by Namina Forna
Britta puts the helmet on again and turns to me. “Say anything—anything at all,” she urges.
“Anything at all,” I reply, shrugging.
She takes off the helmet and looks at me, eyes wide. “Yer voice, it’s different when I put the helmet on.”
“All right…” I have no idea what she’s babbling about.
Belcalis is getting annoyed. “Enough of this,” she says. “There’s an entire nest of deathshrieks down there preparing themselves to slaughter a nearby village. Whatever this is, it can wait till later.”
Adwapa nods. “She’s right. We should be getting ready to kill them all. I know I am,” she says eagerly. Months of raids have encouraged Adwapa’s irreverence toward death, although she always kills only her quota of deathshrieks and not a single one more.
“I like conserving my energies,” she always says when we tease her about it. Her sister is the same way.
Beside me, Britta nods. Then she turns back to us. “It’s just…what if this is the answer to the voice problem?” she asks.
I shift toward her. “How?”
She and the others always feel my voice calling to their blood now, even when I’m specifically addressing the deathshrieks and not them. They tried putting on cochleans the way the deathshrieks in the marsh did, but it didn’t work. My ability just keeps getting stronger. I’m always scared now that I’ll say something that gets my friends hurt or, even worse, killed.
“When ye spoke while I had this on, yer voice sounded strange,” Britta explains. “I could hear it, but it was almost…normal. Usually, when ye use yer voice, it sounds deep—like there are multiple people talking at once. This time, it just sounded ordinary. I think it’s because the helmet is made from yer blood.”
I turn to her, excited now. “So perhaps wearing helmets from my blood will prevent my voice from overpowering you!”
“It might.” Britta shrugs.
“It’s worth a try!” If helmets will keep me from mistakenly harming my friends, I’ll gladly bleed myself dry if I have to.
Belcalis nods. “Then let’s test it after the raid.” She looks down at the outcropping and the deathshrieks gathered there. A bright blue bird is flying above it, black eyes distinctly reptilian in the darkness. It’s Ixa, giving the signal to attack.
“But first, let’s go kill some deathshrieks, shall we?” she says, rising.
I sigh, raising my sword. “Let’s.”
* * *
The first thing I do when I get back to the Warthu Bera is ask Karmoko Calderis to make a few helmets for my friends, in addition to my infernal armor. The karmoko is only too happy to fulfill my request, since this means she gets to test out more designs.
All it requires is some more bloodletting on my part, and in less than a week, I have the four gleaming new pieces of armor. We decide to test them by the lake one evening after our lesson with White Hands.
“Hurry,” Adwapa says excitedly as I pull them out of my pack. “Let’s see if they work.”
“They’re so pretty,” Britta adds, marveling at hers.
Say what you will about Karmoko Calderis, but she has a smith’s talent coupled with an artist’s eye. Each helmet is so unique, you don’t have to wonder who it’s for. Britta’s is inscribed with horned bears, Belcalis’s has actual horns protruding from it, and both Asha’s and Adwapa’s feature wings on each side.
“Can you hear me?” I ask once everyone’s wearing theirs.
“Yes,” Britta says, the other three nodding in agreement.
“Hurry up with it,” Adwapa humphs.
“All right,” I huff, summoning the power. I smile when I feel it tingle in my veins. “Bow to me,” I command, excitedly shuffling from foot to foot.
Please let this work, please let this work….
To my horror, Britta immediately starts to lower her head. No…Disappointment swamps me. I’d been so excited about this—
Britta whips her head up, a mischievous dimple appearing on the side of her mouth. “I don’t want to,” she says with a laugh. “There’ll be no bowing here.”
“It worked?” I gasp, all the tension whooshing from inside me. “It actually worked!” I grab Britta and begin dancing up and down. “It worked! It worked!”
Britta laughs, sharing my glee. “Yes, it did!”
“Good thinking, Britta,” Belcalis says, clapping her shoulder.
Britta giggles her pleasure and falls to the ground. I do the same thing beside her, exhaling away all my fear. I turn my head toward her. “My thanks, Britta,” I say, taking her hand.
“Anything for ye, Deka.” She smiles, squeezing my hand.
As I lie there, I stare at my friends, excited and relieved. I no longer have to worry about accidentally enthralling them. Now all I need to do is make helmets for the rest of the Death Strikers before we go into battle.
* * *
In the end, I settle on thin golden circlets that cover the other girls’ ears as they go out on raids. That way, they can put any helmets they’ve already designed over them. I even make ones for Gazal and Beax, although I’m not sure Gazal will wear hers. She’s never been too fond of me. Karmoko Calderis is only too happy to indulge my request and gleefully incorporates this new addition into her designs. I think she would have become a smith had women been allowed to do so.
Our raids also continue, only now there are a few changes in how we approach them—Ixa being one. As per White Hands’s recommendation, he’s become a permanent member of our raiding party, and I ride his drakos form out of the Warthu Bera, much to the alarm of the crowds that always wait for us—and to Ixa’s delight. If there’s one thing he loves, it’s showing off. Captain Kelechi, thankfully, never minds, no doubt because of all the lies White Hands told him about the new breed of creatures she’s creating. I always wonder how she’ll explain the lack of other Ixa-like creatures to him, but that’s a concern for another day.
When I ride out these days, it’s with Keita to one side and Britta to the other. Keita and I use these occasions to talk. He tells me more about growing up in Gar Fatu with his mother and father, about all the adventures he had, wandering the marshes of his home. I tell him as much as I can about Irfut but always stop before I say too much about my time in the cellar after the Ritual of Purity. I always see the anger surface in his eyes, and the sight fascinates me. Reassures me.
Keita’s not like Father and the other men I once knew, the men who abandoned me, tortured me to enrich themselves. I know I can always depend on him to fight for me, defend me. I never truly thought I’d have someone like that, and now that I do, I always feel as if I’m floating, even in my darkest moments.
Sometimes, when no one is looking, he and I hold hands. We even embrace each other, his touch sending shivers through me. I feel as if I could melt into him and never separate. I move away the moment anyone comes by, however.
Many days now, I find myself wishing I could remain by his side forever. But I know I will stop aging at a human pace once I reach physical maturity, as all alaki do. I have only two or three years more, but then Keita’s aging will overtake mine. He’ll grow older as I remain unchanged, and I have to make my peace with that, have to understand that no matter what I feel for him, we will never be what I want us to be.
Besides, I’ll always have Britta. The feelings I have for Keita always make me warm, but Britta’s the one who’s forever there by my side, ready to support me, to push me when I’m being silly, to laugh with me when I need cheer. I’ve learned many things these past few months, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s this: Britta is my dearest friend, and my kinship with her is the foundation I stand on.
I have to remind myself of this whenever she annoys me, as she’s doing now.
We’re deep in the jungle, as usual, one of the typical places we find deathshrieks. Mist ga
thers around us, cold and ominous in what should be sweltering heat, but there’s no sign of deathshrieks. The closer we’ve gotten to the campaign, the warier they’ve become. No matter, we’ll find them soon enough.
Their nest is near here, once again the ruins of what looks like a temple, although it’s hard to make out anything with all the mist and the vines around. I squint, trying to peer closer, but it’s a difficult proposition.
“Infinity take it,” Britta grumbles beside me. “I can’t see anything in this blasted, Oyomo-forsaken mist.”
She, Keita, and I are on scout duty today, so I nod. “Let’s move closer—hand signals.”
Keita shakes his head. “Too dangerous. Let’s use Ixa.” He looks up at the shapeshifter, who’s perched in bird form in the tree above.
“And what, read his mind to glean whatever it is he’s seeing?” I ask, sarcasm dripping from my words.
“Well—yes,” Britta says, rolling her eyes.
I sigh. “Fine, fine, I’ll do it.” I begin to rise, but Keita grabs me. I look down at him. “What?”
“Be aware of what’s around you,” he warns.
“I will.” I sigh. Really, between the two of them, it’s like I have two nagging karmokos whispering in my ear.
He nods. “Let’s move out.”
Follow me, Ixa, I command as I slip into the mists.
Around me, the jungle is silent, on edge. The bird monkeys have stopped their chattering, and all the leopardans that frequent this area have long disappeared, their horned, blue-spotted feline forms nowhere to be seen. This is the one good thing about hunting deathshrieks: their presence scares off all the other predators that could hunt you.
As I sneak toward the temple, Keita and Britta doing the same ahead of me, I keep alert for any leapers. We passed a couple on our way here, but I easily avoided them. I can anticipate their presence by simply listening for their heartbeats. All I have to do is open my mind and concentrate, and I can feel them in the distance—a tingling I can almost touch.
We’re coming closer and closer to the temple, and now I can feel the deathshriek rumbles in my chest. There are two of them standing before the temple steps, chattering. I will my footsteps to be quieter and slowly, cautiously creep toward them. As I do so, I notice something unusual.
Words.
“…the Nuru will come?” a strange voice says.
I stop, confused. Who just spoke?
When I look up, Ixa is perched on the temple’s roof, watching me. I know he’s not the one talking. Ixa may be able to say my name, but that’s all he can say. I doubt he’ll ever have full conversations.
Another voice joins the first. “Let’s hope not. She’ll destroy us if she does.”
“How can the Nuru be so traitorous? Does she not care about us?” the first one asks. Its voice is stranger than anything I’ve ever heard. It’s deep and sibilant, and even more alarming, it’s not speaking Oteran. And yet I seem to understand it.
How can I understand it?
As I search for the source, my eyes fall on the two deathshrieks. The larger one almost seems to be…shrugging.
“Perhaps she does not know.”
The other deathshriek shakes its head mournfully in reply, and the world tilts. No, it’s not possible, I think, shocked. It can’t be possible. Yes, I’ve seen deathshrieks speaking to each other before—making grunts, clicks, and deep thrumming signs—and yes, they always understand me when I command them, but I never thought I’d actually be able to understand them.
And there they are—talking. Making sounds I can understand, even though I don’t know how I can do so.
My chest is so tight now, I can barely breathe. All I can think is How? How could I have never noticed them speaking before? How could I not have known?
I’m so stunned by what I’m witnessing, I don’t notice the dark figures slipping around me until Keita shouts, “Deka, use your voice!”
I turn to find a deathshriek arching toward him, claws at the ready.
Power surges through me, hot and blistering. “STOP!” I command, raising my arms. The air vibrates with my energy. “Do not move until I will it.”
They freeze, caught by the power rumbling from me in waves. But I know time is already running away from me. The rest of the raiding party is thundering toward the temple, and it won’t be long now until they get here.
I walk toward the two deathshrieks, still frozen midstride, energy arcing from me in waves. When I approach the smaller one, the one that spoke first, it looks down at me, eyes wide with terror and something else—something that looks almost like betrayal….It reminds me so much of that expression I can never identify on Rattle’s face. My heart clenches.
By now, the others have entered the temple grounds, and I distantly hear the telltale sound of swords being unsheathed, the soft grunts of the deathshrieks as they’re slaughtered. I hurriedly focus my attention on the deathshriek before me, keeping threads of energy tied around it as I begin my questions.
“Did you speak?” I ask it, fighting the exhaustion edging at my mind. I’ve never had to hold a deathshriek still while speaking to it at the same time.
“Deka, what are you doing? Kill them!” Belcalis’s voice emerges as if from afar, an awful reminder that I often participate in deathshriek massacres, immobilizing the creatures, then slaying them as they’re incapacitated.
I push the thought back as I turn to the deathshriek. “Answer me,” I command, power reinforcing my words. I’m vibrating now, my entire body rumbling so deeply, the deathshriek struggles to remain standing. “Did you speak?”
The deathshriek’s eyes widen. It looks down at me and opens its mouth. “I—”
Bluish-black blood sprays my face.
As I jerk back, startled and horrified, Belcalis casually retracts the sword now protruding from the deathshriek’s chest. “I told you to kill it,” she says as the creature falls sideways with a heavy thump.
My hands are shaking so hard now, I have to clasp them to stop. Where is Britta? I need Britta! “Britta?” I call, looking for her. Needing her to comfort me.
Belcalis shakes me. “Are you listening, Deka? What’s wrong with you?”
I don’t reply. I slowly wipe the blood from my face, then crouch beside the deathshriek and turn it over. A tear is running down one of its eyes. It’s crying, I marvel distantly. It’s crying as it dies.
Everything seems far away now. So very far away…
Keita runs over, concern in his eyes as he dispatches a nearby deathshriek, then turns to me. “Deka?” he says.
I don’t reply. Can’t reply—not now, when everything seems so broken.
He turns to Belcalis. “What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know. She’s been acting strange since I arrived.”
“Deka, are you all right?” Britta has finally rejoined the group and is bashing away at a nearby deathshriek together with Beax.
“Britta…,” I say weakly, my heart in my mouth. I don’t know what else to say.
There were only a few deathshrieks in this nest, and they’re dead, and it’s my fault. The moment I sensed them, pointed them out to the others, their lives were over. Because I can sense them coming but they can’t sense me.
This whole time, I thought I was the hero, the righteous savior, here to liberate Otera from the deathshriek scourge. But in reality I was a destroyer—a monster who falsely thought she was destroying monsters.
I turn toward the temple, toward the steps leading up it. I’m so tired now—so very tired. I think it’s time I sit down.
“What’s wrong, Deka?” Britta asks, concerned.
But I can no longer speak, no longer corral my growing despair.
I ignore her and continue walking, almost in a daze, toward the temple ruins. I don’t want anyone to s
ee my face, don’t want anyone to see the deathshriek-like leathering that has no doubt already surrounded my eyes. When I reach the nearest stone fragment, I take a seat and look down. To my surprise, I’m sitting on what appears to be a toe. I glance up, frowning when I discern the rest of the statue under the weeds and mist. It’s a goddess statue, a wise-looking Southerner in flowing robes. The very same Southerner I saw in that other temple, her face chiseled and intelligent as she looks down at the scroll in her hands.
I look around, make out the other statues, the same ones from the cave where I found Ixa.
The rest of the Gilded Ones.
The rocks the deathshrieks nested under near Yoko flash through my mind. They were the very same type of white rock as the rocks I’m sitting next to: the remnants of other statues.
Understanding slams into me.
Every deathshriek nest we’ve been to is a temple to the Gilded Ones. It’s the deathshrieks who have been worshipping them as goddesses, the deathshrieks who have been leaving behind flowers and candles. And we never once considered them. Never once thought they’d have the capacity for intelligent thought, much less religion.
White Hands told me I wasn’t half deathshriek, but I think she lied. I think she not only bred a half deathshriek, she bred one that could destroy all the others.
She bred the perfect monster.
I’m quiet when we return to the Warthu Bera, my mind rattling with thoughts of what I’ve discovered about the deathshrieks and the temples. Memories of all my previous encounters with them filter through my mind—not just the ones outside but the ones here too. I suddenly think of Rattle and the others, how dull their eyes seem compared to those of wild deathshrieks. Why is it that they’re so vacant and all the other deathshrieks are not? Why is it that the deathshrieks outside the Warthu Bera are intelligent enough to maintain temples, yet the ones here seem capable of barely more than grunting? It’s a mystery I must unravel.
“Ye all right, Deka?” Britta asks me as we go to sleep.