by Namina Forna
“I am Captain Kelechi, commander of the jatu assigned to the Warthu Bera, your honored training ground,” he declares, his voice ringing through the hall. “In front of you stand the newest recruits to the Warthu Bera.” He gestures to the line of boys, who quickly remove their helmets and war masks. “They are here to serve as your uruni, your brothers in arms. After your first three weeks of initial training are completed, they will join you and provide aid for the months of combat. It is our hope that you will form lasting and deep partnerships with them, which will extend well past the time you leave these walls.”
“Brothers?” Britta whispers under her breath, her dismayed expression echoing my own. I can’t imagine any of those haughty-looking boys as our new brothers.
Beside us, a girl with long braids scoffs under her breath: “More like spies, ensuring that we remain firmly in our places.”
The captain continues, ignoring the rising whispers. “As you all no doubt know, deathshrieks have begun massing in their primal nesting ground near the N’Oyo Mountains, hundreds of thousands of them.”
“Hundreds of thousands…,” Britta whispers, an echo of my panicked thoughts. I knew there were a lot of deathshrieks, but I could have never imagined the true scope of their numbers.
“What you may not know is that Hemaira lies on their path. That is why Emperor Gezo has decided that all alaki—even the neophytes—must go on monthly raids, both thinning out their forces and preparing yourselves for the campaign. You must know everything about your enemy, every strength, every weakness, before you face them on the battlefield, and the recruits will aid you in this task.”
Whispers explode. Monthly raids? Does he mean we’ll actually have to face deathshrieks out in the wild?
As my breath catches in horror, Captain Kelechi continues: “In the coming months, you will face the most fearsome monsters in all of Otera, but you will not face them alone. Your new uruni will be with you every step of the way. Even when you’re completing your initial training, they’ll be just on the other side of the wall, waiting to join you, your brothers in arms.”
He motions to the recruits, and they march to form a single line behind him, their bodies at attention. The smaller commander, who has remained silent all this while, motions for us to do the same. It takes us a little more time, the jatu shoving at us, but after some moments, we are standing in an opposite line, so that the two commanders face each other.
Once we’re in place, the captain and his silent companion motion again, and the recruits take one step to the side, then slowly begin to file past our line.
Now I understand. This is how we receive our partners: by matching with whichever jatu stops next to us when Captain Kelechi calls for a halt.
My heart rises to my throat with each step the recruits take. Please don’t match me with a cruel boy, or one who hates alaki, I silently beg Oyomo. Ionas’s face flashes in my memory, and I push it away, praying even harder. Please, please, please…
The procession continues, seeming to stretch on forever as the recruit line proceeds slowly and deliberately toward the end of ours. Boys walk past—tall, short, plump, thin; Southerners, Easterners, Westerners, Northerners; all with similar forbidding looks on their faces, many with barely hidden sneers. I’m so nervous now, my hands are sweating and my stomach is in knots. I’m keenly aware of my shabby appearance—tattered hair and robes, unmasked face.
I lower my eyes and then keep them studiously fixed on the floor, unable to look anymore. There’s no way my prayers will be answered. The boys seem as reluctant to be here as we are—some of them even angry, unwilling to look at our faces. I can only imagine what they think, knowing that they will have to work with impure girls. Descendants of demons who are strong enough to toss them away like the proud girl did.
I keep sweating, my eyes firmly lowered, until I finally hear the command “Stop.”
For a moment, I can’t look up. What will I find if I do? Disgust? Fear? I swallow deeply, steeling myself for disappointment. Then I raise my head. To my surprise, standing before me is a short Western boy, hair black, three tattooed lines from chin to lip. When he smiles at me, brown eyes kind and gentle, I feel a tremor of relief. He’s not one of the larger boys, the threatening ones. In fact, if I squint, he looks almost girlish, with his long lashes and shy smile. I smile back, the knots in my stomach loosening.
Then Captain Kelechi calls out, “Recruits—take one more step and face your partner.”
Take one more step?
Dread surges inside me as the Western boy shrugs ruefully in apology and then obeys the command, going to stand before a girl with flaming red hair. I look up and despair washes over me. Stern golden eyes are peering down into mine. Recruit Keita’s. He’s my new partner.
I barely hear Captain Kelechi when he speaks again, barely hear anything past the panicked beating of my heart. “Make your introductions!” he commands.
Keita looks down at me, his face expressionless. “I am Keita,” he says. “Keita of Gar Fatu.”
It takes everything I’ve got to force myself to continue looking at him instead of ducking my head in shame. Finally, I manage a reply. “Deka of Irfut,” I mumble.
He nods.
By now, Captain Kelechi and his partner have turned to face each other. “Hold out your hands,” the captain instructs us, extending his hand to the silent commander, who is still masked, unlike all the other men.
Now, more than ever, I’m certain she’s female. All the men have already unmasked themselves.
She clasps his forearm, and he does the same, an obscene imitation of a marriage ritual. “Extend them to each other in the spirit of fellowship.”
Keita and I face each other and do the same.
I shiver when his hand touches mine. It’s warm, calloused….He has capable hands—swordsman’s hands. The type of hands Ionas used to thrust that sword through my belly. The memory jolts through me, and I have to force myself not to jerk my hand away. I look up into his eyes, trying to push past my fear.
But his eyes slide away, a cold expression shuttering his face. Keita’s grasp on my arm loosens.
I’m almost thankful when Captain Kelechi speaks. “From now until the moment of your deaths, you are bonded,” he says. “Brothers and sisters in arms. Uruni.”
The words send a shiver down my spine. It feels almost…foreboding. When I look up again, Keita’s expression is darker and more severe than ever. I can barely breathe, barely remain standing so close to this boy who will now be my connection to the normal world. A world I’m not certain I want any more part of. A world that certainly wants no part of me.
“Well met, Keita,” I say, forcing myself to push my discomfort away.
He nods brusquely back. “Well met, Deka of Irfut,” he replies.
Then he lets go of my hand.
* * *
With that, the ceremony is at an end. The boys file out the other end of the hall, the commanders following behind them, and the transporters file back in. It all happens so fast, I barely notice two yellow-robed officials take their places on each empty platform, barely notice as we line up once more—this time before the platforms. Now the actual intake begins. Girls walk up to the officials, who examine them and inscribe their details into scrolls with the help of the brown-robed assistants now scurrying to and fro like ants. The girl at the front of my line—a frail, sickly-looking Southerner—sobs quietly while the assistants poke and prod her, loudly calling out her details.
“Height—five hands, three knots. Severely malnourished. Primary indications of scurvy.”
A frown knots itself into my brow. Malnourished? How is it that this girl is malnourished and I’m not after all those weeks asleep in the ship? Unnatural…The word whispers in my head again, banishing all thoughts of Keita and the cold way he stared down at me. I ignore my whispering fears, try
to think of other reasons why there are differences between me and the girl. Perhaps some alaki are sicklier than others and some, like me, are just naturally healthier. There are so many potential explanations.
The girl’s transporter, a stocky bearded man, raises loud objections when he’s given only half a bag of gold as payment. “I was promised sixty otas a girl! Sixty!” he splutters.
The assistant’s reply is loud and implacable. “That one is sickly and ill-fed. You were warned not to maltreat the emperor’s property.”
The emperor’s property…Disgust sweeps over me at the words. I thought we were supposed to be soldiers.
By now, all the transporters have made their way to the middle of the chamber except for White Hands, not that I’m surprised she isn’t here. I don’t think she really needs the gold they’re doling out for the transporters’ services. Our journey seemed more of an amusement for her than anything else. Not for the first time, I wonder who exactly she is and why she would embark on such a journey for what seemed like the sport of it.
As I turn the question over in my mind, a horrible burnt smell wafts past my nostrils, desperate screams following just behind it. I whirl toward the sound, muscles strung tight. There’s an assistant dipping a red-haired girl’s hands into an urn of what looks like liquid gold.
The cursed gold, our own blood.
My mouth sours, vomit surging up, but I swallow it down, glance at the girl, who’s now weeping uncontrollably as she stares at her hands. They’ve been gilded—gold now from fingertip to elbow. It’s almost like she’s already dead—halfway into a gilded sleep. The thought forces little rivulets of sweat down my back as the line advances again.
The gilding won’t hurt, I tell myself encouragingly. It’ll only sting a little. Just a tiny bit. But I know that’s not true. That burnt smell is intensifying now, fresher and more visceral than the smell that sometimes plagues my memories. There’s something about the cursed gold in that urn, something about the way it’s been prepared, that causes it to stick to alaki skin.
More screams rise, and darkness edges my vision. I’m near to jumping out of my skin, my entire body on edge now.
“Deka, breathe. Deka!” Britta’s voice comes as if from far away. Soft arms encircle me. Safety. Warmth. “I’m here, Deka,” her voice whispers. “You’re safe with me. Safe.”
Safe…
It takes some moments, but finally, I take a ragged breath and manage to nod. “I’m fine,” I croak.
I swallow back my nausea and straighten just in time to glimpse the assistant gild the girl in front of me. When she removes her hands, the gold now gleams on her skin. My hands tremble. It’s my turn next.
The Eastern official sitting above me is pale and intimidating in the dim light. “Step forward, child,” he beckons, adjusting his spectacles in an imperious manner.
Once I do so, he turns to his assistant. “Name?” he asks the assistant.
“Deka of Irfut,” the assistant dutifully reads out.
“Are you here of your own free will?” the official asks.
“Yes,” I whisper. Across the chamber, another girl screams as both her hands are dipped in the urn. The smell of burning flesh rises, and with it, my fear.
“Louder.”
“Yes, I am,” I say. I try not to look at the urn again.
“Do you seek absolution?”
“Yes, I do.”
The official nods, satisfied.
I stiffen as one of the assistants begins to examine me, rough hands tugging at my body. “Weight—moderate. Height—five hands, five knots. Hair—black. Eyes—gray. No distinguishing marks. Excellent health.”
Once this assessment is done, the assistant directs my attention back to the accountant, who continues his questions. I crane my head up toward him.
“Do you swear fealty to Emperor Gezo and his armies?”
This was a question I had not anticipated, so it takes me a moment to answer. “Yes,” I finally reply. More screams sound, cold sweat drenches my back.
“You were brought here by the Lady of the Equus.”
“The Lady of the—” It takes me some moments to understand he is talking about White Hands. Of course they would nickname her that, because of Braima and Masaima. She treats them more like companions than steeds. “Yes,” I answer, forcing the words out past my panic.
The official nods again. “She did not physically harm you, nor attempt to sell your virtue to others?”
I blink, taken aback by the question. Now I understand what happened to the empty-eyed girls. The transporters weren’t supposed to harm them, but one thing I’ve learned in the past few months is that people always do things they aren’t supposed to. A vision of the elders flashes behind my eyes, their knives and buckets looming as they prepare for yet another bleeding. I inhale, exhale out the memory.
“No,” I finally answer.
“Well, that’s a relief,” the official says under his breath. “No additional scrolls needed for this one.”
My teeth grit. Girls had their virtue forced from them, their lives devastated, and all he cares about is doing more work. He’s like the jatu who just left with their false promises of rights and freedoms. I have to exhale again to keep the rage from showing on my face.
He turns to his assistant. “The gold,” he commands.
As the assistant moves to bring over the urn, the official directs his eyes to me. “This gold has been formulated specially to mark you as the emperor’s property. It will fade with every year that passes and disappear once you reach your twentieth year of service. A gilded sleep will not fade it, so don’t try killing yourself to lessen your time.”
Don’t try…killing yourself…
I’m in such a state now, my thoughts are barely more than half-formed things. By the time I finally piece together what he’s saying, the assistant is already pulling my sleeves up, then he’s dipping my hands into that urn. A whimper escapes my lips, even though all I feel is a brief, icy stinging before the gold covers my skin. I try not to react to the smell of my burning flesh, but my body trembles again and the sourness in my mouth intensifies as that horrible odor wafts past my nostrils.
“She is gilded,” the assistant says.
“She is duly accounted for,” the official concludes. Now he looks down his spectacles at me. “Bring pride to Otera in the coming years, alaki—both you and your uruni.”
I vomit the moment I’m led out of the hall.
There’s nothing in my stomach. Nothing but bile and dust. And that’s the only thing that saves me from the wrath of the two jatu overseeing my group when I retch violently outside the hall. My hands are still raw and stinging from the gilding, but I can already feel them healing, new skin forming under the thin sheen of gold, which, strangely, is just as supple as the skin underneath it. There really is something uncanny about the gold they used.
The shorter jatu sneers, disgusted. “Get ahold of yourself, creature.” He shoves me toward the line of hulking, prisonlike wagons waiting outside the hall.
There are twenty wagons in total, each a different color designating the different training grounds scattered on the hills at the very outer edges of Hemaira. Britta and I are headed for the forbidding red wagons waiting at the very end of the line. They’re the ones destined for the Warthu Bera. At least one hundred girls will be taken there before this night is ended. The jatu recruits are no doubt already on their way, ready to do their own initial training.
The scent of fear grows stronger the closer we get to the wagons, girls clutching each other desperately and whispering to each other—rumors, suppositions, anything they’ve heard over the course of their journey. But Britta’s mind is still on our new uruni.
“Wonder why they don’t want us to start training with them now…,” she murmurs. There’s a strange note in her voi
ce.
I glance over to find she’s tentatively pressing the gold on her hands. She hisses softly, tears flooding her eyes, and I move closer to her. “The skin under it will heal soon,” I whisper. “Everything’ll be all right, you’ll see.”
Britta inhales shakily, nods.
“Did you hear?” the red-haired girl I saw gilded whispers, drawing our attention to her. “The training grounds are going to be overseen by the okai, the emperor’s personal spies.”
“I heard that they were all female,” another replies, this one short and dark.
The memory of the smaller commander immediately flits through my mind.
“Female?” says another girl. “That can’t be possible. Whoever heard of female teachers?”
I certainly never have.
The Infinite Wisdoms forbid women from working outside the house except in service to their husbands and families. And yet there might be female teachers at the Warthu Bera—female spies.
I’ve heard of the emperor’s Shadows—everyone has. They’re the ones sent whenever the emperor needs something swiftly and silently done. It’s said that they have powers above those of normal people, that they can blend into the shadows that they are named after and strike down enemies from enormous distances. They might be our teachers? I can’t even fathom it.
Beside me, the red-haired girl shakes her head. “I heard they had no choice but to use women. Too many incidents happened with the male transporters. You saw some of the girls—”
“Britta, Asha, Adwapa, Belcalis, Deka,” the short jatu barks, reading our names from a scroll. “Move yer arses!”
I hurry along, struggling to ignore the subtle tremors still racking my body as I rush toward the wagons. The gilding wasn’t that painful, but that smell, that awful burning smell, still lingers in my nostrils, wafting up memories I would prefer stay firmly buried. As the jatu and his partner open the door to deposit us inside, I glance at Britta. She seems a little better now, some of the color returned to her face.
