The Gilded Ones

by Namina Forna

  “Any better?” I ask.

  She nods as the short jatu locks the door securely behind us. “Loaded!” the tall one shouts, banging the roof.

  “Proceed!” the short one shouts.

  “Proceed!” the tall one echoes, banging again.

  The wagon lurches into action, rattling onto the street. As we head away from Jor Hall, I glance around the wagon’s interior. There are three other girls here with us. Two of them are twins—both so midnight dark I know immediately that they must be Nibari, a fiercely independent tribe that lives in the mountains of the remotest Southern provinces. It must be a very unfortunate series of events that brought them here. The Nibari are fiercely loyal to each other, and Mother once told me that they don’t really worship Oyomo, only some secret god they have kept from the time before the many tribes became the One Kingdom.

  Even more alarming is our last passenger, the proud girl. She huddles as far away from the rest of us as she possibly can, black hair wild around her face as she fixes that determined gaze upon the grated door separating us from the outside world. Perhaps she’s already regretting her decision to stay.

  There’s no escape, I want to tell her. Even if metal grating wasn’t barring the door, there would also be the jatu to deal with. There’s a contingent of them assigned to each caravan of wagons, and all of them are the ones specially trained to deal with alaki. I wouldn’t even be surprised if there were some recruits among their number, riding along to accompany their new “sisters.” I have to swallow back the bitterness that rises at the thought.

  The wagon rattles on, its wheels loud against the cobblestones. Despite this, the silence is deafening—as is the tension that swirls around us, as smothering as smoke. Britta squirms beside me. She’s one of those people who hate awkward silences—or any silence, for that matter.

  “Well, here we are,” she says, summoning her most cheerful smile. When everyone’s eyes turn to her, she shifts uncomfortably but gamely soldiers on. “Anyone have any idea wha’s waitin’ for us when we get there? Other than the recruits, that is.” She laughs nervously at this painful attempt at a joke.

  “Do you think this is a game?” the proud girl snaps, aquiline features whipping, hawklike, toward Britta. “Do you think that we’re off to court, to learn how to be proper maidens and do needlework?” The girl leans closer, a sneer on her face. “We’re monsters, and they’re going to treat us like monsters. They’re going to use us, bleed us, and when they’re done, they’re going to find whatever our final deaths are and execute us one by one.”

  She leans back against her seat, scoffing. “Uruni—can you believe the lies? More like spies, here to ensure we don’t step one foot out of line or run off during the raids.” She turns hardened eyes to Britta. “The sooner you understand that, the better off you are.”

  Britta reddens, tears springing to her eyes, and anger abruptly swells inside me. Who is this girl to speak so harshly to Britta? And today of all days, after everything we’ve just endured, after all the humiliations. Why attack the one person trying to make things better?

  I turn to the proud girl. “You don’t have to do that—you don’t have to scare her,” I say.

  Eyes the color of midnight glance at me. “I don’t? You may be under illusions of what this is, being partnered with Recruit Keita and all,” she sneers mockingly, “but I’m not, and I would prefer to prepare myself in silence.”

  Heat blazes over me before I even notice it. “Who I’m partnered with has nothing to do with my feelings,” I snap. “And, to be clear, you chose this, same as us. You had a choice, and you decided to remain here.”

  “No,” the proud girl says. “I chose to escape the Death Mandate, if only for a few more days. I chose to survive, rather than be executed the moment I walked out that door. Don’t mistake my decision for anything more.”

  “Oh, please, we all chose to escape the Death Mandate,” an annoyed voice interrupts.

  When we turn, two pairs of eyes are watching us, irritation plain in them. The taller twin’s bald head gleams in the darkness of the wagon as she drawls, “That’s the path we all chose. Whether we were forced or not doesn’t matter. We’re here now. We make the best of it or we die, simple as that.”

  I’m surprised she spoke on my behalf. Northerners and Southerners never fare well together, and my accent very clearly marks me as a Northerner despite my appearance. Perhaps she doesn’t care about the grudge between the northern and southern provinces.

  I can only hope everyone else here feels the same.

  She and her sister seem older than us—perhaps eighteen or so—although she’s much fiercer-looking than her shorter, smaller sister, whose black hair is braided in tiny rows down her back. When she shrugs, moonlight dances across the intricate scars on her cheeks and shoulders. My heart tightens in recognition. Those are tribal scars, probably carved well before her blood turned and the cursed gold began healing all wounds. The Southern tribes use them to mark their members. Mother had two on each cheek.

  “Then let’s make the best of it by becoming friends,” Britta says. The others turn to her, and she shrinks inward for a moment. Then she stiffens her shoulders. “Or allies, l-leastways,” she stammers. “True ones, I mean, not like our new partnerships.”

  I can’t help but admire her for her bravery. “Britta’s right,” I say. “We are all going to a place we don’t know to face horrors we cannot imagine. We could bear it alone.” A dark cellar. Golden blood on stones. “Or we could band together, help each other. Britta’s helped me before. I slept through our entire journey across the sea, and she ate my food so others would not start asking questions about me—about how I could survive without eating.”

  “Must have been such a sacrifice for you.” The proud girl’s eyes examine Britta’s plump form dismissively. “A few days of feasting to your heart’s content.”

  Her sarcasm prickles me. “It was four weeks,” I say coldly. “Almost a month.”

  Now her eyes widen. “A month?” she gasps.

  The Nibari are shocked as well. “A month?” the taller one muses. “You look healthy for not having eaten for a month.”

  The smaller one nods in agreement but still does not speak. I’m starting to wonder if she can.

  “I don’t think our kind dies of starvation,” I reply.

  “We don’t.” The grim expression in the proud girl’s eyes says she knows this from experience. “We do, however, show its ill effects. Our ability to heal goes only so far, and we need food to fuel it.” She looks me up and down. “Your hair is full, and your body isn’t thin. Your skin’s unwrinkled, and you don’t have sores around your mouth. How long ago were you starved?”

  As I try to remember, Britta leans forward. “She still hasn’t eaten.”

  I blink, startled to realize she’s right. When last did I eat—or even have a drink? I try to pin down the day, but my memories shift away, the same way they’ve been doing since my time in the cellar.

  The proud girl’s lips curl into a sneer. “You’re unnatural,” she says, disgusted.

  As I wince at the word, the shorter Nibari rustles beside me and turns to the proud girl. “We all are—you as well,” she sniffs. Like her sister, she has shrewd eyes and a defiant expression. Ritual scars also cover her cheeks and shoulders. “How else do you think you tossed away all those guards in Jor Hall? What human woman do you know who possesses such strength?”

  The girl stiffens. “Of course I know—”

  “Can’t sneer at someone else for being unnatural when you’re considered exactly the same by other people,” the shorter Nibari interrupts.

  “All the more reason we should band together,” Britta announces, extending her hand out to the twins. “I’m Britta,” she says.

  The twins look at her hand, then at each other. The taller, bald one takes it first. �
��I’m Adwapa, first daughter of Tabelo, high chief of the Nibari.”

  “And I’m Asha, second daughter of Tabelo, high chief of the Nibari,” the shorter one says, braids swinging as she nods.

  When both turn to me, I extend my hand as well. “Deka of Irfut,” I say, clasping each of their hands in turn.

  “Well met,” they intone together.

  We all turn to the proud girl. At first she just looks at us, disgusted. Finally, she sighs and rolls her eyes. “Very well. I am Belcalis of Hualpa,” she says, naming a far Western city near the border to the Unknown Lands.

  “Well met,” we all say.

  “This does not make us friends,” she snarls.

  Britta’s broad smile exposes the dimple in her left cheek. “But it does make us allies.”

  I nod. “Let us watch each other’s backs and aid each other as much as possible.”

  This stipulation seems to calm Belcalis. “As much as possible,” she says, then adds, “but understand this: I will flee this hellhole as soon as possible.”

  Britta’s brows gather. “Don’t ye want to be pure, then? ‘Blessed are the meek an’ subservient, the humble and true daughters of man, for they are unsullied in the face of the Infinite Father.’ That’s wha the Infinite Wisdoms say.”

  Belcalis rolls her eyes. “You actually believe those lies? Purity is an illusion. So is absolution and anything you read in those cursed books. You’d think you fools would understand that by now.”

  My jaw nearly drops. I’ve never heard anyone talk about the Infinite Wisdoms that way before, much less about purity. I quickly glance upward, sending a quick prayer for forgiveness from the Infinite Father. Please, please, please don’t punish us for this, I beg.

  I turn to the others. “Perhaps we should pray,” I suggest.

  “If you’re so moved,” Adwapa says with a shrug. It’s clear she has no intention of doing so. Neither does her sister or Belcalis. Is there something about the Southern provinces that makes people defy the Infinite Father so?

  I don’t want any part of it. I don’t want any part of anything that could lead back to that cellar—back to all that blood, that pain…

  I’m relieved when Britta squeezes closer. “I’ll pray with ye, Deka,” she says, reaching out her hand.

  “Thank you,” I whisper as I take it.

  We silently pray together as we begin making our way toward the edges of the capital.

  * * *

  Our destination, as it turns out, is a series of isolated hills at the very outskirts of the city, just next to the wall. Night has fallen, so an oppressive gloom engulfs the caravan of alaki wagons threading toward the hill. Despite the darkness, I see everything perfectly: the large red building at the top of the highest hill, its windows as small as pinpricks, its walls slick and red. There’s an imposing, almost ominous feeling about it, but that’s the way it’s designed. Those walls, those tiny windows—they’re as much to keep the inhabitants inside as they are to keep others out. This must be the Warthu Bera, our new training ground.

  My mouth slackens at the sheer size of it. Those rolling hills, the lake in the middle—the Warthu Bera is large enough to house a village. In fact, it’s very much like a village, all those smaller buildings surrounding the big one at the very top. The only difference is, everything here is built for war. If I squint, I can see what looks like a sandpit in the distance and sharpened spikes jutting from the depths of the surrounding moat. I don’t have to ask to know they’re there for any alaki who thinks of escaping using that route. Lookout towers thrust from the walls, all of them swarming with armored jatu. Our new captors. Keita and the others may claim that we’re soldiers with choices, but I know better. Even regular soldiers are punished for desertion, and we’re as far from regular as can be.

  It’s an unpleasant thought, so I try to push it away as the gate opens and we cross the bridge to begin our ascent. Finally, we reach the courtyard of the largest building, where orange-robed middle-aged women are lined up beside a statue of Emperor Gezo. Shock jolts me when I realize they’re all unmasked, their heads uncovered. Even more worrying, they have what look like short wooden walking sticks sheathed at their sides. I turn my eyes away, overwhelmed by the sight.

  Are these the women who are going to train us?

  My tension builds, the blood prickling under my skin, as the wagons roll to a stop. “Dismount!” The cry echoes from jatu to jatu. “Release the alaki!”

  When keys click in the wagon’s lock, Britta and I look at each other one last time.

  “Be strong,” she whispers to me, her face pale in the darkness.

  “You too,” I whisper back.

  It’s still warm outside when we exit the carriage, joining the mass of girls gathered in the courtyard. Temperatures don’t plunge here the way they do in the North, it seems. The air is moist and tinged with a sharp, metallic odor. I don’t have to inhale deeply to know that it’s blood—cursed gold. After my months in the cellar, I can recognize the scent with barely a whiff.

  My tension rises when a robust matron with a formidable chest separates herself from the group. She almost resembles a bull, all jutting brows and beady little eyes. I look down, unnerved by the sight of her unmasked face, and that’s when I notice the small, sunlike tattoo on the back of her hand, its bright red color immediately distinguishable. A gasp wrenches itself from my throat. The red sun. The emblem of the temple maidens, those unmarried women unfortunate enough to be bound into service to temples and other places of worship.

  Now I understand why all these women are revealed, their faces unmasked even in the presence of the jatu. They aren’t our new teachers, they’re the women serving them.

  “Follow me, neophytes!” the matron barks, walking into the building.

  I’ve never heard the word neophytes before, but I know she must be talking about us. I fall into line behind the other girls from the wagons, following her through the massive archway. There’s that eclipsed-sun symbol on the largest stone above the entrance, although it’s beaten and weathered. A frown furrows my brow. Something about the weathering has changed the symbol, made it seem more familiar, like I’ve seen it somewhere other than on the Warthu Bera’s seal before.

  But where?

  “Hurry it along!” the matron bellows, rushing us down the steps into the bowels of the building, to an underground bathing chamber consisting of a series of tiled baths.

  Assistants in yellow robes stand beside each bath, thin towels and sharpened razors at their sides. My heartbeat doubles at the sight of them.

  “Disrobe!” the bull-like matron barks.

  As we all turn, startled by the command, she fingers the hilt of the stick strapped to her side. We take off our clothes, all of us doing so swiftly to ensure we aren’t seen. My cheeks heat, my eyes dart to the floor, the ceiling—anywhere but to the other girls’ bodies. Even then, I catch glimpses: bodies of all sizes and shapes, some covered in hair, others smooth except for the hair on their heads—a few like the Nibari, with tribal scars or tattoos from the time before their blood changed into cursed gold.

  I’m stunned by how different the other girls’ bodies are. Mother and I were never welcomed in the women’s baths in Irfut, so she’s the only woman I’ve ever seen fully naked before, her body dark and shapely like mine. Soon, only one girl remains clothed.

  Belcalis.

  She wraps her arms around her body, a defiant gesture despite the uncertainty, the shame, now flickering in her eyes.

  The matron walks over to her and lifts her chin with the butt of her whip. “I heard it said there was a troublemaker among you,” she says in a heavily accented voice, R’s and L’s rolling like waves across her tongue. “It must be you. Tell me, alaki, why do you refuse to heed my order?”

  “I don’t wish to disrobe,” Belcalis grits out.

&nbs
p; “A modest one, are you?” the matron sneers.

  “If it pleases you.”

  “It pleases me for you to disrobe!”

  I hear the stick before I see it, a low whooping sound through the air, just as its weighted hilt cracks into Belcalis’s back. She lets out a hollow, gasping sound as she falls to the floor, golden blood spurting down her back. Air catches in my throat. That walking stick isn’t a stick, it’s a rungu—a club soldiers throw at opponents. I’ve seen one in action before, witnessed Father practicing with it and the many other weapons he kept from his time in the army. His, however, didn’t have barbs on the weighted end for ripping into flesh and bone the way the matron’s does.

  So this is how they will keep us in line.

  The matron walks over, puts her foot on Belcalis’s back, presses her deeper into the floor. Belcalis grunts in pain, but the matron doesn’t move her foot. She just smirks down at her, a chilling look in her eyes.

  “Insolent beast,” she sneers, ripping the rungu out.

  I clap my hands over my mouth, stomach lurching as more golden blood goes spurting into the air. The sight of all that blood is sickening, but even worse is what’s underneath: a mass of scars, each one layered so thickly across Belcalis’s back, even the rungu’s barbs couldn’t penetrate completely. Now I understand why she seems so defiant, why she doesn’t retreat when threatened by authority. She’s used to being beaten, bled—even starved. Her exposed ribs, gaunt spine, and flat, removed expression all tell a story, one of unspeakable horror.

  Is that the way I looked in the cellar—that detachment, that resignation?

  The matron grows impatient. She strokes the rungu again. “You will not listen, alaki?” she sneers. “You will not follow the path? Then I suppose I will just have to beat you across it.” She raises the stick again, and Belcalis flinches.

  It’s a broken, ugly movement.

  “No!” I gasp before I can stop myself. “Please don’t hurt her.”