The Stone Sky (The Broken Earth, #3) - N. K. Jemisin Page 0,90

skin and touch off Season after Season. It is only right. The Earth did not start this cycle of hostilities, it did not steal the Moon, it did not burrow into anyone else’s skin and snatch bits of its still-living flesh to keep as trophies and tools, it did not plot to enslave humans in an unending nightmare. It did not start this war, but it will rusting well have. Its. Due.

And oh. Does Nassun not understand this? Her hands tighten in Schaffa’s shirt, trembling as her hatred wavers. Can she not empathize?

For the world has taken so much from her. She had a brother once. And a father, and a mother whom she also understands but wishes she did not. And a home, and dreams. The people of the Stillness have long since robbed her of childhood and any hope of a real future, and because of this she is so angry that she cannot think beyond THIS MUST STOP and I WILL STOP IT—

—so does she not resonate with the Evil Earth’s wrath, herself?

She does.

Earth eat her, she does.

Schaffa has gone still in her lap. There is wetness beneath one of her legs; he’s urinated on himself. His eyes are still open, and he breathes in shallow gasps. His taut muscles still twitch now and again. Everyone breaks, if torture goes on long enough. The mind bears the unbearable by going elsewhere. Nassun is ten years old, going on a hundred, but she has seen enough of the world’s evil to know this. Her Schaffa. Has gone away. And might never, ever, come back.

The vehimal speeds onward.

The view begins to grow bright again as it emerges from the core. Interior lights resume their pleasant glow. Nassun’s fingers curl loosely in Schaffa’s clothes now. She gazes back at the turning mass of the core until the stuff of the sidewall turns opaque again. The forward view lingers, but it, too, begins to darken. They have entered another tunnel, this one wider than the first, with solid black walls somehow holding back the churning heat of the outer core and mantle. Now Nassun senses that the vehimal is tilted up, away from the core. Headed back toward the surface, but this time on the other side of the planet.

Nassun whispers, to herself since Schaffa has gone away, “This has to stop. I will stop it.” She closes her eyes and the lashes stick together, wet. “I promise.”

She does not know to whom she makes this promise. It doesn’t matter, really.

Not long after, the vehimal reaches Corepoint.

Syl Anagist: One

THEY TAKE KELENLI AWAY IN the morning.

It is unexpected, at least by us. It also isn’t really about us, we realize fairly quickly. Conductor Gallat arrives first, although I see several other high-ranking conductors talking in the house above the garden. He does not look displeased as he calls Kelenli outside and speaks to her in a quiet but intent voice. We all get up, vibrating guilt though we have done nothing wrong, just spent a night lying on a hard floor and listening to the strange sound of others’ breath and occasional movement. I watch Kelenli, fearing for her, wanting to protect her, though this is inchoate; I don’t know what the danger is. She stands straight and tall, like one of them, as she speaks to Gallat. I sess her tension, like a fault line poised to slip.

They are outside of the little garden house, fifteen feet away, but I hear Gallat’s voice rise for a moment. “How much longer do you mean to keep up this foolishness? Sleeping in the shed?”

Kelenli says, calmly, “Is there a problem?”

Gallat is the highest ranked of the conductors. He is also the cruelest. We don’t think he means it. It’s just that he does not seem to understand that cruelty is possible, with us. We are the machine’s tuners; we ourselves must be attuned for the good of the project. That this process sometimes causes pain or fear or decommissioning to the briar patch is … incidental.

We have wondered if Gallat has feelings himself. He does, I see when he draws back now, expression all a-ripple with hurt, as if Kelenli’s words have struck him some sort of blow. “I’ve been good to you,” he says. His voice wavers.

“And I’m grateful.” Kelenli hasn’t shifted the inflection of her voice at all, or a muscle of her face. She looks and sounds, for the first time, like one of us. And as we so often