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But before that, I have an important question. “My kelai,” I say, turning back to Mother. “Do you know where it is? Is it here?”
Mother stills. “It’s best you speak to the gods first. And then we can talk.”
My muscles immediately tense. There’s something important she isn’t telling me.
Suddenly, that premonition, the one I’ve had before about how Otera’s fate and mine are intertwined, surfaces, as do a thousand other horrible suspicions.
I immediately suppress them. There’s no point in falling apart now, not when I’m finally here, at the place where all my questions will hopefully be answered.
So I kiss the back of Mother’s head, letting her familiar scent of spice blossoms and anatari peppers wash over me. “We will continue this later,” I say softly.
And then I walk toward the center of the temple.
14
The temple has changed while I wasn’t looking. More thrones have appeared, floating in orderly, concentric tiers behind the ten more massive ones at the center. Enough, I’m guessing, that all eighty Maiwurian gods must now be present behind the veils of their thrones.
The very thought unnerves me. I no longer like it when I can’t see the actions of the gods.
Thankfully, their godsworn are all there, and they’re standing now, instead of kneeling, silent witnesses to the proceedings.
“Well, then,” I say aloud once I take full stock of the changes. “Do any of you plan to reveal yourselves, or are you going to remain hidden this entire meeting?”
“We did not wish to disturb you, Angoro Deka….” The answer arrives almost as a wave, rippling from one throne to the other. “We have been waiting for you. We have always been waiting for you.”
Power crackles as the veils slide back from the thrones and the gods finally reveal themselves. I glance from one to the other, unimpressed. There they are, those divine white gazes I know so well, only this time, they’re set in skin of all different colors, from the usual human shades of brown, yellow, and pink to the shimmer of rainbows or even distant stars. Robes sewn from molten lava and ice sparkle alongside those made of petals, or rainbows, or even wind. There’s so much variety, so much to look at, I don’t know where to turn next.
When the gods speak again, it comes as a single, clearly vocalized thought. “Angoro Deka, we are honored to have you with us here today. Come forward, that we may receive you.”
I turn to Mother and she nods. “Go to them, Deka,” she says softly. “Speak with them. In them, you will find the allies you need for your upcoming task.”
At her words, a thousand questions rise up inside me, horrible suspicions as well. But I suppress them and do as Mother advised. Once I’m near the thrones, I stand as proudly as I can. I spent nearly a year bowing and scraping before the Oteran gods, and they used that subservience to take as much from me as they could. I refuse to do so here.
“I would like to speak to Sarla,” I say, turning back to the wisdom throne, which has somehow appeared center to my gaze.
Mother is once again kneeling beside it, those flames on her hems dancing until they become real flames—a furnace surrounding her. That furnace is a symbol. While Mother may kneel next to the throne of wisdom, the flames surrounding her show that she is also godsworn to Baduri, the small, plump red goddess of hearth and home who I’m certain I see in flashes from the corner of my eye. Unlike the other gods, Baduri seems to be content fading into the background, as much a part of the scenery as the walls made of light and the thrones floating inside them.
But she’s not my concern; Sarla is.
I return the full force of my attention to the wisdom throne.
The god who emerges from behind its veil is neither male nor female, nor any type of gender I can discern. They’re almost like a void, so austere compared to the other gods, it would be easy to overlook them. Their skin is the same pale shimmer as their godsworn, and their eyes gleam as white as the midwinter snow. I carefully avoid looking into them, knowing that some gods enjoy trapping others with their gaze, Etzli being a prime example.
“We are Sarla,” the god says, their words replicated by every other god in the room. It’s somehow both a whisper and a roar, and the sound rattles my bones.
I glance around, unnerved. “You all speak as one?”
“We are one,” Sarla insists—alone this time. “Merely different facets—”
“—of the same—” another god continues.
“—being,” all the gods finish as one.
“So you have not separated yourselves from each other like the Gilded Ones and the Idugu,” I say. “You did not sever into two.”
Sarla shakes their head.
“There is no true difference between severed and unsevered,” they reply. “There is only balance. The natural and divine order.”
