathomable
thoughts for hours on end. She knows; shes watched him do it. Im not him! Innon, you can use me.
And Innons expression twists, becauseah, yes. That one hits home for him.
Its an unspoken thing between them, but Syenites not stupid. There are a lot of things a skilled
rogga can do to help on the kinds of sorties Innons crew makes. Not starting shakes or blows, she
wont and hed never ask itbut it is a simple thing to draw enough strength from the ambient to
lower the temperature at the water s surface, and thus cloak the ship in fog to hide its approach or
retreat. It is equally easy to disturb forests along the shoreline with the most delicate of underground
vibrations, causing flocks of birds or hordes of mice to flood out of the trees and into nearby
settlements as a distraction. And more. Orogeny is damned useful, Syenite is beginning to understand,
for far, far more than just quelling shakes.
Or rather, it could be useful, if Innon could use his orogeny that way. Yet for all his awesome
charisma and physical prowess, Innon is still a feral, with nothing more than what little training
Harlashimself a feral and poorly trainedcould give him. Shes felt Innons orogeny when he
quells local minor shakes, and the crude inefficiency of his power shocks her sometimes. Shes tried
to teach him better control, and he listens, and he tries, but he doesnt improve. She doesnt
understand why. Without that level of skill, the Clalsu crew earns its spoils the old-fashioned way:
They fight, and die, for every scrap.
Alabaster can do these things for us, Innon says, looking uneasy.
Alabaster, Syen says, trying for patience, gets sick just looking at this thing. She gestures at
Clalsus curving bulk. The joke all over the comm is that Baster somehow manages to look green
despite his blackness whenever he is forced aboard a ship. Syen threw up less when she had morning
sickness. What if I dont do anything but cloak the ship? Or whatever you order me to do.
Innon puts his hands on his hips, his expression derisive. You pretend that you will follow my
orders? You dont even do that in bed.
Oh, you bastard. Now hes just being an ass, because he doesnt actually try to give her orders in
bed. Its just a weird Meovite thing to tease about sex. Now that Syen can understand what everyones
saying, every other statement seems to be about her sharing her bedtime with two of the best-looking
men in the comm. Innon says they only do this to her because she turns such interesting colors when
little old ladies make vulgar jokes about positions and rope knots. Shes trying to get used to it.
Thats completely irrelevant!
Is it? He pokes her in the chest with a big finger. No lovers on ship; that is the rule I have
always followed. We cannot even be friends once we set sail. What I say goes; anything else and we
die. You question everything, Syenite, and there is no time for questioning, on the sea.
Thats not an unfair point. Syen shifts uneasily. I can follow orders without question. Earth
knows Ive done enough of that. Innon She takes a deep breath. Earths sake, Innon, Ill do
anything to get off this island for a while.
And that is another problem. He steps closer and lowers his voice. Corundum is your son,
Syenite. Do you feel nothing for him, that you constantly chafe to be away?
I make sure hes taken care of. And she does. Corundum is always clean and well fed. She never
wanted a child, but now that shes had ithimand held him, and nursed him, and all that she does
feel a sense of accomplishment, maybe, and rueful acknowledgment, because she and Alabaster have
managed to make one beautiful child between them. She looks into her sons face sometimes and
marvels that he exists, that he seems so whole and right, when both his parents have nothing but bitter
brokenness between them. Whos she kidding? Its love. She loves her son. But that doesnt mean she
wants to spend every hour of every rusting day in his presence.
Innon shakes his head and turns away, throwing up his hands. Fine! Fine, fine, ridiculous woman.
Then you go and tell Alabaster we will both be away.
All ri But hes gone, up the ramp and into the hold, where she hears him yelling at someone
else about something that she cant quite catch because her ears cant parse Eturpic when it echoes at
that volume.
Regardless, she bounces a little as she heads down the ramp, waving in vague apology to the other
crew members who are standing around looking mildly annoyed. Then she heads into the comm.
Alabaster s not in the house, and Corundums not with Selsi, the woman who most often keeps the
smaller children of the colony when their parents are busy. Selsi raises her eyebrows at Syen when
she pokes her head in. He said yes?
He said yes. Syenite cant help grinning, and Selsi laughs.
Then we will never see you again, I wager. Waves wait only for the nets. Which Syenite guesses
is some sort of Meov proverb, whatever it means. Alabaster is on the heights with Coru, again.
Again. Thanks, she says, and shakes her head. Its a wonder their child doesnt sprout wings.
She heads up the steps to the topmost level of the island and over the first rise of rock, and there
they are, sitting on a blanket near the cliff. Coru looks up as she approaches, beaming and pointing at
her; Alabaster, who probably felt her footsteps on the stairs, doesnt bother turning.
Innons finally taking you with them? he asks when Syen gets close enough to hear his soft
voice.
Huh. Syenite settles on the blanket beside him, and opens her arms for Coru, who clambers out
of Alabaster s lap, where hes been sitting, and into Syenites. If Id known you already knew, I
wouldnt have bothered walking up all those steps.
It was a guess. You dont usually come up here with a smile on your face. I knew it had to be
something. Alabaster turns at last, watching Coru as he stands in her lap and pushes at her breasts.
Syenite holds him reflexively, but hes actually doing a good job of keeping his balance, despite the
unevenness of her lap. Then Syen notices that its not just Corundum that Alabaster s watching.
What? she asks, frowning.
Will you come back?
And that, completely out of the blue as it is, makes Syenite drop her hands. Fortunately, Corus got
the trick of standing on her legs, which he does, giggling, while she stares at Alabaster. Why are you
evenWhat?
Alabaster shrugs, and its only then that Syenite notices the furrow between his brows, and the
haunted look in his eyes, and its only then that she understands what Innon was trying to say to her.
As if to reinforce this, Alabaster says, bitterly, You dont have to be with me anymore. You have
your freedom, like you wanted. And Innons got what he wanteda rogga child to take care of the
comm if something happens to him. Hes even got me to train the child better than Harlas ever could,
because he knows I wont leave.
Fire-under-Earth. Syenite sighs and pushes away Corus hands, which hurt. No, little greedy
child, I dont have milk anymore. Settle down. And because this immediately makes Corus face
screw up with thwarted sorrow, she pulls him close and wraps her arms around him and starts playing
with his feet, which is usually a good way to distract him before he gets going. It works. Apparently
small children are inordinately fascinated by their own toes; who knew? And with that child taken
care of, she can focus on Alabaster, whos now looking out to sea again, but whos probably just as
close to a meltdown.
You could leave, she says, pointing out the obvious because thats what she always has to do with
him. Innons offered before to take us back to the mainland, if we want to go. If we dont do anything
stupid like still a shake in front of a crowd of people, either of us could probably make a decent life
somewhere.
We have a decent life here. Its hard to hear him over the wind, and yet she can actually feel what
hes not saying. Dont leave me.
Crusty rust, Baster, what is wrong with you? Im not planning to leave. Not now, anyway. But
its bad enough that theyre having this conversation at all; she doesnt need to make it worse. Im
just going somewhere I can be useful
Youre useful here. And now he turns to glare at her full-on, and it actually bothers her, the hurt
and loneliness that lurk beneath the veneer of anger on his face. It bothers her more that this bothers
her.
No. Im not. And when he opens his mouth to protest, she runs over him. Im not. You said it
yourself; Meov has a ten-ringer now to protect it. Dont think I havent noticed how we havent had so
much as a subsurface twitch in my range, not in all the time weve been here. Youve been quelling
any possible threat long before Innon or I can feel it But then she trails off, frowning, because
Alabaster is shaking his head, and theres a smile on his lips that makes her abruptly uneasy.
Not me, he says.
What?
I havent quelled anything for about a year now. And then he nods toward the child, who is now
examining Syenites fingers with intent concentration. She stares down at Coru, and Coru looks up at
her and grins.
Corundum is exactly what the Fulcrum hoped for when they paired her with Alabaster. He hasnt
inherited much of Alabaster s looks, being only a shade browner than Syen and with hair thats
already growing from fuzz into the beginnings of a proper ashblow bottlebrush; shes the one with
Sanzed ancestors, so that didnt come from Baster, either. But what Coru does have from his father is
an almighty powerful awareness of the earth. It has never occurred to Syenite before now that her
baby might be aware enough to sess, and still, microshakes. Thats not instinct, thats skill.
Evil Earth, she murmurs. Coru giggles. Then Alabaster abruptly reaches over and plucks him
out of her arms, getting to his feet. Wait, this
Go, he snaps, grabbing the basket hes brought up with them and crouching to dump baby toys
and a folded diaper back into it. Go, ride your rusting boat, get yourself killed along with Innon,
what do I care. I will be here for Coru, no matter what you do.
And then hes gone, his shoulders tight and his walk brisk, ignoring Corus shrill protest and not
even bothering to take the blanket that Syens still sitting on.
Earthfires.
Syenite stays topside awhile, trying to figure out how she ended up becoming the emotional
caretaker for a crazy ten-ringer while stuck out in the middle of rusting nowhere with his inhumanly
powerful baby. Then the sun sets and she gets tired of thinking about it, so she gets up and grabs the
blanket and heads back down to the comm.
Everyones gathering for the evening meal, but Syenite begs off being social this time, just
grabbing a plate of roasted tulifish and braised threeleaf with sweetened barley that must have been
stolen from some mainland comm. She carries this back to the house, and is unsurprised to find
Alabaster there already, curled up in the bed with a sleeping Coru. Theyve upgraded to a bigger bed
for Innons sake, this mattress suspended from four sturdy posts by a kind of hammock-like net that is
surprisingly comfortable, and durable despite the weight and activity they put on it. Alabaster s quiet
but awake when Syen comes in, so she sighs and scoops up Coru and puts him to bed in the nearby
smaller suspended bed, which is lower to the ground in case he rolls or climbs out in the night. Then
she climbs into bed with Alabaster, just looking at him, and after a while he gives up the distant
treatment and edges a little closer. He doesnt meet her eyes as he does this. But Syenite knows what
he needs, so she sighs and rolls onto her back, and he edges closer still, finally resting his head on
her shoulder, where hes probably wanted to be all along.
Sorry, he says.
Syenite shrugs. Dont worry about it. And then, because Innons right and this is partly her fault,
she sighs and adds, Im coming back. I do like it here, you know. I just get restless.
Youre always restless. What are you looking for?
She shakes her head. I dont know.
But she thinks, almost but not quite subconsciously: A way to change things. Because this is not
right.
Hes always good at guessing her thoughts. You cant make anything better, he says, heavily.
The world is what it is. Unless you destroy it and start all over again, theres no changing it. He
sighs, rubs his face against her breast. Take what you can get out of it, Syen. Love your son. Even
live the pirate life if that makes you happy. But stop looking for anything better than this.
She licks her lips. Corundum should have better.
Alabaster sighs. Yes. He should. He says nothing more, but the unspoken is palpable: He wont,
though.
It isnt right.
She drifts off to sleep. And a few hours later she wakes up because Alabaster is blurting, Oh fuck,
oh please, oh Earth, I cant, Innon, against Innons shoulder, and jerking in a way that disturbs the
beds gentle sway while Innon pants and ruts against him, cock on oily cock. And then because
Alabaster is spent but Innon isnt, and Innon notices her watching, he grins at her and kisses Alabaster
and then slides a hand between Syens legs. Of course shes wet. He and Alabaster are always beautiful
together.
Innon is a considerate lover, so he leans over and nuzzles her breasts and does marvelous things
with his fingers, and does not stop thrusting against Alabaster until she curses and demands all of his
attention for a while, which makes him laugh and shift over.
Alabaster watches while Innon obliges her, and his gaze grows hot with it, which Syenite still
doesnt understand even after being with them for almost two years. Baster doesnt want her, not that
way, nor she him. And yet its unbelievably arousing for her to watch Innon drive him to moaning and
begging, and Alabaster also clearly gets off on her going to pieces with someone else. She likes it
more when Baster s watching, in fact. They cant stand sex with each other directly, but vicariously
its amazing. And what do they even call this? Its not a threesome, or a love triangle. Its a two-and-a-
half-some, an affection dihedron. (And, well, maybe its love.) She should worry about another
pregnancy, maybe from Alabaster again given how messy things get between the three of them, but
she cant bring herself to worry because it doesnt matter. Someone will love her children no matter
what. Just as she doesnt think overmuch about what she does with her bed time or how this thing
between them works; no one in Meov will care, no matter what. Thats another turn-on, probably: the
utter lack of fear. Imagine that.
So they fall asleep, Innon snoring on his belly between them and Baster and Syen with their heads
pillowed on his big shoulders, and not for the first time does Syenite think, If only this could last.
She knows better than to wish for something so impossible.
* * *
The Clalsu sets sail the next day. Alabaster stands out on the pier with half the rest of the comm that is
waving and well-wishing. He doesnt wave, but he does point to them as the ship pulls away,
encouraging Coru to wave when Syenite and Innon do. Coru does it, and for a moment Syenite feels
something like regret. It passes quickly.
Then there is only the open sea, and work to be done: casting lines for fish and climbing high up
into the masts to do things to the sails when Innon tells them to, and at one point securing several
barrels that have come loose down in the hold. Its hard work, and Syenite falls asleep in her little
bunk under one of the bulkheads not long after sunset, because Innon wont let her sleep with him and
anyway, she doesnt have the energy to make it up to his cabin.
But it gets better, and she gets stronger as the days pass, beginning to see why the Clalsu crew have
always seemed a little more vibrant, a little more interesting, than everyone else in Meov. On the
fourth day out theres a call from the leftrust, from the port side of the ship, and she and the others
come to the railing to see something amazing: the curling plumes of ocean spray where great
monsters of the deep have risen to swim alongside them. One of them breaches the surface to look at
them and its ridiculously huge; its eye is bigger than Syens head. One slap of its fins could capsize
the ship. But it doesnt hurt them, and one of the crew members tells her that its just curious. She
seems amused by Syenites awe.
At night, they look at the stars. Syen has never paid much attention to the sky; the ground beneath
her feet was always more important. But Innon points out patterns in the ways that the stars move, and
explains that the stars she sees are actually other suns, with other worlds of their own and perhaps
other people living other lives and facing other struggles. She has heard of pseudosciences like
astronomestry, knows that its adherents make unprovable claims like this, but now, looking at the
constantly moving sky, she understands why they believe it. She understands why they care, when the
sky is so immutable and irrelevant to most of daily life. On nights like these, for a little while, she
cares, too.
Also at night, the crew drinks and sings songs. Syenite mispronounces vulgar words, inadvertently
making them more vulgar, and makes instant friends of half the crew by doing so.
The other half of the crew reserves judgment, until they spy a likely target on the seventh day.
Theyve been lurking near the shipping lanes between two heavily populated peninsulas, and people
up in the mast-nest have been watching with spyglasses for ships worth the effort of robbing. Innon
doesnt give the order until the lookout tells them hes spotted an especially large vessel of the sort
often used to ferry trade goods too heavy or dangerous for easy overland carting: oils and quarried
stone and volatile chemicals and timber. The very sorts of things that a comm stuck on a barren island
in the middle of nowhere might need most. This ones accompanied by another vessel, which is
smaller and which, according to those who see it through the spyglass and can tell such things by
sight, is probably bristling with militia soldiers, battering rams, and armaments of its own. (Maybe
ones a carrack and the other s a caravel, those are the words the sailors use, but she cant remember
which ones which and its a pain in the ass to try so shes going to stick with the big boat and the
small boat.) Their readiness to fight off pirates confirms that the freighter carries something worth
pirating.
Innon looks at Syenite, and she grins fiercely.
She raises two fogs. The first requires her to pull ambient energy at the farthest edge of her range
but she does it, because thats where the smaller ship is. The second fog she raises in a corridor
between Clalsu and the cargo vessel, so that they will be on their target almost before it sees them
coming.
It goes like clockwork. Innons crew are mostly experienced and highly skilled; the ones like
Syenite, who dont know what theyre doing yet, are pushed to the periphery while the others set to.
The Clalsu comes out of the fog and the other vessel starts ringing bells to sound the alarm, but its
too late. Innons people fire the catapults and shred their sails with baskets of chain. Then the Clalsu
sidles up closeSyen thinks theyre going to hit, but Innon knows what hes doingand others in the
crew throw hooks across the gap between them, hitching the ships together and then winching them
closer with the big crankworks that occupy much of the deck.
Its dangerous at this point, and one of the older members of the crew shoos Syen belowdecks
when people on the cargo ship start firing arrows and slingstones and throwing-knives at them. She
sits in the shadow of the steps while the other crew members run up and down them, and her heart is
pounding; her palms are damp. Something heavy thuds into the hull not five feet from her head, and
she flinches.
But Evil Earth, this is so much better than sitting around on the island, fishing and singing
lullabies.
Its over in minutes. When the commotion dies down and Syenite dares to venture up top again,
she sees that planks have been run between the two vessels and Innons people are running back and
forth along them. Some of them have captured members of the cargo vessels crew and corralled
them on deck, holding them at glassknife-point; the rest of the crew is surrendering, giving up
weapons and valuables, for fear the hostages will be hurt. Already some of Innons sailors are going
into the holds, bringing up barrels and crates and carting them across to the Clalsus deck. Theyll
sort out the booty later. Speed is of the essence now.
But all at once there are shouts and someone in the rigging hits a bell franticallyand out of the
roiling fog looms the attack ship that accompanied the cargo vessel. Its on them, and belatedly
Syenite realizes her error: she had assumed that the attack ship would stop given that it couldnt see,
knowing itself in proximity to other vessels. People are not that logical. Now the attack ship is
coming at full speed, and even though she can hear cries of alarm from its decks as they also realize
the danger, theres no way it will be able to stop before it rams into Clalsu and the cargo ship and
probably sinks all three.
Syenite is brimming with power drawn from the warmth and boundless waves of the sea. She
reacts, as she has been taught in a hundred Fulcrum drills, without thinking. Down, through the
strange slipperiness of seawater minerals, through the soggy uselessness of the ocean sediment,
down. There is stone beneath the ocean, and it is old and raw and hers to command.
In another place she claws up with her hands and shouts and thinks Up, and suddenly the attack ship
cracks loudly and jerks to a halt. People stop screaming, shocked into silence, on all three vessels.
This is because suddenly there is a massive, jagged knife of bedrock jutting several feet above the
attack ships deck, skewering the vessel from the keel up.
Shaking, Syenite lowers her hands slowly.
The cries aboard the Clalsu turn from alarm into ragged cheers. Even a few of the cargo vessels
people look relieved; one ship damaged is better than three ships sunk.
Things go quickly after that, with the attack ship helpless and skewered as it is. Innon comes to
find her just as the crew reports that the cargo ships hold is empty. Syen has moved to the bow, where
she can see people on the attack ships deck trying to chisel at the pillar.
Innon stops beside her, and she looks up, braced for his anger. But he is far from angry.
I did not know one could do such things, he says wonderingly. I thought you and Alabaster
were only boasting.
It is the first time Syenite has been praised for her orogeny by someone not of the Fulcrum, and if
she had not already begun to love Innon, she would now. I shouldnt have brought it up so high, she
says, sheepishly. If Id thought first, I wouldve raised the column only enough to breach the hull so
theyd think they ran over an obstacle.
Innon sobers as he understands. Ah. And now they know we have an orogene of some skill
aboard. His expression hardens in a way that Syenite does not understand, but she decides not to
question it. It feels so good to stand here, with him, basking in the glow of success. For a while they
just watch the cargo vessels unloading together.
Then one of Innons crewmen runs up to say theyre done, the planks have been withdrawn, the
ropes and hooks rolled back onto their crankwheels. Theyre ready to go. Innon says in a heavy
voice, Hold.
She almost knows what is coming then. But it still makes her feel ill when he looks at Syenite, his
expression ice. Sink them both.
She has promised never to question Innons orders. Even so, she hesitates. She has never killed
anyone before, not deliberately. It was just a mistake that she brought the stone projection up so high.
Is it really necessary that people die for her folly? He steps close, and she flinches preemptively, even
though he has never harmed her. Her hand bones twinge regardless.
But Innon only says into her ear, For Baster and Coru.
That makes no sense. Baster and Coru are not here. But then the full implication of his words
that the safety of everyone in Meov depends on the mainlanders seeing them as a nuisance rather than
a serious threatsinks in, and makes her cold, too. Colder.
So she says, You should move us away.
Innon turns at once and gives the order for the Clalsu to set sail. Once they have drifted to a safe
distance, Syenite takes a deep breath.
For her family. It is strange, thinking of them as such, though that is what they are. Stranger still to
do something like this for a real reason, and not simply because she has been commanded to. Does
that mean she is no longer a weapon? What does that make her, then, if not?
Doesnt matter.
At a flick of her will, the bedrock column extracts itself from the attack ships hullleaving a ten-
foot hole near the stern. It begins sinking immediately, tipping upward as it takes on water. Then,
dragging more strength from the ocean surface and raising fog enough to obscure sight for miles,
Syenite shifts the column to aim at the cargo vessels keel. A quick thrust up, a quicker withdrawal.
Like stabbing someone to death with a poniard. The ships hull cracks like an egg, and after a moment
splits into two halves. Its done.
The fog completely obscures both sinking ships as the Clalsu sails away. The two crews screams
follow Syenite long after, into the drifting whiteness.
* * *
Innon makes an exception for her, that night. Later, sitting up in his captains bed, Syen says, I want
to see Allia.
Innon sighs. No. You dont.
But he gives the order anyway, because he loves her. The ship charts a new course.
* * *
According to legend, Father Earth did not originally hate life.
In fact, as the lorists tell it, once upon a time Earth did everything he could to facilitate the strange
emergence of life on his surface. He crafted even, predictable seasons; kept changes of wind and
wave and temperature slow enough that every living being could adapt, evolve; summoned waters that
purified themselves, skies that always cleared after a storm. He did not create lifethat was
happenstancebut he was pleased and fascinated by it, and proud to nurture such strange wild beauty
upon his surface.
Then people began to do horrible things to Father Earth. They poisoned waters beyond even his
ability to cleanse, and killed much of the other life that lived on his surface. They drilled through the
crust of his skin, past the blood of his mantle, to get at the sweet marrow of his bones. And at the
height of human hubris and might, it was the orogenes who did something that even Earth could not
forgive: They destroyed his only child.
No lorist that Syenite has ever talked to knows what this cryptic phrase means. It isnt stonelore,
just oral tradition occasionally recorded on ephemerals like paper and hide, and too many Seasons
have changed it. Sometimes its the Earths favorite glassknife that the orogenes destroyed;
sometimes its his shadow; sometimes its his most valued Breeder. Whatever the words mean, the
lorists and mests agree on what happened after the orogenes committed their great sin: Father Earths
surface cracked like an eggshell. Nearly every living thing died as his fury became manifest in the
first and most terrible of the Fifth Seasons: the Shattering Season. Powerful as they were, those
ancient people had no warning, no time to build storecaches, and no stonelore to guide them. It is only
through sheer luck that enough of humankind survived to replenish itself afterwardand never again
has life attained the heights of power that it once held. Earths recurrent fury will never allow that.
Syenite has always wondered about these tales. Theres a degree of poetic license in them, of
course, primitive people trying to explain what they didnt understand but all legends contain a
kernel of truth. Maybe the ancient orogenes did shatter the planets crust, somehow. How, though? Its
clear now that theres more to orogeny than what the Fulcrum teachesand maybe theres a reason
the Fulcrum doesnt teach it, if the legend is true. But facts are facts: Even if somehow every orogene
in existence down to the infants could be yoked together, they could not destroy the worlds surface. It
would ice everything; theres not enough warmth or movement anywhere to do that much damage.
Theyd all burn themselves out trying, and die.
Which means that part of the tale cant be true; orogeny cannot be to blame for the Earths rage.
Not that anyone but another rogga would accept this conclusion.
It is truly amazing, though, that humanity managed to survive the fires of that first Season. Because
if the whole world was then as Allia is now Syenite has a fresh understanding of just how much
Father Earth hates them all.
Allia is a nightscape of red, blistering death. There is nothing left of the comm except the caldera
ring that once cradled it, and even that is hard to see. Squinting through the red wavering haze, Syen
thinks she can glimpse a few leftover buildings and streets on the calderas slopes, but that might just
be wishful thinking.
The night sky is thick with ash clouds, underlit by the glow of fire. Where the harbor was, there is
now a growing volcano cone, gushing deadly clouds and hot red birth-blood on its climb out of the
sea. Its already huge, occupying nearly the entire caldera bowl, and it has already borne offspring.
Two additional vents crouch against its flank, belching gas and lava like their parent. Likely all three
will eventually grow together to become a single monster, engulfing the surrounding mountains and
threatening every comm in range of its gas clouds or subsequent blows.
Everyone Syenite met in Allia is dead now. The Clalsu cant go within five miles of the shore; any
closer and they risk death, whether by warping the ships hull in the heated waters, or by suffocating
in the hot clouds that periodically gout forth from the mountain. Or by cooking themselves over one
of the subsidiary vents that are still developing around the area, spreading out from what was once
Allias harbor like the spokes of a wheel and lurking like deadly mines beneath the waters offshore.
Syen can sess every one of these hot spots, bright churning ragestorms just beneath the Earths skin.
Even Innon can sess them, and hes steered the ship away from those that are most likely to burst
through anytime soon. But as fragile as the strata are right now, a new vent could open right under
them before Syen has a chance to detect or stop it. Innons risking a lot to indulge her.
Many in the outlying parts of the comm managed to escape, Innon says softly, beside her. The
Clalsus whole crew has come up on deck, staring at Allia in silence. They say there was a flash of
red light from the harbor, then a series of flashes, in a rhythm. Like something pulsing. But the
initial concussion, when the whole damned harbor boiled away at once, flattened most of the smaller
houses in the comm. Thats what killed most people. There was no warning. Syenite twitches.
No warning. There were almost a hundred thousand people in Alliasmall by the standards of the
Equatorials, but big for a Coaster comm. Proud, justifiably so. Theyd had such hopes.
Rust this. Rust it and burn it in the foul, hateful guts of Father Earth.
Syenite? Innon is staring at her. This is because Syen has raised her fists before her, as if she is
grasping the reins of a straining, eager horse. And because a narrow, high, tight torus has suddenly
manifested around her. It isnt cold; theres plenty of earth-power for her to tap nearby. But it is
powerful, and even an untrained rogga can sess the gathering flex of her will. Innon inhales and takes
a step back. Syen, what are you
I cant leave it like this, she murmurs, almost to herself. The whole area is a swelling, deadly
boil ready to burst. The volcano is only the first warning. Most vents in the earth are tiny, convoluted
things, struggling to escape through varying layers of rock and metal and their own inertia. They
seep and cool and plug themselves and then seep upward again, twisting and winding every which
way in the process. This, though, is a gigantic lava tube channeled straight up from wherever the
garnet obelisk has gone, funneling pure Earth-hate toward the surface. If nothing is done, the whole
region will soon blow sky-high, in a massive explosion that will almost surely touch off a Season.
She cannot believe the Fulcrum has left things like this.
So Syenite stabs herself into that churning, building heat, and tears at it with all the fury she feels at
seeing Allia, this was Allia, this was a human place, there were people here. People who didnt
deserve to die because
of me
because they were too stupid to let sleeping obelisks lie, or because they dared to dream of a
future. No one deserves to die for that.
Its almost easy. This is what orogenes do, after all, and the hot spot is ripe for her use. The danger
lies in not using it, really. If she takes in all that heat and force without channeling it elsewhere, it will
destroy her. But fortunatelyshe laughs to herself, and her whole body shakes with itshes got a
volcano to choke off.
So she curls the fingers of one hand into a fist, and sears down its throat with her awareness, not
burning but cooling, turning its own fury back on it to seal every breach. She forces the growing
magma chamber back, back, down, downand as she does so, she deliberately drags together the
strata in overlapping patterns so that each will press down on the one below it and keep the magma
down, at least until it finds another, slower way to wend its way to the surface. Its a delicate sort of
operation, for all that it involves millions of tons of rock and the sorts of pressures that force
diamonds into existence. But Syenite is a child of the Fulcrum, and the Fulcrum has trained her well.
She opens her eyes to find herself in Innons arms, with the ship heaving beneath her feet. Blinking
in surprise, she looks up at Innon, whose eyes are wide and wild. He notices that shes back, and the
expressions of relief and fear on his face are both heartening and sobering.
I told everyone you would not kill us, he says, over the churning of the sea spray and the shouts
of his crew. She looks around and sees them frantically trying to lower the sails, so that they can have
more control amid a sea that is suddenly anything but placid. Please try not to make me a liar, would
you?
Shit. Shes used to working orogeny on land, and forgot to account for the effects of her fault-
sealing on water. They were shakes for a good purpose, but shakes nevertheless, andoh Earth, she
can feel it. Shes touched off a tsunami. Andshe winces and groans as her sessapinae set up a
ringing protest at the back of her head. Shes overdone it.
Innon. Her head is ringing agony. You neednnh. Push waves of matching amplitude,
subsurface
What? He looks away from her to shout something to one of the crewwomen in his tongue, and
she curses inwardly. Of course he has no idea what shes talking about. He does not speak Fulcrum.
But then, all at once, there is a chill in the air all around them. The wood of the ship groans with
the temperature change. Syen gasps in alarm, but its not much of a change, really. Just the difference
between a summer night and an autumn one, albeit over the span of minutesand there is a presence
to this change that is familiar as warm hands in the night. Innon abruptly inhales as he recognizes it,
too: Alabaster. Of course his range stretches this far. He quells the gathering waves in moments.
When hes done, the ship sits on placid waters once more, facing the volcano of Allia which has
now gone quiet and dark. Its still smoking and will be hot for decades, but it no longer vents fresh
magma or gas. The skies above are already clearing.
Leshiye, Innons first mate, comes over, throwing an uneasy look at Syenite. He says something
too fast for Syenite to translate fully, but she gets the gist of it: Tell her next time she decides to stop a
volcano, get off the ship first.
Leshiyes right. Sorry, Syen mutters in Eturpic, and the man grumbles and stomps off.
Innon shakes his head and lets her go, calling for the sails to be unfurled once again. He glances
down at her. You all right?
Fine. She rubs at her head. Just never worked anything that big before.
I did not think you could. I thought only ones like Alabasterwith many rings, more than yours
could do so. But you are as powerful as he.
No. Syenite laughs a little, gripping the railing and clinging to it so she wont need to lean on
him for support anymore. I just do whats possible. He rewrites the rusting laws of nature.
Heh. Innon sounds odd, and Syenite glances at him in surprise to see an almost regretful look on
his face. Sometimes, when I see what you and he can do, I wish I had gone to this Fulcrum of yours.
No, you dont. She doesnt even want to think about what he would be like if he had grown up in
captivity with the rest of them. Innon, but without his booming laugh or vivacious hedonism or
cheerful confidence. Innon, with his graceful strong hands weaker and clumsier for having been
broken. Not Innon.
He smiles ruefully at her now, as if he has guessed her thoughts. Someday, you must tell me what
its like there. Why all who come out of that place seem so very competent and so very afraid.
With that, he pats her back and heads off to oversee the course change.
But Syenite stays where she is at the railing, suddenly chilled to the bone in a way that has nothing
to do with the passing flex of Alabaster s power.
That is because, as the ship tilts to one side in its turnabout, and she takes one last look back at the
place that was Allia before her folly destroyed it
she sees someone.
Or she thinks she does. Shes not sure at first. She squints and can just make out one of the paler
strips that wend down into the Allia bowl on its southern curve, which is more readily visible now that
the ruddy light around the volcano has faded. Its obviously not the Imperial Road that she and Baster
traveled to get to Allia, once upon a time and one colossal mistake ago. Most likely what shes
looking at is just a dirt road used by the locals, carved out of the surrounding forest a tree at a time
and kept clear by decades of foot traffic.
There is a tiny mote moving along that road that looks, from this distance, like a person walking
downhill. But it cant be. No sane person would stay so close to an active, deadly blow that had
already killed thousands.
She squints more, moving to the ships stern so that she can continue to peer that way as the Clalsu
peels away from the coast. If only she had one of Innons spyglasses. If only she could be sure.
Because for a moment she thinks, for a moment she sees, or hallucinates in her weariness, or
imagines in her anxiety
The Fulcrum seniors would not leave such a brewing disaster unmitigated. Unless they thought
there was a very good reason to do so. Unless they had been ordered to do so.
that the walking figure is wearing a burgundy uniform.
* * *
Some say the Earth is angry
Because he wants no company;
I say the Earth is angry
Because he lives alone.
Ancient (pre-Imperial) folk song
 21
youre getting the band back together

YOU, YOU SAY SUDDENLY TO Tonkee. Who is not Tonkee.

Tonkee, who is approaching one of the crystal walls with a gleaming eye and a tiny chisel shes
produced from somewhere, stops and looks at you in confusion. What?
Its the end of the day, and youre tired. Discovering impossible comms hidden in giant
underground geodes takes a lot out of you. Ykkas people have put you and the others up in an
apartment thats situated along the midpoint of one of the longer crystalline shafts. You had to walk
across a rope bridge and around an encircling wooden platform to reach it. The apartment is level,
even though the crystal itself isnt; the people who hollowed this place out seem not to have
understood that no one forgets theyre living in something that leans at a forty-five-degree angle just
because the floor is straight. But youve tried to put it out of your mind.
And somewhere in the middle of looking around the place and putting your pack down and
thinking, This is home until I can escape it, youve suddenly realized that you know Tonkee. Youve
known her, on some level, all along.
Binof. Leadership. Yumenes, you snap, and each word seems to hit Tonkee like a blow. She
flinches and takes a step back, then another. Then a third, until shes pressed against the apartments
smooth crystalline wall. The look on her face is one of horror, or perhaps sorrow so great that it
might as well be horror. Past a certain point, its all the same thing.
I didnt think you remembered, she says, in a small voice.
You get to your feet, palms planted on the table. Its not chance that you started traveling with us.
It cant be.
Tonkee tries to smile; its a grimace. Unlikely coincidences do happen
Not with you. Not with a child whod scammed her way into the Fulcrum and uncovered a secret
that culminated in the death of a Guardian. The woman who was that child will not leave things to
chance. Youre sure of it. At least your rusting disguises have gotten better over the years.
Hoa, whos been standing at the entrance of the apartmentguarding again, you thinkturns his
head from one to the other of you, back and forth. Perhaps he is watching how this confrontation
goes, to prepare for the one you have to have with him, next.
Tonkee looks away. Shes shaking, just a little. It isnt. A coincidence. I mean She takes a deep
breath. I havent been following you. I had people follow you, but thats different. Didnt start
following you myself until just the last few years.
You had people follow me. For almost thirty years?
She blinks, then relaxes a little, chuckling. It sounds bitter. My family has more money than the
Emperor. Anyway, it was easy for the first twenty years or so. We almost lost you ten years ago.
But well.
You slam your hands down on the table, and maybe its your imagination that the crystal walls of
the apartment glow a little brighter, just for a moment. This almost distracts you. Almost.
I really cant take many more surprises right now, you say, half through your teeth.
Tonkee sighs and slumps against the wall. Sorry.
You shake your head so hard that your locks slip loose from their knot. I dont want apologies!
Explain. Which are you, the Innovator or the Leader?
Both?
Youre going to ice her. She sees that in your eyes and blurts, I was born Leadership. I really was!
Im Binof. But She spreads her hands. What can I lead? Im not good at things like that. You saw
what I was like as a child. No subtlety. Im not good withpeople. Things, though, things I can do.
Im not interested in your rusting history
But its relevant! History is always relevant. Tonkee, Binof, or whoever she is, steps away from
the wall, a pleading look on her face. I really am a geomest. I really did go to Seventh, although
although She grimaces in a way you dont understand. It didnt go well. But I really have spent
my life studying that thing, that socket, which we found in the Fulcrum. Essun, do you know what that
was?
I dont care.
At this, however, Tonkee-Binof scowls. It matters, she says. Now shes the one who looks
furious, and youre the one who draws back in surprise. Ive given my life to that secret. It matters.
And it should matter to you, too, because youre one of the only people in all the Stillness who can
make it matter.
What in Earthfires are you talking about?
Its where they built them. Binof-Tonkee comes forward quickly, her face alight. The socket in
the Fulcrum. Thats where the obelisks come from. And its also where everything went wrong.
* * *
You end up doing introductions again. Completely this time.
Tonkee is really Binof. But she prefers Tonkee, which is the name she took for herself upon
getting into the Seventh University. Turns out its Not Done for a child of the Yumenescene
Leadership to go into any profession except politics, adjudication, or large-scale merchantry. Its also
Not Done for a child who is born a boy to be a girlapparently the Leadership families dont use
Breeders, they breed among themselves, and Tonkees girlness scuttled an arranged marriage or two.
They couldve simply arranged different marriages, but between that and the young Tonkees
tendency to say things she shouldnt and do things that made no sense, it was the last straw. Thus
Tonkees family buried her in the Stillnesss finest center of learning, giving her a new persona and a
false use-caste, and quietly disowned her without all the fuss and bother of a scandal.
Yet Tonkee thrived there, apart from a few raging fights with renowned scholars, most of which
she won. And she has spent her professional life studying the obsession that drove her to the Fulcrum
all those years ago: the obelisks.
It wasnt so much that I was interested in you, she explains. I mean, I wasyoud helped me,
and I needed to make sure you didnt suffer for that, thats how it startedbut as I investigated you I
learned that you had potential. You were one of those who might, one day, develop the ability to
command obelisks. Its a rare skill, see. And well, I hoped well.
By this point youve sat down again, and both your voices have lowered. You cant sustain anger
over this; theres too much to deal with right now. You look at Hoa, whos standing at the edge of the
room, watching the two of you, his posture wary. Still gotta have that talk with him. All the secrets are
coming out. Including yours.
I died, you say. That was the only way to hide from the Fulcrum. I died to get away from them,
and yet I didnt shake you.
Well, yes. My people didnt use mysterious powers to track you; we used deduction. Much more
reliable. Tonkee eases herself into the chair opposite you at the table. The apartment has three rooms
this denlike central space, and two bedrooms leading off. Tonkee needs one room to herself
because shes starting to smell again. Youre only willing to keep sharing your space with Hoa after
you get some answers, so you might be sleeping here in the den for a while.
For the past few years Ive been working withsome people. Tonkee abruptly looks cagey,
which isnt hard for her. Other mests, mostly, whove also been asking the kinds of questions no
one wants to answer. Specialists in other areas. Weve been tracking the obelisks, all of them that we
can, for the past few years. Did you notice there are patterns in the way they move? They converge,
slowly, wherever theres an orogene of sufficient skill nearby. Someone who can use them. Only two
were moving toward you, in Tirimo, but that was enough to extrapolate.
You look up, frowning. Moving toward me?
Or another orogene in your vicinity, yes. Tonkees relaxed now, eating a piece of dried fruit
from her pack. Oblivious to your reaction as you stare at her, your blood gone cold. The
triangulation lines were pretty clear. Tirimo was the center of the circle, so to speak. You must have
been there for years; one of the obelisks coming toward you had been traveling the same flight path
for almost a decade, all the way from the eastern coast.
The amethyst, you whisper.
Yes. Tonkee watches you. That was why I suspected you were still alive. Obelisks bond, sort
of, to certain orogenes. I dont know how that works. I dont know why. But its specific, and
predictable.
Deduction. You shake your head, mute with shock, and she goes on. Anyhow, theyd both picked
up speed in the last two or three years, so I traveled to the region and pretended to be commless to get
a better read on them. I never really meant to approach you. But then this thing happened up north, and
I started to think it would be important to have a wielderobelisk-wielderaround. So I tried to
find you. I was on my way to Tirimo when I spotted you at that roadhouse. Lucky. I was going to trail
you for a few days, decide whether Id tell you who I really was but then he turned a kirkhusa into a
statue. She jerks her head at Hoa. Figured it might be better to shut up and observe for a while,
instead.
Somewhat understandable. You said more than one obelisk was headed for Tirimo. You lick
your lips. There shouldve only been one. The amethyst is the only one youre connected to. The
only one left.
There were two. The amethyst, and another from the Merz. Thats a big desert to the northeast.
You shake your head. Ive never been to the Merz.
Tonkee is silent for a moment, perhaps intrigued, perhaps annoyed. Well, how many orogenes
were in Tirimo?
 Three. But. Picked up speed. You cant think, all of a sudden. Cant answer her question. Cant
muster complete sentences. Picked up speed in the last two or three years.
Yes. We didnt know what was causing that. Tonkee pauses, then gives you a sidelong look, her
eyes narrowing. Do you?
Uche was two years old. Almost three.
Get out, you whisper. Go take a bath or something. I need to think.
She hesitates, plainly wanting to ask more questions. But then you look up at her, and she
immediately gets up to leave. A few minutes after shes out of the apartment, with the heavy hanging
falling in her wakethe apartments in this place have no doors, but the hangings work well enough
for privacyyou sit there in silence, your head empty, for a while.
Then you look up at Hoa, whos standing beside Tonkees vacated chair, plainly waiting his turn.
So youre a stone eater, you say.
He nods, solemn.
You look You gesture at him, not sure how to say it. Hes never looked normal, not really, but
hes definitely not what a stone eater is supposed to look like. Their hair does not move. Their skin
does not bleed. They transit through solid rock in the span of a breath, but stairs would take them
hours.
Hoa shifts a little, bringing his pack up into his lap. He rummages for a moment and then comes
out with the rag-wrapped bundle that you havent seen for a while. So thats where he put it. He unties
it, finally letting you see what hes been carrying all this time.
The bundle contains many smallish pieces of rough-hewn crystal, as far as you can tell. Something
like quartz, or maybe gypsum, except some of the pieces are not murky white but venous red. And
youre not sure, but you think the bundle is smaller now than it used to be. Did he lose some of them?
Rocks, you say. Youve been carrying rocks?
Hoa hesitates, then reaches for one of the white pieces. He picks it up; its about the size of the tip
of your thumb, squarish, chipped badly on one side. It looks hard.
He eats it. You stare, and he watches you while he does it. He works it around in his mouth for a
moment, as if searching for the right angle of attack, or maybe hes just rolling it around on his
tongue, enjoying the taste. Maybe its salt.
But then his jaw flexes. Theres a crunching sound, surprisingly loud in the silence of the room.
Several more crunches, not as loud, but leaving no doubt that what hes chewing on is by no means
food. And then he swallows, and licks his lips.
Its the first time youve ever seen him eat.
Food, you say.
Me. He extends a hand and lays it over the pile of rocks with curious delicacy.
You frown a little, because hes making less sense than usual. So thats what? Something that
allows you to look like one of us? Which you didnt know they could do. Then again, stone eaters
share nothing of themselves, and they do not tolerate inquiry from others. Youve read accounts of
attempts by the Sixth University at Arcara to capture a stone eater for study, two Seasons back. The
result was the Seventh University at Dibars, which got built only after they dug enough books out of
the rubble of Sixth.
Crystalline structures are an efficient storage medium. The words make no sense. Then Hoa
repeats, clearly, This is me.
You want to ask more about that, then decide against it. If he wanted you to understand, he
wouldve explained. And thats not the part that matters, anyway.
 Why? you ask. Why did you make yourself like this? Why not just be what you are?
Hoa gives you a look so skeptical that you realize what a stupid question that is. Would you really
have let him travel with you if youd known what he was? Then again, if youd known what he was,
you wouldnt have tried to stop him. No one stops stone eaters from doing what they damn well
please.
Why bother, I mean? you ask. Cant you just Your kind can travel through stone.
Yes. But I wanted to travel with you.
And here we come to the crux of it. Why?
I like you. And then he shrugs. Shrugs. Like any child, upon being asked something he either
doesnt know how to articulate or doesnt want to try. Maybe it isnt important. Maybe it was just an
impulse. Maybe hell wander off eventually, following some other whim. Only the fact that he isnt a
childthat he isnt rusting human, that hes probably Seasons old, that he comes from a whole race of
people that cant act on whims because its too rusting hardmakes this a lie.
You rub your face. Your hands come away gritty with ash; you need a bath, too. As you sigh, you
hear him say, softly, I wont hurt you.
You blink at this, then lower your hands slowly. It hadnt even occurred to you that he might. Even
now, knowing what he is, having seen the things he can do youre finding it hard to think of him as
a frightening, mysterious, unknowable thing. And that, more than anything else, tells you why hes
done this to himself. He likes you. He doesnt want you to fear him.
Good to know, you say. And then theres nothing else to say, so you just look at each other for a
while.
It isnt safe here, he says then.
Figured that, yeah.
The words are out, snide tone and all, before you really catch yourself. And thenwell, is it really
surprising that youd be feeling a bit acerbic at this point? Youve been sniping at people since
Tirimo, really. But then it occurs to you: Thats not the way you were with Jija, or anyone else, before
Uches death. Back then you were always careful to be gentler, calmer. Never sarcastic. If you got
angry, you didnt let it show. Thats not who Essun was supposed to be.
Yeah, well, youre not quite Essun. Not just Essun. Not anymore.
The others like you, who are here, you begin. His little face tightens, though, in unmistakable
anger. You stop in surprise.
They arent like me, he says, coldly.
Well, thats that, then. And youre done.
I need to rest, you say. Youve been walking all day, and much as youd like to bathe, too, youre
not sure youre ready to undress and make yourself any more vulnerable in front of these Castrima
people. Especially given that theyre apparently taking you captive in their nice understated way.
Hoa nods. He starts gathering up his bundle of rocks again. Ill keep watch.
Do you sleep?
Occasionally. Less than you. I dont need to do it now.
How convenient. And you trust him more than you do the people of this comm. You shouldnt, but
you do.
So you get up and head into the bedroom, and lie down on the mattress. Its a simple thing, just
straw and cotton packed into a canvas sheath, but its better than the hard ground or even your bedroll,
so you flop onto it. In seconds youre asleep.
When you wake, youre not sure how much time has passed. Hoa is curled up beside you, as he has
done for the past few weeks. You sit up and frown down at him; he blinks at you warily. You shake
your head, finally, and get up, muttering to yourself.
Tonkees back in her room. You can hear her snoring. As you step out of the apartment, you
realize you have no idea what time it is. Topside you can tell if its day or night, even despite the
clouds and ashfall: its either bright ashfall and clouds or dark, red-flecked ashfall and clouds. Here,
though you look around and see nothing but giant glowing crystals. And the town that people have,
impossibly, built on them.
You step onto the rough wooden platform outside your door and squint down over its completely
inadequate safety railing. Whatever the hour, it seems there are several dozen people going about
their business on the ground below. Well, you need to know more about this comm, anyway. Before
you destroy it, that is, if they really try to stop you from leaving.
(You ignore the small voice in your head that whispers, Ykka is a rogga, too. Will you really fight
her?)
(Youre pretty good at ignoring small voices.)
Figuring out how to reach the ground level is difficult, at first, because all the platforms and
bridges and stairways of the place are built to connect the crystals. The crystals go every which way,
so the connections do, too. Theres nothing intuitive about it. You have to follow one set of stairs up
and walk around one of the wider crystal shafts in order to find another set of stairs that goes down
only to find that they end on a platform with no steps at all, which forces you to backtrack. There are a
few people out and about, and they look at you with curiosity or hostility in passing, probably because
youre so obviously new in town: Theyre clean and youre gray with road ash. They look well
fleshed, and your clothes hang off your body because youve done nothing but walk and eat travel
rations for weeks. You cannot help resenting them on sight, so you get stubborn about asking for
directions.
Eventually, however, you make it to the ground. Down here, its more obvious than ever that
youre walking along the floor of a huge stone bubble, because the ground slopes gently downward
and curves around you to form a noticeable, if vast, bowl. This is the pointy end of the ovoid that is
Castrima. There are crystals down here, too, but theyre stubby, some only as high as your chest; the
largest are only ten or fifteen feet tall. Wooden partitions wend around some of them, and in some
places you can make out obvious patches of rough, paler ground where crystals have been removed
to make room. (You wonder, idly, how they did this.) All of it creates a sort of maze of crisscrossing
pathways, each of which leads to some comm essential or another: a kiln, a smithy, a glassery, a
bakehouse. Off some of the paths you glimpse tents and campsites, some occupied. Clearly not all the
denizens of this comm are comfortable walking along bundles of lashed-together wooden planks
hundreds of feet above a floor covered in giant spikes. Funny, that.
(There it is again, that un-Essun-like sarcasm. Rust it; youre tired of reining it in.)
Its actually easy to find the baths because theres a pattern of damp foot traffic along the gray-
green stone floor, all the wet footprints leading in one direction. You backtrail them and are
pleasantly surprised to find that the bath is a huge pool of steaming, clear water. The pool has been
walled off a little above the natural floor of the geode, and theres a channel wending away from it,
draining into one of several large brass pipes goingsomewhere. On the other side of the pool you
can see a kind of waterfall emerging from another pipe to supply the pool. The water probably
circulates enough to be clean every few hours or so, but nevertheless theres a conspicuous washing
area over to one side, with long wooden benches and shelves holding various accessories. Quite a
few people are already there, busily scrubbing before they go into the larger pool.
 Youre undressed and halfway done with your own scrubbing when a shadow falls over you, and
you twitch and stumble to your feet and knock over the bench and reach for the earth before it occurs
to you that maybe this is overreacting. But then you almost drop the soapy sponge in your hand,
because
its Lerna.
Yes, he says as you stare at him. I thought that might be you, Essun.
You keep staring. He looks different somehow. Heavier, sort of, though skinnier, too, in the same
way you are; travel-worn. Its beenweeks? Months? Youre losing track of time. And what is he
doing here? He should be back in Tirimo; Rask would never let a doctor go
Oh. Right.
So Ykka did manage to summon you. Id wondered. Tired. He looks tired. Theres a scar along
the edge of his jaw, a crescent-shaped pale patch that doesnt look likely to regain its color. You keep
staring as he shifts and says, Of all the places I had to end up and here you are. Maybe this is fate,
or maybe there really are gods other than Father Earthones who actually give a damn about us, that
is. Or maybe theyre evil, too, and this is their joke. Rust if I know.
Lerna, you say, which is helpful.
His eyes flick down, and belatedly you remember youre naked. I should let you finish, he says,
looking away quickly. Lets talk when youre done. You dont care if he sees your nudityhe
delivered one of your children, for rusts sakebut hes being polite. Its a familiar habit of his,
treating you like a person even though he knows what you are, and oddly heartening after so much
strangeness and everything thats changed in your life. Youre not used to having a life follow you
when you leave it behind.
He moves off, past the bath area, and after a moment you sit back down and finish washing. No
one else bothers you while you bathe, although you catch some of the Castrima people eyeing you
with increased curiosity now. Less hostility, too, but thats not surprising; you dont look especially
intimidating. Its the stuff they cant see that will make them hate you.
Then again do they know what Ykka is? The blond woman whod been with her up on the
surface certainly does. Maybe Ykkas got something on her, some means of ensuring her silence.
That doesnt feel right, though. Ykka is too open about what she is, too comfortable speaking of it to
complete strangers. Shes too charismatic, too eye-catching. Ykka acts like being an orogene is just
another talent, just another personal trait. Youve only seen that kind of attitude, and this kind of
comm-wide acceptance of it, once before.
Once youre done soaking and you feel clean, you get out of the bath. You dont have any towels,
just your filthy ashen clothes, which you take the time to scrub clean in the washing area. Theyre wet
when youre done, but youre not quite bold enough to walk through a strange comm naked, and it
feels like summer within the geode anyway. So as you do in summer, you put the wet clothes on,
figuring theyll dry fast enough.
Lernas waiting when you leave. This way, he says, turning to walk with you.
So you follow him, and he leads you up the maze of steps and platforms until you reach a squat
gray crystal that juts only twenty feet or so from the wall. Hes got an apartment here thats smaller
than the one you share with Tonkee and Hoa, but you see shelves laden with herb packets and folded
bandages and its not hard to guess that the odd benches in the main room might actually be intended
as makeshift cots. A doctor must be prepared for house calls. He directs you to sit down on one of the
benches, and sits across from you.
I left Tirimo the day after you did, he says quietly. OyamarRasks second, you remember
him, complete idiotwas actually trying to hold an election for a new headman. Didnt want the
responsibility with a Season coming on. Everybody knew Rask should never have picked him, but his
family did Rask a favor on the trade rights to the western logging trace He trails off, because none
of that matters anymore. Anyway. Half the damned Strongbacks were running around drunk and
armed, raiding the storecaches, accusing every other person of being a rogga or a rogga-lover. The
other half were doing the same thingquieter, though, and sober, which was worse. I knew it was
only a matter of time till they thought about me. Everybody knew I was your friend.
This is your fault, too, then. Because of you, he had to flee a place that should have been safe. You
lower your eyes, uncomfortable. Hes using the word rogga now, too.
I was thinking I could make it down to Brilliance, where my mother s family came from. They
barely know me, but they know of me, and Im a doctor, so I figured I had a chance. Better than
staying in Tirimo, anyway, to get lynched. Or to starve, when the cold came and the Strongbacks had
eaten or stolen everything. And I thought He hesitates, looks up at you in a flash of eyes, then back
at his hands. I also thought I might catch up to you on the road, if I went fast enough. But that was
stupid; of course I didnt.
Its the unspoken thing thats always been between you. Lerna figured out what you were,
somewhere during your time in Tirimo; you didnt tell him. He figured it out because he watched you
enough to notice the signs, and because hes smart. Hes always liked you, Makenbas boy. You
figured he would grow out of it eventually. You shift a little, uncomfortable with the realization that
he hasnt.
I slipped out in the night, he continues, through one of the cracks in the wall near near where
you where they tried to stop you. Hes got his arms resting on his knees, looking at his folded
hands. Theyre mostly still, but he rubs one thumb along the knuckle of the other, slowly, again and
again. The gesture feels meditative. Walked with the flow of people, following a map I had but
Ive never been to Brilliance. Earthfires, Ive barely left Tirimo before now. Just once, really, when I
went to finish my medical training at Hilgeanyway. Either the map was wrong or Im bad at reading
it. Probably both. I didnt have a compass. I got off the Imperial Road too soon, maybe went
southeast when I thought I was going due south I dont know. He sighs and rubs a hand over his
head. By the time I figured out just how lost I was, Id gone so far that I hoped to just find a better
route if I kept going the way Id gone. But there was a group at one crossroads. Bandits, commless,
something. I was with a small group by then, an older man whod had a bad gash on his chest that I
treated, and his daughter, maybe fifteen. The bandits
He pauses, his jaw flexing. You can pretty much guess what happened. Lernas not a fighter. Hes
still alive, though, which is all that matters.
Maraldthat was the manjust threw himself at one of them. He didnt have weapons or
anything, and the woman had a machete. I dont know what he thought he could do. Lerna takes a
deep breath. He looked at me, though, andand II grabbed his daughter and ran. His jaw tightens
further. Youre surprised you cant hear his teeth grinding. She left me later. Called me a coward and
ran off alone.
If you hadnt taken her away, you say, they wouldve killed you and her, too. This is stonelore:
Honor in safety, survival under threat. Better a living coward than a dead hero.
Lernas lips quirk thinly. Thats what I told myself at the time. Later, when she left Earthfires.
Maybe all I did was just delay the inevitable. A girl her age, unarmed and out on the roads alone
You dont say anything. If the girls healthy and has the right conformation, someone will take her
in, if only as a Breeder. If she has a better use name, or if she can acquire a weapon and supplies and
prove herself, that will help, too. Granted, her chances wouldve been better with Lerna than without
him, but she made her choice.
I dont even know what they wanted. Lernas looking at his hands. Maybe hes been eating
himself up about this ever since. We didnt have anything but our runny-sacks.
Thats enough, if they were running low on supplies, you say, before you remember to censor
yourself. He doesnt seem to hear, anyway.
So I kept on, by myself. He chuckles once, bitterly. I was so worried about her, it didnt even
occur to me that I was just as bad off. This is true. Lerna is a bog-standard midlatter, same as you,
except he hasnt inherited the Sanzed bulk or heightprobably why hes worked so hard to prove his
mental fitness. But hes ended up pretty, mostly by an accident of heritage, and some people breed for
that. Cebaki long nose, Sanzed shoulders and coloring, Westcoaster lips Hes too multiracial for
Equatorial comm tastes, but by Somidlats standards hes a looker.
When I passed through Castrima, he continues, it looked abandoned. I was exhausted, after
running fromanyway. Figured Id hole up in one of the houses for the night, maybe try to make a
small hearth fire and hope no one noticed. Eat a decent meal for a change. Hold still long enough to
figure out what to do next. He smiled thinly. And when I woke up, I was surrounded. I told them I
was a doctor and they brought me down here. That was maybe two weeks ago.
You nod. And then you tell him your own story, not bothering to hide or lie about anything. The
whole thing, not just the part in Tirimo. Youre feeling guilty, maybe. He deserves the whole truth.
After youve both fallen silent for a while, Lerna just shakes his head and sighs. I didnt expect to
live through a Season, he says softly. I mean, Ive heard the lore all my life, same as everyone
else but I always figured it would never happen to me.
Everyone thinks that. You certainly werent expecting to have to deal with the end of the world on
top of everything else.
Nassuns not here, Lerna says after a while. He speaks softly, but your head jerks up. His face
softens at the look that must be on yours. Im sorry. But Ive been here long enough to meet all the
other newcomers to this comm. I know thats who youve been hoping to find.
No Nassun. And now no direction, no realistic way to find her. You are suddenly bereft of even
hope.
Essun. Lerna leans forward abruptly and takes your hands. Belatedly you realize your hands
have begun shaking; his fingers still yours. Youll find her.
The words are meaningless. Reflexive gibberish intended to soothe. But it hits you again, harder
this time than that moment topside when you started to come apart in front of Ykka. Its over. This
whole strange journey, keeping it together, keeping focused on your goal its all been pointless.
Nassuns gone, youve lost her, and Jija will never pay for what hes done, and you
What the rust do you matter? Who cares about you? Well, thats the thing, isnt it? Once, you did
have people who cared about you. Once there were children who looked up to you and lived on your
every word. Oncetwice, three times, but the first two dont countthere was a man you woke up
next to every morning, who gave a damn that you existed. Once, you lived surrounded by the walls he
built for you, in a home you made together, in a community that actually chose to take you in.
All of it built on lies. Matter of time, really, till it fell apart.
Listen, Lerna says. His voice makes you blink, and that makes tears fall. More tears. Youve been
sitting there in silence, crying, for a while now. He shifts over to your bench and you lean on him.
You know you shouldnt. But you do, and when he puts an arm around you, you take comfort in it. He
is a friend, at least. He will always be that. Maybe maybe this isnt a bad thing, being here. You
cant think, witheverythinggoing on. This comm is strange. He grimaces. Im not sure I like
being here, but its better than being topside right now. Maybe with some time to think, youll figure
out where Jija might have gone.
Hes trying so hard. You shake your head a little, but youre too empty to really muster an
objection.
Do you have a place? They gave me this, they must have given you something. Theres plenty of
room here. You nod, and Lerna takes a deep breath. Then lets go there. You can introduce me to
these companions of yours.
So. You pull it together. Then you lead him out of his place and in a direction that feels like it
might bring you to the apartment you were assigned. Along the way you have more time to appreciate
just how unbearably strange this comm is. Theres one chamber you pass, embedded in one of the
whiter, brighter crystals, that holds racks and racks of flat trays like cookie sheets. Theres another
chamber, dusty and unused, that holds what you assume are torture devices, except theyre
incompetently made; youre not sure how a pair of rings suspended from the ceiling on chains are
supposed to hurt. And then there are the metal stairsthe ones built by whoever created this place.
There are other stairs, more recently made, but its easy to tell them from the originals because the
original stairs dont rust, havent deteriorated at all, and are not purely utilitarian. There are strange
decorations along the railings and edges of the walkways: embossed faces, wrought vines in the shape
of no plants youve ever seen, something that you think is writing, except it consists solely of pointy
shapes in various sizes. It actually pulls you out of your mood, to try to figure out what youre seeing.
This is madness, you say, running your fingers over a decoration that looks like a snarling
kirkhusa. This place is one big deadciv ruin, just like a hundred thousand others all over the
Stillness. Ruins are death traps. The Equatorial comms flatten or sink theirs if they can, and thats the
smartest thing anyones ever done. If the people who made this place couldnt survive it, why should
any of us try?
Not all ruins are death traps. Lernas edging along the platform while keeping very close to the
crystal shaft it wends around, and keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. Sweat beads his upper lip.
You hadnt realized hes afraid of heights, but then Tirimo is as flat as it is boring. His voice is
carefully calm. There are rumors Yumenes is built on a whole series of deadciv ruins.
And look how well that turned out, you dont say.
These people shouldve just built a wall like everyone else, you do say, but then you stop,
because it occurs to you that the goal is survival, and sometimes survival requires change. Just
because the usual strategies have workedbuilding a wall, taking in the useful and excluding the
useless, arming and storing and hoping for luckdoesnt mean that other methods might not. This,
though? Climbing down a hole and hiding in a ball of sharp rocks with a bunch of stone eaters and
roggas? Seems especially unwise.
And if they try to keep me here, theyll find that out, you murmur.
If Lerna hears you, he does not respond.
Eventually you find your apartment. Tonkees awake and in the living room, eating a big bowl of
something that didnt come from your packs. It looks like some kind of porridge, and its got little
yellowish things in it that make you recoil at firstuntil she tilts the bowl and you realize its
sprouted grains. Standard storecache food.
(She looks at you warily as you come in, but her revelations were so minor compared to
everything else youve had to face today that you just wave a greeting and settle down opposite her as
usual. She relaxes.)
 Lernas polite but guarded with Tonkee, and shes the same with himuntil he mentions that hes
been running blood and urine tests on the people of Castrima to watch for vitamin deficiencies. You
almost smile when she leans forward and says, With what kind of equipment? with a familiar
greedy look on her face.
Then Hoa comes into the apartment. Youre surprised, since you hadnt realized hed gone out. His
icewhite gaze flicks immediately to Lerna and examines him ruthlessly. Then he relaxes, so visibly
that you only now realize Hoas been tense all this time. Since you came into this crazy comm.
But you file this away as just another oddity to explore later, because Hoa says, Essun. Theres
someone here you should meet.
Who?
A man. From Yumenes.
All three of you stare at him. Why, you say slowly, in case youve misunderstood something,
would I want to meet someone from Yumenes?
He asked for you.
You decide to try for patience. Hoa, I dont know anyone from Yumenes. Not anymore, anyway.
He says he knows you. He tracked you here, got here ahead of you when he realized it was where
you were headed. Hoa scowls, just a little, as if this bothers him. He says he wants to see you, see if
you can do it yet.
Do what?
He just said it. Hoas eyes slide first to Tonkee, then to Lerna, before returning to you.
Something he doesnt want them to hear, maybe. Hes like you.
What Okay. You rub your eyes, take a deep breath, and say it so hell know theres no need to
hide it. A rogga, then.
Yes. No. Like you. His Hoa waggles his fingers in lieu of words. Tonkee opens her mouth;
you gesture sharply at her. She glares back. After a moment, Hoa sighs. He said, if you wouldnt
come, to tell you that you owe him. For Corundum.
You freeze.
Alabaster, you whisper.
Yes, says Hoa, brightening. Thats his name. And then he frowns more, thoughtfully this time.
Hes dying.
* * *
MADNESS SEASON: 3 Before Imperial7 Imperial. The eruption of the Kiash Traps,
multiple vents of an ancient supervolcano (the same one responsible for the Twin Season
believed to have occurred approximately 10,000 years previous), launched large deposits of
olivine and other dark-colored pyroclasts into the air. The resulting ten years of darkness
were not only devastating in the usual Seasonal way, but resulted in a much higher than usual
incidence of mental illness. The Sanzed warlord Verishe conquered multiple ailing comms
through the use of psychological warfare designed to convince her foes that gates and walls
offered no reliable protection, and that phantasms lurked nearby. She was named emperor on
the day the first sunlight reappeared.
The Seasons of Sanze
 22
Syenite, fractured

ITS THE MORNING AFTER A raucous party that the Meovites threw to celebrate the Clalsus safe return
and acquisition of some especially prized goodshigh-quality stone for decorative carving,
aromatic woods for furniture building, fancy brocade cloth thats worth twice its weight in diamonds,
and a goodly amount of tradable currency including high-denomination paper and whole fingers of
mother-of-pearl. No food, but with that kind of money they can send traders to buy canoesful of
anything they need on the mainland. Harlas broke out a cask of fearsomely strong Antarctic mead to
celebrate, and half the comms still sleeping it off.
Its five days after Syenite shut down a volcano that she started, which killed a whole city, and eight
days after she killed two ships full of people to keep her familys existence secret. It feels like
everyone is celebrating the multiple mass murders shes committed.
Shes still in bed, having retired to it as soon as the ship was unloaded. Innon hasnt come to the
house yet; she told him to go and tell the stories of the trip, because the people expect it of him and
she does not want him suffering for her melancholy. Hes got Coru with him, because Coru loves
celebrationseveryone feeds him, everyone cuddles him. He even tries to help Innon tell the stories,
yelling nonsense at the top of his lungs. The child is more like Innon than he has any physical right to
be.
Alabaster is the one whos stayed with Syen, talking to her through her silence, forcing her to
respond when she would rather just stop thinking. He says he knows what its like to feel like this,
though he wont tell her how or what happened. She believes him regardless.
You should go, she says at last. Join the storytelling. Remind Coru hes got at least two parents
who are worth something.
Dont be stupid. Hes got three.
Innon thinks Im a terrible mother.
Alabaster sighed. No. Youre just not the kind of mother Innon wants you to be. Youre the kind
of mother our son needs, though. She turns her head to frown at him. He shrugs. Corundum will be
strong, someday. He needs strong parents. Im He falters abruptly. You practically feel him decide
to change the subject. Here. I brought you something.
Syen sighs and pushes herself up as he crouches beside the bed, unfolding a little cloth parcel. In it,
when she gets curious despite herself and leans closer, are two polished stone rings, just right for her
fingers. Ones made of jade, the other mother-of-pearl.
She glares at him, and he shrugs. Shutting down an active volcano isnt something a mere four-
ringer could do.
Were free. She says it doggedly, even though she doesnt feel free. She fixed Allia, after all,
completing the mission the Fulcrum sent her there for, however belatedly and perversely. Its the sort
of thing that makes her laugh uncontrollably when she thinks about it, so she pushes on before she
can. We dont need to wear any rings anymore. Or black uniforms. I havent put my hair in a bun in
months. You dont have to service every woman they send you, like some kind of stud animal. Let the
Fulcrum go.
Baster smiles a little, sadly. We cant, Syen. One of us is going to have to train Coru
We dont have to train him to do anything. Syen lies down again. She wishes he would go away.
Let him learn the basics from Innon and Harlas. Thats been enough to let these people get by for
centuries.
Innon couldnt have stilled that blow, Syen. If hed tried, he might have blown the hot spot
underneath it wide, and set off a Season. You saved the world from that.
Then give me a medal, not rings. Shes glaring at the ceiling. Except Im the reason that blow
even existed, so maybe not.
Alabaster reaches up to stroke her hair away from her face. He does that a lot, now that she wears
it loose. Shes always been a little ashamed of her hairits curly, but with no stiffness to it at all,
whether the straight-stiffness of Sanzed hair or the kinky-stiffness of Coaster hair. Shes such a
midlatter mutt that she doesnt even know which of her ancestors to blame for the hair. At least it
doesnt get in her way.
We are what we are, he says, with such gentleness that she wants to cry. We are Misalem, not
Shemshena. Youve heard that story?
Syenites fingers twitch in remembered pain. Yes.
From your Guardian, right? They like to tell that one to kids. Baster shifts to lean against the
bedpost with his back to her, relaxing. Syenite thinks about telling him to leave, but never says it
aloud. Shes not looking at him, so she has no idea what he does with the bundle of rings that she
didnt take. He can eat them for all she cares.
My Guardian gave me that nonsense, too, Syen. The monstrous Misalem, who decided to declare
war against a whole nation and off the Sanzed Emperor for no particular reason.
In spite of herself, Syenite frowns. He had a reason?
Oh Evil Earth, of course. Use your rusting head.
Its annoying to be scolded, and annoyance pushes back her apathy a little more. Good old
Alabaster, cheering her up by pissing her off. She turns her head to glare at the back of his. Well,
what was the reason?
The simplest and most powerful reason of all: revenge. That emperor was Anafumeth, and the
whole thing happened just after the end of the Season of Teeth. Thats the Season they dont talk about
much in any creche. There was mass starvation in the northern-hemisphere comms. They got hit
harder, since the shake that started the whole thing was near the northern pole. The Season took a year
longer to take hold in the Equatorials and the south
How do you know all this? Its nothing Syens ever heard, in the grit crucibles or elsewhere.
Alabaster shrugs, shaking the whole bed. I wasnt allowed to train with the other grits in my year-
group; I had rings before most of them had pubic hair. The instructors let me loose in the seniors
library to make up for it. They didnt pay a lot of attention to what I read. He sighs. Also, on my
first mission, I There was an archeomest who He well. We talked, in addition to other
things.
She doesnt know why Alabaster bothers being shy about his affairs. Shes watched Innon fuck him
into incoherence on more than one occasion. Then again, maybe its not the sex that hes shy about.
Anyway. Its all there if you put the facts together and think beyond what were taught. Sanze was
a new empire then, still growing, at the height of its power. But it was mostly in the northern half of
the Equatorials at that timeYumenes wasnt actually the capital thenand some of the bigger
Sanzed comms werent as good at preparing for Seasons as they are now. They lost their food
storecaches somehow. Fire, fungus, Earth knows what. To survive, all the Sanzed comms decided to
work together, attacking the comms of any lesser races. His lip curls. Thats when they started
calling us lesser races, actually.
So they took those other comms storecaches. Syen can guess that much. Shes getting bored.
No. No one had any stores left by the end of that Season. The Sanzeds took people.
People? For wh Then she understands.
Theres no need for slaves during a Season. Every comm has its Strongbacks, and if they need
more, there are always commless people desperate enough to work in exchange for food. Human
flesh becomes valuable for other reasons, though, when things get bad enough.
So, says Alabaster, oblivious while Syen lies there fighting nausea, that Season is when the
Sanzeds developed a taste for certain rarefied delicacies. And even after the Season ended and green
things grew and the livestock turned herbivorous or stopped hibernating, they kept at it. They would
send out parties to raid smaller settlements and newcomms held by races without Sanzed allies. All the
accounts differ on the details, but they agree on one thing: Misalem was the only survivor when his
family was taken in a raid. Supposedly his children were slaughtered for Anafumeths own table,
though I suspect thats a bit of dramatic embellishment. Alabaster sighs. Regardless, they died, and
it was Anafumeths fault, and he wanted Anafumeth dead for it. Like any man would.
But a rogga is not any man. Roggas have no right to get angry, to want justice, to protect what they
love. For his presumption, Shemshena had killed himand became a hero for doing it.
Syenite considers this in silence. Then Alabaster shifts a little, and she feels his hand press the
bundle, the one with the rings in it, into her unresisting palm.
Orogenes built the Fulcrum, he says. Shes almost never heard him say orogene. We did it
under threat of genocide, and we used it to buckle a collar around our own necks, but we did it. We are
the reason Old Sanze grew so powerful and lasted so long, and why it still half-rules the world, even
if no one will admit it. Were the ones whove figured out just how amazing our kind can be, if we
learn how to refine the gift were born with.
Its a curse, not a gift. Syenite closes her eyes. But she doesnt push away the bundle.
Its a gift if it makes us better. Its a curse if we let it destroy us. You decide thatnot the
instructors, or the Guardians, or anyone else. Theres another shift, and the bed moves a little as
Alabaster leans on it. A moment later she feels his lips on her brow, dry and approving. Then he
settles back down on the floor beside the bed, and says nothing more.
I thought I saw a Guardian, she says after a while. Very softly. At Allia.
Alabaster doesnt reply for a moment. Shes decided that he wont, when he says, I will tear the
whole world apart if they ever hurt us again.
But we would still be hurt, she thinks.
Its reassuring, though, somehow. The kind of lie she needs to hear. Syenite keeps her eyes closed
and doesnt move for a long while. Shes not sleeping; shes thinking. Alabaster stays while she does
it, and for that she is unutterably glad.
* * *
When the world ends three weeks later, it happens on the most beautiful day Syenite has ever seen.
The sky is clear for miles, save for the occasional drift of cloud. The sea is calm, and even the
omnipresent wind is warm and humid for once, instead of cool and scouring.
Its so beautiful that the entire comm decides to head up to the heights. The able-bodied carry the
ones who cant make the steps, while the children get underfoot and nearly kill everyone. The people
on cook duty put fish cakes and pieces of cut fruit and balls of seasoned grain into little pots that can
be carried easily, and everyone brings blankets. Innon has a musical instrument Syenite has never
seen before, something like a drum with guitar strings, which would probably be all the rage in
Yumenes if it ever caught on there. Alabaster has Corundum. Syenite brings a truly awful novel
someone found on the looted freighter, the sort of thing whose first page made her wince and burst
into giggles. Then, of course, she kept reading. She loves books that are just for fun.
The Meovites spread themselves over the slope behind a ridge that blocks most of the wind but
where the sun is full and bright. Syenite puts her blanket a ways from everyone else, but they quickly
encroach on her, spreading out their blankets right alongside, and grinning at her when she glares.
She has come to realize over the past three years that most Meovites regard her and Alabaster as
something like wild animals that have decided to scavenge off human habitationsimpossible to
civilize, kind of cute, and at least an amusing nuisance. So when they see that she obviously needs help
with something and wont admit it, they help her anyway. And they constantly pet Alabaster, and hug
him and grab his hands and swing him into dancing, which Syen is at least grateful no one tries with
her. Then again, everyone can see that Alabaster likes being touched, no matter how much he pretends
standoffishness. It probably isnt something he got a lot of in the Fulcrum, where everyone was afraid
of his power. Perhaps likewise they think Syen enjoys being reminded that she is part of a group now,
contributing and contributed to, and that she no longer needs to guard herself against everyone and
everything.
Theyre right. That doesnt mean shes going to tell them so.
Then its all Innon tossing Coru up in the air while Alabaster tries to pretend hes not terrified
even as his orogeny sends microshakes through the islands underwater strata with every toss; and
Hemoo starting some kind of chanted-poetry game set to music that all the Meovites seem to know;
and Oughs toddler Owel trying to run across the spread-out blankets and stepping on at least ten
people before someone grabs her and tickles her down; and a basket being passed around that
contains little clay bottles of something that burns Syens nose when she sniffs it; and.
And.
She could love these people, she thinks sometimes.
Perhaps she does already. She isnt sure. But after Innon flops down for a nap with Coru already
asleep on his chest, and after the poetry chant has turned into a vulgar-joke contest, and once shes
drunk enough of the bottle stuff that the world is actually beginning to move on its own Syenite lifts
her eyes and catches Alabaster s. Hes propped himself on one elbow to browse the terrible book
shes finally abandoned. Hes making horrible and hilarious faces as he skims it. Meanwhile his free
hand toys with one of Innons braids, and he looks nothing at all like the half-mad monster Feldspar
sent her off with, at the beginning of this journey.
His eyes flick up to meet hers, and for just a moment there is wariness there. Syen blinks in
surprise at this. But then, she is the only person here who knows what his life was like before. Does he
resent her for being here, a constant reminder of what hed rather forget?
He smiles, and she frowns in automatic reaction. His smile widens more. You still dont like me,
do you?
Syenite snorts. What do you care?
He shakes his head, amusedand then he reaches out and strokes a hand over Corus hair. The
child stirs and murmurs in his sleep, and Alabaster s face softens. Would you like to have another
child?
Syenite starts, her mouth falling open. Of course not. I didnt want this one.
But hes here now. And hes beautiful. Isnt he? You make such beautiful children. Which is
probably the most inane thing he could ever say, but then, hes Alabaster. You could have the next
one with Innon.
Maybe Innon should have a say in that, before we settle his breeding future.
He loves Coru, and hes a good father. Hes got two other kids already, and theyre fine. Stills,
though. He considers. You and Innon might have a child whos still. That wouldnt be a terrible
thing, here.
Syenite shakes her head, but shes thinking about the little pessary the island women have shown
her how to use. Thinking maybe she will stop using it. But she says: Freedom means we get to
control what we do now. No one else.
Yes. But now that I can think about what I want He shrugs as if nonchalant, but theres an
intensity in his gaze as he looks at Innon and Coru. Ive never wanted much from life. Just to be able
to live it, really. Im not like you, Syen. I dont need to prove myself. I dont want to change the world,
or help people, or be anything great. I just want this.
She gets that. So she lies down on her side of Innon, and Alabaster lies down on his side, and they
relax and enjoy the sensation of wholeness, of contentment, for a while. Because they can.
Of course it cannot last.
Syenite wakes when Innon sits up and shadows her. She hadnt intended to nap, but shes had a
good long one, and now the sun is slanting toward the ocean. Corus fussing and she sits up
automatically, rubbing her face with one hand and reaching with the other to see if his cloth diaper is
full. Its fine, but the sounds hes making are anxious, and when she comes more awake she sees why.
Innon is sitting up with Coru held absently in one arm, but he is frowning as he looks at Alabaster.
Alabaster is on his feet, his whole body tense.
Something he murmurs. Hes facing the direction of the mainland, but he cant possibly see
anything; the ridge is in the way. Then again, hes not using his eyes.
So Syen frowns and sends forth her own awareness, worrying that theres a tsunami or worse on
its way. But theres nothing.
A conspicuous nothingness. There should be something. Theres a plate boundary between the
island that is Meov and the mainland; plate boundaries are never still. They jump and twitch and
vibrate against one another in a million infinitesimal ways that only a rogga can sess, like the
electricity that geneers can make come out of water turbines and vats of chemicals. But suddenly
impossiblythe plate edge sesses as still.
Confused, Syenite starts to look at Alabaster. But her attention is caught by Corundum, whos
bouncing and struggling in Innons hands, whining and snotting and having a full-on tantrum, though
hes usually not the kind of baby who does that sort of thing. Alabaster s looking at the baby, too. His
expression changes to something twisted and terrible.
No, he says. Hes shaking his head. No. No, I wont let them, not again.
 What? Syenites staring at him, trying not to notice the dread thats rising in her, feeling rather
than seeing as others rise around them, murmuring and reacting to their alarm. A couple of people
trot up the ridge to see what they can. Baster, what? For Earths sake
He makes a sound that is not a word, just negation, and suddenly he takes off running up the slope,
toward the ridge. Syenite stares after him, then at Innon, who looks even more confused than she is;
Innon shakes his head. But the people who preceded Baster up the ridge are shouting now, and
signaling everyone else. Something is wrong.
Syenite and Innon hurry up the slope along with others. They all reach the top together, and there
they stand looking at the span of ocean on the mainlandward side of the island.
Where there are four ships, tiny but visibly coming closer, on the horizon.
Innon says a bad word and shoves Coru at Syenite, who almost fumbles him but then holds him
close while Innon rummages amid his pockets and packs and comes up with his smaller spyglass. He
extends it and looks hard for a moment, then frowns, while Syenite tries ineffectually to console
Coru. Coru is inconsolable. When Innon lowers it, Syenite grabs his arm and pushes Coru at him,
taking the device from his hand when he does.
The four ships are bigger now. Their sails are white, ordinary; she cant figure out whats got
Alabaster so upset. And then she notices the figures standing at one boats prow.
Wearing burgundy.
The shock of it steals the breath from her chest. She steps back, mouths the word that Innon needs
to hear, but it comes out strengthless, inaudible. Innon takes the spyglass from her because she looks
like shes about to drop it. Then because they have to do something, shes got to do something, she
concentrates and focuses and says, louder, Guardians.
Innon frowns. How She watches as he, too, realizes what this means. He looks away for a
moment, wondering, and then he shakes his head. How they found Meov does not matter. They cannot
be allowed to land. They cannot be allowed to live.
Give Coru to someone, he says, backing away from the ridge; his expression has hardened. We
are going to need you, Syen.
Syenite nods and turns, looking around. Deelashet, one of the handful of Sanzeds in the comm, is
hurrying past with her own little one, whos maybe six months older than Coru. Shes kept Coru on
occasion, nursed him when Syenite was busy; Syenite flags her down and runs to her. Please, she
says, pushing Coru into her arms. Deelashet nods.
Coru, however, does not agree with the plan. He clings to Syenite, screaming and kicking and
Evil Earth, the whole island rocks all of a sudden. Deelashet staggers and then stares at Syenite in
horror.
Shit, she murmurs, and takes Coru back. Then with him on her hiphe calms immediatelyshe
runs to catch up with Innon, who is already running toward the metal stairs, shouting to his crew to
board the Clalsu and ready it for launch.
Its madness. Its all madness, she thinks as she runs. It doesnt make sense that the Guardians have
discovered this place. It doesnt make sense that theyre comingwhy here? Why now? Meov has
been around, pirating the coast, for generations. The only thing thats different is Syenite and
Alabaster.
She ignores the little voice in the back of her mind that whispers, They followed you somehow, you
know they did, you should never have gone back to Allia, it was a trap, you should never have come
here, everything you touch is death.
She does not look down at her hands, wherejust to let Alabaster know she appreciated the
gestureshes put on the four rings that the Fulcrum gave her, plus his two. The last two arent real,
after all. She hasnt passed any sort of ring test for them. But who would know whether she merits
these rings better than a man whos earned ten? And for shits sake, she stilled a rusting volcano made
by a broken obelisk with a stone eater inside.
So Syenite decides, suddenly and fiercely, that shes going to show these rusting Guardians just
what a six-ringer can do.
She reaches the comm level, where its chaos: people pulling out glassknives and rolling out
catapults and balls of chain from wherever-the-rust theyve been keeping them, gathering belongings,
loading boats with fishing spears. Then Syens running up the plank onto the Clalsu, where Innon is
shouting for the anchor to be pulled up, and all at once it occurs to her to wonder where Alabaster has
gone.
She stumbles to a halt on the ships deck. And as she does, she feels a flare of orogeny so deep and
powerful that for a moment she thinks the whole world shakes. All the water in the harbor dances with
tiny pointillations for a moment. Syen suspects the clouds felt that one.
And suddenly there is a wall rising from the sea, not five hundred yards off the harbor. It is a
massive block of solid stone, as perfectly rectangular as if it were chiseled, huge enough tooh
flaking rust, noseal off the damned harbor.
Baster! Earth damn it Its impossible to be heard over the roar of water and the grind of the
stoneas big as the island of Meov itselfAlabaster is raising. How can he do this with no shake or
hot spot nearby? Half the island should be iced. But then something flickers at the corner of Syenites
vision and she turns to see the amethyst obelisk off in the distance. Its closer than before. Its coming
to meet them. Thats how.
Innon is cursing, furious; he understands full well that Alabaster is being an overprotective fool,
however hes doing it. His fury becomes effort. Fog rises from the water around the ship, and the
deck planks nearby creak and frost over as he tries to smash apart the nearest part of the wall, so that
they can get out there and fight. The wall splintersand then there is a low boom behind it. When the
part of the wall that Innon has shattered crumbles away, theres just another block of stone behind it.
Syenites got her hands full trying to modulate the waves in the water. It is possible to use orogeny
on water, just difficult. Shes getting the hang of it at last, after this long living near such a great
expanse of water; its one of the few things Innons been able to teach her and Alabaster. Theres
enough warmth and mineral content in the sea that she can feel it, and water moves enough like stone
just fasterthat she can manipulate it a little. Delicately. Still, she does this now, holding Coru
close so hes within the safe zone of her torus, and concentrating hard to send shock waves against the
coming waves at just enough velocity to break them. It mostly works; the Clalsu rocks wildly and
tears loose from its moorings, and one of the piers collapses, but nothing capsizes and no one dies.
Syenite counts this as a win.
What the rust is he doing? Innon says, panting, and she follows his gaze to see Alabaster, at last.
He stands on the highest point of the island, up on the slopes. Even from here Syen can see the
blistering cold of his torus; the warmer air around it wavers as the temperature changes, and all the
moisture in the wind blowing past him precipitates out as snow. If hes using the obelisk then he
shouldnt need the ambient, should he? Unless hes doing so much that even the obelisk cant fuel it.
Earthfires, Syen says. I have to go up there.
Innon grabs her arm. When she looks up at him, his eyes are wide and a little afraid. Wed only
be a liability to him.
We cant just sit here and wait! Hes not reliable. Even as she says this, her belly clenches.
Innon has never seen Alabaster lose it. She doesnt want Innon to see that. Alabaster s been so good
here at Meov; hes almost not crazy anymore. But Syen thinks
what broke once will break again, more easily
and she shakes her head and tries to hand him Coru. I have to. Maybe I can help. Coru wont let
me give him to anyone elseplease
Innon curses but takes the child, who clutches at Innons shirt and and puts his thumb in his mouth.
Then Syen is off, running along the comm ledge and up the steps.
As she gets above the rock barrier, she can finally see whats happening beyond it, and for a
moment she stumbles to a halt in shock. The ships are much closer, right beyond the wall that Baster
has raised to protect the harbor. There are only three of them, though, because one ship has
floundered off course and is listing badlyno, its sinking. She has no idea how he managed that.
Another is riding strangely in the water, mast broken and bow raised and keel visible, and thats when
Syenite realizes there are boulders piled on its rear deck. Alabaster s been dropping rocks on the
bastards. She has no idea how, but the sight of it makes her want to cheer.
But the other two ships have split up: one coming straight for the island, the other peeling off,
perhaps to circle around or maybe get out of Alabaster s rock-dropping range. No you dont, Syen
thinks, and she tries to do what she did to the attack ship during their last raid, dragging a splinter of
bedrock up from the seafloor to spear the thing. She frosts a ten-foot space around her to do it, and
makes chunks of ice spread over the water between her and the ship, but she gets the splinter shaped
and loose, and starts to pull it up
And it stops. And the gathering strength of her orogeny just disippates. She gasps as the heat and
force spill away, and then she understands: This ship has a Guardian on it, too. Maybe they all do,
which explains why Baster hasnt destroyed them already. He cant attack a Guardian directly; all he
can do is hurl boulders from outside the Guardians negation radius. She cant even imagine how
much power that must take. He could never have managed it without the obelisk, and if he werent the
crazy, ornery ten-ringer that he is.
Well, just because she cant hit the thing directly doesnt mean she cant find some other way to do
it. She runs along the ridge as the ship she tried to destroy passes behind the island, keeping it in sight.
Do they think theres another way up? If so, theyll be sorely disappointed; Meovs harbor is the only
part of the island thats remotely approachable. The rest of the island is a single jagged, sheer column.
Which gives her an idea. Syenite grins and stops, then drops to her hands and knees so she can
concentrate.
She doesnt have Alabaster s strength. She doesnt even know how to reach the amethyst without
his guidanceand after what happened at Allia, shes afraid to try. The plate boundary is too far for
her to reach, and there are no nearby vents or hot spots. But she has Meov itself. All that lovely, heavy,
flaky schist.
So she throws herself down. Deep. Deeper. She feels her way along the ridges and the layers of the
rock that is Meov, seeking the best point of fracturethe fulcrum; she laughs to herself. At last she
finds it, good. And there, coming around the islands curve, is the ship. Yes.
Syenite drags all the heat and infinitesimal life out of the rock in one concentrated spot. The
moistures still there, though, and thats what freezes, and expands, as Syenite forces it colder and
colder, taking more and more from it, spinning her torus fine and oblong so that it slices along the
grain of the rock like a knife through meat. A ring of frost forms around her, but its nothing
compared to the long, searing plank of ice thats growing down the inside of the rock, levering it
apart.
 And then, right when the ship approaches the point, she unleashes all the strength the island has
given her, shoving it right back where it came from.
A massive, narrow finger of stone splits away from the cliff face. Inertia holds it where it is, just
for a momentand then with a low, hollow groan, it peels away from the island, splintering at its
base near the waterline. Syenite opens her eyes and gets up and runs, slipping once on her own ice
ring, to that end of the island. Shes tired, and after a few steps she has to slow to a walk, gasping for
breath around a stitch in her side. But she gets there in time to see:
The finger of rock has landed squarely on the ship. She grins fiercely at the sight of the deck
splintered apart as she hears screams, as she sees people already in the water. Most wear a variety of
clothing; hirelings, then. But she thinks she sees one flash of burgundy cloth under the water s
surface, being dragged deeper by one of the sinking ship halves.
Guard that, you cannibalson ruster. Grinning, Syenite gets up and heads in Alabaster s direction
again.
As she comes down from the heights she can see him, a tiny figure still making his own cold
front, and for a moment she actually admires him. Hes amazing, in spite of everything. But then, all
of a sudden, there is a strange hollow boom from the sea, and something explodes around Alabaster
in a spray of rocks and smoke and concussive force.
A cannon. A rusting cannon. Innons told her about these; theyre an invention that the Equatorial
comms have been experimenting with in the past few years. Of course Guardians would have one.
Syen breaks into a run, raggedly and clumsily, fueled by fear. She cant see Baster well through the
smoke of the cannon blast, but she can see that hes down.
By the time she gets there, she knows hes hurt. The icy wind has stopped blowing; she can see
Alabaster on his hands and knees, surrounded by a circle of blistered ice that is yards wide. Syenite
stops at the outermost ring of ice; if hes out of it, he might not notice that shes within the range of
his power. Alabaster!
He moves a little, and she can hear him groaning, murmuring. How bad is he hurt? Syenite dances
at the edge of the ice for a moment, then finally decides to risk it, trotting to the clear zone
immediately around him. Hes still upright, though barely; his heads hanging, and her belly clenches
when she sees flecks of blood on the stone beneath him.
I took out the other ship, she says as she reaches him, hoping to reassure. I can get this one, too,
if you havent.
Its bravado. Shes not sure how much shes got left in her. Hopefully hes taken care of it. But she
looks up and curses inwardly, because the remaining ship is still out there, apparently undamaged. It
seems to be sitting at anchor. Waiting. For what, she cant guess.
Syen, he says. His voice is strained. With fear, or something else? Promise me you wont let
them take Coru. No matter what.
What? Of course I wont. She steps closer and crouches beside him. Baster He looks up at
her, dazed, perhaps from the cannon blast. Somethings cut his forehead, and like all head wounds its
bleeding copiously. She checks him over, touching his chest, hoping hes not more hurt. Hes still
alive, so the cannon blast must have been a near miss, but all it takes is a bit of rock shrapnel at the
right speed, in the wrong place
And thats when she finally notices. His arms at the wrists. His knees, and the rest of his legs
between thighs and anklestheyre gone. They havent been cut off or blown off; each limb ends
smoothly, perfectly, right where the ground begins. And hes moving them about as if its water and
not solid stone that hes trapped in. Struggling, she realizes belatedly. Hes not on his hands and knees
because he cant stand; hes being dragged into the ground, against his will.
The stone eater. Oh rusting Earth.
Syenite grabs his shoulders and tries to haul him back, but its like trying to haul a rock. Hes
heavier, somehow. His flesh doesnt feel quite like flesh. The stone eater has made his body pass
through solid stone by making him more stonelike, somehow, and Syenite cant get him out. He sinks
deeper into the stone with each breath; hes up to his shoulders and hips now, and she cant see his feet
at all.
Let him go, Earth take you! The irony of the curse will occur to her only later. What does occur
to her, in the moment, is to stab her awareness into the stone. She tries to feel for the stone eater
There is something there, but its not like anything shes ever felt before: a heaviness. A weight,
too deep and solid and huge to be possiblenot in such a small space, not so compact. It feels like
theres a mountain there, dragging Alabaster down with all its weight. Hes fighting it; thats the only
reason hes still here at all. But hes weak, and hes losing the fight, and she hasnt the first clue of
how to help him. The stone eater is just too something. Too much, too big, too powerful, and she
cannot help flinching back into herself with a sense that shes just had a near miss.
Promise, he pants, while she hauls again on his shoulders and tries pushing against the stone
with all her power, pulling back against that terrible weight, anything, everything. You know what
theyll do to him, Syen. A child that strong, my child, raised outside the Fulcrum? You know.
A wire-frame chair in a darkened node station She cant think about that. Nothings working, and
hes mostly gone into the stone now; only his face and shoulders are above it, and thats only because
hes straining to keep those above the stoneline. She babbles at him, sobbing, desperate for words that
can somehow fix this. I know. I promise. Oh, rust, Baster, please, I cant not alone, I cant
The stone eater s hand rises from the stone, white and solid and rust-tipped. Surprised, Syenite
screams and flinches, thinking the creature is attacking herbut no. This hand wraps around the back
of Alabaster s head with remarkable gentleness. No one expects mountains to be gentle. But they are
inexorable, and when the hand pulls, Alabaster goes. His shoulders slip out of Syens hands. His chin,
then his mouth, then his nose, then his terrified eyes
He is gone.
Syenite kneels on the hard, cold stone, alone. She is screaming. She is weeping. Her tears fall onto
the stone where Alabaster s head was a moment before, and the rock does not soak the tears up. They
just splatter.
And then she feels it: the drop. The drag. Startled out of grief, she scrabbles to her feet and
stumbles over to the edge of the cliff, where she can see the remaining ship. Ships, the one Baster s
hit with rocks seems to have righted itself somehow. No, not somehow. Ice spreads across the water s
surface around both ships. Theres a rogga on one of the ships, working for the Guardians. A four-
ringer, at least; theres too much fine control in what shes feeling. And with that much iceShe sees
a group of porpoises leap out of the water, racing away from the spreading ice, and then she sees it
catch them, crawling over their bodies and solidifying them half in and half out of the water.
What the hell is this rogga doing with that much power?
Then she sees a portion of the rock wall that Baster raised shiver.
No Syenite turns and runs again, breathless, sessing rather than seeing as the Guardians
rogga attacks the walls base. Its weak where the wall curves to meet the natural curve of Meovs
harbor. The roggas going to bring it down.
It takes an eternity to reach the comm level, and then the docks. Shes terrified Innon will set sail
without her. He has to be able to sess whats happening, too. But thank stone, the Clalsu is still there,
and when she staggers up onto its deck, several members of the crew grab her and guide her to sit
down before she collapses. They draw up the plank behind her, and she can see that theyre striking
sails.
Innon, she gasps as she catches her breath. Please.
They half-carry her to him. Hes on the upper deck, one hand on the pilots wheel and the other
holding Coru against his hip. He doesnt look at her, all his attention focused on the wall; theres
already a hole in it, near the top, and as Syenite reaches him there is a final surge. The wall breaks
apart and falls in chunks, rocking the ship something fierce, but Innons completely steady.
Were sailing out to face them, he says grimly, as she sags onto the bench nearby, and as the ship
pulls away from the dock. Everyones ready for a fight. The catapults are loaded, the javelins in hand.
Well lead them away from the comm first. That way, everyone else can evacuate in the fishing
boats.
There arent enough fishing boats for everyone, Syenite wants to say, and doesnt. Innon knows it,
anyway.
Then the ship is sailing through the narrow gap that the Guardians orogene has made, and the
Guardians ship is on them almost at once. Theres a puff of smoke on their deck and a hollow
whoosh right as the Clalsu emerges; the cannon again. A near miss. Innon shouts and one of the
catapult crews returns the favor with a basket of heavy chain, which shreds their foresail and midmast.
Another volley and this time its a barrel of burning pitch; Syen sees people on fire running across
the deck of the Guardians ship after that one hits. The Clalsu whips past while the Guardians ship
founders toward the wall that is Meov rock, its deck now a blazing conflagration.
But before they can get far there is another puff of smoke, another boom, and this time the Clalsu
judders with the hit. Rust and underfires, how many of those things do they have? Syenite gets up and
runs to the railing, trying to see this cannon, though she doesnt know what she can do about it.
Theres a hole in the Clalsus side and she can hear people screaming belowdecks, but thus far the
ship is still moving.
Its the ship that Alabaster dropped rocks on. Some of the boulders are gone from its aft deck and
its sitting normally in the water again. She doesnt see the cannon, but she does see three figures
standing near the ships bow. Two in burgundy, a third in black. As she watches, another burgundy-
clad figure comes to join them.
She can feel their eyes on her.
The Guardians ship turns slightly, falling farther behind. Syenite begins to hope, but she sees it
when the cannons fire this time. Three of them, big black things near the starboard railing; they jerk
and roll back a little when they fire, in near unison. And a moment later, there is a mighty crack and a
groan and the Clalsu shudders as if it just got hit by a fiver tsunami. Syenite looks up in time to see
the mast shatter into kindling, and then everything goes wrong.
The mast creaks and goes over like a felled tree, and it hits the deck with the same force. People
scream. The ship groans and begins to list starboard, pulled by the collapsed, dragging sails. She sees
two men fall into the water with the sails, crushed or smothered by the weight of cloth and rope and
wood, and Earth help her, she cannot think of them. The mast is between her and the pilot deck. Shes
cut off from Innon and Coru.
And the Guardians ship is now closing in.
No! Syenite reaches for the water, trying to pull something, anything, into her abused sessapinae.
But theres nothing. Her mind is as still as glass. The Guardians are too close.
She cant think. She scrabbles over the mast parts, gets tangled in a thicket of ropes and must fight
for endless hours, it feels like, to get free. Then finally she is free but everyones running back the
way she came, glassknives and javelins in hand, shouting and screaming, because the Guardians ship
is right there and they are boarding.
No.
She can hear people dying all around her. The Guardians have brought troops of some sort with
them, some comms militia that theyve paid or appropriated, and the battle isnt even close. Innons
people are good, experienced, but their usual targets are poorly defended merchant and passenger
vessels. As Syenite reaches the pilot deckInnon isnt there, he must have gone belowshe sees
Innons cousin Ecella slash a militiaman across the face with her glassknife. He staggers beneath the
blow but then comes back up and shoves his own knife into her belly. When she falls, he pushes her
away, and she falls onto the body of another Meovite, who is already dead. More of the troops are
climbing aboard by the minute.
Its the same everywhere. Theyre losing.
She has to get to Innon and Coru.
Belowdecks theres almost no one there. Everyone has come up to defend the ship. But she can feel
the tremor that is Corus fear, and she follows it to Innons cabin. The door opens as she reaches it,
and Innon comes out with a knife in his hand, nearly stabbing her. He stops, startled, and she looks
beyond him to see that Coru has been bundled into a basket beneath the forward bulkheadthe safest
place in the ship, ostensibly. But as she stands there, stupidly, Innon grabs her and shoves her into the
cabin.
What
Stay here, Innon says. I have to go fight. Do whatever you have
He gets no further. Someone moves behind him, too quick for Syenite to cry a warning. A man,
naked to the waist. He claps hands onto either side of Innons head, fingers splayed across his cheeks
like spiders, and grins at Syenite as Innons eyes widen.
And then it is
Oh Earth, it is
She feels it, when it happens. Not just in her sessapinae. It is a grind like stone abrading her skin; it
is a crush along her bones; it is, it is, it is everything that is in Innon, all the power and vibrancy and
beauty and fierceness of him, made evil. Amplified and concentrated and turned back on him in the
most vicious way. Innon does not have time to feel fear. Syenite does not have time to scream as Innon
comes apart.
Its like watching a shake up close. Seeing the ground split, watching the fragments grind and
splinter together, then separate. Except all in flesh.
Baster, you never told me, you didnt tell me it was like
Now Innon is on the floor, in a pile. The Guardian who has killed him stands there, splattered in
blood and grinning through it.
Ah, little one, says a voice, and her blood turns to stone. Here you are.
No, she whispers. She shakes her head in denial, steps backward. Coru is crying. She steps back
again and stumbles against Innons bed, fumbles for the basket, pulls Coru into her arms. He clings to
her, shaking and hitching fitfully. No.
The shirtless Guardian glances to one side, then he moves aside to make room for another to
enter. No.
Theres no need for these histrionics, Damaya, Schaffa Guardian Warrant says, softly. Then he
pauses, looks apologetic. Syenite.
 She has not seen him in years, but his voice is the same. His face is the same. He never changes.
Hes even smiling, though it fades a little in distaste as he notices the mess that was Innon. He glances
at the shirtless Guardian; the mans still grinning. Schaffa sighs, but smiles in return. Then they both
turn those horrible, horrible smiles on Syenite.
She cannot go back. She will not go back.
And what is this? Schaffa smiles, his gaze fixing on Coru in her arms. How lovely.
Alabaster s? Does he live, too? We would all like to see Alabaster, Syenite. Where is he?
The habit of answering is too deep. A stone eater took him. Her voice shakes. She steps back
again, and her head presses against the bulkhead. Theres nowhere left to run.
For the first time since shes ever known him, Schaffa blinks and looks surprised. A stone
hmm. He sobers. I see. We should have killed him, then, before they got to him. As a kindness, of
course; you cannot imagine what they will do to him, Syenite. Alas.
Then Schaffa smiles again, and she remembers everything shes tried to forget. She feels alone
again, and helpless as she was that day near Palela, lost in the hateful world with no one to rely on
except a man whose love comes wrapped in pain.
But his child will be a more than worthwhile replacement, Schaffa says.
* * *
There are moments when everything changes, you understand.
* * *
Corus wailing, terrified, and perhaps he even understands, somehow, what has happened to his
fathers. Syenite cannot console him.
No, she says again. No. No. No.
Schaffas smile fades. Syenite. I told you. Never say no to me.
* * *
Even the hardest stone can fracture. It just takes the right force, applied at the right juncture of angles.
A fulcrum of pressure and weakness.
* * *
Promise, Alabaster had said.
Do whatever you have to, Innon had tried to say.
And Syenite says: No, you fucker.
Coru is crying. She puts her hand over his mouth and nose, to silence him, to comfort him. She
will keep him safe. She will not let them take him, enslave him, turn his body into a tool and his mind
into a weapon and his life into a travesty of freedom.
* * *
You understand these moments, I think, instinctively. It is our nature. We are born of such pressures,
and sometimes, when things are unbearable
* * *
Schaffa stops. Syenite
Thats not my rusting name! Ill say no to you all I want, you bastard! Shes screaming the
words. Spittle froths her lips. Theres a dark heavy space inside her that is heavier than the stone eater,
much heavier than a mountain, and its eating everything else like a sinkhole.
Everyone she loves is dead. Everyone except Coru. And if they take him
* * *
sometimes, even we crack.
* * *
Better that a child never have lived at all than live as a slave.
Better that he die.
Better that she die. Alabaster will hate her for this, for leaving him alone, but Alabaster is not here,
and survival is not the same thing as living.
So she reaches up. Out. The amethyst is there, above, waiting with the patience of the dead, as if it
somehow knew this moment would come.
She reaches for it now and prays that Alabaster was right about the thing being too much for her to
handle.
And as her awareness dissolves amid jewel-toned light and faceted ripples, as Schaffa gasps in
realization and lunges for her, as Corus eyes flutter shut over her pressing, smothering hand
She opens herself to all the power of the ancient unknown, and tears the world apart.
* * *
Here is the Stillness. Here is a place off its eastern coast, a bit south of the equator.
Theres an island hereone of a chain of precarious little land slabs that rarely last longer than a
few hundred years. This ones been around for several thousand, in testament to the wisdom of its
inhabitants. This is the moment when that island dies, but at least a few of those inhabitants should
survive to go elsewhere. Perhaps that will make you feel better.
The purple obelisk that hovers above it pulses, once, with a great throb of power that would be
familiar to anyone whod been in the late comm called Allia on the day of its death. As this pulse
fades, the ocean below heaves as its rocky floor convulses. Spikes, wet and knifelike, burst up from
the waves and utterly shatter the ships that float near the islands shores. A number of the people
aboard eachsome pirates, some their enemiesare speared through, so great is the thicket of death
around them.
This convulsion spreads away from the island in a long, wending ripple, forming a chain of
jagged, terrible spears from Meovs harbor all the way to what is left of Allia. A land bridge. Not the
sort anyone would much want to cross, but nevertheless.
When all the death is done and the obelisk is calm, only a handful of people are still alive, in the
ocean below. One of them, a woman, floats unconscious amid the debris of her shattered ship. Not far
from her, a smaller figurea childfloats, too, but facedown.
Her fellow survivors will find her and take her to the mainland. There she will wander, lost and
losing herself, for two long years.
But not alonefor that is when I found her, you see. The moment of the obelisks pulse was the
moment in which her presence sang across the world: a promise, a demand, an invitation too enticing
to resist. Many of us converged on her then, but I am the one who found her first. I fought off the
others and trailed her, watched her, guarded her. I was glad when she found the little town called
Tirimo, and comfort if not happiness, for a time.
 I introduced myself to her eventually, finally, ten years later, as she left Tirimo. Its not the way we
usually do these things, of course; it is not the relationship with her kind that we normally seek. But
she iswasspecial. You were, are, special.
I told her that I was called Hoa. It is as good a name as any.
This is how it began. Listen. Learn. This is how the world changed.
 23
youre all you need

THERES A STRUCTURE IN CASTRIMA that glitters. Its on the lowermost level of the great geode, and
you think it must have been built rather than grown: Its walls arent carved solid crystal, but slabs of
quarried white mica, flecked delicately with infinitesimal crystal flakes that are no less beautiful than
their larger cousins, if not as dramatic. Why someone would carry these slabs here and make a house
out of them amid all these ready-made, uninhabited apartments, you have no idea. You dont ask. You
dont care.
Lerna comes with you, because this is the comms official infirmary and the man youre coming
to see is his patient. But you stop him at the door, and theres something in your face that must warn
him of the danger. He does not protest when you go in without him.
You walk through its open doorway slowly, and stop when you spy the stone eater across the
infirmarys large main room. Antimony, yes; youd almost forgotten the name Alabaster gave her.
She looks back at you impassively, hardly distinguishable from the white wall save for the rust of her
fingertips and the stark black of her hair and eyes. She hasnt changed since the last time you saw
her: twelve years ago, at the end of Meov. But then, for her kind, twelve years is nothing.
You nod to her, anyway. Its the polite thing to do, and theres still a little left of you thats the
woman the Fulcrum raised. You can be polite to anybody, no matter how much you hate them.
She says, No closer.
Shes not talking to you. You turn, unsurprised, to see that Hoa is behind you. Whered he come
from? Hes just as still as Antimonyunnaturally still, which makes you finally notice that he doesnt
breathe. He never has, in all the time youve known him. How the rust did you miss that? Hoa watches
her with the same steady glower of threat that he offered to Ykkas stone eater. Perhaps none of them
like each other. Must make reunions awkward.
Im not interested in him, Hoa says.
Antimonys eyes shift over to you for a moment. Then her gaze returns to Hoa. I am interested in
her only on his behalf.
Hoa says nothing. Perhaps hes considering this; perhaps its an offer of truce, or a staking of
claims. You shake your head and walk past them both.
At the back of the main room, on a pile of cushions and blankets, lies a thin black figure,
wheezing. It stirs a little, lifting its head slowly as you approach. As you crouch just out of his arms
reach, youre relieved to recognize him. Everything else has changed, but his eyes, at least, are the
same.
Syen, he says. His voice is thick gravel.
Essun, now, you say, automatically.
He nods. This seems to cause him pain; for a moment his eyes squinch shut. Then he draws in
another breath, makes a visible effort to relax, and revives somewhat. I knew you werent dead.
Why didnt you come, then? you say.
Had my own problems to deal with. He smiles a little. You actually hear the skin on the left side
of his facetheres a big burned patch therecrinkle. His eyes shift over to Antimony, as slowly as a
stone eater s movements. Then he returns his attention to you.
(To her, Syenite.)
To you, Essun. Rust it, youll be glad when you finally figure out who you really are.
And Ive been busy. Now Alabaster lifts his right arm. It ends abruptly, in the middle of the
forearm; hes not wearing anything on his upper body, so you can clearly see whats happened.
Theres not much left of him. Hes missing a lot of pieces, and he stinks of blood and pus and urine
and cooked meat. The arm injury, though, is not one he earned from Yumeness fires, or at least not
directly. The stump of his arm is capped with something hard and brown that is definitely not skin: too
hard, too uniformly chalklike in its visible composition.
Stone. His arm has become stone. Most of its gone, though, and the stump
tooth marks. Those are tooth marks. You glance up at Antimony again, and think of a diamond
smile.
Hear youve been busy, too, Baster says.
You nod, finally dragging your gaze away from the stone eater. (Now you know what kind of
stone they eat.) After Meov. I was Youre not sure how to say it. There are griefs too deep to be
borne, and yet you have borne them again and again. I needed to be different.
It makes no sense. Alabaster makes a soft affirmative sound, though, as if he understands. You
stayed free, at least.
If hiding everything you are is free. Yes.
Settled down?
Got married. Had two children. Alabaster is silent. With all the patches of char and chalky brown
stone on his face, you cant tell if hes smiling or scowling. You assume the latter, though, so you add:
Both of them were like me. Im my husband
Words make things real in a way that even memories cant, so you stop there.
I understand why you killed Corundum, Alabaster says, very softly. And then, while you sway in
your crouch, literally reeling from the blow of that sentence, he finishes you. But Ill never forgive
you for doing it.
Damn. Damn him. Damn yourself.
It takes you a moment to respond.
I understand if you want to kill me, you manage, at last. Then you lick your lips. Swallow. Spit
the words out. But I have to kill my husband, first.
Alabaster lets out a wheezing sigh. Your other two kids.
You nod. Doesnt matter that Nassuns alive, in this instance. Jija took her from you; that is insult
enough.
Im not going to kill you, SyEssun. He sounds tired. Maybe he doesnt hear the little sound
you make, which is neither relief nor disappointment. I wouldnt even if I could.
 If you
Can you do it, yet? He rides over your confusion the way he always did. Nothing about him has
changed except his ruined body. You drew on the garnet at Allia, but that one was half dead. You
must have used the amethyst at Meov, but that was an extremity. Can you do it at will, now?
I You dont want to understand. But now your eyes are drawn away from the horror that
remains of your mentor, your lover, your friend. To the side and behind Alabaster, where a strange
object rests against the wall of the infirmary. It looks like a glassknife, but the blade is much too long
and wide for practical use. It has an enormous handle, perhaps because the blade is so stupidly long,
and a crosspiece that will get in the way the first time someone tries to use the thing to cut meat or
slice through a knot. And its not made of glass, or at least not any glass youve ever seen. Its pink,
verging on red, and
and. You stare at it. Into it. You feel it trying to draw your mind in, down. Falling. Falling up,
through an endless shaft of flickering, faceted pink light
You gasp and twitch back into yourself defensively, then stare at Alabaster. He smiles again,
painfully.
The spinel, he says, confirming your shock. That ones mine. Have you made any of them
yours, yet? Do the obelisks come when you call?
You dont want to understand, but you do. You dont want to believe, but really, you have all along.
You tore that rift up north, you breathe. Your hands are clenching into fists. You split the
continent. You started this Season. With the obelisks! You did all of that.
Yes, with the obelisks, and with the aid of the node maintainers. Theyre all at peace now. He
exhales, wheezily. I need your help.
You shake your head automatically, but not in refusal. To fix it?
Oh, no, Syen. You dont even bother to correct him this time. You cant take your eyes from his
amused, nearly skeletal face. When he speaks, you notice that some of his teeth have turned to stone,
too. How many of his organs have done the same? How much longer can heshould helive like
this?
I dont want you to fix it, Alabaster says. It was collateral damage, but Yumenes got what it
deserved. No, what I want you to do, my Damaya, my Syenite, my Essun, is make it worse.
You stare at him, speechless. Then he leans forward. That this is painful for him is obvious; you
hear the creak and stretch of his flesh, and a faint crack as some piece of stone somewhere on him
fissures. But when he is close enough, he grins again, and suddenly it hits you. Evil, eating, Earth.
Hes not crazy at all, and he never has been.
Tell me, he says, have you ever heard of something called a moon?
 APPENDIX 1

A catalog of Fifth Seasons that have been recorded prior to and since
the founding of the Sanzed Equatorial Affiliation, from most recent to
oldest

Choking Season: 27142719 Imperial. Proximate cause: volcanic eruption. Location: the Antarctics
near Deveteris. The eruption of Mount Akok blanketed a five-hundred-mile radius with fine ash
clouds that solidified in lungs and mucous membranes. Five years without sunlight, although the
northern hemisphere was not affected as much (only two years).
Acid Season: 23222329 Imperial. Proximate cause: plus-ten-level shake. Location: unknown; far
ocean. A sudden plate shift birthed a chain of volcanoes in the path of a major jet stream. This jet
stream became acidified, flowing toward the western coast and eventually around most of the
Stillness. Most coastal comms perished in the initial tsunami; the rest failed or were forced to
relocate when their fleets and port facilities corroded and the fishing dried up. Atmospheric
occlusion by clouds lasted seven years; coastal pH levels remained untenable for many years more.
Boiling Season: 18421845 Imperial. Proximate cause: hot spot eruption beneath a great lake.
Location: Somidlats, Lake Tekkaris quartent. The eruption launched millions of gallons of steam
and particulates into the air, which triggered acidic rain and atmospheric occlusion over the
southern half of the continent for three years. The northern half suffered no negative impacts,
however, so archeomests dispute whether this qualifies as a true Season.
Breathless Season: 16891798 Imperial. Proximate cause: mining accident. Location: Nomidlats,
Sathd quartent. An entirely human-caused Season triggered when miners at the edge of the
northeastern Nomidlats coalfields set off underground fires. A relatively mild Season featuring
occasional sunlight and no ashfall or acidification except in the region; few comms declared
Seasonal Law. Approximately fourteen million people in the city of Heldine died in the initial
natural-gas eruption and rapidly spreading fire sinkhole before Imperial Orogenes successfully
quelled and sealed the edges of the fires to prevent further spread. The remaining mass could only
be isolated, where it continued to burn for one hundred and twenty years. The smoke of this, spread
via prevailing winds, caused respiratory problems and occasional mass suffocations in the region
for several decades. A secondary effect of the loss of the Nomidlats coalfields was a catastrophic
 rise in heating fuel costs and the wider adaption of geothermal and hydroelectric heating, leading
to the establishment of the Geneer Licensure.
The Season of Teeth: 15531566 Imperial. Proximate cause: oceanic shake triggering a
supervolcanic explosion. Location: Arctic Cracks. An aftershock of the oceanic shake breached a
previously unknown hot spot near the north pole. This triggered a supervolcanic explosion;
witnesses report hearing the sound of the explosion as far as the Antarctics. Ash went upper-
atmospheric and spread around the globe rapidly, although the Arctics were most heavily affected.
The harm of this Season was exacerbated by poor preparation on the part of many comms, because
some nine hundred years had passed since the last Season; popular belief at the time was that the
Seasons were merely legend. Reports of cannibalism spread from the north all the way to the
Equatorials. At the end of this Season, the Fulcrum was founded in Yumenes, with satellite facilities
in the Arctics and Antarctics.
Fungus Season: 602 Imperial. Proximate cause: volcanic eruption. Location: western Equatorials. A
series of eruptions during monsoon season increased humidity and obscured sunlight over
approximately 20 percent of the continent for six months. While this was a mild Season as such
things go, its timing created perfect conditions for a fungal bloom that spread across the
Equatorials into the northern and southern midlats, wiping out then-staple-crop miroq (now
extinct). The resulting famine lasted four years (two for the fungus blight to run its course, two
more for agriculture and food distribution systems to recover). Nearly all affected comms were
able to subsist on their own stores, thus proving the efficacy of Imperial reforms and Season
planning, and the Empire was generous in sharing stored seed with those regions that had been
miroq-dependent. In its aftermath, many comms of the middle latitudes and coastal regions
voluntarily joined the Empire, doubling its range and beginning its Golden Age.
Madness Season: 3 Before Imperial7 Imperial. Proximate cause: volcanic eruption. Location: Kiash
Traps. The eruption of multiple vents of an ancient supervolcano (the same one responsible for the
Twin Season of approximately 10,000 years previous) launched large deposits of the dark-colored
mineral augite into the air. The resulting ten years of darkness was not only devastating in the usual
Seasonal way, but resulted in a higher than usual incidence of mental illness. The Sanzed Equatorial
Affiliation (commonly called the Sanze Empire) was born in this Season as Warlord Verishe of
Yumenes conquered multiple ailing comms using psychological warfare techniques. (See The Art
of Madness, various authors, Sixth University Press.) Verishe named herself Emperor on the day
the first sunlight returned.
[Editors note: Much of the information about Seasons prior to the founding of Sanze is
contradictory or unconfirmed. The following are Seasons agreed upon by the Seventh University
Archaeomestric Conference of 2532.]
Wandering Season: Approximately 800 Before Imperial. Proximate cause: magnetic pole shift.
Location: unverifiable. This Season resulted in the extinction of several important trade crops of
the time, and twenty years of famine resulting from pollinators confused by the movement of true
north.
Season of Changed Wind: Approximately 1900 Before Imperial. Proximate cause: unknown.
Location: unverifiable. For reasons unknown, the direction of the prevailing winds shifted for
 many years before returning to normal. Consensus agrees that this was a Season, despite the lack of
atmospheric occlusion, because only a substantial (and likely far-oceanic) seismic event could have
triggered it.
Heavy Metal Season: Approximately 4200 Before Imperial. Proximate cause: volcanic eruption.
Location: Somidlats near eastern Coastals. A volcanic eruption (believed to be Mount Yrga) caused
atmospheric occlusion for ten years, exacerbated by widespread mercury contamination
throughout the eastern half of the Stillness.
Season of Yellow Seas: Approximately 9200 Before Imperial. Proximate cause: unknown. Location:
Eastern and Western Coastals, and coastal regions as far south as the Antarctics. This Season is
only known through written accounts found in Equatorial ruins. For unknown reasons, a
widespread bacterial bloom toxified nearly all sea life and caused coastal famines for several
decades.
Twin Season: Approximately 9800 Before Imperial. Proximate cause: volcanic eruption. Location:
Somidlats. Per songs and oral histories dating from the time, the eruption of one volcanic vent
caused a three-year occlusion. As this began to clear, it was followed by a second eruption of a
different vent, which extended the occlusion by thirty more years.
 APPENDIX 2

A Glossary of Terms Commonly Used in All Quartents of the Stillness

Antarctics: The southernmost latitudes of the continent. Also refers to people from antarctic-region
comms.
Arctics: The northernmost latitudes of the continent. Also refers to people from arctic-region
comms.
Ashblow Hair: A distinctive Sanzed racial trait, deemed in the current guidelines of the Breeder use-
caste to be advantageous and therefore given preference in selection. Ashblow hair is notably
coarse and thick, generally growing in an upward flare; at length, it falls around the face and
shoulders. It is acid-resistant and retains little water after immersion, and has been proven effective
as an ash filter in extreme circumstances. In most comms, Breeder guidelines acknowledge texture
alone; however, Equatorial Breeders generally also require natural ash coloration (slate gray to
white, present from birth) for the coveted designation.
Bastard: A person born without a use-caste, which is only possible for boys whose fathers are
unknown. Those who distinguish themselves may be permitted to bear their mother s use-caste at
comm-naming.
Blow: A volcano. Also called firemountains in some Coastal languages.
Boil: A geyser, hot spring, or steam vent.
Breeder: One of the seven common use-castes. Breeders are individuals selected for their health and
desirable conformation. During a Season, they are responsible for the maintenance of healthy
bloodlines and the improvement of comm or race by selective measures. Breeders born into the
caste who do not meet acceptable community standards may be permitted to bear the use-caste of a
close relative at comm-naming.
Cache: Stored food and supplies. Comms maintain guarded, locked storecaches at all times against
the possibility of a Fifth Season. Only recognized comm members are entitled to a share of the
cache, though adults may use their share to feed unrecognized children and others. Individual
households often maintain their own housecaches, equally guarded against nonfamily members.
Cebaki: A member of the Cebaki race. Cebak was once a nation (unit of a deprecated political system,
Before Imperial) in the Somidlats, though it was reorganized into the quartent system when the Old
Sanze Empire conquered it centuries ago.
Coaster: A person from a coastal comm. Few coastal comms can afford to hire Imperial Orogenes to
raise reefs or otherwise protect against tsunami, so coastal cities must perpetually rebuild and tend
to be resource-poor as a result. People from the western coast of the continent tend to be pale,
straight-haired, and sometimes have eyes with epicanthic folds. People from the eastern coast tend
to be dark, kinky-haired, and sometimes have eyes with epicanthic folds.
Comm: Community. The smallest sociopolitical unit of the Imperial governance system, generally
corresponding to one city or town, although very large cities may contain several comms.
Accepted members of a comm are those who have been accorded rights of cache-share and
protection, and who in turn support the comm through taxes or other contributions.
Commless: Criminals and other undesirables unable to gain acceptance in any comm.
Comm Name: The third name borne by most citizens, indicating their comm allegiance and rights.
This name is generally bestowed at puberty as a coming-of-age, indicating that a person has been
deemed a valuable member of the community. Immigrants to a comm may request adoption into
that comm; upon acceptance, they take on the adoptive comms name as their own.
Creche: A place where children too young to work are cared for while adults carry out needed tasks
for the comm. When circumstances permit, a place of learning.
Equatorials: Latitudes surrounding and including the equator, excepting coastal regions. Also refers
to people from equatorial-region comms. Thanks to temperate weather and relative stability at the
center of the continental plate, Equatorial comms tend to be prosperous and politically powerful.
The Equatorials once formed the core of the Old Sanze Empire.
Fault: A place where breaks in the earth make frequent, severe shakes and blows more likely.
Fifth Season: An extended winterlasting at least six months, per Imperial designationtriggered
by seismic activity or other large-scale environmental alteration.
Fulcrum: A paramilitary order created by Old Sanze after the Season of Teeth (1560 Imperial). The
headquarters of the Fulcrum is in Yumenes, although two satellite Fulcrums are located in the
Arctic and Antarctic regions, for maximum continental coverage. Fulcrum-trained orogenes (or
Imperial Orogenes) are legally permitted to practice the otherwise-illegal craft of orogeny,
under strict organizational rules and with the close supervision of the Guardian order. The Fulcrum
is self-managed and self-sufficient. Imperial Orogenes are marked by their black uniforms, and
colloquially known as blackjackets.
Geneer: From geoneer. An engineer of earthworksgeothermal energy mechanisms, tunnels,
underground infrastructure, mining.
Geomest: One who studies stone and its place in the natural world; general term for a scientist.
Specifically geomests study lithology, chemistry, and geology, which are not considered separate
disciplines in the Stillness. A few geomests specialize in orogenesisthe study of orogeny and its
effects.
Greenland: An area of fallow ground kept within or just outside the walls of most comms as advised
by stonelore. Comm greenlands may be used for agriculture or animal husbandry at all times, or
may be kept as parks or fallow ground during non-Seasonal times. Individual households often
maintain their own personal housegreen, or garden, as well.
Grits: In the Fulcrum, unringed orogene children who are still in basic training.
Guardian: A member of an order said to predate the Fulcrum. Guardians track, protect, protect
against, and guide orogenes in the Stillness.
Imperial Road: One of the great innovations of the Old Sanze Empire, highroads (elevated highways
for walking or horse traffic) connect all major comms and most large quartents to one another.
Highroads are built by teams of geneers and Imperial Orogenes, with the orogenes determining the
most stable path through areas of seismic activity (or quelling the activity, if there is no stable
path), and the geneers routing water and other important resources near the roads to facilitate travel
during Seasons.
Innovator: One of the seven common use-castes. Innovators are individuals selected for their
creativity and applied intelligence, responsible for technical and logistical problem solving during
a Season.
Kirkhusa: A mid-sized mammal, sometimes kept as a pet or used to guard homes or livestock.
Normally herbivarous; during Seasons, carnivorous.
Knapper: A small-tools crafter, working in stone, glass, bone, or other materials. In large comms,
knappers may use mechanical or mass-production techniques. Knappers who work in metal, or
incompetent knappers, are colloquially called rusters.
Lorist: One who studies stonelore and lost history.
Mela: A midlats plant, related to the melons of Equatorial climates. Mela are vining ground plants that
normally produce fruit aboveground. During a Season, the fruit grows underground as tubers.
Some species of mela produce flowers that trap insects.
Metallore: Like alchemy and astromestry, a discredited pseudoscience disavowed by the Seventh
University.
Midlats: The middle latitudes of the continentthose between the equator and the arctic or
antarctic regions. Also refers to people from midlats regions (sometimes called midlatters). These
regions are seen as the backwater of the Stillness, although they produce much of the worlds food,
materials, and other critical resources. There are two midlat regions: the northern (Nomidlats) and
southern (Somidlats).
Newcomm: Colloquial term for comms that have arisen only since the last Season. Comms that have
survived at least one Season are generally seen as more desirable places to live, having proven
their efficacy and strength.
Nodes: The network of Imperially maintained stations placed throughout the Stillness in order to
reduce or quell seismic events. Due to the relative rarity of Fulcrum-trained orogenes, nodes are
primarily clustered in the Equatorials.
Orogene: One who possesses orogeny, whether trained or not. Derogatory: rogga.
Orogeny: The ability to manipulate thermal, kinetic, and related forms of energy to address seismic
events.
Quartent: The middle level of the Imperial governance system. Four geographically adjacent
comms make a quartent. Each quartent has a governor to whom individual comm heads report, and
who reports in turn to a regional governor. The largest comm in a quartent is its capital; larger
quartent capitals are connected to one another via the Imperial Road system.
Region: The top level of the Imperial governance system. Imperially recognized regions are the
 Arctics, Nomidlats, western Coastals, eastern Coastals, Equatorials, Somidlats, and Antarctics. Each
region has a governor to whom all local quartents report. Regional governors are officially
appointed by the Emperor, though in actual practice they are generally selected by and/or come
from the Yumenescene Leadership.
Resistant: One of the seven common use-castes. Resistants are individuals selected for their ability to
survive famine or pestilence. They are responsible for caring for the infirm and dead bodies
during Seasons.
Rings: Used to denote rank among Imperial Orogenes. Unranked trainees must pass a series of tests
to gain their first ring; ten rings is the highest rank an orogene may achieve. Each ring is made of
polished semiprecious stone.
Roadhouse: Stations located at intervals along every Imperial Road and many lesser roads. All
roadhouses contain a source of water and are located near arable land, forests, or other useful
resources. Many are located in areas of minimal seismic activity.
Runny-sack: A small, easily portable cache of supplies most people keep in their homes in case of
shakes or other emergencies.
Safe: A beverage traditionally served at negotiations, first encounters between potentially hostile
parties, and other formal meetings. It contains a plant milk that reacts to the presence of all foreign
substances.
Sanze: Originally a nation (unit of a deprecated political system, Before Imperial) in the Equatorials;
origin of the Sanzed race. At the close of the Madness Season (7 Imperial), the nation of Sanze was
abolished and replaced with the Sanzed Equatorial Affiliation, consisting of six predominantly
Sanzed comms under the rule of Emperor Verishe Leadership Yumenes. The Affiliation expanded
rapidly in the aftermath of the Season, eventually encompassing all regions of the Stillness by 800
Imperial. Around the time of the Season of Teeth, the Affiliation came to be known colloquially as
the Old Sanze Empire, or simply Old Sanze. As of the Shilteen Accords of 1850 Imperial, the
Affiliation officially ceased to exist, as local control (under the advisement of the Yumenescene
Leadership) was deemed more efficient in the event of a Season. In practice, most comms still
follow Imperial systems of governance, finance, education, and more, and most regional
governors still pay taxes in tribute to Yumenes.
Sanzed: A member of the Sanzed race. Per Yumenescene Breedership standards, Sanzeds are ideally
bronze-skinned and ashblow-haired, with mesomorphic or endomorphic builds and an adult height
of minimum six feet.
Sanze-mat: The language spoken by the Sanze race, and the official language of the Old Sanze
Empire, now the lingua franca of most of the Stillness.
Seasonal Law: Martial law, which may be declared by any comm head, quartent governor, regional
governor, or recognized member of the Yumenescene Leadership. During Seasonal Law, quartent
and regional governance are suspended and comms operate as sovereign sociopolitical units,
though local cooperation with other comms is strongly encouraged per Imperial policy.
Seventh University: A famous college for the study of geomestry and stonelore, currently Imperially
funded and located in the Equatorial city of Dibars. Prior versions of the University have been
privately or collectively maintained; notably, the Third University at Am-Elat (approximately 3000
 Before Imperial) was recognized at the time as a sovereign nation. Smaller regional or quartent
colleges pay tribute to the University and receive expertise and resources in exchange.
Sesuna: Awareness of the movements of the earth. The sensory organs that perform this function are
the sessapinae, located in the brain stem. Verb form: to sess.
Shake: A seismic movement of the earth.
Shatterland: Ground that has been disturbed by severe and/or very recent seismic activity.
Stillheads: A derogatory term used by orogenes for people lacking orogeny, usually shortened to
stills.
Stone Eaters: A rarely seen sentient humanoid species whose flesh, hair, etc., resembles stone. Little
is known about them.
Strongback: One of the seven common use-castes. Strongbacks are individuals selected for their
physical prowess, responsible for heavy labor and security in the event of a Season.
Use Name: The second name borne by most citizens, indicating the use-caste to which that person
belongs. There are twenty recognized use-castes, although only seven in common use throughout
the current and former Old Sanze Empire. A person inherits the use name of their same-sex parent,
on the theory that useful traits are more readily passed this way.
 Acknowledgments

This fantasy novel was partially born in space.

You can probably tell, if youve read all the way to the last line of the manuscript. The germination
point for this idea was Launch Pad, a then-NASA-funded workshop that I attended back in July of
2009. The goal of Launch Pad was to pull together media influencersastonishingly, science fiction
and fantasy writers count among thoseand make sure they understood Teh Science, if they were
going to use it in any of their works. A lot of the falsehoods the public believes re astronomy have
been spread by writers, see. Alas, by pairing astronomy with sentient rock people, Im not so sure Im
doing the worlds best job of delivering accurate scientific information. Sorry, fellow Launch
Padders.
I cant tell you about the spirited, amazing discussion that seeded this novel in my brain. (This is
supposed to be short.) But I can tell you that such spirited, amazing discussions were the norm for
Launch Pad, so if you are also a media influencer and you have the chance to attend, I highly
recommend it. And I must offer thanks to the folks who were in attendance at Launch Pad that year,
who all contributed to the germination of this novel whether they realized it or not. Offhand that
would be people like Mike Brotherton (the workshops director, a University of Wyoming professor
and science fiction writer himself); Phil Plait, the Bad Astronomer (its a title, see, hes not actually
bad, I mean okay, just look him up); Gay and Joe Haldeman; Pat Cadigan; Science Comedian Brian
Malow; Tara Fredette (now Malow); and Gord Sellar.
Also, big props to my editor, Devi Pillai, and my agent, Lucienne Diver, for talking me out of
scrapping this novel. The Broken Earth trilogy is the most challenging work Ive ever written, and at
certain points during The Fifth Season the task seemed so overwhelming that I thought about quitting.
(Actually, I believe my exact words were, Delete this hot mess, hack Dropbox to get the backups
there, drop my laptop off a cliff, drive over it with a car, set fire to both, then use a backhoe to bury
the evidence. Do you need a special license to drive a backhoe?) Kate Elliott (another
acknowledgment, for being a perpetual mentor and friend) calls moments like this the Chasm of
Doubt that every writer hits at some point during a major project. Mine was as deep and awful as the
Yumenescene Rift.
Other folks who helped talk me off the cliff: Rose Fox; Danielle Friedman, my medical consultant;
Mikki Kendall; my writing group; my day-job boss (who I am not sure wants to be named); and my
cat, KING OZZYMANDIAS. Yeah, even the damn cat. It takes a village to keep a writer from losing
her shit, okay?
And as always, thanks to all of you, for reading.
extras
 meet the author

N. K. Jemisin

N. K. JEMISIN is a career counselor, political blogger, and would-be gourmand living in New York
City. Shes been writing since the age of ten, although her early works will never see the light of day.
 introducing

If you enjoyed
THE FIFTH SEASON
look out for

THE HUNDRED THOUSAND KINGDOMS

The Inheritance Trilogy: Book 1
by N. K. Jemisin

Yeine Darr is an outcast from the barbarian north. But when her mother dies under mysterious
circumstances, she is summoned to the majestic city of Sky. There, to her shock, Yeine is named
an heiress to the king. But the throne of the Hundred Thousand Kingdoms is not easily won, and
Yeine is thrust into a vicious power struggle with cousins she never knew she had. As she fights
for her life, she draws ever closer to the secrets of her mothers death and her familys bloody
history.

With the fate of the world hanging in the balance, Yeine will learn how perilous it can be when
love and hateand gods and mortalsare bound inseparably together.
 1
Grandfather

I am not as I once was. They have done this to me, broken me open and torn out my heart. I do not
know who I am anymore.
I must try to remember.
* * *
My people tell stories of the night I was born. They say my mother crossed her legs in the middle of
labor and fought with all her strength not to release me into the world. I was born anyhow, of course;
nature cannot be denied. Yet it does not surprise me that she tried.
* * *
My mother was an heiress of the Arameri. There was a ball for the lesser nobilitythe sort of thing
that happens once a decade as a backhanded sop to their self-esteem. My father dared ask my mother
to dance; she deigned to consent. I have often wondered what he said and did that night to make her
fall in love with him so powerfully, for she eventually abdicated her position to be with him. It is the
stuff of great tales, yes? Very romantic. In the tales, such a couple lives happily ever after. The tales
do not say what happens when the most powerful family in the world is offended in the process.
* * *
But I forget myself. Who was I, again? Ah, yes.
My name is Yeine. In my peoples way I am Yeine dau she Kinneth tai wer Somem kanna Darre,
which means that I am the daughter of Kinneth, and that my tribe within the Darre people is called
Somem. Tribes mean little to us these days, though before the Gods War they were more important.
I am nineteen years old. I also am, or was, the chieftain of my people, called ennu. In the Arameri
way, which is the way of the Amn race from whom they originated, I am the Baroness Yeine Darr.
One month after my mother died, I received a message from my grandfather Dekarta Arameri,
inviting me to visit the family seat. Because one does not refuse an invitation from the Arameri, I set
forth. It took the better part of three months to travel from the High North continent to Senm, across
the Repentance Sea. Despite Darr s relative poverty, I traveled in style the whole way, first by
palanquin and ocean vessel, and finally by chauffeured horse-coach. This was not my choice. The
Darre Warriors Council, which rather desperately hoped that I might restore us to the Arameris
good graces, thought that this extravagance would help. It is well known that Amn respect displays of
wealth.
Thus arrayed, I arrived at my destination on the cusp of the winter solstice. And as the driver
stopped the coach on a hill outside the city, ostensibly to water the horses but more likely because he
was a local and liked to watch foreigners gawk, I got my first glimpse of the Hundred Thousand
Kingdoms heart.
There is a rose that is famous in High North. (This is not a digression.) It is called the altarskirt
rose. Not only do its petals unfold in a radiance of pearled white, but frequently it grows an
incomplete secondary flower about the base of its stem. In its most prized form, the altarskirt grows a
layer of overlarge petals that drape the ground. The two bloom in tandem, seedbearing head and skirt,
glory above and below.
This was the city called Sky. On the ground, sprawling over a small mountain or an oversize hill:
a circle of high walls, mounting tiers of buildings, all resplendent in white, per Arameri decree.
Above the city, smaller but brighter, the pearl of its tiers occasionally obscured by scuds of cloud,
was the palacealso called Sky, and perhaps more deserving of the name. I knew the column was
there, the impossibly thin column that supported such a massive structure, but from that distance I
couldnt see it. Palace floated above city, linked in spirit, both so unearthly in their beauty that I held
my breath at the sight.
The altarskirt rose is priceless because of the difficulty of producing it. The most famous lines are
heavily inbred; it originated as a deformity that some savvy breeder deemed useful. The primary
flower s scent, sweet to us, is apparently repugnant to insects; these roses must be pollinated by hand.
The secondary flower saps nutrients crucial for the plants fertility. Seeds are rare, and for every one
that grows into a perfect altarskirt, ten others become plants that must be destroyed for their
hideousness.
* * *
At the gates of Sky (the palace) I was turned away, though not for the reasons Id expected. My
grandfather was not present, it seemed. He had left instructions in the event of my arrival.
Sky is the Arameris home; business is never done there. This is because, officially, they do not
rule the world. The Nobles Consortium does, with the benevolent assistance of the Order of Itempas.
The Consortium meets in the Salon, a huge, stately buildingwhite-walled, of coursethat sits
among a cluster of official buildings at the foot of the palace. It is very impressive, and would be
more so if it did not sit squarely in Skys elegant shadow.
I went inside and announced myself to the Consortium staff, whereupon they all looked very
surprised, though politely so. One of thema very junior aide, I gatheredwas dispatched to escort
me to the central chamber, where the days session was well under way.
As a lesser noble, I had always been welcome to attend a Consortium gathering, but there had
never seemed any point. Besides the expense and months of travel time required to attend, Darr was
simply too small, poor, and ill-favored to have any clout, even without my mother s abdication
adding to our collective stain. Most of High North is regarded as a backwater, and only the largest
nations there have enough prestige or money to make their voices heard among our noble peers. So I
was not surprised to find that the seat reserved for me on the Consortium floorin a shadowed area,
behind a pillarwas currently occupied by an excess delegate from one of the Senm-continent
nations. It would be terribly rude, the aide stammered anxiously, to dislodge this man, who was
elderly and had bad knees. Perhaps I would not mind standing? Since I had just spent many long hours
cramped in a carriage, I was happy to agree.
So the aide positioned me at the side of the Consortium floor, where I actually had a good view of
the goings-on. The Consortium chamber was magnificently apportioned, with white marble and rich,
dark wood that had probably come from Darr s forests in better days. The noblesthree hundred or
so in totalsat in comfortable chairs on the chamber s floor or along elevated tiers above. Aides,
pages, and scribes occupied the periphery with me, ready to fetch documents or run errands as
needed. At the head of the chamber, the Consortium Overseer stood atop an elaborate podium,
pointing to members as they indicated a desire to speak. Apparently there was a dispute over water
rights in a desert somewhere; five countries were involved. None of the conversations participants
spoke out of turn; no tempers were lost; there were no snide comments or veiled insults. It was all
very orderly and polite, despite the size of the gathering and the fact that most of those present were
accustomed to speaking however they pleased among their own people.
One reason for this extraordinary good behavior stood on a plinth behind the Overseer s podium:
a life-size statue of the Skyfather in one of His most famous poses, the Appeal to Mortal Reason. Hard
to speak out of turn under that stern gaze. But more repressive, I suspected, was the stern gaze of the
man who sat behind the Overseer in an elevated box. I could not see him well from where I stood, but
he was elderly, richly dressed, and flanked by a younger blond man and a dark-haired woman, as well
as a handful of retainers.
It did not take much to guess this mans identity, though he wore no crown, had no visible guards,
and neither he nor anyone in his entourage spoke throughout the meeting.
Hello, Grandfather, I murmured to myself, and smiled at him across the chamber, though I knew
he could not see me. The pages and scribes gave me the oddest looks for the rest of the afternoon.
* * *
I knelt before my grandfather with my head bowed, hearing titters of laughter.
No, wait.
* * *
There were three gods once.
Only three, I mean. Now there are dozens, perhaps hundreds. They breed like rabbits. But once
there were only three, most powerful and glorious of all: the god of day, the god of night, and the
goddess of twilight and dawn. Or light and darkness and the shades between. Or order, chaos, and
balance. None of that is important because one of them died, the other might as well have, and the last
is the only one who matters anymore.
The Arameri get their power from this remaining god. He is called the Skyfather, Bright Itempas,
and the ancestors of the Arameri were His most devoted priests. He rewarded them by giving them a
weapon so mighty that no army could stand against it. They used this weaponweapons, reallyto
make themselves rulers of the world.
Thats better. Now.
* * *
I knelt before my grandfather with my head bowed and my knife laid on the floor.
We were in Sky, having transferred there following the Consortium session, via the magic of the
Vertical Gate. Immediately upon arrival I had been summoned to my grandfather s audience chamber,
which felt much like a throne room. The chamber was roughly circular because circles are sacred to
Itempas. The vaulted ceiling made the members of the court look tallerunnecessarily, since Amn
are a tall people compared to my own. Tall and pale and endlessly poised, like statues of human
beings rather than real flesh and blood.
 Most high Lord Arameri, I said. I am honored to be in your presence.
I had heard titters of laughter when I entered the room. Now they sounded again, muffled by hands
and kerchiefs and fans. I was reminded of bird flocks roosting in a forest canopy.
Before me sat Dekarta Arameri, uncrowned king of the world. He was old; perhaps the oldest man
I have ever seen, though Amn usually live longer than my people, so this was not surprising. His thin
hair had gone completely white, and he was so gaunt and stooped that the elevated stone chair on
which he satit was never called a throneseemed to swallow him whole.
Granddaughter, he said, and the titters stopped. The silence was heavy enough to hold in my
hand. He was head of the Arameri family, and his word was law. No one had expected him to
acknowledge me as kin, least of all myself.
Stand, he said. Let me have a look at you.
I did, reclaiming my knife since no one had taken it. There was more silence. I am not very
interesting to look at. It might have been different if I had gotten the traits of my two peoples in a
better combinationAmn height with Darre curves, perhaps, or thick straight Darre hair colored
Amn-pale. I have Amn eyes: faded green in color, more unnerving than pretty. Otherwise, I am short
and flat and brown as forestwood, and my hair is a curled mess. Because I find it unmanageable
otherwise, I wear it short. I am sometimes mistaken for a boy.
As the silence wore on, I saw Dekarta frown. There was an odd sort of marking on his forehead, I
noticed: a perfect circle of black, as if someone had dipped a coin in ink and pressed it to his flesh. On
either side of this was a thick chevron, bracketing the circle.
You look nothing like her, he said at last. But I suppose that is just as well. Viraine?
This last was directed at a man who stood among the courtiers closest to the throne. For an instant
I thought he was another elder, then I realized my error: though his hair was stark white, he was only
somewhere in his fourth decade. He, too, bore a forehead mark, though his was less elaborate than
Dekartas: just the black circle.
Shes not hopeless, he said, folding his arms. Nothing to be done about her looks; I doubt even
makeup will help. But put her in civilized attire and she can convey nobility, at least. His eyes
narrowed, taking me apart by degrees. My best Darren clothing, a long vest of white civvetfur and
calf-length leggings, earned me a sigh. (I had gotten the odd look for this outfit at the Salon, but I
hadnt realized it was that bad.) He examined my face so long that I wondered if I should show my
teeth.
Instead he smiled, showing his. Her mother has trained her. Look how she shows no fear or
resentment, even now.
She will do, then, said Dekarta.
Do for what, Grandfather? I asked. The weight in the room grew heavier, expectant, though he
had already named me granddaughter. There was a certain risk involved in my daring to address him
the same familiar way, of coursepowerful men are touchy over odd things. But my mother had
indeed trained me well, and I knew it was worth the risk to establish myself in the courts eyes.
Dekarta Arameris face did not change; I could not read it. For my heir, Granddaughter. I intend
to name you to that position today.
The silence turned to stone as hard as my grandfather s chair.
I thought he might be joking, but no one laughed. That was what made me believe him at last: the
utter shock and horror on the faces of the courtiers as they stared at their lord. Except the one called
Viraine. He watched me.
It came to me that some response was expected.
 You already have heirs, I said.
Not as diplomatic as she could be, Viraine said in a dry tone.
Dekarta ignored this. It is true, there are two other candidates, he said to me. My niece and
nephew, Scimina and Relad. Your cousins, once removed.
I had heard of them, of course; everyone had. Rumor constantly made one or the other heir,
though no one knew for certain which. Both was something that had not occurred to me.
If I may suggest, Grandfather, I said carefully, though it was impossible to be careful in this
conversation, I would make two heirs too many.
It was the eyes that made Dekarta seem so old, I would realize much later. I had no idea what color
they had originally been; age had bleached and filmed them to near-white. There were lifetimes in
those eyes, none of them happy.
Indeed, he said. But just enough for an interesting competition, I think.
I dont understand, Grandfather.
He lifted his hand in a gesture that would have been graceful, once. Now his hand shook badly. It
is very simple. I have named three heirs. One of you will actually manage to succeed me. The other
two will doubtless kill each other or be killed by the victor. As for which lives, and which die He
shrugged. That is for you to decide.
My mother had taught me never to show fear, but emotions will not be stilled so easily. I began to
sweat. I have been the target of an assassination attempt only once in my lifethe benefit of being
heir to such a tiny, impoverished nation. No one wanted my job. But now there would be two others
who did. Lord Relad and Lady Scimina were wealthy and powerful beyond my wildest dreams. They
had spent their whole lives striving against each other toward the goal of ruling the world. And here
came I, unknown, with no resources and few friends, into the fray.
There will be no decision, I said. To my credit, my voice did not shake. And no contest. They
will kill me at once and turn their attention back to each other.
That is possible, said my grandfather.
I could think of nothing to say that would save me. He was insane; that was obvious. Why else turn
rulership of the world into a contest prize? If he died tomorrow, Relad and Scimina would rip the
earth asunder between them. The killing might not end for decades. And for all he knew, I was an
idiot. If by some impossible chance I managed to gain the throne, I could plunge the Hundred
Thousand Kingdoms into a spiral of mismanagement and suffering. He had to know that.
One cannot argue with madness. But sometimes, with luck and the Skyfather s blessing, one can
understand it. Why?
He nodded as if he had expected my question. Your mother deprived me of an heir when she left
our family. You will pay her debt.
She is four months in the grave, I snapped. Do you honestly want revenge against a dead
woman?
This has nothing to do with revenge, Granddaughter. It is a matter of duty. He made a gesture
with his left hand, and another courtier detached himself from the throng. Unlike the first man
indeed, unlike most of the courtiers whose faces I could seethe mark on this mans forehead was a
downturned half-moon, like an exaggerated frown. He knelt before the dais that held Dekartas chair,
his waist-length red braid falling over one shoulder to curl on the floor.
I cannot hope that your mother has taught you duty, Dekarta said to me over this mans back.
She abandoned hers to dally with her sweet-tongued savage. I allowed thisan indulgence I have
often regretted. So I will assuage that regret by bringing you back into the fold, Granddaughter.
Whether you live or die is irrelevant. You are Arameri, and like all of us, you will serve.
Then he waved to the red-haired man. Prepare her as best you can.
There was nothing more. The red-haired man rose and came to me, murmuring that I should
follow him. I did. Thus ended my first meeting with my grandfather, and thus began my first day as an
Arameri. It was not the worst of the days to come.
 introducing

If you enjoyed
THE FIFTH SEASON
look out for

THE KILLING MOON

The Dreamblood Duology: Book 1
by N. K. Jemisin

The city burned beneath the Dreaming Moon.

In the ancient city-state of Gujaareh, peace is the only law. Upon its rooftops and among the
shadows of its cobbled streets wait the Gatherersthe keepers of this peace. Priests of the
dream-goddess, their duty is to harvest the magic of the sleeping mind and use it to heal,
soothe and kill those judged corrupt.

But when a conspiracy blooms within Gujaarehs great temple, Ehiruthe most famous of the
citys Gatherersmust question everything he knows. Someone, or something, is murdering
dreamers in the goddess name, stalking its prey both in Gujaarehs alleys and the realm of
dreams. Ehiru must now protect the woman he was sent to killor watch the city be devoured by
war and forbidden magic.
 1
In the dark of dreams, a soul can die. The fears we confront in shadows are as reflections in
glass. It is natural to strike a reflection that offends, but then the glass cuts; the soul bleeds.
The Gatherers task is to save the soul, at any cost.
(Wisdom)

In the dark of waking, a soul has died. Its flesh, however, is still hungrily, savagely alive.
The Reaper s task is not to save.
* * *
The barbarians of the north taught their children to fear the Dreaming Moon, claiming that it brought
madness. This was a forgivable blasphemy. On some nights, the moons strange light bathed all
Gujaareh in oily swirls of amethyst and aquamarine. It could make lowcaste hovels seem sturdy and
fine; pathways of plain clay brick gleamed as if silvered. Within the moonlights strange shadows, a
man might crouch on the shadowed ledge of a building and be only a faint etching against the
marbled gray.
In this land, such a man would be a priest, intent upon the most sacred of his duties.
More than shadows aided this priests stealth. Long training softened his footfalls against the
stone; his feet were bare in any case. He wore little altogether, trusting the darkness of his skin for
camouflage as he crept along, guided by the sounds of the city. An infants cry from a tenement
across the street; he took a step. Laughter from several floors below his ledge; he straightened as he
reached the window that was his goal. A muffled cry and the sounds of a scuffle from an alley a block
away; he paused, listening and frowning. But the disturbance ended as sandals pattered on the
cobblestones, fading into the distance, and he relaxed. When the love-cries of the young couple next
door floated past on a breeze, he slipped through the curtains into the room beyond.
The bedchamber: a study in worn elegance. The priests eyes made out graceful chairs upholstered
in fraying fabrics, and wood furnishings gone dull for lack of polish. Reaching the bed, he took care
to avoid shadowing the face of the person who slept therebut the old mans eyes opened anyhow,
blinking rheumily in the thin light.
As I thought, said the old man, whose name was Yeyezu. His hoarse voice grated against the
silence. Which one are you?
Ehiru, said the priest. His voice was as soft and deep as the bedchamber s shadows. Named
Nsha, in dreams.
The old mans eyes widened in surprise and pleasure. So that is the roses soulname. To whom do
I owe this honor?
Ehiru let out a slow breath. It was always more difficult to bestow peace once a tithebearer had
been awakened and frightened; that was why the law commanded Gatherers to enter dwellings in
stealth. But Yeyezu was not afraid, Ehiru saw at once, so he chose to answer the old mans question,
though he preferred to do his work without conversation.
Your eldest son submitted the commission on your behalf, he said. From the hipstrap of his
loinskirt he plucked free the jungissa: a thumb-long polished stone like dark glass, which had been
carved into the likeness of a cicada. Yeyezus eyes tracked the jungissa as Ehiru raised it. The stones
were legend for their rarity as well as their power, and few of Hananjas faithful ever saw one. It was
considered and accepted by the Council of Paths, then given to me to carry out.
The old man nodded, lifting a trembling hand toward the jungissa. Ehiru lowered the stone so that
Yeyezu could run fingers over its slick, fine-carved wings, though he kept a good grip on its body.
Jungissa were too sacred for carelessness. Yeyezus wonder made him look much younger; Ehiru
could not help smiling at this.
She has tasted many of your dreams, Yeyezu-Elder, he said, very gently drawing the jungissa out
of the old mans reach so he would hear Ehirus words. Yeyezu sighed, but lowered his hand. She has
drunk deeply of your hopes and fears. Now She bids you join Her in Ina-Karekh. Will you grant Her
this final offering?
Gladly, Yeyezu said, and closed his eyes.
So Ehiru bent and kissed the old mans forehead. Fevered skin, delicate as papyrus, smoothed
under his lips. When he pulled away and set the jungissa in place of his kiss, the stone quivered at a
flick of his fingernail and then settled into a barely-visible vibration. Yeyezu sagged into sleep, and
Ehiru laid his fingertips on the old mans eyelids to begin.
In the relative quiet of the citys evening, the room sounded only of breath: first Ehirus and
Yeyezus, then Ehirus alone. Amid the new silencefor the jungissa had stopped vibrating with the
dreams endEhiru stood for a few moments, letting the languor of the newly collected dreamblood
spread within him. When he judged the moment right, he drew another ornament from his hipthis
one a small hemisphere of obsidian whose flat face had been embossed with an oasis rose, the
crevices tamped full of powdered ink. He pressed the carving carefully into the skin of Yeyezus
bony, still chest, setting his signature upon the artwork of flesh. The smile that lingered on the elder s
cooling lips was even more beautiful.
Dreams of joy always, my friend, he whispered, before pulling away the sheet and arranging
Yeyezus limbs into a peaceful, dignified position. Finally, as quietly as hed entered, he left.
Now flight: along the rooftops of the city, swift and silent. A few blocks from Yeyezus house
Ehiru stopped, dropping to the ground in the lee of an old broken wall. There he knelt amid the weeds
and trembled. Once, as a younger man, he would have returned to the Hetawa after such a nights
work, overwhelmed with joy at the passing of a rich and full life. Only hours of prayer in the
Hetawas Hall of Blessings couldve restored his ability to function. He was no longer a young man.
He was stronger now; he had learned discipline. Most nights he could perform a second Gathering,
and occasionally a third if circumstances requiredthough three would leave him giddy and half a
dream, unsure of which realm he walked. Even a single souls dreamblood could still muddle his
wits, for how could he not exult with Yeyezus happiness so palpable within him? Yet for the sake of
other suffering citizens of Gujaareh, it was necessary to try. Twice he attempted to count by fours, a
concentration exercise, but both times he failed at only four thousand and ninety-six. Pathetic. At last,
however, his thoughts settled and the tremors ceased.
With some concern he saw that Dreaming Moon had reached zenith, her bright expanse glaring
from the skys center like a great striped eye; the night was half over. Faster to cross this part of the
city on the ground than by rooftop. After a moments pause to turn his loindrapes and don several
gold ear-cuffsfor not even the poorest man in Gujaarehs capital went without some ornamentation
Ehiru left the old wall and walked the streets as a man of no particular caste, nondescript in manner,
taking care to slouch in order to lessen his stature. At such a late hour he saw only caravanners,
making the final preparations for a journey on the morrow, and a yawning guardsman, doubtless
headed for a night shift at one of the city gates. None of them noticed him.
The houses became less dense once he reached the highcaste district. He turned down a side street
lit poorly with half-burned-out lanterns, and emerged amid a gaggle of young shunha men who
reeked of a timbalin house and a womans stale perfume. They were laughing and staggering
together, their wits slowed by the drug. He trailed in their wake for a block before they even marked
his presence and then slipped aside, down another side street. This one led to the storage barn of the
guesthouse he sought. The barn doors stood open, barrels of wine and twine-wrapped parcels in plain
view along the wallsunmolested; Gujaarehs few thieves knew better. Slipping into the shadows
here, Ehiru removed his show-jewelry and turned his drapes once more, rolling and tying them so
they would not flap. On one side, the drapes bore an unassuming pattern, but on the otherthe side he
wore nowthey were completely black.
The day before, Ehiru had investigated the guesthouse. As shrewd as any merchant-casteman, the
houses proprietor kept his tower open year-round to cater to wealthy foreigners, many of whom
disliked relocating during the spring floods. This tithebearera northern traderhad a private room
in the tower, which was separated from the rest of the building by a flight of steep stairs. Convenient.
Hananja made way when She wanted a thing done.
Within the house, the kitchen was dim, as was the serving chamber beyond. Ehiru moved past the
table with its low cushions and through the houses atrium garden, slowing as he turned aside fronds
of palms and dangling ferns. Beyond the garden lay the sleeping chambers. Here he crept most
stealthily of all, for even at such a late hour there could have been guests awake, but all of the rooms
lanterns remained shuttered and he heard only slow, steady breathing from each curtained entrance.
Good.
As he climbed the tower steps, Ehiru heard the trader s unpeaceful snores even through the rooms
heavy wooden door. Getting the door open without causing its hinges to creak took some doing, but
he managed it while privately damning the outland custom of putting doors on inner chambers. Inside
the room, the trader s snores were so loud that the gauze curtains around his bed shivered in
vibration. No wonder the proprietor had offered him the tower, and probably discounted the room.
Still, Ehiru was cautious; he waited until a particularly harsh snort to part the curtains and gaze down
at his next commission.
This close, the scent of the man mingled rancid sweat, stale grease, and other odors into a pungent
mix that left Ehiru momentarily queasy. He had forgotten the infrequent bathing habits of people from
the north. Though the night was cool and breezy, the northernera trader from the Bromarte people,
the commission had specified, though in truth Ehiru had never been able to tell one northern tribe
from anothersweated profusely, his pale skin flushed and rash-prickled as if he slept in high noons
swelter. Ehiru studied that face for a moment, wondering what peace might be coaxed from the
dreams of such a man.
There would be something, he decided at last, for Hananja would not have chosen him otherwise.
The man was lucky. She did not often bestow Her blessings upon foreigners.
The Bromartes eyes already flickered beneath their lids; no jungissa was necessary to send him
into the proper state of sleep. Laying fingers on the mans eyelids, Ehiru willed his own soul to part
from flesh, leaving its connectionthe umblikehtethered in place so that he could follow it back
when the time came. The bedchamber had become a shadow-place, colorless and insubstantial, when
Ehiru opened his souls eyes. A reflection of the waking realm, unimportant. Only one thing had
meaning in this halfway place between waking and dreaming: the delicate, shimmering red tether that
emerged from somewhere near the Bromartes collarbones and trailed away into nothingness. This
was the path the mans soul had taken on its journey to Ina-Karekh, the land of dreams. It was a simple
matter for Ehiru to follow the same path out and then in again.
When he opened his souls eyes this time, color and vast strangeness surrounded him, for he was
in Ina-Karekh, the land of dreams. And here the dream of the Bromarte revealed itself. Charleron of
Wenkinsclan, came the name to Ehirus consciousness, and he absorbed the names foreignness and as
much as he could of the person who bore it. Not a soulname, but that was to be expected. Bromarte
parents named their children for the hopes and needs of the waking world, not protection in sleep. By
the reckoning of this Charlerons people, his was a name of ambition. A name of hunger. And hunger
was what filled the Bromartes soul: hunger for wealth, for respect, for things he himself could not
name. Reflected in the dreamscapes of Ina-Karekh, these hungers had coalesced into a great yawning
pit in the earth, its walls lined with countless disembodied, groping hands. Assuming his usual
dreamform, Ehiru floated down through the hands and ignored their silent, scrabbling, blind need as
he searched.
And there, at the bottom of the well of hands, weeping with fear and helplessness, knelt the
manifestation of the unfortunately named Bromarte man. Charleron cringed between sobs, trying and
failing to twist away from his own creations as the hands plucked at him again and again. They did
him no harm and would have been only moderately frightening to any properly trained dreamerbut
this was nevertheless the bile of dreams, Ehiru judged: black and bitter, necessary for health but
unpleasant to the senses. He absorbed as much of it as he could for the Sharers, for there was much of
use in dreambile even if Charleron might not agree. But he reserved space within himself for the most
important humor, which after all was why he had come.
And as they always did, as the Goddess had decreed they must, the bearer of Hananjas tithe looked
up and saw Ehiru in his true, unadulterated shape.
Who are you? the Bromarte demanded, distracted momentarily from his terror. A hand grabbed
his shoulder and he gasped and flinched away.
Ehiru, he said. He considered giving the man his soulname and then decided against it.
Soulnames meant nothing to heathens. But to his surprise, the Bromartes eyes widened as if in
recognition.
Gualoh, the Bromarte said, and through the filter of their shared dream, a whiff of meaning
came to Ehiru. Some kind of frightening creature from their nightfire tales? He dismissed it:
barbarian superstition.
A servant of the Goddess of Dreams, Ehiru corrected, crouching before the man. Hands plucked
nervously at his skin and loincloth and the twin braids that dangled from his nape, responding to the
Bromartes fear of him. He paid them no heed. You have been chosen for Her. Come, and I will
shepherd you to a better place than this, where you may live out eternity in peace. He extended his
hand.
The Bromarte leaped at him.
The movement caught Ehiru by such surprise that he almost failed to react in timebut no
common man could best a Gatherer in dreaming. With a flick of his will, Ehiru banished the well of
hands and replaced it with an innocuous desert of wind-waved dunes. This afforded him plenty of
room to sidestep the Bromartes headlong rush. The Bromarte ran at him again, roaring obscenities;
Ehiru opened and then closed the ground beneath the Bromartes feet, dropping him to the waist in
sand.
Even thus pinned, the Bromarte cursed and flailed and wept, grabbing handfuls of the sand to fling
at himwhich Ehiru simply willed away. Then, frowning in puzzlement, he crouched to peer into the
Bromartes face.
Its pointless to fight, he said, and the Bromarte flinched into stillness at the sound of his voice,
though Ehiru had kept his tone gentle. Relax, and the journey will go soft. Surely the Bromarte
knew this? His people had been trading goods and seed with Gujaareh for centuries. In case that was
the source of the Bromartes panic, Ehiru added, There will be no pain.
Get away from me, gualoh! Im not one of you mud-grubbers; I dont need you feeding on my
dreams!
It is true that you arent Gujaareen, Ehiru replied. Without taking his attention from the man, he
began adjusting the dreamscape to elicit calm. The clouds overhead became wispy and gentle, and he
made the sand around the Bromartes dreamform finer, pleasant against the skin. But foreigners have
been Gathered before. The warning is given to all who choose to live and do business within our
capitals walls: Hananjas city obeys Hananjas Law.
Something of Ehirus words finally seemed to penetrate the Bromartes panic. His bottom lip
quivered. I, I dont want to die. He was actually weeping, his shoulders heaving, so much that Ehiru
could not help pitying him. It was terrible that the northerners had no narcomancy. They were helpless
in dreaming, at the mercy of their nightmares, and none of them had any training in the sublimation
of fear. How many had been lost to the shadowlands because of it? They had no Gatherers, either, to
ease the way.
Few people desire death, Ehiru agreed. He reached out to stroke the mans forehead, brushing
thin hair aside, to reassure him. Even my countrymen, who claim to love Hananja, sometimes fight
their fate. But its the nature of the world that some must die so that others may live. You will die
early and unpleasantly if the whores disease you brought to Gujaareh runs its course. And in that
time you might not only suffer, but spread your suffering to others. Why not die in peace and spread
life instead?
Liar. Suddenly the Bromartes face was piggish, his small eyes glittering with hate. The change
came so abruptly that Ehiru faltered to silence, startled. You call it a blessing of your Goddess, but I
know what it really is. He leaned forward; his breath had gone foul. It gives you pleasure.
Ehiru drew back from that breath, and the fouler words. Above their heads, the wispy clouds
stopped drifting. No Gatherer kills for pleasure.
No Gatherer kills for pleasure. The Bromarte drawled the words, mocking. And what of
those who do, Gatherer? The Bromarte grinned, his teeth gleaming momentarily sharp. Are they
Gatherers no longer? Theres another name for those, yes? Is that how you tell your lie?
Coldness passed through Ehiru; close on its heels came angry heat. This is obscenity, he
snapped, and I will hear no more of it.
Gatherers comfort the dying, yes?
Gatherers comfort those who believe in peace, and welcome Hananjas blessing, Ehiru snapped.
Gatherers can do little for unbelievers who mock Her comfort. He got to his feet and scowled to
himself in annoyance. The mans nonsense had distracted him; the sand rippled and bubbled around
them, heaving like the breath of a living thing. But before he could resume control of the dream and
force the Bromartes mind to settle, a hand grasped his ankle. Startled, he looked down.
Theyre using you, said the Bromarte.
 Alarm stilled Ehirus mind. What?
The Bromarte nodded. His eyes were gentler now, his expression almost kind. As pitying as Ehiru
himself had been, a moment before. You will know. Soon. Theyll use you to nothing, and there will
be no one to comfort you in the end, Gatherer. He laughed and the landscape heaved around them,
laughing with him. Such a shame, Nsha Ehiru. Such a shame!
Gooseflesh tightened Ehirus skin, though the skin was not real. The mind did what was necessary
to protect the soul at such times, and Ehiru suddenly felt great need of protectionfor the Bromarte
knew his soulname, though he had not given it.
He jerked away from the mans grip and pulled out of his dream in the same reflexive rush. But to
Ehirus horror, the clumsy exit tore free the tether that bound the Bromarte to his flesh. Too soon! He
had not moved the Bromarte to a safer place within the realm of dreams. And now the soul fluttered
along in his wake like flotsam, twisting and fragmenting no matter how he tried to push it back
toward Ina-Karekh. He collected the spilled dreamblood out of desperation but shuddered as it came
into him sluggishly, clotted with fear and malice. In the dark between worlds, the Bromartes last
laugh faded into silence.
Ehiru returned to himself with a gasp, and looked down. His gorge rose so powerfully that he
stumbled away from the bed, leaning against the windowsill and sucking quick shallow breaths to
keep from vomiting.
Holiest mistress of comfort and peace He whispered the prayer in Sua out of habit, closing his
eyes and still seeing the Bromartes dead face: eyes wide and bulging, mouth open, teeth bared in a
hideous rictus. What had he done? O Hananja, forgive me for profaning Your rite.
He would leave no rose-signature behind this time. The final dream was never supposed to go so
wrongcertainly not under the supervision of a Gatherer of his experience. He shuddered as he
recalled the reek of the Bromartes breath, like that of something already rotted. Yet how much fouler
had it been for the Bromarte, who had now been hurled through Ehirus carelessness into the
nightmare hollows of Ina-Karekh for all eternity? And that only if enough of his soul had been left
intact to return.
Yet even as disgust gave way to grief, and even as Ehiru bowed beneath the weight of both,
intuition sounded a faint warning in his mind.
He looked up. Beyond the window rose the rooftops of the city, and beyond those the glowing
curve of the Dreamer sank steadily toward the horizon. Waking Moon peeked round its larger curve.
The city had grown still in the last moments of Moonlight; even the thieves and lovers slept. All
except himself
And a silhouette, hunched against the cistern on a nearby rooftop.
Ehiru frowned and pushed himself upright.
The figure straightened as he did, mirroring his movement. Ehiru could make out no details aside
from shape: male, naked or nearly so, tall and yet oddly stooped in posture. Indeterminate features
and caste, indeterminate intent.
No. That much, at least, was discernible. Ehiru could glean little else from the figures stillness,
but malevolence whispered clearly in the wind between them.
The tableau lasted only a moment. Then the figure turned, climbed the cisterns rope to its roof,
and leaped onto an adjoining building and out of sight. The night became still once more. But not
peaceful.
Gualoh, echoed the Bromartes voice in Ehirus memory. Not an insult, he realized, staring at
where the figure had been. A warning.
Demon.
 Also by N. K. Jemisin

T HE INHERITANCE T RILOGY
The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms
The Broken Kingdoms
The Kingdom of Gods
The Awakened Kingdom (novella)

The Inheritance Trilogy (omnibus edition)

DREAMBLOOD
The Killing Moon
The Shadowed Sun

T HE BROKEN EARTH
The Fifth Season
 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 world-building 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. Jemisins debut novel In this reviewer s opinion, this is the
must-read fantasy of the year.
BookPage

A similar blend of inventiveness, irreverence, and sophisticationalong with sensualitybrings

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 Jemisins 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 can 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. Its 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 againand its just as good as the first time.
io9.com
 Thank you for buying this ebook, published by Orbit.
To get news about the latest Science Fiction and Fantasy titles from Orbit, along with special offers
and exclusive content, sign up for the Orbit newsletter.

Sign Up

Or visit us at www.orbitbooks.net/booklink/
 Contents

Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication
Map

Prologue: you are here

1: you, at the end
2: Damaya, in winters past
3: youre on your way
4: Syenite, cut and polished
5: youre not alone
6: Damaya, grinding to a halt
7: you plus one is two
8: Syenite on the highroad
Interlude
9: Syenite among the enemy
10: you walk beside the beast
11: Damaya at the fulcrum of it all
12: Syenite finds a new toy
13: youre on the trail
14: Syenite breaks her toys
15: youre among friends
16: Syen in the hidden land
17: Damaya, in finality
18: you discover wonders down below
19: Syenite on the lookout
Interlude
20: Syenite, stretched and snapped back
21: youre getting the band back together
22: Syenite, fractured
23: youre all you need

Appendix 1: A catalog of Fifth Seasons that have been recorded prior to and since the founding of the
Sanzed Equatorial Affiliation, from most recent to oldest
Appendix 2: A Glossary of Terms Commonly Used in All Quartents of the Stillness
Acknowledgments
Extras
Meet the Author
A Preview of The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms
A Preview of The Killing Moon
Also by N. K. Jemisin
Praise for The Inheritance Trilogy
Praise for the Dreamblood Duology
Orbit Newsletter
Copyright
 Copyright

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is
coincidental and not intended by the author.

Copyright 2015 by N. K. Jemisin

Excerpt from The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms copyright 2010 by N. K. Jemisin
Excerpt from The Killing Moon copyright 2012 by N. K. Jemisin
Map Tim Paul
Cover design by Lauren Panepinto
Cover photo Archangel-Images
Cover 2015 Hachette Book Group, Inc.

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and
electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful
piracy and theft of the author s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book
(other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the
publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author s rights.

Orbit
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104
orbitbooks.net
orbitshortfiction.com

First ebook edition: August 2015

Orbit is an imprint of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Orbit name and logo are trademarks of Little,
Brown Book Group Limited.

The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out
more, go to www.hachettespeakersbureau.com or call (866) 376-6591.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

ISBN 978-0-316-22930-2

E3