by Nic Stone
“Much better.”
Okoye coughs, clearly to cover a laugh, and the retort that forms on Shuri’s tongue is so bitter, she’s relieved when the doors begin to open and she’s forced to swallow it down.
It’s a relief that doesn’t last. Because as Shuri takes in the upturned noses and puckered pouts of the tribal elders, who are already seated in the overwrought chairs brought in specifically for these dumb council meetings and arranged in a semicircle with T’Challa’s throne at the head, she’d like nothing more than to lift her oddly asymmetrical skirts and run.
Her stomach roils and she passes gas instead.
Of course everyone hears it.
“Shuri!” her mother furiously whispers.
“Sorry! It slipped!”
Pulling herself together, Queen Ramonda forces a smile.
But then she grabs on to Shuri’s arm just above the elbow. And Shuri can feel the dampness of her mother’s palm and the slight tremor in her hand.
Something’s not right. Shuri’s certain of it now.
Also: Where is T’Challa?
“Beloved leaders!” Ramonda purrs in the liquid silk voice she turns on when it’s time to remind everyone who’s queen.
And it works. Like magic, the storm cloud of tension permeating the space—and causing all the elders to appear as though they are sucking on sour candies (or maybe that’s from Shuri’s flatulence)—dissipates like a vapor. Even Shuri’s shoulders relax a bit. Though she does draw them back up tight to avoid another knuckle poke.
Shuri’s 98.3 percent sure she could never have that effect on a room full of Very Important (old) People.
“Thank you all so very much for being here with us today,” the queen continues as she guides Shuri forward so the two of them can take their seats, Ramonda to the chair that would put her on T’Challa’s left, and Shuri to the one on the right. “As you all know, this is our final gathering prior to Challenge Day—”
“Where is T’Challa?”
The question comes from a woman who looks elder enough to have been around when Bast chose the first-ever Black Panther. She can’t remember the woman’s name—or any of their names other than Eldress Umbusi, head of the Mining Tribe—but Shuri’s pretty sure the lady is of the Merchant Tribe.
No wonder her people are known for being shrewd in their business dealings. Clearly, they get right to the point.
The question hangs in the air for a moment and then:
“T’Challa sends his apologies for his absence. He’s been called to attend to a rather time-sensitive matter. He did request that I assure all of you of his readiness for the impending Challenge.”
“Oy, brother. Bigheaded even in absence—” The words have launched off the princess’s too-quick tongue before she even realizes they’ve formed. And the silence that follows them into what suddenly feels like a defiled sacred space—what with T’Challa’s chair empty—makes Shuri feel as though a bucket of Vibranium-infused ice water has been poured over her freshly braided head.
But then a man—leader of the Border Tribe if the rhinoceros-head hat is any indication—guffaws. And bursts into laughter. “The girl has a point, eh? Our young king is most certainly not lacking in confidence.”
“So very true!” Umbusi chimes in. Now everyone in the room is laughing.
“Perhaps,” Ramonda replies. “But it would still do the princess well not to speak ill of our king when he is not present to defend himself.” She’s smiling as well. Which makes Shuri feel better than she’d be willing to admit. “Now if we could move ahead to the reason for our gathering today. I’m sure you all have pressing issues outside the capital that you stepped away from to be here, so we’ll keep it brief.”
“Hear, hear,” crows the River Tribe elder. His loose, shimmery blue clothing flows like water. Which is a bit on the nose if you ask Shuri.
“Per usual, there is no representative here among us from the Jabari-Lands. They remain distant, but peaceful as far as we know, holding to their cultural and religious traditions and continuing to reject our technological advancements.”
“Fools,” from the Merchant eldress, again wasting no time and pulling no punches.
Not that Shuri disagrees with her. The idea of someone actively avoiding technology, and the joy of experimentation that comes with seeking to master it, is further beyond her than pulling off this whole “princess” gig.
“We shall respect our brethren and their chosen way of life so long as it does not interfere with the safety of Wakanda.”
“They don’t even communicate with us,” Umbusi says, flicking away any notion of Jabari treachery. “What means of contact would they have with the outside world? The Jabari are harmless. Let us leave them be.”
“My thoughts precisely, Eldress,” Queen Ramonda replies.
“But what do they do up there?” The head of the Border Tribe looks concerned. “What if they are stockpiling resources and building weapons for an eventual revolt?”
“Been watching American films on the PantherTube again, eh, old man?” the River Tribe head says, chiding his friend. Everyone chuckles.
“Perhaps this will be the year they send down a challenger,” the Merchant eldress says. “Can T’Challa truly prepare for something he has never seen?”
“I do believe he can,” from the queen mother.
Shuri gulps, nervous about speaking up, but struggling to resist the compulsion to defend her brother, especially after her earlier bumble. “As do I. It is part and parcel to the Panther mantle to be ready for anything—”
“Except for the Taifa Ngao.” The words are sharp-edged as they pass through the Border Tribe elder’s lips, but to Shuri’s relief, everyone chuckles. The queen’s laughter is forced, Shuri can tell, but it works to temper what could very easily become a diplomacy nightmare. Shuri’s fairly sure a ruler skipping out on a meeting with his advisory council would be frowned upon in any nation.
“Speaking of the Challenge—”
Another area where the queen mother excels and Shuri falters: regaining control of a conversation.
“—if any of you have warriors who intend to challenge T’Challa for the Black Panther mantle and the throne, do remind him of the rules: honorable hand-to-hand combat, no specialized weapons or tactics permitted. And should he succeed in besting our present ruler and protector, ingesting the Heart-Shaped Herb to prove himself worthy, and receiving the blessing of Bast, will still be required of him.”
“Or her,” Shuri murmurs under her breath.
“What was that, young lady?” the Merchant Tribe eldress says. (No filter and supersonic hearing? Maybe she should be the Black Panther.)
Despite having no idea why she said it in the first place, Shuri takes a deep breath and repeats herself. “I just said, ‘or her.’ ” And she shoves down her inclination to leave it at that. “Because perhaps a female warrior will step forward to challenge.”
Now everyone is really laughing. Which makes Shuri feel not only angry and stupid, but also powerless.
“Child, the last warrior to challenge a sitting Black Panther was your brother. And after the way he pommeled your uncle S’yan, not a single male warrior in all of Wakanda has had the courage to face him,” the Border Tribe elder says. “Our best and brightest female warriors serve the Black Panther as Dora Milaje. They don’t try to become him.”
Shuri’s gaze floats to Okoye and Nakia, who are standing sentinel near the doors. If they’re bothered by the older man’s words, it doesn’t show.
This is why she despises these meetings. In addition to being mind-numbingly boring, all these people insist on treating her like a little girl. Shuri is young, yes, but she has certainly contributed to the well-being of Wakanda. Not a single person in the room outside of her mother ever even refers to Shuri as “princess.”
Also, it gives her pause that these people can’t even seem to fathom a female Black Panther. What rhino-head elder said is certainly true: The Dora Milaje h
ave served as Wakanda’s royal guard for ages. And they’re the best of the best.
Shuri’s mind drifts back to the queen’s dressing chamber. The lack of tribute to Wakandan princesses. It makes her wonder: Why has there never been a female Black Panther?
“What of the invasion rumors, Ramonda?” The Merchant eldress strikes again. The more Shuri looks at her, the more her bloodred caftan, black jewelry, and pointed hat seem wildly appropriate.
She’s certainly got everyone’s attention now.
“Invasion?” from Umbusi. “Is this the true reason T’Challa is not with us?”
This time when Shuri glances at her mother, the queen is looking back at her, but quickly averts her eyes.
It feels foreboding.
“I can assure all of you there is nothing to worry about,” the queen replies. “Not even the slightest hint of reason for alarm.”
No one seems convinced.
“There will be no invasion, so let us lay that rumor to rest,” she continues. “Challenge Day shall proceed as normal, and after it has passed, we shall resume our planning for increased fortification—”
“If there won’t be an invasion, what need do we have to fortify?” A valid question from the River Tribe elder, though Shuri is irritated at his “impropriety” in interrupting the queen.
“Well …” Ramonda clears her throat. Which is something she never does. No matter how nervous or uncomfortable Mother gets, it never shows. She is the grand mistress of schooled features and an excellent bluff face. Shuri knows this from years of mistakingly playing an American game called Uno that T’Challa had brought back from a surveillance jaunt in a city called New Jersey. (What happened to Old Jersey, the princess doesn’t know.)
“T’Challa should really be the person to tell you all,” the queen goes on.
“But you are here and so are we,” says Umbusi. “The next Taifa Ngao is four months hence. Wakanda is surely the most fortified nation on the planet. We’ve remained hidden—and therefore uninvaded, unconquered, and uncolonized—for the entirety of our existence as a nation. If there is need for us to fortify further, all the tribal elders should be privy to why.”
“Seconded—”
“And thirded,” comes the boom of the Border Tribe elder’s voice, following that of his River Tribe companion. (Of course the men back one another up.)
The queen mother sighs. “Fine,” she says, and everyone seems to pull forward in their cushy seats as if that single word is a magnet.
“I won’t say much because it is not my place to speak for the king. But T’Challa has seen and done much during his relatively brief tenure as the ruler and protector of Wakanda, and I believe that, after making our borders as secure as possible, he intends to make our nation’s existence a bit less … secret.”
Shuri’s mind whirls as she makes her way to her quarters after the close of the meeting. All she can think about is … Baba. How can T’Challa even consider making their existence known to the world? Especially considering what happened.
T’Challa had been just a few months younger than Shuri is now when their father was killed. According to the story she knows, Baba had also considered making the world aware of their small nation. He’d accepted an invitation to some gathering of world leaders, and there was someone there—a man named Klaw—who’d been sent to kill him.
The most troublesome part to the princess: Because T’Challa had been so young, Baba’s brother, Uncle S’Yan, had assumed the throne and taken on the Black Panther mantle until T’Challa reached the point where he could challenge him for it.
Shuri is the only other living descendant of T’Chaka. Which would mean if something were to happen to T’Challa, she would have to step up. There’s never been a female Black Panther before, but what if there has to be? What if … it has to be Shuri?
So distracted by these thoughts is the princess, she doesn’t realize there is someone in her quarters until she’s all the way inside with the door shut.
“Finally, you’re back!” a girl’s (Shuri thinks) voice says. “I was beginning to wonder if I needed to convene a search party.”
Quick as a flash, Shuri whips around and extends her arm, palm up, as she makes a fist and lets her hand drop just the slightest bit. A blast of purple light—and electromagnetic energy, though the intruder won’t know that until it hits them—shoots out of the bead at the center of her Kimoyo bracelet, and she drops and rolls forward so that she’s hidden behind her giant bed.
“What the—OWW!” the voice says. “Uncalled for!”
It makes the princess smile. She’d gotten the idea to arm that bead from a video of a guy who swings around New York City on webbing he shoots from his wrists. Thank you, spidery guy, she thinks—
But then there’s movement above her—a bounce on the bed—and the next thing Shuri knows, a pair of arms are wrapping around her from behind, one at the neck, and one around the chest, pinning her arms.
Shuri thrashes … well, she tries to, at least. The person is very strong, and Shuri’s too out of practice for her twists and turns to do much of anything.
Though she has to admit: The invader seems shorter than she would’ve expected.
“A little rusty, eh?” the voice purrs in her ear.
“Let me go!” Shuri barks.
“As you wish …” The arms release her, and faster than she can blink, the person has slipped in front of Shuri, grabbed her pulse-shooting arm, and flipped her onto her back on the bed.
A girl’s face appears above the princess. Round, deep brown, and set with dark eyes that now sparkle with mischief. “By Bast, you are dramatic,” she says. “Shooting at me? Really?”
“Oh,” Shuri says, the fight going out of her. “It’s you.” She sits up.
The girl puts her hands on her hips—which are clad in violently bright orange-and-pink patterned trousers. “Well, don’t sound so excited!” She’s a full head shorter than Shuri, but with athletic curves and muscles the princess is severely lacking. “I’m only your best friend in the whole wide world—who’s been waiting here for an hour, by the way, and who you haven’t seen in ages—come to invite you on a grand adventure! No big deal at all!”
And she calls Shuri “dramatic.”
“I saw you two days ago, K’Marah.” Her pride crushed, Shuri stands and shucks off the green, toe-squishing, Achilles-pinching contraptions the clothier delivered with her fancy frock. Then she crosses the cool, marble floor to her dressing chamber. She wants out of this dress—and away from both the girl and her own embarrassment at being trounced so thoroughly. “And knowing you, whatever ‘adventure’ you have in mind will be something I want no parts of.”
I really want no parts of this so-called friendship, Shuri wants to say, but doesn’t. Not that friendship itself is something she shuns … not that she’d ever admit it aloud, but the inside jokes and shared fun Shuri has witnessed between girls her and K’Marah’s age would be nice from time to time. (Bonus if there’s an opportunity to talk science and tech.)
It’s just that Shuri’s friendship with K’Marah has never felt real.
While T’Challa’s tenth-birthday gift to Shuri was a laboratory near the Sacred Mound, and access to as much Vibranium as she needs for her technological pursuits, Queen Ramonda’s gift to her daughter was a friend. “You spend far too much time alone, child,” she’d said. “People are beginning to ask questions.” (Shuri thought people should mind their own business, but of course she didn’t say that, either.)
In theory, an arranged friendship isn’t such a bad thing, especially if the friends genuinely like each other and enjoy each other’s company. And it’s not that Shuri dislikes K’Marah or is opposed to her presence. She’s just never been fully able to lower her guard.
For one: K’Marah is Eldress Umbusi’s granddaughter. Could it be mere coincidence that the princess was given unlimited access to Vibranium—Wakanda’s most valuable resource, yes, but also the main item in the Mining T
ribe’s jurisdiction—on the same day Mother introduced her to the short, pretty girl whose position within the Mining Tribe is akin to Shuri’s position in the Wakandan royal family?
Maybe.
But last year when K’Marah began training to become a Dora Milaje, Shuri began to seriously doubt it. (She may also have been a bit jealous, but that’s neither here nor there.)
In truth, it’s not just the princess-and-princess-protector-in-training nature of the relationship that makes Shuri uncomfortable. She and K’Marah are just so … different. Shuri is tall and slim, and hates drawing attention to herself—hence her preference for simple T-shirts and slacks. K’Marah, as evidenced by her neon pants and ruffled tank top, is the opposite.
Also: Where Shuri is grounded, logical, a lover of science, technology, and empiricism, K’Marah thinks more loftily, preferring the “spiritual,” as she calls it: the intangible and ethereal.
Which is precisely why Shuri has no interest in any “adventure” her so-called friend wants to partake in. In fact, the last time the princess allowed the Mining heiress to rope her into an escapade—K’Marah had met some self-proclaimed “spirit scientist” in the market who’d shared a “foolproof” way (using self-hypnosis, which she didn’t realize was a thing) to incorporeally project oneself straight onto the Djalia, the plane of Wakandan memory where one can commune with the spirits of the ancestors—Shuri wound up unconscious for six hours, and woke with a splitting headache that required a trip to the royal healers.
“That dress is really stunning, by the way!” K’Marah calls out just as Shuri lets it fall to the floor within her closet space. “The color really makes your melanin pop!”
Shuri rolls her eyes as K’Marah’s latest obsession with aesthetics comes to the fore. “Been watching beauty guru videos on PantherTube again, eh?” she shouts.
“I know it’s not really your thing, but there’s one hair tutorial you must watch. I’ll send it to your Kimoyo card—”
At the mention of the Wakandan gadget (akin to a “smartphone,” as she’s heard them called on the internet, but thinner, virtually indestructible, and far technologically superior), Shuri’s mind drifts off to one of her recent projects: a pair of eyeglasses embedded with the card’s technology. The CatEyes will be fully communicative—one can make calls, send/receive messages, etc.—AND will give the wearer instant access to any information a Wakandan could need with the mere tap of a finger. Just the thought sends an excited thrill down Shuri’s spine.