Seven

The young village girl was almost certainly the latest beauty Prince Candrakumala had decided to add to his collection of concubines. Perhaps one of his men had heard about her while passing through villages like Brabo and carried the story back to him. The prince became interested, and now his senopati had arrived to collect her.

As a wanderer, Wisnumurti had seen scenes like this far too many times. Normally, he would have stayed out of it. The affairs of royalty were dangerous ground.

The problem this time was the violence. He understood exactly why Jaladri had nearly exploded moments earlier. They had just come from two villages where infants and toddlers lay butchered among the dead. Seeing a baby tumble from her mother’s arms after three armed men shoved her to the ground was enough to send anyone’s blood pressure through the roof.

Perhaps the family had shown less than perfect obedience. Perhaps the girl herself had resisted. It was only natural. She was about to be taken from her family forever.

Wisnumurti’s mind raced. Because Jaladri was here, everything had become complicated.

The boy’s face and family name were well known throughout the region between Karang Bendan and Kenipir. Half the people in this village probably knew exactly who he was. If his identity became involved in a confrontation with royal authorities, he could be branded a rebel. Worse, Ki Soma’s entire family could be dragged into the consequences.

There was only one option. Back down.

Fortunately, a single meaningful glance from Wisnumurti was enough.

Jaladri immediately understood. Reluctantly, he lowered himself to his knees.

Unfortunately, things did not end there. Senopati Natpada sheathed his kris, but only so he could walk more freely toward the three insolent travelers.

Within a hundred paces of a royal official from the central court, commoners were expected to crouch or kneel. No exceptions.

The three of them had still been on horseback directly in front of him.

And since Jaladri had been the first to move, he became the first target.

“Who are you?” the senopati asked.

His voice was calm. Flat. Deadly.

Jaladri swallowed. Damn it. He was completely unprepared for this.

If he told the truth, he would not be the only one punished. His father, mother, and younger sister could all suffer for it. These were not provincial troops.

These men answered directly to the royal court in Pasir.

“I—I...” his mind scrambled for a name. “A thousand apologies, Your Excellency. I am... Bajul.”

The real Bajul nearly choked.

If Jaladri had just stolen his name, what was he supposed to call himself if questioned? Wisnumurti almost burst out laughing.

“Bajul, is it?”

Natpada suddenly slapped Jaladri across the head. His headcloth flew off as the senopati grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked hard.

“You’re quite the hero, aren’t you? Sitting on a horse in front of a royal commander instead of throwing yourself to the ground and kissing the mud with that worthless mouth of yours? Where are you from?”

Jaladri growled under his breath. The man’s grip was brutally strong.

“I-I’m from Karang Bendan.”

“Are all people from Karang Bendan like this? Arrogant because your city is rich and prosperous? Huh?”

Jaladri opened his mouth. Natpada turned toward Bajul instead.

“And you! What’s your name?”

Bajul froze.

“I... I am Murti.”

Natpada frowned.

“Murti? ‘Face’?” he looked him up and down. “An unfortunate choice of name for someone as ugly as you. Doesn’t that amount to lying to the entire universe?”

Again, Wisnumurti nearly laughed.

“And what about you?” Natpada said, turning his gaze toward him. “Looking at those muscles, you’re clearly a martial artist. Am I wrong?”

The laughter vanished instantly. Wisnumurti’s instincts flared.

This man was sharp. Very sharp.

“My name is Seta,” he replied. “I come from Mount Cakrabuana.”

Seta. White. A fitting name given the clothes he wore. And mentioning Cakrabuana was deliberate. Wisnumurti hoped the name of his school would encourage the senopati to return to his business instead of digging deeper into the identities of himself, Jaladri, and Bajul.

The martial academy and religious school of Cakrabuana carried enormous influence. Even rulers thought twice before provoking its people.

“You are one of Panembahan Singgih’s disciples?” Natpada asked, his tone softening slightly.

“Only a lowly servant there, Your Excellency. Completely insignificant.”

Natpada snorted.

“Because you belong to Panembahan Singgih’s household, I’ll leave you alone.”

His eyes shifted back to Jaladri.

“But this one is a different story.”

Unable to vent his irritation on Wisnumurti, the senopati returned to the easiest target.

The young fool calling himself Bajul.

Natpada lifted his leg and unleashed a vicious kick straight at Jaladri’s chest.

The lesson was supposed to be simple.

One kick. The boy would fly backward, wheezing on the ground. And perhaps learn a little respect for the nobility.

That was the plan.

It never happened.

In fact, Senopati Natpada never even finished his sentence.

Because suddenly—he vanished.

One instant he stood before Wisnumurti and Bajul. The next, he was gone.

They heard a violent impact.

Saw Jaladri thrown backward nearly a spear’s length, clutching his chest and crying out.

And then came a shriek. A long, high-pitched shriek. The kind usually heard from a market vendor being chased by a crazed horse.

Wisnumurti turned. And stared. For a moment he genuinely wondered when human beings had learned to fly.

Then he noticed something important. Natpada’s head was pointing downward. His body was spinning. And seconds later, he crashed headfirst into a massive mahogany tree.

The tree exploded apart and toppled over with a deafening roar.

Right, Wisnumurti thought. Not flying. But being launched.

Villagers gasped. Several rushed toward the fallen commander. Meanwhile, Wisnumurti and Bajul hauled Jaladri back onto his feet.

The boy’s face was pale. Not from injury. From shock.

“How many fingers?” Wisnumurti asked, holding up two.

“I’m still conscious, you idiot!” Jaladri shoved his hand aside. “T-that... what happened to Senopati Natpada?”

“He flew through the air and knocked down a tree!” Bajul barked. “What did you do to him?”

Jaladri blinked.

“Huh? Me?” his jaw dropped. “Why am I the one being blamed? He’s the one who kicked me!”

“That’s not what I mean!” Bajul snapped. “What did you do to launch him like that? Some kind of sorcery?”

Jaladri could only stare blankly.

Far away, perhaps four spear lengths from where they stood, Natpada was finally being helped upright by soldiers and villagers.

The commander looked drunk. His knees wobbled. Without two soldiers supporting him, he would have face-planted into the mud.

His eyes drifted unfocused for several seconds. Empty. Like a man on the verge of possession. Only after several deep breaths did awareness return.

“Lin... Lintang Abyor...” he hissed.

Though soft, the words carried clearly enough for Wisnumurti to hear.

“Re... retreat...”

Wisnumurti frowned. Lintang Abyor? What in the world was that?

The tall soldier supporting Natpada looked equally confused.

“Retreat? But, Your Excellency—”

“Don’t argue!” the commander’s temper had returned. “Just obey my orders! We withdraw! This matter can be settled later!”

The soldiers bowed immediately.

“As you command, Your Excellency.”

Some looked furious. Several shot murderous glares toward Jaladri. One even pointed at him as if promising that this account would be settled another day.

But they obeyed. One by one they mounted their horses. Within moments they were galloping north toward Pasir.

Gone.

Wisnumurti still had no idea what had happened. The yard fell silent. The villagers slowly rose to their feet and began speaking again.

Jaladri blinked.

“Huh?” he looked around in bewilderment. “Why did they suddenly leave?”

Wisnumurti and Bajul exchanged a glance. Neither of them had the faintest idea.