by Alyssa Cole
She was a queen, but she somehow did less for the world than when she’d been a commoner. Back home, she hadn’t just sat around waiting for a royal husband; that wasn’t what queens did. She’d volunteered with countless associations and had been on the board of three of them, helping them to grow from ideas to full-fledged and well-respected organizations that helped many. She was one of the University of Thesolo’s most valued students, having completed degrees and certifications in multiple disciplines to prepare for the eventuality of taking a throne—and, truth be told, for the slim possibility that she wouldn’t, because a queen always has a contingency plan. She could dance everything from ballroom to the latest dance crazes that swept the continent, and she knew how to hold it down in a kitchen whether it was pan-African, French, or American cuisine. Shanti was exceptional. She had made herself exceptional—a woman like her had to be to even get a toe in the door, after all.
Yet in Njaza she was treated both as too incompetent to be useful and too high status to be competent. Too much of a stuck-up know-it-all because she was from Thesolo, which also somehow made her too ignorant. The only thing she’d made her mark on since arriving in the kingdom, besides her newfound nocturnal proclivities, had been the dusty papers she scanned in the royal archives, tedious busywork assigned so she’d stop asking for things to do.
Shanti had never felt truly foolish—she hadn’t thought she was capable of feeling that—until she stopped and reviewed the hours leading up to her marriage.
When she’d received the Urgent Arrangement Request notification in her RoyalMatch.com app, she’d understood that it was a one-in-a-billion stroke of luck to be plucked from the commoner tier, populated by countless royal fanatics willing to drop everything to marry a royal suitor. She’d known that after all those rejections, when she’d improbably made it into the same room as royalty to begin with, it was likely her final chance at a crown, and certainly her only chance at helming an absolute monarchy, since they were rare in this day and age.
She’d taken it.
Her main worry had been being thrust into close quarters with a spouse she’d bypass the courtship stage with. She laughed at her naivety now; the marriage trial was three-fourths complete and she’d barely seen her husband. She’d certainly never again encountered the man she’d met in the royal receiving room—the one who’d made her heart beat quickly as he stalked around all massively muscular, with a frown marring a face so handsome it made her believe in the Njazan myth that the blood of a warrior god ran in the veins of the king.
The man she’d married was cold. Distant. The fire in his dark eyes at their first meeting had cooled during their wedding ceremony—a rushed, dour affair beside the dying king’s bed, attended by her parents, the council, and Lumu. When next she’d seen him, a week later at their wedding celebration and his official coronation, his eyes had been hard as dead coals. Their joyless union had been witnessed by the citizens of the kingdom and ambassadors from a few curious nations, but it’d been sandwiched between the funeral commemoration and the official mourning period for Sanyu I.
Afterward, she’d been hidden away in the queen’s wing, the farthest point from her husband’s quarters in the entire Central Palace. When she’d tried to see him for the first two months, to offer support to him during his time of loss, she’d been blocked by the palace guard and advisors tasked with ensuring that Sanyu followed the strict traditions of mourning. After the official mourning had passed, she’d been told that he was busy with royal duties. When she’d finally given up on politeness and asked what her royal duties were to be, she’d been told to return to her chambers.
She’d made a classic analysis error. She’d been so busy looking at demographics, GDP, national debt, and all of those other stats that contributed to a kingdom’s profile—so eager to accept what seemed like Ingoka finally clearing the path toward her life goal—that she hadn’t thought to ask the simple question: What does the queen do in Njaza? She’d heard the rumors of Njaza’s silent queens, but the idea that a queen would do nothing was so preposterous that she hadn’t even considered it. And yet that was what was expected of her.
When her first attempts at bulldozing her way into being granted her queenly powers had been met with the solid iron fist of Njazan tradition, she’d tried to change. She’d made herself small, disguised herself as someone who wasn’t quietly whittling her own seat at the table since she hadn’t been offered one. Part of her disguise hadn’t been faked, though—as days went by with no contact with friendly faces, nothing to do but pace her room, and no sign that her husband remembered or cared that she existed, Shanti had become despondent. For the first time in her life, she’d begun to hear negative voices in her head instead of the reassuring positive push that had drowned out all doubt for most of her life. She’d started to see her goal to enact change slip out of reach, and only a wildly impulsive and ill-advised night outside of the palace had helped her to regain her equilibrium—but it had only increased her agitation.
After years of preparing to rule, her time as queen of Njaza, a troubled kingdom with the potential to become a great one, had been spent stewing in frustration.
The advisory sessions were the once-a-week periods where the heat beneath her personal stewpot was turned to high.
“Most learned Musoke,” Minister Masane, an economist who dealt with Njazan finances, said in an ingratiating tone, “have you reconsidered the proposal from PetroCorp for a joint-owned oil refinery? It’s a very reasonable offer and we are desperately in need of—” He drew up short when Musoke fixed a quelling gaze on him. “Ah, that is, more funds in the coffers of our proud and mighty kingdom would be quite helpful. Our years of, ah, um, noncontact with lesser countries is no longer sustainable.”
Musoke, the head advisor to the king—in name, because to Shanti he seemed more like head naysayer of good ideas—was waving the idea off before the man finished. “Denied. The only thing we allow colonizers to extract from Njaza is land mines, in the hopes that they blow themselves up in the process.”
There was a chorus of laughter, and Shanti added the first ever stroke onto the “agree” side of the mental scoreboard she kept during these meetings since, as she’d learned the hard way, she wasn’t allowed to actually speak her opinion.
The man Shanti always hoped to hear respond remained silent, as usual.
“Denied,” the advisors repeated in unison.
“The proposal for a new curriculum for our high schools is next,” Education Minister Njurgsen, a bored-looking man in his sixties, said. “New computers, learning aids for neurodivergent students, and a complete curriculum overhaul.”
Shanti would have immediately encouraged this proposal—the Njazan teachers’ forums she monitored spoke consistently of the ways in which they were falling behind other countries with each new technological advance. The curriculum in the new proposal incorporated both traditional methods of teaching critical thinking skills and more modern techniques to make sure Njaza’s youth could not only compete but become leaders in an ever tech-reliant world—the teachers had been positive that Sanyu would approve it.
“Denied,” Musoke said airily. “This is begging for expensive toys that the children will break, or, if they don’t, will make their minds and bodies weak. The Njazan spirit is strong and we do our future no favors by making the youngest among us reliant on technology.”
“Denied,” chorused around the room once more.
Shanti stared daggers at the large, muscular man sitting silently at the front of the room beside Musoke. He wore the traditional garment of the king—patterned kente cloth pinned and wrapped around his body then crossed over one shoulder, where the remainder was tucked into the waistline. The kilt-like skirt of the garment revealed strong calves and thick thighs that were tensed as if he was prepared to leap up. He inhaled deeply as Shanti watched, and his lips parted as if to speak—yes! Finally, he would put Musoke in his place.
Musoke thumped the en
d of his cane against the floor. “What’s next? We don’t have all day.”
Sanyu pressed his lips together, but remained silent and staring into the distance, and Shanti’s fists clenched in the starched fabric of her robe. To have so much power and sit idly by . . . the unfairness of it threatened to crush her. His indifference to her was painful, but his indifference to his kingdom’s well-being was inexcusable.
She’d expected him to be strong-willed and domineering in all aspects of his life, given their first meeting, but he spoke at council meetings as much as he spoke to her. It was like the man she’d first met, the one who’d tried to intimidate her into walking away from her goal, had been someone else entirely.
Lumu, the man a few years younger than the king he served, cleared his throat and waved his hand to bring attention his way. Lumu was one of two people in the palace who paid attention to Shanti’s comfort—and the only one who ever pushed back against Musoke, however politely.
“I’d like to bring back a topic that has been tabled several times but I feel is critical for us to review,” he said. “The advocacy group Njaza Rise Up has requested—”
“Denied,” Musoke cut Lumu off, his voice laced with disdainful laughter that crushed Shanti’s hopes even more compactly. “I’ve seen the scheisse they spout. Feminism. Equality. It is surely the result of outsiders poisoning their minds and trying to undermine the strength of our kingdom. Imagine, requesting that women be admitted to the ranks of royal advisor? Women, who cannot even be touched by Amageez? That would be like having a house cat presume to instruct the cheetahs.”
Shanti’s face was burning and she wasn’t sure her expression of placid restraint was still in place; she hoped the advisors would continue their unbroken streak of never looking at her. She hoped her husband wouldn’t.
“Cheetahs and house cats get along quite well in certain environments. Besides that, there are women in our military and always have been,” Lumu pressed. “You fought side by side with them to win the freedom of the kingdom. Njaza’s first q—”
“I said denied, lesser advisor!” Musoke almost shouted, his usual restrained demeanor slipping into unhidden anger.
Lumu dropped his gaze as he gave a sharp nod.
“Denied,” the council repeated as one.
“Today’s final proposal is a request to discuss our participation in the Rail Pan Afrique, a project being undertaken by the United African Nations. We have been formally invited to join both the project and the UAN by the Kingdom of Thesolo,” one of the council said, moving on quickly as if nothing had happened. Shanti’s heart swelled with both homesickness and pride at her kingdom’s name—so many countries had given up on Njaza, frustrated with their king’s stubbornness, but Queen Ramatla wasn’t a quitter despite being rebuffed for the entirety of her reign.
Musoke’s gaze moved the barest millimeter in her direction, and when he spoke, his voice was louder, sure to reach the back of the room where she sat. “Denied. We will not discuss any proposal that requires working with Thesolo.”
“Why, O wise one?” Lumu was speaking again, despite his chastisement, instead of the person who should be asking questions. “They have an excellent track record of working with other nations, the UAN is running more smoothly than it ever has, and every surrounding country is participating.”
“If we do not join in the construction of Rail Pan Afrique, the UAN will build right along the outside of our border,” Nakali, the transportation minister said. It was the first time Shanti had ever heard the old man speak apart from his role in the councilor chorus, and there was clear frustration in his voice. “The project will bring work in many sectors—construction, business, tourism, and hospitality. If we do not participate, we will be able to look across that border into neighboring countries as they thrive and see what might have been. Perhaps working with them on this would be acceptable.”
“Thesolo is a weak country,” Musoke said, lifting a hand from the head of his cane as if waving away the common sense the minister was speaking. “Their king is unable to control his queen and their prince is cowed by a foreign wife who shares the same silly ideas as the groups trying to sow discord here.
“They’ve looked down their noses at us for decades. They watched as we were occupied and did nothing. Apart from that, even if relations were to be repaired, they have not yet provided an adequate show of respect to our most glorious kingdom. Until they do, we must assume disrespect. De. Nied.”
There was an intake of breath, followed by the deep, resonant sound of the man she had married finally speaking up.
“Most learned Musoke.” Sanyu turned his head to look down at Musoke, who seemed as surprised as anyone that the king had opened his mouth. “I would remind you that my wife is from Thesolo.”
Shanti’s stomach went tight at the way he said the word wife; like it might mean something more than a contract signed with grim cordiality and a crown that was unworn but tarnished.
“I’m quite aware where that woman is from,” Musoke sniffed. “As I said, they have provided nothing that shows adequate respect.”
The air was always thick with tension during council meetings, but it was suddenly cloying as the full meaning of his words settled over everyone—and over her. Shanti’s body had already been vibrating as if fine, white-hot waves of anger traveled over her skin, but Musoke’s insult drew those waves tight, searing the unfairness of the situation into her.
She sat in the back of the room on a rickety bench supposedly made for a queen but not fit for one—she was the queen who need not be present, and if she was present, need not be seen.
She certainly wasn’t to be heard.
She thought of the queens she’d idolized, and of her reasons for marrying Sanyu, and decided that three months of making herself small was more than enough in the face of this utter bullshit.
Goddess lead me, she prayed silently. Ingoka give me strength.
Shanti stood up, shoulders back, neck straight, hands clasped loosely in front of her instead of balled into fists at her sides.
“Do you find me inadequate, O wise Musoke?” The words slipped out of her mouth cool as the mountain springs of her homeland and dangerous as the waterfalls they fed into. “Can you explain how you’ve managed to do so? You don’t speak to me and I’ve not been allowed to do anything you might use as basis for any such judgment. I don’t wish to be impertinent, but vague critique is the sign of a weak intellect in my home country—the one that has apparently so disrespected you. I only seek to learn what is proper here, in my new country.”
Musoke’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t give her the respect of looking at her. “Is there some reason that woman is speaking in the chamber of advisors, though it is strictly forbidden?”
“That woman is the queen,” Lumu said helpfully. “Perhaps Musoke has forgotten?”
“Musoke is invested with the will of Amageez the All Knowing, and forgets nothing,” another advisor corrected. “She is a queen, not the True Queen, and thus does not get to speak.”
Shanti kept her cool gaze fixed on Musoke, ignoring the background chatter.
“Women cannot be touched by Amageez, indeed, so perhaps I’m not intelligent enough to decipher your wise words, Musoke, but it seems you haven’t answered my questions,” she said, the anger hot in her cheeks and her neck, though her voice was serene. “I will ask another one, then. You speak of the respect you are owed by Thesolo, but what have you done to earn it? Please educate me, O wise one.”
The mutters of the councilors filled the room, but she kept her chin perfectly poised and her expression calm.
A queen doesn’t knock her own crown askew.
“I helped build this kingdom with my sweat and blood—with my flesh—while Thesoloians ignored our strife, the cowards,” Musoke said, though he still didn’t look at her. “They should grovel before us, at the very least, but instead they look down on us from an elephant’s back and tell us to saddle a gazelle if we w
ant to ride.”
“I respect your sacrifices, but they make your behavior even more puzzling,” she said, the anger from three months of frustration taking over even as her logical mind tried to understand Musoke’s point of view. “Every week you deny vital resources to your people without even a follow-up question. Did you read the teacher statements in the requests for a new curriculum? Did you consider the benefits of the Rail Pan Afrique to your citizens, or only a chance to be rude to Thesolo? Njaza Rise Up asks for the most basic respect and you laugh. If the average Njazan citizen can’t discern whether they’re in a kingdom or a kleptocracy, what were your sacrifices for?”
His head whipped toward her and she felt a thrill of victory. After three months, he finally gave her the respect of meeting her gaze.
That’s right. Can’t ignore me now, can you?
Fury burned in his eyes and his hand squeezed the ornamental head of his cane so tightly she thought he might crush it. “You think you know anything about my kingdom, foreigner?”
You have no idea, she thought wryly, wishing she could tell him what she’d learned once she decided to stop waiting for the palace’s permission to help.
“Yes, I do. And if we had to go by your recent decision-making, this foreigner knows more than—”
“Wife.” Sanyu’s voice was harsh enough to draw the attention of everyone in the room, but not unkind. It brimmed with an energy she hadn’t heard from him since he’d first looked down at her and taunted her for wanting to marry him.
She turned and met his unreadable gaze. “Yes, Husband?”
“You may go.” He made a scooping palm motion toward the room’s exit.
“Yes, Husband.”
She curtsied so low she thought her nose might touch the ground, and then marched out. The swish of her gown trailing behind her on the stone floor covered the sound of her frustrated sigh as the doors closed behind her.