Thirteen

Prince Candrakumala glanced over his shoulder.

Someone was sitting cross-legged in the audience pavilion, waiting in respectful silence.

He rinsed his hands in a brass finger bowl, and then slid off the bamboo dining platform crowded with dozens of plates overflowing with the finest dishes imaginable.

“This evening I want horse-meat satay,” he said casually. “Slaughter ten horses.”

The palace attendant who had been sat cross-legged beside the platform performs a sembah—his hands were clasped together before his nose as he bowed deeply in a gesture of respect.

“At once, Your Highness.”

Candrakumala strode toward the pavilion.

Two servants hurried after him, struggling beneath the weight of a perfectly cubical block of polished black stone about two feet high. Their bodies swayed under its tremendous weight. They had to move fast and set it down at the exact spot where Prince Candrakumala decided—on a whim—to sit.

The prince’s attendants practiced that task relentlessly.

Failure meant death. Once, two servants had guessed wrong. Candrakumala sat... and toppled backward.

Both servants were executed before sunset, their heads displayed separately from their bodies.

“Well then,” Candrakumala said as he settled comfortably onto his stone throne. “Where is she? Have you already taken her to my women’s quarters?”

Standing before the broad-shouldered Senopati Natpada, Candrakumala looked almost like a drenched alley cat. He was small and slightly hunched, his shoulders curving awkwardly near the base of his neck. Only his extravagant clothing salvaged his appearance. This afternoon he wore a black kuluk, a long-sleeved striped jacket embroidered with gold thread, a batik cloth wrapped above the knees, black trousers, and enough gold embroidery to blind a man in the sun.

Senopati Natpada bowed deeply with a sembah. His hands trembled.

“Forgive me, Your Highness. I failed.”

Candrakumala frowned. “How is that possible? You’re undefeated. I sent you because no one can stand against you. They weren’t in any position to refuse.”

Natpada lowered himself again.

“I... I was stopped by someone who possessed the Lintang Abyor Arts, Your Highness.”

“Lintang Abyor?” Candrakumala leaned forward. “How is that possible?”

“Someone interfered with my mission... and he possesses that technique.”

“Who?” Candrakumala demanded. “My elder brother Wiratmaka? My younger brother Ranggajaya?”

“His name is Jaladri, Your Highness. Eldest son of Ki Somanagara, the rice merchant from Karang Bendan.”

Candrakumala froze.

“How could he poss—”

“My apologies for interrupting,” another voice said smoothly. “But I believe this matter should be entrusted to me, Senopati.”

Both men turned.

Tumenggung Mertalaya, a gaunt man as thin as a bamboo pole and perpetually dressed in dark robes, climbed the pavilion steps from the direction of the prince’s residence.

“Uncle?” Candrakumala blinked. “Weren’t you at Lake Wilis surrounded by a hundred heavenly maidens?”

“I am,” Mertalaya smiled faintly. “I’m using the Art of the Silent Wind. It allows me to exist in two places at once. My other self is still at the lake... swimming with twenty celestial maidens.”

He settled cross-legged beside Senopati Natpada, then shot the commander a sharp sideways glance.

“I told you I’d handle this. You may return home... spared from His Highness’s punishment through my intervention.”

Natpada nodded gratefully and bowed.

“Permission to withdraw, Your Highness.”

Candrakumala rested both hands on his hips. He was far from satisfied. He dearly wanted to punish someone.

But Tumenggung Mertalaya’s advice carried enormous weight with him.

Finally, the prince sighed.

“Yes, yes. Go.”

He flicked his hand dismissively.

Natpada bowed once more, backed away on his knees until he reached the steps, then finally dared to stand and turn his back.

Silence settled over the pavilion.

Mertalaya stared thoughtfully into the distance before speaking. He possessed one privilege granted to almost no one else in the kingdom—the right to address Prince Candrakumala without first being invited to speak.

“I urge Your Highness not to act rashly in this matter.”

“The matter of Jaladri?”

Mertalaya nodded. “Precisely.”

“And why is that?”

“There is... an old rumor. Until now, it has remained only a rumor.”

He paused.

“I believe it’s finally time to discover whether it’s true or not.”

“What rumor?”

“We’ll know soon enough... if we can bring his family here.”

“His family?”

“Jaladri has a younger sister. She’s beautiful. Their family is wealthy, so unlike a peasant girl, she’s undoubtedly been raised in comfort and refinement.”

Candrakumala’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Yes. You could ask for her hand in marriage, Your Highness, and Ki Soma’s family would gladly accept. Consider it compensation for Jaladri’s interference with Senopati Natpada’s mission to retrieve the girl from Brabo. Let it serve as his punishment.”

A calculating smile spread across Mertalaya’s face.

“And while they’re here... I’ll have the opportunity to verify that old rumor myself.”

“How beautiful is she?”

“Far more beautiful than any of your current consorts, Your Highness. I’ll dispatch royal envoys in your name to Karang Bendan. Once they’re here, you’ll be able to judge her beauty with your own eyes, Your Highness.”

He lowered his head respectfully.

“After that... as always... the decision is entirely yours.”

Candrakumala smiled and nodded enthusiastically. “Excellent. The envoys leave at dawn tomorrow.”

Mertalaya bowed.

“Your will shall be carried out.”

“And to celebrate...” Candrakumala declared, “I want beef for dinner. Have ten cows slaughtered now.”

“As you command, Your Highness.”

***

The sun was already drifting toward the western horizon when Wisnumurti turned his horse onto the narrow footpath.

He could hear waves crashing somewhere beyond the trees.

At the next bend, he immediately recognized the place Ki Gede Nipir had described.

This was it. He swung out of the saddle. Five horses were tethered beneath a large tree ahead of him.

The dense forest abruptly gave way to an open stretch of ground ending at towering sea cliffs overlooking the Southern Ocean. Near the cliff’s edge, only a few spear-lengths from the drop, stood a small wooden cabin—the perfect refuge for someone seeking solitude.

He quickly led his horse toward the others.

Those had to belong to Ki Sembada and his family, hiding from Tanpa Aran.

After tying off the reins, he hurried toward the cabin. His eyes swept the area with growing caution.

Nothing. The front door was shut. Too quiet.

Someone should have been standing watch. A prickling sensation crawled across the back of his neck. Without hesitation, Wisnumurti exploded into a sprint.

Instead of opening the door, he drove his boot into it. The wooden door ripped free from its hinges.

“Ki Semba—?”

The words died in his throat. He stood frozen in the doorway, breathing hard.

His eyes widened. His body refused to move.

The cabin’s single room looked as though it had been flooded.

Not with water. With blood. Dark crimson stained everything, pooling around eight motionless bodies sprawled across the floor near a bamboo sleeping platform.

Four corpses lay on the platform itself.

A well-dressed man and woman...

...and two teenage girls.

Ki Sembada and his family. The other four were heavily built men.

His disciples. His bodyguards. They lay in the center of the blood-soaked floor.

Wisnumurti didn’t bother checking for signs of life. The wounds told him everything. Every throat bore the same narrow slash. Cut in precisely the same place.

Exactly like the victims in Jati and Srumbung.

Then something caught his eye. Blood was still flowing from one of the bodies. The murders had happened only moments ago.

Wisnumurti rushed back outside, inner force flooding into both arms as he scanned the surroundings.

Then he saw it.

About thirty spear-lengths away, standing atop the highest section of cliff was a lone figure.

Feet planted wide. A dark sword drawn.

Every piece of clothing was black, including the cloth wrapped around the neck against the ocean wind instead of hanging from the waist.

A broad conical hat shadowed the face completely. Only darkness stared back.

A wave of death rolled across the cliff.

Wisnumurti felt every hair on his body stand on end. Was that a man... or a ghost?

“Don’t interfere. This doesn’t concern you.”

The voice rang crystal clear inside his mind. The mystical Mindbender Arts—a transmission technique reserved for martial artists of terrifying caliber, to send messages through mind.

Then the black-clad figure simply stepped backward. His scarf fluttered, and disappeared beyond the cliff’s edge.

Wisnumurti sprinted toward the spot at full speed and looked over the precipice.

Nothing. Only monstrous waves smashing against the rocks ten spear-lengths below.

His racing eyes searched every direction.

No trace.

He had missed him, by only a few seconds.