Page 15 of The Gilded Ones

“You were telling me about the Gilded Ones?” I quickly remind her, trying to stop her from saying anything more about her parents, about her life before now.

She’s not even horrified. Not even the slightest bit disgusted by what she is. But how could she be when her parents protected her, kept her from harm – from dismemberment – while mine… Tears prick at my eyes when I remember Father’s words: It would have been better if you had just died.

Did he even cry when he heard of my death, or was he just relieved – grateful to be free of his unnatural burden? Does he even think about me any more?

I dig my nails into my palms to stop the thoughts from circling and try to focus on Britta as she answers my question. “Oh yes – the Gilded Ones,” she says brightly. “By the time Emperor Emeka destroyed them, they’d already intermixed an’ had all sorts of children with humans. We’re the result – their grandchildren thousands of times removed, I suppose.”

“So we are demons,” I conclude, a dull, heavy feeling settling over me.

“Half,” Britta corrects. “Less than a quarter, probably. White Hands says we change only when we near maturity, which is sixteen for our kind. Once we begin our menses, our blood gradually turns gold, an’ that makes our muscles an’ bones stronger. That’s why we heal so fast an’ are quicker an’ stronger than regular folk. It’s ’cause we’re like predatory beasts now, like wolves an’ such.”

Predatory beasts. Bitterness jolts me at the words.

I remember the surge of strength I experienced when the deathshrieks came, remember how I could see in that dark cellar even when there weren’t any torches. Now I understand why. It’s because I’m no better than an animal – a fiend skulking at the edges of humanity. Perhaps that’s even why I could sense the deathshrieks, why Mother could sense them as well.

But that doesn’t make sense. Mother wasn’t alaki. If she was, she would have bled the cursed gold when the red pox turned her insides to sludge, and then she would have fallen into the gilded sleep, her body taking on a golden hue and repairing itself while she slept. Then she would have come back.

She would have come back…

“By the time herself came, I could almost lift a cow.” Britta grins. “Very helpful when yer milking an’ they begin to get all unruly. I heard yer a farm girl too.”

I nod slowly, but my mind is far away. I have a lot to think about. A lot to grieve.

The next week passes swiftly, a blur of howling snowstorms, freezing roads, and frightful nightmares. Even though I’m no longer in the cellar, I sometimes have dreams that the walls are closing in on me again, that the elders are approaching, knives and buckets in hand, gold-lust in their eyes. I wake up in the wagon crying, chest heaving with great sobs, while Britta edges ever nearer, concern in her eyes. I know she would hold me if I let her, but I’m not ready to be touched by another person’s hands.

Most days, I just feel like screaming until my throat collapses.

Sometimes, when I wake, the furs covering me are in tatters. I’ve ripped them apart in my sleep, shredded the tough leather underpinnings as if they were parchment. Even the strongest men in the village couldn’t manage such a feat. More confirmation I’m unnatural, the spawn of reviled demons rather than a child of humanity.

It’s almost a relief when I look up after eight days of travelling to find we’re in Gar Melanis, the port city where we’ll board the ship to the capital, Hemaira. The entire city is smothered in darkness when we arrive – the ramshackle, soot-covered buildings huddled against each other, dim oil lamps lighting murky interiors. Our ship, the Salt Whistle, creaks at the dock, an aged, squat passenger vessel with greying sails and chipped blue paint on its sides. Wiry sailors dart across the snow-slick deck, settling passengers, hauling baggage and supplies. Families huddle together against the cold, mothers in their plain brown travel masks, fathers with miniature copies of the Infinite Wisdoms on their belts to ensure travelling mercies.

The moment we board, I find a quiet corner and look up at the night sky. Bright green and purple lights are rippling across it: the Northern Lights, heralding the return of Oyomo’s chariot to its Southern home. It’s a sign: after all those weeks in the cellar, Oyomo has finally answered my prayers. I’m on my way to Hemaira, to my new life as a soldier in the emperor’s army – a life that will bring me absolution.

Thank you, thank you… The prayer of gratitude circles my mind.

“Enjoying the view?”

White Hands is approaching, Britta and the equus at her side. As usual, there’s that look in her eyes, that amused smirk that’s always visible under the shadow of her half mask. It makes the skin on my arms prickle, an uneasiness I do my best to stifle. What if White Hands is lying? What if all of this is a trick – an underhanded plot to corral all our kind into the same place? I wouldn’t put it past her. I’ve never met anyone so secretive in my life, not even the priests. Britta and I have spent over a week in her company, and she still hasn’t told us her real name. We now call her White Hands outright, since she’s made no objections.

I school my features and turn to her. “It’s beautiful,” I reply.

“Isn’t it?” Britta is in such a hurry to join the conversation now that I’m talking, she doesn’t even pay attention to her surroundings as she walks over. “Almost reminds me of the sky in – ARGHH!” she yelps, tripping over a mound of netting, but she’s up in seconds, dusting herself off and smiling ruefully, not a hint of embarrassment to her. “Almost broke me neck. Lucky our kind is hard to kill, ain’t that right, White Hands?” she quips.

The older woman shrugs. “Most alaki die very easily, actually,” she murmurs.

Britta’s forehead wrinkles. “But wha about the gilded sleep?” she asks.

“That happens only if it’s an almost-death.”

It’s my turn to frown now. “An almost-death?” I ask, walking closer. I’ve never heard of such a thing.

“For alaki, there are two types of death,” White Hands explains. “Almost-deaths and final ones. Almost-deaths are fleeting, impermanent things. They result in the week-long gilded sleep, which heals the body of all wounds and scars – except, of course, those acquired before the blood turns.”

A chill shudders through me. I no longer have any scars – not even the ones from childhood. They all disappeared the moment I had my first almost-death.

I’m so uneasy now, I barely notice Britta frowning down at a tiny scar on her hand. “Guess I’ll never get rid of this, then,” she says and sighs.

White Hands ignores her and continues. “An alaki can have several almost-deaths, but she has only one final death – one method by which she can truly be killed. For the vast majority of alaki, it’s either burning, drowning, or beheading. If an alaki doesn’t die from one of these, she’s practically immortal.”

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