The Gilded Ones

by Namina Forna

  And she needs me just as much as I need her.

  “Friends,” I agree, taking her hand.

  Britta beams, eagerly moving closer. “I’ve been so afraid of going to Hemaira, of becoming a soldier,” she confesses, a river of words rushing out of her. It’s as if she’s been saving them up this entire week—a dam just waiting to burst. “Now that we have each other, maybe it won’t be that bad. Maybe ye can even come with me back to me village when it’s all over! I know yers wasn’t the best….

  “An’ anyway, everyone’s friendly in Golma, an’ we have lots of handsome boys too. ’Course they won’t be the same ones I left behind, but there’ll be all sorts of lovely ones to pick from.” She peers at me speculatively. “Ye ever kissed a boy, Deka?”

  “What—me? No, never!” Where did the question even come from? I’ve never spoken to anyone about such a thing before, but Britta, it seems, has no such reservations now that the gates have opened.

  “I did once, during one of the village festivals. It was bad, very bad. His mouth tasted like sour milk.” She wrinkles her nose, turns to me. “So why didn’t ye—kiss a boy, I mean?”

  I look down, that awful feeling rising inside me again. “No one ever wanted me,” I whisper. Besides, Elder Durkas always told us kissing led to impurity, and I tried so desperately to be pure, for all the good it did me.

  Britta frowns. “Why? Yer so pretty.” She actually sounds perplexed.

  “I’m not.” I shake my head, awful memories of Ionas, smile on his face, sword in his hand, flashing across my mind. Girls as pretty as you…What awful lies he told.

  Britta’s snort cuts through the awful memory. “Ye are pretty, Deka,” she says. “Yer hair curls around yer face all pretty-like, and yer skin is nice an’ brown even in this deep winter.” Then she adds, as if it’s an afterthought, “An’ yer shapely. Men like shapely women. And plump ones.” She grins. “They’ve always liked me.”

  “But they don’t like girls who look like they’re from the Southern provinces—at least, not in Irfut.”

  “Then maybe it’s a good thing we’re headed South,” Britta says, patting my arm as the ship creaks into motion.

  I nod, sending a silent prayer up to Oyomo that this proves true.

  “Deka, Deka, wake up. Please wake up! We’re here, we’re here!”

  Britta’s voice comes as if from far away when I wake, the heat around me so overwhelming it feels like a boulder pressing down on my chest. The remnant of a dream teases at my thoughts, heavy and insistent. I try to grab onto it, but it disappears when a large, warm weight insistently shakes my shoulder.

  “I’m getting up,” I say, blinking open my eyes.

  To my surprise, the light around me has changed. It’s not the cool blue of winter but the warm yellow of deep summer. Even stranger, the smells of the sea now are mixed with a new, exotic fragrance. Flowers. But I’ve never smelled flowers like these. These are subtle and elegantly scented, their fragrance shimmering around me on delicate waves.

  Where’s the smell of ice and snow? Where’s the cold?

  I turn to Britta, whose eyes are wide with relief. “Why is it so warm?” I rasp, confused. My tongue is as dry as our haystacks in midsummer, and sweat slicks my hair and clothes so they stick to my skin.

  Britta hugs me tightly. “I thought ye would never wake! It’s been four weeks! White Hands told me ye would, but four whole weeks—”

  “Four weeks?” I frown, pulling away from her. When my muscles protest this simple movement, I wince. Why do they feel so tight? “What do you mean, four weeks?”

  “You’ve been asleep for almost a month.” This explanation comes from White Hands, who’s watching me calmly from against the wall.

  Sunlight filters bright and warm through the door at the top of the stairs behind her. It shimmers over Braima and Masaima, whose heavy fur coats and boots are long gone. They’re bare-chested in the heat, talons flexing against the wooden floor. Flies buzz around them, and they whip them away with their tails.

  “A month?” I echo, flabbergasted.

  “Naughty alaki, to make her friends worry.” Masaima tsks, shaking his head.

  “But the quiet one needed her rest, Masaima,” Braima says, tossing his black-striped hair. “You would too if you knew you’d be traveling for weeks in a nasty, nasty ship’s hold after being trapped by priests in a nasty, nasty temple cellar.”

  “But I’d at least tell you I was sleeping a long time, Braima,” Masaima sniffs.

  White Hands gets annoyed by their back-and-forth. She points to the stairs, where the other passengers are now filing out toward the door. “Upstairs with you both,” she commands. “Prepare the wagon.”

  “Yes, my lady,” they chime, their talons clacking up the wooden steps.

  “I’m so sorry, I don’t know why—how—I slept so long,” I say, still in shock. I turn to White Hands. “Is that something that happens to alaki? Is it normal?”

  “No,” she replies. “But you needed your rest. Experiences such as the one you had can take their toll. Even humans, when faced with your circumstance, sleep away their pain. Better now than when you reach the Warthu Bera.”

  I frown. “The Warthu Bera?” I’ve never heard those words before.

  “The training ground where me an’ ye are assigned,” Britta says excitedly, tapping the old Hemairan symbol on the back of her seal. “That’s wha this symbol means. It’s the most elite one.”

  My forehead scrunches in confusion. Why would we be sent to the most elite ground when we haven’t even done any training yet?

  I can’t comprehend it. I can’t comprehend anything right now. That dream resurfaces, a vague memory edging at my thoughts. It flitters away when White Hands passes us each small sticks of something that looks like charcoal. I recognize them immediately: tozali. My mother used to line her eyes with it every day to protect them from the sun.

  “Rub this on your eyes. You’ll need it. We depart upon the hour.”

  “Yes, White Hands,” we say as she leaves.

  Once she’s gone, Britta and I apply the tozali using a small jug of water as a mirror. My hands tremble as I rub the stick against my eyes. My muscles have become so weak now, every tiny movement has them howling in protest. It’s even worse when I begin packing up what remains of my things. When last did I eat?

  And how could I have slept so long? My limbs feel rubbery—new—the way they felt every time I woke up after the gilded sleep. Even worse, there’s a strange feeling somewhere deep inside me, as if something is changing…growing….I can’t help but feel that I’ve become different somehow, in a way I don’t yet understand.

  Britta watches me the entire time, a perplexed look in her eyes.

  “What is it?” I ask, my mind still racing.

  “Why is it that ye survive even when ye do not eat?” she whispers. When I glance at her, startled, she explains: “Ye didn’t have a bite of food or even a drop of water. I had to eat all your meals so the others wouldn’t notice. I told them ye were sick—that’s why ye weren’t movin’ or talking’. But they would’ve wondered about ye if you never ate. So I ate for ye. I mean, I knew ye were strange, but this…” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “This is unnatural, Deka.”

  Unnatural…There it is, that word again.

  I know Britta didn’t mean to hurt me, but the word still stings. Even worse, it’s true. I don’t feel any hunger anymore. It’s disappeared, vanished to a place where I cannot find it. I shrug sadly, trying to push back all the horrible feelings rising inside me, the fears at this new, worrying sign of my impurity.

  “I don’t know. It’s never happened before. It must be like White Hands says, I was sleeping away everything that happened in that cel—”

  “Are ye hungry now?” she asks quickly.

  I know she’s interrupt
ing so I don’t have to finish the devastating words. I nod gratefully. “I suppose I could eat.”

  She quickly hooks my elbow with hers, offering me a bright smile. “Then let’s feed ye before yer stomach starts dancin’ the Northern jig,” she says, pulling me up the stairs.

  We emerge to sunlight so blinding, I have to shade my eyes against the glare. Crowds upon crowds of people mill across the docks, their voices a formidable wave of sound emerging from every ship, street, and stall. There are too many people, too many sounds….I have to fight the urge to block my ears.

  “Oyomo preserve us!” Britta exclaims. “Have ye ever seen so many people in yer life?”

  As I shake my head, speechless, she waves goodbye to the sailors and other passengers. To my surprise, they wave cheerfully back. “Travel blessings, Britta,” a grizzled old sailor calls.

  Britta beams in return. “And the same on yer next journey, Kelma!”

  When she sees me looking, she shrugs. “We became friends,” she explains. Then she leans closer, whispering: “They told me all sorts o’ things over the journey. Deathshrieks have been attacking Hemaira! Every night, a few of them slip in, an’ no one knows how.”

  My eyes widen. Deathshrieks in the capital? How is that even possible? It’s said the walls of Hemaira are impenetrable, that the city itself has been made into a walled garden impervious to siege. That those creatures could already be here, so close—my mind shudders at the thought.

  “And what do they say about us—the alaki?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “People don’t know about us yet. Only the priests and elders know. But then, they’ve always known.”

  I nod bitterly, until a motion catches my attention: White Hands, beckoning to us from the docks, where Braima and Masaima are already saddling themselves to her wagon.

  “Hurry, hurry, Quiet One,” Braima calls. “The day is passing faster and faster.”

  I hasten my pace, aware that people are giving Britta and me curious stares. We’re two unmasked girls of Ritual age, no male guardian present to oversee us. It won’t be long now before we’re stopped. Just as I think this, a plump, pious-looking man, embossed Infinite Wisdoms scroll under his arm, separates from the crowd and begins walking toward us, a severe look on his face. Before he can reach us, however, White Hands smoothly cuts in front of him, waving us onward.

  “Come along now, girls,” she says loudly. “Hemaira awaits, as does your service to our great empire.” The emperor’s seal swings officiously from her belt.

  The man’s eyes flicker to it, and then to us. He hisses under his breath about ungodly women as he walks away, disgusted.

  “I hate pompous, puffed-up meddlers, don’t you?” White Hands humphs. Not waiting for us to answer, she points upward. “Look. The gates of Hemaira.”

  As my eyes follow her hand, my jaw drops when I see the colossal walls rising above the docks, twin warrior statues guarding each of its gates. So these are the walls of Hemaira Father always told me about.

  Father…

  I stifle the thought by concentrating on the walls. There are only three. Three walls with three gates. Why? I turn to White Hands to ask, but she’s gesturing toward the nearest and largest entrance.

  “We’re headed for Gate Emeka,” she says, nodding at the twin statues of the same stern warrior with a crown upon his head.

  Emperor Emeka, the first emperor of Otera—I recognize him immediately. Tall and dark, hair closely cropped, except for the beard. His image is engraved in every temple and every hall. Those stern eyes, flaring nostrils, mouth tight and severe, are unmistakable, and so are the statues now soaring above us, their swords casting massive shadows on the crowds gathering below.

  I look up at them, fear and unease rushing through me. “Well, here we are,” I whisper, bracing myself with a deep breath.

  “Here we are,” Britta agrees, doing the same. Her face is even paler than usual, no trace of a smile on her lips.

  Her hand nudges mine, and I squeeze it and nod tightly. She doesn’t have to say what she’s thinking; I already know. She and I will survive this—together.

  * * *

  White Hands leads us directly to Gate Emeka, where a river of people and animals is already streaming into the city. Westerners, Easterners, Southerners, Northerners—they all vie for space with horses, camels, and other, more exotic animals I recognize only from Father’s scrolls. Orrillions—hulking silver-furred apes with strangely humanlike faces—pull nearby chariots, their sharp horns blunted by curved golden sheaths. Mammuts plod at the front of caravans, multiple tusks protruding underneath their long, flexible trunks, ivory spikes all along their gigantic, leathery gray backs, and yet more spikes at the rounded end of their tails. Caravan masters sit inside little tents atop them, blowing horns to herald their approach.

  I wish Mother were here. She was always telling me about the Southern provinces. Even though she never regretted leaving to marry Father, she always missed the lands of her birth. All she ever wanted was for me to see them someday. To see the other side of my bloodline.

  She would never have imagined me coming here as a newly recruited soldier.

  Britta points to the emperor’s guards manning the gates. “Would ye look at all those jatu, Deka,” she says, gaping. Unlike the ones we saw up North, these jatu are wearing not armor and war masks but splendid red robes as they direct the lines of travelers and carefully inspect their documents. They all have the jatu insignia, the golden lion against the rising sun, pinned to their shoulders.

  “They look very officious,” I reply, a twinge of unease running through me.

  I’m distracted from them by a flash of blue. A carriage rattles past us, led by two large lizardlike creatures with wings. They make strange squawking noises deep in their throats.

  “Zerizards!” I gasp, excited.

  Another type of creature Mother told me about. They’re found only in the South, where the sun is warm and the forests are endless. I squint, trying to take in their feathery blue tails, the bright red plumage crowning their heads.

  “My mother loved riding them when she was young,” I say.

  “They’re beautiful,” Britta replies in awe.

  Braima sniffs, tossing his black-striped hair. “They’re not as impressive as us, are they, Masaima?”

  “Certainly not,” Masaima agrees.

  “You’re both very beautiful too,” I soothe.

  The equus twins stomp their annoyance as they lead the wagon away from the main gate toward a small side entrance, where a line of ominous-looking wagons gathers. The drivers are wearing black robes similar to White Hands’, their faces hidden by heavy cloth hoods. At the sight of all those iron-barred doors and windows, my blood races faster and faster. These must be the wagons carrying the other alaki. Each one looks big enough to hold at least six.

  Britta shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “It’s the others, isn’t it?”

  “Most likely,” I reply. I can almost feel the despair rising from the wagons.

  Britta reaches out her hand, and I take it. We remain silent while White Hands leads the wagon to the front of the line, where two jatu are playing owareh, a Southern board game Mother loved. The moment they glimpse her, they jerk to attention.

  “My lady.” They salute, rushing to open the narrow gate.

  To my surprise, they’re both speaking Oteran instead of Hemairan. But then, Hemairan is the language of the nobles and the aristocracy, the language used in the Infinite Wisdoms. The only reason I know how to even understand it is because Father’s father forced everyone in the family to memorize the Infinite Wisdoms as penance for our long-ago impurity. I don’t know why I expected common jatu to use it.

  The gate opens with a small squeak, and I return my attention to the road before me. My eyes widen nearly past their sockets.

  The
re, just beyond the gate, is a massive lake, which shimmers into the horizon. The city rises from its center, a series of lush green hills connected by high, arching wooden bridges. Rivers and waterfalls cut through like streets, with cheerfully painted boats gliding across them, their embroidered umbrellas protecting passengers from the sun.

  “Oyomo preserve us,” Britta breathes, staring at all the sights. “Have ye ever seen anything like this in yer life?”

  As I shake my head, unable to voice an answer, something else seizes my attention: the majestic building thrusting up from the peak of Hemaira’s highest hill like a jagged crown. I’ve seen it numerous times before, printed on every Oteran coin. Oyomo’s Eye, the ancient palace of the Hemairan emperors. The kuru, Oyomo’s sacred sun symbol, decorates its multiple spires, and groups of smaller buildings, the Halls of Administration, cluster among the hills below it. I recognize them immediately from every description of the capital I’ve ever heard.

  It’s all so splendid, so…much…I can barely comprehend it. So this is Hemaira, the City of Emperors.

  “Be careful to close your mouths before flies invade them,” says White Hands, laughing at my astonishment as the equus canter happily into the bustling thoroughfares.

  “It’s good to be home, Brother,” Masaima says, grinning.

  “No more itchy furs and the cold, Brother,” Braima agrees.

  The deeper we go into the city, the more crowded it becomes. Zerizard- and equus-pulled carriages battle for space on tightly packed streets. Along the sidewalks stroll pedestrians, most of them male, all of them luxuriously robed and groomed, with precious jewels threading red-clay-starched beards, tozali swirling in elaborate patterns around masculine eyes.

  The few women about are even more elaborately masked here than they are in the North, gold and silver gleaming on every face instead of wood and parchment. There are several variations: Round sun masks to glorify Oyomo. Silver fertility masks, cheeks exaggerated like the pregnant moon. Oval good luck masks, beaded symbols to invite blessings on the forehead and chin. Black formal masks, horns curving from smooth obsidian foreheads.