Page 20 of The Gilded Ones

I don’t know why I expected common jatu to use it.

The gate comes open with a small squeak, and I return my attention to the road before me. My eyes widen nearly past their sockets.

There, just beyond the gate, is a massive lake, which shimmers into the horizon. The city rises from its centre, a series of lush green hills connected by high, arching wooden bridges. Rivers and waterfalls cut through like streets, with cheerfully painted boats gliding across them, their embroidered umbrellas protecting passengers from the sun.

“Oyomo preserve us,” Britta breathes, staring at all the sights. “Have ye ever seen anything like this in yer life?”

As I shake my head, unable to voice an answer, something else seizes my attention: the majestic building thrusting up from the peak of Hemaira’s highest hill like a jagged crown. I’ve seen it numerous times before, printed on every Oteran coin. Oyomo’s Eye, the ancient palace of the Hemairan emperors. The kuru, Oyomo’s sacred sun symbol, decorates its multiple spires, and groups of smaller buildings, the Halls of Administration, cluster among the hills below it. I recognize them immediately from every description of the capital I’ve ever heard.

It’s all so splendid, so…much…I can barely comprehend it. So this is Hemaira, the City of Emperors.

“Be careful to close your mouths before flies invade them,” says White Hands, laughing at my astonishment as the equus canter happily into the bustling thoroughfares.

“It’s good to be home, Brother,” Masaima says, grinning.

“No more the itchy furs and the cold, Brother,” Braima agrees.

The deeper we go into the city, the more crowded it becomes. Zerizard- and equus-pulled carriages battle for space on tightly packed streets. Along the pavements stroll pedestrians, most of them male, all of them luxuriously robed and groomed, with precious jewels threading red-clay-starched beards, tozali swirling in elaborate patterns around masculine eyes.

The few women about are even more elaborately masked here than they are in the North, gold and silver gleaming on every face instead of wood and parchment. There are several variations: round sun masks to glorify Oyomo; silver fertility masks, cheeks exaggerated like the pregnant moon; oval good luck masks, beaded symbols to invite blessings on the forehead and chin; black formal masks, horns curving from smooth obsidian foreheads.

Even some of the little girls here wear half masks, visible representations of their family’s wealth moulded in gold and silver. A pang of sadness passes over me whenever I see them. I’ll never wear a mask now, never be able to adorn myself in the sacred coverings of purity.

The thought flitters away as we head deeper into the city. Something else has attracted my attention: a dull, almost indistinguishable humming that becomes louder the closer we get to the central bridges. By the time we reach the massive bridge that leads towards the central hill upon which the palace and other administrative buildings stand, it’s a roar reverberating in my bones.

“Do you hear that?” I ask Britta.

She nods, brows furrowed in confusion. “What do ye suppose it is?”

“Emeka’s Tears,” White Hands replies, turning to us.

I frown at her. “Emeka’s Tears?”

White Hands points, and I follow her finger towards a gap in the city’s walls, where a single statue rises, this one female. “Keep watching,” she instructs, leading the equus towards the topmost portion of the bridge.

The moment we reach its peak, the breath rushes out of me. There, at the very edge of the city, a massive waterfall cascades into the Endless Sea below. Now I understand why Hemaira has only three walls. The capital is a city on a cliff, the waterfall at its edge an unscalable barrier against any force that would seek to attack from the sea. The statue I saw thrusts from the edge of the waterfall, a woman with tightly curled hair and a slender but sinewy build. She gazes out into the water, her arm outstretched towards the horizon in warning.

“Fatu the Relentless, mother of the first emperor and keeper of the waters around Hemaira,” White Hands explains, her words piercing through my awe. There’s a tone in her voice, an emotion I don’t understand. Sadness? Regret? “A fitting sight to end your journey. Now it’s on to Jor Hall.” She gestures towards the administrative buildings rising just below the palace. “Prepare yourselves.”

I silently nod, anxiety knotting in my chest as the equus continue onwards, talons clacking over the main bridge. Oyomo’s Eye looms above us, a silent condemnation. Our journey will soon be over. Our new lives are about to begin.

By the time we reach the streets bordering the administrative buildings, dread has coiled like a hooded snake in my stomach. I barely notice how orderly the streets are here, barely notice the lush gardens clinging to grand, towering buildings almost as old as Otera itself. All I can think about is my impending change in circumstances. What will Hemaira hold for me? Will it be as White Hands promised? Will any of her promises hold true? There’s still that lingering doubt, that prickle of unease I get whenever I’m in her presence.

Please let them be true, I pray silently as we make our way down the street. We’re approaching an enormous red building, the jatu insignia prominently displayed on its banners. Jor Hall, the hall of administration for the jatu. Father spoke so often of it from his time in the military, I recognize it by sight. Lines of girls are wrapped around its side, an acrid, unpleasantly familiar smell wafting from them: the stench of unwashed bodies.

I know then, even without asking, that those girls are alaki. The same shivery feeling I felt with Britta trickles through me.

Nausea churns my gut the nearer we pull to them.

The other alaki are all painfully thin, their clothes torn and dirty, their feet bare and scabbed over. Not a single mask covers their faces – no cloaks or cowls protect their modesty from the burly, black-robed guards who leer as they check the symbols on the back of their seals before directing them into different lines. A few are wounded, blood dripping from their robes, scars criss-crossing exposed arms and shoulders. They haven’t died, at least not recently. Their wounds and scars would have already been completely repaired by the gilded sleep if they had.

But then, physical death isn’t the worst thing an alaki can suffer. I can tell from the haunted expressions in the other girls’ eyes, from the way they don’t resist when they’re roughly unloaded, seven, eight at a time, from the backs of wagons, that they’ve all suffered greatly. Even when the guards prod them towards Jor Hall, its banners flapping sullenly in the breeze, most of them don’t make a sound. What methods did the other transporters use to keep the girls in line? A chill shivers through me just thinking about it.

Thank Oyomo for White Hands. A surprising thought, but nonetheless true. Despite all my doubts about her, the most she ever did during our journey was lock the wagon’s doors at night so we wouldn’t run away. She never hit or abused us, never belittled us with foul words, though I suspect all these things and more happened to the other girls.

I wait, anxiety growing, as she stops the wagon before the hall, then walks over to open the back for us.

“This is where we part ways, alaki,” she says, beckoning for us to dismount.

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