Page 27 of The Gilded Ones

“Oh, please, we all chose to escape the Death Mandate,” an annoyed voice interrupts.

When we turn, two pairs of eyes are watching us, irritation plain in them. The taller twin’s bald head gleams in the darkness of the wagon as she drawls, “That’s the path we all chose. Whether we were forced or not doesn’t matter. We’re here now. We make the best of it or we die, simple as that.”

I’m surprised she spoke on my behalf. Northerners and Southerners never fare well together, and my accent very clearly marks me as a Northerner, despite my appearance. Perhaps she doesn’t care about the grudge between the Northern and Southern provinces.

I can only hope everyone else here feels the same.

She and her sister seem older than us – perhaps eighteen or so – although she’s much fiercer-looking than her shorter, smaller sister, whose black hair is braided in tiny rows down her back. When she shrugs, moonlight dances across the intricate scars on her cheeks and shoulders. My heart tightens in recognition. Those are tribal scars, probably carved well before her blood turned and the cursed gold began healing all wounds. The Southern tribes use them to mark their members. Mother had two on each cheek.

“Then let’s make the best of it by becoming friends,” Britta says. The others turn to her, and she shrinks inward for a moment. Then she stiffens her shoulders. “Or allies, l-leastways,” she stammers. “True ones, I mean, not like our new partnerships.”

I can’t help but admire her for her bravery. “Britta’s right,” I say. “We are all going to a place we don’t know to face horrors we cannot imagine. We could bear it alone.” A dark cellar. Golden blood on stones. “Or we could band together, help each other. Britta’s helped me before. I slept through our entire journey across the sea, and she ate my food so others would not start asking questions about me – about how I could survive without eating.”

“Must have been such a sacrifice for you.” The proud girl’s eyes examine Britta’s plump form dismissively. “A few days of feasting to your heart’s content.”

Her sarcasm prickles me. “It was four weeks,” I say coldly. “Almost a month.”

Now her eyes widen. “A month?” she gasps.

The Nibari are shocked as well. “A month?” the taller one muses. “You look healthy for not having eaten for a month.”

The smaller one nods in agreement but still does not speak. I’m starting to wonder if she can.

“I don’t think our kind dies of starvation,” I reply.

“We don’t.” The grim expression in the proud girl’s eyes says she knows this from experience. “We do, however, show its ill effects. Our ability to heal goes only so far, and we need food to fuel it.” She looks me up and down. “Your hair is full, and your body isn’t thin. Your skin’s unwrinkled, and you don’t have sores around your mouth. How long ago were you starved?”

As I try to remember, Britta leans forward. “She still hasn’t eaten yet.”

I blink, startled to realize she’s right. When last did I eat – or even have a drink? I try to pin down the day, but my memories shift away, the same way they’ve been doing since my time in the cellar.

The proud girl’s lips curl into a sneer. “You’re unnatural,” she says, disgusted.

As I wince at the word, the shorter Nibari rustles beside me and turns to the proud girl. “We all are – you as well,” she sniffs. Like her sister, she has shrewd eyes and a defiant expression. Ritual scars also cover her cheeks and shoulders. “How else do you think you tossed away all those guards in Jor Hall? What human woman do you know who possesses such strength?”

The girl stiffens. “Of course I know—”

“Can’t sneer at someone else for being unnatural when you’re considered exactly the same by other people,” the shorter Nibari interrupts.

“All the more reason we should band together,” Britta announces, extending her hand out to the twins. “I’m Britta,” she says.

The twins look at her hand, then at each other. The taller, bald one takes it first. “I’m Adwapa, first daughter of Tabelo, high chief of the Nibari.”

“And I’m Asha, second daughter of Tabelo, high chief of the Nibari,” the shorter one says, braids swinging as she nods.

When both turn to me, I extend my hand as well. “Deka of Irfut,” I say, clasping each of their hands in turn.

“Well met,” they intone together.

We all turn to the proud girl. At first she just looks at us, disgusted. Finally, she sighs and rolls her eyes. “Very well, I am Belcalis of Hualpa,” she says, naming a far Western city near the border to the Unknown Lands.

“Well met,” we all say.

“This does not make us friends,” she snarls.

Britta’s broad smile exposes the dimple in her left cheek. “But it does make us allies.”

I nod. “Let us watch each other’s backs and aid each other as much as possible.”

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