Page 38 of Black Salt Queen

“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?”

Fifteen

Laya

Laya, lost in thought, was pretending to marvel at the spotted orchids at the garden entrance when the earth beneath the courtyard shifted. Earthquakes were a common occurrence in Maynara?—some by natural causes, others by her mother’s will. They rarely lasted longer than a few minutes, but never did they hit the capital with such fervor. As the vibrations intensified, Laya lost her footing. She pitched forward, grabbing on to the person nearest her for balance.

“Are you all right, Dayang?” It was Waran Sandata who helped her gather her bearings. He was Bulan’s age, two years her senior, and the youngest of Datu Sandata’s many sons. Although he possessed no spectacular talent and an unremarkable face, he had a kind smile and a genuine sense of humor, which was rare among highborn children, who often took themselves too seriously for their own good.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Laya looked around. Several nobles in the courtyard had also lost their balance. Many had stumbled onto the tiled ground and were dusting off their fine silks.

“The gods must be displeased,” one man joked as he passed Laya on his way into the gardens. She looked up at the palace, where Hara Duja was hosting a council meeting.

“Not the gods,” she mused aloud. She could feel the threads of power in the earth beneath her feet, even if she couldn’t wield it. She could sense someone on the other end, struggling to tug back control. If the queen had allowed her heir into the council room as she had promised, Laya would know for herself what was going on. She thought of her mother’s worsening tremors. Occasional lapses in control were to be expected in a Gatdula of Hara Duja’s age, but there was something about this earthquake?—a wild, defiant energy weaving its way through the threads?—that caught Laya’s attention. She glanced at the eastern wing, where Ariel Sauros lurked out of sight of the nobles behind the closed window screens. What else was her mother not telling her?

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