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

Chapter Forty-One

"Mawar!" Sultan Hartono Bambang Raharjo takes a grasp of lilies in between his palms, cupping the tender plant as he raises them to his face. "Mawar, di mana bunga-bunga putih melati? Nenek saya mencintai mereka yang terbaik."

Mawar, where are the white jasmine flowers? My grandmother loves them the best.

Odd, how out-of-place the young king seems here in this garden. Picking at flowers like a child at play. He doesn't seem half as intimidating outside of his court. It's like he's a plant himself. The court is his sun, the adoring stares of his people his earth. Outside of those, he wilts. A man playing at being a deity, but a man all the same.

I watch him for a moment longer, kneeling in the dirt as he is, with batik trousers rolled up to the knee. A vest spun of plain, airy cloth, revealing shoulders often kissed by the sun. His arms are bare of any finery. His customary gold hoops brush against his bare neck, his long swathe of black hair tied into a knot at the back of his head.

Suddenly, I don't regret needling Zahra into letting me wear simpler Rahasian şalvar and a plainer batik tunic of my own. In the garden, we're both just regular people. Aside from Mawar, we could almost pretend we were normal for the day.

Still, Mawar's words echo in my head, the phrases that haunted me since our first meeting. You and Sultan Raharjo are the only ones that matter in this game. You rulers are giants, and we are ants crushed beneath your heel.

I watch the sultan, kneeling in the garden as he is, searching for flowers to gift to his grandmother. And I try my hardest to see him as a giant, to see the armies of the Rahasian Empire lying in wait beneath my beating heart. To see the island hidden beneath this man's garden-stained hand. To see power there, raw energy, instead of two awkward children playing at war. Instead, I watch Mawar's gaze.

Her eyes flicker nervously to a crop of soft, snowy petals. Flowers with lacy ribcages and tender, white skirts. Swaying like gossiping tongues in court. I grab the prickly offenders by their stems, plucking the prettiest ones to gather a slight bouquet. Mawar presses more cream-colored flowers into my hand, these with wider petals that resemble the wings of a large moth.

Moon flowers. She mouths the words to me. White jasmines.

I practice my Jiwanese court bow, ensuring that all the flowers are in my right hand this time. When the sultan turns around, I nudge the flowers in front of me, eyes locked onto his.

"You're not supposed to be here." He whispers the words, so caught off-guard that he can't even affect his usual air of breezy authority. "This space is private."

"I have a talent for being where I'm unwanted." I reply, his long fingers brushing against mine as he takes the flowers into his grasp. He looks past me, towards the open-air reception room of the kraton, his palace. The gardens are situated in a circular, natural enclosure of stones and leaning palms. The fronds are so dense that only sunlight filters in, but we are quite hidden from the gossiping courtier.

"Unwanted, perhaps, but you certainly don't lack for wanting things these days, do you, putri?"He folds the flowers gently into a pouch at his waist, tucking away the petals from view. "Tell me, why'd you come here at all?"

I'm unsure if he's asking why I fought my way into his gardens or bothered traveling across the sea to Jiwa in the first place. I err on the side of caution. "I want the same as you. Peace between our world powers. Reparations for the riots for the Jiwanese Rahasian citizens. A filthy murderer's execution." I leave Boaz from this, just in case my fondness for my bookish uncle makes me appear weak. Better to make him seem like a low-quality bargaining chip than to be dragged into this mess and tortured, or worse, for my sympathy. "But to do so, I need the witch doctor's name. I want you to help me find it."

And Kaliya, the goddess of time, told me you were the key to getting it.

The sultan looks at me, crossing his arms as he does so. I try not to focus on his handprint birthmark, the dark eyes peering at me with a burning curiosity. "You find thrill in challenges, don't you? You take joy in it, in dares and confrontation."

Oh, more than you know.

I grin at him, Ode Ngayoh's dagger at my belt, a reminder that I might leave Rahasia, but its gods won't ever leave me well enough alone. "What can I say? It's a gift."

He considers my offer, staring over his garden, at the unfolding petals and too-heady aromas. He fiddles with an earring, the hoop catching and glinting in the light. It's a cute habit. A nervous tic, like Zahra when she reaches for her weapons.

"No, that's not it. Rumors... people say you act oddly. That you can't reject a challenge." I tense up immediately, waiting for him to issue a dreaded order. "No, it's quite alright. I wouldn't want you as a puppet." He laughs, pointing to the handprint over his face. "I know how the gods are. I'm betrothed to one of them."

I pause. Did he just say...

"You're going to be married to your goddess?"

***

Readers,

Oh, now I'm having fun. Note, I am taking leniency with some existing mythology. Out of love and the highest respect.

-Sophia