Page 53 of The Gilded Ones

It’s late afternoon and I’m standing in the karmokos’ personal library along with several other alaki: Beax, a thoughtful Northern novice with green eyes and black hair, Mehrut, the short Southern neophyte Adwapa is forever making cow eyes at, and Britta, Belcalis, Gazal and Adwapa. White Hands and the other karmokos sit quietly in the corner, assessing us. This time tomorrow, our small party will be on the outskirts of Hemaira hunting deathshrieks. And not just the ordinary ones either. This particular group has killed over fifty men in the week they’ve been nesting at the southern border. Most deathshrieks take at least two or three months to wreak such devastation. We’re hunting these on our very first raid.

My heart pounds, fear, nerves and eagerness all coming together as one. This is what I’ve been training all these months for.

“The deathshrieks are massing here, near the jungle villas of several nobles,” Karmoko Thandiwe says, walking to the centre of the library, where a map of Otera has been carved into the floor. She points with a spear to the area we will be travelling to, a small village at Hemaira’s leftmost edge. “You lot and your uruni will ride out tomorrow and will engage them at this cave.” She points to the location, then looks up, beckons to me. “Deka, this is where your particular talent becomes of use.”

I reluctantly walk over, noticing the questions arising in the other bloodsisters’ eyes.

Once I reach her, Karmoko Thandiwe turns to face them. “You all know Deka,” she begins, patting my shoulder. “What you do not know, however, is that she is not quite like the rest of you.”

The girls glance at each other again, confused. My muscles tense, anxiety roping them tighter. None of us in White Hands’s lessons has told any of the others about my ability, and now that the moment is here, I’m filled with dread. Will they hate me? Fear me?

A hand nudges mine. Britta’s. “It’s all right, Deka,” she whispers, smiling. “I’m right here.”

I smile back, relieved.

“Deka is an anomaly among your kind,” Karmoko Thandiwe explains, glancing around the room. “She has the power to command deathshrieks.”

The other girls gasp, and Adwapa sends me a shocked look. “Deka?” she whispers, a question in her eyes.

I nod quickly, suddenly shy.

Beax raises her hand. “I do not understand, Karmoko. Do you mean that she can hypnotize them?”

“Something like that,” Karmoko Thandiwe replies. “She can do so only for short periods of time, but, as you can imagine, this is a very helpful ability, so we must explore it.”

Now she looks across the room, her eyes stern. “A word of warning: very few people know of Deka’s talent. Only those in this room, the jatu commanders, and a few select others are privy to this information. No one else may know – not even your other bloodsisters, on pain of death.”

Beax nods, staring at me speculatively. I stand straighter, try to seem stronger – worthy, somehow. I still don’t know why I was gifted with this ability, but I don’t want to act so timid that the other bloodsisters dismiss me for my lack of confidence.

“Now, let’s talk strategy,” Karmoko Thandiwe declares. She glances at the other bloodsisters, then at me. “The plan is simple. Deka, you will approach first, flanked by your uruni and Britta. You will lure the deathshrieks out, using your voice, and render them motionless if you can. The others will then exterminate them, fast and simple. Do you understand?” she asks.

I nod. “Yes, Karmoko,” I say, my muscles roped tighter than ever.

It’s finally here, the time for me to accomplish my purpose. The very thought makes my mouth dry. I can do this, I can do this…

Karmoko Thandiwe smiles at me and nods.

“Then let’s go over the finer points.”

The mood is sombre when we gather in the stands with our uruni later in the evening. Our group has been allowed to have two hours to ourselves, as is the custom with every new raiding party, so we’ve decided to pass the time having dinner together. After all, it’s very likely that some of us will die tomorrow. This almost feels like a sort of funeral – a chance to say goodbye before it’s too late.

I’m not the only one that feels this way. As I bite into my dinner of hot stew and bread, Acalan, Belcalis’s uruni, shifts beside me. “What does it feel like – dying?” he asks quietly.

There’s an expression on his face, a vulnerability I’ve never seen there before.

“Cold, very cold,” I reply. “You can feel the blood slowing inside you. Then there’s the darkness, the loneliness. Dying is very lonely…”

“And after?” Acalan prompts, uncertain.

Perhaps he’s not all bluster and rudeness after all.

“After?” I repeat, trying to picture it. It’s a difficult thing. I always remember dying, but I can never quite recall what comes afterwards. All I remember is the darkness and the peace. If I try to think of anything further than that, the memory shifts away. Lots of my memories shift away now. I sometimes think I don’t want to remember them – don’t want to feel the fear that accompanies them.

“It’s warm.” To my surprise, this answer comes from Belcalis, and there’s a faint smile on her mouth as she looks up from the cream she’s been mixing all evening. Belcalis is very good at creams and solutions – a talent she learned from working at her uncle’s apothecary. She makes them every time she’s nervous or anxious, even though we don’t need any such remedies as alaki. “It’s always warm, like something is surrounding you, keeping you safe.”

“You sound as if you like it.” This perplexed observation comes from Kweku, Adwapa’s plump and usually cheerful uruni. His eyebrows are gathered together, large brown eyes confused underneath them.

Belcalis shrugs. “I don’t mind it – being dead, that is. It’s actually peaceful, like you’re floating in warmth and happiness. Whenever people call us monsters, I think about when I’m dead – what it feels like – and I wonder: If I’m that much of a monster, why is Oyomo so kind to me in the Afterlands?”

---