Page 13

Thirteen

Luntok

Luntok drifted alongside Mariit’s canals as if on a cloud.

He hummed as he walked and smiled vacantly at passing strangers.

He almost forgot to stop and spit on the ground as he traversed the foreign district, which still stood, withering, in the shadows of the palace walls?—such was the effect Dayang Laya had on him.

The princess had left him in front of the row of deserted consulates, with their cracked windows and crumbling facades.

It was foolish to let Luntok escort her back to the palace.

That was as close as Laya dared bring him.

They’d been careful to stay off the main roads, stealing kisses in the privacy of shaded alleyways, to avoid being seen.

When, at last, he’d kissed her goodbye, every inch of his body whined in protest.

Laya pulled away from his embrace, a sad smile tugging at her lips.

She looked so lovely, the moonlight softening the sharp angles of her chin.

Luntok’s grip tightened around her fingers.

He released her only when he saw her wince.

“Brutish warrior. You must take better care,” she’d told him wryly.

“I am nothing without these hands. Half the kingdom seems to think it.” Melancholy flickered in her gaze then.

Through Laya’s hands, the wrath of Mulayri flowed.

Her hands allowed her to wield her power?—the same way his hands allowed him to wield a sword?—but they were only a small part of her.

Perhaps a few irrelevant, pea-brained Maynarans thought of Laya as nothing but a broken vessel.

Judging by the slight quiver in her lower lip, she almost seemed to believe it herself.

Luntok responded with a vehement shake of his head.

“You are so much more than your hands,” he told her, raising her fingertips to his lips.

“What else do I have to offer, then?” Her eyebrows quirked up, the same way they always did when she was wheedling for compliments.

And, as usual, he indulged her.

What did Laya have to offer?

His breath hitched in his throat as he studied her features.

A pretty face, although an accurate observation, was not what she wanted to hear.

So he told her, “A sharp mind. A quick tongue. I’ve watched you outwit nobles twice your age. Their admiration for you grows year after year.”

Laya blinked.

His choice of words surprised her.

“Noticed all of that, did you?” she asked, her voice uncharacteristically tight.

“I notice everything that happens at court,” he replied.

Everything about you.

They stood there for a long, pregnant moment.

Laya gazed at him, not with lust, but with what appeared to be genuine gratitude.

“Dear Luntok. If I kiss you now, I fear I may never make it back to my chambers,” she murmured as she stepped into the shadows.

“But know that it brings me great comfort, having you around.”

Not once did she mention the word love , but Luntok could taste it in the muggy night air that hung between them.

A lump rose in the back of his throat as he watched her go.

In another life, he’d follow her up to her bedroom, make love to her, and then fall asleep at her side.

According to some, Luntok had no right to that future.

All because ancient rules governed their lives and forced him to relinquish Laya.

It tore him in half every time.

Not for long.

Luntok spat again at the foreign district for good measure.

Maynara was changing, becoming a place where even ancient rules could be snapped in half like brittle reeds.

Luntok and Laya were proof of this.

Fortune would favor them if they were brave enough to carve their own path.

And they belonged together.

Anyone with eyes could see it.

Why shouldn’t they have the future they both desperately craved?

Often, when Luntok worked himself up with feverish fantasies, his mother’s voice burst through his bluster to soothe him: Soon, my boy, soon.

This once, Luntok leaned into the imagined comfort.

He knew he needed only bide his time and Laya would be his, as she always should have been.

Never again would he watch her spin out beyond his reach.

He squinted up at the nearest consulate, a miserable, gray block of a building.

Once, it had housed the delegation of some western power?—Luntok had never learned much about the Sunset States, that faraway continent, their countries a messy patchwork of strange tongues and stupid names.

Those consulates had no place in Maynara; they were a scar upon the Gatdula legacy.

Hara Duja’s mother, the late queen, should have demolished them when she’d expelled their emissaries several decades before.

High above the street, shadows moved behind the consulates’ cracked windows.

Squatters, no doubt, siphoning what they could from the westerners’ meager refuse.

Through a hole in the dirty glass, a baby wailed.

Luntok stuffed his fists into the pockets of his trousers and quickened his pace.

He despised the foreign district.

Although the westerners were long gone, their houses still stank of failure, of waste.

The noise grew louder as he worked his way back toward the heart of Mariit.

Judging by the swell of music and laughter, the parade was in full swing.

The other warriors didn’t tell Luntok where to find them, but he knew well enough to guess.

They were waiting for him at the inn that straddled the canal separating the merchant quarter, a smattering of newer dwellings and ancient guildhalls, from the noble town houses of the central district.

The family who owned the inn had moved to Mariit from the Kulaws’ kadatuan.

In recent years, it had become a popular meeting place for Kulaw-affiliated visitors and any capital dweller with southern roots.

When Luntok stepped through the front door, the innkeeper, a lanky man around his mother’s age, greeted him in the old dialect people only spoke back home.

On the wall behind him hung a gigantic wooden carving of a raptor bird?—the Kulaw family’s symbol.

He gestured to the staircase next to the entryway, which led to the lower dining room reserved for the inn’s most prestigious guests.

“Right this way, my lord.”

Over a dozen warriors burst into raucous cheers when Luntok came downstairs.

In the fleeting hour he’d stolen with Laya, the group had already drunk themselves merry and red-faced.

They’d left their weapons stacked against all four walls of the dining room.

Smoky, yellow light winked off the flat edges of their blades.

In the spirit of the feast days, they would spend the rest of the evening clustered around the inn’s round mahogany tables, snacking on parade leftovers, and playing dice games.

Luntok grinned as he wove between the warriors, clapping them across their shoulders in greeting.

At the opposite end of the room, Vikal leaped to his feet and thrust his glass into the air.

“All hail Luntok, the Swift-striker, favored by the old gods of Thu-ki,” he proclaimed.

Around the room, the warriors echoed Vikal’s praise?— to Luntok, the Swift-striker ?—and raised their glasses in turn.

Luntok’s grin broadened as he looked Vikal in the eye.

His great-great-grandfather, Luntok the First, the last of the Kulaw monarchs, had been given several titles throughout his lifetime: Swift-striker by the warriors who revered him, Beast-maker by the Gatdulas who despised him, and Haribon by his most loyal followers?—that was Luntok the Second’s favorite title, meaning Bird King .

Haribon Luntok wielded the one power the Gatdulas had ever feared.

He had not merely transformed men into magnificent creatures but could also manipulate his own flesh.

According to southern legend, he could morph into a giant raptor with a bone-crushing beak and a wingspan the length of four men laid out from head to toe.

When Luntok was younger, his mother used to rock him to sleep with tales of the Haribon’s gory victories.

Then she’d brush his hair back behind his ears and whisper, You, my son, are destined for wondrous things.

Luntok did not possess the ancient powers of his family, but he, too, was destined to be king.

Imeria knew it.

Vikal and the rest of the warriors did too.

In Mariit, this was among the few places they could think it, in the concealed back room of an inn, safe in the company of southerners.

“Care for some wine, my lord?” A serving girl appeared before him, a pitcher in one hand and a seductive lilt in her voice.

When Luntok nodded, she poured him a glass.

She didn’t give it to him right away.

Instead, she leaned in to whisper, “Let me know if there’s anything more you desire, my lord. It would be my sincerest pleasure to serve.”

She leaned into his side, the warm swell of her breasts brushing against his forearm with alarming forcefulness.

Instinctively, Luntok snatched the cup from her, the corners of his mouth curling in distaste.

“That will be all,” he quipped.

Then he waved her off without so much as a thank-you.

The serving girl shrank back with a wounded look.

She swept back upstairs as Vikal and the others guffawed.

“By the gods, Luntok, you don’t need to bite the poor girl’s head off,” Vikal said, chuckling heartily.

“She has a pretty-enough head, as it is.”

“Not as pretty as Dayang Laya’s, though. Isn’t that right, my lord?” Jit teased.

He was among the freshest warriors in the Kulaws’ ranks, only a few years Luntok’s senior.

The moment Jit uttered Laya’s name, a chorus of disgruntled sighs rang out across the inn’s lower dining room.

Not every Kulaw warrior held the princess in such high esteem.

Like half the kingdom, they prayed Laya would grow into a more diluted version of herself, sweeter on the tongue and easier to subdue.

Hara Duja was the worst of them.

If the queen had her way, she’d keep Laya from knowing her full power.

Then she’d deny Laya the only person she had ever loved.

From across the room, Vikal gave Luntok a pointed look?—a warning of a sort, but Luntok ignored it.

He took a long sip of his wine to wash down the bitterness, his fingers tightening around the stem of the glass.

He could scarcely hear the warriors’ grumblings over the memory of Laya’s mocking laughter, forever ringing in his ears.

The princess liked to be challenged, and Luntok was not one to back down.

Marry me, he burned to ask her.

I’ll never force you to be anything you are not.

For Laya Gatdula was many things?—a vessel of divine power, a woman of frightening wit, and, most of all, their future queen.

Many Maynarans, northerners and southerners alike, did not hide their misgivings.

They knew that some Gatdulas burned steadily like Hara Duja, guiding the kingdom like a dying candle, easy pickings for their enemies to snuff out.

But most Gatdulas blazed brighter than the sun, as likely to burn the island to cinders as they were to bathe it in their glory.

Laya was the latter fire.

Her power would propel her to become the greatest queen Maynara had ever seen?—or a fearsome tyrant.

After her destruction of the eastern wing three years before, more and more Maynarans questioned whether she was worth the gamble.

But Laya was worth it.

Luntok understood this, the same way he understood that peace would only come to Maynara if Laya chose a Kulaw for her king.

And Luntok would be exactly the kind of king Laya needed.

He’d show her where to direct her strength, but he’d never tame her bluster.

If she were the ship captain, he’d be her barrelman, always with his eyes on the horizon, telling her how to angle her sails.

Their reign would unite the island from north to south.

They’d rule side by side.

A Gatdula and a Kulaw, coming together as equals.

According to his mother, Luntok would take the throne through battle, not through love.

Luntok disagreed.

He was convinced his path to the throne?—and to Hara Duja’s heir?—lay somewhere in between.

In the downstairs room, the Kulaw warriors were staring at him, waiting to see how Luntok might react to Jit’s teasing.

When it came to Laya, it was too early to say what was on his mind.

The night was young, with hours of games and drinking ahead.

No one was in the mood to quarrel over the Gatdulas.

Luntok would have to profess his undying devotion to the princess another evening.

“Maynara boasts no shortage of pretty girls, but only one will be my queen,” he said, choosing his words with care.

It was a half promise, half joke.

Around him, the warriors broke out into triumphant roars.

Although the inn was far from the Gatdulas’ lackeys, and they were safe there among kin, none dared utter the truth.

Luntok was born to take the Maynaran throne and honor his family’s legacy.

To become the king the southerners hungered for?—that became his fate the moment Imeria Kulaw granted him his great-great-grandfather’s name.

But to utter the truth was to commit the highest treason, and the feast days had scarcely begun.

The warriors toasted to their future king in silence.

He was Luntok the Second, a young man swept up on the wings of his own destiny.

The sole Kulaw a Gatdula could trust and love.

When Luntok returned home that night, his mother was not sipping wine on the veranda as he’d expected.

He slid open the capiz-shell screen.

A second later, their maid, Huna, swept past, bearing a tray stacked with dirty dinner plates.

On a table in the entryway stood a fresh bouquet of scarlet lilies.

Their petals spilled over the edge of the vase, which had been empty when Luntok left for the tournament earlier that afternoon.

The signs were telling.

Imeria had just received a visitor.

“I wasn’t aware we were entertaining guests this evening,” he remarked.

Huna froze in her tracks when he addressed her.

She’d started working for the Kulaws the previous season.

Luntok forgot how skittish she was.

Her previous employer had been a vicious old nobleman from the north.

He was notoriously cruel to all his servants, but he reserved his most creative abuses for those of southern origin.

On countless occasions, the nobleman ridiculed the maid’s accent and subjected her to the most demeaning tasks?—from plucking a sackful of rice off the kitchen floor grain by grain, to polishing the banisters wearing nothing but her underthings.

Desperate, the young girl had pleaded her case to Datu Kulaw, begging for a position in her household.

And, just this once, Imeria gave in.

Offer favors sparingly, she’d warned Luntok once.

Your benevolence won’t always be rewarded.

Huna had gotten lucky?—to work in the Kulaw household was no small favor.

Unfortunately, Imeria couldn’t extend the same favor to every southerner struggling to find dignified work in the capital.

There were hundreds of Hunas in Mariit, not all of them equipped with the discretion required for the post.

The Kulaws thus selected their servants with painstaking care.

The same held true for each guest they invited into their home.

“Datu Kulaw received Datu Gulod this evening, my lord,” the maid informed him.

“He couldn’t stay long, but he sends his regards.”

“Datu Gulod? Very well.” Luntok struggled to contain his surprise as he dismissed Huna with a flick of his hand.

Datu Gulod was known across Maynara to be a smart, crafty fellow, but he was not Imeria Kulaw’s typical houseguest.

Luntok wondered what he had done to earn an invitation.

At the top of the stairs, his mother’s door stood ajar.

Dark shadows flitted in and out of the narrow opening.

Imeria was pacing, as she often did when sleep evaded her.

Usually, Luntok left her to her warring thoughts.

But this night, curiosity caught the better of him.

He raised his hand to the doorframe and gave it a gentle knock.

“Enter.” Imeria’s voice cut through the stillness, sharper than the edge of his blade.

When he stepped into the room, she looked up from the stacks of paper strewn across her bed.

Luntok recognized the brushstrokes, cross-sections, and carefully stenciled lines.

These were the maps of the palace they’d collected over the years?—some stolen by hired thieves from the royal architect’s private chambers, others drawn by Imeria’s own hand.

“I hope you weren’t waiting up for me,” Luntok said as he shut the door behind him.

His mother’s expression softened.

“My darling, clever boy. Come?—I’ve yet to congratulate you on your victory.” She opened her arms.

Part of Luntok was ashamed of how eager he was to fall into them.

“Did the fight please you?” he asked, his voice cracking involuntarily.

“I’ve never been prouder to call you my son,” she said warmly.

Luntok closed his eyes, his nose filling with the scent of her jasmine perfume.

A smell he still associated with safety, even after all these years.

Now that he was home, the weight of the day’s trials?—from the aching muscles in his sword arm to the goblets of wine he’d consumed back at the inn?—dropped on top of him like a heavy stone.

“Could we speak more in the morning?” he asked, stifling a yawn.

“I really ought to turn in.”

Imeria drew back, an unfamiliar spark in her gaze.

“Of course, you must be exhausted. Let me show you something first.” From the pocket of her skirt, she withdrew a thin glass vial.

Its contents gleamed in the moonlight filtering in through the open window.

In her palm, the crystal substance looked like crushed starlight.

Knowing his mother, it was anything but.

An uneasy feeling slithered down Luntok’s spine.

“What in Mulayri’s name is that ?”

His mother explained what he had already guessed.

The finely ground substance was no ordinary crystal.

It was a drug called precioso.

Dread built deep inside Luntok’s gut as she told him how it could enhance her dangerous abilities?—and how the drug had landed in her possession.

“Datu Gulod,” Luntok echoed, incredulous.

“Are you sure you can trust him?”

“Even before rising in the ranks, Namok Gulod has been straining at the Gatdulas’ lead. His loyalties have long been up for question. However, I needed him to approach me.” Imeria cut him a sharp look.

“Do you understand now, Luntok? Our efforts may have just begun to bear fruit, but I’ve spent my entire life planting the seeds.”

At her small rebuke, he tried not to grimace.

He may have learned swordsmanship from Vikal, but his mother had taught him how to navigate the battlefield that was the Maynaran court.

She showed him how to sniff out dissatisfaction in a room full of sycophants.

To keep his lips tight and his eyes peeled.

To till the ground in preparation of a future of which no one dared speak.

Imeria Kulaw had learned this from her father, whose failed rebellion nonetheless rattled the Gatdulas to the core.

And she was passing her knowledge down to him.

“With this precioso ,” Luntok began, the foreign word rolling awkwardly off the tip of his tongue.

“Could you overpower?—anyone?” He didn’t dare say Hara Duja’s name.

“An ordinary guard? Easily. As for a Gatdula...” Imeria cast her gaze toward the window, a somber line creasing her brow.

“My father used to tell me stories passed down from his own father?—and his father before that. Few could resist the Kulaw’s power to wield mind and flesh. Not the fiercest warrior. Not even the mightiest datu.”

“None but the Gatdulas,” Luntok said as the dread formed a pit beneath his ribs.

“None but the Gatdulas.” His mother turned back to him, a cryptic smile creeping across her face.

“The blood of Mulayri runs strong, shielding them generation after generation. From afar, I cannot overpower them. However, no Gatdula is impenetrable. If I could only close the distance?—” She broke off, her hand rising to hover over Luntok’s cheek.

Imeria was his mother.

She would never hurt him.

And yet, he forced himself not to flinch.

“A simple touch,” she whispered, “and the queen would bow to my will.”

Luntok had never heard his mother speak of her schemes so boldly.

His eyes dropped once again to the vial of precioso between her fingers.

Something told him that the drug had broken the delicate balance between his family and Laya’s in a way that was irreparable.

“Is that what Datu Gulod believes?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Imeria barked out a laugh as her hand dropped to her side.

“Datu Gulod? His aptitude for deduction stretches only so far?—and I wouldn’t have come all this way based on theory alone.”

Luntok’s eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead when he realized the meaning lurking beneath her words.

“You’ve already tried it.” He shook his head in disbelief.

In the moonlight, his mother’s gaze hardened to steel.

“One touch is all it takes,” she repeated, without a single trace of doubt.

“A tempest is brewing on the horizon, Luntok. We must bide our time until it comes.”

He frowned.

“All because of the precioso?”

A harsh breeze rattled the window screens in their panes.

Imeria gave an incriminating nod, her next words nearly lost to the wind.

“Precioso, Vikal, Gulod?—they will give me the rest of Maynara. But when the storm comes to pass, I can overpower the Gatdulas on my own.”