by Matt Larkin
If she was lucky, that trader might offer her a meal, though, and perhaps a place to sleep.
After that, she would ascend Mauna Kea and attend to her studies.
As she trudged toward the trader’s hut, she spotted the bonfire out front, its smoke a beacon leading her to it. Only when she drew closer did she realize it was not a bonfire—it was a pyre. The women and children she had met before now stood around the burning body of what she could only assume had been the jolly old trader.
Her feet almost gave out beneath her and she had to pause to lean against a tree. It seemed impossible the smiling old man could be there, burning. A few nights ago, he’d been vibrant, laughing. Happy. And now he was nothing? His family burning his ashes and weeping into each other’s shoulders.
Was this another part of the price she had paid? She had cursed the Queen of Hana, and that power had come from somewhere. Maybe Kahoupokane had taken life from the old man Poli‘ahu had liked. Just to sate her rage. That was … wasn’t that wrong? It seemed like it, but such things were harder to be certain of anymore.
She did not dare intrude upon the solemn event, instead waited until one of the women noticed her. They sang the mourning chant for the dead, then the woman broke away and approached Poli‘ahu. Her face was wet with tears, her eyes red, even in the evening’s darkness.
“What happened?”
“His heart just gave out.” She shook her head. “Sorry you had to see such lamentations, My Queen. Is there some service I can offer you?”
She held up a hand, surprised to see it was shaking. “Nothing.” She needed nothing here. There was nothing for her. It was not her place, not her reality, not where life would flicker and fade in an instant. It was madness. And she’d been wrong. She couldn’t stay here, not even long enough to dine. Not for another breath.
Without another word she turned away and began to walk the path to the mountain. It didn’t matter how tired she was. She would walk all night if need be. But she had to get back to her sanctuary. She had to be away from this place, from all of it.
It was not her place.
Two months, she sat in the dim recesses of her ice cave, thoughts pressing in from Pō, suffused with the workings of shadows and the language of night. The unfolding of greater realities left the games of the Mortal Realm and its people seeming so petty. Human affectations fell away, revealed for the arbitrary limitations they were, as real knowledge seeped into the void.
Kahoupokane returned to the mountain. “The Queen of Hana has returned to her throne, setting aside any connection to King Aiwohi.”
The words had brought a grim comfort, fleeting, and not half so satisfying as Poli‘ahu had expected.
And so she had delved deeper and deeper into the Art, seeking the lost knowledge of Old Mu. One day, perhaps, Lilinoe would have the strength to climb her way back to the Penumbra and thus speak with Poli‘ahu again.
In the meantime, the Mist spirit now bound inside her whispered tantalizing arcana—the promise of all the hidden truths in the universe, if Poli‘ahu could but persevere.
But in those two months, every so often, she surfaced from the dark, and found herself brooding upon the cold grip of ire.
Treachery must have its price, Waiau at last said.
Because Poli‘ahu was an heir of Manua, an heir of Nu‘u himself. And these Kahikians … these invaders were stealing her legacy.
What Snow Queen would have stood for that? Would Waiau, in her day, have allowed such?
Bring the chill …
And that was her answer, wasn’t it? She had tried to forge peace with Aiwohi and found the Kahikians left wanting. Treacherous and false.
So at last, Poli‘ahu descended Mauna Kea and returned to Hilo. At last she gathered her court, and every eye turned expectantly to her. “The invaders take our lands. They try to force their customs upon us. They claim us through violence or marriage. They seek to make Sawaiki their own. But it is not theirs. And they will … be broken.”
41
It was, Nyi Rara knew, the very epitome of arrogance to imagine such a thing. Spirits habitually mocked the unending arrogance of those who delved the Art, even while secretly holding mortal sorcerers in hateful awe. They, like she, blurred all lines between deific and mortal, attempting that which ought never have been conceived of, let alone put into action.
Thus had the first Shifters been given form, if legends held true. Thus had the Elder Deep entered the Mortal Realm, shattered the continents, destroyed an era. Through magical operations of fathomless hubris reality was unmade, lines of existence blurred, and the world paid the price, over and over, in willful ignorance of the lessons of history.
Ah … but then … how else was one to change the course of the future save through audacity and force of Will? If Nyi Rara did not dare to believe this time, her time, would be different, then she ought to simply give in and allow Kanaloa to wrap his tentacles across the breadth of the Worldsea.
So.
Piika had returned, and five mo‘o gathered in the vestibule just inside Uluhai, looking upon each other. Looking to her. And looking, too, at the geometric patterns she and Daucina had carved around this hall as a means of focusing themselves and their Wills. At the intersection of arcing lines, each of the five Chintamaniya rested, focal points of energy, thrumming with power. The carved lines ran the length of the wall and met in the ceiling, creating an infinite series of parabolas winding back on themselves.
A self-contained universe resonant within her, echoing through the stones.
In the archway beyond, Daucina waited, watching. They had agreed with little discussion she would lead the song, but he would lend his voice as best he could, as would Taema, cringing behind him. Their presence ought to have buoyed her confidence, but Nyi Rara found herself feeling untethered, as if the infinite, contained universe they had created here had sucked her up into a maelstrom and spun her round and round.
Was this the moment Maui had foreseen centuries ago? Was she caught in the currents of history and the machinations of elder powers? Or had she wrought all this herself, through her pride—Namaka’s and Nyi Rara’s both?
“You …” Her voice sounded squeaky, not at all suffused with the grandeur such a moment deserved. She swallowed. Glanced at Daucina, who nodded. “You have come here to witness the dawn of a new age. If we succeed in overthrowing Kanaloa, the Worldsea will be changed forever. The threat that has lurked in the recesses of the deep, plotting and scheming since the Deluge, will have finally passed. Your kind and mine will take our rightful places. And your progeny shall become something unlike anything ever before known in this world. You shall be the Dragon Kings, ruling the seas alongside me.”
A collective growl ushered forth from the gathered dragons, all locking her with their incandescent gazes. For a paralyzing instant, she felt certain they meant to strike—to tear her tail from torso and devour her whole, such was the predatory gleam about them. But they instead each settled onto the floor, each curled around a Chintamani stone.
Each awaiting her voice.
A hollow opened in her chest. Destiny? Did those before her, those who wrought such desperate acts as to breach Avaiki and call forth the Elder Deep, did they too feel they teetered over a chasm? Did they look down into the blackness of the future and imagine themselves backing away, rather than diving down to see how deep this madness went?
She would stop Kanaloa. She would reclaim Mu, reunite it with Hiyoya, and build something grander still. This was the vision the Urchin had shown her.
“Whatever happens,” Daucina said, swimming in behind her, “don’t move whilst the song continues.” He was speaking to the dragons, she suddenly realized. Reassuring the damn dragons.
And why not? For all her trepidation, they were the ones giving up their very bodies, volunteering to be changed in ways not even she could predict. No one here knew quite what would happen even if this succeeded, much less if it failed.
A shudder
passed through her torso, and she shut her eyes, Willing herself to stillness. Everything had been to bring her here, to this moment. She owed it to the sacrifices made thus far to see this through, to whatever end would now unfold.
And so, she sang.
She sang of dreams of rising from the depths of Avaiki, of breaking free of eggs, of blooming into something transcendent of its own roots. She sang of unbounded minds and flesh grown free of paltry limitations. She sang of the rise of a new empire, a dream manifested.
The others joined in as well, adding their own harmonies and pitch, a cascade of power drawn from the pearls.
The words did not so much matter as the resonance, drawing out her Will, suffusing existence with it. To make the world itself her tulpa. Her voice, clear and high and ephemeral, echoed Supernal chants in infinite reverberations through the vestibule. Lines of etheric flame shot from the Chintamaniya, tracing the parabolas they had cut around the room. The fires ran in arcing courses, swifter than even Nyi Rara might have swum, until the entire chamber seemed aflame in endless rings of wisp light.
She heard Taema gasp, heard her voice falter a moment before she took up the song once more.
Inexplicably, the waters in the hall began to swirl, to push against Nyi Rara where she rested in the chamber’s heart, at the confluence of the etheric flames. Round and round the currents bent, into a sphere, pushing outward, until the waters actually fled the vestibule, forming a swirling dome around them.
Nyi Rara formed legs so she could stand as the fleeing waters dropped her on the ground, careful not to let her song falter.
The mo‘o had begun to groan, to gasp, to writhe. The incandescence that often lurked behind their eyes spread, seeping out from the cracks between their scales, as if their bodies were apt to burst apart, unable to contain the energies surging within them. Rock-hard claws gouged the chamber floor, scraping new lines as the dragons thrashed in agony she could not imagine.
And she sang.
Currents of energy fled from her, passed through her, drawn from the seemingly limitless wells of the Chintamaniya. Though she could not see, she felt arcs of power whirring through the air, slicing through her body and snipping at her entwined souls. Her throat seized up, song faltering—Will breaking. Her mental picture of the abstractions of reality counter-imposed on the shifting of flesh … it cracked.
One of the dragons shrieked.
Shreds of her own mana flitted off so quickly it tore out her insides, threatened to discorporate her and send her soul spiraling back to Avaiki. On hands and knees, she crawled. Desperately reaching for a Chintamani stone. For something to feed into the eldritch tides bombarding her.
She looked up, saw movement from the corner of her eye. Watched as Daucina lifted one of the flaming pearls into his arms.
What …? No, he couldn’t remove it now, they were all connected, feeding upon one another … such a disruption in the flow would …
The tides sweeping over her redoubled, stole all breath.
Daucina’s gaze met hers, a sadness in his eyes. A hint, perhaps, of an apology, though he said nothing. Just turned and dove into the wall of water now encompassing the chamber.
The loss of the stone slammed into Nyi Rara. It ripped her mortal form to pieces, even as she desperately tried to hold on to Namaka’s body. Scales ripped through the more human aspects of her skin, shredding her face. Such a transformation should have taken centuries—maybe not even happened at all with such conjoined souls—but Nyi Rara found it took all she had to simply keep herself in this reality.
Wracked with shudders, she pulled herself along the floor until she could place a hand on a Chintamani stone and siphon its mana. A moment, and she managed to draw a raspy breath.
To sing once more.
The mo‘o from whom Daucina had stolen the flaming pearl convulsed, and only now, able to breathe once more, did Nyi Rara realize what straits that dragon had been left in. It thrashed so violently the stone beneath it cracked. The spurs along its spine dug into rock and snapped off. Radiant light coruscated from its mouth, washing over its form, to be followed an instant later by what looked like lava. As if it now retched up its own incandescent essence.
She sang, stifling the gasp of horror.
Bones bent inward on themselves, becoming spurs that impaled the dragon’s own flesh in a nest of spikes. The flow of super-heated, caustic fluids became a flood, crashing down over melting scales. Muscles exploded in showers of gore and gristle as the mo‘o tried to reshape itself into a dozen forms all at once.
Nyi Rara sang, forced herself to look away, to focus on Piika in front of her.
Her friend, too, thrashed and writhed upon the floor. But where his sister had died in that agony, Piika endured, stretching the torment of his transformation on and on.
She sang.
The energies from the Chintamani stones waned, even their power not enough for the scope of her hubris.
She sang.
Sparing a glance at Piika, she stalked to another stone, pulling from it as well.
Piika thrashed, growing ever larger, form shifting away from that of a horned monitor lizard to something more sinuous.
She sang.
Nyi Rara placed a hand on the next stone and checked the next dragon—for none of these creatures could be called mo‘o any longer, and no new name yet existed for their kind. This one—Mokuhinia—too, had undergone a similar metamorphosis, flesh and bone warping and growing, becoming an entity wholly unlike either mo‘o or taniwha.
More slender than either. The multitude of horns and spurs that had graced the mo‘o fell away, save for a handful of great horns on the head. Long whiskers sprouted from Piika’s nose, and a great mane grew out of his lower jaw.
The Chintamani stone before him grew dim, losing all luster. As if compelled, Piika spun, twisting around his enormous serpentine bulk, and swallowed the stone. The other three dragons acted in unison, and at once, the etheric fires winked out from around the chamber, leaving Nyi Rara in darkness.
She sang.
The gleam of incandescent eyes filled the chamber. Four pairs of eyes, at least as large as those of a taniwha. Though she judged it fancy, still Nyi Rara could not help but imagine the eyes continued to grow.
Their gleam adumbrated the coiling bulk of the great beasts, already too much for the cavern.
Her voice failed her and the waters crashed back inward, drowning out all other sound.
She felt it as a dragon whooshed past her, fleeing the now small-seeming chamber, even as unconsciousness claimed her.
Part III
Third Age of the Worldsea
42
The valley was so rain-soaked from that evening, it had proved hard to start a fire. Kamapua‘a knew Pele needed flame, though, on account of her being half dead and such. Normally, if someone was unconscious, throwing their hand in the fire wouldn’t help.
He was shitting certain of that much.
Pele was a special situation, though. One of those few instances where no one would lecture you if you lit your spouse on fire.
He’d found his wife’s sister Kapo halfway between Puna and Hilo. And learned that Pele had gone up Mauna Kea. Considering how catastrophorically that had gone the first time, Kama found it hard to believe she’d tried it again.
The woman had the stubbornness of a drunk mountain that just wouldn’t get out of your way no matter how much you shouted at them.
He and Kapo had almost reached the slope when Mauna Kea had spewed out a geyser of lava like it was having a good piss off the side of the mountain. So, they’d trekked over, found Pele unconscious and barely sticking up out some cooled-off lava, and dug her out.
That, and brought her here, to this rain-sodden valley where Kapo was grinding down some roots that were supposed to make her sister get all better and shit. The sorceress vanished into the treeline, leaving Kama alone with Pele and the hooting owls.
Kama sniffed the smoke from the fire. It
s light interfered with his night vision, especially if he looked directly at it for long, so he mostly kept his back to it, staring out into the darkness, looking for the one who’d done this.
Shit was taking too long. What if Poli‘ahu decided to come looking for her this time and finish what she’d started? What then?
The Boar God rumbled around in his gut. It knew how it wanted to handle the Snow Queen. An image of eating her alive flashed through his mind, writhing and uncomfortable. Nah … Kama would kill her, sure enough, but he’d try not to let the Boar God get its hands upon her. No one deserved that sort of ugly shit.
The cries of the owls fell silent of a sudden, and Kama caught the sound of birds taking flight in the distance.
“Kapo?” He rose, turning slowly, but catching no scent of her.
Not of her … but of … the sea? Brine? A stream here ran down to the ocean, but the wind wasn’t up enough to carry the scent this far inland. Then it hit him. Seal-reek.
He turned again, to see Sanna stalking from the woods toward him, naked, eyes pits of obsidian, tattoos seeming to help her blend with the foliage.
“You’re working for the Snow Queen now, aren’t you?” he huffed.
“Surrender the flame bitch.” Her voice sounded all off, too guttural. Primal, like what he felt crawling around inside himself.
Kama scratched his beard with one finger. “You mean my wife? ’Cause I don’t think that would be terribly husbandly. Plus, I’m not even sure your own queen wants her dead. Remember Hinaikamalama? Kinda old and crotchety? Got a pleasant son? Doubt she wants any of this.”
Sanna shrugged, and two more of her wereseal brethren slunk into the ring of firelight. “Be that as it may, I remain oathbound to my creator. I’ve no desire to kill you.” Her mouth was too full of teeth as she spoke, already starting to change into that seal-woman form. “But I surely will if you get in my way.”
“Awww, shit.” Kama huffed, wringing out his shoulders. Fighting other Shifters was bad enough. Brutal. Fighting one like her—saying nothing of the fact he’d liked her—it wouldn’t do much for him. No upside at all. “We really have to do this?”