Page 16 of The Merciless Ones

Unease trickles down my back when the low hum of prayers rises into the air. This is my least favourite part of gatherings like these: the dedication. There, kneeling behind the latticed screen at the very back of the room, are rows of fervently praying people. New converts, dedicating themselves through prayer and worship to the goddesses. It’s the most important requirement for every person who wishes to live in Abeya. Even I had to dedicate myself when the goddesses first raised the city from the desolation that was once the mountain.

I squint to see if I can spot the old woman from the jungle outside the Oyomosin, but the crowd of white-robed converts blends together as an indistinguishable mass, so I glance around the rest of the hall. There’s so much to see here today: shimmering, iridescent moths flittering through the air, their glow adding to the ambience created by Mother Beda’s lights; rows of gigantic, velvety yellow flowers, which double as seats you can sink completely into; icy waterfalls flowing with fruit juices and palm wine. The entire hall is a vision.

Then, of course, there are the guests, everyone milling about in their most exquisite finery, gold and jewels flashing, ornate masks adorning more than a few faces.

I stare, wide-eyed, when a human man saunters past wearing a silver-streaked wood mask shaped into the four stars of the ansetha. While women in Otera are required to wear masks after they’re proven pure by the Ritual of Purity, the former emperor and his courtiers were the only men I ever saw do the same. There are rules for masks in Otera – punishments too. In fact, when my blood ran gold, I was denied the privilege of wearing the mask. That way, everyone could look upon my face and see my shame. I hated masks for a long time afterwards and saw them as a means to control women. Which, in most cases, they are. But masks can also be an expression of joy, faith, celebration. They can be anything the wearer wants. In the end, they’re just objects. It’s the wearer who determines their meaning. It took me a long time to understand that.

Britta taps my shoulder. “Want to go eat, Deka?”

She nods towards the furthest end of the hall, where platters of food are heaped high on tables decorated by tiny, translucent-white flowers. Belcalis, Katya and the twins are already there, Nimita, Chae-Yeong and a few of the other deathshrieks towering over them. They seem relaxed – happy, even – to be part of the occasion, another sign of how much deathshrieks as a whole have changed: they’ve become less and less aggressive ever since the mothers awoke, which makes complete sense. Deathshrieks were created to ensure that our race wouldn’t die out before the Gilded Ones revived, and now that the mothers have returned, most of the deathshrieks’ worst traits – the blinding rage, the overwhelming anger – have faded.

One day, they’ll disappear completely. The mothers have vowed that when they regain full power, one of the first things they’ll do is revert deathshrieks back to alaki. They’ll be our bloodsisters again.

Katya, I know, can’t wait for that day. I certainly can’t.

I glance at my friends one last time before shaking my head. “Can’t.” I sigh mournfully to Britta. “I have to wait for the mothers by their dais.” It’s what I always do at rare events like these, and I won’t change that habit now.

I can’t risk making a fool of myself playing around with the others. I have to behave in a manner that reflects well on the mothers. I am the Nuru, after all.

Britta squeezes my shoulder in commiseration. “I know.” She huffs out a mournful breath. “I just wish ye could spend time with us again like ye used to.”

I press my forehead gently against hers. “Me too,” I say. “I wish I could be with everyone again.”

“Our uruni?” Britta snickers, no doubt thinking of my words yesterday.

“Our uruni.” I nod, since she and I both know I mean Keita. “And you too, of course,” I add, as if it were an afterthought.

“Of course.”

I pull away so I can look into her eyes. “I love you,” I say earnestly – a quiet plea for patience.

I know I haven’t been the best friend I could these past months.

Even though Britta and I share the same room and go on raids together, there’s always another crisis here that requires my attention – another battle, another raid, another leader to be assassinated. At the Warthu Bera, there was, at least, always a day or two every month when we neophytes could just gather and relax with each other. Here, I can never be just Deka, playing silly games with my friends. There’s never any time.

Britta crosses her arms, pretending sternness. “More than the moon an’ stars?”

“More than a kuta fish freshly braised in pepper sauce.”

“That’s a lot of love.” Britta laughs. She knows that the massive ocean-going fish are my new favourite thing to eat. She uncrosses her arms. “I’ll forgive ye for now, but when we go on that raid after ye-know-who, it’s ye an’ me.”

“Me and you,” I affirm, squeezing her hand. “Bloodsisters for ever.”

“For ever an’ ever,” she says, giving me a quick salute. Then she makes a beeline for the others, who wave and grin at her before sticking out their tongues at me in disapproval.

I bite back the smile that threatens my cheeks as I walk towards the dais. Honestly, my friends can be so childish sometimes.

A thousand eyes follow my progress as I make my way up the stairs to the dais. Several bows, genuflections and even a few outright prostrations. People are always watching me in Abeya. Everywhere I go in the city, people are watching and bowing, as if they can receive the mothers’ blessing simply by their proximity to me. Still, their attention is a reminder: I must never disgrace the mothers, never show them that I am unworthy of their favour. As I straighten my posture, trying to stand as formidably as I can, White Hands enters the hall. Her eyes immediately seek mine, and she nods pointedly towards the doors at the other end of the room, where a short teenage boy wearing a wooden half mask, blessings beaded in Old Hemairan on the edges, walks in.

My brows gather.

That lanky gait, that brown hair… I gasp. It’s Acalan, Belcalis’s partner. He’s gained muscle over the past few months, but it’s definitely him.

And if he’s here…

My heart skips a beat when another boy wearing a half mask enters behind him – this one tall and wiry and leading a contingent of former jatu who all hold assegai, the ceremonial spear the jatu always use. A jolt travels through my body as familiar golden eyes look into mine. They may droop with exhaustion, but just the sight of them has my legs weak with joy. It’s Keita – he’s here! He’s actually here!

The moment he realizes I’ve seen him, a smile spreads across Keita’s face, his cheeks lifting under the half mask. My insides curl and flip in reply, my own smile stretching my mouth so wide, it’s painful. Keita… I’ve missed him so much these past months. Missed talking to him, kissing him…

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