Descargá gratis el libro The Fifth Season - This is the way the world ends. Again. Three terrible things happen in a single day. Essun, a woman living an ordinary. The Autumn Republic - Brian ruthenpress.info MB. The Buried Giant - Kazuo ruthenpress.info MB. The Fifth Season - N. K. ruthenpress.info N K Jemisin - [Broken Earth 01] - The Fifth ruthenpress.info MB. N K Jemisin - [ Broken Earth 02] - The Obelisk ruthenpress.info MB. The Stone Sky_ The Broken.
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The Fifth Season (The Broken Earth #1).epub - Ebook download as ePub .epub) , Text File .txt) or read book online. - The Fifth Season ebook EPUB/PDF/PRC/MOBI/AZW3 free download for Kindle, Mobile, Tablet, Laptop, PC, e-Reader. Author: N. K. Jemisin . free EPUB | free books | Download epub | books for Kindle, iPhone, iPad. Autor: N. K. Jemisin The Fifth Season · The Fifth Season · The Obelisk Gate.
The Broken Earth No. Add to Cart Add to Cart. Add to Wishlist Add to Wishlist. At the end of the world, a woman must hide her secret power and find her kidnapped daughter in this "intricate and extraordinary" Hugo Award winning novel of power, oppression, and revolution The New York Times. This is the way the world ends A season of endings has begun.
It starts with the great red rift across the heart of the world's sole continent, spewing ash that blots out the sun. It starts with death, with a murdered son and a missing daughter. It starts with betrayal, and long dormant wounds rising up to fester. This is the Stillness, a land long familiar with catastrophe, where the power of the earth is wielded as a weapon. He does the same to her.
Stone eaters rarely bother stating the obvious. He's glad, because her speech annoys him in any case; it does not shiver the air the way a human voice would. He doesn't know how that works.
He doesn't care how it works, but he wants her silent now. He wants everything silent. His fingers spread and twitch as he feels several reverberating points on the map of his awareness: He cannot free them, not in the practical sense.
He's tried before and failed. He can, however, make their suffering serve a cause greater than one city's hubris, and one empire's 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. He holds it. He is not alone. The earth is with him. Then he breaks it. Now it ripples, reverberates, in cataclysm. Now there is a line, roughly east-west and too straight, almost neat in its manifest unnaturalness, spanning the girth of the land's equator.
The line's 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 ash-enough to choke off the sky across most of the Stillness's 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. The people of the Stillness live in a perpetual state of disaster preparedness.
They've 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. 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: It isn't.
It's obvious that the obelisks are nothing natural. It is equally obvious that they are irrelevant. Awesome, but purposeless: There are many other such cairns around the world: 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 world's end, and thus are worthy of note. 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.
She's in a town called Tirimo. In the parlance of the Stillness a town is one form of comm, or community-but 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.
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 all-but 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 woman's name is Essun. She is forty-two years old. She's like most women of the midlats: 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 her-enough 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.
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: Where the initial shock wave hit, nothing remains standing: There are bodies, too: 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 valley-the 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. There's a rogga in Tirimo, somewhere. A terrifying thought. But more terrifying are the signs coming out of the north, and the fact that Tirimo's 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: 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 object's surface.
It's 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 object's base. Then the object grows still for a long while. Several days pass.