How to Catch a Queen (Runaway Royals #1) - Alyssa Cole Page 0,54

of a walking assistance device that was often used by the victims of land mines—likely plastic and not the mahogany and gold of Musoke’s cane.

“You are supposed to be our protector! You are young and know we need change. How can you let things go on like this?” the girl called out.

A line of guards surrounded the women; the older woman raised her hands to show they would leave without a fight and then placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder to calm her. They began to walk out, the girl thumping her walking sticks in the familiar rhythmic beat that was the background music to his lifelong earworm.

“Sanyu II! Even crueler than his father,” they sang loudly as they were marched toward the exit. “Sanyu II! Our new and useless king! E-ne-mies, of Njaza! Our king, he does your work for you!”

Their voices echoed in the auditorium as they were pushed through the door, their words lingering to shame him. Whispers started, and then murmurs, and they spread through the crowd like a bushfire. Sanyu grit his teeth against the rising panic in his chest and the sweat beading at his temples, finished his speech without deviation, and walked slowly from the stage.

He didn’t generally look people in the eye—that was one of the benefits of being king, as people’s deference meant it wasn’t considered rude—but he noticed that his dresser and hairstylist and the woman who had brought him drinks all looked away from him as he entered the dressing room. They usually showered him with false praise, but the only thing Anej managed was a strangled, “Oh my.”

Sanyu was struggling to maintain control, but the tightly wrapped robe began to feel like a constricting shroud. He ripped it off with one hand, tearing the pins instead of waiting for assistance. Beneath it he wore shorts, as he always did when he had to give a speech. Anej flinched as he handed her the fabric, then lowered her gaze to the ground to hide the fear in her eyes.

Sanyu’s stomach convulsed like he’d been hit with the dull end of a fighting staff.

This was one of the reasons he’d never wanted to be king—to be king was to be feared above all, and Sanyu had never wanted that. He caught sight of himself in the dressing room’s mirror again—he looked furious.

He wasn’t angry, though. He was ashamed. If he’d never wanted to be feared by his people, he’d never wanted to disappoint them either. Now he felt the urge to run from it as he always did, to escape the itch on his skin and inside his head caused by the knowledge that he would never be the man his father had been.

Everyone had seen it. Everyone would speak of it. Everyone would sing of it—the new version of the song he’d already hated would surely spread, catchy as the tune was. Maybe it already had. Maybe everyone had always changed the words to mock him and this was just the latest version, and the only one he’d heard.

Musoke had been right when he’d chastised him after the visit from Prince Johan. “We both know you will never be able to hold the throne as your father did. Leave the important decisions to me.”

“You may go,” he said, and the three women scurried from the room.

Sanyu pulled on a shirt and sweatpants, waiting a few moments before stepping out into the hallway to head back to the palace. Lumu silently fell into step beside him. He’d known Sanyu for long enough to give him quiet when he got like this.

When they made it back to his office, Sanyu walked in and slammed the door behind him, as if he could shut out the humiliation that echoed in his head—the questions and the song lyrics.

It was the first time any of his citizens had dared ask him something directly, and he’d had no response. Worse, that damn song that he’d never been able to get out of his head now serenaded him with his worst fear.

E-ne-mies, of Njaza! Our king, he does your work for you!

WHEN SANYU FOUND himself in front of Shanti’s door again that night, he’d shoved his not-fear back down into the shameful recess where he usually hid it away—somewhere near that constant pain in his stomach. His body was sore from the brutal workout he’d put himself through to clear his mind, and he was certain Shanti wouldn’t be able to tell his nerves were