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White Hands and Sayuri are sitting on one of Ilarong’s many peaks when we return, White Hands smoking a sweet-smelling pipe, multiple horns of palm wine spread out between the two. It’s a scene of such sibling domesticity, you’d almost forget that the two have been bitter enemies for centuries. A more twisted relationship I cannot imagine, but that, I suppose, is the nature of family.
I sigh as I make my way over, tensing for the conversation I’m about to have with the pair. Both likely know by now that I didn’t achieve my goals. Between Sayuri’s spies and all the aviax flying about the city, it’s likely that someone has already relayed a shortened version of my failure to the sisters. Which may explain why they’ve laid out such a spread. White Hands may enjoy her indulgences, but those are a great many horns of palm wine, even for her. And given that Sayuri doesn’t drink, as deathshrieks only ever ingest meat and water, I think it’s safe to say that White Hands has prepared herself for a night of excess.
I settle onto their mat without fanfare. “I have returned,” I say by way of greeting, plopping myself down beside White Hands.
“Omoléh?” My former mentor offers me a tiny glass of clear liquid. “The aviax call it the breath of fire. Proper tipplers, those bird folk. Who knew.”
“My thanks, but no,” I say wryly, shaking my head. “I know better than to drink with you.” I know better than to drink at all, only I don’t say that, given White Hands’s obvious enjoyment of the stuff. One of the many things she has taught me—in addition to how to lie with a straight face and take a death with honor—is not to voice my displeasure at the things other people enjoy. Instead I continue: “Besides, I’ve had more than enough of fire today.”
“Your loss.” White Hands takes a swig, then pounds her chest when the liquor goes down harshly. “It is like fire!” she exclaims, delighted.
She’s in a rare mood, that much is clear.
This scene reminds me so much of the time I first saw her at the Warthu Bera that I feel almost nostalgic. The only things missing now are Braima and Masaima, but the equus are probably in one of Ilarong’s many stables, overseeing preparations for the coming battles. Those two may seem like harmless, pretty fribbles, but they can be surprisingly intimidating commanders.
White Hands turns back to me. “I presume you were not able to retrieve your kelai.”
“The jatu beat us there by about an hour,” I say. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
White Hands nods. “Sayuri’s spies, are, once again, excellent at their craft,” she says with no small amount of disappointment. Although, strangely, that disappointment doesn’t seem directed toward me.
“You’re not surprised I couldn’t retrieve it,” I say, swiftly understanding.
“They had about a day’s head start over you and were on the ground quicker, not to mention they were probably empowered by the Idugu, who sent them there by door. The chances you’d catch up to them were slim.”
I frown. “So why did you—”
“—agree to send you there?” She shrugs. “I had a dream.”
Anok.
The hand of the dark goddess is all over this. But why did she want me to go in the first place if she knew that my kelai wouldn’t be there? And why did she come only at the very end to warn me?
There’s much to unravel there, but I return my attention to White Hands as she asks, “Well? How was it? What did it feel like?”
I don’t have to inquire further to know that she means my kelai.
“Like coming home,” I admit. “All this time, I’ve been so frightened of it, so frightened of what I’d become once I absorbed it. But now that I’ve felt it, I don’t think I’ll become—”
“—like them?” To my surprise, it’s Sayuri who finishes my sentence. Her black eyes peer into mine as she says, “Tell me, Deka, do you believe you know what is best for humanity?”
Sayuri is always intense, but this sudden expression on her face is different.
It intimidates me, so I try to think as deeply as I can before answering. Finally, I shake my head. “No,” I reply honestly. “I once thought I did, but now I’m not sure.”
Every time I’ve tried to help, I’ve just made things worse, but perhaps that’s the entire point. I keep trying to save people instead of helping them save themselves.
I shrug. “Everything that I am—the way that I see the world—it’s been colored by my experiences, and most of them are bad. So I always expect things to be bad.” I look down, sighing. “I may have what it takes to lead on the battlefield, and in dire situations. But to rule? To guide?” I look back up at Sayuri. “Even the fact that I think that’s what gods do, instead of serving…I don’t think I’m the right person for it. If I’m being honest, I’m probably the worst person for it.”
So how can I become a god? As the thought suddenly assails me, another rises: Keita thanking me for preserving his family.
He believes in me, believes I can be a just god. So why do I never believe in myself?
I look up as Sayuri’s gravelly voice speaks again. “Then that’s where you’re different from them,” she says, quiet. “That’s where you’re different from all our supposed parents. You, at least, know what you lack.”
And the gods of Otera don’t.
