How to Catch a Queen (Runaway Royals #1) - Alyssa Cole Page 0,9
had passed, she’d been told that he was busy with royal duties. When she’d finally given up on politeness and asked what her royal duties were to be, she’d been told to return to her chambers.
She’d made a classic analysis error. She’d been so busy looking at demographics, GDP, national debt, and all of those other stats that contributed to a kingdom’s profile—so eager to accept what seemed like Ingoka finally clearing the path toward her life goal—that she hadn’t thought to ask the simple question: What does the queen do in Njaza? She’d heard the rumors of Njaza’s silent queens, but the idea that a queen would do nothing was so preposterous that she hadn’t even considered it. And yet that was what was expected of her.
When her first attempts at bulldozing her way into being granted her queenly powers had been met with the solid iron fist of Njazan tradition, she’d tried to change. She’d made herself small, disguised herself as someone who wasn’t quietly whittling her own seat at the table since she hadn’t been offered one. Part of her disguise hadn’t been faked, though—as days went by with no contact with friendly faces, nothing to do but pace her room, and no sign that her husband remembered or cared that she existed, Shanti had become despondent. For the first time in her life, she’d begun to hear negative voices in her head instead of the reassuring positive push that had drowned out all doubt for most of her life. She’d started to see her goal to enact change slip out of reach, and only a wildly impulsive and ill-advised night outside of the palace had helped her to regain her equilibrium—but it had only increased her agitation.
After years of preparing to rule, her time as queen of Njaza, a troubled kingdom with the potential to become a great one, had been spent stewing in frustration.
The advisory sessions were the once-a-week periods where the heat beneath her personal stewpot was turned to high.
“Most learned Musoke,” Minister Masane, an economist who dealt with Njazan finances, said in an ingratiating tone, “have you reconsidered the proposal from PetroCorp for a joint-owned oil refinery? It’s a very reasonable offer and we are desperately in need of—” He drew up short when Musoke fixed a quelling gaze on him. “Ah, that is, more funds in the coffers of our proud and mighty kingdom would be quite helpful. Our years of, ah, um, noncontact with lesser countries is no longer sustainable.”
Musoke, the head advisor to the king—in name, because to Shanti he seemed more like head naysayer of good ideas—was waving the idea off before the man finished. “Denied. The only thing we allow colonizers to extract from Njaza is land mines, in the hopes that they blow themselves up in the process.”
There was a chorus of laughter, and Shanti added the first ever stroke onto the “agree” side of the mental scoreboard she kept during these meetings since, as she’d learned the hard way, she wasn’t allowed to actually speak her opinion.
The man Shanti always hoped to hear respond remained silent, as usual.
“Denied,” the advisors repeated in unison.
“The proposal for a new curriculum for our high schools is next,” Education Minister Njurgsen, a bored-looking man in his sixties, said. “New computers, learning aids for neurodivergent students, and a complete curriculum overhaul.”
Shanti would have immediately encouraged this proposal—the Njazan teachers’ forums she monitored spoke consistently of the ways in which they were falling behind other countries with each new technological advance. The curriculum in the new proposal incorporated both traditional methods of teaching critical thinking skills and more modern techniques to make sure Njaza’s youth could not only compete but become leaders in an ever tech-reliant world—the teachers had been positive that Sanyu would approve it.
“Denied,” Musoke said airily. “This is begging for expensive toys that the children will break, or, if they don’t, will make their minds and bodies weak. The Njazan spirit is strong and we do our future no favors by making the youngest among us reliant on technology.”
“Denied,” chorused around the room once more.
Shanti stared daggers at the large, muscular man sitting silently at the front of the room beside Musoke. He wore the traditional garment of the king—patterned kente cloth pinned and wrapped around his body then crossed over one shoulder, where the remainder was tucked into the waistline. The kilt-like skirt of the garment revealed strong calves and thick thighs that were tensed as if he