Chapter 13
I’ve seen hundreds of temples since the day my blood ran gold and I discovered the truth of what I was. The one floating in front of me, however, is a thing not of this world. The walls seem to be made of light, not stone, and the water swirls around it in a radiant, shimmering glow, its power palpable even from this distance. There’s something behind it, something dark and almost ominous, but I can’t concentrate on it. Not that I even want to try. All I see is that light, that temple, and all I feel is awe.
I turn to Queen Ayo, who has accompanied me the entire way, melodic rumblings sounding from inside her colossal chest.
Pray I have good fortune,I say to her as I inhale for courage. I’m finally here. The place where all my questions will be answered.
A deep, vibrating rumble is her reply. Her eyes blink slowly, as if to say, I’ll be right here waiting.
My thanks,I answer as I swiftly float off Ixa.
I turn to him. Come on, I say. It’s time to meet the gods.
Deka, he chirps, and then we swim through the water and into the light.
The Hall of the Gods seems to be made purely out of beams of light—not stone or any other tangible material. Glowing walls soar up to a ceiling that extends far past the limits of my gaze. Columns shimmer in all colors of the rainbow, a slow, deliberate pulsing that reminds me of the glowing plants I saw on the ride to the temple. The floor itself is blue, only it’s not any single shade I’ve ever encountered before; instead, a thousand undiscovered hues weave and alternate before my astonished eyes.
Then there are the thrones. Ten float at the center of the floor, with two godsworn kneeling in contemplation on either side of each. Power ripples from every throne, a reflection of the god sitting there. I shiver just looking at them, even though I don’t see the gods themselves yet. As with the emperor’s throne back in Hemaira, the thrones here are veiled. But unlike there, however, here each veil varies according to, I suppose, whatever function the god fulfills. One throne is wreathed with bouquets of perfumed flowers and vines that undulate and whisper to each other; I assume it’s the seat of the same god the plant district belongs to. After my experience with Etzli, the underhanded goddess who used her blood-eater vines to feed from her unsuspecting victims, I am immediately repulsed by it.
The throne just next to it, thankfully, is a much more welcome sight. It’s covered by heartfelt sighs and lovelorn flutters. Having never before encountered sounds and feelings being utilized like this, it’s some time before I can pull my eyes away.
Yet another throne is covered by thunder and lightning; another, the happiness of a mother holding her babe in her arms for the first time.
There are so many thrones, so many veils, it’s some moments before I finally find the one I’m looking for, the throne veiled by the scent of old scrolls, the flapping of paper, and the fervency of intellectual discovery. One glance is all it takes for me to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that this throne belongs to Sarla, the deity of wisdom. Which means…
My heart pounds in my chest as I see the lone godsworn kneeling beside it, a slight figure clothed and hooded in the same heavy white robes that distinguish Sarla’s godsworn, though her hems are embroidered with little red flames that flash and dance as if alive.
Even from this distance, I recognize those delicate hands, that graceful, almost dancer-like posture.
Tears flood my eyes. “Mother!” I rush over, heart pounding.
“Deka?” Mother flings back her hood, revealing her face in all its familiar glory.
And my heart nearly leaps from my chest.
The last time I saw Mother, she was lying on her deathbed, face pale and haggard, body nearly wasted away. Her dark brown skin had turned to ash, blood the color of rubies dripped from her nose, and deep sores cracked the sides of her mouth. Later, I would learn this was all a ruse: Mother was an alaki, a descendant of the Gilded Ones; she couldn’t die from, or even contract, human illnesses. But she needed to keep the village elders and jatu off her trail as she tried to find a way to keep me from being discovered, so she faked her death and fled Irfut, hoping to get to White Hands so they could formulate a way to rescue me.
Except somewhere along the way, she discovered the truth of the Gilded Ones, the truth of the fate they wished for me. And she tried to save me. She suffered horrifically as a result.
The knowledge that she put herself in such danger, sacrificed herself for the sake of my safety, has kept me moving forward these past few months as we fled both the Gilded Ones and the Idugu. If Mother did all those things on my behalf, surely I could keep going, no matter what the odds. But now she’s here, right in front of me. I’m filled with so much joy, I might explode.
“Mother! Mother!” I gasp again, squeezing her tight. Kissing her cheeks and nuzzling my chin across her tightly coiled, short-cropped brown hair.
Thankfully, her skin hasn’t changed into that shimmering white of Sarla’s other godsworn, and her eyes are still the soft, welcoming black I know. But those are the only things that have remained constant.
When I was growing up, Mother always seemed voluptuous, with the exaggerated curves that distinguish many tribesmen from the deep Southern provinces. But now I can feel that she’s become wiry, having lost much of her pleasing plumpness. And in a surprising twist of fate, I’ve grown taller than her—me, Deka, the one all my friends mocked for never achieving the towering height that distinguishes most Northerners.
Of all the things I expected when my blood first ran gold, this was the farthest from my mind: that one day, my own mother would look up at me instead of my looking up at her. That Umu, the woman who was once a Shadow, a deadly assassin and spy, would one day have to tilt up her chin to gaze into my eyes, tears of joy dripping from hers.
“Oh, Deka.” She sniffles. “It’s you, it’s really you. Sarla told me you’d be coming, but I couldn’t believe it, couldn’t allow myself to—” She abruptly takes a step back, examines me, astonished. “Just look at you; you’ve become strong. And what is this dress?” Then she notices Ixa. She kneels down in front of him. “And who is this charming little ebiki?”
Ixa lets out a long, contented purr as she strokes him under his chin. Ixa like, he says happily to me. Deka do more this.
But all my attention is on Mother, who has stood once again and is now looking me over as if her eyes cannot get enough of me. “You look like…” Her eyes widen, as if the thought awes her. “You look like one of them,” she says, nodding toward the thrones. “You look like a god.”
A familiar expression shines in her eyes, one I’ve seen all too often in the past few months—especially when I was Nuru, supposed daughter to the gods.
Reverence.
The sight of it turns my stomach.
I can tolerate it from strangers, even acquaintances, but I can’t take it from her. Never her.
I embrace her again, if only to remind her that I’m flesh and blood. “I look like your daughter,” I say firmly, gazing into her eyes. “No matter what, I’m your daughter.”
I may have once been a seed, a golden spark of divinity, but she was the one who carried me for eleven months—much longer than is usual for a human pregnancy. She was the one who nurtured and protected me when I thought I was nothing more than a human girl.
In all the ways that count, I’m her daughter.
Mother nods. “I know, Deka,” she whispers. “Of course I know. I’m just—” She sniffles once more and wipes away a tear. “I’m just so happy!”
I embrace her again. “I’ve missed you so much, Mother. So much.”
“And I you,” she replies. Then she bursts into tears, her eyes filled with misery. “And I’m so sorry, Deka. Sorry I couldn’t save you, sorry for all you had to go through, and your father—”
“He’s dead.” I cut her off before she goes any further, the words a vise squeezing all the air out of my chest.
Talking about Father is like opening a raw, painful wound and then digging the knife deeper into it. Yes, he apologized as he died, and yes, I forgave him. But I didn’t forget. I will never forget. How can you forget the man who beheaded you instead of protecting you? Father not only gave me to the village elders when my blood first ran gold, he beheaded me himself when I resurrected the first time. Left me in that temple cellar to experience many more deaths until White Hands intervened and took me with her to the Warthu Bera. How can you forget such a betrayal? How can you forget the man who would rather obey the lies of an ancient book than the tug of his own conscience?
I might have let go of my anger over his actions, but never again will I allow anyone to treat me so poorly, to manipulate me so. I will never again mistake abuse for love and cherish it the way I once did with the man I used to call Father.
Mother looks down, nods. “I know he is. I felt it when it happened. When you live with someone for so long…sometimes you just know.” She looks up at me, her eyes brimming with a thousand emotions, a thousand words left unsaid. “My deepest apologies, my daughter. I heard what he did to you. I heard all the things he—”
Her voice abruptly quakes, and she bends slightly, struggling to breathe, struggling to regain her composure. “I heard about the Ritual of Purity and the temple and the cellar and the beheading—”
When she turns away, her breath coming in strangled gasps, I hurry to embrace her. “I survived it,” I swiftly say. “I overcame it.”
“But you shouldn’t have had to do that. You shouldn’t have had to. I trusted that man. Trusted him to keep you safe and he—”
I squeeze tighter. “What’s done is done. And it’s not your fault, Mother. You didn’t put that sword in his hand or force him to betray me.” Mother nods again, but I can almost feel the guilt radiating from her, the guilt that no doubt looks very much like my own.
Is this where I got it from, this habit of blaming myself for anything and everything?
But no, Otera is the reason, the culprit. Its culture is. The Infinite Wisdoms—the false holy books on which I was raised—conditions women to take on the sins of everyone else. No matter the situation, no matter the person, if something happens, it’s always the woman’s fault. And barring that, it is the fault of the men who love other men, or the yandau, or the maimed and injured, the infirm—anyone who isn’t a typical Oteran man.
It is always the fault of those on the periphery.
We are the ones Otera sees as inherently weak, shameful. We are the ones who must always shoulder the blame.
The reminder is sobering. Joyous as I am to reunite with Mother, I need to focus on what I came here for: taking back my kelai. Using it to kill the Gilded Ones and the Idugu and get Otera back to peace. And even more important than that, creating a world where everyone is equal. Where people are seen and loved for themselves instead of castigated for their differences. Which, again, is why I need to speak to the gods of Maiwuri.
But before that, I have an important question. “My kelai,” I say, turning back to Mother. “Do you know where it is? Is it here?”
Mother stills. “It’s best you speak to the gods first. And then we can talk.”
My muscles immediately tense. There’s something important she isn’t telling me.
Suddenly, that premonition, the one I’ve had before about how Otera’s fate and mine are intertwined, surfaces, as do a thousand other horrible suspicions.
I immediately suppress them. There’s no point in falling apart now, not when I’m finally here, at the place where all my questions will hopefully be answered.
So I kiss the back of Mother’s head, letting her familiar scent of spice blossoms and anatari peppers wash over me. “We will continue this later,” I say softly.
And then I walk toward the center of the temple.