Page 112 of The Gilded Ones

The moment they have him in hand, I run over to Ixa. He’s still stuck to the wall, his wounds dripping onto the ground.

Deka, he says, nuzzling me weakly when I rip out the arrows holding him in place. They move easily under my fingers, responding to the divinity that flows in my veins.

“I’m so sorry – I’m so sorry, Ixa,” I gasp, petting him.

He has so many injuries, I don’t know what to do.

“Why don’t you bleed for him?” White Hands suggests, approaching me. “It’ll help the healing.”

I hurriedly do as she says, offering Ixa my arm. He latches down, and within moments, the wounds on his wings are sealing together. Relief washes over me. He’s healing, just as White Hands said he would.

Once he’s completely healed, White Hands offers me a small golden dagger that gleams under the low light.

“It’s time,” she says, nodding towards the goddesses.

I nod, inhale deeply.

It’s finally time for me to complete my task.

The goddesses are much larger up close than they seemed from a distance. My head reaches only as high as their toes, and a single divine finger is just large enough for me to stand on. That beings like this once roamed Otera – the idea is almost impossible for me to comprehend.

I walk over to the nearest goddess, the wise Southerner – Anok was her name. White Hands told me all about the goddesses as I healed – their histories, their personalities. Anok was always the craftiest. It makes perfect sense, considering she is White Hands’s mother.

By now, the knowing is whispering to me, giving me all the information I need to complete the awakening. I stab the dagger into my palm, waiting until the gold wells there. Then, as I will for each goddess, I rub it across Anok’s feet. “Mother Anok,” I whisper. “Rise.”

The goddess’s body trembles. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but I’m hoping it’s not.

I walk to the next goddess, the gentle Northerner, Beda. White Hands told me she was a kind soul who loved green and growing things. “Mother Beda,” I say, rubbing blood onto her robes. “Rise.”

This time, I know I’m not imagining it when her robes flutter.

“Mother Hui Li,” I whisper to the warlike Easterner, the most quarrelsome of the bunch, according to White Hands. “Rise.” I smooth my blood against the feathery wings protruding from her back.

Yet another tremor.

“Mother Etzli,” I whisper to the motherly Westerner, the one who loved and nurtured all children, alaki or otherwise, as I slick my blood over a colossal toe. “Rise.”

When the goddess’s entire body vibrates, I step back, astounded to see that the tremor has turned into deep convulsions. Great rivers of cursed gold are streaming off the goddesses. I move back, awed, as hints of skin are revealed – brown, pink, bluish-black. My blood is doing what it was created to do: free the goddesses.

“FREE.” The single word explodes like an earthquake through the chamber. “FINALLY, WE ARE FREE!”

Awe unfurls inside me as, one by one, the goddesses stand, stretching for the first time in thousands of years, their bodies so massive, they nearly reach the ceiling. I have never seen a more humbling sight in all my life. I feel like an insect, an ant at the foot of giants. My heart expands, joy filling every corner of it, as I watch them move, watch their bodies come alive.

“DAUGHTER.” The word ripples through my head, a reminder of all the times I heard those exact voices in my dreams, all of them melding with Mother’s.

I look up, amazed to see four perfect faces staring down at me.

“YOU HAVE COMPLETED YOUR TASK. YOU HAVE FREED US. HOW GRATEFUL WE ARE TO YOU.”

Tears slide down my eyes, an unconscious response to their voices. Euphoria, fear – all my emotions combine into a single powerful wave at the sound of the goddesses’ voices. Now I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of my voice.

When the goddesses take a single step towards me, I jerk back, afraid of being crushed. But they shrink as they step down, and by the time they take their next step, they’re only slighter taller than the average person.

“Mothers,” I say, kneeling respectfully as they approach me.

Cool hands lift my chin. They belong to Anok, who has a pleased smile on her face. “You have done so well, Deka,” she whispers, that thread of compulsion running under her voice. “I am so very proud of you, my creation.”

“We are all proud of you,” the others echo.

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