Islands of Fire Page 29

  Kina finds she isn’t breathing, her terror having risen beyond her capacity to manage. She shouldn’t be here. This is no place for a human. What is she doing, hiking into the heart of a goddess’ territory? What makes her think she can kill Puahiki, even with the gleaming white pahi on her back? Not for the first time, she wonders if she has gone insane. Even the Cult of the Ebon Flame wouldn’t dare come here.

  What had Nakali said? That the first warrior to reach Puahiki’s caldera would be able to claim the final piece of the Kota`ianapahu?

  “Puahiki!” she calls out. “Puahiki, I have come for the Kota`ianapahu!”

  Her voice is lost in the perpetual rumble of earth and fire.

  No matter, she will just do it the hard way. Kina begins to pick her way down the slope, finally arriving at the caldera floor. The rock here is so hot it is like stepping on wet sand, sinking slightly under her feet, a sensation that causes her to catch her breath once more, sure the tattoos will reach the peak of their protective capacity and she will be incinerated with the next step. But she moves safely onto the next patch of rock, and then the next, and then leaps over a stream of exposed lava. Other than an uncomfortable, stifling heat, she feels no pain.

  She is hammered with falling stones that leave bruises, but no burns. A spurt of lava from an open pit lands on her side and must be scraped off, but she feels it only as a hot goo. Despite holding up this far, the sennit rope finally bursts into flames and must be shrugged off her shoulders, leaving her to carry the pahi by hand, but again she feels only a warm glow from the fire.

  Small streams of lava become a wide river, upon which drift chunks of cooler stone. Kina has to leap to one of several rocky islands, her feet screaming at the savage scrapes from the glassy stone. She sits down and looks at her ruined soles, the scabs ripped off to reveal raw tissue beneath. Rising to her feet takes all her effort, and the next step threatens to drop her.

  Crawling the rest of the way, Kina reaches the edge of the small island in the river, streaked with blood, nude, her hair smoldering, the coral pahi still unnaturally cool in her hand, and gazes out at an immense, swirling vortex of lava, a lake so wide that she can hardly see the opposite shore through the smoke, and so deep that the whirlpool at the center stretches down beyond her ability to see, a navel in the world.

  “You came here to die,” Puahiki says.

  Blood and Fire

  Startled by the voice, Kina nearly slips off the rock upon which she is sitting, and the pahi clatters to the rocks.

  What she sees is a woman, dressed in a white gown woven from some unfamiliar, sheer material — certainly not course tapa — that flaps in the wind and clings to her legs as she walks. The woman looks ageless, as though she is both old and young at the same time, wearing a mature woman’s face but will a young woman’s skin. Her hair, long and black and flawless, swirls behind her in the gusts of wind.

  “Puahiki,” Kina says, holding on to the rock to help her rise.

  The woman is looking her over, taking in her tattoos, her weapon, her bloody feet.

  “I think I’m not the first to underestimate you,” Puahiki says. “You’re a fighter if I’ve ever seen one.”

  Kina is unable to speak, her words now meaningless in the presence of this powerful being. In her mind, Kina is chiding herself as a fool for thinking she could do battle with the direct descendant of the creator of the world.

  “Go ahead,” Puahiki says. “Pick up your sword. I’ll wait.”

  Noting the odd word, sword, Kina looks down long enough to spot her pahi nearby, having fallen downslope to come to rest dangerously close to the edge of the lava lake.

  Kina winces as she rises, picking her way carefully down the rocks until she can reach the pahi. It is blessedly cool, alone in a place where the air seethes and the ground itself threatens to melt. She holds it close and climbs back up the slope. True to her word, Puahiki is standing in the same place, her gown billowing, her head raised in pride and strength.

  “I have to stop you,” Kina finally manages to say. “Mother Fire is gone, and Mother Ocean is my own creator.”

  “I understand,” Puahiki says. “But, of course you know you will fail. This is no place for a mortal. In fact, it is only through the stolen magic you wear on your skin that you’ve made it this far. You are hungry, thirsty, exhausted, in need of sleep, terrified, and can barely walk. And now you’re inside the home of a god, holding a little coral stick in your hand like a weapon.”

  Kina says, “I had to do something. The Cult of the Ebon Flame is growing more powerful, and it is stealing people to use as slaves or murdering them to steal their souls. They have to be stopped, and I just happened to be in a position to do it.”

  “You’re right,” Puahiki says, starting to pace slowly around Kina. “In all those things, you’re right. The Cult of the Ebon Flame is predacious. It survives only by feeding, like a parasite, on fellow humans. Nakali was strong in spirit but she was foolish. She let her own power and influence go to her head, and she became reckless. Had she commanded her people more thoughtfully, more patiently, and with more wisdom, she could have built a force that is stronger than any other on Mokukai, and she could have easily taken control of all the lands of men. But she is too impetuous. She had the rightful ali`i killed, rewriting the laws of Keli`anu to conveniently merge the role of high priestess and queen. That’s when her people should have done something about it, but they were too cowed — or too enraptured — to oppose her. It’s a classic story of humanity. Your greatest strength is also your greatest weakness.”

  “And what is the weakness of a god?”

  Puahiki stops and smiles at her, but doesn’t answer the question. “The weapon you carry,” she says. “May I see it?”

  Despite her suspicious nature, Kina stretches out the pahi to Puahiki. The goddess takes it in her perfect hands, first holding it flat on both palms to examine the intricate scrimshaw work, then swinging it once or twice to get a feel for the weight, then lifting it high into the air and examining its curve.

  “A magnificent sword, I have to admit,” she finally says. “Strange to see Mother Ocean’s work once more. It has been a long time since we have spoken.”

  Puahiki hands the pahi back to Kina, who holds it casually by her side, no longer sure it has any value.

  “Your turn,” Kina says. “Where is the helmet?”

  “Do you think it will be that easy?” Puahiki asks. “That I would just hand over the last of Kuanutoa’s regalia to the one who has cast the others into the sea to be forever lost?”

  Kina looks around theatrically. “I do not see the ocean here,” she says. “On these feet, I doubt I could make it back to the shore before you could catch up with me.”

  Puahiki laughs, the sound like the purest, distilled joy. Yet deep underneath it all is a sublimated roar, like a great furious furnace deep in the earth. “I suppose not. I admire you for your pluck. It’s been many centuries since I’ve met a human like you.”

  From nearby comes a loud crack. Kina glances that way and sees a boulder about the size of a throne has split open, its inner core glowing a deep red. The cracked portion breaks away like an eggshell to expose a black object, round as a gourd.

  Puahiki gestures to Kina. Go on.

  Walking over to the rock, Kina reaches in and plucks the helmet from its vault. It is hot to the touch, superheated by Puahiki’s fires, but her tattoos allow Kina to gingerly set it on her head without harm. It is perfectly formed and fits her snugly, allowing her to see out the two eyeholes with very little of her field of vision blocked, and though her breath sounds loud and close inside the helmet, she doesn’t feel stifled. It is an amazing creation, and it strikes her how useful it could be in the hands of the right warrior. Holding the shield in one arm and the obsidian pahi in the other hand, and with this helmet protecting one’s head, a person could become the greatest warrior on Mokukai, one who would make even the most battle-hardened general drop to one knee
.

  Kina picks up the pahi, feeling the cool coral in her hand, and looks back at Puahiki. The goddess is standing only a few paces away, the hot wind flinging embers around her like fireflies.

  Puahiki looks at Kina, understanding written on her face. “Trickster,” the goddess hisses. “So like a human, to hide behind false sincerity and fraudulent intentions. You are truly the child of your fickle mother.”

  Ignoring the agony in her feet, Kina manages to run across the steaming rocks and swing the pahi at Puahiki. The goddess throws an arm up to fling a stinging blast of tiny stones at Kina’s exposed chest. Kina’s swing goes wide, missing Puahiki by several inches.

  The goddess responds by splitting the ground under Kina’s feet, dropping her into a helpless heap. Kina manages to keep her fingers wrapped around the pahi this time, but as the rock breaks into tiny volcanic shards, she finds herself sliding down into a gap not much wider than herself.

  Puahiki strides over her, one foot on each side of the crack, and she gazes down at Kina’s body wedged into the narrow space.

  “As I said before, I admire your nerve. You are certainly no coward. But you don’t know what you’re doing, and now you’ve insulted me.”

  Kina grunts, trying to free herself from the crack. When she is unsuccessful, she rests her forehead against the wall. “Why don’t you just kill me, then? I can see you have the power.” She sighs, one long and ragged breath that speaks truthfully of the deep exhaustion she feels. “I’m tired of this. If I’m going to die, just do it.”

  Puahiki says, “I don’t think so. I haven’t encountered a human like you in a long time. I think I’ll keep you around for a little while.”

  As Kina struggles to free herself some more, Puahiki looks up and across her lake of fire. “You remind me of my son, Kuanutoa,” she says. “He was born to fight, like you. But he wasn’t left by his parents in a slum. I raised him right here, on Howe`a, to be a warrior king. Of course, at the time this was the greatest mountain on Mokukeahi. This place — where we are standing — was to be his palace, the great stronghold from which he would command armies.”

  “Kakona?”

  Puahiki looks down at Kina. “No, not kakona. Others like Kuanutoa. None command the kakona.”

  “What was Kuanutoa, then?” Kina asks, hoping Puahiki can’t see that she has managed to free one arm.

  “He was human, like you,” Puahiki says. “Well, not the same, but very close. Better. A little bigger, a lot faster, ten times stronger. His kind weren’t made bereft of natural weapons, as humans were, but had claws on their fingers and sharp teeth in their mouth. Warriors, born and bred. In fact, they could move through trees just as quickly as they could move on the ground. Like their parents, they could hold fire inside and draw it forth when needed. They were artists, poets, fighters. They were our greatest creation, and we were proud of them. More proud than the current gods are of you, I might add. We knew that-“

  Puahiki is cut off when Kina moves suddenly, pushing herself upward with the pahi extended. It swipes across the goddess’ leg, cutting neatly through the bone. Magma sprays out of the wound in bright orange blobs that spatter Kina.

  Roaring with the most unearthly, wrathful boom Kina has ever heard, Puahiki leaps back from the crack in the earth, springing impossibly high and far into the air. By the time Kina has wriggled up out of the crack, she can see that Puahiki is landed on rocks very far away, a hopeless distance for Kina’s bloodied feet.

  The goddess has changed her appearance. No longer is she the lovely, calm woman. Now her eyes have been replaced with light, an angry orange-red. Her skin is covered in a complex network of cracks which also glow, like a tattoo of fine, luminous seams. These new aspects make her seem like she is nothing more than a hollow core of fire under delicate flesh. Wind whips her hair violently upward, adding a terrifying fierceness to her wrathful expression. Her arms and legs seem longer, somehow, more reptilian.

  Kina slides her legs out of the fissure, terrified that Puahiki will simply snap the rocks shut again.

  “INSOLENT! BRAZEN! FOOLHARDY!” Puahiki screams, her voice thundering across the crater. “WRETCHED HUMAN, I WILL CONSUME YOUR SOUL AND BURN YOUR BODY TO ASH!”

  Rising to her bloody feet, Kina shouts, “Come get me!”

  Puahiki opens her mouth to let out a high-pitched, mountain-shaking screech, her jaw appearing to unhinge and expand unnaturally to let out the force of the sound. It rushes across the gap like a wall of wind, slamming into Kina and flinging her helplessly into the air. For a moment she is pinwheeling, legs and arms thrashing helplessly in an attempt to stabilize her tumble, then she hits something liquid and shockingly hot.

  Paralyzed with horror, Kina realizes she has been hurled back into the lake of lava. So she will die here, after all. Her only regret is that she didn’t have a chance to at least try and smash the helmet under a huge boulder, to remove it from this world forever. On the heels of this regret comes another: Mother Ocean’s gift, the coral pahi, will never be returned to her, now.

  She is bring buffeted, swirled, slammed against sub-surface outcroppings, and in the midst of her shock, terror, regret, and certainty that she is dying, comes another thought. How is she still able to think? Surely bring dropped into lava should have destroyed her whole body instantly, before she even had a chance to register the pain. Instead, she is aware, many seconds later, of the sensation of being swept around in a bright, hot current — no different, aside from the extreme heat, than being caught under a crumpling wave in heavy surf. The sensation does not change, does not get replaced with the pain of dying. She is alive, caught in the flow of the currents, submerged in the lake of molten rock. The handle of the pahi is so cool, by contrast, that it seems cold. Kina’s fingers are wrapped around it in a death grip. She pulls it close, tucks her head down and her legs up into the fetal position, and tries to hold on to it against the violent eddies of the whirlpool.

  Moments later, she strikes something solid — a curtain of rock extending from the wall. She claws at it with her free hand but her fingers slip and she is once more unmoored in this gyre, but she finds she has slowed herself just enough that the next pinnacle of rock is easier to grasp. Against the unbelievable power of the current, she hangs on to it with one hand, then pulls herself to it. All around her is unspeakable fire and fury. The magma feels like mud, thick and viscous, flowing over and past her in a way quite unlike water. Kina is reminded of poi poured out of a calabash through the fingers — gloopy, inconsistent, syrupy. She wants to scream in dread at this situation, sure she is the first and last human in history to undergo this horror alive, but dares not open her mouth for fear of the lava forcing its way down into her lungs.

  With all the strength left in her battered body, Kina rises up the pinnacle, clutching at the rock until she feels her head crest the surface. Only then does she dare open her mouth to suck in a gasp of air, as choked with toxic fumes as it is. All she has seen for the last several seconds is a brilliance like staring at the sun. Now her eyes are dazzled and struggling to see; the world looks dim in comparison, and overlaid with a greenish tinge.

  Kina sags out of the lava and flops onto the edge, as naked as the bare rock beneath her. She heaves and coughs, taking ragged breaths that barely hold enough oxygen to satisfy her lungs. Looking down, she is grateful to see the pahi still in her tightly-fisted fingers. It makes a great rod to help her rise to a standing position.

  Behind her, the lake is a fearsome sight, so broad its far side is lost in the smoke and volcanic haze, its center sucked down into the terminus of a whirlpool so deep it must end deep in the mountain. Kina doesn’t want to think about what might have happened if she had been pulled under. How long could the struggling magic of the tattoos kept her safe from that fire, trapped under the crushing weight of molten stone, her mind threatening to give out before her starving body? What strange tubes might she have been siphoned down, flowing with the tides into oceans of magma far beneath th
e world? How could she have ever escaped, were she to have survived? Far better to have been burned to a crisp or crushed between stones.

  She wants to fall down, give up. This is more than anyone should ever have to bear. Would that she had gone ahead and drowned, all those days ago, and not been recruited by Mother Ocean to be her proxy in this fight.

  The Lands Beyond are sounding very enticing, right about now.

  She places one foot in front of the other, and starts back up the steep slope. The soles of her feet are so ruined, she no longer feels the pain. Dimly, she wonders if the bone is starting to show through the minced muscle.

  At the crest, she peers gradually over the rock in search of Puahiki. For a moment the goddess is nowhere to be seen, but then Kina sees her kneeling in a smooth cavity of stone near the edge of the lake.