Page 3 of Black Salt Queen

The glittering Maynaran capital, Mariit, was home to half the kingdom’s population. The streets were busy enough on a normal morning, packed with fishmongers and rice brokers and orphans with featherlight fingers and mud-streaked knees. With one week until the start of the feast days, the capital was bursting at the seams. Chaos swept through the cobblestone alleyways snaking between buildings, spilling onto the arched footbridges that soared over Mariit’s shimmering canals. Noise rang out from every street corner?—southern villagers, far from home, pestering innkeepers for room and board; weavers from the northern Skylands, hawking their hand-spun baskets and textile bolts.

The clamor grew as Laya and her sister approached. In the poorer, outlying districts, the royal carriage stuck out like a gold-encrusted thumb. Hara Duja’s subjects flocked to them from all sides. Before long, the crowd swelled across the entire street, blocking the carriage’s path. People stumbled over one another, most of them shouting in the heavily accented Maynaran of the provinces. They stared, wide-eyed, through the open windows of the carriage, hungry for a glimpse.

“Your Highness!” they called, their hands slapping at the carriage’s gilded doors. “This way, Your Highness!”

At the front of the carriage, the driver grew incensed. He roared at the passersby to move out of the way, pushing them back with his buffalo whip.

“Awfully excited to see us, aren’t they?” Laya said dryly.

Bulan snorted, pulling the hemp shade down over her window. “Awfully excited to seeyou.”

As always, Bulan spoke from the glaring chip on her shoulder. Laya was in no mood to reason with it. “They say jealousy is unbecoming,” she said. “And frankly, Bulan, now is not the time to argue?—”

“I imagine Luntok is excited to see you too.” Bulan’s gaze snapped to hers, sharp as the laminated steel of her blade?—she hadn’t forgotten.

Laya tensed. She lifted her chin in defiance. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“I think you do, Laya,” she said, her frown deepening. “And if Mother finds out?—”

Laya’s hands balled into fists, and the air outside her window crackled. “But Mother won’t find out, will she?”

“If she does, I will not have been the one to tell her.” Bulan didn’t stir at Laya’s thinly veiled threat. Quietly, she added, “I’m your sister. Don’t you trust me?”

“No,” Laya said in a flat voice. “I don’t.”

Bulan stared back, unable to conceal the hurt that stretched across her face. Laya tore her gaze away, but not fast enough. She couldn’t look at Bulan for long before the guilt unfurled, swift as a lizard’s tongue.

Laya loved her sister, but how could she trust her? Bulan had always resented her for her lot in life: Laya was a true Gatdula and held the power of Mulayri at her fingertips. One day, Laya was going to bequeen. And Bulan, who was born in the wrong year under a godless moon; Bulan, who wielded nothing but a broadsword and an empty title; Bulan, who was Hara Duja’s eldest but not her heir?—where did that leave her?

Laya knew her sister, knew that her bitterness burned stronger than any power she herself might have possessed. Bulan might not steal the throne, but she would find a way to take Luntok away from her, celestial alignment be damned.

When Bulan didn’t answer, Laya turned back to the window and rested her forehead against the cool glass. Freeing the ship had exhausted every ounce of strength she possessed. She closed her eyes, succumbing to the fatigue washing over her like a tidal wave.

Sisters or not, Laya could not bridge the divide that grew wider between them with each passing year. No promise she made could change that. Silence was a far greater comfort than any words she could share. She pretended to sleep, and Bulan didn’t talk to her for the rest of the ride through the city.

Laya kept her eyes shut until they rolled to a stop in front of the palace gates. By the time she opened them, the carriage door was swinging on its hinges, and the seat across from her was empty.

It was better this way, she reminded herself, as she made her way up the marble staircase and into the palace. She crossed the central courtyard, weaving through the throng of servants furiously scrubbing the tiles before the opening feast. From the courtyard, she retreated to the privacy of her chambers. No one was waiting for her when she arrived. She kicked off her shoes and sat down hard on the edge of the bed. A maid had left the balcony doors open to let in fresh air.

Laya stared past the fluttering curtains at the blue sky beyond the palace, half expecting a man’s head to appear over the balustrade. But no one was coming. She had ordered Luntok to wait until nighttime. A weight dropped on her shoulders when she realized he had heeded her request. Doubt leaped from her gut to her throat. She ought to have sent a kinder letter. What if she had angered him, and he’d never come again?

An absurd idea. Luntok could not keep away from her for long. He’d come to her, just as he promised.

Laya glanced up at the round giltwood clock that hung above her wardrobe. Hours to go before Luntok’s next visit. Her heart sank when she wondered how she might fill them.

Two

Laya

Laya was prone to moments of melancholy, but she was not one to wallow in darkness for long. She allowed a full hour to feel sorry for herself before deserting her room in search of someone to bother. By the time she emerged, a rare stillness had settled over the palace grounds. Most of the servants had broken for an early lunch; some, she suspected, were already taking advantage of the festive atmosphere. Next week, the faint buzz of excitement would build to a lusty uproar. Laya tried to relish the quiet as she made her way to the main stairwell. Peace was a privilege, and she wouldn’t see it again until the end of the feast days.

It was important for sovereigns to have these moments of solitude, she’d been told. Laya didn’t know about that. In solitude, her mind filled with the stormy thoughts she tried ardently to ignore. The silence consumed her.

She didn’t see Eti until she almost tripped over her younger sister’s outstretched feet. Laya gasped, saving herself on the banister.

“Watch where you’re going!” Eti cried, indignant, as if it were acceptable behavior for young princesses to lie sprawled across the palace stairs.

“Haven’t you got another place to practice your wielding? Your private chambers, perhaps?” Laya drawled as she stepped over Eti’s legs.

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