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“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.”
33
Gazal, the scarred commander who once, as a novice, oversaw our room at the Warthu Bera, is the first person I spot when the army finally comes to a stop. She’s waiting with the welcome party, which consists of General Bussaba, the moon-faced general the Gilded Ones once assigned to the siege on Hemaira’s walls; Karmokos Huon and Calderis, our former combat and weapons masters; and finally, a few other old alaki, jatu, human, and deathshriek commanders I recognize. How White Hands gathered such a coalition here in so short a time, I don’t understand, but I marvel, nevertheless, at the scale of what she’s built. There’s a reason she and Sayuri were seen as indispensable to the goddesses in the earliest ages of the One Kingdom.
As the army marches to a stop, I glance around the soon-to-be-battlefield, taking in every detail of its bone-dry expanse, which stretches between us and what remains of Hemaira’s primary gate. Before, it would have been filled by caravans of merchants and massive lines of travelers waiting to enter Hemaira to sell or buy their goods. Now the only thing that remains is the army and their tents. There’s no sound, no movement—nothing at all. Not even in nature—not a single bird chirps, and I’d be hard-pressed to find any animal outside of the horses, mammuts, and zerizards that have been brought here by the army.
That means only one thing: the gods have something planned.
But then, so do we.
First to step forward from the welcoming party is Jeneba, once the forever-cheerful novice who oversaw Britta and my common bedroom in the Warthu Bera alongside her sweetheart, Gazal. Unlike the others, who are all wearing armor, she is clothed in simple blue robes. After we rescued her three months ago, she chose to stay at Gazal’s side, not as a warrior but as a handmaiden. Like many of the alaki and jatu we’ve rescued over the past few years, Jeneba chose to give up the warrior’s lifestyle now that she has a choice and to serve in other ways instead.
She kneels solemnly in front of our group, holding out a tray covered in tiny bronze cups. “Angoro Deka, General White Hands, General Prix, all other generals and dignitaries, we the Hemairan contingent welcome you. Please accept these glasses of water to soothe your throats and your weary bodies.”
When White Hands looks pointedly at me, I step forward, take a cup from the tray, and down its contents, wiping my mouth so everyone can see I’ve completely ingested it. Then I nod to Jeneba, winking as I do so.
She winks back, her lips quirking in a smile. I turn to the army. “We are soothed,” I shout ceremoniously.
As the others quickly do the same, I continue onward to the waiting dignitaries, happily embracing my old karmokos and accepting General Bussaba’s firm but slightly tremulous grasp before I finally turn back to Karmoko Huon, the fiercely beautiful but frightening instructor responsible for breaking a multitude of my bones during her many combat practices.
“Why the water?” I whisper to her, glancing back at Jeneba, who is now offering cups to the last few generals.
“Ancient human ritual,” Karmoko Huon whispers from behind the back of her hand. “In the olden times, it wasn’t uncommon for allies to stab each other in the back on the battlefield. So, to prevent that, an ancient king invented the water ceremony. When allies gathered, they drank water together to symbolize their pure intentions. To betray an ally after drinking was from then on considered the highest sacrilege, and all parties who had drunk would be responsible for ensuring that justice was served.” She shrugs. “Since humans make up part of this army, we decided to institute the ceremony again to put their hearts at peace.”
“Their?” I remark pointedly. “You’re human.”
