Chapter 32
I’m already awake and dressed when the first faint ray of sunlight breaks over Ilarong’s peaks the next morning. From the balcony of my room, I look out at battalions of aviax, their bodies covered in glittering silver armor, their talons capped by hard iron, and their wings thoroughly preened to allow them to cut faster through the air. Surrounding them are deathshrieks, multitudes as far as the eye can see. They spill over the city streets, an army so immense, Ilarong seems overwhelmed by their sheer numbers. They must have traveled all night to join the other armies already resting here and in the jungle below us. There are even alaki alongside them—jatu too. All allies White Hands collected while I was traveling to Gar Nasim, trying to find what sign I could of Mother and, by extension, my kelai.
When a familiar trumpeting sounds, I look down to find that there are even more troops in the flower-filled plain below Ilarong, many of them riding leathery gray mammuts, the colossal animals whose multiple ivory tusks and spiked tails can gore countless unlucky souls on the battlefield. How they made it all the way here, I don’t know, and truthfully, I don’t want to. I have enough on my mind already.
After all, I have a special task. While everyone else will be focused on fighting the armies of the gods, striking as deeply and ferociously as they can against our divine oppressors, I will be sneaking into Oyomo’s Eye, using the battle as a distraction to keep the gods occupied while I steal my kelai from under their noses. It’s the scheme that White Hands, Sayuri, Karmoko Thandiwe, and I came up with as we planned well into the night.
I return my attention to the plain, where the troops are now organizing themselves in formation. White Hands is already down there. I can see her now, Braima and Masaima beside her, as is General Prix, the brilliantly feathered high general of the aviax. Today, White Hands is wearing golden infernal armor instead of her usual white. It’s a pointed statement. White Hands is not only an alaki, she is the first of the Firstborn, daughter of both the Gilded Ones and the Idugu. She may have once been spymaster to the emperors of Otera, but she has always bled gold, always empathized with the plight of those people and creatures who have been told they were less than, that they were abominations.
Even though she stands against the goddesses now, that much will never change.
She puts a horn from the scaly, bull-like toros to her mouth to amplify her voice. “Aviax of Ilarong and all other mountain realms,” she says, acknowledging the masses of aviax still flying in, their silver armor glittering against the early morning sky. “Equus, alaki, deathshrieks, jatu, humans—all our allies from far and wide! Today is finally the day we strike back against the gods!
“Countless centuries we have been oppressed by them, told we were lesser, inferior—bestial. We did not have the correct blood, the correct appearance, or whatever arbitrary quality it was they required. We were not true Oterans but a disgrace to the One Kingdom, a blight upon the realm. Today, however, we show them the truth: we are Oterans. We are every bit as valuable as the ones they call their chosen. No matter what their priests tell us, no matter what the gods declare, this is our empire as well.”
I turn when a creak sounds, the door to the balcony opening behind me, revealing Britta in her signature golden infernal armor, which blends almost perfectly with the golden war mask she’s donned. As is her preference, the gold in her helmet is mixed with traces of mine in case I use my voice and she needs protection from it, while the metal around her belly is doubly reinforced, to prevent a recurrence of what happened the last time she was on a battlefield with an army this large.
“Takes ye back, doesn’t it?” she says as she makes her way to me. She nods down at White Hands, who is continuing her speech on the battlefield.
“All the way back to that very first battle,” I agree. Then I sigh. “Strange to imagine that things are even more dire now than they were then.”
“Things are always more dire,” Britta says with a weary nod. “That’s why we have each other.” She extends her hand. “Me an’ ye?”
“You and me,” I reply, taking it.
“Until the end of time.”
I smile, looking down at our clasped fingers. The gesture is so similar to ours on that very first day we entered the Warthu Bera, and yet we are so different now. Back then, we were frightened children. Now we are warriors.
I nudge her jokingly. “Until the end of time, are you certain of that?” I ask. “Because here I thought for certain you’d thrown me over for Li.”
“An’ wha about Keita?” Britta sniffs. “He’s always just there. Even when we thought ye were about to get your kelai in Gar Fatu, he was there.”
Even though she’s trying to joke, I can hear the vein of hurt under her voice, so I nudge her again. “Well, Keita’s a man,” I say. “And while men may come and go, both of us…”
“We’re forever,” Britta says, finishing the promise we both began saying to each other when we were neophytes.
“Family,” I conclude. “We’re always family.”
“Does that include me?” When I turn, Belcalis is standing there, a strange expression in her eyes. Uncertainty.
It’s so unexpected coming from her, of all people, I almost don’t reply. Then I nod, my smile growing. “Of course it does.” I extend my other hand. “It’s always been us three,” I say, enfolding her in my embrace when she softens against me.
She nods. “It’s just, you two are always so close, and I—” Again, there is that uncertainty, that doubt.
Today truly must be monumental if Belcalis is suffering an attack of nerves.
Britta grins at her. “Ye are who ye are, we’ve always known this. An’ we’ve always loved ye because of it.”
I nod my agreement. “You balance us.”
Britta points at herself, then Belcalis, then me. “Strength, mind, heart. Together, we make the perfect person.”
“Together, we might just survive this,” I add.
“After all, we’ve survived so many things before…mostly,” Britta says, a musing expression now taking hold. “Deka has been killed more times than I can count.”
“Hey!” I say. “I’ve only been killed eleven, maybe twelve times….” When Britta removes her hand from mine to start doubtfully counting on her fingers, I pull it back into my grasp. “And besides,” I say optimistically, “mostly is good enough. Mostly will get us where we need to go.”
“Now, what’s all this? A love circle?” We all turn when the door opens again, letting in Adwapa, who has Mehrut and Asha by her side. “Don’t you know we have a war to get to?”
“A war? What war?” Li pokes his head through the door, the other boys doing the same behind him. “Here I thought we were just wearing these for show.” He saunters onto the balcony so we can take a look at his armor, which, like all the other boys’, is made from pure gold.
Even more striking, it’s been specially molded in the style particular to his region of the Far Eastern provinces.
Beside him, Acalan heaves a weary sigh, wiping a hand over his face. “Here we go again,” he mutters. “You’d think the boy had never seen infernal armor before.”
“Not made specifically for me, from gold that I bled from my very own veins,” Li crows smugly.
Though the aviax smiths may not have Karmoko Calderis’s flair for making armor that perfectly complements its wearer, they’ve come close enough, and each suit of armor fits the boy wearing it like a glove. Even better, they’ve incorporated my blood into each one. While I don’t foresee using my voice, since by now the entirety of Otera knows that wearing the kaduth symbol can cancel out its effects, I always believe in preparing for any eventuality, no matter how slim.
“I look the very sight, the very portrait, of elegance,” Li says, doing a twirl while Britta blows a kiss at him.
But I only have eyes for Keita. I walk up to where he’s standing at the door, his armor gleaming in the shadows, a miniature sun in the darkness. It’s so similar to mine, with scale-like edges that mimic the scales on my ebiki armor, my heart pangs just seeing it.
“Did you tell the smiths to do this?” I ask, tracing a scale.
He nods. “I wanted everyone who saw it to know we are a pair. Just in case…”
We fail.I silently fill in the words for him.
One thing about Keita: he’s prepared for every eventuality too.
“We won’t fail,” I say. “We will destroy the gods, and then we’ll deal with the consequences, come what may.”
“Come what may,” Keita repeats, pressing his forehead to mine. We stand there together, skin against skin, until the horn sounds and it’s time to go.
White Hands’s troops are in perfect formation when I descend to her side. I do so while standing lightly on Ixa’s back. It’s a statement to all the soldiers who might have heard, as many have, that I’m wounded, that I can barely move of my own accord. This stance proves I’m anything but. I am strong, I am agile, and I am in control. My friends are doing the same, standing on their gryphs as they fly in a V formation behind Ixa. To anyone watching, this must be an imposing sight, but that’s the precise reason it’s one of the first things the alaki generals taught us: Intimidate an enemy, and you might never have to fight them. Intimidate an ally, and they’ll think twice before they become your enemy.
White Hands, Karmoko Thandiwe, and Lord Kamanda wait for us in front of the army. Lady Kamanda is nowhere to be seen, and at that, I am relieved. While I know the fierce noblewoman would undoubtedly cause havoc on the battlefield, she has two newborn children to look after, as well as two older ones. If everything does indeed end today, at least her children will be able to spend their last few moments in her arms.
I push back the thought by turning my gaze to White Hands. There’s a look of approval, even pride, in her eyes as I gracefully dismount from Ixa and walk over to her, my friends by my side. Another way things have changed. Just a few years ago, I would not have dared to approach a creature like Ixa, much less ride it, and I certainly would never have merited White Hands’s interest, much less her pride.
Now I can do both.
I kneel to show my respect before addressing her. Even though I am, theoretically, a god in waiting, White Hands is my elder and, more to the point, my friend. So, for this one last time, I will give her all the respect that is her due and ensure that everyone else does the same, even though I know no one is stupid enough to mistake White Hands for anything other than what she is: one of the greatest—if not the single greatest—military mind to have ever lived.
When she nods respectfully back, I rise, glance around at the troops. “What about the Hemairan troops?” I ask. White Hands has been communicating with them using her gauntlets, now that she knows all the gods are aware of our location anyway. “Are they prepared to receive us?”
“Indeed.” White Hands nods. “The karmokos and Gazal”—our former bloodsister, now a regiment commander—“are already in place, and the rest of the troops are on their way.”
“And the Army of the Goddesses?” I ask. “Has it arrived from Abeya yet?”
White Hands shakes her head. “Still nowhere to be seen, and it’s the same with the forces of the Idugu.”
“Odd,” I remark, my thoughts stirring. If I knew armies were massing to invade my city, I would at least begin mobilizing.
But this, of course, is another trick of the gods. I don’t know what reason they have for not showing their armies yet, but I’m not bothered by it. The gods aren’t the only ones who have tricks up their sleeves, and they’re certainly not the only ones who have hidden armies.
My friends and I have those as well, but the time for them has not yet arrived.
No, we’ll save them for the perfect moment.
I return my full attention to White Hands as she answers, “Indeed. But both Abeya and Hemaira have been blocked from my gauntlets, so I know they’re planning something. What it is precisely remains to be seen.” That said, she peers down at me. “You prepared for this?” she asks, her tone pointed.
I inhale a firming breath before I reply. “More than I’ve ever been.”
And it’s the truth.
After everything I’ve experienced the last few weeks, everything I’ve learned, I’m the strongest I’ve ever been. Not physically, perhaps, but mentally and emotionally. Which is just as well, because I’m about to attempt a feat that veers on the impossible. A feat the goddesses always implied that only they could perform. But they were lying, as they did about so many things, and today is the day I’ll prove them spectacularly wrong.
Britta’s eyes are wide behind her war mask as she turns to me. “Ye certain of this, Deka?” she frets, unsure. She, White Hands, Keita, and Belcalis are the only people I’ve told what I’m planning, so she’s been a mass of worry since last night. “Ye don’t have to burden yerself. It would take us about two weeks, but we would reach Hemaira.”
“And by then, it would be too late,” I say, shaking my head. We already went over all this yesterday. “I at least have to try.”
“I have faith in you, Deka.” Keita’s words are simple but full of reassurance, as is the comforting squeeze he gives my hand.
I can do this.
I inhale, sinking so deep into the combat state, I immediately feel the Greater Divinity surging up to meet me. And then I sink deeper, connecting not just part of the way, as I normally do, but completely this time.
The words the Being said to me the last time I saw it circle through my head. There is no I. We are you. Just as you are us.
If that’s the case, then its power is my power, just as mine is its. That’s why it’s always felt so familiar to me; that’s why it’s always been so easy. If it is a part of everything, then I am as well.
Which means I can harness everything.
The moment I’m fully submerged in the Greater Divinity’s power, I feel it, the rush inside me as all that energy fills up the emptiness in my body, the emptiness that was a marker of the time I had remaining. Oh, my body is still damaged, and it’s still bound for extinction, but it’s no longer as easy to break as it was.
I open my eyes, glorying in this newfound strength. Then I gesture, pulling at the edges of space.
Doors spring open across the plain, masses of them swiftly melding together, connecting, until they become one single, colossal door, a monolith that opens to the sands beyond it. I don’t have to physically pull the edges of space for any of them; they just do as my will demands—as they always have, even though I never recognized it before. I never needed to gesture at all. I just needed this understanding, this knowledge.
As a roar of appreciation sounds from the troops, my eyes turn to the sands, where a camp has been set up to welcome us.
Tents covered in brilliant hues of purple and silver—colors we chose for the combined Oteran armies, since we did not want to adopt the white and gold of the goddesses nor the red of the Idugu stretch far as the eye can see. In front of them is what appears to be a small welcoming party. Thousands of alaki, jatu, human, and deathshriek soldiers stand at silent attention behind them, awaiting our arrival.
White Hands nods triumphantly at me before turning to the gigantic door and the soldiers waiting on this side of it. “Armies of the Angoro,” she shouts. “Your leader, Deka, has cleared the path to Hemaira for you. No marching across forests and plains, no slogging through deserts. There Hemaira lies, ready for us to take it.
“And as you march, remember your purpose: you are here to free Otera from the tyranny of the gods, to protect your loved ones from being sacrificed to slake their monstrous hunger. Take courage in that, and in the fact that you have Deka, the Angoro, slayer of the gods, by your side. Behold her power.” White Hands points to the door once more. “Power to rival the gods’. Divine power you now have on your side. Hold this close to you as you ride into battle, not only for Otera but for yourselves, your families, your futures!”
As White Hands speaks, a sound slowly but steadily rises in the air: thousands of fists pounding against chests in unison. Soldiers pounding their fists for me.
Tears sting my eyes. I’m so overwhelmed now, I’m startled when a hand presses my shoulder. Britta’s. “Do ye hear that, Deka?” she says. “They’re cheering for ye. As am I.”
The approval in her gaze and Keita’s is echoed by White Hands, who nods at me before she pulls down her golden war mask, the signal that she’s prepared to move out. As the army swiftly stands at attention, she lifts her sword and again points to the door. “Onward, Armies of the Angoro. Onward to Hemaira. Onward to victory.”