by Matt Larkin
2
If Pasikole had to choose one word to describe the Valley Isle it would be ‘green.’ Lush rainforests covered almost the entire landscape, made all the more impressive by mountains rising up like storm-tossed waves frozen in time. In fact, the entire island seemed to have been forgotten by time.
The simplicity of these people was a deception, of course. Before instructing him in the local language, his employers had also explained the Sawaikians were effectively enslaved by the mer kingdom of Hiyoya. The mer demanded human sacrifices of each island. Pasikole’s employers suspected the people here didn’t even know the real reason why. They made the sacrifices and went about their lives, happy in their ignorance.
And that happiness was contagious. This luau was vibrant, a pounding explosion of sensation, of life. Sights and smells and sounds bombarded him, and everywhere, smiling faces. Innocent, believing themselves free.
And he would be forced to steal those smiles, shatter that innocence.
Seeing the sheer, pervasive joy that suffused this land … it was harder and harder to believe he might be doing it for their own good. It was for the good of all mankind. That was what he had to keep telling himself.
Day II
3
As soon as morning came Namaka snuck out of the cave, careful not to wake Mo-O. The dragon had been asleep when she returned, and she had no desire to get a lecture about her long absence last night. Since her chances of waking Kamapua’a were about the same as her chances of tripping over the moon, she didn’t worry about stepping over the snoring wereboar.
Moela rose and followed her to the edge of the cave. Namaka stared wistfully at the dog, who sat on his haunches, looking up at her with pleading eyes. Namaka knew what it was like to be told not to have any fun. “Fine,” she whispered, and jerked her head to indicate Moela could follow.
Stifling a yawn—excitement kept her from getting to sleep quickly, as usual—she ducked out of the cave and ran through the valley. Moela barked, rushing ahead. Last night, her father had agreed to let her be the one to give Pasikole a tour of their lands. Of her lands. In all honesty, she had rather insisted. Father hadn’t liked it, but she was no longer a child—even if she hadn’t gotten much of a childhood.
Childhood was for playing. Unless you were a Princess, then it was for training. Training to control the power that would bring prosperity or ruin to her people.
As she broke out onto the beach, a flight of nene geese soared overhead. Uncle Kamalo always called that a good sign for the day. And today was going to be wonderful. She was going to make it wonderful.
The yellow-haired foreigner was sailing ashore again, this time with only a handful of men in his boat. Namaka drifted down the beach to meet them and Pasikole waved to her, his smile equally broad. And he should smile. After all, the Princess was here to give him a tour.
“Aloha, Namaka,” he shouted, then waved for his men to unload a barrel.
“What’s that?”
The captain leapt out of the boat, walking through shin-deep water to stand beside her. “A gift for your father. Distilled spirits.”
“How did you get a spirit in a barrel?”
The captain raised an eyebrow. “I mean it’s liquor.”
And if she asked what that meant he’d probably think her simple, so she just smiled and nodded. Whatever it was, her father would appreciate the gift. Namaka pointed to her family’s house. “He’s in there. But you can have your men deliver it. I’ve got so many things to show you!”
Pasikole chuckled and spread his hands. “I’m all yours, Princess.”
Namaka turned her face away, looking to the temple, as much to keep him from seeing just how much she liked the sound of that as to start the tour. “Down there, you see? That’s where we’ll start. It’s a temple dedicated to the gods.” She led him toward the temple and he fell in step beside her. Moela kept sniffing about his shins.
Pasikole laughed and scratched the dog’s head behind his ears.
“You like dogs?”
He shrugged. “My family had a pair of hounds growing up. They were almost like an extra brother and sister. Not that I didn’t have enough of those already.”
Kamalo had guessed Pasikole was a human emissary of the gods. It only made sense he’d had a human life. Still, it seemed somehow off, hearing this man speak of siblings and dogs and a childhood. And why had Lono sent him? It would be beyond rude to directly ask, of course, but maybe she could entice a little information out of him.
Namaka pointed to the temple as they neared. “Each of the masks represents a different god of the archipelago,” she said as they drew near. “The highest is Kāne, then that one is Lono—but of course you know that.”
Pasikole glanced at her face, holding her eyes just long enough to make her heart race. “Of course.”
“And, uh, there’s Wakea the god of the sky, Paka’a the god of the wind, and Kū is a war god and my ancestor. Well, sort of.”
“What do you mean ‘sort of?’” Pasikole began to walk up the terrace steps, toward where the smoke from the sacred fire was billowing out over the beach.
Namaka’s stomach lurched into her throat and she grabbed him, pulling him away so quickly they both tripped and she fell on top of him. For a moment, she stared into his eyes. And then, looking down at his face, she was suddenly self-conscious of the way he looked back at her. Namaka rolled off him, scrambled to her feet, then offered him a hand. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
Moela dashed around them, yipping happily, but Namaka kept her eyes locked on Pasikole.
There again was that curiously odd raised eyebrow. Did emissaries of the gods find all people so amusing, or was she just a buffoon? Either way, he took her hand and she helped him rise. Since the man was even heavier than he looked, she suspected her help was limited.
But he had looked at her like he wanted her. That was, after all, why Kū had come here—to take mortal lovers. Mo-O hinted that very transgression might have been why Kāne had banished Kū back to the underworld. Milu’s underworld was said to be a place of icy mist and cold, somewhere beyond even the Ghost World. The death goddess ensured those who entered into her domain would never again return to the Earth. It was why some ancestors, the aumakuas, lingered in the Ghost World to bless their descendants. She liked that story.
She bit her lip. Pasikole was handsome, for certain. And a divine emissary must have a right to claim her body, if he so chose. Was that really an option for her? Choosing this man, some kind of kupua himself, as her mate? It didn’t even matter—she’d have to choose another lover and another, as long as she lived. The whole purpose of her life was to fuck as many men as she could, sharing her mana. To protect her people, and finally be eaten by them. And in exchange for such a life, she got to be in charge.
She shook herself and blew out a long breath. “You can’t get that close to the sacred fire. I mean, sure, you’re an emissary of Lono, but kapu says only an actual kahuna can be there, and only for tending the fire. The ghosts wouldn’t like it otherwise. I’m not supposed to go up there either.”
“Kapu?”
Namaka spread her hands. Who didn’t know kapu? “How you’re meant to live.” Unless you were Kamapua’a, and then they were suggestions. Damn but she wished she could live like that sometimes. But the people needed her and she couldn’t turn from her duty as a Princess. She had, in the end, done everything asked of her. “Kapu tells us which things are tabu—forbidden. And people going up to the fire is completely tabu. They’d …” Well, Kamalo would be forced to offer Pasikole in sacrifice to the gods to beg their forgiveness.
Namaka frowned. Was he testing her? He should have known these things. She pointed at the nine ki’i masks her people venerated. “So, I’m sure you know which gods the masks represent.”
A flicker of a smile lit his face. “Besides the ones you mentioned? That one is meant to be Ka Moho, the God of Steam. The female is Milu, Queen of the Underworld. And then t
here’s Kanaloa.” The last he said with what she might have almost taken for distaste. Or fear, perhaps. Some said Kanaloa, God of Magic and the Deep, was the one god even Kāne feared.
“You’re missing one.”
Pasikole chuckled. “The … the Poison Tree God. How could I forget? Any other tabus I should know about?”
Had he just changed the subject? He might be an emissary of Lono, but what kind of divine emissary didn’t know how to behave? This had to be a test. “Well … don’t walk in my father’s—or any chief’s—shadow.” That was the most important one.
If she spent the whole morning lecturing the man on things he couldn’t do, he was going to be bored by midday. And that was the last thing she wanted, so she grabbed his hand. “Forget the temple. I’ve got something way better to show you anyway.”
She led him away from the beach and toward her valley, passing through the forest. They hadn’t gone far when she ran into Hau-Pu, probably out hunting, given his spear. Moela barked happily as soon as he caught the other man’s scent. The warrior was larger than Pasikole, a fact he seemed intent on making obvious as he stormed over to stand right before her guest. Hau-Pu wore nothing but a loincloth and a headband, showing off his muscular torso and arms thick as tree branches, covered in tribal tattoos.
“Where are you going?” the warrior demanded.
“I’m showing the emissary the valley,” she said.
Hau-Pu’s eyes narrowed. “You’re taking him to meet the dragon.”
“Wait, dragon?” the foreigner asked.
Somehow Namaka doubted her caretaker would approve of her bringing the man to their cave. But if she was going to start enforcing her authority, she could show the emissary any valley she wanted. “We’re not going to bother the big lizard, all right? I just want to show him the waterfall. Shouldn’t you be killing something?”
Hau-Pu folded his arms. “I will kill anything you ask me to, Princess.”
Namaka snorted. “Fine. How about you go hunt down some nanaue?”
The warrior bristled and worked his jaw. “Is that your wish, Princess?”
“No!” Kāne! The man was going to get himself killed just to prove himself to her? Sure, that was flattering, but … What if he could kill a wereshark? No, nonsense. That danger was more than should be wished on any warrior. “I was joking, coconut brain. How about some boar or something.”
Hau-Pu shrugged. His pride probably wouldn’t let him show his relief. “I would have won that race, you know.”
Namaka smirked. “I guess we’ll never know now.” The races were so petty, of course. All the men trying to impress her so she’d choose them as her mate. It was entertaining, she supposed. If she didn’t smile at it, didn’t choose to enjoy it, she might be tempted to cry.
Hau-Pu grunted, then spun and stormed off into the forest.
“What was that all about?” Pasikole asked when the warrior was out of sight.
“Nothing,” she said, drawing the word out playfully. So it was a little satisfying to think the men were jealous over her. Why shouldn’t she enjoy it? Kamapua’a was right about one thing—she had to find what joy she could, wherever she could. She led Pasikole onward, not letting him see her smile.
“So the nanaue are what, exactly? Are they dragons too?”
“Weresharks. Nasty, nasty people. One of the big threats on the sea. I mean, beside the mer and the he’e. Not as numerous as the other two, thank Kāne, but a lot more likely to come on land and bother people. Not much on this island though.”
Hiyoya demanded a sacrifice once every decade, a young body they did gods alone knew what with. Ate them, perhaps. But as long as the villagers abided by the sacrifice, the mer pretty much left them alone. And the he’e disdained any contact with surface dwellers from all she had heard. She’d never even seen one of the octopus people.
“Oh. I’ve seen a few weresharks in my travels. Pretty terrible foes. Once we went to battle against a small frigate only to find it had a pair of weresharks on the crew. One of the bloodiest fights I’ve ever been in.”
Did that mean Pasikole was a warrior too? He didn’t have any warrior tattoos that she had seen, but he wore so many clothes, she could have missed them. And if his people had defeated a pair of nanaue, they were obviously better warriors than they might have seemed at first glance.
“What about mer and he’e? Have you seen them?”
Pasikole glanced at her before answering. “I have. The former are aloof, almost unfathomable in their motives. And the latter, well … they are perhaps even more so. Cunning, and alien in their sense of morality. If they even have one.”
He had spoken to the he’e! The octopuses were almost mythical. She bit her lip, trying to understand what he had meant to call them alien. Weren’t they like people? The legends Mo-O spoke of said they had lived in the seas even before the time of the flooding.
But … his tone had grown dark. She supposed a divine emissary must know many things, after all, and he did not seem to think kindly of either the mer or the he’e. But then, his knowledge here seemed limited. Could Uncle Kamalo have been wrong about this man being sent by Lono? His ship bore the mask of Lono, for certain, and he had the mana of a kupua … but could he in truth be a mere man? She glanced at him to make certain he hadn’t read her mind or any such thing. Instead, he seemed lost in his own thoughts and taking special note of every plant, flower, and bird they passed. Divine or not, he was a guest here, and deserved to be treated with all due respect. Better to honor a man as a god than fail to honor a god because they took him for a man.
After walking in silence for a bit longer, the land opened into the valley and she led him up to the rope bridge.
“Wow,” he said, staring at the waterfall that covered her cave.
It cascaded down the green mountains, falling into a pool thirty paces above where she stood, then tumbling down another fall over the cave. Once she had tried to climb the peak and find its source, but her energy had given out before she could reach so high, like the waters were poured from the sky by Wakea himself.
“Wow,” he said again. “Beautiful.”
Namaka moved to stand beside him on the bridge. It was beautiful. And that wasn’t the only thing she wanted to show him. Here, if she lost control, she might embarrass herself, but at least she wouldn’t hurt anyone else. Before she could overthink it, she reached out, allowing her mana to brush over the water and call it to her. She spread her hands in the air, palms up. Ripples formed in the river below, then spouts of water jutted up, covering them both in a spray like cleansing rain. Geyser after geyser fountained into the air, forming crisscrossing lines like a net of water above their heads.
Pasikole sucked in a sharp breath, then turned about, basking in the falling water. “That’s your Gift as a Princess.”
“Oh yes,” she said, grinning. It took concentration to keep the shower going, but she wouldn’t have cast this aside for all the islands of Sawaiki. “Each Princess has a different Gift. Every generation seven are born, one with each Gift. Since I was the seventh and last, there was only one Gift left. The best one. It scares them, I think. But I’m not a bad person.”
Pasikole grunted. “No … of course you’re not.” His gaze was locked on the cave behind the waterfall. “So there’s a dragon around here. Your caretaker.”
“Her name is Mo-O-Inanea and she’s kind of like a surrogate mother.”
“A dragon. Not as pretty as your real mother, I’m guessing.”
“Uh, no.”
“And how much control do you have over your power?”
Namaka shrugged and finally let the waterspouts die. Almost instantly the river resumed its normal flow, as though she had never touched it at all. For all her power, nature reverted to its own balance the moment she was removed. Just as each Princess touched her island for the briefest of instants in the grand scale. Or that was the lesson Mo-O kept trying to drive into her head. She was the ruler of the people, but only in
sofar as she was a part of the island itself. Divine, like the land was divine. But where the island was forever, she was but a tree, gracing the world for a time, and then replaced with another.
“That’s why I have to live here with Mo-O—so I can learn to control it away from the sea where it would be too dangerous. If I get too, uh … emotional, things can happen I don’t intend.”
“You mean if you become frightened?”
That too, she supposed. At times of any strong emotion, it was best if she wasn’t too near the sea. Her semblance of control could falter so quickly. And then the sea became an unguided, relentless weapon. Yet another reason she had to keep trying to spot the sun behind the clouds in her life. To give in, to give up, would bring as much destruction as refusing her kapu. She not only had to accept her role, she had to like it or she would have failed by default. Milu, she couldn’t even transfer mana to a man through intercourse unless she enjoyed it, or so Mo-O had explained.
Beyond the waterfall, Kamapua’a came tromping down the path into the valley. Namaka waved at him. The wereboar grinned like a maniac, jumped off the ledge, and splashed into the river. A moment later he surfaced on the shore just beneath them.
“Aloha, Yellow-hair!” Kamapua’a shouted up at them, then began climbing the rocks to the bridge.
Namaka sighed and shook her head. “That’s my best friend, Kamapua’a.”
“A warrior?” Pasikole asked as the pigman climbed the rocks.
With a laugh, she shook her head. “He probably thinks so. He’s a wereboar, so I suppose that makes him tough.”
“A dragon and a wereboar,” Pasikole said, then nuzzled Moela again. “And a dog. Some family.” He shook his head. “Earlier, you said you were sort of descended from, uh …”
“From Kū and Golden Cloud. They had seven daughters and for some reason, we’re born again in each generation. One Princess on each island.”
“So if it’s not by blood, how did anyone know it was you?”
