The Gilded Ones

by Namina Forna

  They’ve never experienced the icy coldness of a sword as it slices into the flesh, never had to endure those long and terrifying moments before merciful oblivion.

  It was only the ones like Belcalis and me—the alaki so far from the capital, it took transporters months to reach us—who were unlucky enough to experience the Death Mandate and the terror that came with it. But we both survived somehow. Unlike all the girls who didn’t make it past their first two or three deaths, we both lived.

  And we have to honor that.

  I breathe back the memories as I turn to the other girls. “Our whole lives, we’ve been taught to make ourselves smaller, weaker than men. That’s what the Infinite Wisdoms teach—that being a girl means perpetual submission.”

  That’s how it was back in Irfut, me always accepting everything because I thought it was Oyomo’s will. Was it Oyomo’s will, the village turning its back on me, the elders dismembering me so they could sell my blood? Was it His will for them to cut out my tongue so I couldn’t scream? What about all the things in the Infinite Wisdoms, the rules against running, laughing too loudly, dressing in certain ways—was all of it His will?

  “The truth is, girls have to wear smiling masks, contort themselves into all kind of knots to please others, and then, when deathshrieks come, girls die. They die.” I glance from one blood sister to the other. “The way I see it, we all have a choice right now. Are we girls, or are we demons? Are we going to die, or are we going to survive?”

  I’ve been trying so desperately to keep myself from thinking such thoughts, but what does it matter if I’m here anyway, about to face death once more? What does it matter if we’re all here, risking our bodies and lives in service to Otera?

  The other girls stare back at me, eyes wide with fear, horror, but I remain silent, letting them decide for themselves.

  I already know my answer.

  I will not die here in this horrible place. I will not die before I discover the truth about myself. I’ll survive, and I’ll do so long enough to leave this place, long enough to find someone to love me who cherishes me the way Katya’s betrothed does her. All I have to do is be brave for once.

  I remove one of the pins from the side of my robe and stab it into my palm.

  It stings, a sharp, searing pain, but I don’t even wince. My weeks here have already made me tougher, already deadened my skin. Gold begins dripping, and I wipe it across my chest, marking the same place they would have cut me during the Ritual of Purity. The blood gleams there, the cursed gold that I am now bleeding for my own cause—not anybody else’s.

  “What’re you doing—” a girl begins, but I ignore her.

  “I’m a demon,” I declare, “and I will survive this to win my absolution and a life for myself.”

  “Me too.” Belcalis’s voice comes from behind me, and when I turn, she’s there, holding up her bleeding palm as well, an expression in her eyes that tells me that she understands, that she feels the way I do. “I’m a demon.”

  “I’m a demon,” the twins echo, chests glistening as they wipe bloodied golden palms across them. And now other girls are doing so as well.

  Even Britta and Katya, who were so horrified at first, walk up to me with bleeding palms. “I’m a demon,” Britta says, wiping her hand across her chest.

  The recruits whisper to each other, confused, alarmed by this sudden and bloody display, but it’s too late to stem the tide. “Demon. I am a demon,” each girl declares, bleeding herself to display her golden blood. The blood we have so long been told is cursed. The blood that binds us to each other.

  Before long, all the girls are standing together.

  Bleeding.

  And this time, when we run again, we don’t hold back.

  * * *

  As I walk over for breakfast, an unwelcome presence falls in step beside me. Keita. “That was an interesting speech,” he says, by way of conversation. “Human girls or demons. Clever way to motivate the others…”

  I stop mid-step, trying to ignore the familiar high-pitched shrieks echoing in the distance as I look up at him. We’re standing next to the entrance of the caverns where the deathshrieks are kept, and they’re agitated, as always.

  “A word of warning, however,” he says. “The commanders may not look too fondly on any of you embracing your heritage too keenly, Deka.”

  Fear shivers over me, but I exhale it away. I’m done being afraid. “Is that a threat?” I ask.

  “No, a warning.”

  “Then I’ll take it under advisement.”

  Something almost like a smile darts over his lips, and he steps closer. “You know, I’m relieved.”

  “Why?” I ask, curious.

  He shrugs. “When we were partnered, I thought you were too delicate to be a soldier.”

  “Too delicate?” I echo, surprised. No one has considered me delicate since the moment my blood ran gold. “I’m an alaki,” I remind him.

  Keita nods. “That may be true, but not everyone is suited to killing deathshrieks.”

  “Are you?”

  Keita shrugs. “I’m told I’m good at exterminating them,” he says simply.

  There’s a look in his eyes, an absolute belief.

  “I was worried you wouldn’t be suited to it, that you would be a burden on the battlefield. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps you will be able to withstand your fear,” he says.

  The calm assuredness in his eyes nettles me, but I know better than to show it.

  Instead, I smile sweetly at him. “You know, I’m relieved too.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I was afraid you were too pretty to get your hands dirty.”

  His eyes widen with surprise, and for a moment, the side of his lips quirk. “Well, we’re both full of surprises, aren’t we?” he says as he walks away.

  “I can’t believe we’re finally here!”

  Britta’s voice is high-pitched with excitement as we walk through the library, the dark, cavernous chamber on the top floor of the Warthu Bera, Katya, Becalis, and the twins at our side. With each step, my anticipation builds higher and higher. In just a few moments, I’ll be there, standing before the Heraldry. Then I’ll read from its pages, finally find the answers to the questions that have been plaguing me since the day I entered this training ground.

  At least, I hope I will.

  There’s always the possibility that there are no answers in the Heraldry and I’ve just wasted everybody’s time coming here. Perhaps I should have bolstered my courage and spoken to Matron Nasra or Karmoko Thandiwi about my suspicions. It would have been so much easier than walking past these bookshelves, eagerness and dread lining the pit of my stomach. But no, Matron Nasra is hateful, and Karmoko Thandiwe is much too frightening to approach. Better to do this with my friends.

  Britta doesn’t notice my introspection as she continues: “Just think, in a few moments, ye could have all the answers ye seek.”

  “Or you could have nothing,” Belcalis humphs, “because you created an entire farce out of nothing, and us being here, on our one lunar afternoon, is indeed a farce.”

  Trust her to always state my deepest fears out loud.

  “Must ye always be such a pissfart?” Britta tsks.

  “Pissfart?” Belcalis stops and looks at her. “Did you just make that up?”

  Britta dimples. “I did. Rather fitting, don’t ye think? It has a certain—”

  “We’re here.” Britta nods toward the heavy wooden door in front of us: the entrance to the Hall of Records.

  Isattu, the midnight-dark assistant assigned to our common bedroom, is organizing the scrolls on the shelf beside the entrance. She grins when she sees us, her smile filled with goodwill and cheer. Unlike most of the assistants and matrons, she was immediately assigned to the Warthu Bera when she became a temple maiden two
years ago, so she has retained the happiness that would have been snuffed out had she had to serve priests.

  “Ah, there you are, neophytes,” she says, unlocking the door. “As a reminder, you’re never to speak about anything you read in this book to any outside person on pain of death. If you do so, remember: the walls always have ears, especially when it comes to the Shadows….”

  I nod, trying to push back the chills rushing through me as she ushers us into a small, circular room, light filtering in through the heavy glass roof. Scrolls line the shelves attached to the walls, their edges aged and delicate, as if they’ve been here for hundreds of years. Flames flicker from the sconces, and an umbra has been carved into the floor. It’s not the most interesting sight here, however. The large stone pedestal in the middle of the room is—or, rather, the thick leather-bound book on top of it.

  Isattu walks over to it, opens the book. “You said your mother was twenty-five years old when she had you?” I nod and she explains: “Most potential okai are taken in for training when they’re ten, so if you’re sixteen now, your mother would have first entered the Warthu Bera about thirty-one years ago.” She flips through the pages until she finds the one she’s looking for. “You can start from here. Okai are listed alphabetically according to their year, and each entry has two pages each. All right, then, I’ll leave you to it.”

  Nodding, I approach the book. “The moment of truth…,” I murmur, muscles tense.

  “The moment of truth…” Britta smiles reassuringly at me.

  I flip through the pages, names flying past—Aada, Analise, Binta, Katka, Nirmir, Tralgana…When I get to the U’s, I slow down, my heart hammering in my chest. Mother’s name was uncommon in Irfut, but what if it is the opposite here in Hemaira? What if there are several women with her name and I can’t tell which one is hers? But, no—every Shadow has a different identification badge listed under their entry. I should be able to recognize it once I see it.

  I continue flipping until finally, I’m at the last few names. Ua, Uda, Ukami, Una, Uzad, Uzma. I stop, flip the pages back, my breath short. I didn’t see Mother’s name. I flip again and again, but no matter how many times I turn the page, the result is the same.

  “She’s not there,” I whisper, tears blurring my eyes. “She’s not there.” I walk to a corner and slump on the floor, defeat weighing on me.

  All these weeks, I’ve been imagining finding Mother’s name, getting answers to all my questions about what she was—what I am. But there are no answers, because she was never here. I made up an entire fantasy in my head to distract myself from the fact that I’m just a—

  “Deka, look! She’s here!” I jolt up as Britta calls excitedly to me. She’s standing beside the book, pointing to a page. I didn’t even notice her walk over. “I found her! She was here a year later than Isattu thought.”

  “What?” I gasp, surging up.

  “ ‘Umu of Punthun, nine years old, dark brown skin, black eyes, short brown hair, Othemne tribal markings, two on each cheek. Identification Badge: golden necklace, umbra inscribed.’ ”

  I suddenly forget to breathe. “That’s her…,” I say raggedly, tears searing my eyes as I look down at the entry only a paragraph long. “She was here. She was a Shadow….”

  The confirmation of everything I’ve suspected is too much to bear, and I begin crying, great big tears falling down my cheeks.

  “Oh, Deka,” Britta says, hugging me.

  As she holds me, Katya reads on. “ ‘Retired after fifteen years of service due to personal reasons.’ ” Then she stops.

  “What else does it say?” I urge.

  Katya shakes her head. “That’s all there is.”

  All there is? My eyebrows gather. “That can’t be all. What about what she was like? What she studied—did she have any special characteristics?”

  “Special characteristics?” Katya frowns. “No, that’s all it says.”

  “Let me see.” I wriggle out of Britta’s arms and look down at the entry, chest tightening when I see it’s just as Katya said. There’s nothing more. No mention of any abilities, no further entries, no nothing at all.

  My lungs constrict. What about the tingling, the ability to sense deathshrieks? What about the way my eyes and voice change when I’m around those monsters? I thought the Heraldry would have answers, but there are none here—there’s nothing that can help me at all.

  I’m right back where I started, and even worse, my first lessons with deathshrieks are only a few weeks away.

  * * *

  As I walk toward the armory later that evening, I’m in such a mood that I don’t even notice the smell of blood coating the air. It takes a scream—wretched and all too human—to return my thoughts to the present. Britta and I look at each other, eyes wide in the growing darkness. We both know what that scream means. A new raiding party must have returned from the outskirts of Hemaira without killing their required quota of deathshrieks. The novices who didn’t kill their share are being flayed.

  I’ve glimpsed it numerous times over the past few weeks: Matron Nasra peeling skin from novices’ backs as easily as she would from a citron. I’ve seen the golden blood dripping, heard the pitiful cries of the girls unlucky enough to be punished, and then the silence, the awful, awful silence.

  “Suffering makes demons stronger,” the matron always explains, a macabre smile slicing her lips. If that’s the case, all the alaki in the Warthu Bera must be hardened to the point of steel.

  Another scream splits the air, and my hands clench into fists, the skin on them stretching so tight they could split. First, Mother’s uninformative entry in the Heraldry, and now this. What more will I have to endure before this miserable day ends?

  “Don’t listen to it,” Keita says, glancing at me as he marches onward, a bundle of wooden atikas—our long, flat practice swords—in hand. He and two of the other uruni are helping us return them to the armory before they go back to their barracks. “Just push it to the back of your mind.”

  His words set my skin boiling with anger. Even though we’ve settled into an uneasy truce, Keita is not my friend. Very few of the boys are our friends. After what happened during the run, they’re wary of me and the other girls, frightened of our power. Now they know how much greater our strength is than theirs—and that it’s only going to continue growing.

  “Easy for you to say,” I reply, turning to him. “You’re not the ones being flayed.”

  “We’re not the ones who can regenerate,” Acalan, Belcalis’s uruni, sniffs. A tall, burly Northerner, he has a sour, pious look that reminds me of Elder Durkas when he’s feeling especially sanctimonious.

  “Even if that were the case,” Britta humphs at him, “which it’s clearly not, ye lot still wouldna be punished, an’ ye know it.”

  “It’s true,” Katya agrees. “They never punish the boys. Even when girls die.”

  “But Oyomo forbid a recruit be injured,” I add. “That’s when every girl in the raiding party is flayed.”

  “So, what, you want us all to bleed now?” Acalan sneers. “You want us to suffer like—”

  “Let’s not argue,” Surem, Katya’s uruni, quickly interjects in his calm, gentle manner. He’s the boy I first thought I’d matched with, the smiling, tattooed Westerner. “We’re almost at the armory. Let’s just…”

  I’m no longer listening to him. A sudden, panicked tingling is surging through my veins, and it only takes me a second to recognize the cause. Deathshrieks…but not the ones in the caverns under the Warthu Bera. Heart pounding, I follow my senses to the wall just beside us, where I quickly spot four horrifically familiar figures creeping down the stones, their white pelts gleaming past the mist wreathing their bodies.

  Leapers: the deathshrieks that jump onto their victims and rend them apart using claws and teeth. They’re really on the walls, just as w
e’ve been warned so many times they could be. The others don’t seem to have noticed them yet.

  They’re much larger than the ones the novices use for sparring practice, these deathshrieks, their bodies muscled and healthy, their eyes alert in the darkness. So this is the difference between captive deathshrieks and free ones. I’d almost forgotten, but now my vision is sharpening, so I can see them clearer, and my ears are muffling everything else out, so I can hear their low, isolated footsteps. I’m already slipping into the combat state, just as Karmoko Huon taught us. I don’t need a run to stimulate it: it’s rising by instinct.

  I put down the extra atikas I’m carrying, doing it slowly so as not to attract the deathshrieks’ attention, aware of Keita’s eyes darting toward me. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him so attentive outside combat practice. Perhaps he senses them too, feels the cold of their mists now creeping toward us.

  “Deka, what is it?” he whispers.

  I flick my eyes toward the wall. “Deathshrieks, four of them on the western wall, all leapers—huge ones.”

  Everyone stiffens, alarmed, but I quickly tally the odds. Six of us to four of them. But it takes three to four girls to topple one deathshriek during a raid. And usually those girls have real swords.

  “We’re outmatched,” Britta whispers. “We need to run to Main Hall an’ raise the alarm.”

  Keita nods, his eyes squinted against the darkness as he tries to pick them out. Like the other boys, he can’t see as keenly in the dark as we alaki can. “Everyone,” he says, turning to the others, all of them stiff and tense now after my words, “I can’t see them, so we run on Deka’s mark. And we do so silently.”

  “But—” Acalan begins, bluster in his voice.

  Keita sternly cuts him off. “We’re the only ones out here, and we have no real weapons and no helmets to protect us against their screams. On Deka’s mark,” he repeats, nodding at me.