Page 4

Four

Laya

Needlework is a special kind of magic, Laya thought as she twirled in front of the mirror.

Her new skirt fanned out around her ankles, the delicate blue threads sparkling in the midday sun.

It was nearing lunchtime, and the dressing room adjoining her bedchamber was basked in yellow light.

The royal seamstress, a stout woman with graying hair and spidery fingers, had arrived that morning with Laya’s wardrobe of feast-day gowns, each grander than the last.

With the opening procession in just three days, they had little time for adjustments.

“Arms up, Dayang,” the seamstress said, holding up the skirt’s matching blouse.

Laya complied.

The dressing room disappeared in a cascade of lapis?—a far cry from the Gatdulas’ signature green.

She didn’t care for her family’s colors.

After all, the court knew who she was.

Laya chose instead to stock her wardrobe with every shade of blue known to the human eye?—a rainbow of sea and sky ranging from the dark monsoon waters to the pale horizon at dusk.

As the seamstress helped her into her sleeves, Laya turned to face her reflection.

The ensemble had cost a hefty sum, but it was worth every coin.

Luntok would not be able to keep his eyes off her now.

The seamstress frowned as she added a pin to Laya’s waistline.

“You’ve lost weight, Dayang. We’ll have to take this in.”

“You wouldn’t know with all the yam cakes she eats,” a voice chimed from the hall.

Laya looked over her shoulder.

Bulan was leaning against the doorframe, garbed in a threadbare tunic and a pair of trousers, which hung loosely from her hips.

Her curly hair sat in a sweaty pile atop her head.

Judging by her disheveled appearance, she had been training since daybreak.

“What are you doing here?” Laya asked with a grimace.

Her sister was in desperate need of a bath.

“Maiza is looking for Eti. She’s hopelessly late for her lesson. Have you seen her?” Bulan took in the sight of Laya in her feast clothes, envy flickering in her expression.

“Pretty dress,” she added.

Laya glanced pointedly at the shifting pile of silk in the corner of the dressing room.

Eti was small and light-footed, with a talent for hiding in plain sight.

Yet she’d revealed herself with a muffled sneeze about a quarter of an hour before.

Laya had pretended not to notice.

Bulan followed Laya’s gaze.

They exchanged a tiny smile.

Bulan turned back to the hallway and called, “Maiza! I think we’ve found her.”

Uneven thuds echoed from the hall, and High Shaman Maiza appeared at Bulan’s shoulder.

“Come along, child. We’ve wasted enough of the day as it is,” Maiza said.

Her voice was scratchy and stern, but her eyes glimmered with affection.

At last, Eti peered out from beneath the sheet of amethyst silk that made up Laya’s midnight feast dress.

“No fair,” she said, pouting.

“Laya always gets the loveliest clothes.”

The high shaman trudged into the dressing room, leaning heavily on her walking stick.

Although hard to tell by Maiza’s simple clothes, she was one of the highest-ranked members of the court.

She was the guardian of Maynaran traditions as well as the bridge to the spirits.

Like the lower shamans who served beneath her, she dealt primarily in healing incantations and blessings?—petty sorcery compared to the Gatdulas’ might.

Maiza had been a close friend of the royal family since before Eti was even born, and she had always appeared as ancient as Maynara’s sacred texts.

She would never die, the old crone.

“Very lovely, indeed,” Maiza said, gazing at Laya with a rare shade of tenderness.

“You are the spitting image of Hara Duja on the day of her wedding ceremony.”

Laya met Maiza’s eyes in the mirror.

“You will officiate my own wedding soon if the rumors are to be believed.”

The leathery corners of Maiza’s lips folded into a grin.

“Ah yes, but first you must find a husband befitting a daughter of Mulayri. When that day comes, I shall be waiting for you on the Black Salt Cliffs.”

“I remember the stories,” Laya said dryly.

When Laya was a young girl, Maiza had taught her all about Maynara’s founding myths, including the story of the Black Salt Cliffs.

The cliffs lay hours outside Mariit, at the base of Mount Matabuaya.

Centuries earlier, a battle had taken place there.

It had ended when the first Gatdula king plunged a spear into the chest of a foreign invader and threw his corpse into the daggerlike rocks below.

As a reward for his bravery, the Supreme God Mulayri gave the king his own daughter for a bride.

They were married on the cliffs amidst the fallen bodies of their enemies.

From their union, a mighty kingdom was born.

Maynarans never forgot this story, and every Gatdula since had been married on those cliffs.

In the doorway, Bulan snorted.

“That day will never come, Maiza. Have you seen the miserable cads parading about court? Laya is better off ascending the throne alone.”

Laya laughed.

She didn’t mind entertaining a few cads.

She craved their attentions, no matter how contrived, and flirtation was among her favorite pastimes.

Bulan was the opposite.

She had no interest in suitors nor plans to marry.

In one of those rare moments when the sisters had gotten along, Bulan had confided in Laya that she never felt any attraction to anyone and was quite content without pleasures of the flesh.

She was glad to leave Laya her pick of the cads.

Courtship was one of the few realms in which they never had to compete.

Eti shrugged on one of Laya’s sheer walking shawls.

It was too big for her, and the embroidered hem pooled at her sandaled feet.

“If I were you, Laya, I’d marry a sun god and mother a million stars,” she said, staring wistfully at her reflection.

“A sun god?” Laya echoed.

“Where do you propose I find that?”

“Laya is likelier to marry the sun itself,” Bulan said, chuckling.

Laya’s heart fluttered when she thought of Luntok.

He was no god, but each time they lay together, Laya was sure she caught a glimpse of divinity.

She imagined her wedding day often.

In her dreams, Luntok was kneeling beside her, his broad shoulders glowing beneath his white marriage vest, his fingers intertwined with hers.

But, unlike Maiza, Luntok would never be waiting for her on the Black Salt Cliffs.

Laya sighed as she fiddled with her sleeve.

The hem fell past her wrist in an elegant butterfly wing of silk?—beautiful, but inconvenient.

“These are too long,” Laya barked at the seamstress.

“How many times must I tell you? They’ll get in the way of my wielding.”

The seamstress bowed her head, her cheeks reddening in shame.

“My apologies, Dayang. I will have this ready before the dawn feast.”

“You’ll have it ready tomorrow, at the very least,” Laya said with a sniff of disdain.

The grin slid from Maiza’s time-battered face.

She held out a hand to Eti.

“Follow me, child,” she said.

“It’s time we begin your lesson.”

Mournfully, Eti complied, slipping out of Laya’s shawl with a dramatic sigh.

Laya reached out to tweak her nose.

“Don’t fret, Eti,” she told her.

“When I am queen, I’ll buy you a trunkful of pretty dresses.”

“You’d better,” Eti said.

She hung her head as she followed Maiza out of the room.

Laya stepped out of her blouse and skirt to try on her next ensemble.

Bulan watched her, her brow knitted in uncertainty.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Laya asked.

“All this talk about weddings,” Bulan said.

“I hope you’re not truly listening to the rumors.”

“Of course not,” she said.

“You know me better than that.”

“I know. But as high counselor?—”

Laya gritted her teeth in impatience.

“As high counselor, you will advise me when I ask you to, and not a moment sooner.”

She could hear in her sister’s tone that Bulan was one sentence away from lecturing her about Luntok and bloodlines and political matches.

The last thing Laya wanted was another reminder of the failed rebellion led by Luntok’s relatives three decades earlier.

The Kulaws’ war had slashed an ugly wound through the island, and their family had been granted clemency to keep it from festering.

But as punishment, no Kulaw could come near the Maynaran throne.

To wed a Gatdula was a privilege granted only to descendants of the kingdom’s most loyal families.

According to myth, the oldest bloodlines in Maynara once practiced magic of their own.

There were the Lumas, who were believed to have had the ability to commune with beasts.

And the Tanglaws, with their bygone talent for soothsaying.

Most nobles believed that marriage to a Gatdula?—and mixing their blood together?—would allow their long-lost magic to one day reawaken.

Such a phenomenon had yet to occur, but the nobles’ faith in the possibility held fierce.

That faith grew stronger with each generation?—too strong even for the mighty Gatdulas to ignore.

Despite their uncontested abilities and rank, faith that powerful demanded at least a modicum of appeasement.

Laya hadn’t forgotten.

The gods knew she received enough of those lectures from her mother.

Bulan huffed but stepped back, lowering her gaze.

“I’m only saying, Laya, you don’t need to bow to the pressure. With your power, you’re strong enough to reign without a marriage alliance.”

Her sister spoke not out of jealousy, for once, but out of concern.

A bolt of excitement ran down Laya’s spine at Bulan’s words.

From the window on the opposite wall, the sun rose above the tiered rooftops, casting light across the mirror’s polished glass.

She stared at the mirror, unblinking, until the seamstress left the room and returned with a bundle of indigo and gold.

“Arms,” the seamstress said.

Wordlessly, Laya raised them.

Bulan ducked out of the doorway, letting Laya carry on with the gown fitting in peace.

Laya stood stock-still while the seamstress draped the fine silks over her body, pinning them to perfection.

Her sister’s claim echoed in Laya’s ears long after Bulan left the dressing room.

Laya didn’t believe Gatdula blood could revive a nobleman’s lost bloodright.

But she knew that to take a husband would be to share the throne.

Although Laya grew up with two siblings, she didn’t care for the idea of sharing one bit.

Ruling without a marriage alliance, however?—that was a prospect she had yet to consider.

“Almost done, Dayang,” the seamstress murmured.

She reached toward the table behind Laya for the last ensemble?—a day dress of cerulean pongee, which floated down to her knees?—and a royal sash tumbled from the pile.

It was a simple column of viridian silk, bearing the Gatdulas’ curled-crocodile insignia.

This was the queen’s sash, meant for Laya’s mother.

“I apologize,” the seamstress said.

“I don’t know how that got in there.”

“No matter,” Laya told her.

“I want to try it on for myself.”

She knelt so the seamstress could lift the sash over her head, draping it over her white cotton camisole.

The sash hung from her left shoulder, gathering at her opposite hip.

Laya traced the hemline, and the thin fabric slipped between her fingers.

She looked back at the mirror.

The sunlight had shifted since the start of their fitting.

Its rays glared off the glass, outlining the crown of Laya’s head in piercing light.

“You look beautiful, Dayang,” the seamstress said, bowing her head.

The corners of Laya’s lips quirked up into a smile.

“Like a queen?” she asked.

The seamstress met Laya’s gaze in the glass.

“More than that,” she said in a low, heavy whisper.

No one ever looked at Hara Duja the way the seamstress was looking at Laya now.

Smugly, Laya committed the woman’s expression to memory.

When she was queen, she would see the same expression echoed across a thousand faces.

No longer would they gripe about Laya’s untamed power.

No longer would they question her readiness to rule.

All would fall silent the moment they saw her sitting high above them on the Maynaran throne.

Whether they liked her or not, the entire country knew Laya belonged there.

Hara Duja, Maiza?—they were always telling Laya she was too young, too fickle, to understand the responsibilities awaiting her.

But she understood far better than they did what it meant to reign over Maynara.

Although centuries had passed since the first Gatdula king had rid the land of invaders, foreign ships still lingered on the horizon.

One by one, the invaders had vanquished the neighboring kingdoms.

Maynara was the last sovereign nation left for miles?—and their sovereignty hinged on the Gatdulas’ very existence.

For the Gatdulas were the one thing standing between them and conquest.

They stood for safety and prosperity.

They were freedom made flesh.

That was why their people worshipped their monarchs more than their ancestral spirits, more than Mulayri himself.

Laya knew that a Gatdula’s reign was about more than ruling a country.

To become queen of Maynara was to become a god.

Unlike her mother, Laya had never shied away from her destiny.

She donned it like armor.

And soon, she would slip into her rightful title like a glove.

In her imagination, they called to her, thousands of Maynarans chanting her name?— Hara Laya.

That bolt of excitement rushed through her again, and she thought back to Bulan’s claim.

Her sister was right?—all this marriage talk was nonsense.

Laya was stronger than her mother.

Stronger than any Gatdula who’d come before her.

Strong enough to sit upon the throne alone.