Page 25 of The Gilded Ones

Once I do so, he turns to his assistant. “Name?” he asks the assistant.

“Deka of Irfut,” the assistant dutifully reads out.

“Are you here of your own free will?” the official asks.

“Yes,” I whisper. Across the chamber, another girl screams as both her hands are dipped in the urn. The smell of burning flesh rises, and with it, my fear.

“Louder.”

“Yes, I am,” I say. I try not to look at the urn again.

“Do you seek absolution?”

“Yes, I do.”

The official nods, satisfied.

I stiffen as one of the assistants begins to examine me, rough hands tugging at my body. “Weight – moderate, height – five hands, five knots, hair – black, eyes – grey, no distinguishing marks, excellent health.”

Once this assessment is done, the assistant directs my attention back to the accountant, who continues his questions. I crane my head up towards him.

“Do you swear fealty to Emperor Gezo and his armies?”

This was a question I had not anticipated, so it takes me a moment to answer. “Yes,” I finally reply. More screams sound, cold sweat drenches my back.

“You were brought here by the Lady of the Equus.”

“The Lady of the—” It takes me some moments to understand he is talking about White Hands. Of course they would nickname her that, because of Braima and Masaima. She treats them more like companions than steeds, after all. “Yes,” I answer, forcing the words out past my panic.

The official nods again. “She did not physically harm you nor attempt to sell your virtue to others?”

I blink, taken aback by the question. Now I understand what happened to the empty-eyed girls. The transporters weren’t supposed to harm them, but one thing I’ve learned in the past few months is that people often do things they aren’t supposed to. A vision of the elders flashes behind my eyes, their knives and buckets looming as they prepare for yet another bleeding. I inhale, exhale out the memory.

“No,” I finally answer.

“Well, that’s a relief,” the official says under his breath. “No additional scrolls to fill with this one.”

My teeth grit. Girls had their virtue forced from them, their lives devastated, and all he cares about is doing more work. He’s like the jatu that just left with their false promises of rights and freedoms. I have to exhale again to keep the rage from showing on my face.

He turns to his assistant. “The gold,” he commands.

As the assistant moves to bring over the urn, the official directs his eyes to me. “This gold has been formulated specially to mark you as the emperor’s property. It will fade with every year that passes and disappear once you reach your twentieth year of service. A gilded sleep will not fade it, so don’t try killing yourself to lessen your time.”

Don’t try…killing yourself…

I’m in such a state now, my thoughts are barely more than half-formed things. By the time I finally piece together what he’s saying, the assistant is already pulling my sleeves up, then he’s dipping my hands into that urn. A whimper escapes my lips, even though all I feel is a brief, icy stinging before the gold covers my skin. I try not to react to the smell of my burning flesh, but my body trembles again and the sourness in my mouth intensifies as that horrible odour wafts past my nostrils.

“She is gilded,” the assistant says.

“She is duly accounted for,” the official concludes. Now he looks down his spectacles at me. “Bring pride to Otera in the coming years, alaki – both you and your uruni.”

I vomit the moment I’m led out of the hall.

There’s nothing in my stomach. Nothing but bile and dust. And that’s the only thing that saves me from the wrath of the two jatu overseeing my group when I retch violently outside the hall. My hands are still raw and stinging from the gilding, but I can already feel them healing, new skin forming under the thin sheen of gold, which, strangely, is just as supple as the skin underneath it. There really is something uncanny about the gold they used.

The shorter jatu sneers, disgusted. “Get a hold of yourself, creature.” He shoves me towards the line of hulking, prisonlike wagons waiting in the back of the hall.

There are twenty wagons in total, each a different colour designating the different training grounds scattered on the hills at the very outer edges of Hemaira. Britta and I are headed for the forbidding red wagons waiting at the very end of the line. They’re the ones destined for the Warthu Bera. At least one hundred girls will be taken there before this night is ended. The jatu recruits are no doubt already on their way, ready to do their own initial training.

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