Page 84 of The Merciless Ones

But now, I’m here again. Exactly where I started.

Power surges through the hall in reply to my question, and the braziers spark aflame one after the other, a straight line leading me up the path to the dais where the statues are. All I have to do is climb those stairs, stand in front of those statues, and my questions will be answered.

It’s in the blood… Those words shiver through me.

I turn to Britta and Keita, who are standing behind me. Britta is already fidgeting with worry. “You have to go now,” I say to her. “You and Keita have to prepare the others for escape. I have questions I need to ask here.”

I direct my attention to Keita. “If anything happens, you’re in command,” I say softly.

He nods, but Britta begins to protest. “No, Deka, you can't just—”

I stop her mid-sentence. “I have to do this, Britta. I have to know.”

She nods. Sighs. “All right. Be safe, Deka.”

“You be safe too, Britta,” I say, embracing her, then doing the same with Keita.

“See you soon,” I say to the both of them.

And then they’re gone.

I kneel, pull out the dagger hidden in my boot. It’s nowhere as ornate as the ceremonial dagger I used when I first freed the goddesses, but a blade is still a blade. And as long as I’m the one wielding it, it should do. Now I understand why Anok said those words to me so long ago, why she had me look into the necklace. She was preparing me for this, the moment when I would be faced with understanding the truth. All I have to do is walk up those stairs, gather some of the Idugu’s blood in liquid form, and then I’ll have the answers I seek. Then I can judge the truth of the mothers, of Otera, for myself.

I begin climbing.

The first statue I reach is of a stern older man, the wisdom of the ages in his eyes, his broad nose and mischievous expression almost identical to Anok’s. I stand there for a moment, watching it. Is this statue a sleeping Idugu, which is what I have decided to call them, or just a depiction of one? I’m not sure, but what I do know is that the gold covering it contains ichor. Power rolls off it in waves, a subtle tingling I feel just under my skin. I slice my dagger through my palm, waiting patiently as the blood begins to well up.

Touch it and see… a voice whispers in my head. Mine or the Idugu’s, I’m not sure.

But I reply out loud, nonetheless. “All right,” I say. “Show me everything.”

And I touch the gold.

I’m back in the dark celestial ocean, galaxies swirling past, suns being born and dying in distant universes. Only I remain still – watching. There, just beyond the veil, the invisible barrier that separates worlds, lies a mountain range, one immediately familiar despite the wilderness flourishing atop it: the N’Oyos. Its highest peak is stark, as yet untouched by the temple that will one day crown it. But in the plains below, chaos. Armies clash, armour striking armour, sword striking sword. And I – we – remain where we are, unable to help them. Sadness overwhelms us, distant yet powerful. Blues and silvers colour our distress, dimming the gold that shimmers over our celestial forms. Thunder crackles, ocean waves roil, in response to our sadness.

For centuries now, we’ve tried and failed to help humanity ignore its basest instincts towards destruction and war. No matter what we do, they always resist. Run from us in those frail mortal bodies. But we cannot blame them for their fear. The very sight of us turns all but the strongest humans to ash, and when we breed seers to speak for us, they immediately descend into madness. How can we aid the humans if we cannot even communicate?

How can we reach them if our very nearness portends their deaths?

The conundrum plagues us, greens and oranges the colours of our consternation. A distant volcano erupts in response to our disquiet.

What if we changed form, made ourselves appear mortal like them? The thought tingles through our consciousness, an idea that strengthens the more we contemplate it in blue-purple notes. Zephyrs curl through the air. Flowers blossom.

But how? Another in our consciousness muses, Humans are primarily dimorphic in form and look upon any outliers with suspicion. Would they not do the same to us if we were to appear as we are?

We could become two. The thought ripples through our collective. Each of us may separate. Male and female. Or as approximate as we wish.

Male and female… The mere thought unsettles us. Humans like to sever themselves according to these lines, although they are not so simply sorted. There are so many different differences. So many. But humans always hurt the ones they cannot easily measure. They force them to choose – male, female. One or the other. To think that we too must choose… Confine ourselves to such limited forms. Our unease prickles red and orange, causing distant forests to shrivel away to desert.

How inelegant, another sniffs. We would not like to sever ourselves. To part for ever. Our collective may be many, but we are also one, bound by the tether that connects us to each other and to everything else in this cosmos.

Perhaps we would not have to resort to such permanent means, yet another muses.

We turn, following their attention to the ground below, where a tiny creature, graceful in form, slinks through the brush, its two bodies connected by a glowing golden thread.

It is called an indolo, the other whispers, delighted. Two separate pieces, but one whole.

We orient ourselves lower, that we may gaze upon its form. To our surprise, this creature – this indolo – does not burn to ashes or flee at the sight of us. It merely gazes back, two pairs of golden eyes blinking thoughtfully.