Page 23 of The Merciless Ones
“I do like your hair,” Masaima says, cantering forward.
Which, of course, means he wants a bite. I’ve braided it for the occasion, using hair-like black reeds to extend it down my back, so I look like the average Oteran woman.
Thankfully, the flapping of wings distracts him from making my new hairstyle his mid-afternoon snack. Melanis has arrived, her usual crowd of well-wishers trailing behind her. She’ll be coming with us, an additional sword in case it’s required. Despite all our undeniable talents, none of us has wings to allow us a swift getaway if need be.
By the time she reaches us, the crowd has ballooned to fill the entire courtyard, everyone eager to see her off, though they don’t know where or for what purpose. This raid is strictly confidential – only the participants and the generals know the particulars.
An irritated humph sounds beside me as Melanis flits across the courtyard, smiling benevolently at her well-wishers. “Well, if there’s one thing I can say about the woman,” Britta sniffs, “she certainly knows how to foster admiration.”
“Jealous, are we?” Li, Britta’s uruni, smirks. He’s a handsome Eastern boy, tall and slender, with the easy cheerfulness of a person who’s been attractive his entire life.
He and Britta constantly sniped at each other when they were in the Warthu Bera, and now that he’s back, they’re doing it again.
“I’m not jealous,” she sputters. “I’m just sayin’ she’s excessive, is all. Why does she need to be doin’ all that flappin’ about an’ carryin’ on?”
Belcalis shrugs beside her. “Grow golden wings and skin that shimmers and you just might find out,” she says, her eyes never once leaving Melanis.
I watch Belcalis for a moment, curious. She’s staring at Melanis as intently as Adwapa used to stare at Mehrut, only I don’t think she feels that sort of passion for the winged Firstborn. Male, female, yandau – I’ve never seen Belcalis react romantically to anyone. I don’t know if she was always that way or if it was because of her past, but I know better than to ask, and, more to the point, it’s not my place either. Still, if keeping secrets were a deadly art, Belcalis would be the acolyte to White Hands’s grandmaster: no amount of prying or even torture would ever make her divulge information she’s not ready to share.
Britta humphs again, then looks down at the pebble she’s been flipping – her new habit. A quick tingle ripples across my skin, and I frown. I’ve been feeling that particular tingle more and more these days, usually coming from either her, Belcalis or Adwapa.
“Dunno about wings an’ shimmerin’ skin an’ such, but I may have somethin’ just as nice.” She grins smugly.
“And what is that?” I ask.
“Ye’ll see,” she replies mysteriously.
As my frown deepens, Keita waves at me from the front of our wagon. It’s an almost identical copy of the box-like wooden one White Hands used to bring me South a little over a year ago, except now, brightly embroidered cushions adorn the front seats while equally ornate curtains shield the windows at the front and sides. As we are pretending to be newly-weds, a little bit of festivity is required. We’re all even wearing matching robes to complete the guise. Keita and I have on the same blue robes, and the yellow hood hiding his face from view matches my yellow half mask.
“Wagon’s ready,” he says, tapping the spot next to him on the front seat.
He’s already strapped Ixa to the leads. Unsurprisingly, my bright blue companion is now a strikingly handsome horse, identical to the real thing in all ways except for his skin colour. That he can never change, not that it matters. One of Ixa’s gifts is the ability to fool people into seeing what they want to see. When I first brought him back to the Warthu Bera, everyone but my closest friends saw him as a cute little cat when he was in his kitten form. Only when White Hands made me reveal his battle form did the others finally see him as he truly was.
Today, I see him as a handsome blue horse, but for the others, he’s probably grey. It would be frightening if he could change into human form, but that, thankfully, is the one disguise he is incapable of.
I think.
I clamber onto the wagon, grunting when my skirts get caught under my shoe. I’ve become too used to my simple, free-flowing robes to bother with dainty mannerisms any more. As I heave myself awkwardly next to Keita, I notice him snickering under his breath.
“Think this is funny, do you?”
He doesn’t even bother denying it as he bursts out laughing. “Y-you looked like some sort of overwrought hen, trying to make its way back into the coop!”
“I did not,” I retort, but Keita only laughs harder, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“You could’ve helped me, you know,” I grumble, even though I’m secretly amused as well. Keita never laughs openly like this. I cover the smile tugging at my lips with an indignant sniff. “You’re supposed to be pretending you’re my husband. Part of that is taking care of me. Seeing to my well-being and such.”
At least, that’s the way we were taught. In Otera, husbands are supposed to take care of their wives, provide food and shelter, protection – that sort of thing. It’s all mandated by the Infinite Wisdoms. Before, I saw it as romantic, the ultimate expression of love. Now, I see it for what it is: another method of control. Women in Otera can’t work outside the home, earn money, or inherit property. The Infinite Wisdoms expressly forbid it, which means most Oteran women are always dependent on their husbands and fathers. They’re perpetual children, relying on men for every aspect of their lives – which is exactly what the writers of the Wisdoms intended. A woman who cannot earn for herself is a woman without choices or recourse.
And yet…I truly am looking forward to pretending to be Keita’s wife. Perhaps it’s the pressure of this mission – so much depends on us capturing and questioning Elder Kadiri, finding the angoro’s user… Perhaps that’s why I need the distraction of Keita holding my hand and leading me places and all the other things Oteran husbands are supposed to do. If I can focus on his hand on mine, his scent enveloping me, I can ignore the fear, the crushing pressure in my chest…
Keita puts his arm around me, pulls me close. “Don’t worry, Wife,” he says officiously, an obvious ploy to shake me out of my introspection. “The moment we’re in the Eastern provinces, I’ll take all the care of you that you like. I’ll feed you, carry you about – I might even put you to bed, if you’re especially good.” He waggles his eyebrows, and my cheeks warm.
Then the crunch of footsteps on grass attracts my attention.
Melanis is standing in front of us, her body now covered in the worn brown robes of a grandmother that the seamstresses outfitted her with earlier this morning, only there’s a new addition: the gnarled wooden cane in her hand. It’s the perfect accompaniment to the newly grown hump on her back – her wings, held ever so slightly aloft so that they complete the picture she’s presenting as a bent, doddering old woman.
“Melanis, is something the matter?” I ask, confused because she’s supposed to be making her way to Britta’s wagon now.