It is common superstition that early-bloomers, whether Graced or commoner, will settle at a relatively high theurgic rank, thus also a higher probability children they produce will be high-ranking theurgists.
Working on this belief, in his effort of remedying the taint upon his bloodline, in the year 332 pos forma, the Maha Rama introduced Eugeneic Coupling; a decree that every early-blooming girl shall be wed to noble men. His vision is to create a high-quality breed of noble generations to wed into royalty.

  —Tides and Times of Surikhand, an histoire by Setja Asmaradan  

16

↝ A COURTLY CHARADE ↜

She had bathed and primped into a serving lady fit for the Maha Rama's presence. Even Head Cook was pleased with the sight of her and had Isla stand amongst the front: nine girls in all, four to flit in and out with each new course, three to clean and attend tables, and two to ensure no cup was left empty for long.

'Don't get them mixed up!' Head Cook scowled at her. 'Tell me what you have!'

Isla juggled a tray carrying the weight of four jugs. Noi's coffee house taught me some skills, after all. 'This is the rice wine. This is sugar cane juice, this one's fresh coconut water, and this poison whiskey.'

Head Cook did not even nod before moving on to threaten the next girl in line. Once she was satisfied none of her girls would make a blunder of herself, she led the group out of the kitchen, down a wide set of steps, and into a stone tunnel.

It was a back route of sorts, winding this way and that, snaking between walls. Likely a passage for palace servants. Isla had lost track of all the turns and passages by the time they ascended another flight of stairs. Head Cook slid open a curtain, and Isla blinked in the sudden brightness.

'Down the hall. Through that door.' Head Cook let the girls pass before closing the curtains behind them. Isla's heart pounded as they approached the sliver of a door.

Soon.

She would get to see them soon.

The door was opened to the dance of dazzling light. She breathed in fresh air, only then realizing how dank the tunnels had been. Isla led the girls out, struck by the splendour of the chamber in which she found herself.

It was a domed hall, and they had entered into its rear corner. Above them, the ceiling was carved in giant wings, circling the room and rippling towards the centre.

Male servants were filing into the room from an opposite door, carrying a long table and wooden chairs they were arranging in the centre of the chamber, facing the throne. Two chairs. Again Isla's pulse quickened in anticipation.

'Five minutes, girls!' Head Cook hissed behind them, and they all hurried along the wall towards the Maha Rama's throne.

It sat upon a wide, tiered dais. To its left, and again mirrored to its right, were two more seats – each standing upon a lower tier, and each less grand the lower they stood. Extending from the wall high above them loomed the polished head of a capradon, its ivory beak shadowing the Rama's seat, its two antlers coiling back in an arc into the ceiling.

'The Maha Rama always takes poison whiskey.' A serving girl had stopped beside Isla to say. They had approached the five empty thrones, and Isla was staring dumbly at the tables beside each seat. 'The seat to his left is always reserved for Maharaj Persi. He takes rice wine if he ever attends. The one after that belongs to the Rama-in-Waiting, who takes sugar cane. The seats to the Rama's right will be empty today. Maharaj Andhika is still at the Water Palace, and Maharaj Kiet has been gone for a whole year, though there are whispers of his return.'

Andhika. Isla recognised that name. It was on her list; the one she kept in the pocket of her frock. A pity he will not be present today. It would have been good to see two of my suspects. I'd have to make do with the king.

She stilled her rising nerves and nodded her thanks at the girl.

Isla poured the royal drinks and withdrew into the wall behind the throne, waiting in silence with the other girls, watching the double doors across the chamber. Her heart thumped, her entire body trembled. Her tray shook and she had to silence it with her free hand.

There was the resounding creak of hinges, the scraping of wood against marble, and far beyond them, the double doors opened.

First to enter was the great erne, swooping in from the antechamber. Behind it came two figures, led by a pair of palace guards who took them to their seats. How Isla longed to rush into their embrace, but she held herself still.

The guests sat before their dinner-laden table while the erne took to the ceiling and perched upon the trailing edges of the stone wing. It looked down upon the room and gave a resounding call.

Yes, I remember. She would thank it later for its help against the waterwights. Isla returned the bird's gaze, only then noticing the statue of an owl upon one of the decorative talons, almost hidden in the shadows but for its bright blue eyes. She could swear it was staring right at her.

'His Serene Highness, the Maharaj Persi Ametjas,' a shrill voice called from Isla's right, where a silver-paned door hid behind a recess in the wall. The guests rose to their feet, the royal herald pulled the door open and took a deep breath before bellowing: 'Provincial Prince of Kam Phor. Lord of Petripyor. May eternally its silver gates shine.'

'Lower your head!' Isla felt a sharp jab to her hip, and she quickly dropped her gaze.

Maharaj Persi swept the floor with his robe, and Isla dared a peek as he passed. But for his receding hairline and the slightest speck of grey on his head and stubbled jaw, he looked well for a man who had seen close to half a century.

'His Highness, the Rama-in-Waiting, Maharaj Khaisan Ametjas. First in line to the throne of Surikhand,' the herald announced as Maharaj Persi took his seat. His son strode in as though he owned the place, storming on hard boots that clapped against the floor.

He was a spitting image of his father, save for the lines on his forehead – or lack thereof – and he could only have been several years older than Isla. How does it feel for his father, to have the throne skip him over and instead down to his son? But it can't be helped, Isla resigned. Maharaj Khaisan was first-rank; Maharaj Persi only third.

The crown prince took his seat beside his father without acknowledgement, and the royal herald called out one last time, 'His Highness, the Honourable Maha Rama Judhistir Ametjas. Grand King to the Capradon of the Sea. Forever reigns his Grace.'

'Forever reigns his Grace,' the room echoed. Even the two princes were on their feet when the Maha Rama entered.

The ground sank with his presence. Like falling in a dream. Isla's breath caught in her throat, the tray shook at her sudden jolt. Her chest was tight with a surging, insurmountable fear. Isla lowered her gaze to chest level, this time having no desire to glance upon the man's face.

The brunt of his aura lasted for several more minutes. He raised his hands, and in a voice barely more than a whisper bade them all to sit. The Maha Rama lowered himself to the throne slowly, deliberately. As he sat, he stifled his resonance, and the weight lifted off Isla's chest.

She had never felt the force of a first-rank before; only the Maha Rama was permitted to thus impose his aura. Challenging the code was to challenge the king's rule; another one of those canons left by the deities – though Isla could not recall which. Perhaps Reijyr. Her pantheology needed much work. Master Chendra would not be pleased.

'Honoured guests,' the Maha Rama started in his slow, rattling voice.

The room was all silence. How could one so old bear a presence so strong? How would he hold, if Maharaj Khaisan were to challenge him today?

'We bid thee welcome. Drink. Feast. Your voyage has been long, and I see that you are weary. Would I have earlier received you; alas only upon the last light did we return through the towering gates of Kathedra. 'Tis not so long a road that keeps us from the Water Palace, and my men I had hasten upon word that Elingar honours us with so unexpected a call. Alas, men do not fly.'

If there existed a skill to be absolutely courteous to and with the same breath reproach a man, the Maha Rama had it mastered. One of the guests cleared his throat and responded, 'We thank you for receiving us, and beg forgiveness that we had not formerly dispatched a sylphan messenger. I speak for my lord, an envoy of Elingar, whom stands beside me, as his interpreter and guide.'

'Forsooth, it is odd for a foreign-born to speak our tongue. Yet many things the Cor Regnants practice are peculiar to our own ways.'

'I have the honour of Surikh blood, My Rama. My mother taught me your poetic tongue.'

'And well do you speak it. But one would think it prudent for an Honoured Envoy to learn the language of the land he is set to see.'

'My own lord speaks it, and understands. Though never well enough, he fears, to grace the ears of His Highness. He would loath for his coarse tongue to offend our gracious hosts.'

'That it would never!' The Maha Rama seemed astonished at the very idea of it. 'For I know who it is the Eling have sent. If truly my royal messenger have spoken, and truly my well-travelled advisers have counselled, then not only are we in the presence of an esteemed Eling emissary, but one much loved by its crown prince.'

He knows of Sir Edric – as does my enemy. Isla thought back upon Haana's words on her final day. But what does it mean? Is he the one behind everything?

She could not see the Maha Rama's face from her place by the wall, but his voice betrayed no emotion. Perhaps he had mastered his expressions as well as he had mastered his words. Perhaps he isn't behind anything at all.

'Your men are wise, My Rama, and they speak the truth.' Aldir's voice brought her to a start. Where did he learn to grovel that way? 'Beside me stands Sir Edric Aberforth, indeed once the right hand to the crown prince, Dariel Son of Atherion himself, his confidante and former Chief of Knights Protector.'

'And pray, who is this man honoured with the privilege of speaking on his behalf?'

'My name is Aldir, Your Honourable Rama, and the bird above us is my bondmate. We've come with Prince Dariel's blessing, for Elingar and Surikhand have gained much from our mutual trade, and an official visit has been long overdue.'

The Maha Rama held out a hand to silence him. 'I will not speak of affairs so tedious ere my guests are dined and drank. Come! Let forth the wine!'

Isla did not have to be prodded to take her cue. She was off, taking to one side of the room while the second wine-girl took the other. As she stepped out from behind the throne and towards her old friends, their eyes lifted and fell upon her, betraying no signs of recognition. But Aldir smiled as warm a smile as strangers could give.

'May I offer you some rice wine, my lord? Or would you prefer something lighter?'

'You'll have to decide for me. How do you find it?'

'Rice wine is well enough for most, though I can only take so much myself,' Isla said, answering the question in his eyes. Behind them, the Maha Rama was waxing poetic on the variety of foods and beverages, whilst Sir Edric thanked his hospitality in limited Srikh. 'It's very sweet, but if you aren't careful, it will hit you hard come morning.'

'A dangerous drink. What is this one here?'

'Poison whiskey, my lord. An infusion of mountain cobra and sand scorpion.'

'I'll take the rice wine.' He winked and Isla poured him his drink. He squeezed her hand as she passed him his cup, and she walked back to the wall wishing she could say more.