Page 22 of The Merciless Ones
“What are you?”
“The Nuru.”
“And?”
“I am completely divine.”
“Just as?”
“You are.”
“Remember that always, and sleep now.” Anok strokes my forehead, her eyes sad. And then darkness consumes everything.
When I wake, I’m back on the training field and I’m stroking the ansetha necklace, wondering why I feel like I just experienced something gravely important, even though I’m not quite sure what.
My body is roped with tension as my friends and I approach the temple courtyard later that morning, our usual point of departure. It’s a vision of wonder, lush tropical gardens surrounded by waterfalls that pour out of thin air, but all I can think about is our impending mission. Once we leave here, it’s straight to Zhúshan, the very centre of the Eastern provinces, where we must capture Elder Kadiri swiftly and spirit him away for questioning. Any missteps on our part, and the jatu will hide him so deeply, we’ll never be able to find him again. The consequences of that would be unimaginable: girls being tortured – killed – all across Otera. The mothers dying…
Just the thought of it sends my anxieties whirling, so I try to control my breath by glancing at the four towering gold-veined stone statues at the courtyard’s centre. White Hands is standing beside them, gazing at the tiny golden orb floating above their opened palms – a representation of the single divine tear the mothers cried when the jatu imprisoned them all those centuries ago.
She walks over to me. “Every time I look at it, I am reminded of your mother, goddesses rest her,” she says quietly. “Umu was truly a wonderful spirit.”
A happy warmth flushes over me to hear her speak so fondly of Mother. But then, Mother was her protégée. White Hands chose her specifically, gifted her with the golden tear that would transform into me, while they both served as spies in the Warthu Bera. Sometimes, when I’m near White Hands, it’s like I’m near Mother, even though she died two years ago trying to keep my existence a secret from the jatu.
“I miss her still,” I whisper. “Especially now, with everything that’s happening.” Jatu resurrecting, arcane objects awakening after centuries… I don’t have to say this out loud. White Hands already knows.
She nods in commiseration. “There is a saying, Deka: when gods dance, humanity trembles. And a lot of dancing is happening these days. Thankfully, as the Nuru, you have a say in the direction of the dance.”
Now she moves closer, a determined look in her eyes. “I want you to remember something as you go on this journey, Deka: always know who you’re fighting for. Your bloodsisters – they are your family, your home.”
My brows furrow. Something about her words scratches at a memory, though I’m not sure which. In any event, why is she acting like this is goodbye? I’ve been on countless missions like this before. Perhaps not of this exact magnitude, but nevertheless this is just a mission, same as any other. That’s why, this morning with Anok—
The thought swiftly slides away, so I follow White Hands’s gaze. She’s staring at my friends, that look in her eyes. That seriousness. “Your responsibility – even above what you owe to the mothers – is to them,” she says, her words once again reminding me of something I can’t quite recall.
I nod. “I’d never forget.”
“You’d be surprised how circumstances can test such convictions.” A bitter smile flashes across White Hands’s lips, but she swiftly hides it, waves me away. Whatever the cause of that smile, I know it’s another secret, one she won’t reveal to me, so I nod as she says, “Go on, then, off to the Eastern provinces with you. And remember: don’t die too many times. It’s unbecoming of a warrior.”
“Yes, Karmoko.”
“And, Deka—”
“Yes?”
When I turn to her, a strange expression appears in White Hands’s eyes – a vacantness, almost. It reminds me so much of the worshippers the mothers purge of their memories during the dedication, it sends prickles across my skin.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head. “Go on, your friends are readying themselves for departure.”
Unnerved, I genuflect in respect, then walk over to my friends, who are now inspecting the wagons in preparation for departure. Braima and Masaima, White Hands’s equus companions, are also there, waiting to send us off, since they won’t be joining us on this journey.
When I arrive, Masaima frowns at my frivolous blue robes and the jaunty yellow half mask covering my face from forehead to nose. “Quiet One, what are you wearing?” he asks, horrified, using the equus’s familiar nickname for me.
“A disguise,” I reply evenly, amused despite myself. He and his brother have never seen me in anything other than sturdy combat gear and war masks – that or ragged clothes. The memory of how they first saw me, dishevelled and abused, rises, and my smile quickly fades.
“Doesn’t suit you,” Braima sniffs, tossing his black-striped mane.
I nod, wiping the sweat gathering at the edges of my face. Masks like these are made for ornamentation, not comfort, and I am very used to comfort now – at least as far as clothes go. “I wholeheartedly agree,” I say. “I’d rather wear armour and a war mask any day.”
Those, at least, are comfortable.