The Stone Sky (The Broken Earth, #3) - N. K. Jemisin Page 0,77
savor its beauty while I can.
“Why have you brought us here?” I ask Kelenli, while still staring at it. “Why tell us these things?”
She doesn’t answer at once. I think she’s looking at the Moon, too. Then she says, in a thoughtful reverberation of the earth, I’ve studied what I could of the Niess and their culture. There isn’t much left, and I have to sift the truth from all the lies. But there was a … a practice among them. A vocation. People whose job it was to see that the truth got told.
I frown in confusion. “So … what? You’ve decided to carry on the traditions of a dead people?” Words. I’m stubborn.
She shrugs. “Why not?”
I shake my head. I’m tired, and overwhelmed, and perhaps a little angry. This day has upended my sense of self. I’ve spent my whole life knowing I was a tool, yes; not a person, but at least a symbol of power and brilliance and pride. Now I know I’m really just a symbol of paranoia and greed and hate. It’s a lot to deal with.
“Let the Niess go,” I snap. “They’re dead. I don’t see the sense in trying to remember them.”
I want her to get angry, but she merely shrugs. “That’s your choice to make—once you know enough to make an informed choice.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to be informed.” I lean against the glass of the door, which is cool and does not sting my fingers.
“You wanted to be strong enough to hold the onyx.”
I blurt a soft laugh, too tired to remember I should pretend to feel nothing. Hopefully our observers won’t notice. I shift to earthtalk, and speak in an acid, pressurized boil of bitterness and contempt and humiliation and heartbreak. What does it matter? is what it means. Geoarcanity is a lie.
She shakes apart my self-pity with gentle, inexorable slipstrike laughter. “Ah, my thinker. I didn’t expect melodrama from you.”
“What is melo—” I shake my head and fall silent, tired of not knowing things. Yes, I’m sulking.
Kelenli sighs and touches my shoulder. I flinch, unused to the warmth of another person’s hand, but she keeps it in place and this quiets me.
“Think,” she repeats. “Does the Plutonic Engine work? Do your sessapinae? You aren’t what they made you to be; does that negate what you are?”
“I—That question doesn’t make sense.” But now I’m just being stubborn. I understand her point. I’m not what they made me; I’m something different. I am powerful in ways they did not expect. They made me but they do not control me, not fully. This is why I have emotions though they tried to take them away. This is why we have earthtalk … and perhaps other gifts that our conductors don’t know about.
She pats my shoulder, pleased that I seem to be working through what she’s told me. A spot on the floor of her house calls to me; I will sleep so well tonight. But I fight my exhaustion, and remain focused on her, because I need her more than sleep, for now.
“You see yourself as one of these … truth-tellers?” I ask.
“Lorist. The last Niess lorist, if I have the right to claim such a thing.” Her smile abruptly fades, and for the first time I realize what a wealth of weariness and hard lines and sorrow her smiles cover. “Lorists were warriors, storytellers, nobility. They told their truths in books and song and through their art engines. I just … talk. But I feel like I’ve earned the right to claim some part of their mantle.” Not all fighters use knives, after all.
In earthtalk there can be nothing but truth—and sometimes more truth than one wants to convey. I sense … something, in her sorrow. Grim endurance. A flutter of fear like the lick of salt acid. Determination to protect … something. It’s gone, a fading vibration, before I can identify more.
She takes a deep breath and smiles again. So few of them are real, her smiles.
“To master the onyx,” she continues, “you need to understand the Niess. What the conductors don’t realize is that it responds best to a certain emotional resonance. Everything I’m telling you should help.”
Then, finally, she pushes me gently aside so that she can go. The question must be asked now. “So what happened,” I say slowly, “to the Niess?”
She stops, and chuckles, and for once it is genuine. “You’ll find out tomorrow,” she says. “We’re going to see them.”