“What’s going on?”

Bane shook his head, his dark eyes swimming with doubt. “I don’t know, but it’s something. And I’m worried. I shouldn’t say that to you, but so much has changed . . .” He started to turn the knob, then stopped and looked back at Griffin. “What is Keko to you?”

She is my Queen, too, Griffin wanted to say, but somehow didn’t feel it appropriate, like it would diminish the title in her brother’s eyes.

“So much,” he replied. “It’s hard to put into words.”

At that, the skin around Bane’s eyes and mouth tightened as his gaze dropped to the tile. “Then I understand.”

Before Griffin could ask about Ikaika, Bane threw open the front door. When the chief had said “talk,” he had not meant a quiet chat alone.

Griffin slowly exited the front door of the chief’s house onto a wide stone terrace lit with brilliant sunlight . . . and came face to face with the entire Chimeran population, easily three times the number that had watched the challenge two days ago. Dusky-skinned, black haired people filled the meadow, their expectant faces turned up to the terrace. Many had the carriage of a warrior; most did not. This was every Big Island Chimeran, from every status level, and they all stared curiously at Griffin.

Another fight? Griffin wondered. Another challenge?

The heavy muscle aches lingered. So did the stiffness and fatigue—and the soul-deep crush of loss and guilt over having to watch Keko disappear. But he would fight again if he had to, if it came down to that. For her.

Lengthening his stride, shoving aside his weakness, he crossed the terrace to come even with the chief standing at the balustrade. At the foot of the steps below, the Chimerans spread out far into the distance, a sea of shifting bodies and hushed, speculative voices. The buzz of their massed signatures tingled in Griffin’s mind and he realized, with a heartsick feeling, that the chief’s had been restored.

The Chimeran leader, however, had not removed his shirt.

Griffin assessed the crowd, noting others whose chests and shoulders were covered. Far more than the twenty-two Keko had healed, so maybe the chief and the others she’d cured wouldn’t stand out as much as they’d feared. In the front row stood Ikaika, his T-shirt bright white against his skin. He met Griffin’s eyes in solemnity, giving away nothing.

Makaha was nowhere to be seen. Of course. The warrior was likely still stationed at the back, because even though he’d challenged and defeated the man who’d maimed him, he was still considered disabled.

Chief faced his people and raised a thick arm. The entire valley went instantly silent. And then it erupted in a shout worthy of a volcano.

A single word, spoken as one great voice—as dazzling as fire, as intimidating as war, and as reverent as all the Earth’s religions combined. Griffin didn’t have to speak old Chimeran to know it was a name. The chief’s name. Ali’i in a language that predated their people’s great migration across the sea.

Never, not once, had a former Ofarian Chairman been greeted in such a manner, with his people saturating the atmosphere with admiration and love. It was the stuff of stories, of fairy tales, of faraway lands, the way people might have bowed to a king. The major difference was, the title of king and Ofarian Chairman had been bestowed because of birth and blood. The title of Chimeran ali’i also came by blood, but that of the drawn, battled kind. No matter what poor, unfair decisions Chief had made with regard to Keko, he had undoubtedly earned this position time and time again, and his people worshipped him for it.

Such devotion was beyond humbling.

Chief slammed a fist against his chest in a show of mutual adoration toward his people. The fist remained pressed against the light blue of his button-down shirt. A sheen coated his black eyes. The sun reflected off the moisture, making them spark.

The Chimerans responded. A simultaneous pounding of their chests—men and women and children, warrior and common folk alike.

Griffin shivered under the force of it. And then he shivered because he still did not know why he’d been called out here.

“You are wondering,” Chief said, his booming voice carrying across the field that had again fallen obediently and rapturously silent, “why Griffin Aames, the Ofarian leader, is in our valley.”

Griffin stood as still as the stone balustrade beneath his fingertips, keeping his eyes on the chief, and carefully managing the pound of his heart and the pace of his breathing.

Chief, however, looked only at his people. “He did not come here to face and be challenged by the Chimeran he disfigured, as some of you have speculated.”

Pockets of Chimerans shifted on their feet, looking over their shoulders, trying to pick out Makaha in the crowd. Griffin felt his blood begin to boil, the deep heat starting around his neck and ears. Not embarrassment, but a slow, simmering anger aimed at the chief.

“He did not come here to ask for peace or to beg for an alliance,” Chief said. “He came here because of Kekona Kalani.”

More movement, a few murmurs.

“A few months ago we were ready to go to war against the Ofarians,” Chief intoned. “Our general had been taken hostage by one of the water wielders, in what was then believed to be a hostile grab for power.”

Now Griffin moved. A slight tightening of his fists. A little bend of the knees, firming his stance. Readying himself for whatever was to come.

“Our attack was called off when it was proven to us that Kekona was taken by a rogue Ofarian. That part you do know. What you don’t know”—Chief finally slid a glance over to Griffin—“is that Kekona defied the rules of the elementals and the kapu laws of her clan when she chose to be with Griffin Aames.”

That garnered a response, a widespread wave of surprise that raked like nails over Griffin’s skin. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed several warriors edging toward the terrace, ready to take him down if he made a move toward their leader. Griffin couldn’t be certain that he wouldn’t.

“Kekona was dishonored because she was dishonorable. Her war mongering was falsely based, stemming specifically from her relationship with that Ofarian.”

Discontented, defensive rustling rippled through the crowd.

“Chief,” Griffin growled, because he couldn’t stay silent any longer.

But the chief deepened his voice and upped the volume. “Three years ago, Griffin disobeyed the most sacred Senatus rule and used his magic to attack one of our own during a gathering, disgracing the great warrior Makaha. He has spent nearly every moment since trying to convince me and the rest of the elementals that we are flawed and he is eternally right.”

The rustling intensified. Whispers changed to questions, accusatory sentences, and dark looks.

Chief lifted both hands, calling for silence. “But he is not here because of what Kekona did wrong. He is not here because of what he did wrong.” When he drew a breath it was not Chimeran, but still one that shook and rattled in his chest. “He is here because of what I did wrong.”

Griffin gasped, but the sound of it was lost in the wave of confusion wrinkling the blanket of rapt devotion the chief had cast over the valley.

Chief shouted something in Chimeran, and his people went quiet and still, though it was no longer instant, the unrest lingering. They watched him intently. Griffin noticed Bane inching closer to the steps leading down to the meadow.

The chief’s fingers gripped the balustrade. He leaned heavily into his arms, his head bent—the first time Griffin had ever witnessed him not looking directly at his people. The whole valley seemed to be holding its breath, including Griffin and Ikaika, whose face had gone ashen with shock and worry. Would the chief actually—