The Gilded Ones

by Namina Forna

  “Is this what birds feel like?” Britta shouts excitedly. “No wonder they never wanted us to run.”

  And I stumble, the reminder as piercing as an arrow. The Infinite Wisdoms forbid running, as they do most things that don’t prepare girls for marriage and serving their families. Girls can’t shout, drink, ride horses, go to school, learn a trade, learn to fight, move about without a male guardian—we can’t do anything that doesn’t somehow relate to having a husband and family and serving them. Elder Durkas always told us that’s because they’re trying to show us how to live happy, righteous lives.

  What if they were meant to cage us instead?

  I force the thought back, guilt flooding through me. The way of the faithful is trust and submission—how many times has Elder Durkas told us that? I may not understand it now, but Oyomo has a greater plan for me. All I have to do is submit and have faith.

  Even though I’m here, doing things that go against the teachings, I have to believe that Oyomo understands my heart, that he sees I’m trying my best to be faithful.

  I will submit. I will be faithful.

  I won’t think any more dangerous thoughts….

  Gazal finally leads the way back to the courtyard. The moment we reach it, I buckle to the ground, suddenly too exhausted to remain standing any longer. The others do the same, but they’re laughing and giggling as well, savoring the discovery they’ve just made, the joy they’ve just felt. The joy I’m still trying to forget.

  Oyomo, forgive me. Oyomo, forgive me.

  It’s not right, the euphoria I felt while running. I must cast it from my thoughts.

  I’m almost grateful when Gazal glares at us with her usual cold expression, distracting me. “That’s enough for this morning’s warm-up, neophytes,” she says. “Make your way back to your rooms. You have twenty minutes to clean yourselves and change into the clothes you have been given, then ten more for breakfast. Lessons start promptly.”

  That’s the only information she gives before we hurry back to our rooms.

  “Look, there’s Jeneba,” Britta says, pointing to the cheerful Southern novice as we stream outside later in the morning.

  By now, I’ve washed, dressed, and eaten the breakfast of oats and honey the assistants set out for us. The accompanying sausages I gave to Britta, since the smell of them turned my stomach.

  I don’t think I can eat meat anymore.

  “Ye wanted to ask her about the Heraldry, remember?” Britta says before hurrying toward her. “Honored Elder Bloodsister Jeneba! Honored Elder Bloodsister Jeneba!”

  Jeneba turns toward us. “Neophyte Britta,” she says. “Is something the matter?”

  “No, just got a question for ye, Honored Elder Bloodsister. The Heraldry…where is it?”

  “In the Hall of Records next to the library on the upper floor.” She pauses, glances at Britta. “Was it your mother or grandmother who was a Shadow?”

  “Mother—possibly,” I say, drawing her attention to me.

  One of her eyebrows raises. “So it’s for you, Neophyte Deka. How intriguing. Well, good fortune to you getting there.” When Britta and I glance at her, confused, she explains: “Neophytes are allowed into the library only on free days, and you get those only after the first three weeks are ended. So again, good fortune to you, neophyte.”

  The moment she’s gone, I whirl to Britta, horrified. “Three weeks? I can’t wait that long.” Who knows what will happen between now and then? What if we start training with deathshrieks? The novices told us at breakfast that they didn’t do so until their third month at the Warthu Bera, but that was because they were training only for raids against local deathshriek nests.

  Now that the deathshriek migration is upon us, everybody’s preparing for the campaign, which means we’ll be trained even more intensely than they were. I wouldn’t be surprised if we had to spar with deathshrieks starting this week.

  “There has to be another way—there has to!” I say to Britta, panic rising. What if my eyes change color in their presence again? What if someone sees, exposes me?

  Dread chokes me as I think of what could happen: the karmokos forcing me into the caverns beneath the Warthu Bera to conduct tests the way the elders did back in Irfut, the jatu dragging me away to be executed again and again. I can’t do that again, I can’t! I have to learn about Mother, find some method to control whatever ability is growing inside me.

  Right now, the Heraldry is the only hope I have.

  I try to calm my thoughts as Britta replies: “There will be, Deka. We just have to search for it. Besides, isn’t it a good thing ye can sense deathshrieks?”

  I still. “What?”

  “Think of how useful it’ll be when we go on raids an’ such. It could be very valuable. We could use it on raids, sense the deathshrieks before they even appear. It might give us the advantage.” Britta shrugs, completely unaware she’s just upended my entire worldview.

  Valuable…

  All this time, I’ve been terrified of my ability. But what if it’s a useful weapon—a sword to unsheathe when the situation requires? And Britta saw so easily what I could not, accepted so easily what even my own family couldn’t.

  Tears sear my eyes and I blink them back.

  I watch as she continues: “Perhaps instead of tryin’ to hide it, ye should try to master it. Control it.”

  “You have a point,” I finally manage to say.

  “I do, don’t I?” She seems very pleased with herself. “Let’s find out wha we can about yer mother, an’ then we can start training it…after we finish these first few weeks, that is.” She pulls me onward, following the line of other girls.

  Our first lesson for the day is in a small, plain wooden building that sits in the middle of the hill. The sun has only just begun to stretch itself in the sky, but it’s already hot when we enter. Karmoko Huon is waiting for us, cross-legged on a reed mat, a pale-yellow half mask covering her from forehead to nose. This morning, she’s wearing a pretty blue robe embroidered with pink flowers, and her hair is held up by an ornate jeweled comb. A pair of heavily armed jatu stands behind her, arms folded menacingly.

  “Find your seats, neophytes,” she says in her soft, calm voice, pointing at the reed mats that have been laid out in two orderly rows.

  Britta and I look at each other, then quickly do as we’re told, dipping a knee in greeting to her before hurrying to the mats at the very back, along with the twins, Katya, and Belcalis. As I settle into a kneel, I’m dimly aware of Gazal glowering at us from the shadows, where a few other novices have taken their seats. There are about five or six of them, but Gazal and Jeneba are the only ones I recognize.

  Karmoko Huon claps her hands. “Welcome to your first combat class, neophytes,” she says. “I am Karmoko Huon, and I will teach you to use your body as a weapon. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She bows formally to us.

  We all look at her, unsure of how to reply to this new greeting.

  “Bow to the karmoko!” Gazal barks.

  When we quickly try to comply, fumbling in our attempt, Karmoko Huon holds up her hand. “I think, Gazal,” she says, amused, “you have to demonstrate first.” She turns to us. “Like this,” she says, touching her head to the floor. “This is how you greet your karmokos when you are on the mat. Now you try.”

  We quickly replicate the bow.

  Karmoko Huon’s mouth quirks. “Good. Not perfect, but good.”

  We turn to each other, relieved. “At least we didna completely disgrace ourselves,” Britta whispers to me out the corner of her mouth.

  I suddenly wonder whether the recruits are having the same troubles we are. Not likely.

  A memory of Keita’s sword-calloused hands rises, and I shiver it away, turn back to Karmoko Huon as she gracefully rises. “Now, then,” she says decisively. “In order t
o engage in combat, you must first know your forms. Forms are battle stances—each one a tiny part of the dance you will soon become intimately familiar with. The dance of death.”

  My eyes narrow. A dance? How is a dance going to help us fight deathshrieks?

  On the other side of me, Adwapa scoffs under her breath, “Dance of death. She’s going to get us killed, this one.”

  A hairpin slams into the wall behind her, something pinned underneath it. A piece of flesh, golden blood still dripping from it. Adwapa turns, sees it, and her eyes widen with shock.

  “My ear!” she gasps, holding her left ear. The top half of it is gone.

  Karmoko Huon smiles mildly, rearranging the portion of her hair that’s now fallen from the rest of her pins. For the first time, there’s a look of steel in her gaze, the power hidden behind that ornamental exterior. She calmly stretches out her hand toward Adwapa. “I seem to have lost my hairpin, neophyte. Can you fetch it for me?”

  Clutching her bleeding ear, Adwapa slowly retrieves the pin, then, trembling, hands it to Karmoko Huon. The karmoko smiles gratefully and dismisses her with a nod. Once Adwapa has returned to her seat, Karmoko Huon turns to the rest of the class. “Shall we continue?”

  “Yes, Karmoko,” we quickly say, still in shock.

  Karmoko Huon nods, rises. “I shall now demonstrate the first form.”

  She plants her feet apart and shifts her weight so it’s concentrated on her lower body. When she spreads her arms in a graceful but precise movement, her expression stern, something inside me trembles. Karmoko Huon reminds me of White Hands: pretty on the outside, deadly on the inside.

  “In the Immovable Earth form, you are centered, at your most powerful,” she says. “You are in the perfect position to attack, or evade.” She demonstrates quickly, her movements precise but fluid. “I will show you.”

  She beckons to the larger of the two jatu behind her—a hulking beast of a man—then bows formally when he approaches. He quickly bows as well.

  He launches into an attack, and we all watch, rapt. How will the karmoko handle this head-on attack? To my surprise, Karmoko Huon flips him onto his back before he can even touch her, then twists his wrist to an odd and painful angle.

  “Yield! I yield!” the jatu cries out, his eyes bulging from the pain.

  The karmoko tuts, but her eyes are as cold as icicles. “First lesson, neophytes: alaki do not yield. You conquer or you die. For an alaki—for any warrior—death should be a familiar friend, an old partner you greet before you step onto the battlefield. Do not fear it, do not shy from it. Embrace it, tame it to your will. That is why we always say ‘We who are dead salute you’ to our commanders before we ride off into battle.”

  A strange, uneasy feeling builds inside my gut. Death should be a familiar friend….I can barely fathom the concept.

  Karmoko Huon finally releases the jatu’s hand and bows to him again. “My thanks for your aid,” she says sweetly. The burly man gives a pained nod, then limps off, wincing.

  By now, we’re all quiet, tense. Karmoko Huon turns to us. “Do you know why I chose to demonstrate that move with him, neophytes?” she asks.

  We shake our heads slowly.

  “Because I wanted to show you that size does not matter,” she explains. “No opponent is infallible, no matter how big he is. Deathshrieks may be bigger, but no matter how frightening they seem, how intimidating they may be, you are just as strong, just as fast—especially when you enter the combat state, which you experienced this morning when you ran and your senses became heightened, your reflexes sharpened.

  “We will explore this more as time goes on. For now, let us continue the lesson.”

  “Raise your lazy arses, neophytes!”

  I don’t need this aggressively shouted reminder. Two and a half weeks in, the schedule is second nature to me now, so I’m already washed and dressed by the time Jeneba comes to lead us to the courtyard. The recruits are waiting there, the leather armor on their bodies gleaming under the flickering light of the torches.

  I blink, startled by the sight.

  We haven’t seen the recruits since the day we were matched in Jor Hall. Heard them training, of course, their voices carrying over the wall. But even on lunar days, when we all have a full afternoon to ourselves, we haven’t crossed paths—not that I expected it. Unlike us, they’re free to go into the city that day, free to mix with the people beyond the Warthu Bera’s walls, as are the assistants and matrons. The only people who never leave the Warthu Bera are the alaki—not that we’re allowed to roam inside the training ground either. I’ve confirmed this trying to enter the Hall of Records the last two lunar days.

  Assistants and matrons constantly guard the corridors, ready to greet any alaki who strays off the beaten path with the barbed end of their rungu, those horrible weighted clubs they’re so fond of carrying. Just as Jeneba said, neophytes are not allowed in any of the restricted areas until our first three weeks end.

  Thankfully, they’re almost over.

  In three days exactly, I’ll enter the Hall of Records. Then I’ll read from the Heraldry of Okai and answer the questions that have been plaguing me ever since I entered this training ground.

  I can almost imagine it now, seeing my mother’s name there, reading about her life, her deeds, learning about her abilities—about mine as well.

  Anticipation races through me at the thought.

  As I savor the feeling, golden eyes meet mine across the courtyard. I stiffen, unnerved, when Keita nods at me, his expression cold, as it was the first time I met him. The novices are directing us to merge lines, so I reluctantly shuffle toward him, grateful that my hair has already regrown to its former length, courtesy of my alaki healing. I’ll have to cut it again soon. It interferes with training. Most girls have taken to hacking theirs off every morning like the novices do, and some, like Adwapa, keep their heads perfectly bald.

  Once we’re standing side by side, Keita nods down at me. “Morning greetings, Deka,” he murmurs.

  “Morning greetings,” I reply, fighting the urge to duck my head. Just as before, I feel uneasy when I’m near him. Something about him makes me remember Ionas and what happened the last time I got close to a boy.

  Maybe it’s his height. He’s just as tall as Ionas, and that’s no easy feat.

  I forcibly return my attention to the front of the courtyard as Karmoko Thandiwe steps forward, dark-brown skin gleaming against her clay-daubed hair. This morning, she’s wearing midnight-blue robes and a half mask painted darkest onyx. All the other karmokos behind her and Captain Kelechi wear similar masks, as they always do whenever men are about.

  I don’t envy them. I can only imagine how impractical those masks would be during training, with all the sweating and dirt we have to deal with.

  “In the past two and a half weeks,” Karmoko Thandiwe announces, “you have learned the basics of speed, strength, weaponry, and combat. Today, you will begin training in pairs, starting with your daily run. Remember, you are partnered from now on, and you must account for each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Understood?”

  “Yes, Karmoko,” I shout along with the other girls.

  She nods at Gazal, who steps forward, her uruni, a slim, blond Northern boy, just beside her. “Let’s go, neophytes, move your arses!” she commands, setting off in a quick jog.

  I follow her, easily keeping pace. Over the past two weeks, the run has become my favorite part of the day. I can already notice the air slowing around me as I move faster up the hill, muscles loosening, senses coming alive. I’m slipping into the combat state much more easily than when I first arrived.

  I turn to glance at Britta, about to chat with her, as always, but she isn’t there, and neither are the other girls, now that I’m looking. They’re all at the bottom of the hill, shuffling at least five steps after the recruits, even
though their muscles must be spasming and twitching from the effort of running so slowly. They’re doing exactly what they would have done back in their home villages—holding themselves back so they don’t show up any potential husbands. But the Warthu Bera isn’t a home village, and there are much greater dangers here than upsetting a few boys. The memory of the corpses in Irfut’s snow flashes across my mind, and I dig my nails into my skin.

  I dart over to Britta and the others, not caring when the recruits stop and watch, astounded by my speed. “You can’t slow down for them,” I say. “You have to make them keep up with you.”

  “Deka,” Britta whispers. She glances at the gawking recruits, embarrassed. “Ye can’t let them see ye like that—in the combat state an’ such. It’ll frighten them.”

  The other girls around her nod in agreement.

  “She’s right,” Katya says.

  “Frighten them?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Do you think we’re here, learning all these new things, endangering ourselves, just for the sport of it? There are deathshrieks outside these walls, and they will kill us if we don’t learn how to fight them. We will die out there.”

  Memories bombard my mind, sudden and violent. The gold, the blood…I gag, nearly tasting it dripping into my mouth, the way it used to.

  “Have you ever died, Katya?” I ask.

  She blinks. “Well, no—”

  “It’s agony, greater than you’ve ever felt, and if it’s not your true death, you wake up dreading that it’ll happen again. Then, after it happens multiple times, you begin wishing for a true death—a final death, just so you never have to—” I break off, shaking from the force of my emotions. Tears are blurring my eyes, and a few drop before I can stop them.

  I have to take a breath, calm myself so I can look back at my friends, at the other neophytes now gathering behind them, their eyes wide with horror. The majority of them haven’t faced death yet. They came from towns and villages near the capital and were taken to Jor Hall immediately after their Rituals. Whenever we have discussions about how we came to the Warthu Bera, they always say the transporters were already waiting in the temples.