Chapter 12

Indigo Silk, Silver Thread

Dalon got little chance to bask in the wonderful reception of his storytelling. Overcome with exhaustion, he’d slumped on his mat at home, after he and his Pa had dropped off Toba at Aunt Lisay’s hut. He’d curled into himself, his skin and flesh ablaze with a heat that could rival the sun at the height of the dry season. Yet his muscles spasmed with shivers, and the bright contrast between the outer heat and the inner cold rattled his head.

Someone knocked loudly at their door. Dalon opened a burning eye. It was still dark inside the hut, although there were waves splashing against the stilts. It must be the darkest point just before dawn. Had he even managed to sleep yet? He was bone weary, but his incessant shuddering had given him no respite.

The knock came again, stronger this time. Dalon’s Pa struggled out of the cot and groped around. “Where did I put my cane?” he grumbled.

Dalon sat up, crossing his arms and hunching his shoulders. The room swayed a little, but he braced himself against the dizziness. “It’s all right, Pa. I’ll get the door.”

“You should rest, son. You don’t look so well.”

But Dalon’s lengthy stride brought him to the door faster than his father could find his cane. He swung the door open and was flabbergasted to see three hale men at the landing. Around each of their heads was a turban, deep crimson if Dalon adjusted for the lack of light. If that wasn’t telling enough, red-and-gold tunics draped over their shoulders and a sword dangled from each of their waists.

What were the datu’s warriors doing here?

“Yes, that looks like him,” one of them muttered.

The man in the middle stepped forward. “Are you the storyteller who narrated a tale in the northern market earlier this night?” he inquired. He seemed about Dalon’s father’s age, with a sturdy frame and a square face.

“Yes, I am,” Dalon admitted. He had never interacted with Datu Hálgundî’s warriors before. He’d never even interacted with the datu himself before. What could they possibly want from him?

“The datu requests your presence immediately. We’re to escort you to his home.”

“What’s going on?” Dalon’s father asked, hobbling over with his cane. His tone was soft, but respectful. “Is my son in trouble?”

“I’m afraid we know little about the reason behind the summons,” the warrior responded evenly. “Just carrying out orders.”

Dalon placed a reassuring hand on his father’s shoulder, even as confusion clouded his already cottony mind. “Go get some rest, Pa. I’ll sort this out.”

He went to the chests by the wall and quickly donned on a thick cloak that two days before had been warming his mother’s shoulders. Even now, she was pale beneath her share of blankets, her fever having sapped most of her strength. That was the unfortunate thing with his mother. A single illness, even something that another person could shake off in a few days, could leave her losing whatever health gains she’d made for months.

Dalon followed the warriors down the steps and into the boat tied around a stilt. Two of the warriors rowed west to the Big River, then turned north at its mouth.

The air grew chillier as they rode upriver to the datu’s compound. The homes he glimpsed through the foliage on the banks were dark and quiet. There was a sense of peace and calm about them, and for a moment Dalon’s mood lightened with the thought that perhaps Datu Hálgundî just wanted to hear a story.

But no, that didn’t make sense. Why would he want it at this time? Why would he send warriors, instead of ordinary servants or even officials?

The urgency of the summons could only mean there was some kind of danger in Lurit. Or there was trouble with a foreign merchant. Either way, Dalon didn’t know how he could be involved.

Pinpricks of orange light appeared in the distance, and soon the boat was passing by torches lined up in even intervals. Behind those stood large huts among trees of tamarind and green mandarin. The warriors stopped their boat at a well-built pier, and they all got off. They trekked a path towards a looming house that Dalon knew to be the datu’s. He’d never so much as stepped this close to it before. He had only ever glimpsed it a handful of times when he had gone this far up north on the river.

Dalon climbed a wide wooden staircase to the landing of the house. The warriors didn’t give him time to wash his feet, but ushered him inside immediately.

The main room of the house was a large hall, longer than it was wide. The walls on either side of Dalon were covered by textiles of geometric flowers and ocean waves. Sheets of simple cotton lined the timbers on the ceiling. Two torches stood at the end of the hall, between which crouched a wide table, its marble top gleaming in the light. Behind that sat a young man draped in maroon silk with a white cotton sash and belt. Gold loops hung from his distended lobes. He wore no turban, his short hair unable to hide the patch of red birthmark that extended from the right side of his forehead down to his cheekbone. The birthmark that Datu Hálgundî was known for.

Dalon swiftly bowed his head, placing a hand on each cheek, but not before he noticed another figure, clad in indigo and silver, standing behind the table. A figure that seemed familiar, although Dalon was sure they’d never met. Where had he seen that man? Or was his fever playing tricks on his sight?

The datu’s warriors deposited him kneeling in front of the table before they filed out of the hall. A tense silence filled the echoing space. Dalon kept his back bowed.

“You may rise,” Datu Hálgundî ordered. His voice was surprisingly mild, but Dalon could still detect an underlying authority in it.

Dalon straightened, but kept his gaze down on the marble top of the table.

“So you’re the village storyteller everyone’s been talking about,” Datu Hálgundî remarked. “Dalon, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, Dalon.” The datu shifted, leaning his elbows on the table’s surface. “Earlier this night you told of a version of ‘Utaw and Princess Maya’ in which Maya was born with an amulet that can enhance a person’s ability to speak articulately. Where did you get the idea for this change?”

A coldness dawned on Dalon, heavier than the chill permeating his muscles, sharper than the slice of wind on the river. Did Datu Hálgundî suspect that Dalon was using an amulet to get his ideas? Were he and Karí careless enough to be discovered while using the King Eyes? Was the other man standing in this room some kind of witness?

To lie to the datu was a punishable offense. To admit that he’d been using an amulet without approval was also a punishable offense, and he would be dragging Karí down with him.

“It just came to me, my lord,” Dalon said, almost before he was aware of which punishment he was going to risk. It took every bit of strength in him not to cringe at the lie. Never in his whole life had he imagined lying to his datu. The entire time he’d kept this secret, he’d always believed he could prepare some kind of confession, some explanation that would make him look more sensible than a fool trying to flout an inconvenient law.

But he didn’t have time. And now that the lie was out of his mouth, it was too late to take it back. All he could do was pull off his answers with a confident certainty. Then perhaps Datu Hálgundî would never need to know about the King Eyes. He could save himself. He could save Karí.

Still, he had difficulty quelling the shaking of his hands as he continued. Datus may come into their role by blood, but they weren’t raised to be stupid. “I needed a legitimate reason for King Luyong to keep Princess Maya secluded. Most people who’ve heard of the tale can tell that keeping one’s daughter in a cave is not something ordinary parents who love their children simply do. There must have been more to it. And as a storyteller, I know the power of being eloquent. I think it’s something that a king might find very useful.”

The datu’s stare was piercing, but he didn’t give any sign if he believed Dalon’s lie. “Useful enough that it corrupts him into a cruel and jealous man who would banish an innocent young boy with so little evidence?”

Dalon wasn’t sure if his fever was interfering with his ability to make sense of this interrogation. He didn’t know what point Datu Hálgundî was trying to make.

“Well, yes,” he conceded. “I admit that since I made Princess Maya an amulet, it’s fair to interpret King Luyong as someone who’s insecure in his position as king. Someone who’s using his daughter as a crutch to maintain his rule. True, it differs from his portrayal as an overly concerned father from the original. But regardless, banishing Utaw has always been part of the tale.”

Datu Hálgundî tapped his fingers against each other, a furrow appearing between his brows. He seemed to be rolling Dalon’s answer in his mind. Finally, he released an almost imperceptible sigh, as if he found Dalon’s explanation wanting. He turned his face towards the stern man standing beside him, though he kept his gaze on Dalon’s face. “Do you recognize this man?”

The man in question was not a young one nor an old one; rather, he was approaching his prime. He had thick, silky hair, a well-defined jaw, and healthy skin. He kept his chin up and stared at Dalon down his nose. His neck was covered by the high collar of his indigo silk robe—

Dalon’s heart skipped a beat. Then it came back like a strike of lightning as he continued to assess the man’s clothes. Indigo silk robe. Gleaming silver threads in a pattern of crescent moons. His gaze crawled up to the man’s face again. The features weren’t the same as what he’d seen in Karí’s visions, but there were similarities. This man was slimmer and taller than King Luyong, but the straightness of his back, the tilt of his head, the disdain spelled out by his expression, were all there.

Dalon proceeded with a half-lie. “No, I’ve never seen this man, my lord.” Not in the flesh, anyway. “Who is he?”

A deriding sniff came from the man in question, and Dalon stiffened. Datu Hálgundî stiffened too. He turned a questioning glance at the other man. “Have you ever seen this boy?”

Almost begrudgingly, the man’s eyes scanned Dalon’s face, and his scowl deepened. “No, their lordship.” The reply was curt, barely just tempered by the respectful third-person.

“So neither of you have met the other.” A little tension from Datu Hálgundî’s shoulders seeped out.

Dalon slipped further into bafflement. If this man had never seen him before, then he couldn’t have possibly witnessed Dalon using the King Eyes with Karí. What was this meeting all about, then? Why did Datu Hálgundî himself seem so uncomfortable?

The datu turned once again to Dalon. “The man beside me is Merchant Tangad, the generous man who has agreed to sell rice in Lurit for a price lower than average.”

Dalon’s mouth parted, but he didn’t know how he could respond to that. None of these facts were connecting in his mind, and he was no longer sure that the worsening stuffiness in his head had anything to do with it.

“You were reported to have described King Luyong dressed in indigo silk with moons embroidered in silver,” Datu Hálgundî continued, with a meaningful glance at the merchant’s attire. “This is not a common design—“

“Custom-made from the sultanate in the southwest,” Merchant Tangad interjected heartily.

“Custom-made,” Datu Hálgundî emphasized. “Do you understand the implications of fashioning this new version of King Luyong after Merchant Tangad and then making him hoard his daughter away because he lacks speaking skills for his rank?”

A sinking sensation speared through Dalon. Insult. This was why he was being interrogated. For insulting the most important merchant to ever visit Lurit.

Dalon could hardly believe how his tale could be perceived from this angle. But there was strong evidence right there in Tangad’s clothes. Did Karí see him in those? She must not have been aware she was imagining King Luyong like Tangad, in the same way she hadn’t been aware he’d been mouthing curses in her vision. Otherwise, she would have told Dalon where she got the inspiration from.

Perhaps Dalon ought to reveal Karí’s involvement now. She would have all the answers.

But all the blame would fall on her instead. What kind of person did that make him? He was the one who had convinced her they ought to tell a story during the festival, an idea she hadn’t even been keen on at the beginning. And now that things were all tangled up, he would just shove it all on her lap to fix by herself? It shamed him to even think about it.

“I assure you I had no intention of insinuating such a thing,” Dalon said. “My lord, please believe me. It’s all an accident.”

“Where did you get the idea of an eloquence amulet?” Datu Hálgundî pressed, an urgency in his tone now. “You must have gotten it from somewhere. The ability to provide eloquence isn’t a well-known power for an amulet. Come now, did someone put you up to it?”

“N-nobody, my lord! At least, I don’t remember hearing it from anyone. The idea sprouted from my mind as if it grew from a seed buried there.”

“Perhaps he’d be more amenable to telling us who planted the seed if he knows what his obstinacy will lead to,” Merchant Tangad said. “Isn’t Lurit’s punishment for insulting a high-ranking merchant, one hundred gold beads?”

Dalon’s breath came in gasps. His muscles were cold and hot all at once. The walls, although they were far from him in the vast expanse of the hall, seemed like they were pressing in. One hundred gold beads. That would plunge him deep into indentured servitude. Forget the raft. Forget a comfortable life for his parents and brother. He wouldn’t be able to claw his way out of that debt anytime soon.

“I swear I didn’t mean any of this, my lord,” Dalon pleaded. “I don’t understand what’s happening. Why does it matter where I got the idea from? Whether it’s from me or someone else, the connection between Merchant Tangad and King Luyong is absolutely an accident.”

Datu Hálgundî sat up abruptly and flashed a hand towards Dalon. Dalon winced, bracing himself against the blow. He’d overstepped the rules of propriety, he realized, having the audacity to question the datu's demands.

But the hand that settled on his brow was gentle.

“You’re ill,” Datu Hálgundî said, and Dalon opened his eyes to peer up at the young man. At the edge of his sight, he found Merchant Tangad’s mouth slightly ajar at the gesture. “Perhaps it’s best if we continue this tomorrow. I’ll keep you here for now, Dalon. With a bit of rest, you might give us the answer we seek.”

The datu called for a servant, and a moment later, someone was helping Dalon lift himself from the floor. The wooden slats spun as he stood, and the design of the tapestries blended together in a dizzying whirl. As the servant escorted him out of the hall, the datu and the merchant conversed in low, uneasy tones, with the datu looking almost afraid. Or maybe that was just an illusion by the fever. Dalon could hardly tell anymore.