Page 21 of The Gilded Ones

I do so tentatively, arms folded tightly over myself. The guards are watching us now, scowls burning into my shoulders. I suddenly wish I had my old cloak, the one I left in Irfut. It was tattered and shabby, but it always protected me from view, always made me feel safe. Here, I have no such shielding – not even the half mask I’d imagined I’d be wearing by now.

As I shuffle to the front of the wagon, stomach lurching, palms sweating, the equus twins turn towards me with mournful expressions. “We must say goodbye now, alaki,” Braima says with a pout.

“We liked all the winter apples you gave us, Quiet One,” Masaima adds, glancing at me. “They were very delicious.”

“Next time we see each other, I will give you more apples,” I say softly, petting him and his brother.

They nod, and I turn to White Hands. The side of her mouth is quirked, as usual, but her eyes are shuttered behind her half mask. She seems almost…regretful as she glances at me, although I don’t understand why.

“White Hands, I—”

“I must leave you now,” she says, stopping me with a gesture. She glances from me to Britta. “Do not be stupid, and you won’t die too many times.”

We both nod quietly. She reaches over and squeezes our hands. It’s the most affection she’s ever shown us in the time we’ve travelled together, and the very gesture heightens the fear rising inside me. I try to stifle it as White Hands continues her farewell.

“Remember, this will be tough, but you will overcome it. May fortune guide you,” she whispers.

“I wish the same for you,” I reply, but she’s already walking to her wagon. She rides on, Braima and Masaima waving goodbye.

As she disappears, that fear coils tighter inside me, accelerating my heartbeat.

Please, please, please let me be able to endure what’s next.

“They were hurt, weren’t they, the other girls?” Britta asks some minutes later.

I don’t answer, my muscles too tight with tension to even speak as we walk down the dark, cavernous hallways in Jor Hall. Each leads to a chamber for one of the different alaki training grounds. Judging from the number of lines, there are ten.

As Britta and I keep pace with the line headed towards the chamber for the Warthu Bera, the training ground White Hands told us about, the other girls cower against one another, some of them sobbing under their breath, others trembling with every step. They’re scared of the jatu patrolling the corridors, the ones with the ansetha, the star symbol, gleaming on their shoulders. White Hands warned Britta and I about these jatu – told us to treat them with caution. They’ve been specially trained to subdue both alaki and deathshrieks and, as such, are much more brutal than their compatriots. They’re the reason the odour of sweat and fear has been rising steadily ever since we entered the hall.

Well, one of the reasons.

The other is the girls with torn robes and hooded eyes that shuffle beside us, their movements slow and stiff as if their souls have been snatched right out of their bodies.

I recognize that look, that posture.

It’s the same one Elder Durkas’s temple maidens sometimes have. The one that tells everyone they’re not maidens any more. Once again, I’m grateful for White Hands. What would have happened to us had we had other transporters – male ones? I shudder to think of it, the price some of the girls here have already paid to earn their absolution.

“Deka?” Britta prompts, her eyes flicking back to the empty-eyed girls.

“They were hurt in more ways than we can imagine,” I finally answer, my expression grim.

She glances at me, fearful tears glazing her eyes. “We were lucky, weren’t we?”

I squeeze her hand. “We still are,” I whisper firmly. “We have each other.” And I mean it, mean every word. I’m lucky to have Britta at my side, to have someone else to endure this with.

She nods as we reach the double doors at the end of the hall.

The room we enter is so immense, it’s hard to see the other side of it. Ornate golden carvings decorate glossy black stone walls, and the floor is much the same. I struggle to keep my mouth closed, I’m in such awe. The only black stone I’ve ever seen was in Irfut’s temple, and there was only enough of it to decorate the altar. The amount in this room could keep every family in Irfut fed for a thousand years or more.

Even more daunting is the line of boys waiting for us, all of them wearing armour and war masks.

I nearly stumble at the sight.

There are about one hundred boys in total, roughly the same number as we alaki, and they’re standing at attention, backs straight, hands over their hearts. They range in age from sixteen to about twenty, and they all seem stern and forbidding, their eyes filled with disgust behind their war masks.

My heartbeat doubles into a frantic, fearful beat. I have to physically resist the urge to clasp my arms over myself.

“Wha’s happening? Why are they here?” Britta asks, moving nervously closer to me.

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