Laya leaned against the metal railing at the bow as the riverboat chugged along the main canal. Months had passed since their last trip to the spirit houses, and with half of Maynara in the city for the feast days, they needed to put on their best face. In past years, the king and queen would have gone with them. Hara Duja always said they didn’t visit enough. Their father, frankly, couldn’t be bothered. He often liked to say that Mother, Bulan, Laya, and Eti were the only goddesses he would ever need. Then he would add in a theatrical whisper, I joke more than I should, but this one, I truly mean.

He told them before they left on the riverboat, I believe you’re all old enough to handle this engagement on your own. But Laya wondered if Hara Duja’s furtive behavior at the dawn feast had anything to do with her absence.

There had once been a time when Laya had delighted in their rituals. They made her feel connected to something ancient and unspeakable. These days, however, they felt like showmanship⁠—a hollow display more than anything else. As her power grew, the less pious she became. That was because she knew if the gods ever deigned to punish them, she could return their wrath tenfold. Laya was as much at the gods’ mercy as they were at hers.

In spite of this, she humbled as the balete tree came into view. It was centuries older than Maynara and nearly half the size of the palace. During one of Laya’s lessons, High Shaman Maiza had sworn the tree was as old as the island itself. People claimed that the first humans emerged from its twisting, snakelike branches. They said the fools who dared climb it got swept inside, doomed to wander the realm of the spirits forever.

For all of Laya’s blaspheming, even she could sense that the gods had touched the tree. Its branches whispered in a chorus of a thousand hushed voices; whether they bore blessings or warnings, she could never be sure.

Beyond the platform at the end of the canal, dozens of spirit houses circled the balete tree. They weren’t uniform and were built of different types of wood. Some were smaller than birdhouses, others large enough to hold three men Ojas’s size. When the boat steered to a stop, Laya followed her sisters onto the platform facing the balete tree. They climbed up to the spirit house reserved for the royal family⁠—the one with the smooth, sloping roof with finials in the shape of crocodile jaws and the highest dais. One of Ojas’s men stood guard outside while Laya, Bulan, and Eti knelt on the floorboards.