by Namina Forna
The matron turns to me, a chilling expression of amusement on her face. “What’s this? The troublemaker has a friend.” Abandoning Belcalis, she walks over to me. Now I see her face close up, jaw squat and severe, nose blade-thin. Her brows furrow, those tiny eyes gleaming under them. “You have a familiar look about you,” she murmurs. “Have we met before?”
I shake my head.
“Part your lips and speak up, alaki.”
Terror dries my throat, but I somehow find the strength to swallow. “No. We’ve never met,” I rasp.
She humphs. “Very well, then,” she says. “Now, you had something to say about your friend. What was it again?”
My eyes flicker to the golden blood snaking across the stones. I remember that blood, remember how it pooled around me in the cellar….“Don’t hurt her…please,” I whisper.
I swallow to push back the darkness as the matron steps closer, strokes my neck with the weighted end of her rungu. Her tiny eyes watch me wince from the barbs. “I didn’t mean to offend,” I croak, “only to say that Belcalis is very…devout. She’s not used to being bared near others.”
“Devout?” The matron guffaws at my lie. “As if Oyomo would give His attention to any of you infernal beasts.” As I wince at this insult, she turns to Belcalis, a thin smirk slicing her lips. “And you—so your name is Belcalis. That’s good to know.”
Across the room, Belcalis shoots me a baleful glare, and alarm ripples over me. I didn’t mean it, I try to explain with my eyes.
The matron approaches her again, but this time, one of the assistants steps in front of her and respectfully bows her head. “Matron Nasra, the hour approaches. The karmokos await you.”
Matron Nasra huffs. “Very well. Ensure that the girls are all clean, especially her”—she points at Belcalis—“and give them all the closest of shaves. There will be no lice in the Warthu Bera,” she barks as she walks out.
Once she leaves, the assistant who spoke turns to the girls. “Wash yourselves, hurry now. Time grows short.” She directs another assistant toward Belcalis. “Take her to a private chamber. I’ll not have cursed gold in the water.”
The assistant bows, escorting Belcalis out. “Yes, ma’am,” she says.
When they pass me, Belcalis catches my eye. “Next time you have the urge to aid me—don’t,” she hisses.
Then she’s gone, and the rest of the girls, including me, enter the water. One of the assistants approaches with a blade and scrapes it over my head. I try not to see the curly strands of black hair falling into the water, try not to give in to the tears pricking at my eyes. I don’t even know what to think anymore. Exhaustion, emotion, the gilding…they all overwhelm me now, making me teary-eyed with confusion.
But I will survive it all, I remind myself sternly. I will survive this and whatever else happens next.
Oyomo, help me endure it.
In less than an hour, I’m clean and clothed in scratchy green robes and leather sandals. I’m also as bald as all the other girls subjected to the assistants’ razors. If I ever had any doubts about my new status, they were erased the moment my hair was tossed into the furnace like it was nothing. The Infinite Wisdoms state that a woman’s hair is her greatest pride, the source of her grace and beauty.
Now none of the girls here has any.
As of this moment, I’m truly nothing more than a demon, my last claim to femininity stripped away. The realization roils inside me, a nausea that builds as the matrons and their assistants usher us down the building’s warrenlike corridors into a massive central hall. A line of girls is waiting there, each one clothed in leather armor and bearing wooden swords. Like ours, their hair was shaved clean, but it’s regrown to nape-length for most. I suppose that means they’ve been here a few months at least.
These must be the girls who were sent here before us, the older alaki.
At the very front stands a trio of unmasked women, the red and gold banner of the Warthu Bera rising proudly behind them. My eyes are immediately drawn to the woman in the middle. She has dark-brown skin, powerfully muscled arms, and a stern, unflinching gaze. Most striking of all is the bright red clay that daubs the intricate braids coiled around her head. It’s immediately familiar, as is the woman’s silhouette.
The silent commander from Jor Hall!
It’s her—only now she’s unmasked and wearing dark green robes, a large golden pin at her shoulder. On it is the eclipse symbol from the archway. Where have I seen it before? The question niggles at me.
I have to force myself not to look down when she steps forward and raises her hand in salute. Around me, other girls do the same, pained expressions in their eyes. This is probably the first time they’re seeing so many unmasked women too.
“Hail, our honored alaki neophytes,” the stern woman calls out.
“Hail!” the armored girls echo her, their voices a single, powerful entity.
Chills rush through me at the sound.
The stern woman continues talking, her booming voice echoing through the hall: “On behalf of His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Gezo the Fifth, honored sovereign and ruler of the One Kingdom, our beloved Otera, I bid you welcome to the Warthu Bera.”
“Welcome!” the armored girls repeat.
“I am Karmoko Thandiwe,” the woman says, “head instructor at the Warthu Bera, the glorious training house in which you stand. Refer to me with any other title, or mispronounce my name, and I will cut out your tongue for your insolence and put it in a jar to keep me company.”
At her words, the atmosphere chills and girls look at each other, frightened. I silently try to sear her name’s pronunciation into my memory: Than-DEE-way, Than-DEE-way.
Karmoko Thandiwe continues her speech. “To my left is Karmoko Calderis.”
She motions, and a brunette of almost bearlike proportions lumbers forward and examines us with the single bright blue eye not covered by a leather eye patch. The eclipse pin gleams at her shoulder as well.
“She will serve as your weapons master in the coming months.” Karmoko Thandiwe motions again, and Karmoko Calderis steps back with a curt nod.
“To my right is Karmoko Huon,” Karmoko Thandiwe says.
A small, kind-looking woman with pale skin and dark eyes steps forward. Her black hair cascades like a river down her back, tiny jeweled flowers adorning it. She doesn’t seem like a warrior at all, and her gentle smile as she nods at us only reinforces this impression. She also wears the eclipse pin, and when she absently strokes a finger over it, my heart beats faster, though I don’t know why.
“She will serve as your combat master,” Karmoko Thandiwe says.
The kind-looking woman steps back, her dark eyes glancing almost tentatively over us. Again, I silently wonder how this woman was chosen to become our combat master. She’s like a butterfly, so delicate and beautiful, you could crush her if you weren’t careful.
Karmoko Thandiwe continues: “From now until such time as you leave the Warthu Bera, we, your karmokos, your teachers, will serve as your guides. Each of us standing before you has served as a Shadow, the deadliest of His Imperial Majesty’s assassins. We have all earned notable places in the Heraldry of Shadows, the book that lists the exploits of our kind—the book that sits here, in the famed Warthu Bera, the House of Women.
“We are proud to have been trained within these very walls, and are even prouder to give you the same honor. From now until you leave this training ground, you will work harder and feel more pain than you have ever felt in your life, until we mold you from the weak, useless girls that you are into warriors—defenders of Otera. ‘Conquer or Die.’ This is our motto here.”
My eyebrows gather. Warriors? Defenders? Are the karmokos certain they’re talking about us? I peer at Karmoko Huon again, trying to imagine her as a deadly assassin. If she of all people can be a warrior, perhaps the same i
s possible for—
Something is coming….
The unwelcome premonition tingles under my skin, and I stiffen. “Britta,” I rasp, my breathing shallow as I turn to my friend. Does she feel it too—heightened awareness, panic crawling up her spine?
Do the other girls?
They all seem calm, but they have no idea what’s about to happen. I remember all too keenly what happened at the village the last time I felt this way. The blood, the fear, the bodies littering the snow…
“Wha is it?” Britta whispers back.
“Deathshrieks,” I whisper. “They’re here.”
“Wha do ye mean, here?”
As Britta glances around, panicked, Karmoko Thandiwe walks toward us, her eyes stern. “You have all heard of deathshrieks, yes?”
Around me, the girls nod their heads.
“Have any of you encountered them before?” When the girls nod timidly again, Karmoko Thandiwe bellows, “Open your mouths and use your tongues! The correct response is ‘Yes, Karmoko!’ ”
I nearly jump out of my skin, her voice is so powerful. I’ve never heard a woman speak like that, never heard such authority coming from a female throat. My heart beats even faster as I reply along with the others. “Yes, Karmoko,” I rasp, my throat raw.
“Louder!” she commands.
“Yes, Karmoko!”
“Better.” She nods. She glances at the girls who raised their hands. “Consider yourselves most fortunate to have encountered such monstrosities and survived. For the rest of you, allow me to even the score.”
Even the score? What score?
Karmoko Thandiwe gestures, and the older girls march toward us, footsteps steady and sure.
“Step back, neophytes!” the one at the front, a short, slim girl with the black hair and light-brown skin of the mid-Eastern provinces, calls. She has a jagged scar all the way down the side of her cheek, old but harshly puckered. I wince at the sight. It’s probably from the time before she became an alaki. “Move back! Move back!” she shouts.
I hurriedly do as I’m told, shuffling backward until soon, I’m at the very edges of the room with the other neophytes. The older girls spread into a single line before us—a barrier, keeping us firmly in place.
By now, my palms are sweating, and my heart is beating so fast, it feels like it’ll leap out of my chest. They can’t really mean to bring deathshrieks here, can they? I thought Captain Kelechi said we would encounter them on the raids. What if those monsters escape—attack us the way the ones in Irfut did? What if I react the same way I did before, my eyes changing color, that demonic voice emerging from my throat?
I whimper, the thought of everyone witnessing it almost too much to bear.
Who knows what the karmokos would do to someone like me—someone with abilities beyond what is common for an ordinary alaki.
I swallow back the thought as Karmoko Thandiwe gestures to Matron Nasra, and the matron presses a small, circular metal structure in the wall. A low rumbling rises as the floor slides apart, revealing a dark subterranean cave, a stone staircase leading to a group of iron cages arranged in its center. Muffled, inhuman grunts sound from those cages, mist clouding around them. My entire body stills, my fears now confirmed. There are deathshrieks underneath the Warthu Bera, and the karmokos intend to bring them up.
The scarred girl walks with a group of the older girls down the stairs, heading toward the largest cage, where an ominous sound rises: the rattling of chains. Sharp, predatory black eyes gleam inside the cage, the outline of a gaunt, gigantic figure barely visible in the shadows. A deathshriek, chains binding it.
My heart hammers, teeth clench, sweat pours rivers down my back.
Britta shifts closer to me. “It’s all right, Deka,” she whispers, “I’m right here.”
I nod, inhale deeply for courage as I return my attention to what’s happening in the cavern below. The deathshriek still hasn’t come out, and the scarred girl is getting impatient.
“Get it out,” she commands the others.
They quickly do as they’re told, a tall, dark-skinned girl darting forward and opening the cage door while the others wait, swords drawn. Strangely, the deathshriek makes no movement. What is it doing? Why is it just standing there? My muscles go taut from the tension.
Finally, the scarred girl has had enough. She darts inside the cage, tugs at one of the deathshriek’s chains.
With a muffled howl of outrage, the deathshriek lunges for her, the quills in its pale silver fur a whirlwind of motion, black eyes slitted with fury. But the scarred girl and the others don’t jerk back or flee. Instead, they grab its chains, then use inhuman strength to force it up the stairs until it’s just before Karmoko Thandiwe, who casually flips it to the ground, then slams her foot into its throat, pressing harder and harder until it slumps unconscious.
Astonishment has taken me by the throat, so it’s some minutes before I remember how close that deathshriek is, remember what can happen when I’m in the presence of one. I turn to Britta, alarmed. “Is there anything wrong with my eyes?” I ask.
She peers down at me, frowns. “No, is there supposed to be?”
Relief coursing through my veins, I shake my head and face forward again just as Karmoko Thandiwe removes her foot and points to the unconscious deathshriek.
“This is a deathshriek, the enemy that is now invading the One Kingdom,” she states. “Your natural enemy. All across Otera, deathshrieks hunt your kind, but here in the Warthu Bera, you will learn how to withstand them—their cries, their infernal strength and speed. You will learn how to transform from the hunted to the hunter—how to train harder, more ruthlessly, until you become the best, the most fearsome warriors in all of the emperor’s alaki regiment.
“Then, when you have served the emperor for twenty years each, you will be rewarded with the Rite of Purification, a sacred ceremony by the high priests to cleanse you of your demonic blood.” She looks across the room now, her eyes pinning each and every one of us in place as she declares, “You will be pure again.”
Pure…Breath catches in my throat.
The next twenty years can’t pass quickly enough.
Around me, whispers sound, exclamations of joy and relief. “Did you hear that?” a girl near me says, gaping. Katya, I think her name is. She’s the one from the line to the wagons, red hair so bright, it looked like a fire springing from her head. Now she’s as bald as the rest of us, even her eyebrows shorn from her face. “We’re going to be pure. Truly pure,” she exclaims.
She looks almost as excited as I feel. Even though Karmoko Thandiwe has just repeated the same sentiments Captain Kelechi did, something about her delivery set a fire in me. Or perhaps it’s the fact it was a woman who said them.
Not everyone is as impressed, however. Adwapa manages to somehow seem bored as she murmurs: “Well, that’s a relief.” Being already bald, she was spared the indignity of a shearing, but her sister Asha’s head now also gleams when she nods in agreement beside her.
Karmoko Thandiwe holds up her hand for silence, and the hall quiets.
“Look to your left,” she commands. We quickly obey. “Now to your right.” Again, we obey her words. “Standing on either side of you are your sisters—both in blood and in arms. Bloodsisters. They will live and die with you on the battlefield. They are your family now. Is this understood?”
It takes me a moment to realize she means for us to answer. “Yes, Karmoko Thandiwe,” I reply, joining the chorus of voices.
“Now look to your elder bloodsisters, the novices.” She points to the armored girls. “From now on, you will refer to them always as ‘honored elder bloodsister.’ They have been here for a year now. They will show you the way.” As we nod, she turns to face us once again. “I would have you understand one thing. Of all the thousands of alaki who have come to Hemaira, you a
re the hundred most talented—the fastest, the strongest, the most deadly. Most of you were noted by your village elders before you underwent the Ritual, or as you tried, futilely, to escape your fates. You all showed promise. Strength, cunning, resilience—much more than the average alaki. That is why you were chosen.”
I suddenly remember Britta telling me how she was so strong she could almost lift a cow, remember White Hands marveling at all the times I’d died and been resurrected.
“Remember this well,” the karmoko warns, “because you are here for one purpose and one purpose only. In ten months precisely, the emperor will go on campaign against the deathshrieks, and he has chosen the alaki who will lead the charge.”
She glances around the room, her eyes deadly serious.
“You will be at the forefront of the emperor’s armies,” she declares. “You will ride into battle and fight for the glory of Otera, and you will win the war against the deathshrieks or you will die trying—however many times that may take.”
In the aftermath of Karmoko Thandiwe’s speech, silence descends over the hall.
My breath comes in short, ragged bursts, her words ringing in my ears. Win the war against the deathshrieks…The forefront of the emperor’s armies…My hands shake, and I clasp them together. Knowing the bargain I agreed to is one thing. Actually being here, seeing the deathshrieks hidden underneath my feet—the monsters I will one day fight against—is another.
I barely see the novices hefting the unconscious deathshriek and returning it to its cage, barely notice as Matron Nasra closes the floor behind them, then bows deferentially to the karmokos. Only when Karmoko Thandiwe nods at us do I return my attention to the present. That’s when I see something strange. The karmoko is staring right at me, a peculiar look in her eyes. It’s almost as if she recognizes me. The expression is gone before I can blink, but I know my eyes weren’t deceiving me.
You have a familiar look about you….Matron Nasra’s words ring in my head.
As if my mind summoned her, the matron walks to the front of the hall and claps her hands for attention. “All right, neophytes, move it along. Time for dinner!” she bellows.
