Chapter 7 #2
He shook his head, braids swaying. "She is neutral; her status is not too high and not too low. But she just has this one child. So it is understandable they wish to keep any issues he has under wraps."
Azul laughed, delight flooding in her.
This was it, the opening she had been waiting for.
"Tell her, explicitly, and tell her she must make sure to close his windows every night before he sleeps."
Borji raised a brow. "What makes you think she will listen to you?"
Azul leaned back. "Make sure you slip the information to the Iyom's people too."
Her brother's expression was not lost on her. "You would use a child?" he asked. His tone was unreadable.
"A woman who has sworn to kill someone is not above using innocent people. Don't assume me a good person, First Prince."
What his reaction was, she could not tell, for she did not look.
Whether it was disgust or not, it mattered little.
The only way to confirm information received through unsure means was to test the hypothesis personally.
The Iyom hummed to herself, a melody from her village days when life had been simpler and her ambitions smaller.
The melody echoed softly through her private chambers, a space adorned with the compensations that came with bearing the Igwe's beloved children.
Plush cushions were scattered across low platforms. The air smelled heavily of the mingled scents of jasmine incense and sweet musk.
Carved screens from Kemet divided the space into intimate alcoves, each constructed to her liking.
But it was the window alcove she favoured most, raised to overlook the palace gardens, where she could survey her domain while appearing to do nothing more than enjoy the view.
She sat there, framed by muslin curtains that billowed gently in the evening breeze.
Her fingers caressed the large white lilies' petals arranged in a crystal vase beside her—freshly cut that morning from the gardens, their white blooms tinged with pink at the edges.
She leaned down to smell them, closing her eyes as the sweet, heady scent filled her lungs and soothed her nerves.
After admiring the flowers for a few more moments, she sat up from her cushioned seat and rolled her shoulders back, feeling the pleasant pull of slender muscles beneath smooth skin.
She wore nothing but her undergarments—delicate silk that clung to her curves, embroidered with gold thread that always seemed to light her husband's heart on fire.
Her loose curls hung behind her, cascading down her back like dark water.
The Igwe visited her chambers more often than any other wife's, and she made certain he never forgot why.
Other women relied on sons, political connections or maternal family wealth.
The Iyom had learned early that the most reliable power was the kind that made a man weak in the knees and loose with his coin.
She had him on a leash, and she kept it tight.
Padding barefoot across thick carpets, she retired to her sleeping chambers. The main room was for receiving, but the inner room was where power was negotiated in between silk sheets.
Behind her, a servant girl stepped forwards. Her eyes cut briefly to the Iyom's retreating back before she lifted the vase of lilies and left the chambers silently.
Azul woke to the sound of heavy rain drumming against the shrine's roof like spirits seeking entry. Thunder rolled across the sky while lightning kissed the heavens, illuminating her small room in sudden, violent bursts of white light.
In one of those flashes, she saw her.
A woman stood in the doorway, drenched from head to toe, water pooling around her bare feet.
She was heaving, chest rising and falling.
The exertion of someone who had run through a storm with swollen, red-rimmed eyes.
In her arms, she clutched a large bundle of cloth close to her body, cradling it with the desperate tenderness of a mother protecting her most precious.
She clearly did not have the strength to carry him, so his feet poked out from the covering by the floor.
Her embroidered shawl clung to her thin frame like cobwebs, and she'd dragged mud across the threshold, leaving dark footsteps in her wake.
"Third Wife," Azul called, her voice emerging through the rain. A smile played at the corners of her lips.
Standing there soaked and shaking, Nnenna looked more like a beggar than royalty.
She was younger than the Ugoeze and the Iyom—perhaps thirty at most—but compared to her competition, her face was fair and forgettable.
Azul could understand why she had such a lukewarm presence in the harem.
Nnenna managed to build her position while maintaining neutrality; she knew when to speak and when to remain silent.
But now, those ever-calm eyes held nothing but desperation.
Azul did not fail to notice the look—a lioness cornered by circumstances greater than she could control, forced to seek help from the only person she thought was harmless enough to trust.
It was delicious—the taste of fear that simmered beneath the concubine's gaze.
Nnenna walked forward on unsteady legs and fell to her knees at the edge of Azul's bed. The bundle in her arms shifted slightly, and Azul caught a glimpse of a small face. It was pale and sickly and struggling to breathe even in sleep.
The false princess looked down at the kneeling woman, golden eyes seeming to glow with what could only be amusement. Her lips stretched wide as she struggled not to laugh at the exquisite perfection of it all.
"Please." Nnenna's voice cracked before she could continue. Despite being soaked through, Azul could tell she'd been crying long before she'd stepped into the storm. "Save my son."
Of all potential allies, those who were often overlooked were the ones Azul treasured most.
The desperate.
The cornered.
The ones who had no choice but to bind themselves to her out of sheer necessity, unknowingly kneeling to the source of their sorrows.
It was like a child meeting a line of working ants. Slowly the child would block all paths for one and watch it circle in search of an exit. To an ant unaware of the concept of a human, would it not be an act of god if something suddenly lifted it out of its endless prison and gave it freedom?
That, to Azul, was power.
Not a throne, not wealth, and not even reputation. But the ability to save a man or push him towards despair.
She'd known the Iyom would want to test any rumours if she caught wind of them—the woman was nothing if not thorough in her cruelty.
And Nnenna, for all her caution, for all her careful neutrality, could never truly guard against the Iyom, who held the harem in her palm like a handful of eggs she could crush at will.
In less than a week, Nnenna's son had been reduced to such a pathetic state.
If she called the Imperial Physician, the entire harem would confirm her son was born with health issues.
The Igwe would hear of it. The Dowager would follow suit.
Chinedu would lose favour and would be seen as unworthy of succession.
Everything Nnenna had worked for, all those years of holding her tongue and bowing her head to the other wives, of protecting her only child—would be gone.
Thunder cracked overhead, and lightning illuminated Nnenna's face—streaked with rain and tears, twisted with a mother's anguish.
"Please," she whispered again. "I know you understand what ails him. The windows—you knew. You knew. Help him. I'll do anything. Anything you ask."
Azul let the silence stretch, savouring it. Then she reached out and placed a hand on Nnenna's wet hair, the gesture almost tender.
"Third Wife, please do not kneel. Such a thing you need not beg for. Naturally, I will help you," she said softly. "The child is innocent in all of this."
Nnenna's shoulders sagged with relief so deep it looked painful.
"I have coin," the Third Wife said quickly. "Not much, but—I can get more. I have jewellery. Land deeds from my father. I can—"
"No."
Nnenna looked up, confusion flickering across her desperate features. "But I must repay—"
"You owe me nothing," Azul interrupted, her expression narrowing, hands tightening around the woman's face. "I'm helping because it's the right thing to do. A child's suffering is not a tool for negotiation."
The lies came easily, but they were loose.
Nnenna stared at her, and Azul could see her sharp mind working, turning over this unexpected development.
Truly, the fear Nnenna felt shouldn't have been fear of her child dying but fear of falling into Azul's hands.
"I'll prepare a tincture," Azul continued, rising from her bed. "I can't cure him, but I know what can ease his breathing. You'll need to keep all flowers out of his room—no exceptions. Burn mugwort and eucalyptus in the evenings. Keep the air clean and dry."
She moved to her small collection of foraged herbs, selecting what she needed. Behind her, Nnenna remained kneeling, silent, her mind clearly racing.
"But," the Third Wife said finally, voice strained, "I cannot accept charity. I must—there must be some way to repay this kindness."
"I want nothing from you," Azul said without turning around.
Except everything.
By declining any explicit debt, Azul had done something far more effective: she'd created an implicit obligation that could never be satisfied. An open-ended favour that would sit in Nnenna's mind, growing heavier with each passing day.
The Third Wife would have no choice but to figure out how to rid herself of this debt on her own. And in trying, she would watch Azul and anticipate her needs. She would step in when Azul's own schemes grew too fragile to stand on their own.
She would become, without ever being asked, a piece on the board that moved itself to protect the queen.
Simply because Azul would not name her price.
"I don't understand," Nnenna whispered, truly lost.