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Gazal blinks. “Pissfart?”
“It’s a word. Britta made it up—I think.” I frown, trying to remember if it was Britta or Adwapa who actually invented our group’s favorite insult.
Gazal condescendingly pats my back. “Never stop being you, Deka,” she says.
“You neither.” When Gazal begins to head for the front of the tent, I stop her. “I mean it,” I say. “Never stop being you.”
Now the scarred novice stiffens, her eyes taking on that flat, emotionless cast I used to be so frightened of. “If this is a goodbye, I don’t want it,” she snaps, stepping closer so I can see the severity of her words. “I only want one thing from you: for you to finish your task and do it well. I don’t care if you’re the Nuru or the Angoro or whatever it is you’re calling yourself these days. All I care is that you comport yourself as you were taught. You are an alaki of the Warthu Bera, and you will proceed accordingly.”
As she speaks, she moves closer and closer until finally, we’re nose to nose. “Conquer or die,” she intones, the motto of the Warthu Bera. Not a dare or a challenge but an invocation—a call.
As close as I am to her now, I don’t dare reject it. Or perhaps I don’t want to. I want to be who she’s asking me to be: the person who conquers. So I give her the expected reply: “We who are dead salute you.”
“You will ride to victory.”
“Or I will come back to present you with my head.”
As I stare up at her, body now tense, Gazal suddenly reaches out and places her hand on the back of my head. Then she presses her forehead against mine. “I have died millions of times,” she whispers in my ear. “Countless years, drowning in that lake, then reviving, only to drown again. The way I passed the time was by counting and hoping. And you know what I hoped for, Deka?”
When I shake my head, she continues: “At first, I hoped for a savior. For someone to rescue me. But no one ever came, so I retreated into the fantasy that I would one day be the one to save others. Every day that I died, I would fantasize about it: rising from the water, becoming someone’s hero. And I hoped that one day that person would look up at me and see not the damaged soul that I was but a person worthy of love. Worthy of being cherished the way my own family refused to cherish me.
“And then I met Jeneba, and I realized I didn’t need to be her savior; I needed to be her lover.” Gazal steps back, her brown eyes burning into mine. “I’ve only just started to love, Deka. Five hundred days, six hours, countless moments. That’s how long I’ve loved her. And if this world ends, I will be grateful that I got the chance to love. That I got the chance, however fleeting, to be by Jeneba’s side.”
Gazal’s hand tightens on the back of my neck. “But I don’t want this world to end, Deka,” she whispers. “I want to love Jeneba for countless more years, countless more hours, countless more moments. And that is my hope. I hope that you succeed. Not just because I want the world to continue, but because I want to continue being by Jeneba’s side, to continue this absolute happiness I have in knowing that I am loved, and that I love in return. So do not fail, Deka, because I do not want my love to end. And I know you don’t either.”
Gazal walks away before I can reply, but not before I see her brusquely wiping away the tears now threatening to spill. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her even close to tears, and the weight of that presses down on me, as do her words.
Do not fail, Deka.
I’ll most certainly do everything I can not to.
I wait until Gazal has left the tent to throw on the plain blue cloak and matching mask I’ve brought for this occasion. Then I make my way toward the small purple tent at the very back of the war camp, where my friends have already stripped off their ostentatious golden armor to reveal the black stealth armor they’ve worn underneath it. Over the black garments, they drape the white robes White Hands has brought. As I can’t remove Ayo’s armor until I get my divinity back, I too don the robes, wrapping them carefully around me until I’m sure the armor is completely covered. The ten of us are meant to be merchants, the only people who still have some sort of free movement in the city. It may be the end of the world, but people still have to buy food, medicines, and other necessities, hence the reason we decided on these disguises.
White Hands glances from one person to the next. “You all know the plan—”
“Get into Hemaira, sneak into the Eye, and liberate Deka’s kelai,” Li says swiftly. “We’ve gone over it several thousand times.”
White Hands’ replying glare is cold enough to freeze lava. “This is not the time for levity, young uruni. The fate of our empire and this realm itself rests in your hands. I hope you understand the weight of it. And if you do not, look to Deka.” White Hands nods at me, and I still. “She’s the one being called upon to sacrifice everything for you. Learn from her example.”
Li looks from me down to the floor, ashamed. “My apologies.”
But White Hands doesn’t reply as she walks over to me. “Deka,” she begins. And then she stops, her expression heavy. After all, what more is there to say? What else can we discuss that we haven’t gone over already again and again to infinity?
As I look at her, tears burning in my eyes, White Hands suddenly does something very unexpected: she embraces me.
“Triumph, Deka,” she whispers. “Triumph for all of us. And even if you don’t—even if you can’t—know that you carry our hearts with you. That you have always been our daughter, that you have always been our love.”
There are multiple layers to White Hands’s voice now, a familiar rumbling of power to them. When she finally releases me from her embrace, her eyes are entirely black—a familiar blackness I’ve seen before.
The Gilded Ones may have Anok imprisoned, but the ancient goddess, it seems, is a master at slipping from their grasp.
I walk forward, embrace her again. Embrace both of them, since I have the feeling I’m talking not just to the goddess but also the ancient alaki who is her first daughter. “I love you both too,” I whisper in their ear. “And don’t worry, Divine Mother,” I say, using the honorific one last time, “I will do as you have asked. I will give you the eternal rest you seek.”
“And you have my gratitude, and my blessings,” White Hands says in a voice so layered, I know Anok has taken over completely now. “But also, my warning: My sisters will do anything to hold on to their power and their lives. Do not trust anything you see. And do not allow yourself to shine too brightly in the dark. If you are frightened or feel you cannot continue, look to the Greater Divinity. Look to the natural order. Always remember, we are all of us gods. And we are all of us unending.”
A brief tremor jolts White Hands, and when I pull back, she’s blinking as if she just woke. Which, of course, she just did. If there’s one thing I know about interfacing with gods, especially in such an intimate manner, it always corrupts your sense of time and being.
“What are we waiting for?” White Hands asks the moment she regains her composure. “Let us ride out. It’s time for the assault on Hemaira to begin.”
