The best tributes came from the Council of Datus, who arrived at the end of the procession. Second in rank only to the Gatdulas, these were the highest-born members of the royal court. Their gifts, intended as small tokens of their loyalty to the queen, were but an excuse for the datus to flaunt their wealth before the rest of the court. Often, they reflected the datus’ personal tastes.

Datu Luma, as was custom, mounted the great steps first. The oldest datu, with stern eyes, wisps of white hair, and a kadatuan that encompassed the lush forests of the northern highlands, he liked to shower them with extravagant furniture carved from native Maynaran timber.

“A gift to adorn your private chambers, Hara Duja,” Datu Luma murmured, bowing low at their feet. It was a towering commode of lacquered mahogany with mythical scenes engraved in the facade. Laya made out Mulayri’s raptor as he swooped between the swirling vines chiseled into the wood. She watched enviously as servants hauled Datu Luma’s tribute up the steep palace steps. Her mother received the finest gifts. But, like the mantle, everything would pass to Laya soon.

Next in line stood Datu Gulod, who had a flair for pageantry and never failed to delight. He waved his hand and called up his servants to present his tribute⁠—a trio of emerald-green peacocks that blinked up at them with beady eyes, the delicate bars of their cages too sparse to contain their many-eyed plumes.

“Oh!” To Laya’s right, Eti let out a gasp of wonder, which told Datu Gulod he’d chosen well.

“Please accept my tribute, Hara Duja.” Datu Gulod bowed theatrically, his greasy nose brushing against the freshly polished tiles, a smug smile on his waxy, youngish face. He nodded in Eti’s direction⁠—the most precious of the Gatdula sisters, she had always been the datus’ favorite.

“I’m glad the birds please you, Dayang,” Gulod told her, then took his place along the marble railing.

The Kulaws were next. Once, they, too, had boasted gods-given powers, but their infernal abilities were lost to history, stamped out by the Gatdulas themselves. And while they were no longer the mightiest foes in the land, the sight of the family still rendered Maynara speechless. An expectant hush swept over the waiting crowd as Luntok and Imeria mounted the steps. He kept to his mother’s side, a triumphant warrior in full ceremonial dress. His vest, woven from fine, scarlet silk, revealed the web of tattoos etched across the broad planes of his chest. A few highborn women, clustered at the base of the stairs, tittered behind their hands, no doubt noticing how much Luntok had grown since the previous year.

“No longer a boy, is he?” Laya thought she heard one of them whisper.