by Namina Forna
She nods. “Submerge into the combat state.”
Just like that?
I try not to show my unease as I nod, visualizing the dark ocean in my head, just as she directed me to do last night. At first, there is nothing, only the thousand erratic thoughts barging through my head: What if I can’t do this? What if something happens and—
“Quiet your thoughts,” White Hands commands. “Find something to focus on.”
I do as she says, glancing down at my hands, at the gold that gilds them. It’s just as thick as it was the day I dipped my hands into that urn. If I stare long enough, I can almost see my veins underneath it, feel them throbbing just under the golden sheen of the gilding. I remember the way the blood in them surged up last night, protecting my hands when I caught the sword. The blood as gold as my hands. As gold as that door…
My thoughts still, my body already beginning to feel weightless.
“That’s it,” White Hands whispers, her voice coming as if from far away. “Focus on the door,” she says.
It’s there now, just in front of me. I move toward it, swimming through the darkness. Swimming into the light. There’s so much of it now, everything glowing white before me—everything living, that is. That includes Rattle. His entire body seems to shimmer now, a white light glimmering in the darkness. Only his eyes are still black. He looks at me, a strange expression on his face. Fear? Curiosity? I can’t tell.
I walk closer to him, my footsteps seeming to float on air. Once I’m just out of reach, I look up at his eyes. “Rattle,” I say. “Kneel.”
My voice sounds layered even to my own ears.
Moments pass, nothing happens, but then there’s a familiar rattling sound. His quills, creaking on his back. He slowly but surely sinks to his knees, a vacant look in his eyes. The same look that was in the other deathshrieks’ eyes—the one that killed Katya and the one back in Irfut. Shock jolts through me as I realize: I did it! I commanded him!
“Why, Deka”—White Hands’s voice is suddenly right next to my ear—“I think you’ve issued your first intentional command.”
My grin wavers, exhaustion surging inside me. Then everything goes black.
“Deathshrieks have gathered in a cave near the outskirts of Hemaira’s southern border,” Karmoko Thandiwe announces, glancing across the room.
It’s late afternoon and I’m standing in the karmokos’ personal library along with several other alaki: Beax, a thoughtful Northern novice with green eyes and black hair; Mehrut, the short Southern novice Adwapa is forever making eyes at; and Britta, Belcalis, Gazal, and Adwapa. White Hands and the other karmokos sit quietly in the corner, assessing us. This time tomorrow, our small party will be on the outskirts of Hemaira hunting deathshrieks. And not just the ordinary ones either. This particular group has killed over fifty men in the week they’ve been nesting at the southern border. Most deathshrieks take at least two or three months to wreak such devastation. We’re hunting these on our very first raid.
My heart pounds, fear, nerves, and eagerness all coming together as one. This is what I’ve been training all these months for.
“The deathshrieks are massing here, near the jungle villas of several nobles,” Karmoko Thandiwe says, walking to the center of the library, where a map of Otera has been carved into the floor. She points with a spear to the area we will be traveling to, a small village on Hemaira’s leftmost edge. “You lot and your uruni will ride out tomorrow and engage them at this cave.” She points to the location, then looks up, beckons to me. “Deka, this is where your particular talent becomes of use.”
I reluctantly walk over, noticing the questions arising in the other bloodsisters’ eyes.
Once I reach her, Karmoko Thandiwe turns to face them. “You all know Deka,” she begins, patting my shoulder. “What you do not know, however, is that she is not quite like the rest of you.”
The girls glance at each other again, confused. My muscles tense, anxiety roping them tight. None of us in White Hands’s lessons has told any of the others about my ability, and now that the moment is here, I’m filled with dread. Will they hate me? Fear me?
A hand nudges mine. Britta’s. “It’s all right, Deka,” she whispers, smiling. “I’m right here.”
I smile back, relieved.
“Deka is an anomaly among your kind,” Karmoko Thandiwe explains, glancing around the room. “She has the power to command deathshrieks.”
The other girls gasp, and Adwapa sends me a shocked look. “Deka?” she whispers, a question in her eyes.
I nod quickly, suddenly shy.
Beax raises her hand. “I do not understand, Karmoko. Do you mean that she can hypnotize them?”
“Something like that,” Karmoko Thandiwe replies. “She can do so only for short periods of time, but, as you can imagine, this is a very helpful ability, so we must explore it.”
Now she looks across the room, her eyes stern. “A word of warning: very few people know of Deka’s talent. Only those in this room, the jatu commanders, and a few select others are privy to this information. No one else may know—not even your other bloodsisters, on pain of death.”
Beax nods, staring at me thoughtfully. I stand straighter, try to seem stronger—worthy, somehow. I still don’t know why I was gifted with this ability, but I don’t want to act so timid that the other bloodsisters dismiss me for my lack of confidence.
“Now, let’s talk strategy,” Karmoko Thandiwe declares. She glances at the other bloodsisters, then at me. “The plan is simple. Deka, you will approach first, flanked by your uruni and Britta. You will lure the deathshrieks out, using your voice, and render them motionless if you can. The others will then exterminate them, fast and simple. Do you understand?” she asks.
I nod. “Yes, Karmoko,” I say, my muscles roped tighter than ever.
It’s finally here, the time for me to accomplish my purpose. The very thought makes my mouth dry. I can do this, I can do this….
Karmoko Thandiwe smiles at me and nods.
“Then let’s go over the finer points.”
* * *
The mood is somber when we gather in the stands with our uruni later in the evening. Our group has been allowed to have two hours to ourselves, as is the custom with every new raiding party, so we’ve decided to pass the time having dinner. This almost feels like a sort of funeral—a chance to say goodbye before it’s too late. After all, it’s very likely that some of us will die tomorrow.
I’m not the only one who feels this way. As I bite into my dinner of hot stew and bread, Acalan, Belcalis’s uruni, shifts beside me. “What does it feel like—dying?” he asks quietly.
There’s an expression on his face, a vulnerability I’ve never seen there before.
“Cold, very cold,” I reply. “You can feel the blood slowing inside you. Then there’s the darkness, the loneliness. Dying is very lonely….”
“And after?” Acalan prompts, uncertain.
Perhaps he’s not all bluster and rudeness after all.
“After?” I try to picture it. It’s a difficult thing. I always remember dying, but I can never quite recall what comes afterward. All I remember is the darkness and the peace. If I try to think of anything further than that, the memory shifts away. Lots of my memories shift away now. I sometimes think I don’t want to remember them—don’t want to feel the fear that accompanies them.
“It’s warm.” To my surprise, this answer comes from Belcalis, and there’s a faint smile on her mouth as she looks up from the cream she’s been mixing all evening. Belcalis is very good at poultices and solutions—a talent she learned from working at her uncle’s apothecary. She makes them every time she’s nervous or anxious, even though we don’t need any such remedies, as alaki. “It’s always warm, like something is surrounding you, keeping you safe.”
“You sound as if you like it
.” This perplexed observation comes from Kweku, Adwapa’s plump and usually cheerful uruni. His eyebrows are gathered together, large brown eyes confused underneath them.
Belcalis shrugs. “I don’t mind it—being dead, that is. It’s actually peaceful, like you’re floating in warmth and happiness. Whenever people call us monsters, I think about when I’m dead—what it feels like—and I wonder: If I’m that much of a monster, why is Oyomo so kind to me in the Afterlands?”
This answer doesn’t sit well with Acalan, and he quickly rises. “Oyomo is kind to everyone, from the highest of the high to the lowest of the low. And you might not want to share such words in mixed company. The priests might accuse you of blasphemy.”
He quickly walks away, back stiffly upright. I can’t help but feel this is out of fear more than anger. Unlike us, the recruits get only one death.
“I’ll go talk to him,” Britta’s uruni, Li, says, his expression apologetic as he makes his exit as well. Kweku quickly does the same, leaving us in silence behind him.
The moments tick by until finally Britta sighs. “That went just as well as expected.”
We all laugh nervously, but we still follow the boys with our eyes until they disappear down the hill to the barracks before we turn back to each other. Keita remains, much to my surprise. Despite our somewhat closer relationship now, he’s still not the sort for idle conversation.
He turns to Belcalis. “Have you died many times, then?” he asks.
She shrugs. “Only six—from the bleedings, mostly.”
“Six?” he sputters. When Belcalis shrugs, unconcerned, he shakes his head. “And—bleedings?”
“Sometimes, priests like to take our blood and sell it,” Belcalis says, mixing the poultice faster and faster. She doesn’t want to talk about this anymore.
“They always take lots of it,” I add quickly, drawing the attention away from her. “Once, as the village elders were dismembering me, I woke up and the entire cellar was covered in blood. That was unpleasant. And painful. But mainly unpleasant. I’d gotten used to it, you see. They dismembered me quite a lot.”
I’m used to saying this without feeling any of the old fear and nausea now, so the expression that takes over Keita’s face startles me. It’s horror. Pure, unfiltered horror.
“I have to—pardon me,” he says abruptly, scrambling up.
His body shakes as he walks away.
I watch him go, then sigh. Sometimes, I forget how sheltered the recruits are. Yes, they’re soldiers, and yes, they live with brutality, with horror, but they have no understanding of what life is like for us. The pain we’ve all endured.
I should have told him about my past more gently, eased him into it, but now that I’ve said the words out loud, I don’t regret saying them at all.
“I think I’ll take some time to myself,” I say as I rise.
The others nod as I walk away.
* * *
My favorite tree is the blue-flowered nystria on the next hill. It’s a towering old giant, its branches so broad, they block my view of almost everything else. The rest of the Warthu Bera always seems far away, a distant memory, once I slip into the small space under the branches and breathe in the delicate fragrance wafting from the flowers. That’s where Keita finds me some minutes later, lying quietly in the shade..
“My apologies for running off,” he says, crouching down beside me. “You were telling me about the most horrifying thing that ever happened to you and I fled like a child. I just…I could have never imagined that, what they did to you. I still can’t…” He looks away, struggling for words.
Finally, he composes himself, turns back to me. “I’m sorry, Deka,” he says. “From the bottom of my soul, I’m sorry for what was done to you, sorry for what was done to all of you. I know it doesn’t make a difference, but I just want to say it, so you know how I feel.”
I blink, startled by his words. Whatever I was expecting, it was certainly not this. This may be the most Keita has ever said to me in one go.
I nod as he takes a seat, then turn and smile at him. “I wouldn’t compare you to a child,” I say. “More like one of those tree lizards.” I point to a pale-green lizard scurrying across the nystria’s branches.
Keita’s mouth quirks. “I’ll take nothing less than a horned lizard,” he says.
“Horned lizard it is,” I agree.
His smile widens for a moment. Then he sighs. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “Sorry for what happened to you, sorry that I didn’t stay to hear you finish what you were saying.”
“It’s all right,” I reply. “I shouldn’t have told you in the first place.”
“You shouldn’t have had to go through such horror in the first place,” he says, his eyes grim. “What those elders did—that’s not what’s supposed to happen.”
“But what do you think the Death Mandate is?” I ask him softly. I know he knows about it. All the jatu in this unit do. They were once tasked with enforcing it if the priests failed. That was, of course, before alaki became necessary. “It’s there. It’s always been there.”
Keita looks away guiltily, so I move closer. I don’t want him to turn away from me, from this conversation. This may be the only chance I ever have.
“My kind, we don’t have a choice,” I say. “Fight or die—either way, our lives are not our own. Belcalis is right, you know. They call us demons, but are we really?”
Keita looks down. “I don’t know.” He sighs. “I don’t know anymore. When I first became a recruit, I thought that’s what your kind were. I thought I’d hate you as I worked with you, and even when I made the bargain with you, I still distrusted you. But now…”
“But now?” I echo.
“Now, when I look at you, all I can see is my comrade. And now, when I hear what was done to you…” His hands clench. He has to breathe before he releases them. He turns to me. “Who dismembered you?” he asks. “What are their names?”
“What does it matter?” I shrug. “According to the Infinite Wisdoms, I’m a demon. Besides, it’s over and done with.”
Keita gathers my hand in his and squeezes it. The heat from his hand is like a furnace, washing over my skin. “It matters to me,” he says. “You matter to me.”
The words set my heart to beating and twist my stomach into knots. I don’t know why I’m suddenly warm, suddenly flushed in his presence. “You are my uruni,” I say softly—a reminder to myself. “I thank you for caring.”
“Even if I weren’t your uruni, I would care.”
To my surprise, Keita’s other hand reaches up to clasp my chin. He lifts it up so I can meet his eyes. They’re warm, earnest….My entire body tingles.
“I remember seeing you in Jor Hall that first day,” he says softly. “When I saw you standing there, so frightened, Britta at your side, you reminded me of something I’d forgotten.”
My heart is beating so fast now, I’m scared it’ll burst from my chest. “What was that?” I whisper.
“Myself, when I was younger. I’m so sorry,” he says abruptly, removing his hand. “I’m sorry I’m powerless, Deka, sorry your life was taken from you, sorry that violence brought you here…same as it brought me.”
I stare at him, trying to understand these last few words. I’ve always known there was some tragedy in Keita’s past, but I’ve never asked, since I know he wouldn’t want me to pry. I sense that now is still not the time, so I just blink.
“It’s all right,” I say. “At least I have my bloodsisters now. It’s enough. I never had friends like that back home. Never had much of anyone, really.” I remember how easily Father abandoned me, how easily Elfriede did too.
I blink again, startled. I haven’t thought about them in weeks, haven’t even questioned again whether I’m Father’s child or not. Now that White Hands is here, I’m content to wait for ans
wers, safe in the knowledge that no matter what the truth is, no one’s going to lock me in a cellar or bleed me because of my abilities.
Perhaps that’s why I can be here, like this, with Keita.
His eyes seem to glow as he glances sideways at me. “Am I your friend, Deka?”
“Do you want to be?” I say this part so softly, I don’t think he hears it.
But then he whispers in my ear, his breath stirring the short mop of curly hair above it. “I think I’m something much better. I’m your uruni, now until the day of our deaths.”
It’s the nicest thing I’ve heard in a long time.
I’m already a thousand times prepared for the raid when the sun climbs over the horizon the next day. My weapons have been sharpened, my leather armor has been tightened, and my horse has been equipped with everything it needs for the long ride to the outskirts of Hemaira. I’m so nervous, a strange sort of energy fills me as I saddle my horse. I don’t even feel constricted by my armor now, even though it’s the same grotesquely heavy leather all the alaki have been given. All I feel is a light compression over my body.
Around me, the others are also saddling their horses and loading their packs.
To my surprise, Adwapa still hasn’t asked me any questions about Karmoko Thandiwe’s revelation the night before. When I ask why as we mount the horses, she rolls her eyes. “Well, I’ve always known you were odd,” she says by way of explanation.
I decide not to ask any further questions.
As we ride to the gates of the Warthu Bera, I spot Keita and the other uruni waiting on the other side, behind Captain Kelechi’s horse. A strange warmth rises in me at the sight of him, resplendent in the ornamental orange-red armor of a recruit. I try to breathe it back but it continues circling under my skin.
A civilian crowd has gathered behind him and the other recruits, necks straining as they gawk at our tiny regiment, which consists of us alaki, two matrons with battle experience, and the four assistants who will serve as our support; thankfully, one of them is Isattu, the assistant usually assigned to our common bedroom.