The Gilded Ones: Chapters 5–9

I’ve ripped them apart in my sleep, shredded the tough hides as if they were parchment. Even the strongest men in the village couldn’t manage such a feat. More confirmation I’m unnatural, the spawn of reviled demons rather than a child of humanity.

The entire city is smothered in darkness when we arrive—the ramshackle, soot-covered buildings crowd against each other, dim oil lamps brightening murky interiors.

It makes the skin on my arms prickle, an uneasiness I do my best to stifle.

What if all of this is a trick—an underhanded plot to corral all our kind into the same place?

“Almost broke me neck. Lucky our kind is hard to kill, ain’t that right, White Hands?” she quips.

"Almost-deaths and final ones. Almost-deaths are fleeting, impermanent things. They result in the gilded sleep, which lasts a week or two and heals the body of all wounds and scars—except, of course, those acquired before the blood turns.”

Disgust mottles Britta’s face.

I force my attention back to Britta, who’s pointing at the corner we’ve been given, where there’s just enough space to spread out two pallets and string a curtain for privacy.

“It must have been difficult, leaving behind your family, your village,” I whisper. A tentative opening to conversation.

She peers at me speculatively. “Ye ever kissed a boy, Deka?”

Crowds upon crowds of people mill across the docks, their voices a formidable wave of sound emerging from every ship, street, and stall. There are too many people, too many sounds.

“Travel blessings, Britta,” a grizzled old sailor calls.

It’s said the walls of Hemaira are impenetrable, that the city itself has been made into a walled garden impervious to siege.

Just as I think this, a plump, pious-looking man, embossed Infinite Wisdoms scroll under his arm, separates from the crowd and begins walking toward us, a severe look on his face.

The emperor’s seal swings officiously from her belt.

“I hate pompous, puffed-up meddlers, don’t you?”

Westerners, Easterners, Southerners, Northerners—they all vie for space with horses, camels, and other, more exotic animals I recognize only from Father’s scrolls.

The only reason I know how to even understand it is because Father’s father forced everyone in the family to memorize the Infinite Wisdoms as penance for our long-ago impurity.

“Be careful to close your mouths before flies invade them,” says White Hands, laughing at my astonishment as the equus canter happily into the bustling thoroughfares.

The statue I saw thrusts from the edge of the waterfall, a woman with tightly curled hair and a slender but sinewy build.

They’ve been specially trained to subdue both alaki and deathshrieks and, as such, are much more brutal than their compatriots.

It’s not just his hair, which is braided in an intricate style and daubed with bright red clay, but his stature, which is smaller than the other’s and more graceful despite its muscularity.

When she grabs a sword from one of the transporters and brandishes it threateningly, a few of the jatu run over, spears raised.

“She is a soldier in the war against the deathshrieks,” he declares in the clipped and clearly articulated manner of someone more used to speaking Hemairan than Oteran.

Mistrust lines the girl’s proud, refined features as he approaches.

I watch with jaded eyes as the other jatu turn to the commanders in protest.

That is why Emperor Gezo has decided that all alaki—even the neophytes—must go on monthly raids, both thinning out their forces and preparing yourselves for the campaign. You must know everything about your enemy, every strength, every weakness, before you face them on the battlefield, and the recruits will aid you in this task.

“Height—five hands, three knots. Severely malnourished. Primary indications of scurvy.”

The assistant’s reply is loud and implacable.

“Step forward, child,” he beckons, adjusting his spectacles in an imperious manner.

"Do you swear fealty to Emperor Gezo and his armies?”

My hands are still raw and stinging from the gilding, but I can already feel them healing, new skin forming under the thin sheen of gold, which, strangely, is just as supple as the skin underneath it.

The scent of fear grows stronger the closer we get to the wagons, girls clutching each other desperately and whispering to each other—rumors, suppositions, anything they’ve heard over the course of their journey.

When everyone’s eyes turn to her, she shifts uncomfortably but gamely soldiers on.

“Do you think this is a game?” the proud girl snaps, aquiline features whipping, hawklike, toward Britta.

“A month?” the taller one muses. “You look healthy for not having eaten for a month.”

Like her sister, she has shrewd eyes and a defiant expression.

“Let us watch each other’s backs and aid each other as much as possible.”
This stipulation seems to calm Belcalis.

“Insolent beast,” she sneers, ripping the rungu out.

Across the room, Belcalis shoots me a baleful glare, and alarm ripples over me.