by Alyssa Cole
Nya: It’s going great, thank you! But . . . even though I wanted to move here, I’m finding it very difficult adjusting to some things and just want to go home! I thought it might be the same for you?
Shanti: Am I to understand that you’re messaging me out of pity?
Her tear ducts burned but she blinked until the aggravating sensation passed. Had she been that obvious in her unhappiness? she wondered, then cringed as she remembered fleeing from the dinner table. Yeah, it had been obvious.
Nya: Never, Your Highness. I’m writing because *I* am looking for friends who understand what I’m going through, and, only if it pleases you of course, I thought maybe you could be one of them?
Shanti lowered the phone and worked her lips back and forth as she parsed the words for additional meaning. Was this some kind of trap? Some kind of joke? Something set up by Musoke to test her loyalty?
Nya: I apologize if I’ve been too forward. I’m not always sure how acquiring friends works and maybe you aren’t supposed to message someone and ask them outright? Is this weird? Either way, this is my number. You can text me, anytime, about anything, and I will get back to you as soon as I can.
Shanti didn’t have friends, really. She’d always been focused on her goal, and even when she did make acquaintances, eventually they’d get tired of hearing her talk about the same thing over and over again or ditching them for her queen-building activities. They’d eventually stop contacting her, or start making fun of her, and that was that.
It could be nice to have a friend who was from her homeland and knew what royal life entailed—probably far better than Shanti, born a commoner and who’d basically been relegated to royal staff after her marriage. And, as Nya had said, someone who knew what it was like to miss home.
“Queens are strong, but they do need support.”
She’d written that into her “Field Guide to Queendom” years ago after watching footage from the Royal Unity Weekend, the annual conference started by the late Queen Laetitia where queens, princesses, duchesses, and royals of all sorts gathered to discuss how to improve things in their kingdoms and beyond. Nya could be that support. But first Shanti had to ask something.
Shanti: Does your cousin know that you wish to be my friend?
She’d assumed Princess Naledi would hate her—in part because she’d kind of hated Naledi for a while. Their first and only encounter had been the most humiliating moment of Shanti’s life.
Prince Thabiso of Thesolo had been her first bite on RoyalMatch.com, and it had seemed like the goddess had truly blessed her—the possibility of gaining her hero as a mother-in-law and marrying the prince whose posters had adorned her wall, all without even having to move countries. She’d arrived to their first meeting only to come face-to-face with Thabiso and his true love Naledi, and mouth to shoe with the contents of Naledi’s stomach and her favorite heels. She’d been left a smelly, rejected mess, watching Queen Ramatla run off to tend to her actual future daughter-in-law.
Nya: I don’t need Naledi’s permission to make friends, but she does know and is happy. She figured when you didn’t respond to her official apology or her multiple invites, including to the royal wedding, that you hadn’t forgiven her for the whole puking on you thing. She thinks that’s legit, though.
Shanti hadn’t seen any official invites. She’d received almost no correspondence since becoming queen, even on her royal email account. It was almost as if she didn’t exist outside her chambers anymore. But this text from Nya reminded her that she did.
Shanti: I think my mail was misplaced because I never received any invites. I’ll look into it. In the meantime . . . if you need a friend I suppose I can help.
Nya: Yay! I’m so excited. I have to go now, but I’ll talk to you soon, friend!
Shanti shoved the phone stiffly into her pocket and headed for the exit. In one night she’d gained a husband who acknowledged her existence and a friend.
As she passed the small altar to Ingoka, she clasped her hands together and nodded her thanks. Then she snuck out into the night, and merged into the hustle and bustle of the capital city outside the palace’s gates.
Chapter 4
Sanyu stared at the speech that had been written for his next address to his subjects, trying to memorize it as quickly as possible so he could go back to ignoring this most hated aspect of his job. Giving speeches every few weeks was bad enough, but reciting words that were exactly the same as those written for his father made him feel even more ridiculous.
He began reading aloud again.
“Welcome, my dear citizens of Njaza. We are a glorious kingdom, strong as the mountains that lift us up, dangerous as the depths of our great lakes, and relentless as the currents of our raging rivers! Today, I, your mighty king—oh hell.” Sanyu dropped the speech cards onto his desk, wanting to break out in hives from how ridiculous the whole thing was. Why should he have to refer to himself as mighty? Why couldn’t he just say, “Hello, fellow Njazans? How do you do?”
He grimaced, leaning back in his chair away from the speech he was sure was written explicitly to make him feel foolish. Why did he have to give these speeches at all?
Because Musoke decided it should be done.
Well, maybe he’d just stop. He’d hide in Shanti’s quarters—Musoke never ventured into the queen’s wing, so he’d never look there.
He thought back to the first night he and Shanti had met, when he’d scoffed at the idea of her protecting him, yet here he was fantasizing about just that.
Sanyu grimaced even more deeply, spinning back and forth in the chair to discharge the itchy energy that made him think, Run, run, run. Running wasn’t an option.
He couldn’t figure out why he’d struck his bargain with Shanti. She was an unnecessary annoyance, one that he’d managed to successfully avoid close contact with for months. He could’ve kept walking past the corridor that led to her room—he should’ve never been in that wing to begin with. But then she’d opened the door and the scent of her had beckoned him—shea butter and a heady floral perfume.
And then she’d dropped her gaze. Yes, it was how a Njazan queen was supposed to greet her husband, but it was so at odds with the woman he’d first met and who had reemerged at the advisory meeting—fierce, intelligent, and full of surprises. The good kind of surprise, not the “Musoke is siphoning money from charity funds” or “you have to give a speech to a thousand people” kind of surprises he’d received of late.
He’d liked sitting with her, and the way her tone was cool but her words left a burn in their wake when she was annoyed. Her talk of teamwork didn’t match what Sanyu knew of Njazan marriage, though it was said that the True Queen could—
No. He caught himself before he trod down that path. There had been no True Queen since the resurrection of the Njazan monarchy fifty years earlier, or during the occupation by Liechtienbourg that had lasted for eighty years before that. If his father, great man that he was, hadn’t been able to find his True Queen—his equal—in all the dozens of wives he’d gone through, how could Sanyu imagine he’d find her in his first wife, a woman chosen at random from a website and who wasn’t even Njazan?
Besides, the True Queen would be the one who stayed forever and ruled by his side. Happily ever after. That seemed as probable as Musoke being proud of Sanyu about something.
He would go to his wife at night, not with any expectation for more, but because he was a king who’d been taught to make use of the tools he had at hand. Shanti was like a can opener, if can openers were endowed with beauty and intelligence and spectacular asses.
There was a brief knock at his door and then Lumu stepped into the room, followed by a bald older man of average height with medium brown skin. Laurent Masane, the finance minister.
Sanyu froze—there’d been no meeting planned and he hadn’t had time to slip into the role of king. Right now he was Sanyu, a silly man who was daydreaming about his wife.
“What are you doing here?” Th
e question came out harsh and frightening, because, well, he always sounded like that, even more so when he was under stress.
“I apologize for the interruption, but Minister Masane seemed very eager to talk to you,” Lumu said. “About the state of the economy.”
Masane shifted from one foot to another. He was one of the newer members of the council, but had been on it longer than Sanyu had been alive. If he had hair, it would’ve been gray. None of the advisors were younger than sixty—apparently, Musoke believed that elders were the vessels of knowledge, and best to keep the council stocked with the fullest vessels.
Sanyu frowned more deeply as he stared at Masane; ministers had never directly approached his father, to his knowledge. It was disrespectful because it assumed he had time to spare. Did this man not respect him? The king wasn’t supposed to tolerate disrespect. Should he yell? Send him away?
Too many options. Instead of choosing one, Sanyu stared at the man and waited for him to take the lead.
“Oh. Oh no.” The minister’s hands began to shake. “I don’t mean to displease you, Your Highness.”
“I’m not displeased,” Sanyu boomed.
Sweat dripped down the minister’s forehead. “I just want to help the kingdom.”
Shanti’s words from the night before played in his head. “It’s difficult for a person to run a kingdom on their own—one person never has all the answers.”
It wouldn’t hurt to hear what Masane had to say. He tried to look all-knowing but interested, and then gestured at the seat in front of his desk.
“Sit. Tell me what’s so important that you would show up uninvited.” When the minister remained frozen he added, “Please.”
The man carefully sat on the edge of the seat, as if ready to spring up at any moment, and took a deep breath. When he spoke, he was clearly still nervous, but not because he lacked confidence in his words. “Your Highness, I know you are loyal to Musoke, like your father before you, but the current state of Njaza’s finances . . .” He shook his head. “We are heading toward sure disaster if we don’t change course now. Given our natural resources, the beauty of our lands, our strategic location on the continent, and our history, we should be doing much better than we are.”
This wasn’t a surprise to Sanyu. It was one of those things he’d known he’d have to fix in that brief period before the mental mourning shroud had obscured his view of his duties and Musoke had tightened his hold on things.
“Do you suspect embezzlement?” Sanyu asked, thinking of the parade that had been planned using the charity funds. “Why are we in such bad shape?”
The finance minister glanced at Lumu, who nodded, and then to Sanyu. “Not embezzlement, but mismanagement and flat-out stubborn refusal to move into the future instead of looking to the past. The Njaza of fifty years ago doesn’t exist, and neither does the economy of fifty years ago.”
“So you think we should take the loan from the World Bank?”
“Absolutely not,” Masane all but spat. “We can change things, but to do that we have to rebuild the foundation of Njazan finance, sector by sector. There are many things that can be done internally, but we have to ask for help, too, from people who have a vested interest in us thriving. Trust me, the countries around us are not thrilled to have a kingdom on the brink of collapse and the possibility of civil war in their midst.”
Were things that bad already? Was he so terrible a king that people expected collapse instead of success?
“We cannot let our pride prevent us from seeking out strategic alliances and trade deals,” the minister pressed. “Such as the railway. I’m trying not to exaggerate, but I believe that if we block the construction of the railway, we will be lighting the flame beneath our kingdom’s funeral pyre.”
“Thank you,” Sanyu said, scrubbing his palm over his beard. “I would appreciate any additional recommendations you might have.”
The minister’s eyes went wide. “You mean . . . you agree to what I said? You’ll take it into account?”
“Of course I will.” Sanyu frowned. He was almost offended and then remembered that this man had no reason to expect anything of him, just as his wife had no reason to. He’d done almost nothing since he’d taken the throne.
“But Musoke doesn’t agree with me,” the minister said. “For years, he hasn’t listened. ‘Amageez’ this and ‘I know what’s best for this kingdom’ that. It’s been like screaming into a void and now . . .” He cleared his throat. “I know he won’t be happy about my coming to you directly. All I ask is that you look over my suggestions.”
“I will,” Sanyu said, confused. “I already asked to see them.”
“Really?”
Sanyu was beginning to think the minister didn’t want to be taken seriously.
“Do you have them on you now?” he asked.
“No.” Masane lifted his hands. “I expected to be dismissed. But I can look over them and get you an updated file that includes the latest Rail Pan Afrique information as well as other projects I think we should consider. Can I have it to you in a few days? Ah! I should have come prepared! I feel I’ve wasted your precious time. Please don’t be angry. I can give you what I have now and—”
“Take your time and get me the information when you can. I agree that things need to change if we want Njaza to flourish, and I don’t want you to rush through any assessment of that.” Discussing matters of Njaza’s future felt strange to Sanyu. He was used to repeating his father or Musoke, but their emphasis had been on survival, not what came after.
Minister Masane stood and bowed his head. When he lifted it, his eyes had a glossy sheen to them.
“Your father was a great man. A mighty king. He helped us gain independence, quelled the turmoil after, and made Njaza into a formidable kingdom as it was in the past. But he was a warrior, a son of Omakuumi. Musoke was the strategist, of Amageez, and the fi—” His mouth slammed shut and he jolted in surprise, as if his words had come to a screeching halt in his mouth before meeting the back of his teeth.
“Ah. Never mind. No talk of the past. I’m glad that you are open to other people’s opinions. Your father was once, too, and even Musoke once had some give to him. But victory and loss alike make a man willing to do anything not to lose what he has. You are young. Not yet tested. I hope you are as willing to lose as you are to win, my king.”
When he’d left, Sanyu was surprised to find that the pain in his stomach only flared a little. He looked over at Lumu, who watched him quietly.
While his father had always been kind to him, he’d never considered the king to be “open to other people’s opinions.” Either the minister was wrong, or that had been before Sanyu was born—and given how old his father had been when Sanyu was born, that was more than likely.
“Are you all right?” Lumu asked.
“Of course,” Sanyu said. “I don’t want my people to be afraid of me. Especially those who have useful suggestions.”
“Maybe you could mention that in your next address.” He nodded toward the speech Sanyu had been memorizing.
“Seeking help would be admitting weakness,” Sanyu said reflexively. “The king has no weaknesses. And as wise as Masane’s words sounded, I will never be willing to lose.”
“Why is admitting the strength of others a weakness?” Lumu asked. “There is no finite supply of strength, and there is certainly a time and a place to embrace both weakness and loss.”
Sanyu tried to come up with an answer, and was only met with years of his father and Musoke’s words filling his head. His face went hot because he felt foolish. Logically, Lumu was correct. It was the same thing Sanyu had thought over the years, the same thing he’d been reprimanded for asking before he learned to stop asking questions at all. He’d numbed the part of himself that thought critically about strength and weakness, but now it burned with embarrassment.
“I will think on how best to express this, though I’m not sure the council will appreciate changes to the speech
es.”
Lumu pressed his lips together and looked down for a second, then back up. Sanyu knew that this meant he’d decided against whatever he’d wanted to say.
“Do you want to spar this evening?” Lumu asked, smiling. “I know it helps clear your mind, and you have much to think on.”
“Maybe tomorrow. I have plans.”
“Plans? That aren’t on the agenda I made for you?” Lumu eyed him curiously, then shrugged when Sanyu didn’t respond. “Fine. Matti and Zenya have an important meeting tonight and asked me to come. They’ll be glad I don’t have to work late again.”
“About that . . .” Sanyu leaned back heavily in his seat. “Isn’t it a lot of unnecessary work dealing with one person, let alone two? I’ve never asked, but why did you do it? And how do you manage it?”
Lumu tilted his head to the side and regarded Sanyu shrewdly. “You want to know how I manage my relationships with my spouses?”
He tilted his head and blinked rapidly, a grin on his face.
Sanyu waved his hands. “No! No. I was just curious because, ah, it seems like a good exercise in . . . how to interact with the council. Yes.”
“Well, the triad marriage is about as traditionally Njazan as you can get, even if it has fallen out of fashion, so there is no special ‘why.’ It just happened.” Lumu glanced to the side, as if remembering how it had happened, and the contentment in the soft curve of his mouth before he continued speaking jolted Sanyu. “I don’t see it as work. Things that make me happy and give my life meaning aren’t unnecessary, even if they’re hard. Just like being a king is hard, but if you do the job in a way that makes you happy, it’s worthwhile.”
“Humph,” Sanyu said, raising and dropping one shoulder. “Being a king isn’t a choice and comes with a lifetime mandate. I’m stuck with it. Neither of your spouses has to stay with you, even though you actually like them.”
“Love them,” Lumu gently corrected. “I love them.”