by Nina Levine
"I know. We all do."
I looked up, seeing my mother through new eyes. "You want me to marry."
"I do, my darling. It is my most heartfelt desire."
I blinked, tears burning for some unknown reason. "But why?"
My mother's touch was gentle as she cupped my face. "Because, my beautiful girl. You may be Queen, but you are still a woman. Rarely do you get your heart's desire. You no longer smile or laugh as freely as you did. You no longer tease or joke. When your father died, it's as if the spark inside you died as well."
"I'm busy. I don't have time for—"
"Hush," my mother ordered, her tone soft steel. "I understand, Kit. But love, true love? It requires a spark. And you have long been tinder waiting to ignite. Once you experience it, nothing will stop you. You'll burn so brightly, my darling. And you deserve it. You deserve to experience that wondrous love. You deserve to feel the flames of passion, to know yourself, and know you are so very, very loved for who you are."
"I don't know where to start," I admitted, finally revealing my deepest fear. "And I'm scared. Terrified, actually. I'll be marrying for life. There is no divorce for me." I swallowed. "What if I make the wrong choice?"
"But what if you make the right one?"
Katherine
Queen's Study, The Royal Palace
I served tea, watching the Prime Minister seated across from me. He looked ill at ease.
"September eighteenth," he finally said, rubbing a hand across his brow. "If that suits, Your Majesty."
I glanced at my secretary who stood by the door. She looked down at the tablet in her hands, quickly swiping fingers across the screen. After a moment she looked up, giving me a short nod.
I'd already known the weekend would be free. I'd kept every Saturday in September clear for the last two years, such was my desire to see this weasel of a man gone.
Impartial, Kit. You must remain impartial.
"I shall ready the banns," I told him, gracefully lifting his cup and saucer and handing it over.
"Ah, about that." The man took the offered tea but set it immediately down on the low table between us. "I was hoping we could postpone for a week or two."
I tilted my head slightly, annoyance twisting in my gut. "But you've named a date, Prime Minister. By the law dissolution of government is to occur later today. The election—"
"Will come," he agreed, interrupting me. He blinked, as if realising his mistake.
"My apologies, it's just…." He reached into his pocket, pulling a handkerchief free and dabbing at his brow. "I'm afraid we have a caucus meeting tonight and…." He trailed off, staring down at the damp cloth in his hand.
"And?" I prompted when he didn't speak.
"I'm about to be overthrown," he admitted, reaching for the tea. He lifted the delicate cup but took no drink, instead staring into the dark liquid as if it held the answer to his future.
"Overthrown? By who?"
"Jonathan Tuhana," he spat the name, making it sound like a curse.
Jonathan's image rose in my mind like an unwanted demon-- demanding, beautiful, overwhelming.
Young, powerful, and charismatic, the politician was a force to be reckoned with. He wore his heritage proudly, often partaking in the traditional dances and blessings of the Manari people. He'd quickly worked his way up the ranks of the conservative party, endearing himself to young and old, firmly holding a centralist line.
And yet he didn't fit the type. He didn't fall entirely in line with the party ideals. He challenged. He pushed. He called out when he saw injustice being served. He represented a new breed of conservatives, a younger generation who wanted radical change—and was willing to meet the opposition in the middle.
A far cry from the man before me who could barely make it through a meeting without casting aspersions against those across the aisle.
"You should be worried," the Prime Minister told me, finally meeting my gaze. "If he wins, he'll call for a referendum. He hates everything the Monarchy represents."
Does he? Or are you attempting to sway me to your argument, Prime Minister?
I calmly sipped from my cup, considering my next move.
"Has he a good chance?"
The Prime Minister grunted, dropping the delicate cup back into the saucer with a noisy clatter. "He'll be leader by tomorrow."
How interesting.
The palace had eyes and ears everywhere, word should have reached me long before this moment. Instead, this coup must have been silent and swift.
"You'll resign then?"
"Yes." He mopped his brow once more. "Call the election, say it's time for new blood, then hand over to the blackguard."
I ignored the insult. "What does he hold over you?"
The Prime Minister's gaze snapped to mine, his eyes widening a fraction.
"Come, Tony. We both know there's only one reason you'd ever leave the leadership."
He swallowed. "It matters not but that I'm gone."
I allowed him that for I'd find out soon enough.
"Well," I gestured at a maid who stood on the far side of the room. "If this is to be our last meeting then I suspect we should toast to your next endeavour."
We sipped whiskey as we discussed affairs of state and what he would do in his retirement, then a scant thirty minutes later I bid farewell to the pompous jackass.
Not so pompous now.
My secretary, Victoria, hovered nearby.
"Did you know?" I asked, watching Tony's car slowly roll down the long drive, leaving the palace grounds.
For the final time I should hope.
"Not until he confirmed it."
I arched an eyebrow, giving her a look. "But you suspected and didn't tell me?"
She swallowed. "Jonathan, I mean Mr. Tuhana, had been seen in most electorates over the last month." She pulled out her tablet, handing it to me. "But we had no intelligence that this was on the card. We felt it better to wait for confirmation before raising with you."
I flicked through the map, clicking on each of the points to see who he'd met with and when.
"Impressive," I murmured begrudgingly.
Alone, each of these events looked innocent. They were within his portfolio, health and education announcements, visits to projects. But together?
Together, they were a patchwork of masterful manoeuvring. He'd been meeting with core donors, strategic party players, and the old guard to stage this takeover.
"How did Tony not see this?" I muttered, flicking through, then pausing as I landed on one of the event photos.
Jonathan wore traditional dress, his chest bare but for his tribal tattoos, a colourful grass weave skirt hung low on his hips. In his hand he gripped a spear, no doubt one passed through his family line, judging by the faded colours. Around his shoulders hung a peripuni, or warrior cape, made from the skins of the giant tufted boar that lived in the mountains to our north. Adorning the cape were the stories of his ancestors told through the bright paint and beads, feathers, and braids that decorated the hide.
I had one similar, passed to me by my mother's mother— the women in my family fierce warriors, their blood line now that of a queen.
"He's a fine-looking man," Victoria murmured, giving her eyebrows a little wiggle. "And single."
I closed the image, handing the tablet back to her. "And a conservative." I shot her a wry smile. "No matter how attractive a man is, they somehow seem less so when they can't seem to accept the rule of a woman."
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "That's not it, surely? He seems against the crown, not against you personally."
"It seems that way, doesn't it?"
"Do you know him?"
I swallowed, closing my eyes for a brief moment. "Long ago I did. Now? No. We've not spoken in years."
"And? Thoughts?"
I shrugged. "Who he is now is vastly different to who he was then." I gestured around the space with a wave of my hand. "But then, we all changed."
"
Do you worry he won't fall into line?"
I paused, considering her words. "No. I worry he'll seek to challenge me in the same way he did Tony. And an insurrection is never a welcome prospect."
Victoria swallowed audibly. "What will you do if he wins?"
My lips quirked. "What I do best. Reign."
Katherine
Parliament House
Parliament House had fast become one of my least favourite places to visit. But as Monarch it was my duty to attend every sitting of parliament.
With the government dissolved due to the election, my duty now didn't involve sitting while listening to adults sling insults at each other over the cost of potatoes. Today, my duty was to call the banns for the election, and listen as the political parties put forward their leaders for my acceptance.
While there were two main political parties in Astipia, we had numerous minorities— all of which, tradition dictated, I bless.
The limo glided to a halt at the front of the building, my personal bodyguards getting out to shift the paparazzi back.
"How do I look?" I asked Victoria, pulling at the peripuni that was draped across my shoulders.
"Like a queen."
I rolled my eyes, letting out a small huffing laugh. "Well played."
She chuckled, then the door opened and my mask dropped once more.
I slipped from the vehicle, a smile painted on my face.
Questions were hurled my way as I began the long walk into the building.
"Your Majesty! What do you think of Jonathan Tuhana?"
"Your Majesty! Mr. Tuhana is an open conservative! Do you have any comments on his position?"
The news had broken early this morning. Tony Privatey was out, Jonathan Tuhana was in. The caucus didn't normally release voting numbers, but someone had leaked it to the press. He'd won by an overwhelming majority.
Tony was a fool if he hadn't seen it coming.
I made my way through the crowd and up to the entry, the herald waiting for me.
"Your Majesty." He bowed, then gestured for me to lead. "The throne room is ready to receive you."
I walked the familiar path, my footsteps gentle on the cobblestone flooring. These were the same floors my ancestors had walked, conducting this very duty.
History always repeats.
At the door, the herald lifted his drum, beating out the quick rhythm that had become the soundtrack to my life. A hush descended as the herald announced me to the packed throne room. With a smile at him, I made my way down the gentle sloped walkway to the throne.
When the Isle of Astipia had been conquered, the English bastard King had done one thing right— he'd married the local chieftain's daughter and adopted many of our tribal practices. The design of this room reflected one such practice.
In the Manari culture, no chief or king sat above the people they served. Back before the English occupation, our villages had been shaped like amphitheatres, the chief's tent at the centre but below all those around it.
After the English occupation, the first woman of my line had convinced her new husband to adopt the same practice, explaining that it would guide his acceptance with the tribes. And so it was. When the labourers had built our parliament and castles, laying the stone foundations for our most important places, they had done so using the design of the Manari. These buildings had no stairs, and contained no elevated stages. Instead, everyone could enter our parliament, all were equal, except the monarch who sat below them, a reminder that it was their leader's responsibility to lift them up, and a reminder for the leader of the weight that sat upon their shoulders.
And so it would always be.
I took my place before my throne, looking up at the gathered, taking a moment to smooth my peripuni and settle myself before speaking.
"We gather here today on the lands of my ancestors." I pulled dirt from the pouch at my waist, throwing it in an arc before me. "Under the sky of our Gods." I tossed the rest of the dirt up in an arch over my head.
I began to walk around the dais. "I welcome you to the lands of my people." I began reciting the welcome to country in the language of my people.
"Ma ninj unka murandjeri ualluk yeara ualluk mena knoodei maik."
We are part of this land and the land is part of us.
"Ullabinj whalin ulumni ma compeitie. Uenuar whalin mar tuum dius."
This is where we come from. This is where our spirits return.
"Ma uenuar Manari ualluk boodgas mar ullniak. Mar hueori ullauk une quorum anu sacis. Farun la nori boodgas burgu. Han la for toogi ualluk, fori for toogi la. Boodgas."
We, the people of this land, welcome you to our country. Our traditional lands are ancient and sacred. May you be welcome with respect. If you look after the land, it will look after you. Welcome.
The words were as old as time, engraved into my soul. They were the first words a child heard upon their birth, and the last they would hear before being lowered into the ground.
It was our blessing and reminder of the land on which we lived.
The herald struck up a beat, the tattoo pounding through my chest, hard and fierce.
In time to the beat, I scooped more dirt from my pouch, throwing it across the cobblestone floor in practiced movements.
From east to west, from north to south, from sky to sea and mountain to plain, you represent the best of us, Kit. When you welcome people to our lands you do so on behalf of me, of your mother, of your grandmother and your warrior ancestors. You represent our tribe, Kit. Our legacy. You are a moment in time, the person who is a culmination of all who came before you, and the beginning of all who come after. You, my daughter, are alive.
My father's voice always came to me in moments like this, when the world faded and movement overtook me, guiding each sweep of my hand, each tap of my foot, each dip of my shoulder or tip of my head.
With a final quick beat, the drum fell silent and I slapped my hands on the ground sending dust flying.
Applause burst over me, taking away from the moment. I pushed to my feet, pressing my hands to my heart space, bowing my head.
"Patricia Abigail," my aide called, inviting the first applicant to step forward.
The woman, an independent, stepped close waiting. I reached for her, pulling her clasped hand to my chest, pressing my forehead to hers.
"Boodgas," I greeted. "Uhra im gagado fa mar."
Welcome. May the Gods be with you.
With that my blessing was complete and Patricia stepped back, curtseying low. "And with you, my Queen."
On and on it went, one candidate after another, all of them receiving my blessing.
"Jonathan Tuhana," my aide called, my body stiffening in response.
Jonathan stepped forward, his own peripuni covering his broad shoulders. Underneath, he wore a tailored navy-blue suit. When paired with his peripuni it somehow made him seem less civilized, as if he were a wolf in sheep's clothing.
A shiver ran down my spine as I met his green gaze, the colour just as stunning as I remembered. They held a question in their depths that I had no way of answering.
My pulse beat in my neck as he stepped closer holding out his large hand for me to clasp.
He's just a man, Kit. Just another candidate to greet and bless.
I linked our fingers, noting the rough skin of his palm, the calluses on his fingertips.
This is no mere politician.
In a practiced move, I pulled his arm to my chest, lifting my head slightly to press our foreheads together.
"Boodgas. Uhra im gagado fa mar," I told him, the words coming out breathy and soft as I tried to ignore the heat of his arm on my breast, a contrast to the silky cool of his hair as it brushed against my forehead.
He squeezed my fingers, his skin warm against mine, his fingers inadvertently brushing my breast.
I moved to let go but he held me for a moment longer, his gaze raking my face.
"Jus uhra ehra hamn mar, il Giisera."
And may the
y be with you, my Queen.
With that he allowed me to let go, stepping back to fall to one knee, bowing in the manner of our warrior ancestors.
Around us, cameras snapped capturing the moment a warrior honoured his Queen.
A warrior who may soon rule.
My aide called the next name and I looked away, pasting a smile I didn't feel on my lips.
You'd do well to stay away from Jonathan Tuhana.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled and I shifted, catching sight of Jonathan as he rose. Our eyes met, his filled with hunger and heated desire.
For a moment I held his gaze, glorying in the spark that flamed between us. Then, with deliberation, I broke eye contact, welcoming the next candidate, determined to hide how rattled he had left me.
He's dangerous.
To my heart or my people?
That is yet to be determined.
Jonathan
The Great Hall, Parliament House
I sipped the rich wine, allowing the chatter around me to flow. As was tradition, all candidates were required to attend a dinner following the ceremony. We would feast and be merry tonight, only to resume our cut-throat brand of politics tomorrow.
I caught sight of a flash of feathers, my gaze pulled from the candidates on either side of me, to the head table where the Queen presided.
Katherine was a handsome woman, though not beautiful in any traditional sense. She was far too aloof to be considered friendly, too regal to be considered merely pretty, and too stern to be considered beautiful.
But being in her presence felt electric. She shone. Glowed. The candidates rotated in and out from her table between each course, and she welcomed them all with ready smiles and open ears. It took no more than three, perhaps four minutes for laughter to be expressed, and smiles to turn from courteous to adoring.
She had a way about her that compelled adulation, and I found that I was not immune.
My advisor and best friend leaned in toward me, turning his head slightly to murmur in my ear.
