by Matt Larkin
But he was so close. Staring up at the stars, he was certain of it. Could the constellation really mean what he thought?
He jerked at a hand on his shoulder, turned to see Inemes looking up at him with undisguised concern.
“When did you get back?”
“Not long ago.”
His first mate removed her hand, as if suddenly uncomfortable at the gesture of intimacy. Once, they had been lovers. But that was so long ago, both of them so changed, it felt like a dream.
“You ever feel like we should have tried harder?” she asked. How like her, to know thoughts he refused to speak.
Pasikole offered a small smile, the most he could manage at the moment. They both knew the answer—it was too complicated, too hard. And the truth was, he’d been ready to make the same mistake with Namaka. She was young, vibrant, and entrancing. But Pasikole had seen too much, gone too far to live a normal life. He’d seen one brother drown, only to become possessed by a merman. Somewhere, at the bottom of the Worldsea, he had family that was no longer his own.
Knowledge was the only real weapon humanity had against the powers of this world and the worlds beyond. And the pursuit of those forgotten secrets, of all knowledge, cost him his ability to let go. In being so consumed by his passion, he left no room for true connection with another soul.
Or at least, he told himself that was why things didn’t work out with Inemes and would not have worked with Namaka.
“Pas … Thomas is dead.”
“What? What happened?”
Inemes shook her head. “I don’t know. We brought his body back. Something ravaged it.”
Pasikole’s stomach sank as she led him into the hold, where the boy’s body lay. They had wrapped him in a tarp, but now the crew gave the corpse a wide berth, watching it from the far sides of the hold as though they feared it would get up and bite them.
Palms sweaty, Pasikole pulled away the tarp to reveal the corpse. It looked as though all moisture, all life had been sucked out of it. Thomas’s skin was dry, flaking, his hair brittle. And his eyes! They were completely filled with blood. Pasikole dropped the tarp back over the boy. He’d been the youngest member of the crew, only fourteen. So eager for this, his first long voyage. Too young to be a soldier.
Pasikole felt sick, barely able to contain the surge of bile in his throat. “You have to burn the body.”
“What?” Inemes asked. “We’re going to commit him to the deep at sunrise.”
“Something foul did this to him. Maybe the locals used the Art, maybe … maybe something else. Either way, you need to have the men burn that corpse.” He pointed to two of the gawking crewmen. “Take him ashore and build a pyre. Immediately.” Lore sometimes spoke of spirits possessing corpses. They could not afford to risk such a thing.
His legs wobbled as he made his way back toward his cabin. Inemes followed.
He turned to her. “I have to get that cutter back.”
Inemes sighed, obviously not pleased that was the only answer he’d given her. “Even if we were to run, not go back to the Westlands …”
“I can’t deny the rest of the crew the chance to ever see their homes, their families, Inemes. So many have already died on this voyage. Look what’s happening here. Those who survived, we have to get them back to their loved ones.”
“What happened to mapping every island on the Worldsea? What happened to the relentless pursuit of forgotten lore?”
He shook his head. Maybe he should have listened. Others, many others, had warned him he might pay a steep price for his investigations. But he had been so certain. And boys like Thomas had paid the price. “Kamapua’a and I are going to kidnap the chief, force him to return the cutter. I need you to have the Startracer ready to make sail at dawn.”
She groaned. “Fine. I’ll wake the crew, get them back to work on repairs.” She turned to go.
“Inemes, wait. There’s something I want to show you. Come with me.”
Inemes had followed him back to his cabin and now stood leaning against the hatch, watching him dig through a footlocker. He knew it was in here somewhere. Life had been so chaotic over the past two weeks, he hadn’t had much chance to look, to be certain. But …
There. He found the scroll he needed. It was old—he’d been working on it for half his life—and crinkled as he unfurled it on the chart table. The paper was so long it spilled over the ends of the table and he had to shift it around to find the important bits.
His crew, men and women like poor Thomas, had fallen on this voyage. Deaths to scurvy on the journey here, to pirates, to tsunamis, he’e, a taniwha … and now some vile spirit or to the Art. Their deaths had to mean something. If not … if he returned home with nothing … He’d be worse than a failure.
On this scroll he’d been trying to chart the course of history and now it was covered in copious notes, half of which he’d crossed out and rewritten. Were his dates right? Were the events represented mere legend, or did they have basis in truth? Sometimes, he fantasized that understanding the Art would also allow him to divine the truth about the world’s history.
“Look,” he said, pointing to a spot on the chart. “Here. I feel fairly certain the Worldsea came about around two thousand two hundred years ago.”
His first mate pushed off the hatch and came to stand in front of the chart table, hands on hips. “Uh huh.”
“Now, before that, there was more land. A lot more.”
“Right. So you’ve said. And there used to be human masters of the Art and they evoked things they shouldn’t have and finally the world was flooded.”
He held up a finger to forestall any objection. She generally had more patience, but then they usually had these talks over afternoon tea, not in the middle of the night, not after viewing the corpse of a young man whose life had barely begun. But it was important, had been running around the back of his mind since he met Namaka. Only on meeting Pele, though, had the pieces truly snapped into place.
He pushed the scroll farther back, pointing to his earliest notes—conjectures, really. “I found a few stories, very few, about the time before even that. About gods that used to walk the Earth and rule mankind. Maybe that was how the world began, I don’t know. One of those stories called those gods titans. And they were wicked, and were eventually killed or—” he pointed to one note “—or possibly bound living in the underworld.”
Inemes spread her hands. “If you’re serious about getting underway at dawn, I have a lot of work to do.”
“Namaka told me her powers come from the god Kū. That he escaped from the underworld where their chief god, Kāne, had bound him. Escaped and sired seven daughters. Seven.” He paused for emphasis. “Seven Princesses. Now that number is interesting because of a legend from … Damn, where did I hear it?” He searched the scroll, careful not to further damage its delicate paper. “Here. The Pirate Nation. It was one of the legends of the titans, about a titan who had seven daughters. Atlas, they called him. And when the king of the gods sent him back to the underworld, those daughters became the stars in the sky. The Pleiades constellation, the Seven Sisters.”
Now, finally, his first mate arched an eyebrow and leaned in to examine the paper. “You’re saying … you think the pirate legend was about the Princesses of Sawaiki?”
“I think so. It would mean Kū was a local name for a titan, the one the pirates called Atlas. More than that, though, it means the legends about the glory days of mankind are true. Namaka, Pele, they’re living proof there was a time before the mer and the he’e ruled the world.”
“Fine. Sawaikian god, titan, what difference does it make?”
He sighed. Sometimes he forgot not everyone seemed to care about knowledge for its own sake. Inemes wanted a practical use for information. “Those girls, the Princesses, they have titan blood. What if …” He was almost afraid to say it. “What if we could use them to do more than give the Art back to mankind? What if they could actually kill the he’e god-king?”<
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He wouldn’t say the name aloud, couldn’t take the risk. Some legends claimed such powerful beings might be drawn by the sound of their name. Certainly Kanaloa had the power to spy upon events from afar. And he was the true power of the deep, the force wielding the world by puppet strings. If the god-king fell, mankind would truly have a chance to come back into its own.
Inemes shook her head, then placed a palm upon his cheek. “You’re dreaming. Focus on getting the cutter back. We need that. Whatever you want to do after that … we’ll talk about it later, all right?”
She was right, of course. He ought to rest, to let her work.
He ought to. But the thought left him too energized to consider anything else. It would be a long night.
Day III
12
Less than an hour before sunrise they stole into Tangaloa’s village. Pasikole had insisted on leading the way himself, taking the same six men he’d taken hunting for the cutter in the first place, as well as the wereboar. Kamapua’a was useful, at least when he could be directed to a task for more than a few moments.
In boar form, the kupua had gone to scout the village, check for guards, while Pasikole and his people waited around the back of one of the huts. His men shifted nervously, not speaking, but checking their pistols, making certain their sabers didn’t stick. Their anger, bubbling just beneath the surface … he could almost taste it. And it tasted so wrong.
Part of him wanted to shout at the locals, scream the truth at them. He was trying to help them, to help everyone. But his efforts had turned to ash. Ash, like the body of a boy he had just scattered over the sea.
Pasikole had allowed himself to be seduced by the promises the he’e offered him, secrets of the Art. And for those secrets he’d come here, intent on trading away Namaka. As if that wasn’t enough, he’d brought death to the Sawaikians.
And he had been so blind, never delving deeply enough to understand why the he’e wanted Namaka. They said she had a Gift, a power. He had thought they merely intended to deny that power to mankind. But it was more than that. The he’e were ancient, had quite likely understood the truth about the Princesses. Had known that those girls alone might pose a threat to them. Especially Namaka. They bore titan blood, he knew they did.
The boar trotted over toward him, then snorted.
“Does that mean we’re clear?” one of his crew asked.
Kam snorted again.
“Kam, watch our backs. The rest of you, with me,” Pasikole said, then crept toward Chief Tangaloa’s hut. He absolutely had to lead his people himself. They were too worked up as it was. If things here became heated, they might well draw those pistols. The villagers would be slaughtered. He could not allow that.
He had come here hoping to help humanity, not spill the blood of innocents. And he needed help from the Princesses.
With a last glance around, Pasikole slipped into the hut. The chief was already awake, his woman tying a grass skirt around his waist. Both turned to look at him with wide eyes.
Damn it.
Even without looking over his shoulder, Pasikole could feel pistols being drawn, violence permeating the air. Could the chief feel it as well? Pasikole watched the man’s eyes for an interminable moment. Yes. This was a man who understood.
“You need to come with me,” Pasikole said, extending a hand.
Tangaloa’s jaw was set and he hesitated, but only briefly, before taking Pasikole’s hand.
“Tangaloa, no!” his wife shouted. He forestalled her with his other hand.
Good. The chief understood what could happen here if he didn’t cooperate. Pasikole just had to get the cutter back, then these people could go about their lives. He’d find Namaka, find a way to defeat the he’e god-king.
He turned, taking in his people with a long glance, silently ordering them to put away those weapons. They did so, and he led Tangaloa through the village and down toward the beach.
He’d take Tangaloa to the Startracer and then demand the return of the cutter.
“Stop!” the woman cried from behind him. “Leave him!”
Pasikole cringed at her shout. The villagers would have rise by now.
“Move,” he snapped at Tangaloa, not bothering to look back at the man’s wife.
The chief, however, glanced over his shoulder. Pasikole yanked the man forward. They had no time for this.
As they neared the sand, the woman rushed in front of them and flung herself at their feet. Almost at the same instant, James leveled a pistol at her.
“No!” Pasikole snapped. “No bloodshed.”
The woman’s wailing continued.
Pasikole tried to step around her, but the chief pulled him to a stop. Or rather, simply stopped walking, and Pasikole could not easily drag the bulky man behind him.
Villagers began to gather, drawn by the cursed woman’s cries for her man.
“Shut up, shut up!” James shouted at her.
“Stop!” Pasikole released Tangaloa and grabbed James’ pistol, forcing it away from the chief’s wife. The last thing he needed was a dead woman in the sand.
More and more people gathered, surrounding them. Some had spears readied for war. An old kahuna was waving a coconut, calling for attention.
None of this was going according to plan.
13
A cluster of villagers had surrounded Pasikole. Kamapua’a dashed toward him on all fours, kicking up sand beneath his feet. And then the sun peeked out from the horizon. It struck him like a blow and sent him stumbling along the beach, digging a trench of sand. Muscle spasms ravaged him as the sunlight forced him back to human form, beating down the Moon spirit whose shape he had assumed. Having the spirit forced down by the sun was like getting kicked in the shitting balls.
Kam gasped, grunting through the pain. You got used to it, but it was never fun.
He looked up in time to see a warrior approaching Pasikole from behind. The captain was watching the kahuna, waving that shitting coconut and screaming about curses. Kam tried to call out a warning, but his human vocal cords hadn’t finished reforming. It came out as a mere guttural shout. Enough to draw the captain’s eyes.
Not enough to make him turn as a club descended.
Crashed into his skull and split it open.
Everything stopped. At least for Kam. For the others, it erupted into chaos. The deafening retort of several pistols as Pasikole’s men fired into the crowd. And then warriors were on top of them, stabbing spears down again and again.
By the time Kam gained his feet, it was over. Hard to tell how many locals had fallen—five or six—but all of Pasikole’s men were down, stabbed repeatedly. As was the captain.
“No …” Kam groaned.
A warrior with a spear rushed at him.
Kam roared in bestial rage, unable to form words. As his attacker drew near, Kam caught the man with one hand on his spear and the other on his neck. He hefted the villager in the air and slammed him straight down into the sand with one hand. The sickening crack told him he’d broken the man’s neck, probably his back too.
Kam shrieked mindlessly at another attacker. His fist crashed into the man’s chest, reducing him to a gasping heap on the ground. Few of the other villagers were paying him much mind, and those who did now backed away in horror. Stupid shitters knew he was kupua now.
Rage coursed through him like blood, until his jaw hurt. Against all logic his form began to change, muscles enlarging as tusks jutted from his lower lip. Despite the sun above he was changing, though his form was neither boar nor man, but something in between.
Someone screamed, and a panicked shout raced through the crowd.
A dozen warriors brandished spears at him, but none seemed intent to close on Kam.
“Kill the wereboar!” the kahuna shouted, then turned to Pasikole’s body. “The captain has great mana. We must consume him. Do not let them take the body!”
Kam hesitated. Shit. What was even happening to him? His arms shook.
At the kahuna’s words, the villagers set out to make a pyre. Maybe Kam could fight his way through all of them. Probably not. He was mighty, but there were a lot of the shitters. And no matter what he did, Pasikole and his people were already dead.
Shit!
Kam screamed at those villagers still watching them, then took off, running into the jungle. And the beast in his soul rose, roaring and screaming, until wrath became his world.
14
Namaka, for whatever reason, continued heading inland. If she were to hold this course long enough she might even reach Kilauea. Perhaps the Sea Princess sought Pele. The thought made her smirk. If so, Namaka would find her a lot sooner than she expected.
The sun had just risen, and a cool wind mixed with a drizzle of rain to create a generally miserable morning for such a trek. But some things could not wait.
Hood of her kihei up against the rain, Pele stalked toward the caves above the cove. She and Fire-Keeper had sheltered there themselves not a week past. A narrow ledge led up them—hollows carved by now-empty lava tubes that looked out over the sea some twenty paces below. A stunning vista, especially at twilight or sunrise.
It was almost unbelievable this Princess seemed to be seeking her out. Perhaps it was meant as a sign of respect. After all, there were no clear traditions to follow in meeting another Princess, for it happened so rarely.
“She’s not far ahead now,” Fire-Keeper said.
By the time she had climbed the path to the cave entrance, her breath came heavily from the long hike. Little sunlight reached into the caves, especially given the cloud cover from the rainy morning. Rather than walk into darkness, Pele flexed her palm, calling forth a torch flame from it. Then she strode into the tunnel. The rock was slick from when lava had once carved it out and now slippery with rain, forcing her to choose her steps with care.
