Chapter 13: The Child-King | Rajah Versus Conquistador
Evening of April 14th, 1521
The platform where five hundred of your subjects received the foreigners' water ritual still stands in the darkness, transformed by lamplight into something both familiar and strange. Like the stages where your baylan perform their sacred dances, yet stripped of the usual signs of power – no blood-stained altar stones, no sacred knives, no sacred images, no gongs to call the diwata. Only their great wooden symbol rises into the night sky, its outline barely visible in the dim light, a darker shape against the star-filled darkness.
You sit with the visitors – Father Pedro in his worn black robes, Enrike with his careful translations, the young scribe whose quill never seems to rest. A few other of the Kapitan’s men linger nearby, perhaps hoping to glimpse more of your port's famous hospitality. The night breeze carries mixed scents – incense from the ceremony, salt from the nearby sea, and beneath it all, the eternal perfume of power that rises from your domain.
Then she appears, emerging from the darkness like a spirit from the old stories. Paraluman moves with that otherworldly grace that marks her kind, each step precise as ritual. Behind her comes young Inday, your daughter who chose the binukot path, and Bini, who preserves their ancient ways. Flanking them are Paraluman's trusted bayot beauticians. Other women of rank follow – wives of datus, daughters of noble houses, each carrying herself with careful dignity.
But it is your devadasi who create the true spectacle. They flow around Paraluman like waves around a ship's prow, their oiled skin catching lamplight, their practiced movements drawing every eye. You note with appreciation how she has turned their display to her advantage. Where the baylan meant these slave-dancers to mock the binukot's seclusion with their shameless exposure, Paraluman has transformed their nakedness into a frame that only heightens her own careful covering. Even in this, she shows her mastery of perception – using what was meant to diminish her kind into something that magnifies her instead.
The visitors' reaction confirms her victory. You watch their eyes follow the dancers' movements, only to be drawn inevitably to Paraluman's veiled presence at their center. Where the devadasi offer obvious allure, she presents mystery. Where they display flesh, she suggests depths.
Paraluman keeps her eyes downcast as she ascends the platform steps, her movements flowing like water over stones. The lamplight catches the rich fabric of her garments – layers of silk from distant kingdoms wrapping her form in careful mystery. Her headdress of woven palm leaves casts intricate shadows across her face, completing her transformation from mere woman into living artwork.
Only when she reaches the platform's center does she lift her gaze – not to sweep the gathered crowd, not to acknowledge the visitors' stunned attention, but to find you with unwavering focus. The intensity of her regard strikes you like a physical force. You feel the foreigners' eyes shift between you and her, reading the current of power that flows in that shared look. You can almost taste their thoughts – what manner of man commands such devotion from so magnificent a creature? What force of will could tame such beauty?
You suppress a smile at their misreading. They see what they expect to see – a powerful rajah and his prized possession. They cannot know how she has shaped their perception, how carefully she has orchestrated this display of seeming submission. It is like watching a master player lay the groundwork for moves that will only become clear many turns later.
She settles beside you with fluid grace, her garments arranging themselves in perfect folds. The young scribe seems almost in a trance, his quill forgotten in his hand. Then, as if moved by a force beyond his control, he reaches into his sleeve and withdraws something wrapped in fine cloth.
His hands tremble slightly as he unwraps it – a small painted image that captures the lamplight. You hear Paraluman's sharp intake of breath beside you. The image shows a woman, wrapped in blue garments like a binukot's silks, her foot crushing a serpent's head. Her face carries an expression you've seen sometimes in Paraluman's unguarded moments – absolute serenity masking immeasurable strength.
Something stirs in those boxes within boxes where you've kept the boy locked away. You feel ancient hinges begin to creak...
"This is Santamaria," Enrike's voice carries that peculiar mix of reverence and pride you've noticed when he speaks of his diwata's mysteries. "The Mother of the Almighty, who bore him in secret and brought him forth to change the world."
The words strike something deep within you as you watch Paraluman study the image. Her careful masks begin to slip, revealing glimpses of raw emotion beneath. You've seen her perform a thousand faces – the demure bride, the regal queen, the stern mistress – but this is different. This is like watching a master blade-smith recognize the pattern of their own secret techniques in a foreign sword.
"In your tongue," Enrike continues, his voice taking on the cadence of prophecy, "she would be called 'She Who Crushes the Serpent.' For it was foretold that through her, the ancient deceiver's power would be broken."
You feel Paraluman's hand find yours in the darkness, squeezing with almost painful intensity. The binukot prophecy echoes in your mind: "And in the appointed time, a binukot shall arise and reveal the true color of her skin before all... and through her, the serpent's head shall be crushed..."
The young scribe, perhaps sensing the weight of the moment, reaches again into his sleeve. This time he withdraws something that catches the lamplight like captured sunrise – a small figure carved from wood and adorned with gold. A child-king, crowned and robed in majesty, one hand raised in blessing, the other holding a golden orb that represents the world.
Paraluman's composure shatters completely. Tears flow freely down her face as she reaches for the figure with trembling hands. "The child who will rule," she whispers in her native tongue, "not through blood, but through love everlasting..."
Something shifts inside you, like stone grinding against ancient stone. The boxes that hold the boy begin to crack, hairline fractures spreading through walls you thought impregnable. You feel the serpent writhe in alarm, sensing its power beginning to slip...
The child's face in the firelight seems to hold all the love your mother once gave you, all the gentleness you locked away to become Rajah Humabon. His eyes carry none of the hunger you've grown used to seeing in sacred objects – no demand for blood, no appetite for power. Just infinite compassion, as if it sees every box you've built within yourself and loves you anyway.
The serpent thrashes wildly now, trying to maintain its grip. But each of Paraluman's tears that fall is like water wearing away at stone. Every sob she releases strikes the ancient locks like a hammer on heated metal. You feel the boy stir more strongly, no longer a distant memory but a living presence pushing against his prison walls.
Then Paraluman speaks, her voice carrying that tone that even the serpent cannot resist: "Look, aking mahal. Look at what power truly is." Her fingers trace the child's features. "Not a serpent that devours, but a child who loves. Not a king who demands sacrifice, but the Almighty himself who offers his life freely for ulipon and datu alike."
The boxes shatter.
The boy emerges, blinking in the light he hasn't seen since that day in Mactan. His tears – your tears – flow freely now, mixing with Paraluman's as they fall on the wooden platform. You feel the weight of decades of sacrifice and violence begin to lift. The serpent's coils loosen for the first time since you first tasted blood.
You reach out with trembling hands to touch the carved figure. The boy in you recognizes something in his face – the same light you once saw in your mother's eyes, the same love that Paraluman has been trying to show you all these years. Not the desire that the serpent understands – the kind that can be possessed and controlled – but something else entirely. Something that transforms rather than consumes.
Your voice carries its usual weight of command, but something else flows beneath it – not the familiar undertone of barely-contained violence, but a gentleness you haven't felt since before the serpent claimed you. "This," you say, studying the carved figure with the same careful attention you'd give to reading battle tattoos, "this is the power you binukot have preserved?"
Paraluman's smile through her tears is like sunrise breaking through storm clouds. "Yes, aking mahal. This is what we waited for in our darkness. Not another serpent-king demanding tribute, but a child-king who rules through love." Her hand finds yours again. "A power that needs no blood to grow strong."
The serpent makes one last attempt to assert its dominion, whispering of enemies at your gates, of power slipping away, of the thousand threats that only its strength can defeat. But its voice grows fainter with each of Paraluman's tears, with each moment you hold the child-king's image.
You feel something new taking root where the serpent's coils once gripped your heart. Or perhaps not new at all – perhaps it was there all along, waiting like a binukot in darkness for its appointed time. The love your mother tried to preserve in you, that Paraluman helped you rediscover, that this foreign diwata offers freely to all.
The boy is fully free now, and with him comes a wild joy different from the serpent's destructive ecstasy. This is the joy of chains falling away, of light reaching places long kept in darkness. You are not just Rajah Humabon anymore, not just the serpent's vessel. You are becoming something else entirely – something that even Handuraw never imagined possible.
You look at Paraluman through eyes washed clean by tears, and for the first time, you truly see her – not as a piece in your game of power, not as mistress or slave or wife, but as she is. The woman who loves.
The night breeze stirs, carrying the scent of the sea. Tomorrow there will be consequences to face, alliances to rebuild, a new way of ruling to discover. But for now, you simply exist in this moment of transformation, holding your wife's hand as the last of the serpent's shadows fade before the child-king's gentle light.
The silence that follows holds the weight of prophecy fulfilled. For a moment, no one moves – as if the slightest sound might shatter this fragile new reality. Then Paraluman speaks, her voice carrying that quiet authority that needs no volume to command attention: "It is time."
Even in the dim light, you can read the certainty in her face. She rises with fluid grace, the carved figure of the Child-King still cradled in her hands. "The water ritual," she says. "Not as spectacle for the crowd, but as the binukot receive all sacred things – in darkness and silence."
***
The women's bautismo had been different from the morning's spectacle – no crowds, no cannon fire, just the quiet splashing of holy water and Father Pedro's steady voice in the lamplight.
Now, as the night deepens, you feel a growing certainty. The boy's freedom has awakened something new in you – or perhaps something very old, something that remembers how bonds between men can be forged with more than just blood and fear.
"Enrike," you say, your voice carrying a warmth that makes the Malaccan look at you sharply. "Tell your Kapitan I must speak with him. Now."
Something in your tone makes Enrike straighten. He studies your face for a moment, then hurries toward the shore where their boats wait, moving with more urgency than you've ever seen in him.
You wait at the water's edge, Paraluman's quiet presence beside you. The moon has risen, painting a silver path across the dark water to where the three black ships ride at anchor. Around you gather your people – datus, timawa, even some of the newly baptized ulipon, drawn by the sense that something momentous approaches.
The splash of oars heralds their boat emerging from the darkness. The Kapitan stands in the bow, his white garments catching the moonlight.
As he steps onto the shore, a signal must have passed between ship and shore, for suddenly the night erupts with light and thunder. Their mortars and fire-tubes paint the sky with burning flowers, their explosions echoing across the water. Your people cry out in delight at the display, their faces lit by the falling sparks. Even you feel something childlike stir in your newly awakened heart at the spectacle.
When the last echoes fade, you speak: "Kapitan," letting Enrike translate, "today you made me your brother in your way, through water and sacred words." You pause, choosing your words carefully. "But among our people, brotherhood must be sealed with blood and feast. Tomorrow, I shall host a hikay – a celebration where we shall become blood brothers in the ancient way of Sugbo."
You see him start to speak, but you continue: "Your diwata has shown us a new kind of power. Let us honor both old ways and new. Let us bind our brotherhood with both water and blood."
The Kapitan's hand moves from sword hilt to his little krus and back again as he considers. Finally, he nods, and you see in his face the same recognition you feel – that something profound is shifting in both your worlds.
Above you, the stars wheel in their eternal dance as two traditions begin their own strange mingling, like fresh water meeting salt at the river's mouth.
Available on May 1, 2025:
International paperback and ebook: amazon.rvcbook.com
Philippine paperback: lazada.rvcbook.com