Page 34 of Black Salt Queen

“Not at all,” she said, more lightly this time. “But after the fight, you must tell me how you defeated him.”

Luntok chuckled against her cheek. “Minx. You know I would never betray the warriors’ secrets.”

Laya couldn’t help herself. She leaned even closer, making her voice deep and husky. “Warrior, I will break your iron will yet. I know just the thing to entice you.”

His grip tightened around her waist. They grew reckless, dancing closer than any strangers should. His hands wandered, and his need fed hers. During a pause in the music, she grabbed his hand. They broke away from the crowd.

“Wait! Where are you going?” the guard shouted after them.

“Oh, let her go,” she heard Eti say. “Laya knows what she’s doing.”

From the balete tree, they ran, pulling each other through the narrow streets until the cacophony of the parade faded into a distant echo. Then they collapsed, laughing, over a faraway canal on an empty footbridge. The tournament, the bespectacled Orfelian, and all the troubles of the day disappeared. Outside the palace, Laya allowed herself to be freer with Luntok than she had ever been.

They laughed for what felt like hours before falling into silence, as their breathing steadied.

“If you won’t share the warriors’ secrets, tell me a story,” she finally said.

“What story?” he asked, reaching over. His fingers tickled her spine through her blouse, making her shiver.

She looked around for inspiration. Someone had strung up lanterns along the bridge just across from them. The candles inside glowed purple and red from the translucent, colored paper. Below the bridge, moonlight skated across the black water.

“Tell me about the serpent who swallowed the moon.”

“You already know that story.”

“Tell me another story, then. Any. I’m not particular.”

“Come on, Laya. We all know that’s not true.”

He leaned against the railing with his hands on either side of her ribs. Laya turned to face him, trapped between his arms. They were both sweating from the excitement of the parade, the run through the city, and their shared body heat. She reached up and removed his mask to find that Luntok was smiling.

“At least I know what I want,” she said.

His smile broadened. “Tell me what you want, then.”

She brushed her thumb across Luntok’s cheek, smooth as glass. The truth would shatter him. If she could lie to him, she would. She could lie so easily to anyone?—anyone else. Instead, she told him, “I want us to stay as we are.”

“Like this?” he breathed, cupping her face in his hands.

Yes.She willed herself not to melt. “Exactly like this.”

Laya’s eyes fluttered shut as she leaned into their kiss. She never wanted to stop kissing him. She would flood the entire land if it meant they were the only humans left. When she was with him, there was no need for solid ground.

Oh, Luntok.She sighed against his lips.

Loving him was like flying. When she was with him, she soared.

Thirteen

Luntok

Luntok drifted alongside Mariit’s canals as if on a cloud. He hummed as he walked and smiled vacantly at passing strangers. He almost forgot to stop and spit on the ground as he traversed the foreign district, which still stood, withering, in the shadows of the palace walls?—such was the effect Dayang Laya had on him.

The princess had left him in front of the row of deserted consulates, with their cracked windows and crumbling facades. It was foolish to let Luntok escort her back to the palace. That was as close as Laya dared bring him. They’d been careful to stay off the main roads, stealing kisses in the privacy of shaded alleyways, to avoid being seen.

When, at last, he’d kissed her goodbye, every inch of his body whined in protest. Laya pulled away from his embrace, a sad smile tugging at her lips. She looked so lovely, the moonlight softening the sharp angles of her chin. Luntok’s grip tightened around her fingers. He released her only when he saw her wince.

“Brutish warrior. You must take better care,” she’d told him wryly. “I am nothing without these hands. Half the kingdom seems to think it.” Melancholy flickered in her gaze then. Through Laya’s hands, the wrath of Mulayri flowed. Her hands allowed her to wield her power?—the same way his hands allowed him to wield a sword?—but they were only a small part of her. Perhaps a few irrelevant, pea-brained Maynarans thought of Laya as nothing but a broken vessel. Judging by the slight quiver in her lower lip, she almost seemed to believe it herself.

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