Page 65 of Black Salt Queen

“You ought to lie down. You barely slept last night,” Eti said in the same kind tone Ariel had used with her since the day her father introduced them. The Orfelian was so unlike the king’s past palace guests, the brightest subjects in Maynara. Loyal and talented they might have been, but Laya had warned Eti they sought only to improve their station. According to her sister, they saw Eti as a pea-brained little girl, easy to cajole with sugary treats and empty promises. Ariel, on the other hand, never asked a single favor of Eti.

From where Eti stood, she could make out the sharp edges of precioso lining Ariel’s pockets. He’d smuggled it out of the palace the night they’d escaped. Eti understood little about the drug apart from the fact that it was the true reason Ariel was in Maynara?—and, should the precioso fall into the wrong hands, it would doom the entire kingdom to a ghastly fate.

She noticed then that Ariel was holding one of the crystal pieces in his fist. Sunlight winked off the glassy tip, which stuck out over his knuckles. He’d told her that precioso had cursed the people back in Orfelia, burrowing itself deep inside their minds, enslaving them. As curious as she was about the precioso, she didn’t ask to see it. There was something about the drug’s spotless, manufactured beauty that didn’t sit well with Eti?—a magic not even the mightiest Gatdula could wield. She reached instead for the liquor bottle’s narrow stem. That jolted Ariel out of the fog that had settled over him. He batted Eti’s hands away with a frown.

“Hey,” he said, chiding her for the first time. “You may be a princess, but you’re not of drinking age.”

Eti raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Do you have to be a certain age to drink, where you’re from?”

“Yes. In most places, actually.” Ariel raised the bottle and took another sip. Eti waited patiently for him to offer her one, but he never did. When her surprise morphed into mild annoyance, the corners of his mouth quirked up into an amused grin. “You look so much like your sister when I offend you.”

Eti had two sisters, but Ariel could only be referring to one of them.

“Why? Do you often offend Laya?” Eti asked, and a faint flush crept across Ariel’s cheeks. Clearly, the sound of Laya’s name fazed him. Eti took the opportunity to pluck the liquor bottle from his grip. “I turn thirteen in a few weeks,” she said as he opened his mouth to protest. “That is old enough to drink in Maynara.”

“Only a sip,” he cautioned. “One of us must keep their wits about them.”

“One sip.” Eti brought the bottle to her lips. It was much stronger than the wine they served at the palace feast. She swallowed the liquor and handed the bottle back to him, fighting the urge to gag. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t like the taste.”

Ariel chuckled. “Few people drink for the taste, Eti.” He’d stopped calling herdayangfor fear of being overheard. As long as the Kulaws controlled the city, no one could know who they were. She liked that he didn’t use her title. It made her think that, maybe, he considered her a friend. Eti didn’t have many of those. And she needed friendship more than ever.

“Oh, no. I’ve heard how people try to drink away the sadness... Although you didn’t strike me as one of those morose types.” Eti smiled at him, openly, trustingly. She half expected Ariel to smile back in that shy, reassuring way of his. But the alcohol had loosened Ariel’s features. His expression fell into one of abject helplessness.

“But I am,” he murmured. “I am morose and pitiful. Unlike you, I truly am useless. How am I to get you out of this mess alive?” Panicked questions seemed to rise in the back of Ariel’s throat before he coughed, choking his worries back down. “Forgive me, Eti. I promised I was going to help you. I just need to find out how.” His brow was creased with worry, but this time, he spoke with shaky reserve.

Ariel was afraid, but he’d never leave Eti on her own. He was as determined to save the Gatdulas as she was. Gratitude swept through her, a force so strong she couldn’t put it to words. She threw her arms around his neck. Ariel returned her embrace, leaning down to rest his chin atop her head. Warmth filled Eti’s chest as she thought once more of her family. She’d see them again soon.

Finally, her mind cleared from the shock of the midnight feast. Her entire body began to vibrate with a fierce determination Eti had never felt before. What did it matter if she couldn’t wield a sword or summon typhoons? Eti was a Gatdula. The blood of Mulayri flowed through her veins. She could break through locks and whittle down iron bars with a twist of her fingers. She wasn’t strong, but she was small and fast. If she could fade into the city undetected, she could slip past an entire army if she needed to.

And, above all else, Eti wasn’t alone. The mere reminder gave her strength. She squeezed Ariel’s shoulders, breathing in sharply through her nose. “We’ll find out how to rescue them,” she vowed into the rough fabric of his shirt. “Together.”

“Together,” Ariel echoed.

He didn’t budge when Eti stepped back and tucked herself under the cot’s threadbare sheets. Although he set the bottle down, he stayed at the window for a long moment. Eti didn’t bother him. She was too alert to sleep. In her mind, she stalked the halls of the palace. She sifted through hazy memories, lessons in cleverness passed down from her father. She searched for a solution, anything that could help free her family from the Kulaws’ clutches.

The queen, the king, Bulan, Laya?—Eti knew she could help them better than anyone. But how?

Twenty-Five

Laya

Her tongue awoke before the rest of her body. She felt it, thick and rubbery, against the roof of her mouth. The grassy taste of herbs clung to it like medicine, and Laya wondered if she had caught a fever. The last time she woke up swimming in sweat-soaked sheets, she had been ten years old. Hours later, when the fever had broken, Maiza was leaning over her, the back of her hand pressed to her forehead. Her father was curled up next to her on the bed. Maiza had said he didn’t want to leave her in case sickness-induced nightmares jolted her awake.

But Laya was alone this time. She was in her room. Someone had drawn the panels of her window open to the sun. The light blinded her the moment she opened her eyes. She lifted her hand to shield her face, only to find that her wrists had been bound together in front of her chest. She shot upright. She couldn’t wrench her hands free. And without her hands, she was powerless.

Panic coursed through her as memories of the midnight feast flashed in her mind. She remembered the explosion of glass above her head. The blood-slick tiles. Her mother’s blank-eyed stare as she froze in the middle of the throne room, caught in Imeria’s grip.

She scrambled to get out of bed. Her vision swirled. She struggled to plant one foot in front of the other. Whatever Imeria had done to her, the effects lingered. Laya’s limbs betrayed her. She fell to the ground with a thud.

Voices echoed on the other side of the door, and it slammed open. Laya blinked at the sight of sandaled feet as they hurried over to her.

“Dayang, you’re awake,” a woman said?—a servant. Gently, she pulled Laya by the arms into a sitting position.

“Mother,” she said in a feeble voice, her throat dry as sand.

“You must be parched.” The servant reached for the water jug that was sitting on one of Laya’s bedside tables. She poured some of its contents into a cup and knelt by her side, bringing the cup to her lips.

Laya gulped down the water and nodded. “More.”

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