A Princess for the Witch Doctor (Legends of Rahasia Book 3)

Chapter Eighty-Three

"You were right, you know."

I'm dressed in my regular armor, Baqir reinstated at my side. My fathers allowed me to go back to the training yards with the soldiers. No more shelving books now that I've helped the Empire avoid war.

"Right about what, putri?" The witch doctor looks so much smaller without his mask. Missing some fingers and toes, bleeding from where the guards cut and beat him. He has his arms tucked around his bony knees, shivering in the heat.

"It really is harder to kill someone when you know their name." My regular armor feels strange now, like being in the wrong skin. Like playing a role I long ago outgrew. "When you know that they sacrificed their life for your reputation, a reputation as a prophetic, gods-gifted hero that you never wanted in the first place."

He considers this, watching me for a bit in silence before he just nods in answer.

"Really?" I struggle to keep myself calm, watching him as he sits there, just a heap of bones and skin. "You're about to be executed, and suddenly, you have nothing to say?"

He shrugs. "Who will listen?"

"I will." I lean against the bars, but he doesn't even attempt to move.

"Fine then." He looks down at his feet, missing a few toes, and he wiggles what's left. "Can I ask you something, Arnina?"

I gesture for him to get on with it.

He sighs. "If you don't want to be a hero, then what do you want?"

I close my eyes, thinking back to General Soleil and Kura in Raja. I envision myself and Zahra in their place. Raising goats and worshipping the gods only when they please. Training young soldiers. Fighting and loving and living all at once.

I see the portrait of Nenek Wulan and her fairytale prince-turned-Sultan. I see Harto and I in that place, dancing in a garden, and ruling over a court that's piled high with fish and fruit and gifts from foreign lands.

And finally, I envision my fathers, and I see myself between them. A crown placed on my head. An Empire at my command. One eye toward the future, the other remembering the bloody past wars, and how we wish to avoid them.

"I don't know yet." I answer, as truthfully as I can to a dying man. "But I want to find out."

He laughs, the sound so painfully young, yet aged prematurely. "Good." He finally swallows the laughter enough to reply. "Very, very good."

***

Readers,

We're all just trying to figure out our futures here.

-Sophia