by Alyssa Cole
He was mentally checked out and he was only a few months into his reign. He was barely able to concentrate on the proposals being presented as Musoke led the advisory sessions, and his brain full-on blanked when he was trotted through the streets like a show zebra to make the appropriate noises at his citizens. He’d been sleepwalking through it all, and it wasn’t until that morning’s session that he’d been shaken out of his slumber, by his wife of all people.
“Sanyu II!” Lumu sang as he danced into the room holding more papers, awakening the earworm that was always ready to wriggle to life in Sanyu’s brain. “You’ve got more work to look o-o-ver!”
“I told you not to sing that,” Sanyu said, pressing at his temples. “Not to hum it. Not to perform interpretive dance of it. No remixes either.”
“Sorry,” Lumu said, wincing, his always energetic body jolting to stillness. “It’s just so catchy. Truly a classic.”
He was tall, dark-skinned, and slim, with his hair newly rebraided into the intricate traditional cornrows he usually sported. He wore jeans and a green T-shirt instead of his formal robe. Lumu had either just returned from a personal visit in the capital, perhaps with his marriage partners, or he was thumbing his nose at Musoke. Either way, Sanyu would likely hear about it later.
“What’s up?” Sanyu asked, dropping some of the formality he now had to perform 24/7. Lumu was a few years younger, one of the guardsmen’s sons, and they’d been friendly for years after being paired as sparring partners in martial arts class. Sanyu was glad his advisor was someone who didn’t fawn over his every word, coddle him, or look at him with expectation in his eyes. Lumu was straightforward, and retaining him was the one thing Sanyu had insisted on since becoming king, though he hadn’t been able to prevent the man’s demotion to lesser advisor.
“The dinner plans for tonight have been changed,” Lumu said. “General Mbiji will be joining us again.”
Sanyu dropped his pen and sagged in his seat. “Really?”
Lumu twisted his lips and nodded. “Really. Musoke invited him to discuss the military parade to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of independence and of the resurrection of the Njazan kingdom that they’re planning.”
Sanyu pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. “Does Musoke have military parade money?”
“The council has decided that a portion of the funds from the land mine recovery charity can be repurposed.”
Frustration clenched Sanyu’s stomach, and he reached for a tube of the chewable antacid tablets that he’d imported a case of. He should be used to this awful feeling, the one that gripped him whenever he realized he would have to confront Musoke. It’d been the same since childhood—arguing with a man touched by Amageez was like trying to swim through the swamps of Njaza instead of its lakes.
“I’ll talk to him,” Sanyu said, then crunched on the chalky tablet. “And the other matter?”
He trained his expression to blankness even though this was the only thing he looked forward to these days—and the closest he would allow himself to showing interest in the one matter he shouldn’t.
“Ah. The daily report,” Lumu said glibly. “You know you can just . . . talk to her yourself if you’re so concerned with what she does? I’m sure she’d be happy to tell you.”
Sanyu didn’t know that. On their wedding day she’d looked at him with the light of hope in her eyes, even after he’d warned her against it. It had filtered through the mourning shroud that had enveloped him, and he’d felt the urge to do whatever it took to make sure that light never went out. That urge, and the many conflicting urges that pulsed in him whenever she was in his presence, showed yet again how unfit he was for the job. He was supposed to take many wives over the course of his reign in search of the True Queen, and this first one had already intrigued him, with her faux-servile demeanor and eyes that flashed with sharp understanding—and something more dangerous than that.
Desire.
It was a trap, of course. If Sanyu gave in to it, he might take another step toward that thing most forbidden to him: love. If there was no hope at the Central Palace, there was certainly no love. The ground it might have grown in had been razed and used as a testing ground for strength. So he watched his wife. He wanted. But he didn’t give in—he wouldn’t.
She would be gone soon, and Sanyu had long ago stopped allowing himself to be hurt by the departure of a queen.
Lumu pressed on. “You might visit her in the queen’s wing of the palace. Check in on how the busywork you gave her is going, maybe? Marriage is all about communication after all.”
Lumu enjoyed this far too much. Having a husband and a wife of his own at home—as was common in Njaza before the Liechtienbourgish occupation and just starting to come back into fashion—he considered himself an expert on marriage and took every opportunity to remind Sanyu of his own happy arrangement. Lumu seemed to think that Sanyu thought all marriages were doomed to fail. Sanyu was only certain that any marriage he entered into as king of Njaza—a man required to have multiple wives unless he was blessed with a True Queen—would do so. A True Queen was rare. It was a decree of the gods. His father hadn’t found one in fifty years; why would Sanyu, unworthy of the crown, be blessed to find her in his first wife?
“I set up the archive position when you said it seemed that she was bored,” Sanyu said. “Now you tell me the work isn’t important?”
Sanyu had arranged for her to help with the digitization of various texts because it was clear that Shanti enjoyed reading and learning. She went through newspapers, magazines, and books voraciously, and not just the silly tabloids filled with tales of royal conquest that Sanyu flipped through when he was bored. There was no reason she shouldn’t enjoy working at the library—his father’s wives hadn’t had their likes and dislikes taken into consideration when assigned work.
“You could have asked her what she wanted to do if you’d just—what was it I was saying? Oh right. Talk. To. Your. Wife.” Lumu gave an exasperated sigh. “Do you need an icebreaker? After this morning’s meeting, you can start by asking her what it feels like to stand up to Musoke since you won’t listen when I tell you how satisfying it is.”
“Her behavior was . . .” Magnificent, Sanyu thought. “Inappropriate,” he said.
“Inappropriate? So you think the current state of the kingdom is appropriate?”
One reason he’d chosen Lumu as his personal advisor was that he knew he wouldn’t be an accommodating yes-man. Sometimes, though, his friend went too far.
“Proceed with the report or I’ll make you give me a firsthand memo on the state of Njaza’s sewer system.”
“My apologies.” Lumu sighed deeply. “I know things are . . . complicated with Musoke. With the kingdom. And with her. Though maybe not, since you have me following her around every day and giving you detailed accounts of her activities.”
“That’s for security reasons,” Sanyu said. “She’ll be gone soon. Nothing complicated about that.”
Lumu lifted a brow. “I know you don’t have the best view of marriage, Sanyu, but—”
“King Sanyu.” The three syllables were clipped, harsh, and a reminder that their friendship now butted up against the fact that Sanyu was royalty and would occasionally demand to be treated like it.
Lumu’s mouth twitched in a familiar expression of annoyance, then he took a deep breath and pulled himself into the formal comportment of a royal advisor.
“Today’s report, O magnanimous, wise, fierce, and all-knowing King Sanyu!” he boomed, then pretended to read off of the papers in his hand. “Madame Highness, she who will be gone very soon and is definitely NOT complicated, has . . .” Lumu squinted at the paper. “. . . spent the entire day in her room. She rejected the housekeeping staff’s attempt to clean and also the lunch I brought her.”
“That’s it?” Sanyu asked, a strange unease spreading over him. He’d dismissed her earlier—to spare her from Musoke’s wrath. Was she upset? She’d been so . . . fierce
. While he’d been grinding his teeth through the sessions, she’d clearly been paying attention and coming up with opinions—plans.
No one cared for the plans of a queen.
“That’s it,” Lumu said.
“She didn’t go to work?” Sanyu asked. That was unusual.
“She did not.” Lumu shrugged. “She will also not be joining us for dinner. Again.”
An unsettling sensation much too similar to worry made Sanyu’s stomach clench, but the king did not worry over his wife. It would be silly, like worrying over a robe pin.
He popped another antacid.
“Is she ill?” he asked. Would she even tell him? Or anyone? His father’s final queen had almost suffered a burst appendix because she hadn’t wanted to reveal any weakness. It’d only been caught in time because she’d passed out from the pain.
“Ill? She says she is,” Lumu said.
“Then why didn’t you start the report with that!” Pain frilled through his stomach and he resisted the urge to press his hand to it.
Lumu didn’t even flinch. “Because she’s not actually ill.”
“She’s a liar, then?”
“No. We have a rapport where she can tell me a half-truth and I can understand what she really means. If she says, ‘I’m not feeling well,’ I know to ask if that means she’s sick of Josiane, the head of the archives. When she raises her brows and looks away with a small smile, I understand that she’s taking a mental health day.”
A feeling sharp and ugly and bright green burned through the remnants of the fog that had surrounded Sanyu for the last few months.
“You seem very close to my wife.”
“That’s a matter of perspective. Anyone would seem close given your distance from her,” Lumu responded tartly. “And I will remind you that the triad marriage is complete in itself, sacrosanct, and doesn’t give me license to go after every attractive person I happen to be friends with. Do not pick and choose which of our traditions are worthy of respect, my king.”
Attractive? Friends?
Sanyu reminded himself that he shouldn’t be rude to his friend over passing jealousy for a passing wife, but didn’t apologize. He returned to the more mundane issue.
“I thought you fixed the problem with her treatment at the library.”
Lumu’s shoulders dropped a bit. “The archivists and librarians were reprimanded. Most of them are fine, but a couple of the older ones are reticent given the history of Njazan queens and the impending end of the wedding trial. Much like our great and honorable king, they see no reason to be kind to someone who will be leaving soon anyway.”
Sanyu’s jaw tightened. “Thank you for the report.”
Lumu took a deep breath, as if he were about to push against a heavy door that he already knew was rusted shut. “And about that. I need to know officially whether it will be a divorce dinner or a continuation ceremony so I can begin preparations. Certainly, by now you’ve decided—”
“Thank. You.” Sanyu pushed some of the papers around on the desk, needing an outlet for the sudden surge of frustration. He hadn’t asked to be married, hadn’t ever wanted to tie some stranger’s life to his own, but now he was supposed to handle the divorce? He didn’t understand why this was on him—or why the thought of Shanti leaving didn’t please him when it meant he’d finally be able to have a little peace in the palace.
When she was gone, he wouldn’t have to worry about the way his eyes always sought her out against his own wishes and his hands balled into fists to prevent him from reaching out to her. Even if he held her once, she wouldn’t stay. Couldn’t.
Could she?
No.
“You may leave.” He waved his hand dismissively in Lumu’s direction and resettled himself in his seat. Odd, it had always seemed so large in the past, but it was a tight fit for him.
Lumu smiled widely, and turned to go to his own office.
“And change into palace dress before Musoke sees you!” Sanyu called out grumpily.
“My clothing is within royal regulations,” Lumu stopped and called back over his shoulder. “Musoke can either ask you to change the regulations, or he can realize that his preferences aren’t law. After all you are king.”
Sanyu sighed. “You keep reminding me of that.”
“It’s my job to remind you of the tasks you might forget,” Lumu said, his voice somber. “And I should warn you that my reminders are much gentler than those of the people in the street who are growing uneasy with Musoke’s apparent power. Unease leads to questions, and if you don’t answer them, someone else will.”
He left before Sanyu could press him further. Lumu wouldn’t say something so serious without having given it a lot of thought—he, too, was said to be touched by Amageez the Wise—which meant things were more dire than Sanyu’d imagined, with both his country and with his wife.
He stood to go find the man who made his royal duties both too easy and much too difficult.
As he walked through the palace, trailed by the palace guards, he averted his gaze from the peeling frescoes on the ceilings and walls—Omakuumi’s Rebellion done in Renaissance style, with their great warrior god flaking off bit by bit as if he, too, was trying to abandon this place. The frescoes were one of many signs of decaying decadence and reminders of the other rumbles of his subjects in the capital and beyond, or so he’d heard. People wanted to know why there were few jobs and fewer funds while the king lived in a palace decked in gold.
It was a good question, and one that Sanyu had always been afraid to ask, but would soon have to answer.
He left his guards at the door to the Office of the Royal Advisor and found Musoke sitting in a chair on the balcony. The outdoor space that provided a view of the capital, and served as a security risk, was an impractical addition to the space of a man who was in charge of so many important things in the kingdom, but Sanyu had found his father and Musoke speaking out here more afternoons than not, flanked by guards.
Now Musoke sat alone, staring off into the distance, and it struck Sanyu that the man was old. Not as old as his father, whose hair had already been gray when Sanyu was born, but close.
Musoke held a cup in his hand but didn’t sip, lost in thought.
“Musoke?”
He startled and turned toward Sanyu, his expression one of almost tender recognition. Sanyu froze in his tracks—Musoke had always been so hard with him, had never looked at him like this. He’d never known how much he wanted Musoke to look at him like this, with something close to care, until this moment.
It was gone in a second, that tenderness, the old man’s expression tightening into the one Sanyu was most accustomed to—vague annoyance. “Hello, boy. What brings you here? Certainly nothing of import?”
Sanyu exhaled. “Well, yes, actually. I’m here about the funds you plan to use for the military parade. I don’t think that’s going to be possible.”
“You don’t think it’s possible. Even though you are head of the military so you should know whether it is.” Musoke nodded as if mulling it over. “Interesting.”
“That’s exactly why I should have been consulted about this.”
“I didn’t bother you because the answer is clear as the waters of our sacred lakes were before the Liechtienbourgers polluted them,” Musoke said. “The colonizers owe us that money and many times more. Why shouldn’t we use a tiny portion of it to celebrate our independence from them?”
“Because it’s been earmarked for charity use only.” Sanyu felt himself begin to wither under the advisor’s stare, but held his ground. “Using it for anything else would be unethical. And illegal. I don’t believe you’d do something illegal.”
“Under what law?” Musoke asked. When Sanyu didn’t answer immediately, as he searched through the various Njazan codes and regulations he’d memorized over the years, Musoke chuckled and shook his head. “Your father trusted me to handle these things, but you who are still a boy question me?”
Sanyu e
xhaled slowly, then answered, “I am older than both you and my father were when you reinstated the kingdom.”
Musoke just smiled. “We were tested by battle, while you’ve been coddled all of your life.”
Coddled? Coddled? Heat rushed to Sanyu’s face and his fists clenched as memories of countless reprimands, of hours of training and endurance exercises, of having almost all comforts stripped in that never-ending quest to prevent his being what was apparently the greatest disgrace: soft. He usually didn’t speak back to Musoke by choice, but in this moment he was so angry that he couldn’t.
“You’re still learning how this kingdom truly runs, and unlike your father I won’t indulge your deficiencies,” Musoke continued. “The kingdom would be overrun by colonizers or those who wish to humble us if I were to do that. Just leave everything to me.”
He leaned back in his seat, ending the conversation, and Sanyu finally found the words in the jumble of thoughts cramming his head.
“I’d prefer that you didn’t use the money,” he said, trying to fill his voice with the will he had supposedly inherited from his father, and the gods of his people. “We’re already deeply in debt, the last thing we need right now is a lavish ceremony.”
And besides that, it was wrong, the kind of wrong that made Sanyu’s skin crawl. The kind that was yet another reason that he hated being king—so many things he was told were right and necessary to be the king of Njaza felt terrible.
“Did I ever tell you about the night we reclaimed the kingdom?” Musoke asked in a voice softer than Sanyu had heard it in some time.
“I heard the story from either you or my father every night, you know this,” Sanyu said, aware that wouldn’t stop the story from being told yet again.
“My bandages were still sticky with blood and throbbing painfully from the land mine explosion that had taken out half of the fighters that backed us as we raided the Southern Castle. I had one arm around your father’s shoulder and the other around . . .” He grimaced. “They supported me. We were all bloody and broken, but we marched onward, with our warriors at our backs, with all the clans and factions united behind us and we reclaimed this kingdom. We made it a place where Njazans could live proudly. Freely.”