The Rusted Welcome

Moana-iti

Five spears point at my ribs, which feels excessive for a wedding party. If the elders of my clan intended to sell me into a peaceful alliance, they forgot to tell the men holding the iron. My boots scrape against the volcanic gravel as the cart shudders to a halt before the outer gate of the Hawaiki estate. I do not care about the vows or the blood-truce. I only want two things before nightfall: an exit that does not require a key, and a blade in my palm.

The compound loiters against the black cliffs like a predator waiting for dark. High basalt walls, murder holes, and not a single lantern burning in the guard tower.

"Move," the rear guard grunts, shoving a spear butt into my shoulder blade.

I catch my balance. Gravel crunches under my heel. "Charming hospitality. Is the feast inside, or do you slaughter the bride out here to save on cleaning the rugs?"

He glares, but he does not bite. These men are nervous. Their knuckles are white around their ash-wood shafts, their gazes darting toward the empty battlements. Something happened here recently, and it was not a celebration.

The double gate of black iron blocks the courtyard, closed tight. A warped latch hangs half-thrown in the central fitting, crusted with dark brown flaking that smells faintly of copper.

"The gate is barred from the inside," one of the younger guards mutters. "Where is the gatekeeper?"

"Dead or drunk," the lead guard spits. He kicks the heavy iron. It rattles, jammed solid in the stone socket. "Break it open."

"Wait," I say.

"Stay back, girl."

"You hit that iron with an axe, and every archer on the cliff will wake up to pin you to the dirt." I step past the line of spearheads before they can close ranks. "Let me look at the latch."

The lead guard hesitates, then lowers his weapon a fraction. "Touch it. If it does not yield, we drag you through the drainage sluice."

I ignore him. Proximity is everything. I take three paces, planting myself directly in front of the cold iron mechanism.

My bare palm meets the cracked metal plate.

The fracture screams.

It hits like an ice-water plunge. Resonance rips through my skin, tearing away the quiet afternoon. The memory trapped in the broken iron floods my vision in jagged, violent flashes.

Rain pouring over dark stone. Three nights ago. A heavy blade with a jagged, triangular notch drives up under a sentry's chin. Bone shatters. The sentry chokes on red foam, his fingers clawing at the lockbox. In his dying agony, he jams his personal obsidian dagger deep into the hollow cavity behind the tumbler, hiding it from the shadow looming over him before his neck snaps.

My stomach lurches. Bile climbs my throat.

I force my jaw tight, swallowing the vertigo down until my pulse stops hammering in my ears. The guard did not abandon his post. He was butchered right where I am standing, and his body was dragged inward.

I do not scream. I do not flinch. Panic gets scavengers killed, and right now I am scavenging for my life.

My fingers find the fracture line in the iron housing. Knowing where the dead sentry's weight bent the inner pin, I hook two fingers into the hidden seam and pull upward with a sharp, calculated jerk.

The rusted mechanism clicks.

In the same fluid motion, my thumb slips into the hollow recess behind the loosened tumbler. My skin brushes cold volcanic glass. The grip is wrapped in shark leather, coarse and dry.

I slide the obsidian dagger free.

Before the iron gate swings open with a low groan, the blade vanishes into the thick fold of my linen waist-wrap. The guards behind me exhale, none of them bright enough to see my hand drop empty from the latch.

"Told you," I murmur, wiping rust dust onto my thigh. "A gentle touch."

The lead guard grunts, pushing past me as the black gates part. "Move inside. The master does not like to wait."

I step over the threshold.

The courtyard is a wide expanse of paved obsidian stone, slick with mountain mist. No servants line the path. No drums beat for the bride.

Only one man stands beside the central stone cistern.

Tane-roa.

He is taller than the rumors claimed, broad-shouldered and carved from dark teak and old violence. He wears no ceremonial cape, only a leather cuirass stripped of ornaments. His dark gaze locks onto mine the instant my boot hits the courtyard flagstones. He does not blink. He does not offer a greeting.

Then my gaze drops to his right hand.

He is resting his thumb against the pommel of a heavy war knife, tapping the flat of the metal against his thigh.

Near the hilt, a deep triangular notch bites into the edge.

It is the exact blade from the echo.

My breath catches behind my teeth. My new husband did not just order the murder at the gate.

He carved the throat himself.