The Gilded Ones

by Namina Forna

  I obey along with the rest of the other girls, following her into the next hall, which is filled with long wooden tables and similar chairs. As I take a seat beside Britta and the others, my mind whirls, darting back to the symbol on the karmokos’ eclipse pins—to the strange feeling I had when Karmoko Huon traced it with her fingers earlier. I mentally trace it again, imagining the shape of that shadowed sun gliding under my own fingertips, its edges softened by years of daily use.

  A gasp explodes from my chest.

  I’ve felt that symbol before, touched it a thousand times before I ever saw it on the seal White Hands gave me. It’s the same symbol that’s on my mother’s necklace, the one I could never make out because it had become so worn, and it’s everywhere I look now: on the archway above the door from which the assistants are emerging, on the steaming plates of food in hand and the centers of the tables, even in the middle of the ceiling, which soars high above us.

  I point up at it and ask the girls beside me, “Do any of you know what the symbol is?”

  All this time I never once asked. Belcalis and Asha shake their heads, but Adwapa nods. “It’s the umbra, the emblem of the Shadows.”

  My brow furrows, thoughts rushing faster. Mother had it on her necklace, wore it every day. And symbols like that, ones connected to the emperor, can be used only with special permission. Even mistakenly carving one warrants a death sentence—even the smallest child knows that. The ground tilts under my feet as a strange, impossible theory slithers into my mind.

  What if Mother was a Shadow?

  It seems far-fetched—impossible even—but it would explain so many things: the reason she was always so careful to remain at the periphery of the village, the fact that she moved all the way to Irfut in the first place. Most women never leave their home villages, and if they do, it’s to move to the next village over, not to an entirely different province.

  This can explain Karmoko Thandiwe’s and Matron Nasra’s odd looks, and why Mother had the tingling, even though she was human. Some of the village men back in Irfut used to gossip that the emperor collects strange people to serve him, people who defy the natural order but have been granted special dispensation by the priests. What if Mother was one of them? If she was, what does that make me?

  There have to be answers here somewhere.

  As the assistants place plates of herbed chicken and rice in front of us, Britta’s eyes narrow. “Ye have a funny look on yer face,” she says, eating a piece of chicken with her hands, as is the tradition of the Southern provinces.

  Mother used to do the same, even though Father wanted her to use utensils. She always said hands were good enough. The thought sends a twinge of sadness through me. It chases away the uncomfortable smell of chicken, which has sent my stomach twisting on itself. Ever since I was burned, I can’t stomach the smell of roasted meat. It reminds me too much of my own.

  I take a breath, look into Britta’s eyes. “I think my mother was a Shadow,” I whisper.

  “Wha?”

  “There’s this necklace she always wore—never went anywhere without it. It had the umbra on it.” It sounds so strange saying this out loud, silly even, but voicing my thoughts solidifies them. I know I’m right, I can just feel it.

  “An’ that awful matron said ye looked familiar….” Excitement lights up Britta’s face and she gasps. “Wha if she knew yer mother? Wha if they trained together or something?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  Britta’s voice lowers to a whisper. “Does this explain how ye knew the deathshrieks were down there?” She huddles over her plate of food so the others won’t hear us talking.

  Does it? I turn the question over and over in my mind. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I just get feelings sometimes. And she did too….”

  I glance at Britta, steeling myself for her reaction—horror, fear? But she just nods. “We have to get that book, then—the Heraldry the karmoko talked about. If all the Shadows are listed there, perhaps yer mother is as well. Perhaps we can learn more about her.”

  She looks so determined, so eager, something loosens in my chest. Here I was frightened she’d laugh at me or turn me away. I nod. “And if she’s not, at least I’ll know for sure.”

  “Either way, it’ll at least get our minds off things. All that talk about going on raids and being warriors. How can I be a warrior? Me, Britta of Golma, a cabbage farmer’s daughter. I can’t imagine it.”

  “None of us can,” Belcalis says beside her, startling me. I’ve been so absorbed in discussing Mother, I’d almost forgotten that she was sitting there. That all the other girls were as well.

  To my surprise, they haven’t separated themselves by province, the way visitors to Irfut so often do—Northerners and Southerners particularly. Instead, they all lean closer, nodding in agreement with her words.

  “I want to go home.” This fearful whisper comes from Katya. “ ‘Conquer’? ‘Warriors’? Dying?” She turns to us, bald eyebrows drawing together like pale caterpillars. “I never asked for that. All I wanted to do was get married, have children. I just want to go home, go back to Rian.”

  “Rian?” I blink. “You had a betrothed?”

  Katya nods. “When they came to take me, he ran after the wagon. He told me he’d wait, no matter how long it took.” She looks down at her newly gilded hands, her voice low with tears. “He’s waiting for me. He’s still wait—” She stops abruptly, hiccupping back sobs, and Britta puts her arm around her.

  I just watch, unsure of what to do. The moment my blood ran gold, everyone I knew abandoned me: Father left, the villagers turned against me—even Elfriede fled. Sixteen years of friendship gone, just like that.

  But Katya’s betrothed stayed with her. Tried to fight for her. Even though he went against his village elders, the priests, I’m unable to fathom the idea of such loyalty from a man—from any person, really. Are there truly people in the world like that? Could there be someone like that for me?

  I don’t even know if it’s possible, if someone, somewhere in this vast world will ever love someone like me—the unaging, unchanging offspring of demons—but I want to find them. Want to survive long enough to experience that kind of love: loyal, unflinching, steadfast. The kind of love that Mother gave me before she died. The kind of love that Katya and Britta seem to command so easily.

  And I don’t have to do it alone.

  I glance at the other girls, Katya’s eyes wild with fear, Britta’s with uncertainty. If this was anywhere else, we wouldn’t even speak to each other, but we’re all in the same boat now, all of us faced with years of pain, suffering, blood….Bloodsisters—that’s what Karmoko Thandiwe called us. A word that gives me courage.

  I send a little prayer to Oyomo before I turn to the others. “I don’t know about you,” I say, “but I intend to survive long enough to leave this place. I’ve already had enough of dying.”

  Katya’s eyebrows knit together. “Already had enough? Wait, do you mean you’ve actually already died—”

  “Nine times,” I whisper, the words like thorns in my mouth.

  Her eyes widen nearly past their sockets. “Nine times?”

  As incredulity mottles her face, and the others turn to me with identical expressions of shock, I explain: “I was subjected to the Death Mandate before I came. Only they couldn’t find my final death, so they tried again and again—” I cut myself off. “I don’t want to experience that again. I don’t want more deaths, more pain. I want to have a life, a real one this time. A happy one…But to do so, I have to survive. We all do.”

  I glance from one girl to the next, take a deep breath to summon my courage. “Karmoko Thandiwe said that we were bloodsisters, so let’s help each other. If we’re to survive the next twenty years, we have to do so together, not just as allies but as friends. Family…”

  I exten
d my hand, my heart lodged in my throat. “Bloodsisters?” I ask, a thousand thoughts barraging my mind. What if I’m asking for too much? What if they turn away, scorn me the way everyone in the village did, what if they—

  A soft hand settles over mine. “Bloodsisters,” Britta declares when I look up, startled. She grins. “Now and forever, but ye already knew that, Deka.”

  As I nod, relieved, Katya leans forward as well. “Bloodsisters,” she whispers. “I know we just met, but if you’re going to join together, I want to be a part of it.”

  I nod, returning her anxious smile.

  It’s the twins’ turn, and for once, they seem almost serious as they look at each other and shrug. “Might as well,” they say to each other, placing their hands over ours. “Bloodsisters,” they declare together, smiling at me.

  Warmth sperads over me, a glow of happiness. They’re actually saying yes—all of them. As I grin, another hand settles unexpectedly on mine. Belcalis’s.

  “Bloodsisters,” she says, mouth tight as the others smile and embrace her.

  Just like that, we’re bonded.

  Bloodsisters.

  Happiness sparking inside me, I pick up a handful of rice and begin eating, careful to pick around the chicken bits. I have to build up my strength. Survival is hard work, after all. And so will be finding the truth about Mother’s past.

  It starts with a sea of unwavering black, ancient yet familiar. I’m floating inside it, warm, motionless. Voices, female and powerful. They call out to me. “Deka…,” they whisper.

  One of them almost sounds like Mother.

  I turn toward the voices, not at all startled to find a golden light shimmering in the distance. A door, waiting for me to open it. As I swim over, weightless in this vast sea, I hear something else—

  “Raise your lazy arses, neophytes!”

  I gasp awake, blinking in the darkness, as two novices rush into the common bedroom, shoving girls off their beds if they move too slowly. There are more novices in the hallway, their shouts timed by the frantic beating of nearby drums.

  “Wha—huh, wha—?” Britta snuffles, jerking upright.

  “We have to get ready,” I say, almost wrenching her out of bed. The novices have positioned themselves just in front of the doorway. One of them is the scarred girl from last night, the other a plump, almost cherubic-looking brown girl with dark, loosely curled hair. Both are wearing dark blue robes—a uniform, just like the green ones we were given yesterday.

  “Morning greetings, neophytes,” the scarred girl barks.

  “Morning greetings.” My reply is as uncertain as the other girls’ when we gather around her.

  She takes a step forward. “I am Gazal, your honored elder bloodsister. You will refer to me as Honored Elder Bloodsister Gazal, or Honored Senior Bloodsister. All other forms of address will not be tolerated.”

  The air immediately thickens, tension rising until the plump girl steps forward. Compared to Gazal, she’s warmth and sunshine personified as she grins at us. “I am Jeneba, your honored elder bloodsister,” she says cheerfully. “I hope in time we will become friends.”

  My tension begins to ease. Jeneba seems like one of those happy people who get along with everybody.

  I barely have time to nod back at her before it’s Gazal’s turn to speak again. “Jeneba and I have been tasked with overseeing this common bedroom,” she explains. “Together, we’ll lead you through your first week at the Warthu Bera and, in time, your entire tenure at this training ground….That is, if you survive it.”

  As a tense silence falls, all the neophytes glancing at each other uneasily, Jeneba steps forward and claps her hands for attention. “All right, neophytes, you have fifteen minutes to clean yourselves. Go! Go! Go!”

  Her words are like a lightning bolt, sending girls rushing toward the cleaning chamber as fast as they can. I hurry along, not wanting to get left behind, but when I catch sight of the chamber’s polished bronze mirrors and ten stone sinks with water jugs and other bathing supplies carefully laid out on them, I slow, awed. In Irfut, the only sink I ever saw was the one in the temple, and that was reserved for men. I stop in front of one, gaping at the mirror when I see that my hair has already grown back into a fluffy little cloud. It’s the same with all the other neophytes, but I’m only noticing now because I’m not as disoriented as I was when I woke. This must be an effect of alaki healing. Finally, a benefit to being impure.

  “Fourteen minutes,” Jeneba calls out.

  I jolt back into action, wiping my face with the cloth and water. When I’m done, I glance at the small stick of wood beside my water jug, perplexed.

  “Wha is that?” Britta whispers, voicing the question that’s on the tip of my tongue.

  “Chewing stick,” Belcalis answers, using hers to scrub her teeth.

  I hurriedly do the same, gasping when an icy-cool flavor explodes in my mouth. No wonder Hemairans prefer these to the cloths we use in Irfut to scrub our mouths clean. Once I’m finished, I scramble to put on my green robes and leather sandals, and by the time the drums sound again, I’m dressed and ready to follow Jeneba to the courtyard.

  It’s still dark by the time I emerge—only a few dim torches light our path. Even then, it’s nice and warm, the early morning air balmy with the scent of exotic flowers. For a moment, I remain where I am, savoring the feeling. Sunrise was always chilly in Irfut. This heat should be uncomfortable for a Northerner like me, but somehow, it feels perfect.

  The umbra carved into the archway seems to glare at me as I walk under it, a reminder that I have to read the Heraldry of Shadows to discover whatever I can about Mother’s past. I make a mental note to ask Jeneba where it is. She seems nice, compared to the other novices.

  Karmoko Thandiwe is standing calmly before the statue of Emperor Gezo, Gazal at her side, when we reach the courtyard. The novice has one hand behind her back and the other across her heart in rigid military posture. She looks even more intimidating now than she did when she woke us up this morning.

  “Good morning, neophytes,” Karmoko Thandiwe calls out, that muscular body ramrod straight, red-clay braids gleaming in the darkness. “I hope you’ve had a good sleep.”

  We look at each other. “Yes, Karmoko,” we reply.

  Karmoko Thandiwe smiles. “Still not quite right.”

  Gazal steps forward and slams her folded hand across her heart. “Neophytes, when in the presence of the karmokos, stand at attention!” She demonstrates. “Back straight, right hand across heart, left behind back!”

  We quickly do as we’re told, Jeneba checking us to ensure our compliance. The other novices assigned to the different common bedrooms help their own portions of the line. As they inspect us, I see movement in the upper windows. The matrons are watching. This, apparently, is entertainment for them.

  Once we’re all standing at attention, Karmoko Thandiwe addresses us: “In order to be warriors, you must be strong in body and spirit. That starts with running. Every morning.”

  My eyes bulge.

  Running?

  Women aren’t allowed to run in Otera. Any girl caught walking faster than at a sedate pace is whipped for her insolence. “Light and graceful are the footsteps of the pure woman,” the Infinite Wisdoms caution. The reminder sends a subtle nausea roiling through my stomach.

  “Let’s go, neophytes!” Gazal barks, jolting me from my thoughts. “Move it!”

  She demonstrates by jogging down the path at a quick, steady pace, the other novices behind her. The other neophytes and I tentatively do the same, huffing and puffing as we struggle to control our breathing and the burning in our leg muscles. By the time Gazal finally stops at the bottom of the first hill, I’m so exhausted I lurch over, hands on my knees to steady myself.

  “All right, neophytes,” Gazal barks, seeming almost energized now as she addresses u
s. “Your bodies should be fully warm. Time to double the pace!” She darts back up the hill, moving even faster than before.

  I shake my head, horrified. “I can’t go any faster,” I rasp to Britta between breaths. “My legs are on fire.”

  Britta’s breathing is just as ragged as mine. “Me neither.”

  “Oh, stop complaining,” Adwapa proclaims breezily, running past us.

  She and her sister are the only ones who seem unfazed by the fact that we’re running. But then, they’re Nibari—their tribe only ever pretends to obey the Infinite Wisdoms when priests or emissaries venture into their deserts. At least, that’s what Mother always told me.

  There must be truth to her words, because Adwapa’s almost skipping as she declares, “It’s only a light run. Back home, we used to run for miles.”

  “In the heat,” Asha adds. “On top of mountains.”

  “Then why don’t ye just run yer arses back to yer mountains and leave us here to die,” Britta snaps. Then she wheezes, instantly regretful. “I’m sorry, I didna mean that. I’m so tired. I think I’m going to die me first almost-death from this.”

  I nod in weary agreement. “That’s the truth if I’ve ever heard it,” I say, reluctantly beginning to run again.

  This second round is even worse than the first, my muscles blistering under the pace. To my astonishment, however, the longer I run, the easier it gets. It’s almost as if my muscles are gaining power, stretching to their fullest potential. Soon, my discomfort is a thing of the past as I zip up and down the hills, my feet barely touching the ground. The scenery around me begins to ripple—soft, shimmering waves, as if the trees are underwater. Air distorts, sounds become more distinct—I’ve stepped into a completely different world, one where everything is sharpened to brightest clarity.

  I grin from ear to ear when a dewdrop descends slowly before me, its crystalline beauty easily perceptible by my sharpened vision. I’ve never felt this happy before. Never felt this free.