Page 62 of The Gilded Ones

I shiver, suddenly freezing cold. Try not to look any further. Try not to see anything that might look like a little girl’s head. These must be the remains of some of the nobles who were attacked. I try not to check whether there are bite marks on them. It’s said deathshrieks like to gnaw on the bones afterwards.

“You all right?” Keita asks.

I nod, try to keep my expression from collapsing into horror. “It seems I’m no longer used to the cold,” I say.

“You’ll get used to it soon,” he says. “And…the corpses too.” When I glance up at him, startled, he nods. “I couldn’t look at them either when I first started. Still can’t. Some sights are just never easy, no matter how many years you spend on the battlefield.”

I nod, oddly comforted by his words. “Let’s see the nest,” I say.

The interior of the cave is much larger than I’d expected it to be. Instead of a cramped, dark little structure, I’m shocked to find a massive open space with colossal walls that curve into a soaring ceiling. A small hole in the middle allows weak light to filter onto the herd of zerizards milling in the centre of the cave, eating from what looks like a trough of assorted fruits. They cluck excitedly when they see us. Keita goes over to examine them, but I keep looking around.

The dirt closest to the walls is scattered loosely, as if it was raked. This must be where the deathshrieks slept. I can see their tracks now, distinct impressions of arching, four-toed feet worn into the soil. As I glance around, unnerved, I sense a subtle tingling racing through my body, awareness rising deep within me. It’s different from the foreboding I get sometimes.

This time, it doesn’t feel like something is approaching. It feels like something is already here.

I turn towards the corner of the cave, where a small, dark passage leads deeper down. The feeling is coming from there, so strong, it’s almost like I’m slipping into the deep combat state, even though I know I’m still wide awake. My vision hasn’t changed, no shimmering yet. Even so, I can feel the dark ocean stretching inside me, the golden door opening, its secrets rustling behind.

I reach for it as I slip down the rough, vine-covered path into an even smaller one that curves deeper, hurrying along to make sure I’m not followed. I don’t know where I’m going, only that I have to go, have to follow this strange, urgent feeling where it leads. By now, the ocean is surging up, rising inside me. I’m no longer sure I’m fully awake, but for some reason, this isn’t like when I use the deep combat state to train my voice. This is a different sort of state.

A knowing one.

Soon enough, I reach the end of the passage, which is guarded by what looks like a carved doorway. I walk towards it, frowning. What’s this?

“Deka?” Britta’s voice is as unexpected as it is loud. “Deka, are you there?”

When her familiar form appears around the bend, I shush her. “Lower your voice,” I say, alarmed by its volume.

I have a feeling that this is a sacred space – a space we shouldn’t disturb. Then Belcalis appears as well.

I sigh. I guess I’m not as stealthy as I thought.

“What is this place?” Belcalis asks, glancing around.

“I don’t know, ask Deka,” Britta says, turning to me, but I don’t have time to answer.

The knowing is urging me forward. “Shush, you have to be quiet,” I warn them, walking through the doorway. The breath immediately catches in my throat.

This new part of the cave has been shaped by human hands – that’s immediately apparent from the grandly carved pillars and ceiling, the blue stone on the floor. That’s not what shocks me, however. The colossal statues do. There’s one at each of this chamber’s four corners, and they are all women, from a different Oteran province. Their features are distinct, as are the clothes they wear.

There’s a wise-looking Southerner in flowing robes, her face angular and shrewd; a gentle Northerner in her furs, body as round as her smiling face; a warlike Easterner, scaled armour covering her from head to toe and wings on her back; and a motherly Westerner, belly round and fertile, a welcoming look in her eyes.

The women in the statues appear ageless – somehow old and young at the same time – and they soar high into the ceiling, giants to our ants. I approach the closest one, the wise-looking Southerner, and that’s when I notice something else. Something that stops me mid step.

Golden veins.

They shimmer almost ethereally over the statue’s skin, identical to the ones that shimmer under mine. The closer I get to them, the more my skin prickles, realization quickly dawning.

Britta walks over to me, seeming dazed as she regards the statues. “Are they supposed to be—”

“The Gilded Ones…” Belcalis says, finishing Britta’s question.

There’s no question about it when those veins are so unmistakable, as are the other things: the pregnant belly of the Westerner, the Southerner’s darkness, the pale glow of the Northerner, the scaled armour of the Easterner, wings protruding from it.

“They don’t look like demons at all,” Britta says, shocked. “They look like—”

“Gods,” I whisper, thinking of all the statues of Oyomo I’ve seen, glowering down at us from the corners of temples. “They look like gods.”

“Who would worship demons as gods?” Belcalis asks.

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