The Gilded Ones Read online

  A cold sweat washes over me as I think of what would happen then: a life of enforced piety and backbreaking labor as a temple maiden or, worse, being forced into the pleasure houses of the Southern provinces.

  Elfriede turns to me. “Did you see the way Ionas looked at you?” she whispers. “I thought he was going to whisk you away. So romantic.”

  I pat my cheeks to cool them as a small smile tugs at my lips. “Don’t be silly, Elfriede. He was just being polite.”

  “The way he was looking at you, it was—”

  “What? What was it, Elfriede?” a mincing sweet voice interrupts, titters following in its wake.

  My entire body goes cold. Please, not today…

  I turn to find Agda standing behind us, a group of village girls accompanying her. I know immediately she must have seen me talking to Ionas, because her posture is brittle with rage. Agda may be the prettiest girl in the village, with her pale skin and white-blond hair, but those delicate features hide a venomous heart and a spiteful nature.

  “You think that just because you might be proven today, boys will suddenly start thinking you’re pretty?” she sniffs. “No matter how hard you wish otherwise, Deka, a mask will never be able to hide that ugly Southern skin of yours. I wonder what you’ll do when no man wants you in his house and you’re an ugly, desperate spinster without a husband or family.”

  I clench my fists so hard, my fingernails dig into my flesh.

  Don’t reply, don’t reply, don’t reply….

  Agda flicks her eyes dismissively toward Elfriede. “That one, at least, can cover her face, but even if you cover your entire body, everyone knows what’s under—”

  “Mind your tongue now, Agda,” a prim voice calls from the front of the store, cutting her off.

  It belongs to Mistress Norlim, her mother. She walks over, the numerous gems on her golden mask glittering sharply enough to blind. Mistress Norlim is the wife of Elder Norlim, the richest man in the village. Unlike the other women, who can afford only gold half masks or full silvers, she wears a formal mask that covers her entire face, a sunburst pattern replicated around pale blue eyes. Her hands are also decorated, swirls of gold and semiprecious stones pasted onto the skin.

  “The words of a woman should be as sweet as fruit and honey,” she reminds Agda. “So sayeth the Infinite Wisdoms.”

  Agda bows her head, sheepish. “Yes, Mother,” she replies.

  “Besides,” her mother adds, the pity in her eyes at odds with her cheerfully grinning mask, “Deka can’t help that her skin is as dirty as her mother’s was, any more than Elfriede can hide her birthmark. That’s the way they were born, poor things.”

  My gratitude curdles to anger, the blood boiling in my veins. Dirty? Poor things? She should just call me impure and be done with it. It’s all I can do to keep my face docile as I walk toward the door, but I somehow manage. “Thank you for your kind words, Mistress Norlim,” I force myself to grit out before I exit.

  It takes every last bit of my strength not to slam the door.

  Then I’m outside, and I’m inhaling and exhaling rapidly, trying to regain my composure, trying to hold back the tears of rage pricking at my eyes. I barely notice Elfriede following me.

  “Deka?” she asks. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I whisper, hugging my cloak closer so she won’t see my tears.

  My fury.

  It doesn’t matter what Mistress Norlim and the others say, I tell myself silently. I will be pure. Doubts surge, reminding me that I have the same uncanny differences Mother did. I push them away. Mother managed to hide hers until the day she died, and I’ll do the same. All I have to do is make it through the next few hours and I’ll be proven pure.

  Then I’ll finally be safe.

  I spend the remainder of the morning preparing for the Ritual of Purity: pressing clothes for Father and me and polishing our shoes. I’ve even made a garland of dried flowers for my hair; their bright red color will contrast nicely with the ceremonial blue of my dress. I’ll be going to the village feast immediately following the Ritual, and I must look my best. This is the first time I’ve ever been invited to a feast, or any other village celebration, for that matter.

  To calm my nerves, I concentrate on the gooseberry tarts I’m taking to the feast. I try to make each one as perfect as possible—edges neatly folded, dollops of whipped cream just so—but it’s difficult to do so without a knife. Girls aren’t allowed to be near sharp things from the moment they turn fifteen until the day after they’re proven by the Ritual of Purity. The Infinite Wisdoms forbid it, ensuring that we do not bleed a drop before the Ritual.

  Girls who injure themselves before their fifteenth year are taken to the temple for cleansing, their families ostracized, their marriage prospects destroyed. “Despised are the marked or scarred, the wounded and the bleeding girls, for they have polluted the temple of the Infinite Father.” These words have been drummed into my head from birth.

  If Father had more money, he would have sent me to a House of Purity, to spend the entire year before the Ritual protected from sharp things in its soft, pillowed halls. But only rich girls like Agda can afford Houses of Purity. The rest of us have to make do by avoiding knives.

  I’m so deep in thought, I don’t notice Father’s footsteps approaching. “Deka?” he calls. I turn to find him shifting nervously behind me, a box clutched in his hands. He opens it with a hesitant smile. “This is for you,” he says, offering me the embroidered dress inside.

  I gasp, tears blurring my eyes. It’s dyed the deep blue of the Ritual and has tiny golden suns embroidered on the hem, but that’s not the most exciting thing. Peeking out underneath is a delicate blue half-mask with white silk ribbons to tie it on with. It’s finer than anything I’ve ever seen, the craftsmanship light and elegant despite its wooden base.

  “How?” I breathe, gathering it to my chest. We don’t have money to spare for new clothes, much less masks. I altered one of Mother’s old dresses for the Ritual.

  “Your mother made them for you in secret last year,” he answers, pulling something else from the box.

  “Mother’s favorite necklace…,” I whisper, a happy sob bursting from my throat when I take in the thin, finely crafted gold chain and the delicate gold sphere hanging from it, that old, familiar symbol emblazoned across it. It almost looks like the kuru, the sacred symbol of the sun, but there’s more to it, another marking so worn I’ve never been able to make it out, not even after all these years. Mother used to wear the necklace every day without fail.

  To think that she had all this ready for me so long ago.

  My chest feels tight now, and I rub it, trying to soothe away my tears. I miss her so much, miss her voice, her smell, the way she always used to smile whenever she saw me.

  I wipe my eyes as I turn to Father.

  “She made sure I kept it for you,” Father says. Then he clears his throat, color rising in his cheeks as he pulls one last thing from the box: a garland of fresh flowers, their bright red shimmering in the light. “The flowers, however, are from me. The merchant told me they were long-lasting.”

  “They’re beautiful,” I cry, feeling overwhelmed as I look at him. This is the first time I’ve received so many gifts. “Everything is beautiful. My deepest thanks, Father.”

  Father awkwardly pats my back. “Ready yourself, quickly now. Today, you’ll show them you belong.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  I hurry to do as he says, determination firming inside me. I will show them. I’ll wear my new dress and flowers, and then, once the Ritual has ended, I’ll wear my new mask to match. I’ll wear it so proudly, even Agda won’t be able to deny me.

  I grin at the thought.

  * * *

  It’s late afternoon when we reach the temple. The village square is packed by then—well-wisher
s and curious onlookers jostling for space; girls in their ceremonial blues lined up in front of the temple steps, their parents on either side of them. Father takes his place beside me just as the drums sound, and we watch as the jatu march solemnly toward the steps in preparation for Elder Durkas’s arrival, their red armor a gleaming counterpoint to the sea of deep-blue dresses, their gnarled war masks glowering in the dull afternoon light. Each mask resembles a terrifying demon face, and can be attached and removed from the helmet with ease.

  Since the doors haven’t yet opened, I take in the temple’s stark white walls, its red roof. Red is the color of sanctity. It’s the color pure girls will bleed when Elder Durkas tests them today.

  Please let mine be red, please let mine be red, I pray.

  I spot Elfriede at the front, her entire body rigid. She must be thinking the same thing. Like all the other girls, she stands with her face revealed one last time, although she hunches slightly to hide her birthmark.

  The temple doors creak open, and the crowd hushes. Elder Durkas appears at the top of the stairs, his usual pinched, disapproving look on his face. As with most priests of Oyomo, his mission is to root out impurity and abomination. That’s why his body is so thin and his eyes are so intense. Religious fervor leaves little room for eating or anything else. A golden tattoo of the kuru—the symbol of the sun—gleams in the middle of his clean-shaven head.

  He extends his hands over the crowd. “The Infinite Father blesses you,” he intones.

  “The Infinite Father blesses us all.” The crowd’s reply reverberates through the square.

  Elder Durkas raises the ceremonial blade toward the sky. It’s carved from ivory and sharper than the most finely honed sword. “ ‘And upon the fourth day,’ ” he recites in the deep, booming voice he likes to use for these occasions, “ ‘He created woman—a helpmeet to lift man to his sacred potential, his divine glory. Woman is the Infinite Father’s greatest gift to mankind. Solace for his darkest hour. Comfort in…’ ”

  Elder Durkas’s words fade to a low droning as my skin begins to tingle, the blood rushing underneath. It’s coupled by sudden awareness: the stillness of the wind, the crackle of melting icicles, and, somewhere in the distance…the crunch of heavy footsteps on fallen leaves.

  Something is coming….The thought flitters through my mind.

  I force it away. Why is this happening now?

  Father must have noticed my distracted expression, because he sighs ruefully, eyes squinting against the sun. “Ever has your mind been inclined to wander, Deka,” he whispers, voice low so the others won’t notice we’re talking. “You’re so very much like your mother.”

  When his lips turn down in sadness, I frown at him. “You’ll develop lines,” I say.

  Now he smiles, suddenly looking like the hearty man he used to be, before the red pox and Mother’s death conspired to shrink him to a shadow of himself. “A bit like the river condemning the stream for rushing too fast, don’t you think?” he jokes as the line begins to move.

  I nod and return my attention to the temple steps. Elder Durkas has finished his recitation. The Ritual of Purity will now begin.

  Agda is the first girl to walk into the temple, and her face is pale with nervousness. Will Oyomo favor her or judge that she has succumbed to impurity? The crowd leans forward, tense. The chattering, the whispered conversations, all fade to a hush, until soon the only things you can hear are the disgruntled yips of the dogs and the huffed breaths of the horses tethered to the nearby stables.

  Moments later, a startled cry erupts from inside the temple. Agda emerges soon after, her blue scarf clutched across her chest, where Elder Durkas cut her with the ceremonial blade. Once she arrives at the top of the stairs, she pulls off the scarf and holds it above her head to display the red blood it’s saturated with. A relieved cheer swells through the crowd. She’s pure. Her parents rush to embrace her, and her father proudly fixes a delicate gold half mask in the shape of the budding moon on her face to declare her newfound womanhood. She casts a victorious glance around the crowd, her lips curling into a smirk when she glimpses me.

  Once she walks back down the stairs, the next girl enters, and the Ritual of Purity begins again.

  I train my eyes on the door. The sight of it—large, red, and imposing—frays my nerves, causing my stomach to clench and my palms to moisten. The tingling strengthens—a low hum now, fine hairs lifting, awareness rising.

  Something is coming. The thought filters through my mind again.

  It means nothing, I remind myself firmly. I’ve felt such things many times before and never once seen anything strange—

  Terror slams through me so suddenly and heavily, my knees buckle. I grasp Father’s hand to remain standing. He frowns at me.

  “Deka, are you all right?”

  I don’t reply. Fear has frozen my lips, and all I can do is watch in horror as a sinister tendril of mist snakes around Father’s feet. More of it is slithering into the square, chilling the air. Above us, the sun flees, chased away by the clouds now rolling across the sky.

  Father frowns up at it. “The sun is gone.”

  But I’m no longer looking at the sky. My eyes are on the edge of the village, where the winter-stripped trees crackle under the weight of snow and ice. The mist is coming from there, heavy with a sharp, cold smell and something else: a distant, high-pitched sound that jitters my nerves.

  When the sound shatters into an ear-piercing shriek, the entire crowd stills, petrified statues in the snow. One word whispers across the square: “Deathshrieks…”

  Just like that, the lull is broken.

  “Deathshrieks!” the jatu commander calls, unsheathing his sword. “Arm yourselves!”

  The crowd scatters, the men racing toward the stables for their weapons, women herding their daughters and sons back to their homes. The jatu plow past the crowd, heading toward the forest, where colossal gray forms are appearing, inhuman shrieks heralding their approach.

  The largest deathshriek is the first to step foot over the leafy border marking the edge of the forest. A hulking beast of a creature, it’s rawboned to the point of gauntness, its clawed hands dragging almost to its knees, spikes erupting all the way down its bony spine. It seems almost human, black eyes blinking, slitted nostrils flaring as it surveys the village. It turns to the village square, where I’m still standing, terror-struck, and my breath shallows—short, fast spurts of air now.

  It opens its mouth, inhales…

  A shriek blasts through my skull, white-hot agony slicing into my body. My teeth grind together; my muscles lock in place. Beside me, Father collapses to the ground as blood begins to pour from his ears and nostrils. More villagers are already writhing there, faces contorted into grimaces of terror and anguish.

  Other than me, only the jatu remain standing in the square, their helmets specially soundproofed against deathshriek screams. Even so, their eyes flash white behind their war masks and their hands tremble on their swords. The jatu here are mostly recruits, newly initiated into the ranks, just as Elfriede said. They haven’t yet fought at the borders of the South, where the deathshrieks lay constant siege—haven’t ever even seen a deathshriek before, probably. It’ll be a miracle if any of them survive this.

  It’ll be a miracle if any of us survive this.

  The thought jolts me from my paralysis, and I whirl to Father. “We must flee!” I shout, pulling him so hard, he nearly jerks off the ground. Fear has powered my muscles, made them unnaturally strong. “We must go!” I glance at the lead deathshriek again, its hair lashing fitfully around it.

  As if it senses me watching, it turns, and its eyes connect to mine from across the distance. There’s a look in them…an intelligence. The breath rips from my lungs. Every muscle in my body suddenly feels weak, frozen under that predatory black gaze. By the time I find the sense to cower, it
’s already stalking onward, as are the others. The many, many others. They’re emerging from the mists, leathery gray forms bristling with menace. Some lope to the ground from the trees, claws scoring the snow as they run on all fours.

  “Defend the village!” the jatu commander roars, lifting his sword. “For the Infinite Father!”

  “For the Infinite Father!” the jatu repeat, running toward the beasts.

  A horrified gasp bursts from my chest as Father staggers up and echoes the call along with the other village men, who are all now hurriedly wrapping kerchiefs or belts around their ears. “Run to the temple, Deka!” he shouts at me.

  Ahead of him, the jatu commander is bearing down on the lead deathshriek, but the creature doesn’t retreat. Instead, it stills, cocking its head. For a moment, amusement seems to glitter in its eyes. Deadly amusement. Then it moves, violently backhanding the jatu across the square. His body cracks on impact, blood spewing everywhere.

  A signal for the other deathshrieks to attack.

  They race into the village, smashing through the jatu’s shields, disemboweling them with fatally sharp claws. Screams echo, blood sprays, the odor of urine rises. The jatu try to fight back, but there are too few of them, and they’re too inexperienced against the deathshrieks’ monstrosity.

  I watch, horror choking me, as limbs and bodies are severed with inhuman abandon, heads ripped off with ferocious glee. Within minutes, the entire jatu force is overwhelmed, and then it’s on to the village men.

  “Don’t let them get past!” Elder Olam roars, but it’s already too late.

  The deathshrieks are plowing through the villagers, some leaping onto their victims, others slicing into them with claws and teeth. The more the village men scream, the more frenzied the deathshrieks become. Blood spatters the ground, startling crimson across the white of the snow; corpses lie in a tangle of viscera and dried leaves.