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

Chapter Fifty

My senses are assaulted by all manner of jasmines, lilies, and sprays of orchids when another scent, a sour one, bites through all the others.

The sultan turns around, revealing the gaping maw of the red-green plant in front of him.

"The corpse flower," he drums his fingers against his thigh, pointing to the plant that has a wide-open mouth. Petals as thick as my forearm, grasping at the earth like hungry claws.

Thinking back to the witch doctor's killings in Raja, I grimace. That odor, the sour-sweet stench of it, the corpse flower. "Smells just like the real thing."

"Right," he chuckles. "Sometimes I forget you were a warrior back in Rahasia. It feels like you've been here forever." He draws his hands behind his back. I notice he isn't dressed so simply this time. He has a batik wrapped around his legs, golden bangles dripping from his arms, clanking from his ankles. Kohl lines his eyes, surprising me. I didn't think he'd known Rahasian styles. His long hair drapes against his skin like a cloak, a proud face glaring down at me. "You've caused enough trouble for a lifetime."

I grit my teeth, staring at the ground. "You're right, I was a warrior. I still am."

"But," he holds up a hand, frowning, "being a warrior doesn't make you stealthy, does it?" He sighs, staring into my eyes as though he'll find the answer residing there, with my soul plastered over my skin like a tattoo. "The servants found that the Rahasian ambassador's rooms had been disturbed, as though someone had torn at the curtains to peer inside."

"You shut him away from the world." I reply, staring into those piercing eyes of his, allowing my eyes to drink in everything, even that nasty handprint of a birthmark. Easier to dissect him into slashes of imperfections instead of the young man I'd come to... to...

"After the riots, the people here wanted to kill him. We put him away to protect him from vigilante justice. To keep him from getting torn apart. I stationed guards at the door, changing them every week to avoid plots." He swallows, steps closer. His rage dies away into something else. Some odd confusion. "You could've come to me instead." His voice curls downwards to a whisper, a lion tamed into a sleeping cat. "You could have asked me."

I look down, confused as he opens his palm to reveal his grandmother's usual bouquet of moon flowers and white jasmines. He plucks the stem off one and places it, ever so gently, behind my ear.

I've smashed golems into the earth where they belong.

I've conversed with gods.

I wrestled a witch doctor.

But this, the gentleness. The familiarity. And his hands, they're so soft. Unlike my calloused hands, worn from battle. Foreign in other ways. Odd in their perfection, imperfect because of it. The jasmines overpower the corpse flower's stench.

I step away, shaking my head. Glancing back, I see Mawar. Though fighting to keep her face impassive, I can see the faint line of disapproval at the edges of her lips. The discontent. Yet, instead of her, I see someone else in my mind's eye.

Zahra.

Then other faces. Ratu. Pari. Tawil. Saban. Kura. Sol. Dasha. Malala.

Then back to Mawar. Back to her sister and her sister's child...

War.

"This isn't right. People are suffering. A war on the horizon, and you waste your time with this? Your court games, your masked dances. Your attempts at what, seducing me? Are those appropriate for diplomacy, for peace?" I bow, exiting the gardens as quickly as my feet shall carry me. "Good day, Sultan Raharjo. If you'll excuse me, I have a dancing performance to prepare for."

Giants and ants, I grimace at the thought, but who are the giants?

Why do I feel more like an ant?

***

Readers,

Let the drama commence.

-Sophia