Page 103 of The Merciless Ones

“The Lady just went to do the same,” Masaima says, referring to White Hands, who was once also known as the Lady of the Equus. She has a habit of changing her name for every age she lives through. “You might catch her in the hallways.”

“That’s good.” I nod to both of them. “May fortune favour you on the battlefield.”

“The same with you,” they chime.

And then they’re off, trotting to join the rest of their comrades. I continue on, my heart hammering in my chest. There’s so much happening, so much that needs to be done. But what if the mothers shut me out? The doors to their chambers only ever open to those they favour. What if they decide, as the water bridge did, that my questioning has rendered me disloyal? I glance down at my pocket, where I’ve kept the ansetha necklace stored, safely wrapped in cloth. For a moment, I consider putting it back on. Perhaps it would be better if I wear it, show my faith and subservience. But no – I shake my head, turning away the self-betraying thought. I can’t act as if I’m back in Irfut again, pleading with the village elders to see me as a living being – not to hurt me just because I’m different. If the Gilded Ones truly are my mothers, they will accept me, no matter what.

My mind is such a whirl of emotions and fears, it takes some moments before I notice the odour filtering through the hall. It’s subtle at first, so slight, I’m almost to the Chamber of the Goddesses before I notice it, the sickly sweetness masking the heaviness of rot. My footsteps slow. What is that smell? There’s something about it… As I whirl around, searching for the source, I suddenly notice that the hallway is somehow completely empty. Outside was such a buzz of movement, but here there is only the darkness, the stillness, and that odour. Where is White Hands? Where are all the guards, all the deathshrieks who usually guard this portion of the temple? It’s as if the same gloom that cloaks the air outside has fallen over the hall.

A shuffling sound emerges from a distant corner, and I whirl towards it. “White Hands, is that you?”

An earsplitting shriek is my only warning before a massive deathshriek rushes me. I swiftly dodge to the side, noticing the golden veins throbbing across bright purple skin. It’s a Forsworn. And it’s already here, in the middle of the Temple of the Gilded Ones. How?

It rushes me again, claws flashing. There’s a look in its eyes, a barely repressed insanity.

I hurriedly dance back, slide out one of my daggers. With a deathshriek this size, it’s better to get up close, stab between the ribs right to the heart. And yet… A frown carves itself into my brows as I dodge once more, evading yet another clumsy strike. The deathshriek’s movements are odd – graceless, as if it doesn’t have control over its own limbs yet. It’s almost like a colt, stumbling over its own legs. Could it have just been reborn? It feels like it. It feels like this deathshriek just swam out of one of those eggs they emerge from in the breeding lakes. Or rather, the holes in the ground male deathshrieks resurrect inside.

Where are its companions? Is this part of some sort of advance team? But no, I don’t sense any others in the hallway, and this deathshriek is much too disoriented to be part of anything so precise.

When it attacks me again, I easily flip it onto its back using its own weight and momentum against it. Then I jump onto its stomach, atikas arcing for its jugular, only to immediately jerk back as I feel a strange movement on its side.

“What in the name of—”

I look down, and shock steals the rest of my words.

There’s a familiar black mass wriggling on the deathshriek’s side: a single black blood-eater, its petals woven through with gold. I look back at the deathshriek, its maddened eyes meeting mine. “Emperor Gezo?”

A series of hissing sounds emerge from the deathshriek’s mouth. The longer I listen, the more they shape into words – a familiar aristocratic voice. “…must…before…they…eaters…”

“What?” I say, rising. “You have to slow down.”

“Evil…must stop…evil.”

“I can’t understand you,” I say.

I kneel closer to him, only to jump back when knife-like claws slash at me. “I won’t sit by!” the former emperor roars, jumping at me. “I won’t sit by while they consume all the children, daughter of the Fallen!”

As I stare, still not comprehending, the emperor slashes at me again, his moves even more erratic now.

“Emperor Gezo!” I gasp, trying to get him to stop attacking. He was already going mad in life, but now that he’s resurrected, he seems to have lost all power of reasoning.

My words fall on deaf ears. He lunges again, but then, to my surprise, loses interest halfway through.

“Must stop them,” he mumbles, his eyes turning to the door at the end of the hallway – the Chamber of the Goddesses.

I don’t try to stop him as he shambles away. One thought after another barrages my mind. The fact that he’s now a deathshriek isn’t surprising – I know that there are male deathshrieks, and the emperor seemed on the cusp of death the last time I saw him. But there’s something else, a thought that worries at me, urging me to remember. I try, but it’s hard to do with that smell, that awful odour, turning my head. Emperor Gezo is at the door of the chamber now, and he claws clumsily at it, unused to manoeuvering locks with his claws. He must have died recently, perhaps even earlier today. Which would explain why he’s so disoriented, so crazed. I walk up next to him, darting back when he makes a few swipes at me.

Finally, he stops trying to attack me, and I slide underneath his colossal arms to tug at the door, which is extremely heavy. The mothers don’t want any visitors, it seems. Or perhaps it’s me they don’t want. Still, I have to speak to them, rouse them from their slumber.

With this in mind, I summon all my strength and pull the door open. Then I enter the Chamber of the Goddesses.

And see the nightmare that lies in front of me.

The first thing I see when I enter the chamber is the deathshrieks, all of them purple, all of them slumped on the floor in front of the mothers’ thrones, their bodies covered in vines. From far away, you would almost think they were sleeping. Except that groans are rising from them. Fitful sobs. Cries of pain, discomfort. And their eyes twitch restlessly behind closed eyelids, a response to the vines crawling over them, blood-eater flowers already sprouting in abundance. Their sharp little roots dig into the deathshrieks’ helpless flesh, their fleshy petals throb and flutter as they gorge themselves on more and more dark-blue blood. Grey sores spread over their victims’ flesh, each one putrid and flowing with pus.

A ringing starts in my ears. Everything feels strange – removed now: the deathshrieks’ whimpers, the blood-eaters’ wriggling, the smell… The awful, sweet odour that clung to Emperor Gezo coats almost every inch of the chamber, and I swiftly realize its origins: the vines release it as they eat, a sedative to calm their horrified victims. Gold flashes across their slithery green bodies the more gorged they become. More blood-eater flowers sprout, each one star-shaped, black with golden veins. I follow their tangled path with my eyes, up and up the stairs to the dais, where all the goddesses are sleeping – all except for one.

Etzli.

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