by Matt Larkin
The king looked to his queen, then, grim-faced, climbed down to his knees before her. “I submit to your authority, High Queen Poli‘ahu.”
Every other member of the court fell to their knees at once.
Poli‘ahu allowed herself a faint smile.
Good. A throne, and she hadn’t needed to kill anyone.
Now, she just had to keep the promises she’d made.
14
They had taken to calling the bowl-shaped cavern the Council Chamber, though Nyi Rara found it a pale imitation of that glorious hall in Mu. Regardless, she once more found herself settled down beneath the encircling colonnade, staring at the reliefs carved into those columns across from her. Wondering who or what the faded carvings had once depicted in the glory days, before the Sundering.
The College archives made passing reference to great mer of times past from across the Seven Seas. Triton and his daughter Triteia, for whom the College was named. Sirsir, who might have lived in the South Sea in a prior age. Ak Ana, a reference so old Nyi Rara found almost no explanation as to whom it might invoke.
For all the mer played at immortality, they faded into the depths of time, swallowed by yet older things. Still, Uluhai held secrets aplenty, were she but allowed to remain and scour them. Truths forgotten by the current generations—thoughts, words, deeds which deserved to live in mo‘olelo and thus be reinforced by mana once more.
Ah … a strange thought … Namaka’s influence?
“We now have no choice but to abandon Ulu-hai-malama,” Kuku Lau said. “The mo‘o are certainly a precursor to a more general he‘e invasion.”
Oh, how Nyi Rara tired of these fear-spawned claims. Were they to let anxiety of what might happen guide their passage from one sea to the next? Were they to flitter from fear to fear like minnows? To speak too openly against her sister, the Queen of Mu and Voice of Dakuwaqa—that would weaken her ‘ohana. But what else should she do? Remain mute and allow them all to swim straight into damnation?
With a groan, she hefted herself up. “We do not know for certain the he‘e will immediately follow the mo‘o, especially considering the one fact you all seem to forget. We won. Yes, we were attacked, and yes, we lost precious lives. But we slew the dragons they sent at us. How eager do you imagine the he‘e—mortals—should be to cast their lives away against our wrath upon learning of our victory?”
Till Pimoe clucked her tongue. “Ah, Princess, but what if that very victory serves to bring Kanaloa himself upon us? Do you imagine we can fight that?”
Having no good answer, Nyi Rara merely glowered at the Kuula mermaid. Yes, it was a risk. She couldn’t deny it …
“It strikes me,” Daucina cut in, “that what Princess Nyi Rara is trying to explain to all of you, is that we cannot abandon this place. It is defensible, it contains knowledge that might sway the course of the war if we can but unearth it, and frankly, we have nowhere better to go.”
“No,” Kuku Lau said, shaking her head. “That’s not true. I’ve already sent messengers to Queen Nanshe in Lemuria. We shall offer her fealty, and in exchange I’ve requested sanctuary for all Muians, as well as places in the Lemurian government for the Voices of our ‘ohanas.”
Nyi Rara’s gills seized up as she sputtered in indignation. “You’d …” She had to pause, swallow. “You’d give away our entire kingdom.”
“Our kingdom is already lost,” Kuku Lau snapped. “What do we have to our names? An old ruin soon to be lost?”
“Is this why you overthrew Aiaru?” Nyi Rara spat back at her sister. “To reclaim the throne of Mu only to destroy that throne? You unmake five millennia of history!”
Kuku Lau bared her shark teeth, rising up in the waters. “And you forget yourself, little sister. I am queen, and I will make what decisions I think best for the preservation of our people. Even if that preservation comes at the expense of our pride. Better that we should be ranking officials in Lemuria than rulers over a dead kingdom.”
Kauhuhu spoke for the first time, hardly having moved from the cavern floor in front of the bowl. “Do you believe Nanshe will honor any pledge to offer us power?”
“Yes,” Kuku Lau said. “For a simple reason. Why would she not want the Nanaue as an army? Why should she not wish the influx of our numbers, knowledge, and power into her kingdom? With Lemuria’s population reinforced by Mu’s, it will become the greatest power in all the Seven Seas. Ryūgū-jō would not dare move against such an empire, nor, I think, would Akakor dream of it.” She looked now directly at Nyi Rara. “Queen Nanshe is not Aiaru.”
Nyi Rara glared. In her youth, Kuku Lau had fostered in Thuvairayam, Lemuria’s counterpart in Avaiki, and perhaps that led her to believe them more trustworthy than Nyi Rara suspected. But either way, the price was too high, even if Nanshe would keep her word. In Uluhai lay the answers she needed—she was certain of it.
But looking around, Till Pimoe clearly sided with Kuku Lau, whether out of fear of the situation or fear of the queen, it hardly mattered. Kauhuhu seemed willing enough to go either way. Only Daucina offered much reluctance, and one Voice in the Council was not enough to challenge the queen.
“I am resolved,” Kuku Lau said before Nyi Rara could object further. “I call for the Voices to speak on the issue.”
“Assent,” Till Pimoe piped in with such immediacy Nyi Rara imagined herself using a lance of water to wipe the smug, sycophantic smile from the other mermaid’s face.
“Assent,” Kauhuhu said, with considerably more reservation. A doubt? A chance?
Nyi Rara looked to Daucina. “Assent,” the merman finally added.
She barely stifled a groan.
“Deep damn it!” Nyi Rara bellowed, slamming her palm against an engraved pillar in one of the airy chambers of the archives. “Damn it all!”
In the shadows, Daucina clucked his tongue. “This is how the game is played, you know. It was not as if dissenting alone would have earned me anything save the ire of the rest of the Council.”
No, and she knew that, so it wasn’t truly Daucina she blamed. Nevertheless, he was here, and she spun on him. “In the very best-case scenario, Nanshe keeps her word to the letter and we become middling bureaucrats in the vast empire of Lemuria. The best case. More likely, we become refugees with no power to speak of, while surrendering what was one of the greatest civilizations in the Worldsea!”
“One might argue Mu hasn’t been that since the Sundering with Hiyoya.”
Nyi Rara pointed a webbed finger at him as if to warn she was little interested in what ‘one might argue.’
“We have to wait for an official response from Lemuria,” Daucina said. “That gives us a few more days to peruse the archives and search for the Chintamaniya. Find one of those and, believe me, your sister will change her song with uncanny swiftness. Find two or three, and perhaps we can restore Mu to the lofty memories you idolize.”
Nyi Rara wanted to believe that, but she suspected Kuku Lau had already begun plans for evacuation. Their time was preciously short. “Keep looking. I need to see to one thing first.”
The merman scoffed. “Something more important than a Chintamani stone?”
“Maybe.”
She found Kauhuhu outside the gorge leading to Uluhai, guiding his Nanaue in a far-reaching patrol that swept so far south she spotted the shift in the seafloor where the land began to rise into Vai‘i. Just up there, Nyi Rara imagined her other sisters still found themselves caught in the webs of power and deceit and war that had seized Sawaiki. That they, too, might live in mortal danger.
For all Namaka had done to revivify Hi‘iaka, she might as well now have abandoned her mortal kin. Maybe any of those sisters would die in the wars. Maybe some already had, and down here, she would have no way to know it. For the life of her, it felt as though two great he‘e seized each of her arms and yanked them in opposite directions, threatening to rip them clean from their sockets, to tear her bodily in half.
A beckoning drew Kauhuhu away from his
brethren and along the seafloor, toward a reef. The merman darted out past—his speed still shocking—snatched an eel even as it tried to disappear under the coral, and bit down just behind its head.
Slurping and gnashing at it, the merman returned to her side. “What is it? The vote is already cast, the Voices have spoken.”
“But you don’t believe in Kuku Lau’s plan.”
The Nanaue crunched on the eel’s spine and ground his teeth a bit. “I believe she made me General of all Mu. I believe she overthrew Aiaru, who cast us out in the first place. I believe that under Kuku Lau, we have our honor back.”
“I overcame Aiaru.”
Kauhuhu spit out a bit of gristle. The blood in the water already had her shark teeth descending, her gaze darting about the reef, catching every tiny movement of fish and crabs trying to hide themselves from the predators among them. “The court seems to tell it differently. As though you argued against the coup and joined it only when Kuku Lau insisted upon action.”
Or forced the issue in the midst of an ongoing war. Did he laud her for treachery? For a rebellion that would have failed had not Nyi Rara returned and won it on her sister’s behalf? “You must know it’s more complicated than that. Do you truly wish to become servants of Lemuria? What makes you think Nanshe will name you a general at all? Certainly not commander of all her forces.”
The elder merman flicked a tongue over his still descended shark teeth. “Speak plainly. What is it you’d have me do?”
“I will not surrender our legacy. I plan to kill Kanaloa and reclaim the Muian Sea for the people of Mu. And I cannot do that from Lemuria.”
“Your words drift toward treason.”
And her heartbeat had grown so intense it threatened to choke her. On these next words, everything hinged. “Coming from you, who so praised Kuku Lau for striking down a weak leader who was failing Mu?”
Kauhuhu folded his arms over his chest. “What do you wish, exactly?”
“I must preserve Mu, even if the cost is sending my sister back to Avaiki.”
The Urchin had shown her a vision of herself upon the throne. Surely that was destiny laid out before her, ready to be snatched up.
“Another coup,” Kauhuhu said flatly. “And under circumstances as dire as the last.”
“Maybe Kuku Lau was right all along. We cannot allow a weak leader to guide us into waters where we’d flounder.” She hesitated. “I need to know I can count on you.”
A light beat of his tail closed the already small distance between them, until he nearly brushed against her face. “You may count on me, Princess Nyi Rara. Do what you feel is right.”
15
The fall of Haupu might well have signaled the breaking of the old Savai‘ian dynasty, but Pele could not be certain of victory until Poli‘ahu was found. Her body was not amid the ruined fortress, unless buried so deep none had uncovered it. Kana had rescued his mother, reunited with her, and seen Pele off for her return to Vai‘i with the promise of lasting alliance.
It ought to have felt a greater victory.
Might have, had Poli‘ahu not seemingly escaped. The Snow Queen would force Pele to hunt her, of that Pele had no doubt. If she didn’t, sooner or later Poli‘ahu would come at her people again, take more lives, prolong this war. They were caught in inevitability—a struggle that could only end with one of them dead.
Then there was Upoho, who—though he had vanished—refused to leave her mind. The image of his ravaged eye seemed to glare at her every time she blinked, damning her.
More distressing still, Lonomakua lay insensate the whole crossing back to Vai‘i, ravaged by fevers, murmuring in some foreign tongue like nothing she had ever heard before. Lonomakua—Maui the Firebringer himself—stood poised over some abyss, risking his body and soul, and she, his self-proclaimed daughter, was powerless to lend the least bit of aid.
So, she sat by his side, hand on his head, and watched him thrash and struggle with the power within himself. Power he had called upon to help her.
Maui had lived at least eight centuries, maybe many more, and Pele could only guess at how many secrets he held. So how could this prove his undoing? After so long walking this world, how could her war spell his doom?
But then, as they reached Puna, his fever broke, and he lay in more peaceful slumber. And for the first time since Haupu, Pele felt free to breathe herself.
Word of their victory preceded them, and the percussive rhythms of pahu and gentle strings of ‘ūkēkē welcomed them home that afternoon. Her people stood on the shore, some plodding out into the shallows, bearing leis they threw around the necks of their returning loved ones.
Did they think the war over? Did they believe Kaupeepee’s defeat meant peace?
Oh, how Pele wished it were so. If only she’d had the strength to hunt down Poli‘ahu immediately, maybe it would have proved true.
Giggling, Hi‘iaka ran down to the sea and dropped a lei around Pele’s neck as well, before wrapping her in a warm embrace. “Thank the ‘aumākua! Had you waited much longer, I think Kapo would have insisted we leave for Mau‘i even without your return.”
Ugh. Pele liked to think Kapo would not have dared, but who knew what her other sister would do? They had not exactly grown up together, and Kapo was unpredictable even not accounting for having her mind addled by the Art. “I’ll speak to her.”
She’d barely come ashore before a dozen others wanted to greet her, though. Courtiers and kāhuna, Kamalo among them, all plying for her time and blessings. All wanting to congratulate her on her so-called victory.
“Lonomakua is drained and needs care,” she told Kamalo, sparing the old kahuna no further thought.
Instead, she made her way up to the village proper and tracked down Kapo, out in the woods. Her sister sat on a stump, chewing handfuls of moss and staring at a hawk that had alighted in a nearby tree.
“What if they’re all ‘aumākua?” Kapo asked without looking at Pele.
“All birds?”
Kapo shrugged. “Birds, sharks, rays, everything. All the splendor of the sea and woodlands, bearing the souls and intents of our ancestors.”
That seemed unlikely. And hardly the topic at hand. “I don’t want you to take Hi‘iaka away.”
Kapo popped some moss in her mouth and gnawed on it a while. “Hardly matters what you want. I leave her amid the village and someone winds up getting struck by lightning. Akua help anyone she decides to take as a lover.” Kapo snickered. “Sparks will fly, after all.” Now she finally deigned to look up at Pele. “We’ve been over this, you know. She cannot stay here.”
“I …” Pele had only truly begun to appreciate what ‘ohana really meant. She could not lose the girl, any more than she could lose Lonomakua.
“My refuge on Mau‘i is the best place for her, and we both know it.”
Pele slumped down onto her arse and stared at Kapo, wanting to hate her for being right. “At least give me two more days. Tomorrow night I’ll throw a luau to honor her.”
“Or to celebrate Haupu?”
“For Hi‘iaka,” Pele insisted. “A celebration to bid her aloha and wish her well. At least give me that much.” She hated how her voice sounded so imploring. How she, a god-queen, was begging for anything.
Kapo nodded slowly. “We leave the next morning, then. No more excuses.”
There was always a lot to prepare for a luau. The best ones sometimes took days of work, and Pele spared no time in delegating tasks. Hunters needed to bring down boars for the men—and the thought of it had her indulging in a fancy of one spearing Kamapua‘a—and fishermen needed to bring in vast netfuls of fish. Runners were sent around the district even as far south as Kau to invite the ali‘i from around the island.
Given more time, she’d have sent men to Kona, as well, but while a runner might reach the town if pushing himself, guests would never be able to make the sail here before the luau.
There were fire dancers to call upon, making Pele miss all those
who had fallen back on Uluka‘a, where her court was famed for such displays.
The people were digging fresh imus, weaving leis, and stringing the ‘ūkēkē, such that the whole village seemed abustle before nightfall. How often did they offer a send-off to the princess, after all?
Pele tried to focus upon the event itself, and not the source of it. The thought of sending Hi‘iaka away felt like losing a child herself, almost more than she could bear. Almost enough she found herself wondering if she could abdicate, walk away, and train Hi‘iaka herself.
A question to which she knew the answer.
It was not in her blood to surrender power. She was born to be a god-queen and could no more turn from that fate than she could grow wings and fly. To deny it would be to deny a part of herself.
In the evening, in the women’s house, she sat with Hi‘iaka herself playing kōnane and speaking of days gone, when they would dance before bonfires in Uluka‘a or gawk at the forbidden peaks of Halulu and imagine the wonders of Pō dwelling there. Of course, now Pele had trod upon those slopes and seen the bird-men. Fell, shrieking things and their rending talons, just as those commanded by Kū-Waha-Ilo in the Place of Darkness.
“Wonders from beyond the world,” Hi‘iaka called it with childish innocence and not half so much fear as Pō deserved. The girl didn’t have the Sight, couldn’t see the cold play of shadows just beyond human vision, and the hateful torment of the dead, most trapped in eternal suffering, their lamentations unheard by the living. She heard mo‘olelo speak of Pō and its denizens and listened with awe.
And Pele had not the heart to try to transform wonder into due horror.
Naia came upon them like that, watched Pele claim piece after piece from the board, arms folded over her chest. The erstwhile queen clucked her tongue when the game was done. “With Poli‘ahu broken, I imagine you can now claim all of Vai‘i.”