Shuri

by Nic Stone

  I have invested the majority of my physical and cognitive resources into attempts at unraveling the herb issue. I have yet to resume the Panther Habit trials—too scared to waste herb juice—but after countless hours of testing and experimentation, I feel further from understanding the root (no pun intended) of the problem than I was when I first discovered it.

  Which seems to be the case with everything pertaining to that night.

  What I know for sure:

  1. I had what I suppose was a “vision” (*scientific unsoundness duly noted*) near the bonfire. Whether it was a prophecy or some sort of waking nightmare, I am unsure, but when I regained lucidity, I had traveled three-quarters of a kilometer and arrived at the hidden entrance to the Sacred Field.

  2. After making my way past a reluctant priest, I discovered an estimated 44 percent of the heart-shaped herb plants in the field utterly decimated by an unknown cause. The dead plants were surrounded by tiny yellow blossoms that impact the functioning of the central nervous system when touched.

  3. Upon exiting the Sacred Field, I discovered a glaze-eyed K’Marah staring up at the stars. Waiting for me. When I asked her what she was doing there, she told me that before leaving the fire, I instructed her to meet me just outside the entrance to the field at precisely twenty-two hundred hours.

  It was 22:03.

  Since our confusing—for me, at least—return to the palace, I have done my best to focus on that which I can control: namely, the herb issue. But every attempt to replant/transplant/dissect/revive the mysterious shrub has resulted in failure.

  The liquid essence spoils at precisely the six-hour mark—hello, fishy fragrance!—unless I combine it with something that renders it unconsumable (like foaming hand sanitizer or dish soap, bizarrely enough). I tried encapsulation of both liquid and powdered forms … a sort of heart-shaped-herbal pill that isn’t shaped like a heart. Sadly, whatever Bast- and/or Vibranium-derived juju that makes the plants so special doesn’t play nice with collagen, gelatin, or glycerin: I wound up with a goopy, burnt-smelling mess that was very difficult to get off my hands.

  Tried transplanting to different soil. Fail (though this was expected, considering the herb only grows in one location in all of Wakanda). I even tried to figure out what caused the plant death in the first place. Another fail. All I know now that I wasn’t sure of before is that the molecular structure of the herb is drastically altered by whatever kills it. The wrecked cells are full of holes and look like they’ve grown thorns. I’ve never seen anything like it.

  As I said when I began this log: This is very bad.

  I’ve lost a day and a half of work on T’Challa’s habit, but this also feels Very Important. And then with … what I saw (I guess I “saw” it. “Imagined” doesn’t feel correct, though I do wish it were some vain imagining) …

  I’m not sure what to do.

  Challenge Day is three days hence. For the best possible odds, T’Challa needs a more flexible suit (it would also be great to complete and test the CatEyes prototype to see if it can be fitted inside the habit’s head covering, but I might have to back-burner that project at the moment). But even with a more flexible suit, there is a chance he could see defeat. Which will mean a new Black Panther will need to be able to partake of the heart-shaped herb.

  And as much as I would like to ignore the very much unscientific *feelings* and *inklings* inside my head, I can’t shake the image of that desert-skinned woman crushing my homeland within her palm. Especially with the phrase invasion rumors ping-ponging around from the Taifa Ngao.

  Something is terribly wrong.

  I hate to admit it, but I think it is time to speak to Mother and T’Challa.

  And Mother is furious.

  “You left the palace UNGUARDED?”

  “Well, technically, the palace was very well guarded, which—”

  “This is not the time to be clever, Shuri!” the queen roars.

  All things considered, clever is exactly what it is time to be, Shuri thinks, but doesn’t say.

  “I cannot believe you!” Mother turns on the heel of her bejeweled silk slipper and sweeps toward the door of her chamber, the short train of her fuchsia-and-goldenrod over-robe billowing behind her. Not the most appropriate time for the thought, but Shuri remembers passing her hand over that fabric when she and K’Marah were concealment hunting in the royal garment repository. She’d skipped over this particular vestment because running in the thing would’ve been impossible. So impractical, Mother’s clothing.

  “Sneaking out like some … common American teenager!” the queen continues to no one in particular.

  “Mother, where are you going? Did you not hear the rest of what I sa—?”

  “We are going to speak with the king. Come now.”

  As Shuri jogs to catch up, she hears her mother mutter, “I should confiscate her Kimoyo devices. That’ll teach her a lesson.”

  As the queen and princess pass into the hallway, Okoye and Nakia, both gorgeously clad in their traditional attire, fall into line on either side, and slightly in front, of the two royals.

  Which just sets mother off on another tear.

  “And you dragged poor K’Marah off into your shenanigans.”

  Shuri opens her mouth to dispute Mother’s incorrect (and fairly offensive—who does she think her daughter is?) assumption, but then she sees their Dora Milaje escorts exchange a glance. And that’s when it occurs to the princess how much trouble K’Marah will be in if her trainers knew leaving the palace with the princess had been her idea. So she swallows it down. Especially considering how blatantly she’s been avoiding the other girl. Shuri’s gotten a series of SOS! alerts from her “friend” on both her Kimoyo card and bracelet, but the thought of adding a K’Marah problem to everything else going on?

  No way.

  Speaking of which …

  “Mother, I know you are upset with me, but I received a message from Priest Kufihli just an hour ago. At the rate the plants are dying, there literally won’t be any left alive come Challenge Day. If a new Black Panther needs to partake—”

  “Are you suggesting that your brother will lose?” The queen glares at Shuri so fiercely, the princess feels her face might burst into flame.

  “No, no. Not at all—”

  “Then cease the dramatics. This matter can wait until the Challenge is finished.”

  “But it can’t, Mother. That is what I’m trying to tell you!” They turn left to head up the long hallway that leads to the throne room. “The heart-shaped herb has been imbuing the ruler and protector of our country with superhuman senses and speed and catlike agility and flexibility since the very creation of the mantle! This is an issue of national security!”

  Now the queen rounds on the princess, her face alight with rage. “I am fully aware of what the herb is and does, Shuri. However, no matter how dire you perceive this issue to be, there is no excuse for your behavior. Especially not now, with Challenge Day impending and other matters pressing down on us!”

  Shuri’s skin goes as cold as it did when she was standing beside the bonfire. The drought woman’s face arises unbidden and swims behind Shuri’s eyes. “Other matters?” she says to Mother, unable to keep the edge from her voice. “What other matters?”

  “None that are any of your concern,” the queen pronounces in that conversation-shuttering way that only mothers can. “You’ll forgive me if I find it difficult to believe that our head priest would confide in you prior to speaking with T’Challa or me were the circumstances as critical as you purport. Whatever is happening with the herb, I’m sure it can wait.”

  And now they’ve reached the gilded double doors. Per usual, Shuri rolls her eyes as they slooooooowly open.

  The princess’s heart does lift when she sees her brother inside the space, however. T’Challa is standing at the opposite end of the room in front of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over his kingdom with his hands clasped behind his back.

&nbs
p; “Mother. Sister,” he says without turning around.

  He thinks he’s so cool, Shuri says inside her head. But it does make her smile.

  The Black Panther and reigning king of Wakanda is wearing his signature charcoal tunic and slacks (Does he own anything with color?), and a pair of brown sandals that are glaringly incongruent with the rest of his outfit. K’Marah would lose her mind if she saw.

  And at the thought of her personal Dora-in-training—which is a sore reminder of the reason she and Mother are here—the princess’s joy oozes out of her like sticky paste from a tube squeezed in the middle.

  “T’Challa, I have to talk to you,” she says before the queen mother has an opportunity to preempt.

  To Shuri’s surprise, her brother doesn’t toss a smirk over his shoulder at her and say Oh, is that so? like he typically would.

  He … sighs.

  And a knot forms in Shuri’s stomach.

  “Your beloved ‘baby sis,’ as you like to call her, snuck out of the palace two eves past and paid a visit to the Sacred Field.”

  Now T’Challa turns around, eyebrows raised. “Alone?”

  Shuri can’t tell if he’s appalled or awestruck. Perhaps a bit of both? She parts her lips to reply but—

  “Oh no, no. She took K’Marah with her,” the queen mother continues.

  And at this, T’Challa does smirk. Unlike Mother, the king and Black Panther does know Shuri well. He also knows K’Marah.

  “This is not a laughing matter, T’Challa! They could’ve been seen! Or injured! Or … worse!”

  T’Challa schools his features, making his expression grave. “You are correct, Mother,” he says, fixing a calculated gaze on the princess. “What you did was unwise, Shuri—”

  “And dangerous,” the queen says.

  “And dangerous,” T’Challa repeats. But there’s a spark of mischief in his eye. “You may leave her with me, Mother. I will talk to her,” he says.

  And the queen buys it hook, line, and sinker. Which irritates Shuri to no end. Why does T’Challa’s word seem to carry so much more weight than hers? “Thank you,” Mother says to T’Challa with a nod. Then she cuts her eyes at Shuri. “Perhaps the princess is more apt to listen to you.”

  Who’s being dramatic now? Shuri thinks.

  The queen mother lifts her majestic chin and sweeps from the room with a flourish, taking Okoye and Nakia with her. T’Challa stands stoic and respectful, watching her back as she goes until the moment the massive doors are pulled closed. “Bast, she is over the top,” Shuri says, thinking it safe to drop her guard. But then the king rotates away and walks back to his place at the window without the merest glance in his sister’s direction. “She’s right, you know,” he says. “Leaving the palace without a Dora—an official one—at your side is extremely unwise. What were you thinking?”

  “Excuse me? You who used to spend more time traipsing around the city stirring up trouble than seeing to your princely duties?” Back when Baba was alive, she doesn’t add.

  “While seeing to my princely duties.” He lifts a finger into the air but still doesn’t turn around. “There is a difference.”

  “The only difference is that you were a boy and I am a girl.”

  At this, T’Challa laughs. “Be sure to tell that to the greatest warriors this country has ever seen: Okoye and Nakia.”

  “You know what I mean, T’Challa.”

  Now the king does approach Shuri, putting his big hands on her small shoulders. “I do, little sister. And I am aware of how traditional our mother can be. But you must recognize the importance of propriety, especially as a member of this family.”

  Propriety, propriety, propriety. Shuri is really coming to hate that word.

  “Now, while I’m certain K’Marah pulled you into this youthful jaunt instead of the other way around as Mother believes, I strongly advise against a repeat offense.” He continues staring into her eyes as if to show how serious he is. (Tuh.) “For the sake of Mother’s sanity.”

  “The heart-shaped herb is dying, T’Challa,” Shuri says. “At an alarming rate.”

  She releases a breath of relief when his expression morphs to bewilderment. “Huh?”

  She knocks his hands away. “I ‘snuck out’ to retrieve more of the herb for the Panther Habit prototype I’ve been developing. Something is killing the herb, T’Challa.”

  “Killing it?”

  Shuri nods. “I know Challenge Day is imminent, and you surely have a lot on your mind. But … well, if more of the herb is necessary, there won’t be any left to utilize by the time the Challenge is over.”

  “I hope you are not suggesting my defeat, baby sis …”

  Now Shuri throws her hands into the air. “Why is that your and Mother’s immediate conclusion? Think about it: Yes, you took the herb years ago when you”—she waves a hand up and down, gesturing to T’Challa’s … T’Challa-ness—“became you. And no, there hasn’t been a successful challenger, or any challengers at all really, during your tenure as sovereign and guardian of our nation. But all that means is that there are unknown variables.” You bonehead, Shuri wants to add. “As far as we’re aware, no Black Panther has ever had to re-ingest the herb, but what if, Bast forbid, you are mortally wounded and need more of the herb to help you heal? What if as you age you do need more?” What if I have to take over for you and I need the herb?

  “Baba would’ve mentione—”

  “You don’t know that, T’Challa. There were limits to Baba’s knowledge just like there are limits to ours. Besides: You were younger than I am now when he died. He probably didn’t tell you everything there was to know.”

  T’Challa’s brow furrows.

  “Never in the history of Wakanda have we been without the herb. And yes: What if you are bested, Brother? What will the new king do without the enhanced faculties that give our beloved Black Panther the ability to keep us safe? Mother mentioned that you’ve considered making our existence known to the rest of the world … Won’t that mean enemies? Who will protect us if the Black Panther is just a regular guy in a stretchy suit?”

  T’Challa’s eyes flash with anger—though whether it’s at the thought of being overcome, or at their mother for revealing his contemplations he surely shared with her in confidence, Shuri doesn’t know.

  But then his face shifts, and his eyes go wide. Like something has just occurred to him.

  “T’Challa?”

  He blinks himself back to his center and shakes his head. Then returns to his post at the window, clearly avoiding Shuri’s eyes again.

  “What are you not telling me, T’Challa?”

  “What would you have me do, Sister?” he asks.

  “Huh?”

  “About this herb dilemma. What is it that you need from me?”

  “Oh.” In truth, Shuri hadn’t really thought that far. What does she need from the king? “Well, I’ve already begun testing so … I guess I could use more time?”

  “Time?” he says to the window.

  Shuri nods then. “Yes. Can you postpone Challenge Day until I get the problem solved? I also need to finish your su—”

  But she stops talking because now T’Challa is looking at her like she’s grown an additional head. “Surely you jest, Shuri.”

  “Uhhh …”

  “We must never shirk tradition.”

  Just then, one of the Kimoyo beads on T’Challa’s wrist lights up and roars like a panther.

  Shuri smacks her forehead. “Really, Brother?”

  “Shhh,” he says, looking suddenly concerned. The king raises his arm to eye level, and a form Shuri recognizes as W’Kabi, son of the Border Tribe elder, appears in front of T’Challa’s face like a specter.

  “Your immediate presence is needed at the northwestern outpost, my king. We have …” The image flickers. “There is … something you need to see.”

  “I shall be there momentarily,” T’Challa says. The call ends, and Shuri watches as he shifts to another bead,
rubs, twists, and taps it twice, then turns back to the window and slides his thumb over an invisible seam. The pane rises from the floor to right above T’Challa’s head, stopping as a sleek, obsidian jet-craft appears outside.

  “I have to run,” T’Challa says as he steps off the window ledge onto the front of the aircraft. The rounded glass of the pilot capsule slides back the moment his foot makes contact.

  Which normally would make Shuri smile—she designed the thing.

  But right now, she’s too shaken. “So what am I supposed to do?” she shouts over the wind. The vessel moves silently due to its Vibranium composition, but as it hovers she can hear the gentle buzz of the engine.

  “Finish my new suit!” T’Challa calls back. As he settles into the seat, an older version of the Panther Habit unfolds around him.

  “I mean about the herb!”

  “I’ll have it taken care of!” he shouts. “You musn’t forget: Some of the best and brightest minds on Earth reside within our borders!”

  “But, T’Challa—!”

  “Finish the new habit, all right? I’ll handle the rest.” Right before the mask overtakes his face, he winks at her. “Together, there is nothing we cannot do!”

  Together.

  Tuh.

  Explains why Shuri’s standing in the throne room alone while T’Challa zips off to handle matters she’s clearly being excluded from, right?

  She literally stomps—though it makes no sound because her feet are clad in sound-absorbing, Vibranium-soled slippers. Another of her inventions.

  Why do he and Mother insist on treating her like some melodramatic child? It’s clear that Mother finds the notion of a priest keeping a secret unfathomable. (Does she also believe the Dora Milaje tell her everything?) But T’Challa? Shuri expected better from him.

  But fine: Since they’re both preoccupied, Shuri will take care of it herself. Bast help her, within the hyper-limited pre-Challenge time frame. And in doing so, she will prove to Mother and T’Challa—to everyone, really—that she’s more than just some princess history will forget.