Page 24 of The Gilded Ones

It takes everything I’ve got to force myself to continue looking at him instead of ducking my head in shame. Finally, I manage a reply. “Deka of Irfut,” I mumble.

He nods.

By now, Captain Kelechi and his partner have turned to face each other. “Hold out your hands,” the captain instructs us, extending his hand to the silent commander, who is still masked, unlike all the other men.

Now, more than ever, I’m certain she’s female.

She clasps his forearm, and he does the same, an obscene imitation of the marriage ritual. “Extend them to each other in the spirit of fellowship.”

Keita and I face each other and do the same.

I shiver when his hand touches mine. It’s warm, calloused… He has capable hands – a swordsman’s hands. The type of hands Ionas used to thrust that sword through my belly. The memory shakes me, and I have to force myself not to jerk my hand away. I look up into his eyes, trying to push past my fear.

But his eyes slide away, a cold expression shuttering his face. His grasp on my arm loosens.

I’m almost thankful when Captain Kelechi speaks. “From now until the moment of your deaths, you are bonded,” he says. “Brothers and sisters in arms. Uruni.”

The words send a shiver through my spine. It feels almost like…foreboding… When I look up again, Keita’s expression is darker and more severe than ever. I can barely breathe, barely remain standing so close to this boy who will now be my connection to the normal world. A world I’m not certain I want any more part of. A world that certainly wants no part of me.

“Well met, Keita,” I say, forcing myself to push my discomfort away.

He nods brusquely back. “Well met, Deka of Irfut,” he replies.

Then he lets go of my hand.

With that, the ceremony is at an end. The boys file out from the other end of the hall, the commanders following behind them, and the transporters file back in. It all happens so fast, I barely notice two yellow-robed officials take their places on the empty platforms, barely notice as we line up once more – this time before the platforms. Now the actual intake begins. Girls walk up to the officials, who examine them and inscribe their details into scrolls with the help of the brown-robed assistants now scurrying to and fro like ants. The girl at the front of my line – a frail, sickly-looking Southerner – sobs quietly while the assistants poke and prod her, loudly calling out her details.

“Height – five hands, three knots. Severely malnourished. Primary indications of scurvy.”

A frown knots itself into my brow. Malnourished? How is it that this girl is malnourished and I’m not after all those weeks asleep in the ship? Unnatural… The word whispers in my head again, banishing all thoughts of Keita and the cold way he stared down at me. I ignore my whispering fears, try to think of other reasons why there are differences between me and the girl. Perhaps some alaki are sicklier than others and some, like me, are just naturally healthier. There are so many potential explanations.

The girl’s transporter, a stocky bearded man, raises loud objections when he’s given only half a bag of gold as payment. “I was promised sixty otas a girl! Sixty!” he splutters.

The assistant’s reply is loud and implacable. “That one is sickly and ill-fed. You were warned not to maltreat the emperor’s property.”

The emperor’s property. Disgust sweeps over me at the words. I thought we were supposed to be soldiers.

By now, all the transporters have made their way to the middle of the chamber except for White Hands, not that I’m surprised she isn’t here. I don’t think she really needs the gold they’re doling out for the transporters’ services. Our journey seemed more of an amusement for her than anything. Not for the first time, I wonder who exactly she is and why she would embark on such a journey for what seemed like the sport of it.

As I turn the question over in my mind, a horrible burnt smell wafts past my nostrils, desperate screams following just behind it. I whirl towards the sound, muscles strung tight. There’s an assistant dipping a red-haired girl’s hands into an urn of what looks like liquid gold.

The cursed gold, our own blood.

My mouth sours, vomit surging up, but I swallow it down, glance at the girl, who’s now weeping uncontrollably as she stares at her hands. They’ve been gilded – golden now from fingertip to elbow. It’s almost like she’s already dead – halfway into a gilded sleep. The thought forces little rivulets of sweat down my back as the line advances again.

The gilding won’t hurt, I tell myself encouragingly. It’ll only sting a little. Just a tiny bit. But I know that’s not true. That burnt smell is intensifying now, fresher and more visceral than the smell that sometimes plagues my memories. There’s something about the cursed gold in that urn, something about the way it’s been prepared, that causes it to stick to alaki skin.

More screams rise, and darkness edges my vision. I feel like I’m jumping out of my skin, like my entire body is on edge.

“Deka, breathe. Deka!” Britta’s voice comes as if from far away. Soft arms encircle me. Safety. Warmth. “I’m here, Deka,” her voice whispers. “You’re safe with me. Safe.”

Safe…

It takes some moments, but finally, I take a ragged breath and manage to nod. “I’m fine,” I croak.

I swallow back my nausea and straighten just in time to glimpse the assistant gild the girl in front of me. When she removes her hands, the gold now gleams on her skin. My hands tremble. It’s my turn next.

The Eastern official sitting above me is pale and intimidating in the dim light. “Step forward, child,” he beckons, adjusting his spectacles in an imperious manner.

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