Page 94 of Black Salt Queen

Daughter of Duja

Bearer of the Gatdula legacy

And defender of Maynara’s glory

For many years may she reign.

Thirty-Four

Laya

At dawn, people flooded the streets of Mariit by the thousands to catch a glimpse of their new queen. They gasped in awe when the palace gates opened and Laya emerged. Her dark skin glowed with an unearthly essence. She appeared like a goddess, descending from her mountain kingdom. The dull morning light glinted off her headpiece, a half circle of gold plates that radiated like sunrays. She wore a coronation gown of viridian silk, its long train slinking along the marble steps like a water serpent. She glided to the riverboats, where her retinue was waiting.

General Ojas offered Laya his arm and helped her onto the largest boat from which the Gatdula banner waved. Bulan followed, a ceremonial sword at her belt and a green sash tied over her gleaming breastplate. Eti and the rest of Laya’s retinue joined them.

Laya leaned on Ojas’s arm as they strode across the deck of the riverboat. The battle against the Kulaws had shaken the aging warrior. Although he still stood upright at her side, he had come to Laya alone earlier that week. He’d told her it was time to think about choosing his successor. Laya didn’t hesitate to name Bulan. In fact, her first directive as queen would be to announce her sister’s new rank as general and head of the Royal Maynaran Guard. It was one of the most important roles in the palace, and it suited Bulan more than high counselor or any other empty title. If anyone dared question Bulan’s experience or level of swordsmanship, the queen would refuse to hear it. Laya could think of no one better to protect her than her own blood.

A member of the royal guard gave the order to start the engine, and they chugged down the main canal. Along the sides of the water, the entire city had gathered. They sang as the royal procession passed. Children reached into baskets and showered their boat with fistfuls of jasmine rice. At the bow, Laya laughed in delight as the rice scattered across the deck.

“Your kingdom, Your Majesty,” General Ojas murmured as Mariit unwound before them. Its spires and sloping roofs rippled across the water, twisting into patterns of red and gold. Even though Laya had lived in the city her entire life, it didn’t cease to entrance her. She wanted to fall asleep amidst the spirits of the mangrove trees. She wanted to sail along its network of canals, which branched through the capital like arteries.

Around her, Mariit’s citizens hummed and rejoiced. “All hail Hara Laya,” they chanted.

That was the heart of Maynara. Laya’s mother had surrendered everything to give it to her. Despite all the secrets between them, all the tensions between mother and daughter, Hara Duja had loved Laya and loved her people. But she’d left behind a hole in Laya’s heart, along with a thousand unanswered questions. In darker moments, Laya allowed that hole to fill with anger and bitterness?—that is, until she remembered the weight of her mother’s sacrifice.

A determined spark coursed through Laya at the reminder. “I will not waste this,” she told Ojas in a tight whisper.

And Ojas nodded because he understood.

A distant echo of drums rang out over the cheering crowd. The beat started at a slow, steady pace before it picked up and grew riotous. On top of the footbridges, the people of Mariit continued to dance and drink. Platters of food passed from hand to hand: steamed pork buns and squid balls and batter-fried quail eggs. The sounds and smells overwhelmed her as the boat drew closer to the heart of the city. The feast wouldn’t last forever. Were the Kulaws truly gone? Did Laya’s reign mark a new era of peace?

She wanted to believe that was the case, but she couldn’t deny the voice in the back of her head that whispered otherwise.

Over Ojas’s shoulder, Laya caught a glimpse of sunlight glaring off a pair of spectacles?—Ariel Sauros. The growing fondness she felt for him aside, she owed him for protecting Eti. When any self-seeking man would have fled, Ariel had stayed in Maynara and helped the Gatdula family. He was part of Laya’s retinue because she needed him and his priceless alchemy skills?—more than she cared to admit.

The previous evening, Laya had summoned Ariel to her chambers. She waved before him the letter she had stolen from his desk all those weeks before. Although she had finally deciphered it, the words left her with more questions than answers. “I think it’s time you told me about this,” she said.

Ariel stared at her, dumbfounded. “How on earth did you find that?” he demanded.

“I’m queen now. And it’s my duty to get to know my guests,” she said, giving him a wry grin. “It’s your own fault, you know. If you didn’t want me to read it, you should never have taught me that dreadful alphabet.”

Ariel had sighed in half-hearted defeat, because Laya was right; Ariel was under her protection as queen and had no right to lie to her. Thus, the story came out. Parts of it, Laya already knew?—what precioso could do, and why her mother had sought his services. As for Pangil, the man who’d sent Ariel to Maynara in the first place?—

“I wish to speak to this man,” she said. “Can you contact him for me?”

“Certainly, Your Majesty,” Ariel told her. He met her gaze before bowing his head in deference, his lips curling into a hesitant grin.

On the riverboat, Ojas drew back so Laya’s family could join her at the bow. Eti leaned against Laya’s side, her cropped hair tumbling over her eyes in the breeze. Bulan placed a reassuring hand on Laya’s other shoulder, keeping her steady gaze trained on the canal ahead.

Laya tightened her grip on the brass railing. The three Gatdula sisters, left to fend for themselves in the land of gods. The land of monsters.

At the end of the tour of Mariit, the riverboat circled back to the balete tree. Laya could hear the wind rustling through its twisted vines, the whisper of spirits?—the dead who awaited her on the other side. With a heavy heart, she stepped onto the platform. The whispers quieted as she walked past the ring of spirit houses and into the sacred grove. Her parents slept together in the same rosewood tree. Hari Aki’s remains rested in the tree, tucked into a limestone sarcophagus. Over the nine days following his death, Maiza’s shamans sang funeral dirges as they cleansed his skin with blessed water and betel sap. They had hollowed out a space for Hara Duja’s sarcophagus beside him earlier that week, even though they never recovered her body.

Laya reached out and laid her palm against the bark. If she could have wielded the wood, she would have reached straight through and tugged her parents’ spirits from the resin. But they were gone, roaming a distant realm, and not even Maiza could call them back.

“I will not fail you,” she murmured. She wanted her mother to hear this more than anyone else. Her mouth flooded with all the questions she would never get a chance to ask her. Hara Duja had left her too soon, and Laya was not yet ready to bear the mantle. How could she govern a country that had scarcely healed from its recent scars? She had coveted the throne her entire life, but the reality of taking her mother’s place terrified her.

But she wouldn’t be alone. Her ears perked up at the light tread of footsteps. Laya looked over her shoulder. Bulan and Eti hung back to give her a moment alone with their parents. The small act of deference caught Laya by surprise?—the first of many changes. She beckoned to them, and they joined her. They linked hands as they stood before the sacred rosewood tree.

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