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

Chapter Twenty

"So, do you ever see much action as a Royal Scholar and Advisor?" I tag along behind Boaz's awkward, hurried footsteps, nipping at his soft-skinned sandals and rose-printed robe. With his hood up, all I can see are little flashes of his delicate brows and sharp chin. He stops his awkward, serious-man walk for long enough to turn around, all flustered and flushing.

He glares at me through thin-rimmed spectacles. His hood falls back, revealing soft auburn hair pulled back into a bun. "Excuse me?"

"You know. Action." I shrug, mimicking some basic training punches. "Do golems ever attack the library? You ever see any robbers try and steal a..." I sneeze, glancing down one of the long library hallways with all the scholars huddled over their books. One person's sleeping. "Try to steal some old, dusty cobweb of a book?"

Boaz sighs. Though he's only Ryu's half-brother, my half-uncle, their joint impatience with me is uncanny. "No, Arnina. This isn't like your patrol. You only guard flesh and bone. We? We are the guardians of knowledge." He points to separate sections of the library. Dramatically cavernous ceilings with mosaic-tiled domes. Gilded, curving scripts of ancient godly verses. Tiles newly put in, engraved with gilded roses and the god of life, Kane's eye. There's a giant statue of none other than Ode Ngayoh, the goddess of death who cursed me to accept all challenges. She's set all in bronze, larger than life. Her eyes are fixed with rubies, an eerily lifelike gaze that seem to follow you around the library.

I resist the urge to scoff in a very unladylike manner. Why do we need the gods? Causing their Divine Wars and stirring up trouble. Just look at Cato, god of war. Drunk off his ass and taking a new lover to bed every—.

"... and that's the medical wing where we treat those who don't have access to healers in their villages." Boaz fiddles with his spectacles when he notices I've stopped listening. He mistakes my spiteful staring at Ode's statue for admiration. "Impressive, isn't it?" He beams a little, handing me a pile of scrolls to carry. Each one is the length of my forearm, about the width of a slender tree trunk.

I grunt at the added weight. Uncle Bo seems to take this as an acknowledgement of my finding it interesting. I let him have it.

"My half-brother, your papa, Ryu. He funds a lot of the arts. A patron, of sorts. Magnificent, what one can accomplish without fighting all those dreadful golems or murderers, the undead or crazed deities." He sighs, as though he'd listed some troublesome weather instead of the worst enemies to ever grace our Empire in the past three decades. He starts fidgeting when I'm still standing there, the pile of scrolls in my hand. "Now, off to work." He waves at me with his hands, a little "shooing" gesture one would do to a disobedient child.

I raise an eyebrow, stifling a yawn. "That entire lecture wasn't enough work already?"

"No," he points to a cubicle where a scholar is getting helped to his feet by his sister. Melted candlewax spreads over his fingernails and parts of his scrolls and textiles, smeared with ink. Poor sot. Probably pulled an all-nighter to take exams and be a physician or some crazy thing like that. "You'll be sorting through the Idriolan texts and alphabetizing them. Fascinating studies, really, on their version of mythology and hero myths."

"Idriolan make-believe." Great, I'll be reading all about where the golden-curled, love-starved Pari's from. Just another stab to the gut there. Reminded of the people on my patrol. Tawil and his kid. Saban and his smug, holier-than-thou attitude. "Sounds real practical."

Idriola, land of the pale people and the legionnaires. The fairy tales of dainty maidens and elaborate ice palaces. Silver-lined chalices and beds with wolf furs. Landscapes all in white, a gray sky clashing with the horizon. Who'd want to read about that when there are golems beating down our own Lioness Gate in Rahasia? There's a dangerous witch doctor in our prisons, a murderer who refuses to give me his name, so I can't just execute him. I should be on patrol, given a weapon, not these useless scrolls.

Then I think back to what BabaElio said. The best rulers don't win wars. The best ones don't even start wars in the first place. Maybe there's something to knowledge after all, even if it's less fun than a sword or a flanged mace.

I look back to the texts, the flowery script. I read the first few lines, struggling back on my world-language training. Fuit antiquo tempore rex quidam magnus et potens.

It says something about a great man of ancient times. A mighty king...

Fairy tales. As Boaz goes back to grab more Idriolan scrolls for me to read, I parse through the heavy texts with my rudimentary knowledge. This is a text for fairy tales.

I think back to the witch doctor, the challenge of three guesses to find his name.

I go back through the scrolls, frantically searching for anything about curses, princesses, and cruel villains who play dangerous games. Villains who face a similar downfall.

A name.

When I find the tale, I smile. A smile that's not friendly at all. A smile that's bared teeth and harsh, pointed lines.

I've got you now, Rumpelstiltskin.

***

Readers,

What do you all think of Boaz?

-Sophia