Page 71 of The Gilded Ones

“Yes, Karmoko?” we ask after we bow.

She hands us the scroll, which is sealed with the kuru. “Call the rest of the Death Strikers,” she declares. “We have been invited to the palace by Emperor Gezo.”

Oyomo’s Eye is just as golden inside as it is out. That’s what I discover as I walk down the Hemairan palace’s gold-veined hallways the very next morning, my heart drumming a frantically nervous beat. I’ve never seen so much opulence in my life. Everywhere I turn, there’s another precious stone, another imposing sculpture. Jatu in the most extravagant red armour I’ve ever witnessed stand at attention by each doorway, while grandly robed courtiers whisper behind their fans as we pass them.

Thankfully, we’re garbed in the finest armour the Warthu Bera has to offer – Karmoko Huon insisted we wear it instead of the ornate robes the other karmokos wanted us to wear – as well as war masks to cover our faces. We alaki are no longer human women, she reminded the others, and it’s better the emperor and those around him don’t view us as such.

“Oh, me belly,” Britta whispers as we near the double doors leading to the throne room. “There it goes again.”

“Why is it that you always get a stomach ache when you’re upset?” Li asks, exasperated.

“It’s just the way I am.” Britta sighs. “Least I have me war mask on, so I won’t embarrass us,” she says, touching the light bronze frame.

I don’t know how she can bear it. Even though the air is cool in this gigantic hallway, my mask feels hot against my skin, and sweat dampens my brow.

Keita smiles when he notices the nervousness in my eyes. “Take courage, Deka,” he whispers. “Everything will be well.”

“You too,” I whisper back. Then I clear my throat and add, “You look very handsome today.” Like me, he’s dressed in splendid ornamental armour made just for this occasion.

He nods, and I blush, my stomach jumping. I shouldn’t have complimented him like that. Why oh why did I compliment him?

“You look pretty too,” he whispers, and my cheeks sting with embarrassment and glee.

It’s all I can do to keep from grinning from ear to ear. This is the first time a man other than Father and Ionas has called me pretty and actually meant it. Father… I wonder how he would feel if he could see me now, if he even misses me. I try to picture the look he’d give me, but I can’t.

I can’t remember the shape of his eyes, much less the colour of his eyebrows, or the length of his hair.

Why can’t I remember his face?

Drums sound and the doors to the throne room open, forcing the question from my mind.

“The Death Strikers,” the emperor’s crier announces.

Taking a deep breath for bravery, I walk down the long hallway, trying not to gawk at the nobles sitting on either side of the room, their bodies so covered in gold and jewels, my eyes hurt to look at them. I thought the regular folk in Hemaira were finely dressed, but the nobles are walking treasure chests, their clothes and bodies virtually crusted in jewels, their faces covered by golden masks even though they’re male. White Hands informed us that courtiers wear masks to show their submission to the emperor the same way women wear masks so as not to offend the eyes of Oyomo.

The emperor sits at the very end of the room, separated from everyone else by a massive veiled throne. My jaw nearly drops when I see it, gold threading the fine red material. It’s said that the emperor is as close to Oyomo as you can find in this world – even more so than the high priests. Looking at his throne, I don’t doubt it. The stairs leading up to it are solid gold, their edges lacquered in a thin crust of rubies.

Captain Kelechi and White Hands, as representatives of each group, stop just before the stairs and prostrate themselves on the floor. I do the same, my entire body trembling. I can’t believe I’m here, in front of the emperor himself. The thought makes my body tremble even more.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” White Hands murmurs.

“The Lady of the Equus,” the emperor rumbles, his voice deep and resonant to match his burly silhouette, which I can just make out past the sheer curtains. “How wonderful it is to see you again, and in such auspicious circumstances.”

I squint, trying to see him more clearly out the corner of my eye, but it’s difficult with the edges of the mask blocking my periphery. Why did I ever want to wear these things again? I concentrate, straining my eyes in his direction. From what I can tell, he’s very tall and broad-shouldered – bulky too, although I suspect he’s more muscle than fat. A carefully groomed beard takes up most of his face, and his lips seem almost feminine, they’re so lush. They make him seem a bit more human – flesh and blood, rather than the godlike being I was expecting.

White Hands abruptly sits up and faces him. “How wonderful it is to see you again, Cousin. You look…healthy.”

Cousin? The word is a lightning bolt through me. White Hands is a royal? I thought she was just a noble, high-ranking but of ordinary blood, as all the other nobles are. To think that she has imperial blood – the blood of the emperor – coursing through her veins. It explains so many things: the way people defer to her, her seeming confidence against all odds. Even the fact that no one ever says her real name, and she can sit up in the emperor’s presence. No wonder she’s in charge of his special assignments, his little monsters, whatever they truly are. She’s his cousin!

By now, the emperor is laughing. “Such humour you have, Cousin. I suppose I have become a bit more rotund in the past few months.”

White Hands shrugs. “If you say so.” She gestures to us. “Here is what I promised you: the Death Strikers, the most elite deathshriek-killing force in all Otera. The crown jewels of your new regiment.”

New regiment? I struggle to keep my eyes focused on the floor as I hear White Hands’s words. What does she mean, “new regiment”? Confusion circles inside me until I realize something: yet another of her promises has proven true. She said that she’d make us crown jewels in the emperor’s army, and she has done it.

What is the truth of White Hands? I wonder. The sinister agent of the emperor or something else? Something I can’t quite put my finger on yet.

A rustling behind the throne’s veil as the emperor nods. Then he turns to his courtiers. “You may leave.”

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