Heirs of Mana Omnibus

by Matt Larkin

  “Suppose you find her there?” Leapua asked.

  “Pele? You already know the answer to that. I’ll follow her wherever she goes. I have promised her as a sacrifice to Kanaloa, and he shall have her. Crossing the Worldsea will not save her from her fate.”

  It was an itch inside Namaka’s mind. This need to fulfill her vow and sacrifice Pele. It niggled her everywhere she went. It kept her awake at night, and, on those occasions she managed sleep, it haunted her dreams. Visions of the benthic powers, coiling in the darkness below the sea, awaiting the completion of her promise, even seeming to threaten that, if Namaka failed to offer that sacrifice, she herself must take its place.

  Was that the voice of Kanaloa himself? Lord of the deep, whom even the mer of Hiyoya feared? Or was the voice a manifestation of her own tortured mind? A nightmare, born of her rage at what her sister had taken from her?

  Hardly sure why, Namaka drew Leapua into a sudden embrace. “You have stayed by my side all through this civil war. I cannot tell you how much that means. You and Upoho and Milolii are all I …”

  So many of the others had chosen Pele. Even little Hi‘iaka had taken her other sister’s side, and Namaka had never gotten the chance to explain herself to the child. For which she could also blame Pele.

  Leapua patted her back, perhaps caught off-guard by Namaka’s gesture. “My Queen.”

  “It’s almost done,” Namaka said to her. “The war will end soon, and we shall rebuild our kingdom on Sawaiki.”

  “Are there not already kingdoms there?”

  Namaka chuckled. “Not ones prepared to stand against us.”

  She left the kahuna then, and made her way back to the mountains. The volcanic ash was still warm under her bare feet, almost hot enough to burn, but Namaka had to do this. She wended her way into the valley, searching. But the flow of lava had changed the landscape too much. The trees were gone, even the shape of the mountain now differed, and she didn’t have much idea where the place was anymore.

  So she wandered about while the sun began to set, until she was left with the inescapable conclusion: lava had buried the cave entrance.

  Growling, Namaka finally knelt in the ash, shaking her head. “I’m sorry.”

  The bones of her husbands lay entombed there. Hidden forever, as was appropriate, though Namaka would have preferred the chance to bid them farewell. Their flesh she had cast into the sea, yes, but their bones would remain here forever, far from the land where she would now make her home.

  They had both died because of this war. That fell at Pele’s feet, too.

  Namaka wanted to weep for the dead, but it felt as though Pele’s flames had evaporated her tears. All she could do was pound her fist into the dried lava and moan in anguish. What if … what if Leapua’s intimations hid the truth? Had Namaka taken things too far? But the voice in her mind demanded its sacrifice …

  And Kanemoe and Kahaumana and thousands more dead needed someone to pay for their lives. That … that had to be Pele. It had to.

  “I’m sorry,” Namaka repeated.

  During the war, she had half expected hers and Pele’s mother to show up and stop the fighting. But Haumea was gone, and the island she had left to her elder daughters was gone now, too.

  All that remained was to gather her strength and set sail. To end this.

  Much of the lagoon was now filled in by lava, the sea for once giving way to the land, and what remained was a putrid, acidic mess. Despite the discomfort, Namaka had doffed her pa‘u, tossed the skirt aside, and waded into the waters.

  Once, this lagoon had been so thick with mana, like the beating heart of this island. Namaka had built her palace on the shore over there—it too swept away in a torrent of molten rock—and had bathed here daily, soaking in mana she felt more keenly than mortals.

  But now … the lagoon was dead.

  The island was dead. The mana had fled, drawn, perhaps, back into the greater depths of the Worldsea.

  The dirty waters she waded among held no power, as if she’d needed any more evidence of how thoroughly their war had destroyed Uluka‘a. As if she had needed more evidence of her guilt.

  To whom should she apologize for this? To the akua, gods who had surely fled from here? To the ‘aumākua, the ghost gods who watched over their descendants? Perhaps they would make the trek to Sawaiki, or perhaps they too had fled the devastation, descending into dark Pō, the Otherworld.

  Nothing remained here anymore. And it was time for Namaka to be gone.

  As she threaded her way ashore, though, she spied the mo‘o—a lizard dragon—sitting on the rocks, watching her. Milolii, her former nursemaid, might have passed for an eighteen foot long monitor lizard, save for the irregular horns raising from her brow, the frill down her spine, and the spikes upon the end of her tail. That, and the light of intelligence, of scorn with which she looked upon Namaka.

  Namaka paused before the beloved dragon, trying not to squirm under the creature’s gaze, though it made it feel like the night sky was closing in around her. “We’re heading to Kahiki, then on to Sawaiki.”

  “And I shall meet you there.” The dragon’s grandmotherly voice was a comfort—when she wasn’t angry. Like this, it tended to feel like a knife, digging into Namaka’s temples. “I shall cross the Worldsea and at last join my forebears, as I should have done ages back.”

  Frowning, Namaka held her peace, uncertain whether she should feel glad the dragon would be there for her, or chagrined Milolii seemed to blame Namaka for all of this.

  As if Pele had not been to blame for this war.

  She wanted to open her mouth, to apologize, to beg the mo‘o to forgive her.

  But that was weakness. It would only serve to undermine the sacrifices so many had made.

  A queen did not apologize for duty.

  Leapua was waiting for her, holding Namaka’s brilliant red feather cloak in both arms. Namaka took the garment and wrapped it around her otherwise bare shoulders. Usually, she basked in its softness, but she had no mood for it now. Besides … that looked like a godsdamned mer down on the shore.

  “Matsya?” she asked.

  Leapua nodded solemnly. “Waiting since just after sunset.”

  Namaka forestalled her groan and tromped her way down to the beach. The creature there stood on two legs—two-scaled legs with fins at the ankles. Hints of scales poked out along his bare flesh, up his torso, his arms. Fins jutted from his biceps and back, and as he twisted in the moonlight, Namaka caught sight of his flapping gills. When he opened his mouth, he revealed double rows of shark teeth, set into a maw too large for a human head.

  A hint of humanity … merged with a godsdamned shark, so far as she could tell. Namaka had heard that mer became less and less human over the centuries, but she couldn’t guess how old Matsya was.

  “I warned you,” the merman said when she paused before him. “I warned you, before all this, and you didn’t listen.”

  “Perhaps you should have warned Pele.”

  Matsya pointed a webbed finger at the island behind her, but Namaka didn’t bother turning to look. She’d seen the wasteland enough. She’d dwelt on her failures so many times. She did not need to see more. “This was not all Pele.”

  “When pushed to extremes, the only plausible response becomes an extreme one. Surely Queen Latmikaik would take almost any tactic to preserve Hiyoya?” Namaka raised her hand to forestall his objection. “Don’t bother because we both know it’s true. While you whine about the damage to the ocean, look at my godsdamned island. Look at it!”

  Matsya cocked his head to the side, as if shocked a human—even a kupua—would dare raise her voice to him, a mer, an akua.

  Namaka was a little shocked herself, truth be told, but she damn sure wouldn’t let him see that. “I tire of your complaints, mer. What you have lost can hardly measure compared to what we have. And now, we are leaving Uluka‘a. We are leaving these seas. Tell Latmikaik she need no longer concern herself with me or my power ov
er the sea.”

  “They are our seas.”

  “And I’m leaving them. All you have to do now is stay out of my way.”

  Matsya shook his head. “Oh, Namaka. Your temerity will cost you one day. If you had any idea of the complexities of the conflict Hiyoya now finds itself embroiled in—”

  Namaka held up her hand. “I told you. I’m leaving. We’re all leaving this very night, and you’ll never have to concern yourselves with us again. Take that as a blessing and be gone, mer.”

  Matsya folded his arms, staring hard at her. “Were I another mer, I might feel myself honor-bound to punish you for speaking thus to one of my kind.”

  Namaka sneered and turned her back on him. A moment later, she heard the splash of him diving back into the sea, and released a pent-up breath.

  She made her way to one of the double canoes, then climbed onto the platform mounted between them, joining Leapua there. Dozens of men gathered beside the canoes and began to shove, sliding them into the water. Along the shore, many more canoes were cast onto the sea.

  “It’s beginning,” Leapua said.

  Probably, Namaka should have offered a sacrifice to Hiyoya or Kanaloa or some benthic god for the success of this voyage. But she had lost so many people already and could afford no others. Not even the loss of a pig or dog, for that matter. The few animals that remained were being loaded up on the canoes as well.

  “Are you all right?” Leapua asked.

  “I am.” Namaka sighed. She’d spent her whole life on Uluka‘a. Sawaiki was a place of legend. A dream.

  As the canoes drifted further out to sea, men began to unfurl the sails. On the open ocean, Namaka’s mana hummed inside her, resonating with the deep. Fueling it. The sea was a part of her, maybe more so than even a mer.

  The mer called themselves gods, yes, but they feared her.

  She was the Sea Queen.

  They would dare not challenge her crossing here. Indeed, despite Matsya’s words, she knew all Hiyoya would be glad Namaka had left these waters.

  Away from the shore, the men began to sing, and soon, someone began to beat upon a pahu drum.

  2

  Ahead, the islands rose up from the sea like the fins of some benthic monstrosity, shrouded in mist and vibrantly green. And Pele could feel their power, slumbering deep beneath the ground. They had passed some other, larger islands on the way to this one—Kaua‘i, Aukele called his home—and the whole archipelago had risen up from volcanic activity. The fires within the Earth called to her now, spoke to her of how they had given rise to mountains that became these lush islands.

  Glorious.

  Pele might have preferred to stop at the larger island farther south, where the fires were stronger, but Aukele and Kana had insisted on returning to their home here, and, for her part, Pele saw little point in arguing with Aukele over it. He’d have bent to her will if she pushed it, but even a queen should not abuse such influence. Let him have his way. Once in a while.

  Behind her, Hi‘iaka scrambled to the edge of the platform. “That’s it? We’re finally getting off the damn boat?”

  Pele quirked a smile. Her sister was only thirteen—had not even developed her powers as a child of Haumea, in fact—but had no trouble speaking her mind. Which included more than occasional whining over having spent so long at sea.

  Not that Pele disagreed. Being at the mercy of the waves had left her nauseated and feeling … weak. To stand on land, to feel its fires within, it would be most welcome.

  Before they had even reached the shore, Aukele leapt over the side and began to swim back.

  Pele glanced at Hi‘iaka and the girl grinned. “No, wait—” Pele began.

  But Hi‘iaka jumped in the water herself, splashing Pele, who hissed. Fool child.

  Beside Pele, Kana chuckled, but stayed behind, helping guide the canoes past the reefs and into safe harbor. Waimea, Aukele had called this area, a flat, coastal village in the shadow of a mountain. Kana was his nephew and had grown up in this village, son of the chief and Aukele’s half-sister.

  Across the water, Lonomakua hopped from one of the other canoes. The shallows were only waist-deep on the blue-eyed kahuna, but then, he was taller than most men. He cocked his head expectantly at her, beckoning her to join. Pele didn’t much fancy a swim, but anything to get ashore more quickly. So she stripped off her pa‘u and slipped over the side, splashing down into waters colder than she’d expected, holding the skirt over her head to keep it dry.

  Shivering slightly, she waded onto the beach, where Aukele was already retying his malo around his waist. Others had begun to gather on the beach, too, looking to Pele as she re-set her own pa‘u. She paused, though, and glanced back at the canoe. There would be people here, and she’d need to make an impression immediately to ensure the transition went smoothly.

  “Bring my feather cloak,” she shouted back to Kana.

  The young man nodded, beached the canoe, and then dug through a net until he produced Pele’s cloak. He plopped down in wet sand and ran it over to her, throwing it around her shoulders as if he had permission to touch her.

  Pele favored him with a withering scowl. These Sawaikians did not have half enough respect for tabus. Not yet. That would prove one of the first orders of business.

  Everyone was looking at her now. Waiting for her to lead the way into the village, though, on the outskirts, local men had already begun to gather, forming up, perhaps wondering if they faced an invasion.

  Not entirely inaccurate.

  Pele was the Flame Queen. Where she walked, she ruled.

  At the head of the locals came a man clad in a feather cloak himself, though smaller and less vibrant than Pele’s. The chief, no doubt—Hakalanileo, Kana’s father. Indeed, Kana raced toward the man and embraced him.

  The two of them exchanged a few words, before Hakalanileo turned his scowl upon Aukele, shaking his head. “What is all this?”

  “My guests,” Aukele said. “I’ve brought them from Kahiki.”

  For some reason, his words seemed to soften the chief’s face a hair. As if learning they’d come from Kahiki was not entirely unwelcome? Why would that be? Pele needed more information to properly manage this situation, but if she did not make herself known immediately, she’d risk others thinking she was subordinate to her lover Aukele in these lands.

  She strode forward, up to the man’s side and stared a challenge at Hakalanileo. “I am the God-Queen of Flame, Pele of Uluka‘a.” The man’s mouth fell open as if struck speechless. Good. Let them be fully cowed. “I have come across the Worldsea and require lodging and sustenance.”

  The chief cleared his throat. “Hmm, of course, yes.” He motioned to a slave to lead the way. “I have a guest house on the palace grounds your ‘ohana may occupy. We’ll have a feast prepared for the evening.”

  After so long at sea, Pele would welcome anything fresh, other than fish.

  She fell into step beside the chief, saying nothing else, and allowing him to speak further with Kana. Aukele had warned her that Hakalanileo did not much care for him. Now, apparently having understated his brother-in-law’s enmity, Aukele held back from the others, keeping the company of Hi‘iaka and Lonomakua.

  “It is good you’ve returned,” the chief told his son. “Kaupeepee’s raids have worsened, and Kamapua‘a is in open rebellion. Still, we have greater concerns. Queen Poli‘ahu now attempts to unite the old dynasty against us. Skirmishes now plague Kaua‘i, and I hear she’s claimed the better part of Vai‘i to her cause.”

  So … the native Sawaikians had not all taken kindly to the Kahikian and Uluka‘an settlers that Kapo and Uli had led fifty years ago. That would explain Hakalanileo’s reaction to hearing they’d come from Kahiki. He would see them as natural allies against the natives. Pele could use that, though she’d need to find out where Kapo had settled and if she had made herself a God-Queen as well.

  Pele had no desire to war against another sister. Surely, she and Kapo could divide t
hese islands between themselves one way or another. And those most likely to have the information she’d need would be not the ali‘i like Hakalanileo, but the kāhuna, who might know where Kapo had traveled.

  Hakalanileo’s slave guided them to a large house beside the palace, one with a high ceiling and wide-open windows that let in a pleasant breeze. A woven curtain separated the women’s side of the house from the men’s. Not, as it well should have been, a completely different building. It drew a frown from Pele, but she settled down onto a mat without comment.

  A moment later, Hi‘iaka plopped down beside her. “So we’re going to live here?”

  Pele rubbed her eyes. A nap would have done well before meeting with anyone else, but Hi‘iaka probably wouldn’t let that happen. Not without some banter first. “Perhaps. I’m still gathering the lay of the political landscape. Once we know that, we can decide where to build our court.”

  “You’re going to make yourself queen of these people.”

  “I’m going to make myself god-queen of one of the islands. Which one will depend on numerous factors.”

  “You mean like volcanoes.” The girl’s grin tended to be infectious, making Pele’s skin tingle with the urge to join in.

  Pele chuckled. “There’s volcanoes everywhere on these islands.” Praise the ‘aumākua for that. “Volcanic activity created them.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Pele favored her sister with a level stare.

  “Right. Sure. So Maui found these islands, what—a thousand years ago?”

  “More like eight hundred.”

  “Huh. Well, they’re pretty.”

  Pele quirked a smile. “Tell me what you’ve garnered about things here, so far.”

  “It’s pretty,” Hi‘iaka repeated.

  “Hi‘iaka.”

  Her sister huffed. “Fine, sure. There’s strife between the settlers from Maui’s day, the people of Savai‘i who now call themselves Sawaikians, and those who came here a few decades ago. They haven’t meshed completely. Someone named Queen Poli‘ahu leads or is a leader of the old dynasty, who oppose Aukele’s people as members of the new Kahikian dynasty. She’s a kupua sorceress.”