Page 14

Fourteen

Duja

Each time Duja felt herself dozing off, she cast her gaze toward the window.

In the streets beyond the palace, the uproar of the previous evening’s parade had faded to a distant buzz.

Guests had begun to arrive and were trickling in through the courtyard to the royal gardens.

Hari Aki remained downstairs to receive them.

For the hundredth time that morning, she wished to be by his side instead of trapped inside the palace.

She was convinced that one does not know boredom until one has listened to Datu Tanglaw drone on about matters in the north, his dull voice echoing across the domed ceiling of the council room.

“Relations with the Skyland tribes remain amicable. I have zero conflicts to report since last season. The situation in the foothills along the northern road, however, remains tenuous?—if I may, Hara Duja, propose a few suggestions?” Datu Tanglaw, at last, broke off his speech to address the queen.

She nodded to encourage him?—at any rate, Datu Tanglaw could not expatiate forever.

The feast days ran on a tight schedule, and this council meeting was expected to conclude within the next half hour.

Duja did not hate these meetings with the Council of Datus, as many of her entourage assumed.

In fact, she preferred the intimate, closed-door affairs to the bustling feasts, where she found herself accosted by hundreds of nobles from all sides, each of them vying for her attention.

It was easier to focus on the six nobles who joined her at the council table.

To her right sat Datu Luma, Datu Tanglaw, and Datu Sandata; and to her left, Datu Patid, Datu Gulod, and Datu Kulaw.

Across from Duja might have sat Laya, her heir.

Next year, Duja thought, which was what she told herself the year before.

Next year, she would prepare Laya thoroughly.

The council had never criticized Laya outright, at least not in the queen’s presence.

Three years had passed since the accident in the eastern wing?—not long enough for the council members to forget what it had cost them.

They’d accept Laya as their queen, but unless Duja proved Laya was ready for the role, they wouldn’t make her daughter’s reign easy.

It didn’t help that the heir to the throne had a habit of speaking out of turn, brusquely, and in utter defiance of Duja’s warnings.

Laya was showing signs of maturity, tempering her tongue before the rest of the court, albeit more slowly than Duja would have liked.

But soon they would have to address the datus together.

These were the heads of the highest-born families in Maynara.

Once sovereigns in their own right, each family first knelt to the Gatdulas after conquest, then in search of protection.

Their own ancient magic might have dried out eons before, but they wielded more political power than Laya could fathom.

Bound they may be to the Gatdulas, but they required a gentler hand.

The Council of Datus was a curious invention, formed by Duja’s ancestors to consolidate their hold on the island.

Before the council, Maynara was less a kingdom than a loose network of warring clans.

That changed generations earlier when invaders from the west barreled into the Untulu Sea.

They gobbled up the gold and enslaved the natives.

They worshipped one false god who whispered in their ears.

The god convinced them that the world’s wealth was theirs for the taking.

With the blood of Mulayri in their veins, the Gatdulas were the only sovereigns powerful enough to keep the invaders at bay.

Hatred of the foreigners, with their pale skin and ardent greed, united Maynara.

The datus pledged their loyalty to the Gatdula family in blood.

They named the Gatdula heirs the paramount kings and queens of Maynara, whom they served willingly, reverently?—all the datus, except one.

“Before we move on to the Skylanders, I was wondering, Hara Duja, if we might take this opportunity to speak of the gold tax on foreign traders,” Imeria Kulaw said, jolting Duja from her thoughts.

The men around the table stilled.

Imeria needn’t raise her voice to send a pang of dread through Duja’s body.

The faintest echo already promised a challenge.

Duja cleared her throat.

The king had tried to teach her how to handle Imeria.

If allowed to speak, Imeria enjoyed spinning tales of the Gatdulas’ drama and negligence?—tales that rarely portrayed the queen in a favorable light.

Duja knew after two decades on the throne that Imeria’s disrespect was a contagion.

To grant her the floor was to give her power?—and Duja couldn’t allow that to happen.

“The gold tax was not on the agenda for this meeting,” she said flatly.

Imeria refused to drop the subject.

Unrelenting, she held Duja’s gaze.

“I’m arguing that it was wrong to omit it.”

It was Datu Luma, this time, who defended her.

He was an old man with white hair and serious, sunken eyes.

He had sat at this table since Duja was a child.

“The sovereign dictates the agenda, Datu Kulaw,” he said in a stern voice.

“You are out of bounds.”

Imeria’s gaze hardened.

Duja wished she could forget, but there were times when she looked at Imeria?—at the curve of her eyebrow and the spite in her smile?—and saw with painful familiarity the beautiful, fearless young girl she had once been.

Years had passed since they’d lived alongside each other in the palace, and Imeria had only grown more beautiful, more fearless.

When their eyes locked across the council table, a trace of the old longing shivered across the queen’s skin.

Even after so much time, Duja found herself drawn to Imeria’s flame.

“I merely have Maynara’s interests at heart,” Imeria replied.

“Your office has proposed to lower the tax on foreign gold. I fear this sets a dangerous precedent for our trade policy. It will bring economic ruin far more disastrous than any of your advisers have foreseen.”

Ah yes, Duja was familiar with this tactic.

Imeria had a flair for the dramatic, and that had been the fun of her when they were children.

Duja no longer indulged her as she had back then.

“I apologize, Datu Kulaw,” she said before Imeria stirred further anxiety around the table, “but we don’t have time to entertain your unfounded beliefs.”

The bangles on Imeria’s wrists clapped against the wood when she pressed her palms against the table.

A faint flush crept across Duja’s cheeks as she gazed at the other woman.

Imeria was lovely in her fine jewels and scarlet silks, and her anger made her lovelier.

“Ah, Hara Duja, but they aren’t unfounded. Our recent history has taught us never to allow foreigners to enter Maynara in any fashion, no matter how innocent they appear. They come as merchants and missionaries one day, and the next, they start calling themselves our masters.”

A murmur of dread spread among the Council of Datus, who exchanged dark glances across the table.

The truth alone would not reassure them.

Duja wished she possessed her husband’s warm voice and easy grin, a balm against Imeria’s bluster.

Guilt wound through the queen when she thought of a time when words of love, not venom, dripped from the Kulaw woman’s sweet, tender lips.

Duja shifted her thoughts back to the other council members.

“The policy change would apply to foreign imports, not individuals,” she said.

“The world has changed so much in the past few decades. We cannot remain friendless. In isolation, our people will suffer. Our wealth will dwindle.”

Across the table, a few datus nodded in agreement.

But Imeria had a brutal vision of the world, and she had since she was a child; she could not be convinced.

“And what of our friends across the Untulu Sea?” she demanded.

“The Orfelians thought themselves clever when they gave Salmantica the key to their kingdom, and now they are slaves in their own land. I am urging you, Your Majesty, not to fall prey to the same trap.”

“Of course not, Datu Kulaw. Do you think me a fool?” Duja asked more harshly than she ought to have dared.

The other council members interpreted her bitterness as strength.

They nodded somberly.

“No one thinks you are a fool, Your Majesty,” Datu Tanglaw said, bowing his head in deference.

“Thank you, Datu Tanglaw, but I was speaking to her.” The rest of the table quieted as Duja fixed her sights on Imeria.

“I am merely worried,” Imeria said in a tempered voice, “that these foreigners will mistake your goodwill for weakness.” Her demeanor changed.

She appeared more resigned than she had a moment earlier.

Briefly, Duja thought she had her tamed.

“We must make concessions,” she said, “but that does not make us weak.”

Imeria’s eyes flitted up to hers once again.

“Like your grandfather made concessions?”

Knots formed in Duja’s stomach.

Briskly, she shook her head.

“No. This is not the same.”

“The old king once opened his arms to these foreign invaders. He invited them within the walls of Mariit, built them grand embassies in the heart of the city. They, too, preached goodwill and comity as they plotted to depose him and plant a puppet in his place,” she said scathingly, as if to hold Hara Duja accountable for her grandfather’s mistakes.

Oh, but she was wrong to speak to Duja this way?—so very wrong.

“Imeria.” Her first name slipped out of Duja’s mouth, sharp as a bone shard and achingly familiar.

The other datus looked up, surprised at the rare hint of informality between the two women, but Imeria went on as if she hadn’t heard her.

“I admire your idealism, Hara Duja, but we have no friends in this changing world. First you concede on gold, next it will be the throne. This is how it begins.”

Her words echoed in the vast hall of the council room.

Duja could never admit it, but Imeria had always been the cleverer of the two.

She remembered the tales the noblewoman had once spun of her people’s gods and their fallen kingdom.

In those moments, Imeria had sounded like her father, who had died in a futile attempt to restore the Kulaws to their former glory.

Oh, Duja, to be a god like you, Imeria once mused.

But Duja never wanted to be a god.

As a child, she had wanted nothing more than to run her fingers through the Kulaw girl’s long, inky hair.

To match Imeria’s whip-sharp tongue and troublesome beauty.

That was before she saw Imeria for what she was?—before she realized what she was capable of.

“You didn’t regret it then,” Duja said softly, “when my mother conceded and spared your life.”

Imeria’s mouth snapped shut.

Her cheeks reddened as if she had been slapped.

Duja should have felt relief when Imeria finally fell silent, but all she wanted was to shake her.

Spite me and slander me all you like, Imeria, but you will not win.

You are the danger.

You are the source of ruin.

You?—

Her hands began to tremble.

She clutched at the edge of the table, but the tremors radiated from her palms and up the length of her arms.

Beneath their feet, the ground shook.

The glass windows rattled in the frames.

On its clawed mahogany legs, the council table lurched.

“Your Majesty!” the datus gasped.

For the past couple of years, Duja had fought to control the tremors.

But as she met Imeria’s gaze across the table, a spark of defiance shot through her body.

Duja squared her jaw and leaned into the vibrations.

The threads of energy braided themselves firmly through her fingertips.

She sucked in a breath and pulled the threads taut.

Below her feet, the earthquake intensified.

A shadow of fear flickered in Imeria’s expression.

Finally, she bowed her head.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” she muttered, her voice barely audible above the rumbling earth.

Once, Duja remembered, Imeria had looked at her as if she were the pillar that held up the universe.

The queen tore her gaze away.

She straightened her shawl, collecting herself, then planted her palms flat against the armrests of her chair.

The threads pulled free of her grip.

A moment later, the shaking subsided.

Her hands remained motionless, free of tremors.

Duja had taken a monumental risk wielding her powers like that.

She sighed in relief and prayed to the gods her hands wouldn’t tremble again.

Duja stole a glance at Imeria, who did not look up from her lap.

The queen hadn’t forgotten.

Long before Imeria had pointed fingers at Duja from across the council table, she had traced lullabies into her skin.

The other woman’s tearful words echoed back to her from another lifetime, the last words she’d said to Duja the day the eastern wing had burned down: You’re cruel to me.

It’s not fair.

Was it cruel of the queen to threaten her subjects so?

To threaten Imeria, whose slender fingers once entwined so perfectly with hers, whose passion once set Duja’s soul ablaze?

Duja shook off the guilt when she remembered that the Kulaws required special treatment.

If Imeria stayed quiet for the rest of the meeting, Duja’s stunt with the earthquake would have been worth it.

“Now,” she said after a long silence, her voice surprisingly calm as she turned her attention to the other council members, shock etched across their graying faces.

“Does anyone else take issue with the gold tax?”