Page 30 of The Merciless Ones
“Divine but not a god,” Belcalis replies wryly. “Seems like splitting hairs to me.”
I snort, amused by the very idea of it. “Me, a god… If I were a god, do you think I’d be here? I’d probably be on some ethereal plane right now, contemplating the mysteries of the universe and drinking exotic juices straight from the vine.”
“How thrilling,” Adwapa says drily. “Your imagination, it astounds me.”
“Well, I’m just telling you what I’d do,” I humph. “This is my fantasy. You don’t see me judging your fantasies.”
“Oh yes, because they’re eminently better.”
“Can we get back to the task at hand?”
“Only after Britta comes clean,” Adwapa says, pointedly turning back to our friend. “You still haven’t told us why you blushed when Deka asked you about secrets and then you tried to cover it up with the whole divine-gifts thing, knowing very well how poor you are at lying.”
Britta points her nose in the air. “Stop being a Nosy Nelly, Adwapa,” she says snippily. “I have no secrets.”
But her neck is red below her mask, a sure sign she’s lying.
It seems we have another mystery to solve. But after we finish our mission, of course.
The sun’s descent to the horizon paints everything with warm golden strokes. The fields, the grasses, the castle – everything is covered in that early evening glow I remember so fondly from childhood. Except this isn’t Irfut, and the people around us pose even more danger than the villagers I grew up with. I peek at them carefully through the window at the front of the wagon. Most are milling around the bonfires and lanterns, the men drinking and conversing with their comrades and with the passing soldiers – many of them the jatu we spotted earlier – the wives decorating the family tents as they wait for the ceremony that marks the beginning of the Festival of the Half Light. As is tradition, it’ll take place later this evening, most likely on the platform where the girls’ bodies are displayed. Once it does, everyone on this field must remain here until Oyomo finishes his journey three days from now. No one is allowed to disturb the false sun god as he travels through the sky, not even his own high priest.
The other girls and I are sitting around the small fire Acalan started, when Melanis, Keita, and the other boys finally return. “You should look at this, Deka,” Keita says, handing me an aged piece of parchment.
I look down at it, bitterness warring with amusement when I see six faces sketched there: mine, along with those of White Hands, Britta, Belcalis and the twins, the word “Wanted” written in large, swirling script at the bottom.
Melanis peers at it over my shoulder. “‘Traitors to the empire’,” she reads in an amused voice. “Well done, honoured Nuru,” she says, seeming almost impressed.
I nod, my eyes still fixed on the sketch that’s supposed to be me. It looks vaguely similar, except I’ve somehow been transformed into a fierce, scowling girl with pale skin and long blonde hair at least four shades lighter than mine actually is. I can’t say I’m particularly surprised by this development. Hemaira’s influence extends over the entirety of Otera, ensuring that darker skin is seen as more beautiful than light and that Southern features are upheld as the height of beauty. Of course, they’ve made me as pale and sharp-featured as they could. It’s ironic, actually. The entire time I was growing up in Irfut, I desired, more than anything, to look exactly like the girl they’ve drawn in that notice, but I no longer have any such desires. I understand the truth of Irfut now: it was just a remote, backwoods village, isolated from the rest of the empire and set in its ways, and there I was, the one obvious scapegoat the villagers could push their hatred on.
“I should be flattered by the attention,” I finally murmur. “We all should,” I say, glancing at my companions.
“Indeed,” Melanis replies. “I would be honoured to be regarded as such a disruptive force in this new age.”
Something about this statement fills me with a quiet unease, as does Melanis in general, truth be told. Our earlier conversation about the role of men in Oteran society still unsettles my thoughts, and every time I glance at her, I am reminded of the older Firstborn generals, the ones who have existed since almost the very beginning. They rarely speak to men and when they do, it’s always with a clipped brusqueness, as if they can’t bear to be bothered by creatures so far beneath them. Before, I assumed that this, and their proclamations of female superiority, were due to the atrocities they suffered. Now I can’t help but wonder if that’s the way they’ve always thought.
Even worse is the creeping suspicion that I’ve long noticed other such attitudes but ignored them because I didn’t want to see – because the thought of an alaki espousing such objectionable beliefs didn’t align with my version of the new alaki order.
Britta snatches the notice from my hand. “Would ye look at that,” she tuts disapprovingly. “They’ve turned me into a spirit from the Afterlands.”
Truer words have never been uttered. Britta’s skin has been rendered so pale, it’s almost glacial, and her hair might as well be snow, considering how white they’ve made it. Worse, all her features have been thinned away – she barely has a nose, and her mouth is less than a sliver.
“At least you two are somewhat recognizable,” Belcalis humphs as she glances over Britta’s shoulder. “I look like a twoota lightskirt.”
My eyes widen when she turns the notice to us. I thought my and Britta’s depictions were bad, but Belcalis’s lips have been so seductively drawn, they almost take over her face, and her eyes now have a lewd come-hither look to them.
“Spend a few years in a house of pleasure and you’re branded a harlot for ever,” she remarks drily. There’s a note of pain in her voice, however, hidden just behind her flippant words and the defiance in her light brown eyes.
I walk nearer to her. “It’s all right, Belcalis,” I say. “That’s not who you are.”
“Isn’t it?” I’m almost startled when Melanis enters the conversation. The Firstborn is suddenly staring off into the distance, a faraway look in her eyes. “We must embrace all parts of ourselves, Nuru. Even the ones we do not enjoy,” she murmurs.
“She’s right, Deka,” Belcalis says, turning back to me. “My time in the pleasure house, it’s a part of me. One part of many. And truth be told, there’s no shame in being a fallen woman – even though I still don’t quite understand the term. Fallen.” Her lips quirk. “How does a person fall, precisely?” She ponders this question for a moment before she returns her gaze to mine. “Anyhow, it’s an honest living, if you’re willing.”
Except you weren’t willing.
I don’t say this out loud to Belcalis. There are so many things I don’t say to her, so many things I can’t say. Not when she’s still so wounded, so tautly stretched, she could break.
All I can do is hold her.