by Namina Forna
It’s a good thing too—the raid where I found Ixa was only the first of many as we do our part to exterminate the deathshrieks crossing Hemaira’s borders. At first, I feel guilty using my ability, guilty rendering deathshrieks defenseless against my comrades’ swords. Then I see pile after pile of human corpses at the nests, and my guilt changes back into anger—rage at what the deathshrieks are doing to the people they kill.
I don’t hesitate to use my ability again.
Our tiny group quickly becomes so effective, the people in the city take up the name Adwapa gifted us, Death Strikers, for our seemingly uncanny ability to obliterate all the deathshriek nests we find. They cheer and throw flowers at us as we pass—a striking reversal from the first time, when they called us whores.
“Welcome, Death Strikers!” they shout, lining the streets whenever they hear we’re coming.
It’s almost like we’re heroes now, and people don’t even seem to mind that some of us are women who may or may not be human. Of course, they have no idea about my particular talent. Not even the other girls at the Warthu Bera know—although they quickly get to know Ixa. Within days, he’s made his feline incarnation a familiar presence in the training ground, stealing fish from the kitchens, chasing the birds, and curling around my neck whenever I’m not training.
Except for Keita, Britta, Gazal, Belcalis, Asha, and Adwapa, no one else seems to view him as anything more than a friendly cat, and they laugh whenever my friends attempt to convince them otherwise. I try not to wonder why this is as our raids continue, as does our success.
The months pass, and soon, the cold season—such as it is—begins to creep into Hemaira, making the days a little less balmy and the nights comfortably cool. The deathshrieks seem to be aware of our existence now, because there are ever more sentries waiting for us. They even manage to catch us unaware a few times, grievously wounding all the alaki at least one time or another, but despite our injuries, we’re always triumphant in the end. No deathshriek can resist my power. None of them can resist when I beckon. I only very rarely use my voice now, preferring to motion them to my will instead. Hand movements are all I need now to subdue them.
Everything is going so well, we receive a visitor specifically for the Death Strikers one evening. As we’re filing out of the sandpits after combat practice one day, the grandest carriage we’ve ever witnessed—pulled by a pair of twin equus, striped black and white like zebras and adorned with gold jewelry—rides into the courtyard toward White Hands.
A plump man in official robes steps out, then gives her what looks like a scroll.
She scans it, inclines her head. The man gives her a deep, respectful bow, then gets back into the carriage and rides away.
When she sees Keita and me, she beckons, and we both run over.
“Yes, Karmoko?” we ask after we bow.
She hands us the scroll, which is sealed with the kuru. “Call the rest of the Death Strikers,” she declares. “We have been invited to the palace by Emperor Gezo.”
* * *
Oyomo’s Eye is just as golden inside as it is out. That’s what I discover as I walk down the Hemairan palace’s gold-veined hallways the very next morning, my heart drumming a frantically nervous beat. I’ve never seen so much opulence in my life. Everywhere I turn, there’s another precious stone, another imposing sculpture. Jatu in the most extravagant red armor I’ve ever witnessed stand at attention by each doorway, while grandly robed courtiers whisper behind their fans as we pass them.
Thankfully, we’re garbed in the finest armor the Warthu Bera has to offer—Karmoko Huon insisted we wear it instead of the ornate robes the other karmokos wanted us to wear—as well as war masks to cover our faces. We alaki are no longer human women, she reminded the others, and it’s better the emperor and those around him don’t view us as such.
“Oh, me belly,” Britta whispers as we near the double doors leading to the throne room. “There it goes again.”
“Why is it that you always get a stomachache when you’re upset?” Li asks, exasperated.
“It’s just the way I am.” Britta sighs. “Least I have me war mask on, so I won’t embarrass us,” she says, touching the light bronze frame.
I don’t know how she can bear it. Even though the air is cool in this gigantic hallway, my mask feels hot against my skin, and sweat dampens my brow.
Keita smiles when he notices the nervousness in my eyes. “Take courage, Deka,” he whispers. “Everything will be well.”
“You too,” I whisper back. Then I clear my throat and add, “You look very handsome today.” Like me, he’s dressed in splendid ornamental armor made just for this occasion.
He nods, and I blush, my stomach jumping. I shouldn’t have complimented him like that. Why oh why did I compliment him?
“You look pretty too,” he whispers, and my cheeks sting with embarrassment and glee.
It’s all I can do to keep from grinning from ear to ear. This is the first time a man other than Father and Ionas has called me pretty and actually meant it. Father…I wonder how he would feel if he could see me now, if he even misses me. I try to picture the look he’d give me, but I can’t. I can’t remember their shape, much less the color of his eyebrows or the length of his hair.
Why can’t I remember his face?
Drums sound and the doors to the throne room open, forcing the question from my mind.
“The Death Strikers,” the emperor’s crier announces.
Taking a deep breath for bravery, I walk down the long hallway, trying not to gawk at the nobles sitting on either side of the room, their bodies covered in so much gold and jewels, my eyes hurt to look at them. I thought the regular folk in Hemaira were finely dressed, but the nobles are walking treasure chests, their clothes and bodies virtually crusted in jewels, their faces covered by golden masks even though they’re male. White Hands informed us that courtiers wear masks to show their submission to the emperor the same way women wear masks so as not to offend the eyes of Oyomo.
The emperor sits at the very end of the room, separated from everyone else by a massive veiled throne. My jaw nearly drops when I see it, gold threading the fine red material. It’s said that the emperor is as close to Oyomo as you can be in this world—even more so than the high priests. Looking at his throne, I don’t doubt it. The stairs leading up to it are solid gold, their edges lacquered in a thin crust of rubies.
Captain Kelechi and White Hands, as representatives of each group, stop just before the stairs and prostrate themselves on the floor. I do the same, my entire body trembling. I can’t believe I’m here, in front of the emperor himself. The thought makes my body tremble even more.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” White Hands murmurs.
“The Lady of the Equus,” the emperor rumbles, his voice deep and resonant to match his burly silhouette, which I can just make out past the sheer curtains. “How wonderful it is to see you again, and in such auspicious circumstances.”
I squint, trying to see him more clearly out the corner of my eye, but it’s difficult with the edges of the mask blocking my periphery. Why did I ever want to wear these things? I concentrate, straining my eyes in his direction. From what I can tell, he’s very tall and broad-shouldered—bulky too, although I suspect he’s more muscle than fat. A carefully groomed beard takes up most of his face, and his lips seem almost feminine, they’re so lush. They make him seem a bit more human—flesh and blood, rather than the godlike being I was expecting.
White Hands abruptly sits up and faces him. “How wonderful it is to see you again, Cousin. You look…healthy.”
Cousin? The word is a lightning bolt through me. White Hands is a royal? I thought she was just a noble, high-ranking but of ordinary blood, as all the other nobles are. To think that she has imperial blood—the blood of the emperor—coursing through her veins. It explains so many things: the wa
y people defer to her, her seeming confidence against all odds. Even the fact that no one ever says her real name, and she can sit up in the emperor’s presence. No wonder she’s in charge of his special assignments, his little monsters, whatever they truly are. She’s his cousin!
By now, the emperor is laughing. “Such humor you have, Cousin. I suppose I have become a bit more rotund in the past few months.”
White Hands shrugs. “If you say so.” She gestures to us. “Here is what I promised you: the Death Strikers, the most elite deathshriek-killing force in all Otera. The crown jewels of your new regiment.”
New regiment? I struggle to keep my eyes focused on the floor as I hear White Hands’s words. What does she mean, “new regiment”? Confusion circles inside me until I realize something: yet another of her promises has proven true. She said that she’d make us crown jewels in the emperor’s army, and she has done it.
What is the truth of White Hands? I wonder. The sinister agent of the emperor or something else? Something I can’t quite put my finger on yet.
A rustling behind the throne’s veil as the emperor nods. Then he turns to his courtiers. “You may leave.”
“But your imperial majesty,” a tall, dark courtier protests.
“We cannot leave you by yourself,” another calls.
“It would be sacrilege,” yet another courtier, a stern-looking Easterner this time, objects.
The emperor’s reply is one word: “Now.”
The courtiers scurry to obey his command, and within a few seconds, they’re all gone, the door slamming behind them. I hear a shuffling as the emperor rises, then footsteps coming down the stairs. Large brown feet encased in jewel-encrusted sandals stop just before me.
“Tell me, which one of them is the anomaly?”
“Rise, Deka,” White Hands commands.
I raise my head, trying my best not to stare as the emperor peers down at me. He’s very handsome up close, hair closely cropped except for the beard, head covered by an imposing golden crown studded with diamonds the size of pigeon eggs. He’s also quite dark, his skin the smooth bluish-black of the deep Southern provinces. The house of Gezo has always been Southerners.
He looks me up and down, intelligent brown eyes assessing. There’s a strange expression in them, recognition almost—although I’m not sure what he’s recognizing.
“You’re very small for a killer,” he finally says.
“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.”
He frowns. “Your accent. You are from the North?”
“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.”
“But your skin is brown.”
“Her mother was of the southern provinces,” White Hands explains. “A former Shadow.”
Emperor Gezo nods. “The best stock to breed warriors.” He turns to the others. “You may raise your heads as well.”
When they do, the emperor turns to Keita, frowning. “The young lord of Gar Fatu. I heard you were with the Death Strikers as well.”
“I am Deka’s uruni, Your Imperial Majesty,” Keita explains.
The emperor nods. “See that you protect her well. I expect great things from you, little lord,” he says.
Keita nods. “Yes, my emperor.”
I sit there, thoughts still whirling, as the emperor walks back up to his throne and takes a seat. He stares down at us with stern eyes. “As you know, the army is going on campaign soon. We will exterminate the deathshrieks, destroy their primal nesting ground, and begin the path to victory in this interminable combat.”
The emperor leans closer. “You have done well these past months, Death Strikers. Word of your exploits has reached even my ears. As a reward, you will ride at my right hand, at the very front of the army in the special regiment I’ve made of Otera’s best soldiers.”
We all look at each other, shocked. White Hands had told us as much, but hearing it from the emperor’s own lips—it’s all a bit too much to take in. Britta, Belcalis, Gazal, and I all look faint now, but the boys, Li and Kweku especially, look like they want to jump up in delight. Acalan is the only one whose reaction resembles our own, he’s so overwhelmed by the honor.
White Hands smoothly bows. “You honor us, Cousin,” she says.
“No, you honor me,” the emperor insists. “Remember when you came to me with the idea of alaki soldiers?”
My head nearly whips around in shock. Came to him? I stare at White Hands, my eyes nearly bulging past their sockets as I realize what the emperor just said. The alaki regiment, the end of the Death Mandate—that was all her doing? My body begins to shake, gratitude overwhelming me. No matter what White Hands is, no matter what she’s done, she’s saved the lives of countless girls. Rescued them from certain death. Rescued me.
That much, I have to give her credit for.
I barely hear the emperor as he continues: “I was doubtful—no, revolted by the very idea of it: impure girls riding into battle. But you have proven to me how wrong I was—all of you have—and now Otera is better for it. The alaki training grounds have decimated hordes of deathshrieks, thinning the armies we will face during the campaign.
“It will be a long one, make no mistake, but with the alaki at our side, we’ll have the upper hand now. Let us continue on this path and lead our beloved One Kingdom to victory by ridding it of this pestilence of monsters once and for all.”
“Thank you for your kind words, Cousin,” says White Hands, bowing.
Just like that, our audience with the emperor is over, and we are backing out of the room so as not to dishonor him by giving him our backs.
As we ride back to the Warthu Bera, Ixa emerging from my pack to ride on my shoulder, my confusion continues building. White Hands creates monsters for the emperor, yet she also persuaded him to create the alaki training grounds? Does she truly create monsters, or is that one of the many deceptions she wears in place of a mask? Is she a villain, or the savior who protected us? I don’t know what to think anymore. All I know is that I have so much more to be grateful to her for than I knew. We all do—which is why we neophytes continue staring at her, unsure of what to say, as she rides at the front on Braima, Masaima trotting at their side.
After a while, she turns to us. “I can feel your thoughts like little insects scurrying down my back.”
“You persuaded the emperor to create the training grounds. Why?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Because I don’t like seeing things go to waste, that’s why. The alaki were just being thrown away. A waste…”
“You saved us,” Belcalis whispers. To my surprise, tears are glazing her eyes, and there’s a strange, unsettled expression in them. “You saved us….”
“She’s right,” Britta says. “Without ye, who knows where we’d be?”
“Well, don’t get sentimental,” White Hands huffs. For the first time, I see that she’s flustered. “If you’re really grateful, show it on the battlefield.”
“Oh, we will,” Adwapa promises. “We certainly will.”
White Hands humphs, rides on, and I continue to watch her, still not sure what to think.
* * *
When we finish lessons later that night, Belcalis and I remain behind to pack up the weapons. We all take turns every evening, and tonight, it’s our turn to shine and store the swords from practice. As usual, they’re filthy, so we have to carefully soak them in aqua regia, then scrub them to remove the gold crust from the blood that was spilled.
I do so even more vigorously than usual, my mind ablaze with all the things I learned today. White Hands freed us from the Death Mandate and gave us the chance to fight. Just as she promised, we’re the emperor’s crown jewels and will ride at his side in less than two months and deliver Otera from the deathshrieks once and for all. She’s proven herself a woman of her word again and again.
So why do I feel uneasy?
“Can you believe it was White Hands all along?” I say, hoping to start a conversation. I walk over to where she’s working. “What good fortune we’ve had that she came along. Had we been born just a year earlier, we’d have already been executed.”
“Good fortune?” The word drips like acid from Belcalis’s lips. “Is there such a thing for our kind?”
I turn to find her shaking, every muscle quivering with barely suppressed fury. Even though she rarely speaks about her past, I know she was somewhere awful before she came here. Wherever it was, I know that it was even worse than the temple cellar—that it was so nightmarish, she wakes up screaming at least once every few weeks and is filled with a constant, unending supply of pain and rage.
“What happened to you…what happened to me—these things, they alter us,” Belcalis says. “They change us in the most fundamental ways. The emperor and his men, they can use White Hands and the rest of the karmokos to make us into warriors—they can even give us absolution—but they can never change what they did. They can never take back the horrors that have already been inflicted on us.”
Gold on the floor…the look in Father’s eyes…The memory of my torture surges before I can stop it, that familiar heaviness accompanying it. That pain and humiliation once more surfacing.
I’ve been so dedicated building myself into the perfect warrior these past few months. Did I really think I’d gotten past all this? Did I really think I could forgive and forget, just like that?
If it weren’t for White Hands, I’d still be in that cellar and the elders would still be doing what they did, taking advantage of my ignorance, my desperation, to ensure that I continued submitting to the atrocities they disguised as piety. The realization slaps me in the face, as does another:
