The Gilded Ones

by Namina Forna

  Even some of the little girls here wear half masks, visible representations of their family’s wealth molded in gold and silver. A pang of sadness passes over me whenever I see them. I’ll never wear a mask now, never be able to adorn myself in the sacred coverings of purity.

  The thought flitters away as we head deeper into the city. Something else has attracted my attention: a dull, almost indistinguishable humming that becomes louder the closer we get to the central bridges. By the time we reach the massive bridge that leads toward the central hill upon which the palace and other administrative buildings stand, it’s a roar reverberating in my bones.

  “Do you hear that?” I ask Britta.

  She nods, brows furrowed in confusion. “What do ye suppose it is?”

  “Emeka’s Tears,” White Hands replies, turning to us.

  I frown at her. “Emeka’s Tears?”

  White Hands points, and I follow her finger toward a gap in the city’s walls, where a single statue rises, this one female. “Keep watching,” she instructs, leading the equus toward the topmost portion of the bridge.

  The moment we reach its peak, the breath rushes out of me. There, at the very edge of the city, a massive waterfall cascades into the Endless Sea below. Now I understand why Hemaira has only three walls. The capital is a city on a cliff, the waterfall at its edge an unscalable barrier against any force that would seek to attack from the sea. The statue I saw thrusts from the edge of the waterfall, a woman with tightly curled hair and a slender but sinewy build. She gazes out into the water, her arm outstretched toward the horizon in warning.

  “Fatu the Relentless, mother of the first emperor and keeper of the waters around Hemaira,” White Hands explains, her words piercing through my awe. There’s a tone in her voice, an emotion I don’t understand. Sadness? Regret? “A fitting sight to end your journey. Now it’s on to Jor Hall.” She gestures toward the administrative buildings rising just below the palace. “Prepare yourselves.”

  I silently nod, anxiety knotting in my chest as the equus continue onward, talons clacking over the main bridge. Oyomo’s Eye looms above us, a silent condemnation. Our journey will soon be over. Our new lives are about to begin.

  * * *

  By the time we reach the streets bordering the administrative buildings, dread has coiled like a hooded snake in my stomach. I barely notice how orderly the streets are here, barely notice the lush gardens clinging to grand, towering buildings almost as old as Otera itself. All I can think about is my impending change in circumstances. What will Hemaira hold for me? Will it be as White Hands promised? Will any of her promises hold true? There’s still that lingering doubt, that prickle of unease I get whenever I’m in her presence.

  Please let them be true, I pray silently as we make our way down the street. We’re approaching an enormous red building, the jatu insignia prominently displayed on its banners. Jor Hall, the hall of administration for the jatu. Father spoke so often of it from his time in the military, I recognize it by sight. Lines of girls are wrapped around its side, an acrid, unpleasantly familiar smell wafting from them: the stench of unwashed bodies.

  I know then, even without asking, that those girls are alaki. The same shivery feeling I felt with Britta trickles through me.

  Nausea churns my gut the nearer we pull to them.

  The other alaki are all painfully thin, their clothes torn and dirty, their feet bare and scabbed over. Not a single mask covers their faces—no cloaks or cowls protect their modesty from the burly, black-robed guards who leer as they check the symbols on the backs of their seals before directing them into different lines. A few are wounded, blood dripping through their robes, scars crisscrossing exposed arms and shoulders. They haven’t died, at least not recently. Their wounds and scars would have already been completely repaired by the gilded sleep if they had.

  But then, physical death isn’t the worst thing an alaki can suffer. I can tell from the haunted expressions in the other girls’ eyes, from the way they don’t resist when they’re roughly unloaded, seven, eight at a time, from the backs of wagons, that they’ve all suffered greatly. Even when the guards prod them toward Jor Hall, its banners flapping sullenly in the breeze, most of them don’t make a sound. What methods did the other transporters use to keep the girls in line? A chill shivers through me just thinking about it.

  Thank Oyomo for White Hands. Despite all my doubts about her, the most she ever did during our journey was lock the wagon’s doors at night so we wouldn’t run away. She never hit or abused us, never belittled us with foul words, though I suspect all these things and more happened to the other girls.

  I wait, anxiety growing, as she stops the wagon before the hall, then walks over to open the back for us.

  “This is where we part ways, alaki,” she says, beckoning for us to dismount.

  I do so tentatively, arms folded tightly over myself. The guards are watching us now, scowls burning into my shoulders. I suddenly wish I had my old cloak, the one I left in Irfut. It was tattered and shabby, but it always hid me from view, always made me feel safe. Here, I have no such shielding—not even the half mask I’d imagined I’d be wearing by now.

  As I shuffle to the front of the wagon, stomach lurching, palms sweating, the equus twins turn toward me with mournful expressions. “We must say goodbye now, alaki,” Braima says with a pout.

  “We liked all the winter apples you gave us, Quiet One,” Masaima adds, glancing at me. “They were very delicious.”

  “Next time we see each other, I will give you more apples,” I say softly, petting him and his brother.

  They nod, and I turn to White Hands. The side of her mouth is quirked, as usual, but her eyes are shuttered behind her half mask. She seems almost…regretful as she glances at me, although I don’t understand why.

  “White Hands, I—”

  “I must leave you now,” she says, stopping me with a gesture. She glances from me to Britta. “Do not be stupid, and you won’t die too many times.”

  We both nod quietly. She reaches over and squeezes our hands. It’s the most affection she’s ever shown us in the month we’ve traveled together, and the very gesture heightens the fear rising inside me. I try to stifle it as White Hands continues her farewell.

  “Remember, this will be tough, but you will overcome it. May fortune guide you,” she whispers.

  “I wish the same for you,” I reply, but she’s already walking to her wagon. She rides on, Braima and Masaima waving goodbye.

  As she disappears, that fear coils tighter inside me, accelerating my heartbeat.

  Please, please, please let me be able to endure what’s next.

  “They were hurt, weren’t they, the other girls?” Britta asks some minutes later.

  I don’t answer, my muscles too tight with tension to even speak, as we walk down the dark, cavernous hallways in Jor Hall. Each leads to a chamber for one of the different alaki training grounds. Judging from the number of lines, there are ten.

  As Britta and I keep pace with the line headed toward the chamber for the Warthu Bera, the training ground White Hands told us about, the other girls cower against one another, some of them sobbing, others trembling with every step. They’re scared of the jatu patrolling the corridors, the ones with the ansetha, the star symbol, gleaming on their shoulders. White Hands warned Britta and I about these jatu—told us to treat them with caution. They’ve been specially trained to subdue both alaki and deathshrieks and, as such, are much more brutal than their compatriots. They’re the reason the odor of sweat and fear has been rising steadily ever since we entered the hall.

  Well, one of the reasons.

  The other is the girls with torn robes and hooded eyes who shuffle beside us, their movements slow and stiff as if their souls have been snatched right out of their bodies.

  I recognize that look, that posture.

 
It’s the same one Elder Durkas’s temple maidens sometimes have. The one that tells everyone they’re not maidens anymore. Once again, I’m grateful for White Hands. What would have happened to us had we had other transporters—male ones? I shudder to think of it, the price some of the girls here have already paid to earn their absolution.

  “Deka?” Britta prompts, her eyes flicking back to the empty-eyed girls.

  “They were hurt in more ways than we can imagine,” I finally answer, my expression grim.

  She glances at me, fearful tears glazing her eyes. “We were lucky, weren’t we?”

  I squeeze her hand. “We still are,” I whisper firmly. “We have each other.” And I mean it, mean every word. I’m lucky to have Britta at my side, to have someone else to endure this with.

  She nods as we reach the double doors at the end of the hall.

  The room we enter is so immense, it’s hard to see the other side of it. Ornate golden carvings decorate glossy black stone walls, and the floor is much the same. I struggle to keep from gaping. The only black stone I’ve ever seen was in Irfut’s temple, and there was only enough of it to decorate the altar. The amount in this room could keep every family in Irfut fed for a thousand years or more.

  Even more daunting is the line of boys waiting for us, all of them wearing armor and war masks.

  I nearly stumble at the sight.

  There are about one hundred boys in total, roughly the same number as we alaki, and they’re standing at attention, backs straight, hands over their hearts. They range in age from sixteen to about twenty, and they all seem stern and forbidding, their eyes filled with disgust behind their war masks.

  My heartbeat doubles into a frantic, fearful beat. I have to physically resist the urge to clasp my arms over myself.

  “Wha’s happening? Why are they here?” Britta asks, moving nervously closer to me.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  I’m so unnerved by the sight of all those boys, it’s some moments before I notice the platforms. Ten in number, they thrust, solid and imposing, high into the air above us, stairs trailing up either side. Officials sit on eight of them, yellow robes spread out, scrolls and ink pots at their fingertips. The center two, however, are occupied by jatu commanders, both tall and dark and wearing war masks. My eyes are immediately drawn to the commander on the left. It’s not just his hair, which is braided in an intricate style and daubed with bright red clay, but his stature, which is smaller than the other’s and more graceful despite its muscularity.

  He seems almost…female, but that can’t be possible. Women are not allowed to be jatu commanders.

  “Straighten the line!” the guard beside us calls, startling me out of my gawking.

  As he pushes the girl in front of me forward, an angry shout suddenly echoes through the hall. “Get your filthy hands off me!”

  It comes from the end of the hall, where a tall, thin girl is struggling against a group of transporters, at least four of them. She pushes so fiercely, a few go flying into the wall. I rub my eyes, blinking again and again to make sure I’m seeing what I’m seeing. She shook the transporters away like they were fleas. I’ve never seen that done before, not even by a man. Is this the alaki strength White Hands told us about, the one that sometimes allowed me to rip apart my fur blankets as I slept?

  When she grabs a sword from one of the transporters and brandishes it threateningly, a few of the jatu run over, spears raised. Within moments, they’re circling, sharpened spear tips inches from the girl’s throat.

  “Let her go!”

  Everyone turns, as do I, toward this sudden and powerful command. It comes from the tall, well-muscled boy now emerging from the line, each of his steps slow, deliberate as he walks toward the proud girl. “She is a soldier in the war against the deathshrieks,” he declares in the clipped and clearly articulated manner of someone more used to speaking Hemairan than Oteran. “And soldiers have rights.”

  Rights? The word circles in my mind, shimmering and unbelievable. Rights are the domain of men and boys—not women, and certainly not alaki. Even so, the word blossoms, like a distant hope I’m afraid to even touch.

  “Is that not so, Captain Kelechi?” The boy glances at the taller commander.

  To my surprise, the commander nods. “Indeed, Recruit Keita,” he replies. “Everyone here has rights, although there are some who would stretch them beyond the bounds of common decency.” He turns a disapproving eye toward the proud girl, who spits on the floor in disgust.

  Making an irritated sound in his throat, the commander motions the boy—Keita—forward. “Inform her of her rights as a new member of the emperor’s army, Recruit Keita.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Keita walks toward the proud girl, removing his helmet and war mask as he goes. I’m startled to discover he’s dark like me—well, darker—although his hair is so closely cropped as to make him look bald, and his eyes are golden and sharp as a hawk’s. He’s about sixteen or so, but there’s a hardness to his eyes, an experience that speaks of a deeper maturity.

  Who is Keita, that he knows the commander so well?

  His armor seems different from that of the other jatu, more ornate. Father once told me that each jatu’s armor is inscribed with Hemairan symbols celebrating battles long ago fought, victories won. Keita’s has several more symbols than any jatu armor I’ve ever seen, and an emblem of a snarling orrillion adorns each shoulder.

  Perhaps it is an heirloom passed down to him by a father or uncle. The aristocracy have several such items. Either way, it marks him as something more than the jatu surrounding him. Richer, undoubtedly. He must be one of the Hemairan nobles I’ve always heard so much about. It would explain his ease with the commander, as well as why he feels so comfortable speaking out of turn.

  Mistrust lines the girl’s proud, refined features as he approaches.

  “Come no closer!” she snarls, her dusky brown skin flushed with anger. “I will listen to no more of your lies! Soldiers in the emperor’s army? Absolution? Lies—all lies! You just want our blood on this floor, so you can sell it, you worthless bastards!” She jabs her sword toward him.

  Keita lifts his hands in an appeasing gesture. “It is the truth. You are free to do as you like,” he says. He glances at the rest of us. “You are all free to do as you like. If you wish to leave now, you may do so.”

  Whispers rise into the air, uncertain but hopeful. Beside me, Britta shifts. “Do ye think it’s real, wha he says?”

  For one brief, glittering moment, I allow myself to believe in Keita, allow myself to believe in his words. Then I remember Ionas, remember how he thrust that sword into my belly only hours after telling me how pretty I was.

  Tension clenches my body again.

  Keita will be no different when the time comes. No matter what he does now, he will show his true colors soon enough. They all do.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head.

  I watch with jaded eyes as the other jatu turn to the commanders in protest. “But, Captain Kelechi—” one jatu gasps.

  “Surely you will not let this stand!” another pleads.

  The taller commander lifts his hand for silence. “Recruit Keita is correct,” he booms. “Either the alaki want to be here or they don’t. An unwilling soldier is a useless one. You’re all free to leave if you desire, but remember that you are impure, and the world outside will only ever see that. Not to mention deathshrieks will come hunting for you wherever you hide.” He nods and the jatu reluctantly open the door, following his command.

  I watch all this, tense, as does Britta.

  Around us, the girls murmur among themselves, wondering what to do.

  Keita steps forward once more. “We can guarantee your safety to the border of Hemaira,” he says. “After that, it’s up to you.” He glances pointedly at the proud gi
rl, and whatever hope I had crumbles to ash in my mouth.

  There it is, the condition. Yes, we can flee here, but once we leave Hemaira’s gates, we return to our old lives—to the Death Mandate, the constant threat of deathshrieks….Keita is just like all the rest, giving us impossibilities and calling them choices.

  The proud girl seems to know this, because she looks from the open door back to him. “We have your word?” she asks distrustfully, glancing from him to the commander, who nods.

  “I swear upon Oyomo’s kuru,” Keita replies, referring to the sacred sun symbol. “I will, however, say this: You can make something of yourself at the training grounds. You can be fighters, and once you’re done, you will be given absolution. Or you can spend your lives as outcasts, always fearing the Death Mandate. The truth of the matter is simple: You’re either with us or against us. The choice is up to you.”

  After giving her a quick, short bow, he returns to his position in line. I’m thankful he’s gone—angry at myself that I almost believed their words. Why did I think, even for a moment, that he would be different from Ionas and all the others?

  My attention returns to the girl now standing in the middle of the hall, her eyes shadowed and dark. She looks toward the door again, and then back at the line. Her gaze flickers between the two—door, line, line, door. I can see her mind racing, making the same calculations mine has. Finally, she makes her choice. She straightens her back and walks over to her line, as regal as a queen. She’s staying. I can almost feel Keita’s pleased smile as, slowly but surely, the other girls follow her lead.

  Once all the girls are back in line and everything is as it was, the taller commander walks to the edge of his platform and removes his war mask. His face is so dark it’s almost the color of the midnight sky, and so severe, dark brown eyes pierce us from above cheekbones sharp as knives.