N. Jemisin - The Obelisk Gate

“It’s important.” As a sop to courtesy you nod to the people sitting around her. “Sorry.”

She sighs and rubs her eyes, which just makes them redder. “Fine.” She gets up, then pauses to face the remaining people. “Vote’s tomorrow morning. If I haven’t convinced you… well. You know what to do, then.”

They watch in silence as you lead her away.

Back in her apartment, you pull the front curtain shut and open the one that leads into her private rooms. Not much to this space to indicate her status: She’s got two pallets and a lot of pillows, but her clothes are just in a basket, and the books and scrolls on one side of the room are just stacked on the floor. No bookcases, no dresser. The food from her comm share is stacked haphazardly against one wall, beside a familiar gourd that the Castrimans tend to use for storing drinking water. You snag the gourd with your elbow and pick from the food pile a dried orange, a stick of dry bean curd that Ykka’s been soaking with some mushrooms in a shallow pan, and a small slab of salt fish. It’s not exactly a meal, but it’s nutrition. “On the bed,” you say, gesturing with your chin and bringing the food to her. You hand her the gourd first.

Ykka, who has observed all this in increasing irritation, snaps, “You’re not my type. Is this why you dragged me here?”

“Not exactly. But while you’re here, you need to rest.” She looks mutinous. “You can’t convince anyone of anything—” Let alone people whose hate can’t be reasoned with. “—if you’re too exhausted to think straight.”

She grumbles, but it is a measure of how tired she is that she actually goes to the bed and sits down on its edge. You nod at the gourd, and she dutifully drinks—three quick swallows and down for now, as the lorists advise after dehydration. “I stink. I need a bath.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you decided to try to talk down a brewing lynch mob.” You take the gourd and push the dish of food into her hand. She sighs and starts grimly chewing.

“They’re not going to—” She doesn’t get far into that lie, though, before she flinches and stares at something beyond you. You know before you turn: Hoa. “Okay, no, not in my rusting room.”

“I told him to meet us here,” you say. “It’s Hoa.”

“You told—it’s—” Ykka swallows hard, stares a moment longer, then finally resumes eating the orange. She chews slowly, her gaze never leaving Hoa. “Got tired of playing the human, then? Not sure why you bothered; you were too weird to pass.”

You go over to the wall near the bedroom door and sit down against it, on the floor. The runny-sack has to come off for this, but you make sure to keep it near to hand. To Ykka you say, “You’ve talked to the other members of your council and half your comm, still and rogga and native and newcomer. The perspective you’re missing is theirs.” You nod at Hoa.

Ykka blinks, then eyes Hoa with new interest. “I did ask you to sit on my council once.”

“I can’t speak for my kind any more than you can for yours,” Hoa says. “And I had more important things to do.”

You see Ykka blink at his voice and blatantly stare at him. You wave a hand at Hoa wearily. Unlike Ykka, you’ve slept, but it wasn’t exactly quality sleep, while you sat in a sweltering apartment waiting for a geode to hatch. “Speaking what you know will help.” And then, prompted by some instinct, you add, “Please.”

Because somehow, you think he’s reticent. His expression hasn’t changed. His posture is the one he showed you last, the young man in repose with one hand upraised; he’s changed his location, but not his position. Still.

The proof of his reticence comes when he says, “Very well.” It’s all in the tone. But fine, you can work with reticent.

“What does the gray stone eater want?” Because you’re pretty rusting sure he doesn’t really want Castrima to join some Equatorial comm. Human nation-state politics just wouldn’t mean much to them, unless it was in service to some other goal. The people of Rennanis are his pawns, not the other way around.

“There are many of us now,” Hoa replies. “Enough to be called a people in ourselves and not merely a mistake.”

At this apparent non sequitur, you exchange a look with Ykka, who looks back at you as if to say, He’s your mess, not mine . Maybe it’s relevant somehow. “Yes?” you prompt.

“There are those of my kind who believe this world can safely bear only one people.”

Oh, Evil Earth. This is what Alabaster talked about. How had he described it? Factions in an ancient war. The ones who wanted people… neutralized.

Like the stone eaters themselves , ’Baster had said.

“You want to wipe us out,” you say. Whisper. “Or… change us into stone? Like what’s happening to Alabaster?”

“Not all of us,” Hoa says softly. “And not all of you.”

A world of only stone people. The thought of it makes you shiver. You envision falling ash and skeletal trees and creepy statues everywhere, some of the latter moving. How? They are unstoppable, but until now they’ve only preyed on each other. (That you know of.) Can they turn all of you into stone, like Alabaster? And if they wanted to wipe humankind out, shouldn’t they have been able to manage it before now?

You shake your head. “This world has borne two people, for Seasons. Three, if you count orogenes; the stills do.”

“Not all of us are content with that.” His voice is very soft now. “Such a rare thing, the birth of a new one of our kind. We wear on endlessly, while you rise and spawn and wilt like mushrooms. It’s hard not to envy. Or covet.”

Ykka is shaking her head in confusion. Though her voice holds its usual unflappable attitude, you see a little frown of wonder between her brows. Her mouth pulls to one side, though, as if she cannot help but show at least a little disgust. “Fine,” she says. “So stone eaters used to be us, and now you want to kill us. Why should we trust you?”

“Not ‘stone eaters.’ Not all of us want the same thing. Some like things as they are. Some even want to make the world better… though not all agree on what that means.” Instantly his posture changes—hands out, palms up, shoulders lifted in a What can you do? gesture. “We’re people.”

“And what do you want?” you ask. Because he didn’t answer Ykka’s question, and you noticed.

Those silver irises flick over to you, stay. You think you see wistfulness in his still face. “The same thing I’ve always wanted, Essun. To help you. Only that.”

You think, Not everyone agrees on what “help” means .

“Well, this is touching,” Ykka says. She rubs her tired eyes. “But you’re not getting to the point. What does Castrima being destroyed have to do with… giving the world one people? What’s this gray man up to?”

“I don’t know.” Hoa’s still looking at you. It’s not as unnerving as it should be. “I tried to ask him. It didn’t go well.”

“Guess,” you say. Because you know full well there’s a reason he asked the gray man in the first place.

Hoa’s eyes shift down. Your distrust hurts. “He wants to make sure the Obelisk Gate is never opened again.”

“The what?” Ykka asks. But you’re leaning your head back against the wall, floored and horrified and wondering. Of course. Alabaster . What easier way to wipe out people who depend on food and sunlight to survive than to simply let this Season wear on until they are extinct? Leaving nothing but the stone eaters to inherit the darkening Earth. And to make sure it happens, kill the only person with the power to end it.