How to Catch a Queen

by Alyssa Cole

  Too.

  Did his father think Sanyu had failed him, despite saying otherwise? Had he told Musoke, his closest friend, that?

  “No,” Sanyu forced out. “I will not fail my father.”

  “Good. I knew you’d see the importance of this. We’ve found you a most beautiful queen on RoyalMatch.com. She’s from Thesolo, unfortunately, that kingdom of goddess-worshipping weaklings, and old for a first wife, at twenty-nine, but she will look good on your arm at the ceremony. She’s the best quality we could find who was willing to travel here at the snap of a finger. We will do better with wife number two. Let’s go meet your bride-to-be.”

  “Wait. You mean I must marry now? Now now?”

  “How long do you think your father has?” Musoke asked, rapping his cane against his left foot, the thump of wood hitting the plastic of his prosthetic, a tic that showed his true frustration.

  “I’m just surprised,” Sanyu said, trying to measure his words before he poured a bitter draft that only he would have to drink. “I’m to take charge of the kingdom, but wasn’t consulted in choosing my own bride? There’s no reason I couldn’t have been included in this decision.”

  “The bride herself doesn’t matter in the marriage trial.” Musoke’s voice was harsh, coated not in menace but in disappointment—the tone that had brought Sanyu to heel his entire life. “After four months, you may dismiss her. You will dismiss her, as she isn’t True Queen material by virtue of the fact that she is willing to marry you like this.”

  “Oh yes,” Sanyu said wryly. “The conundrum of the True Queen.” He’d been reminded every time a new wife arrived, smile too wide and eyes bright with the belief that she’d finally be the one to meet the exacting standards of Njaza’s Iron Fist and rule at his side. He’d been reminded every time he’d been told his mother was gone because she hadn’t been strong enough or smart enough or cunning enough—or docile enough or sweet enough—to be the True Queen.

  Somehow, none of the wives had managed to fit the role.

  Musoke nodded sharply. “Yes. You understand that the marriage trial offers both the opportunity for the furtherance of the royal lineage and the allure of . . . shall we say, an array of choice for our fierce and loyal king.”

  Choice. Sanyu almost laughed as Musoke’s guards moved to form a semicircle at his back that would press him toward the palace. Guards he could possibly beat if he wanted to, given his lifetime of martial arts training, but what then? He was the sole heir to the throne. He did now what he hadn’t done before fleeing the palace. He thought about what awaited him if he actually left: A life on the run from his responsibilities? A humiliating return months or years down the line, after the country had fallen into the war his father had striven to prevent, or even deeper into debt?

  Shame.

  Proving to Musoke that he’d been right all of these years.

  Making his father, who’d said he could be a good king, a liar.

  Sanyu met Musoke’s firm gaze.

  “I’ll meet her,” he said. “Meet. That’s all.”

  A smile spread over Musoke’s face. “I believe you won’t have any complaints. You will meet her, then you will marry her.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then you can explain to her why you won’t,” Musoke said. “And then you can explain to your father, who is currently taking his last breaths, why you can’t carry out this most simple of Njazan traditions.”

  Musoke turned brusquely and walked off, two of his guards stepping quickly at his heels. After a moment, Sanyu followed, the awful not-fear squeezing his chest tightly and the spears of the remaining guards clacking at his back. This was worse than speaking before a crowd—he was expected to wed this woman, and to abandon her. That was the paradox of the Njazan marriage trial—similar to a Herculean trial, it was impossible for mere mortals to succeed.

  When he entered the dim royal receiving room alone, a woman stood before the huge ornamental fireplace with inset shelves lined with sweet-smelling candles. The light of the candles burning in constant offering for his father’s health flickered over her tall form and the generous curves revealed by the green-and-gold gown that clung to them. Her hair hung down her back in a sheet, and her face was turned to the side, highlighting the rounded button of her nose and the plush silhouette of her lips.

  Attraction slammed into him, unexpected and tangible as a blow to the chest, cutting through his anger and grief.

  If he’d seen her anywhere else, at any other time, he might have been thankful for the chance to know her. But he was meeting her with the spear tip of their marriage already pressed to his neck, and all he’d been taught of love nipping at his heels.

  “Wives will sap you with their needs and demands, if you let them,” his father had told him. “If you let one close, she will try to rule you, and that will be our kingdom’s downfall. I don’t worry about that, though. You are my son, and would never be foolish enough to fall in love with your own wife.”

  His bride-to-be was gorgeous in the way of beauty pageant contestants, and likely just as superficial. Still . . . there was something in the set of her shoulders and the way her fingertips trembled before she clenched them into fists. How her gaze was lowered but her chin was raised. There was something solid about her, substantial.

  If Sanyu didn’t already know that no wife had ever been strong enough to be a True Queen, he might have thought that this woman could do it.

  No. It’s a trick of the light.

  She turned to face him, then bowed low as he approached her; the movement was so excruciatingly graceful that it couldn’t be classified as the submissive action it was supposed to be.

  His stomach clenched and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. She hadn’t even spoken yet, and he was drawn to her as if she’d lassoed him and pulled the knot fast. He approached slowly, and when she raised her head and stood straight, the imaginary rope squeezed even more snugly around him. Her eyes were a deep brown, dark like the tilled earth of Njaza’s terraced farms, and fertile with unbloomed possibility.

  “It is pleasureful to meet you, Princess Sanyu,” she said. “Me called Shanti.”

  Sanyu was almost amused at her terrible Njazan, but her voice . . . it was powerful and soothing at once, like the warm jets of his royal spa beating against his aching muscles after a long, stressful day. He wanted to hear her say his name again with her curious accent, and that was another hook she’d dug into him; he couldn’t allow this strange, intense interest in the woman who’d be his wife.

  “Desire is fine in moderation, but if left unchecked leads to attachment, which is weakness. The king desires only the respect of his people; a wife is an accessory, like a scepter or a crown. He must be as strong without his accessories as he is with them.”

  She took a deep breath when he stared down at her but said nothing, and then continued in English accented by the soft singsong of her native Thesoloian. “I am most grateful to be chosen as your queen, and I will do my best to honor and protect you and your people.”

  “You will protect me,” he repeated darkly, anger wiping away any amusement.

  “Yes,” she said, her thin brows twitching together briefly in confusion. “Of course, I will.”

  Already she disrespected him—as if the king needed the protection of a mere wife. Sanyu would put an end to this now.

  “What do they say about a child who behaves badly in your kingdom?” he asked, his voice honed into a sharp thing that would send her running from the jab of it.

  Her nostrils flared softly, but she didn’t hesitate.

  “They used to say ‘he’s been switched at birth for a Njazan,’” she said stiffly. “No one says that anymore. It was cruel and wrong.”

  “What do they say of a man who gets angry and uses his fist before his brains?”

  “That he must have Njazan blood. They used to say that.” She straightened her back a little more. “Not anymore. The queen and king made it clear that such ta
lk was not acceptable.”

  “And what do they say about Njazans themselves? In Thesolo and elsewhere on our great continent?”

  Her back was so ramrod straight now that her chest thrust forward; he kept his gaze above her shoulders. She didn’t answer, so he did for her.

  “They call us the savages of the Serengeti. The heathens of the Kukureba Highlands. Yet you intend to marry me.” He walked in a circle around her, leaving enough space between them to let her know he wouldn’t actually touch her but close enough that she wouldn’t be able to ignore his size or his words. “A man you don’t know. A man who might be cruel and quick to anger, as the rumors say. Surely, you’ve heard of the Iron Fist of Njaza, of the wives who disappear and are never seen or mentioned again.”

  He’d been asked countless times at his boarding school if they had a dungeon in the palace for queens who displeased the Iron Fist, or if his father simply murdered his wives. Those boys hadn’t known that the palace itself was a dungeon, and Sanyu was the only one imprisoned by it.

  “Most of these rumors were started by Europeans and other Western interests after Njazans fought for their independence and won it. After sanctions and punishment by the international community left your father the choice of groveling or forging his own path.” She looked at him intently as he came to a stop in front of her, studying his face. “So, yes. I’ve heard the rumors about your father, but I’m not marrying him. And you’ve already proven you aren’t cruel. You wouldn’t have asked these questions if you were.”

  She held his gaze. There was fear in the depths of those wide brown eyes, but not of him. He could see something else there, too: hope. It was better she learned quickly that no such thing existed within the palace walls.

  “I don’t know what to make of a woman so desperate she’d give herself to me with no prerequisites,” he said, the harsh bark of his voice the same he’d heard so many times from his father and Musoke. He wanted her to feel what he did when receiving a lecture: the desire to run. “I’m not cruel—what a low bar I’ve managed to step over! That doesn’t mean you should marry me.”

  His words reverberated in the room, and he fought his displeasure with himself for raising his voice to her. This was why he didn’t want to be king, why he didn’t want to take a wife, let alone dozens of them.

  “So you admit you aren’t cruel.” Her expression remained pleasant but her gaze hardened with resolve. “Maybe I shouldn’t marry you. I don’t know what to make of a man so desperate he’d call me to his kingdom with the offer of a crown, but I came to Njaza to be queen. If you don’t want to make me one, say so and stop wasting my time.”

  Sanyu bristled, though he should have figured that she was a title chaser. His father had once said that the reason he was able to have so many wives was there was always a woman eager for the coin and the crown.

  “Fine,” Sanyu said. “You want to be queen so badly? We’ll marry. But don’t expect a happily-ever-after. Those don’t happen here.”

  No. Here, women appeared briefly and faded away before they disappeared entirely, leaving nothing behind but snippets of memory.

  Or perhaps a son.

  No. No child would come of this union, despite his attraction to her. Despite the heat in her eyes as she looked at him. Sanyu would see to that, no matter what tricks she pulled.

  “Happily-ever-afters don’t concern me,” she said firmly. “Love isn’t an indicator of marital success, and I’m not one to seek out failure unnecessarily.”

  Sanyu snorted.

  “You expect me to believe you don’t think you’ll win my heart? Make me love you?” he asked, following the question with a purposefully nasty chuckle to hide the frustration that rose in him from knowing he couldn’t love her even if he wanted to.

  She didn’t show any sign that his words affected her, just kept looking at him with that steady gaze.

  “I require only respect and cooperation. See? I do have prerequisites. Expectations, even. Whether you meet them over the course of the next four months is up to you,” she said, dropping into an even more elaborate bow.

  Behind her, the door opened and Musoke stepped in, his lips pressed flat.

  “Are you ready to proceed? Your father is awake—we should get this over with now.”

  . . . because he might not wake up again, went unspoken.

  “We are ready,” Sanyu lied, his voice a perfect, confident imitation of his father.

  He was prepared, more than prepared after a lifetime of coaching on how to be the king Njaza needed, but Sanyu was not ready. Not for any of what was to come, or what he was to lose.

  They left the room single file, a somber procession.

  He would be married. He would become king. In four months, when the trial was over, he would send his wife away.

  The Njazan crown wasn’t so easily escaped, so he would remain.

  In the meantime, he’d keep his distance because the last thing he needed was another person to disappoint—he’d just gained the attention of his subjects and a spotlight on the world stage.

  His wife could fend for herself, as had every “queen” before her.

  Chapter 1

  Three months later

  Shanti Mohapti had always been the type of person who could take an impulsive decision destined to go off the rails and doggedly march ahead of it, laying down track, until it arrived safely at Goal Achieved Station. Past teachers, tutors, and instructors used words like tenacious, focused, just a bit scary, and needs to learn failure is an option when writing up her progress reports. Those same people had always been disappointed when they realized Shanti wasn’t aiming to be a market-fixing economist or the head of a multinational corporation.

  At the tender age of seven, Shanti had decided she, a commoner born to a family of goatherders in a small village in the mountains of Thesolo, would become a queen. It was a common childhood fantasy, especially in Thesolo where Queen Ramatla was everyone’s hero. The uncommon thing was her parents agreeing with her job goals and embarking on an all-consuming journey to make her royal fantasy a reality, becoming so deeply invested that at some point it stopped being her dream and became theirs.

  When you weren’t born into royalty, there was only one way in.

  Marriage.

  And that was how, in the years leading up to her twenty-ninth birthday, Shanti had been personally made aware of her undesirability as a wife by almost every non-creepy royal bachelor on the planet. She’d been dissed in Druk, laughed out of Liechtienbourg, and, most humiliatingly of all, thrown up on in Thesolo, her own kingdom—in front of the queen who’d inspired Shanti’s lifelong journey to capture a crown.

  After each increasingly stinging rejection, her parents had smiled warmly and reminded her that they loved her no matter what. “No worries, little rat. You’re already our queen, and soon you’ll be a real one!”

  They’d made ever-shrinking lists of bachelor princes and princesses within Shanti’s age range, eventually deigning to include lesser members of the monarchy like dukes and even a viscount or two. They’d trawled gossip magazines for signs of impending divorce in various monarchies. They’d scrimped and saved to parade her around high society parties, and posted her pictures and achievements on RoyalMatch.com—updating her profile in the “Ready to Wed” section at least twice daily. They’d made sure she always looked like a future queen, too, after she’d become an adult, no matter how much it had cost them.

  People had called her vain when she walked through the market dressed in finery with her hair pressed flat and cascading down her back, no matter how hot it was. They’d called her a gold digger, whispered that she was a schemer who wanted money and prestige, as if those desires were only honorable if you were born wealthy enough to have them handed to you.

  Shanti had always walked with her chin up no matter what others said because, well, it was good practice for when she finally had her crown. And besides, those people didn’t know anything.

 
They didn’t know how, as a child, she’d sat in awe in the school auditorium as Queen Ramatla of Thesolo had spoken, poised and powerful and seeming like she could conquer anything. Shanti had felt awed, and safe, and just so overwhelmed that she’d cried. During the meet and greet, the queen had patted her braids and told her she was incredibly smart and could be anything she put her mind to. The clarity of focus that opened within Shanti at that moment had been so strong that she believed Ingoka, the goddess most divine of Thesolo, had whispered into her soul, This is your path.

  After that, Shanti had begged, borrowed, and bartered to gain entry to Queen Ramatla’s speaking engagements, jotting down the words of wisdom. She’d clipped every article she could find about Queen Laetitia of Liechtienbourg traveling the world, trying to push back tides of hate and poverty with the strength of her unrelenting kindness. She’d stayed up late to follow live feeds from the United Nations, taking notes and cheering as if she were at a football match when Queen Tsundue of Druk demanded that the voices of women be heard and Princess Lisa of Zamunda fought for workers’ rights. She’d been collecting phrases and articles and thoughts about queenship for years, in the journal she called her “Field Guide to Queendom.”

  To young, impressionable Shanti, the power of a queen had seemed unfathomable—and unlike so many of the ways in which she’d been shown who was important and who wasn’t, it hadn’t seemed unattainable. Once her family had gone all in on her dream, no matter the cost? The drive to achieve her goal had become all-consuming. Hobbies weren’t for fun, but to make sure she was well-rounded. School was to make sure she was as smart as any world leader. Friends? Eventually old friends found her goal childish and snobby, and she had no time to make new ones.

  You will be a queen, she’d written in her journal every morning, for years and years. You will make your mark and change the world for the better.

  She’d been half-right.

  Three months after her life’s calling had finally stopped leaving her on read, and with one month remaining in her marriage trial, she sat on a shoddy back bench in the gilded room that hosted Njaza’s Royal Council advisory session, feeling nothing like those queens she so revered.