by Alyssa Cole
Sanyu felt that confusing mix of pride and guilt and shame—the shame had been magnified since his father’s death, since his attempt to run away. Musoke and his father had risked their lives for this kingdom and now that his father was gone, Sanyu felt nothing at all for it.
“I did not mean to diminish your achievements,” he said, his voice strangled. “You—”
“I have been making sure this kingdom doesn’t fall apart for decades,” Musoke said. His voice was sharp and the tone oh so familiar, the poisonous tip of the scorpion’s tail that had hovered over Sanyu his entire life waiting for one misstep to strike. “There would be no throne for you to sit on if I didn’t manage everything, and you think to tell me what is acceptable and what isn’t?”
Sanyu’s stomach roiled. “Musoke—”
“Maybe you should be more concerned about your wife’s behavior than how I’m spending money,” Musoke continued, pushing the barb of the stinger in. Sanyu still wasn’t immune to this poison, not after all of these years. He was a grown man, and a strong one, but that stinger was sharp and Musoke knew where to jab. “You tell me what I should do, and yet you can’t keep your wife out of the council meeting or even keep her silent when you indulge her by letting her attend. You certainly haven’t changed much since you were as tall as my kneecap.”
Sanyu suddenly remembered the first time he’d known he couldn’t be king. Musoke had been drilling him on his speed and dexterity and his legs had become so tired he’d tripped over himself.
He’d been five, and Musoke had seemed huge to him then.
“You are weak, boy. Your father will not tell you plainly because he wishes for you to have a normal childhood, but I have always done what needed to be done, even when it was hard. If the future king cannot be told he is weak, so that he may grow stronger, there is no hope for this kingdom. Njaza’s future rests on your shoulders. Will you be strong enough to carry it when your father and I have passed on?”
The muscles in Sanyu’s neck locked up at the memory and his breathing sped up, but he held his chin high and shoulders back from sheer muscle memory as Musoke continued.
“All of the advisors are concerned about your ability to manage the kingdom since you can’t even manage your wife. Some even suggested you send her away earlier than scheduled. I told them to hold their tongues, not to speak against their king, but I can’t say I don’t agree with them.”
Shanti, a stranger to this kingdom, had spoken up against Musoke this morning. Sanyu wanted to run, to cave, but he had a bit of pride.
“I’ll take that under advisement, though sending her away early reflects worse on me, and our kingdom, than it does her.” Sanyu steeled himself before speaking the next sentence. “And that doesn’t change the fact that the funds have to come from somewhere else.”
Musoke turned and seemed to look down at him even though Sanyu towered over him.
“Has it even occurred to you that this parade will celebrate the loss of our greatest military hero? Your father? You would deny him this?”
“I have given my father, and my kingdom, everything,” Sanyu said. There was an angry growl in his voice, though his heart felt like it was being skewered on the end of a spear. “I will continue to do so by leading as best I can for as long as I live. Asking you not to misappropriate funds while our people question our financial standing is hardly denying him.”
“I will bring it before the council,” Musoke said, waving his hand with finality, and Sanyu felt the familiar urge to run from the eventual outcome—the not-fear that he’d first felt as a small boy standing in the center of a circle of guard trainees as Musoke pointed out his terrible form, not caring that he’d been given the heaviest practice staff. The not-fear that always bound him when he had to speak before a crowd or even in council meetings, that made him second-guess his opinions and strangled his words in his throat when he needed them.
The council would side with Musoke, as they always did, and he would either have to take this show of disregard for his opinion or fight back. He’d been raised to be a warrior king in a world that didn’t need one, but somehow he’d never won a battle of stubborn will with this whip-thin old man who’d never raised a hand to him.
“Fine,” Sanyu said. “So be it.”
He turned on his heel and strode out of the room, his frustration choking him and the retinue that had resumed trailing him feeling like a heavy shadow.
“How is our mighty king?” Rafiq, the head of the guard asked.
“Blessed by the bounty of Njaza,” Sanyu responded—it was the only way his father had ever responded to those kinds of queries, so Sanyu did the same, except he was lying.
He thought back to the visit from the Liechtienbourger diplomat—it had been the first and only time he’d made a decision that would benefit his country without consulting Musoke, and it’d felt damn good. Shanti had even seemed pleased, making an effort to be a good hostess. They’d both had their efforts rebuffed. Her meal had been deemed unworthy and Musoke had ridiculed Sanyu’s victory as a weak move that had indebted Njaza to colonizers, deflating his pride over finally finding a solution to the land mine problem that had plagued his country for a generation. He’d tucked his other ideas away after that.
Sanyu retreated inward again after this latest dismissal, as he had since he was a boy, though his body still carried out his necessary tasks. He went to the finance meeting, where the ministers argued over how to spend money they didn’t have and ignored suggestions on how to increase their GDP.
At dinner, he had a few bites of green banana and beef that tasted like nothing despite the savory spices, while Musoke and General Mbiji reminisced of past military glory. Both men ignored the fact that Njazan military forces had dwindled, along with the workforce as a whole, because farmers and tech entrepreneurs alike emigrated to other countries in search of better opportunities.
Afterward, he evaded his retinue and walked aimlessly through the halls of the castle alone, exhausted, though he hadn’t accomplished anything, but sure he’d end up lying in bed for hours if he tried to sleep.
His phone buzzed in the pocket of his trousers and he dipped into a recess in the wall to fumble it out of his pocket before reading the message.
Unknown number : Hi! It’s Johan. Do you have the recipe for that delicious goat stew your wife cooked when we visited? Nya really liked it, and I want to make it for her as a surprise. She’s missing food from home and isn’t at all into what she calls our “spice-deficient pork water.”
Sanyu scowled at his phone. What was the fool doing texting him?
Sanyu: How did you get my number?
Johan : From the alumni directory of our boarding school. I didn’t think you’d mind since we’ll be working together on the land mine project.
Johan : The recipe. Do you have it?
Sanyu: Non.
Johan : Can you . . . ask her for it, meng ami?
Sanyu: Technically, ouay.
Johan : Super! Thanks.
Sanyu began to put the phone away when it vibrated again.
Johan : Before you go, I was wondering if you could share your workout routine? I thought my thigh game was top tier, but I’m trying to get on your level.
Sanyu: Try twenty-eight years of training with the Njazan Royal Guard.
Johan : Hm. I’ll do more lunges and see what happens.
Sanyu rolled his eyes and tucked the phone away when it vibrated yet again.
Johan : I have a chat that’s like a support group for my friends stuck in the royal life. We used to be called “Broyalty” but I changed the name to “Relaxing LoFi Royal Beats.” We also share music recommendations. Can I add you?
Sanyu: Non. No. Definitely not.
Johan : Okay!
He turned the phone off—because a Liechtienbourger never takes no for an answer and Sanyu would enjoy knowing Johan was sending a string of follow-up texts that went unread—then resumed his restless walking.
He wa
s both relieved that it hadn’t been a check-in about the stalled land mine nonprofit and annoyed at being bothered over something so trivial. If von Braustein wanted to cater to his girlfriend, couldn’t he look up the recipe himself? Was he trying to rub it in that he was doing something for his fiancée while Sanyu barely spoke to his own wife?
He sighed, remembering how disappointed Shanti had been when her stew had been deemed unworthy by the royal taste tester during the diplomatic visit. It had been Nya Jerami who defended his wife against the taste tester’s rudeness while Sanyu sat silently. He’d wanted to say something, to intervene, but he’d already used up so much energy managing the not-fear while pretending to be fierce and confident and everything people expected from the son of Sanyu I. For the briefest moment, as Shanti presented her stew, he’d considered pretending to be a good husband, too. Then the reality of being the Njazan king had crashed the party. It would’ve been futile anyway. That was simply how things were done at the palace.
He looked around, realizing the area he was in wasn’t a jarring mishmash of old-school luxe but simple bare stone walls; he was in the long corridor leading from the main area of the palace to the queen’s wing. It would be odd to stop and turn around, so he continued walking until he reached the area that led to Shanti’s quarters. He’d never visited her in her quarters—avoiding her was easy when she was basically in another postal code.
He approached a solitary guard, one of the rare female guards in the palace guard corps, who looked as surprised to see him as he was to be there.
She drew to attention, her locs brushing her shoulder as she tapped the end of her spear on the ground three times. “Your Highness.”
He nodded.
“Is there something you need, Your Highness?” she asked him. “The queen is not expecting any guests tonight.”
He pinned the guard with a thunderous expression. “Does she expect guests on other nights?”
The guard didn’t even blink. “It is not my duty to report the queen’s activities, but to ensure her safety.”
“And you think I would harm my wife?”
The guard remained at attention, staring straight ahead. “It is my job to question all strangers to the queen, Your Highness.”
The guardswoman was so earnest that Sanyu couldn’t even properly rage at her. Besides, he was too winded from the blow of her words. He was, indeed, a stranger to his wife. This guard had no reason to trust him, even if it was her job to obey him.
“What is your name, Guard?” he asked, staring down at her.
“Kenyatta, Your Highness.”
“I appreciate your dedication, Kenyatta, but the queen is safe with me.”
“I will take you at your word, Your Highness.” She extended her hand, the one holding her spear, toward Shanti’s door as if allowing him free passage. Even Sanyu understood what her upheld spear meant—that should he break his word, she would carry out her duty of protecting the queen.
He considered having her reassigned for insubordination, but looked back and forth down the corridor. She was the only guard, seemingly for the whole wing. The queen’s safety rested entirely on her shoulders. He understood why she was so serious about it and wouldn’t take her dedication as disrespect for now.
He nodded and lumbered off toward the door, realizing he had no real reason to be there but since he was, he could ask her for the stew recipe. If he didn’t, von Braustein would continue to blow up his phone.
He’d get the recipe—and make sure his wife wasn’t gravely ill—and leave.
It only made sense.
Chapter 3
Shanti had just wrapped her hair and tightened a silk scarf around it, and was in the process of choosing which patterned head wrap she’d wear for her latest excursion, when a knock at her door made her jump.
No one ever came to her door this late, especially since she’d started skipping dinner and feigning going to bed early. Kenyatta occasionally came to spend time with her, but that heavy knock was unfamiliar. Had her late-night adventures been discovered?
She cleared her throat and called out, “Who is there?” in English.
At the wedding and coronation dinner, she’d attempted to join in the dinner conversation in Njazan, and Musoke had burst out laughing and imitated her mockingly. His councilors had taken his cue and done the same. Shanti had tripled down on her study of the language and understood most conversations, but she hadn’t attempted to speak publicly in the palace again.
“It’s me. Sanyu.” The stern voice slipped around the heavy carved wood of the door, smoothing over her skin like cool velvet.
Oh—it was her husband, which was more alarming than if it had been the royal guard bringing her in for questioning. With the end of the marriage trial so near, and given her behavior at the meeting, maybe he’d decided to end things early. He was here to tell her to pack up and return home, where everyone would laugh and say she deserved it for marrying any royal who would have her.
“One moment please!” she called out as she shimmied her way out of her denims, folded them, and put them under her bed, and then slipped back into the sheath gown she’d thrown over a chair. She sat at her vanity, undid her scarf, and used her wide-toothed comb to carefully unwrap her hair so it lay long and sleek down her back.
What if he wants something else? Her face went hot.
No. He’d likely be accompanied by the royal guard or advisors who always flanked him.
She stared at her reflection, then swiped on some lip gloss and tossed a mint into her mouth. Just in case.
When she finally pulled the door open, he was alone.
She lowered her gaze to his shoes, as Musoke had told her was respectful, in part to hide the confusion she was sure was apparent in her eyes. If she were his wife in more than name, she’d make a joke about the strappy leather uncle-style slippers he was wearing. Instead she said, “How may I help you, Husband?”
“You can let me in, for starters,” he said brusquely.
If she were his wife in more than name, she’d remind him to watch his tone.
“Of course,” she said, trying to remember that though it chafed more and more, in the long game meek and mild was the easiest way into a powerful man’s graces. More flies with honey than vinegar, and all that.
She stepped aside and felt the pull of his heat as he passed her, was wrapped in the enticingly spicy scent of his cologne.
There was silence after she closed the door, and when she straightened and turned she saw that he had slipped off his shoes and crossed the room to the inner sitting area, with its thick carpeting and old expensive furniture. He stood in front of the settee and looked at her with impatience in his gaze, and she realized he was waiting for her. She hurried over, slightly annoyed.
When he settled his bulk into the chair and she took her place across the wicker-based coffee table from him, she couldn’t help but notice the way his trousers molded to his thighs, revealing as much as his royal robes usually did. That naturally led to cataloging how big each of the hands resting on his knees were—and what they would feel like against her body. He shifted in his seat, spreading his legs to get more comfortable, and Shanti felt the frustrating heat of a blush rising to her face. She’d wanted her husband from the first time she’d seen him, and even her anger didn’t change that.
He was studying her, that divot between his brows so deep she was sure it was where he stored the worries he refused to confide in her.
“How did you know I wasn’t someone changing my voice?” he asked. It was strange hearing his booming voice in her usually quiet chamber.
“Er . . .” Shanti squinted at him. “And what if you were?”
“Then you could have let a stranger in.”
“I’m not worried about strangers. I trust in Kenyatta’s ability and if anyone gets past her, I will handle them. I’m more concerned about what I can do to help you now that you’ve decided to grace me with your presence.”
H
e didn’t say anything, just continued to look at her. It was then that she noticed it—his gaze wasn’t exactly a furnace, but something had struck heat into the banked coals she’d seen over the last few months.
“Should I call for tea? Wine?” she asked, ignoring the flutter in her belly caused by this man who’d done nothing to deserve the gift of her desire for him.
“No.” He rolled his shoulders as if preparing to say something difficult. “Are you well, Wife?”
It was the question he always asked, but his gaze was so direct that it threw her off. She nodded, which seemed a little less like a lie.
“I heard you were ill,” he said gruffly.
“I’m feeling better,” she replied. And since when do you care? she thought, trying and failing to prevent herself from feeling any kind of hope at his newfound interest in her well-being.
“Lumu said your illness might be related to your work in the archives. Maybe it’s too much for you,” he said, as though he hadn’t heard her. “I know you were accustomed to a different way of life in Thesolo. There’s too much dust in the archives—maybe you’re allergic. If you want to stop working, I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing,” she said, a bit of vinegar lapping at the edges of her honeyed tone. “I lived on my family’s ancestral farm until my parents moved to the capital to pursue more opportunity for me. I still go back to the homestead whenever I’m able to. I’m not allergic to dirt, dust, mud, or any variant.”
His brows rose. “You don’t look like a farm girl. You look—”
Shanti held up a hand, knowing what he was going to say. She looked high-maintenance—which was apparently a bad thing since it was a visual manifestation of the fact that a woman had standards. She knew what random people thought of her and didn’t need to hear it from the husband who’d avoided her for months. “As you can see, I’m well. I’ll return to work tomorrow. Is that the only reason you blessed my chambers with an inaugural visit, Husband?”