Page 59 of Black Salt Queen

When she didn’t answer right away, Ariel went on. “Perhaps Hara Duja sees this as a lack of intention, and that is why she might be so reticent,” he said, shocking Laya once again with his perceptiveness. “But I imagine you’ll figure that out with time, Dayang. You are so young.”

He stared deeply at Laya’s face. What he saw there seemed to distract him, because he kept staring, as if any rational counsel he wished to give her had disappeared from his head. Laya stared back. She couldn’t help herself. The Orfelian brought up a good point. Hours later, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. No one had ever challenged her like that before, questioning the kind of queen she wanted to be instead of telling her how to be one. Ariel was the first to ask and the first to listen. Not once did he presume to know her answers before she uttered them. He showed her ways of contemplating Maynara?—and the rest of the world?—that Laya had never considered before. Their conversations enthralled her. Just thinking about their last writing lesson rattled her more than she wanted to admit.

For the first time, she didn’t care what had brought Ariel Sauros to Maynara. Whatever his business, she hoped it would keep him in the palace a while longer.Friendshipwas not the right word to describe the bond she sensed budding between them. All she knew was that she liked him. After the feast days ended and the capital quieted once more, she looked forward to having him around.

In the middle of the great hall, Laya continued to mull over Ariel’s question as she poured herself another glass of wine. The alcohol would do little to cool the heat rising in her cheeks, but she needed something to do with her hands. As she took a sip, her older sister leaned over her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Bulan asked. “We should join Mother. The ceremony is about to begin.”

She glared at her. “I doubt that. We’re one datu short, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Bulan let out a sharp sigh. They had yet to make amends after the tournament. Although Laya was not yet ready to forgive her for what she’d done to Luntok, a day of distance had allowed her anger to ebb into dull annoyance.

“That woman truly has no shame,” Bulan said. “I don’t suppose Luntok mentioned anything to you about being late.”

Laya scowled. “I haven’t seen Luntok since you slashed open his back,” she lied. Images flashed of the previous night. His lips on her collarbone, her neck. She had run her fingers over his skin, which was warm against hers and smooth as glass?—

Smooth.His back had been smooth, no broken skin or scar tissue, as if Bulan’s blade hadn’t touched him at all. She had been too swept away by his romantic pleas to notice. Healers attended to his wounds after the tournament, but Laya had seen how much of his blood had splattered the platform. Their ointments and enchantments would not have been potent enough to stitch him up overnight.

Bulan noticed the shift in her expression. “Are you all right, Laya?” she asked. “You look ill.”

Laya faltered. “I’ve just remembered something,” she said.

The doors of the great hall swung open. All heads turned to watch Imeria stride through the entrance in a billow of scarlet silk. Luntok was close behind her. He met Laya’s gaze for a brief second. Her heart leaped, singing louder than the whisper of suspicion.

Someone very powerful had healed him after the tournament, but who?

“You’re late, Datu Kulaw,” Hara Duja called from the opposite end of the room. She did not sound pleased.

“Apologies for missing the feast, Your Majesty.” She glanced over her shoulder at the clock above the arched doorframe. With a faint click, the hands struck midnight. “As you can see, I’ve arrived in time for the ceremony.”

The queen pursed her lips. She didn’t seem to have the energy to berate Imeria any further. “Very well,” she said and raised her arms, inviting the datus to join her around the throne.

Laya took that as her cue to stand beside her father on the dais. Bulan followed her. Their mother remained with Maiza in front of the throne. A small table lay before them, atop which rested a golden wine goblet and a ceremonial dagger, its hilt made of an enameled buffalo horn. The blade glinted dully in the faint sconce light of the throne room. Some believed the blood of generations of datus past to be absorbed into the steel. Laya didn’t place much stock in blood magic, but she appreciated the symbolism of the closing ceremony same as anyone else.

“Where’s your sister?” the king whispered as she climbed the dais to stand at his side.

“She must have been overwhelmed,” Laya said. It was odd?—Eti should have been back by now. But everyone knew she hated feasts, always calling themstuffyandpretentious. Most likely she was hiding in some staircase after bringing the desserts to Ariel, tinkering with her precious metals.

The king frowned, which was rare of him. “Look for her when this is over” was all he said.

The receiving room quieted as Maiza began to chant in Old Maynaran. It was a haunting language, the whisper of gods. As she chanted, the lights dimmed, bending themselves to her magic. Only Hara Duja stood fully illuminated. The rest of the room was basked in darkness.

The six datus formed a semicircle around her. Like them, Laya watched in awe as her mother transformed. Hara Duja cast an imperious gaze down at her subjects from where she perched on her obsidian throne. She raised her chin, and shadows danced across the hollows of her cheeks. Her eyes hardened to steel. When her mother carried herself like this, she became the most magnificent creature Laya had ever seen.

And when she spoke, Hara Duja’s voice resounded over Maiza’s chants. Laya had committed her speech to memory long before, because she knew she would give it one day as well: “My friends, I address you, not as your sovereign but as Duja Gatdula, daughter of Mulayri and defender of the Maynaran throne. Like the thousands of ancestors who sat on the throne before me, I have been granted the sacred role of steward. With my power and might, I have sworn to protect Maynara against those who might harm Her.

“As Maynara’s most loyal servants, you have pledged to act on my behalf and protect our people in the farthest reaches of the realm. To mark the closing of this year’s feast days, I have summoned you before me to renew your vows. All who accept my protection may humbly serve. And all who serve must kneel.”

Maiza stopped chanting to gather the goblet and dagger in her leathery hands. Head bowed, she offered them to Hara Duja. “Your Majesty,” she murmured.

The queen accepted the objects in preparation for the final act of the ceremony. Her voice dropped to a bone-chilling whisper. “Who among you is loyal? Who among you will serve?”

Datu Luma, the oldest and most faithful of the datus, stepped forward without hesitation. “I will serve.” He took the dagger from Hara Duja and drew a thin, horizontal line across his wrist. The blood beaded at the surface of his skin, and he let it drip into the empty goblet.

Datu Tanglaw stepped forward. “I will serve,” he proclaimed, a touch too eagerly for Laya’s liking. She had heard about his conspiracy to match her with Bato. If he thought groveling would be enough to convince Hara Duja to agree to that marriage, he had a lot to learn. With an added flourish, he whipped the knife over his wrist before spilling his blood into the goblet with Datu Luma’s.

Datu Gulod followed, his waxy face uncharacteristically sober as he made his own offering. Then came Sandata. And after Patid. The only datu left was Kulaw.

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