Wish Givers

By Shannon Knight

Reva's clan, the Mauli, tattoo wishes into reality. Once revered, the Mauli now live in hiding, with a precious few imprisoned beneath the Ali'i's pink palace. Burning for justice, Reva strides into the capital city, announces herself a wish giver, and allows herself to be bound. She knows the only way to save herself and her people is to grant her greatest enemy his every wish.

 

Already outcast by her skill and arrogance, Reva feels she has nothing to lose and everything to gain. However, she faces not only the Ali'i, but the mighty White God and his followers, the animosity of the Mauli, and the burdensome eye of Mata, a dark god with an ambitious priest who has a wish of his own. Within the confines of the Ali'i's palace, Reva discovers love and friendship, but to destroy the Ali'i, she may be forced to to sacrifice more than she has ever wished for.

 

Wish Givers is a fantasy novel with a tropical island setting and themes of freedom, found family, and the pursuit of dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Winter Moon Press
• Release date: Jan 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987639306

Book preview

1

Reva

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Tapu’oire was thick with white-robed priests, their bodies rank with sweat beneath their neck-to-toe coverings. Reva was stifling in her own strange robe, the bottom several inches damp from unknown liquids puddled in the city. Her feet were particularly uncomfortable in the swaddling cloth she had bound them in. She had hidden her feet, but she couldn’t hide the skin of her hands and face, which was more the color of a coconut husk than the pale sand of the city dwellers. She waited to see if the priests would question her, wanting to know what was wrong with her feet that they were wrapped. If they saw them, they would light her up faster than she could scream.

Reva continued through the press of strange bodies, moving deeper into the erratic maze of a city, waiting for the moments when she came into a space where the buildings were pushed back enough to survey the spreading sky and see the Ali’i’s pink palace atop the gray sprawl, its soft hue in harsh contrast to its dark past.

Reva stopped when the steps into the Circle of the Gods appeared before her. A sick, heavy feeling hung over her, sticky like the air. The steps were wider than two canoes nose to nose and led up to a walkway built with the same pink stone that had been used on the palace. The pink path cut a radius through the Circle of the Gods to the palace itself. Austere temples lined the street, but they were lonely and neglected, ghosts of the past. Several strong bars of bamboo had been jammed into the massive door-pulls of the closest temple. Reva wondered if the ingrained soot stains were from the bonfires used on her own people. Wouldn’t the monsoons have washed them away? But looking around, there was more soot on sandstone than Reva could think of explanations for.

She pushed aside the thoughts. They would not help her now.

Built up in front of the old temples were huts of stone, reed, and even driftwood, narrowing the once awesome width of the pink road until the street was as cramped as those that wound through the bulk of the muddy city. These buildings leaned against each other, looking like giant spiders’ nests. She wondered if the priests huddled inside them, hiding from the world—what else could they be for? Lurking near the huts were groups of priests with untrimmed hair and beards; the White God forbid alterations to the body.

Sweat prickled down her back. The lessening stream of people flowed past her in both directions as she stared down the long aisle of white priests to the pink prison of a handful of Mauli. Reva crossed the threshold into the Circle of the Gods like breaking through the surface skin of ocean water. Death breathed around her, waiting calmly for a mistake. She would not oblige.

Alms for the White, a voice wheezed against her cheek.

Reva turned to the ragged priest at her elbow. He smiled, revealing a missing tooth, but his eyes didn’t change at all. His face was not much older than her own and so dirty he appeared to have never bathed in his life. He probably thought it would offend his god.

I have no coin, Reva replied carefully, forming each foreign word deliberately. She had not wondered if they would identify her by accent. Surely no other tongue sounded quite like that of the Mauli. She should have practiced disguising her speech.

If it ended now before it had even begun, then her entire journey would have been for nothing.

The man stepped back, bowing towards her as he went.

Then you must beseech the god for his aid, he said, his eyes lingering on her possessively.

Reva nodded, noting his curling, yellow fingernails. Cutting your nails must count as an alteration. She would watch hands to measure strangers’ devotion.

Yes, but deeper in the Circle, she said, turning away.

She must not show fear. Reva focused on maintaining a regular breathing pattern as well as her stride. Any moment his hands would fall upon her. Her accent must have given her away; her skin wasn’t the right shade; she hadn’t said the appropriate thing; someone would note her wrapped feet and guess that she, a Mauli, strode freely among them.

They would burn her. If they caught her, they would set her aflame.

The stench of old blood rose from the street, and within the sandy, shell-speckled lines that divided the pink stones were the clotted remains of ichor. A squeal stabbed through her chest, and her eyes jumped. Reva focused on steady breaths, eyeing a pig tied to a stake just out front of a reed shack. Blood had sprayed across its hindquarters, and its brother lay still upon the pink stone, a spreading pool of red beneath it. She didn’t know if they slaughtered animals here for food or for sacrifices, but the metallic smell of blood was not all new. Forcing herself to avoid looking at the priests, Reva continued forward.

Ahead, she saw three priests surrounding a young woman who was crying and shaking her head. Old Hirawa had told her they always stripped them before they burned them, both male and female. It had bothered Reva so much because she’d never known why; wouldn’t clothing burn better than flesh? Reva turned her eyes away, pushing back her rising tide of anger—she would help no one by getting torched in the Circle of the Gods.

Reva continued down the aisle of white priests, quietly noting the old temples that were still tended; they were all to lesser deities. Hemia of childbirth and marriage was there, along with Tuha of commerce. She passed hordes of praying locals, and in one case had to tread carefully through the robed, kneeling bodies that covered the entire span of the road. How they could huddle together in that stink was beyond her. They were humming like bees, the sound vibrating through the stones of the street.

Daughter. A hand came down on her arm, each finger pressing distinctly into her flesh. Have you shriven yourself of late? Another opportunity will not always come.

Reva turned to look into handsome eyes younger than hers and was glad that the long robe protected her skin from his vile touch. Her lips spread wide into what she hoped appeared more like a smile than a snarl.

The moment I entered the Circle, I looked to my soul, she said.

But was it enough? he asked, his fingers pressing in more tightly, bruising her arm at the five points of his fingertips. His expression was intensely serious, his lips sensuous.

Can it ever be enough? she asked. We are only mortals, woe be it to us to claim to know the minds of the gods.

Ah, but there is only one god we need to mind, he said. His eyes shone almost gleefully, as if he had caught her evading chores. We must remedy this slight of yours.

Reva noticed a whip coiled at his waist and wondered what kind of penance he had in mind. He had not identified her yet, but the longer she was with him, the less likely that would be. The vibration of the chanters continued to thrum through the soles of her sandals. Despite the heat, her skin chilled. She was conscious again of the images painted on her feet, so much a part of who she was. The rest of her skin was reserved for the wishes of others, but the tops of her feet were simply self-expression. Would she die for so little?

The Hour of the Shadow is upon us! a voice rang out. All heed the Hour of the Shadow!

Even the hours had to be counted and attested for, as if the White God had created each one with a label and a mission to be cycled through. Somehow the white priests reconciled the enforced naturalness of no alterations of the body with the rigidity of calling out the hours and cleansing by fire.

The priest abruptly released her, turning to look behind him from whence came the voice. Supplicants appeared from within the many haphazard temples, all falling to their knees in the center of the stone street, further obstructing foot traffic. It was a forbidding sight; every person in view other than a dozen overseeing priests dropped to their knees in a wave down the length of the pink path. The pink palace, her long-sought destination, rose before her, blocked by a solid barricade of supplicants.

Reva glanced quickly beyond the shacks to the temples. On the far side of the street was a locked off temple to Langilea. Was the White God so powerful that even benevolent Langilea’s temple would be sealed? Where was his twin Lana’s temple? Langilea and Lana must be balanced. But the neighboring temples bore no familiar markers, and priests of the White God seemed to have taken up habitation there.

Nearest to her was a squat construction of slabs of stone, a single eye above its doorway. She didn’t recognize the symbol, but she saw no sign that the White God resided there. The priest at her side was turning back in her direction, the whip that had been tied at his belt held loosely in one hand. She could not allow herself to be discovered.

The Hour of the Shadow is here!

Reva ducked past a tall white priest into the temple of the unknown god.

The small building was too dark after the bright daylight and smelled strongly of smoky musk. The sound of Reva’s heart beat loudly in her temples, yet the systematic call of the crier continued to boom out. Blind to the rest of the temple, she stepped to one side, fisting both hands together into a hammer and watching for the white priest to follow her inside. Even braced to strike the blow, her hands shook above her head. Gradually, her eyes adapted to the light of a small lantern lit on the opposite side of the room.

No one came.

Reva’s breathing slowed. She turned, hidden within the shadows of the wall, noting the slate floor and the carved figure atop an altar illuminated by the lantern. The room appeared free of other decorations or furnishings, but it was hard to tell in the darkness. Reva didn’t like the dread that filled her stomach at being inside the manmade structure. She didn’t trust it to stay standing, and being buried alive was a hideous thought.

That was the most exciting entrance I’ve seen in some time, a sly voice said.

Reva caught her breath, her eyes searching for the speaker. A young man garbed in priest’s robes stepped away from the wall and into the meager light. His flat cheekbones gave his face a curious look that Reva found attractive. His darker skin tone marked him as from outside of the city. His robe was a mottled brown, as if the dye hadn’t been applied evenly.

Mata will be pleased, he added.

Mata? she asked.

Teeth flashed white in the darkness. The god into whose temple you so readily flung yourself.

He turned and walked towards the sparse altar. His eyes snapped back to her, and his mouth curled up on one side.

Mata must have guided your entrance, he said. Are you a thief then?

Is Mata a god of thieves? she asked.

The man laughed, his voice scraping out as if it were seldom used.

Sometimes.

I’m not a thief, she said. I fled the white-robed maniacs and whatever penance they had in mind.

He turned back towards her, and she saw the white of his smile vanish.

You’re not from here.

Reva stepped forward, letting the lantern-light reveal the shade of her skin as she perused the image of the god on the altar. He was grinning mischievously and wearing a robe like the unknown priest’s. She leaned in to inspect his quirky brows, noticing a chip of volcanic stone in place of the open eye. It gave him an inhuman quality not at all to her liking. She withheld a shudder—she’d had quite enough of Tapu’oire gods already.

She looked back to the priest and lost her calm.

The idol wears your face! she accused.

The priest laughed.

It’s a comely face; is it not? Fitting for a god’s depiction? He ran one hand along his smooth chin.

Reva realized her jaw had dropped, and she clamped it closed. Here she was with yet another stranger, and she acted as if he should behave like an old mother. She laughed, and the priest laughed with her. She did like speaking with strangers!

I changed it after the other priests left, he confided. Mata would love it! He peered down at the idol.

This Mata must be a tricksome god.

Yes, and he deserves an offering! Let’s make love on the altar. Mata will adore the benefaction, and then we’ll have a little baby! He grinned, cradling his hands as if holding an infant.

Reva gasped again. "I can’t believe you!

Let’s try it out, shall we? He patted the altar. Not so good as sand, but we’ll have privacy. The other priests are all long gone by now. Everyone else is busy with the hours.

Reva shook her head, but they both continued to grin.

I’m going to the palace, she said Do you go there? She knew the entry procedures from the stories, but she’d like a confirmation of their accuracy.

He leaned against the altar. The only priests strolling into the palace these days are in desperate need of a trim. I wish it weren’t so, but . . . He shrugged.

Reva felt the air go still around her. People didn’t even know who she was, and they still asked.

You wish it weren’t so?

Outside the temple was the low hum of the followers of the White God. Inside, the priest’s eyes focused on Reva anew as he straightened, folding his hands in front of him. His eyes flicked down towards her feet, but they were still covered with dirty cloth. She grinned. If he was looking at her feet, then he knew who she was.

Maybe she was in hiding, but no one wanted their people to be forgotten.

Yes, he said, all humor lost. I wish I could speak directly to Ali’i Ora himself.

Reva took one step towards him. I will grant your wish.

She knew he wouldn’t have been alive during the exodus. He therefore would never have had the opportunity to see a Mauli before. Still, he knew her.

You can’t, he said, his voice faltering.

Or maybe he didn’t know.

You don’t understand, she said.

No. His voice was rough, and he had to clear his throat. No, you don’t understand. Ali’i Ora wished that none could have wishes granted except himself.

She hesitated; she didn’t think he could do that. Surely the Book of Dreams forbid it.

That can’t be true, she said.

There was a conviction in his eyes she found hard to disbelieve.

Besides, what do you know of wishes? she added. Her words sounded separate from herself. She had created such a careful plan, such a perfect plan. Foolproof, she’d thought. Reva felt the room go hazy. It was too dark and close inside the pile of stones.

Purge your minds! a voice cried, strangely distant, but from just outside the temple door.

A hand was on her elbow. The leering face of the stone-eyed idol seemed to swing in a circle around her, as if the room were spinning.

The one-eyed god still has his ears, the priest told her.

She couldn’t fathom it. She didn’t want to fathom it. Back in the camp, wherever that may now be, they would have no power. When was the last wish she’d granted? A month ago? Her own hands had been powerless for who knew how long, and she hadn’t even been aware.

And yet bad things were so easy to believe. She believed it already. She’d believed it the moment the words were spoken.

Shocking that it took six Ali’i before someone had the creativity and foresight to make that wish, she said.

Some Ali’i can be so dim-witted, the priest replied in the same dead tone.

She was not safe here. Tapu’oire was deadly to her.

The priest’s hands continued to hold her upright, but the room was growing still. She felt her old determination fall back into place. She had thought of other ways. She’d thought of them first, in fact, but they never had the same assurance as her final plan. An unsavory fatalism settled in.

You are a real priest, a true tahue? she asked. Do they ordain one so young?

He did not let go of her. My father found me on a beach, a gift to Mata. He ordained me when he lifted me in his arms. So I have been a tahue for longer than you have been a wish giver, I’m sure.

Reva nodded. Give me the blessing of your tricksome god, tahue. I am soon to play such a trick that all the Ali’i in history will wish they had never known my kind.

The priest raised both brows. You’ve landed on the right god for tricks.

She grinned. Her face felt strange, as if she were snarling.

I’m a cornered creature, tahue. Any tools Mata can give me, I’ll happily receive.

The priest stepped back, clasping his hands before him. I accept your supplication. Do you have a name?

She had a name. She had more than a name. She was a wish giver, and there was one wish that all Mauli shared. She would make it come true.

Reva.

And I am Kahu.

Reva nodded, waiting.

You need do nothing. He waved one hand in the air. "I will whisper your name to the god, but it seems he’s already laid his mark on you, tumbling you over my doorstep.

I’d suggest the Hour of the Shadow, aptly named as it is, isn’t the time for you to enter the palace, Kahu said. Make yourself at home in the temple, and meditate on your new plan. People tend to get very interesting ideas while under the influence of Mata, not that you can ever tell if he’s around.

Reva reached out and took the priest’s arm. His bright eyes were close. The warmth of his skin surprised her. He wasn’t so different from her.

I would have granted your wish, she said.

He returned her gaze. I believe it. Although, my crooked mind never dared dream of a Mauli crossing my path. Otherwise, I’m sure I would have dreamt up a better wish.

We used to be everywhere. You’d see our wishes on people of all walks of life. Anyone could row out to our isles, Reva said. Some day she would like to see the old islands, before all of the running and hiding, when everyone knew where the Mauli could be found, and no one was afraid.

I’d love to see your wishes, he said, glancing down at her feet again. Startled excitement clung to his eyes.

Is this another attempt to lay me on your altar? she asked, smiling. The truth was she didn’t like hiding her wishes. Her regular clothes showed them proudly. You shouldn’t get too attached, you know. My plan will likely be short-lived.

Reva was becoming more aware of his closeness. She liked his energy.

Mmm. His wide eyes rested on hers a moment, lost in thought. Then he grinned. It would still be worth it.

She laughed, the nearness of death making the sound wilder than normal. She wondered if she had just stepped even closer to freedom; what could be closer than having nothing left to lose?

She settled herself on the floor within the ring of light from the altar. Kahu stepped towards the altar, but his eyes turned back to Reva.

Ask, she said.

Why don’t the big altruistic wishes ever work? Kahu asked. Don’t tell me they’ve never been tried.

Reva shrugged. Really big wishes are like really big nets, too many fish swim through the holes for them to be effective.

He continued to stare down at her, analyzing her face. I don’t know how you came this far without being stopped. What was your plan? To wish them free? Couldn’t you have done that elsewhere?

A person can only make wishes that have to do with herself, no one else. And the Mauli may not wish. She hesitated. This priest, a stranger, had a certain quality to him that invited her to shift through the misty haze of her thoughts and lay them out for him like a row of carefully collected pearls. But that wouldn’t do.

My plan involved . . . countering previous wishes that have been made. They say you can’t do that sort of thing, but I don’t believe they really tried. The old mothers focus too much on restrictions.

Kahu sat down on the floor opposite her, leaning back against the palm wood of the altar.

Countering previous wishes? he asked.

People fail to see the interconnectivity of wishes, she explained. Consider Ali’i Moeata. The old mothers say she was benevolent. That is, if you think someone can really be benevolent while making a wish that forces people to obey them. That’s a good example of a twisted wish. Some things you shouldn’t be able to wish for, but if you ask in the right way, and the wish giver paints it the right way, it happens. For instance, the current Ali’i wouldn’t be able to wish that anyone else be unable to wish. That would be a wish for other people than himself. But he could wish that only he be able to. And an Ali’i’s domain is part of who he is. Ali’i have unusual capabilities.

The very idea of an Ali’i was strange to her. The old mothers decided for the Mauli, but they chose as a group, and the Mauli, like a school of fish, moved according to their decisions. No one was singled out. There was safety in numbers, even if it was false. But the Ali’i could do as she pleased, affecting the group on a selfish whim.

Somewhat like what Reva was doing.

But back to the story, Reva continued. The old mothers say it was out of love, but I think it could have been done out of hate. Maybe that Mauli was a fool who couldn’t see the difference.

A bit like the old mothers. They couldn’t tell the difference between a cocky brat and clan godsend. Reva scowled.

There are plenty of fools in this world, Kahu agreed.

Reva let go of her annoyance. Have you ever been in love? she asked.

Kahu’s eyes widened. I’m in love right now! With you!

Reva raised both brows, but she smiled. And would you give me anything I wished for?

Anything, Kahu agreed. As long as I was in the mood.

Reva nodded. She found the second part of his answer entirely reasonable.

Apparently a Mauli loved Ali’i Moeata so much that he granted her any wish that she named. Just before he died, he granted a wish that Ali’i Moeata always have her wishes granted.

Kahu leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. The Mauli wished themselves into this service?

Reva smiled humorlessly. With that wish, some other Mauli, any Mauli, would be forced to grant Ali’i Moeata’s wishes. If the Ali’i made a wish before a Mauli, that Mauli would have to grant the wish or die. Reva paused. Kahu nodded his understanding, so she continued. The death that comes from refusing an Ali’i’s wish is slow. But still the old mothers speak of love, as if the Mauli who started all of this was too innocent to realize what he was doing. This pure love, the old mothers argue, is the cornerstone of their philosophy against wishes altogether.

Kahu shifted back, folding his hands behind his head and leaning against the altar. Old people are obsessed with love.

Despite his relaxed pose, Reva could see he was listening carefully. Kahu would know what the people of Tapu’oire knew. Reva had wondered if the city people knew the details of what had happened to the Mauli—if they had been passively complicit. She was relieved to learn that wasn’t true.

Guess what she wished for next, she said.

He didn’t hesitate. More. He tapped his fingers as he considered, connecting her story with what he already knew. She wished for the same power for her children.

Reva nodded once. They could have whatever they wanted. Suddenly the line of Ali’i who had ruled only a corner of our island were the most powerful in the seas.

Reva stared down at her hands, thinking. Maybe Ali’i Moeata was benevolent. Maybe if I had known her, I wouldn’t question that Mauli’s devotion to her. Maybe granting her all of that power would have even seemed like the right thing to do. She flashed her teeth. But everyone knows a child is not a copy of the parent. To give the power so completely to all her heirs— She shook her head.

And if something or someone is too freely available, unable to say no, value and respect are lost, Kahu suggested.

Reva nodded. Love, if it ever existed, turned to hate. They hate us now.

Kahu continued to observe her.

Your old mothers are against wishes, he said. That’s surely part of their disappearing act. Otherwise, there would be a trail.

They are fearful old women, but not without reason, Reva conceded.

Kahu steepled his fingers before his face. I think these wishes belong in Mata’s realm.

The one-eyed god, she mused. Why haven’t I heard of him?

His bright eyes lit on her again. Because his open eye is tight-lipped. It’s the closed eye that speaks and speaks, but that eye has no sound.

Reva turned towards the bright light of the open doorway. My wishes are like closed eyes.

They sat in silence a moment. Outside, the steady murmur of chanting continued.

Have you eaten? Kahu asked.

She shook her head.

I’ll bring something in.

Reva ate better than she had since she’d left her clan, although she noted her stomach had shrunk. Kahu disappeared, and she curled up in a corner where anyone entering the temple wouldn’t immediately see her.

When she awoke, Kahu stood before the altar with both arms held horizontally and level to his shoulders, palms up. He stood there unmoving for some time before she drifted back to sleep.

The second time she woke, it was to the delicious smell of roasted fish.

Yummy, yummy, Kahu said, sliding the banana leaf laden with rice and fish closer to her. The Hour of the Flames approaches, and your road will be blocked again. You’ll need to move quickly or hunker down till it passes.

Reva nodded and set to eating as if she hadn’t in months. Kahu watched with interest, distracting her from her food. She studied his face in turn, the odd quirk of his brows that made him look as if he were harboring some great joke, his clear gray eyes. There was something almost too real about him. The rest of the city seemed like a dream. She expected this was the result of his god.

The clan no longer had any priests. The old mothers said the gods had turned their backs on them.

Mata’s eye and ears are everywhere, he said, but not always his reach. I’m not sure how I’ll be able to help you in whatever dungeon they toss you in.

Thank you.

Don’t thank me. You’re about to enter captivity, yet I still expect you to grant my wish. You’re Mauli, after all. He grinned.

Reva pushed back the empty banana leaf. Kahu formally lowered one hand onto Reva’s face, letting his fingers rest across her forehead, then slid them over to cover her right eye. He leaned in, placing a chaste kiss on her lips before dropping his hand. Their eyes met, his heavy and distant, seeking out the shadows of Mata.

Am I blessed? she asked.

He nodded. But the kiss was extra. I figured I should take advantage while I still could. He grinned.

Reva pushed him away, and his scratchy laughter rolled out. She could count on one hand all of the casual interactions she’d had with people outside of her clan.

She stood, checking that her tools were still secure within her manta bag beneath her robe.

Wish me luck, she said, her eyes moving towards the door. The words sounded odd to her ears; it was a joke amongst her people, but she felt no humor now.

I already have, Kahu said.

If she didn’t make it inside the palace, then her entire journey would become a waste. Maybe even her entire life.

Reva stepped out into the white light of day and turned at once up the pink pathway towards the palace, bulky as a mountain, yet made by men. The sun flamed in the full power of its heat. She could feel the presence of the white priests around her like so many maggots nesting in the pink stone. Their voices clattered in her ears. She ignored the sound. When painting wishes, one had to listen closely, pushing out the other sounds. This was all just one, giant prelude to a wish. She would hear only what she needed to hear.

When she reached the milling throng at the open gates of the palace of Tapu’oire, voices were closing in on her from all sides. Bodies knocked and pushed, and people shuffled, looking for entry. There appeared to be no order whatsoever in the crowd, but a doorman stood at the gate, passing judgment on the waiting people of Tapu’oire.

The Hour of the Flames is upon us! a man boomed behind her. All heed the Hour of the Flames!

Reva looked up at the high walls of stone stacked on stone. This was the same pile of stones her clan had been trapped in; some still were. Her current plan had no guarantees. It incorporated no exit route.

It is the Hour of the Flames! shouted a woman beside her. The woman’s face seemed somehow inhuman, her mouth gaping as she turned to those around her, as if they wouldn’t hear her if she weren’t facing them. All heed the Hour of the Flames!

This time Reva disregarded the wave of bodies as those around her dropped to the ground. She stepped over their still forms to approach the gate.

2

Reva

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I’m here to see the Ali’i, she told the doorman.

All the prone bodies had allowed her to approach him directly. She was reassured to see his lack of robes. Instead, he wore clothes in the fashion of Tapu’oire with long pants and a loose tunic.

It’s the Hour of the Flames, he replied.

Yes. I’m here to see the Ali’i.

The doorman smiled smugly. It’s the Hour of the Flames. I’m sure the white priests will be here soon to educate you.

Reva raised a brow and glanced behind her. The entire length of the street that cut through the Circle of the Gods was clogged with prone bodies. Those nearest were more intent on her conversation with the doorman than their prayers.

Is your duty to the Ali’i or the priesthood? she asked. You haven’t even asked my business.

State your name and business.

Reva of the Mauli. I’ve come to grant Ali’i Ora’s wishes.

The color left the doorman’s face, and Reva could feel her lips peeling back into a mean smile. She couldn’t help it. Behind her she could hear Mauli in a whispered wave traveling down the street.

There are no more Mauli, he said.

The whispering behind her was like a rising serpent. There were so many ready to burn her and so many thinking just as the doorman did. Reva leaned down and removed the swaddling cloth covering her feet. The doorman swallowed hard. A second wave of murmuring rose behind her and swept down the Celestial Path. She heard awe and fear and approaching hatred.

A Mauli’s feet were her first expression of art and talent. They were painted when they were still young children, but after the Mauli in question had shown enough aptitude to be trusted with the task. They put their needles to their own feet, granting