Judhistir at least had the courtesy of giving him good men. For a while Kiet watched them in training, four-and-twenty soldiers at two arm's length apart in the inner courtyard of his late mother's estate. Steel against steel, blades singing as they scraped. One by one they stopped, once they saw the maharaj watching from the arcades.

One man stood out from the rest. Others gravitated around him like birds in a flock. He was young, close to Kiet's own age, his posture that of a man who had trained since he could hold a sword, but his paler shade of brown meant most of it had been done indoors. Or perhaps he carries Tsun blood.

Kiet sparred with him a while. His swordsmanship exposed his northern roots; smooth, limber movements, swift wrists and spry ankles. Even his weapon was typical of the Pior Lam design with its long, asymmetric blade and false edge.

He asked later to see Kiet's sword in return, and the men marvelled as though it were a pretty maiden. None had seen a real kalis from up close, never mind touching one. Certainly any weaponsmith could replicate the waved blades—his was only half-waved, with loose, undulating curves close to its guard before tapering to a tight point—but a true kalis was made imbued with essence from the epperstrom itself, and that only few men could reproduce.

As a boy, many had thought it pretentious. A maharaj who desired a weapon above all other boys to compensate for his lack of skill. Kiet never cared to explain himself, that his life depended on such a weapon in a way none of them ever could comprehend.

'Is it true? They say it was crafted by Dhukkun Rajiman himself.'

Kiet smiled at the question and sheathed his blade. Sandyakala was amongst the last weapons the daemolog ever crafted before he vanished into the epps, but Kiet needed give no more reason to be called pretentious. 'It was a gift for my fourteenth namesday.'

'At fourteen I was given string on a stick and told to call it a bow!' The men laughed and told stories of how each of them had it worse. Kiet made sure to commission new arms for them all.

    
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The northman escorted Kiet when he went to meet Judhistir. He detested being chaperoned, but they were his men now, and he needed to know them if he were to entrust Kiesja and Jyesta's safety in their hands. Already Akai took his role seriously. Kiet suspected it was—much like the other men gifted to him—the first major posting for the soldier. They were all young, untested, though showing much skill and promise.

It was convenient that way. Older, more experienced soldiers might show resentment upon being made to answer to a young upstart like him, what with his subversive ideas and foreign influences, and only second-in-line on top of it.

Judhistir smiled when he entered. 'How glad I am to see you make use of the men I have for you personally selected.'

They were in his private audience quarters, seated in deep, soft accent chairs the Maha Rama had imported directly from one of the Godsthronian nations. 

The room was warm. Too warm for Kiet's liking, with ominous paintings hanging close to the low ceiling and thick rugs under their bare feet. But his father was in a perpetual state of cold—a condition that grew only worse with his age, and that none of his personal healers knew how to fix. Poison whiskey at least helped bring fire through his veins. A young serving girl stepped forwards now to pour some into the large, clay cup in his hands; a cobra and scorpion frozen in time, curling around one another in its glass jug. Kiet waved the girl away before she approached him.

'A generous gift, Father, and a fine choice,' he said.

'Though many are with us no longer, I grew alongside mine own most trusted generals. How I hoped for you to experience the same. I bleed for the loss of your mother, but too, for the death of that hope. Now must you begin anew, and men of honour are difficult to gather, impossible to distinguish, as are a pack of hounds who would not turn upon their master in times of supreme hunger.'

'I only hope not ever to put my men through extreme hunger.'

'One can never know what the harbour waves bring.'

'That much is true.' Kiet straightened in his seat. The pillows were so soft, they began to cause discomfort. 'Which is why I requested you relieve me from the palace, My Rama.'

Judhistir sighed. 'These quarrels 'tween you and Khaisan ... how it grieves me.'

'That may be the fuel, but it is not the spark. Khaisan is relatively new to his title, he has not sitten as Rama-in-Waiting for longer than three years. He is yet to distinguish himself, find his confidence. I do no good lingering here.'

'If only I could oppose, for your presence in Kathedra assuages me. Alas, all you speak of is prudence.' He waved a hand. A servant came from the alcoves, bearing a map that he unravelled upon the desk between them. 'It has been decided. Ere long will the seat of Pior Lam come vacated, and you to rise with its new dawn.'

He needed not look at the map. Anyone with even the most elementary knowledge of Surikhand knew where the province lay. Quickly Kiet found his composure. 'You honour me, Rama, but the provincial prince yet lives. It is customary to fill the position only once its current leadership falls. It will be my privilege to, when the time comes—'

Judhistir interrupted with a laugh that shook his entire body. ''tis customary for the provinces to be led by the Rama's sons. Well though mine brothers have served, well also has it passed beyond their time. Even I grow tired in this seat. What think you of mine brother? Junaedi has suffered five winters more than I. Time has come for him to pass the banner.'

'As you wish, Rama. I will perform my duty as your son.' Kiet should have seen it coming. Surikhand had six provinces and Judhistir had now only three living sons.

How he would pass on the remaining three seats was yet to be seen. Certainly now they would go to his grandchildren, but would he select them by order of birth as was customary, or filter through those who carried the Ametjas name, as was astute? Whatever his decision, it was sure to stir discontent. The kind of discontent laws of inheritance were made to prevent in the first place.

Kiet's eyes trailed through the map. Judhistir had set his pieces far in advance, seen the troubles in his inevitable horizon, and made sure to quell any seditious motions before they could even sprout. He had long placed Persi at the seat of Kam Phor, arguably the largest province in Surikhand and—conveniently—the very province in which Kathedra sat. Khaisan's future as Maha Rama was secured if only through the sheer numbers his father commanded.

Persi's brother, Andhika, was years ago made successor to the second largest and neighbouring province of Djatiswara, and soon with Kiet at the head of Pior Lam, the entire northern half of Surikhand would remain at least under the Ametjas line. And once you combine the rich mines of Kam Phor and the abundant farms of Djatiswara with the martial prowess of Pior Lam ...

Khaisan could never fit into his shadow. The realisation hit him with a sudden fear. Over fifty years Judhistir had reigned, continuing the peace his predecessor had established. It was not through floating idly with the waves, waiting for the tides to change.

'Yet this troubles you, my son.' Kiet caught the warning in Judhistir's voice.

'Only that I am unfamiliar with the people I am to govern.'

'There have you no need for concern. For this very occasion have Junaedi's sons been trained, to stand beside you as worthy counsel, as your sons will in future be for the maharaj who will in turn replace you.'

'You are right, My Rama.' Kiet knew how the succession worked just as well as he knew how to please Judhistir. 'It will be a large undertaking. I beg only that you allow me to first conclude my current.'

Judhistir was rarely without words. This was one of those times. He motioned for his servant to refill his cup and took a moment to drink.

He had jested of his weariness of the throne, but Kiet saw then the toll of his age. He was old. So old. It was hidden well beneath the thick robe, the silver and black capradon emblazoned on his ossa. All the richness masked the droop of his skin and the weight he had lost over the years. But his eyes once sharp and daunting were now deeply hooded. Age spots covered the tan of his skin. Kiet could not bear to look at his face, so he did what he never does and averted his eyes.

'Amarin is lost to us,' said the Maha Rama at last. 'So, too, is Dhvani. Our people watch you pursue this appetence for justice. Now may their admiration be strong, but ere long will their sympathy turn to pity, and a pitiful prince inspires no man.'

'It will not come to that.'

'Confidence can a man's ruin make, just as easily as his rise.'

'One more year, Father. Allow me just that. The answers are close, I draw now at its heels.'

Judhistir drew a long breath. His voice was low when he spoke. 'So long as you do not return with House Obusirjan upon mine door.'

As if Kiet needed reminding. Certain factions in the south still looked upon House Obusirjan as a remnant of the old monarchs and the power Surikhand once held. Small and worn as they were, even a dying ember could stoke a fire. 'Syuri Omana was not pleased to see me, but she knows better than to openly announce her support of a suspected regicide. As long as Dhvani's trial remains transparent and just, they will have no room to sow dissent.'

'Just, as all trials must be. Thus must you also recognise its consequence, and equip yourself should adequate evidence not be found against Dhvani and her life hence spared.'

Her life you spare, you mean. Was his father such a coward that he would seek the smallest pretext to pardon Dhvani? That he would release a killer rather than risk his legacy of peace? 'As I told Omana, I want only the truth. If Dhvani was not responsible for my mother's death, so should she not be unjustly punished. I am prepared to meet this, Rama.'

'Then I give you my blessing, and with it my leave. Four seasons more I grant for this endeavour, thereafter are you to wear the mantle of Pior Lam and apply yourself to its people, at your fullest capacity.'

☆ this chapter is dedicated to shoutouttodiversity; check out their profile for "CANCER & CANDOR", a SFF novel coming out soon ☆

Video: A quiet and peaceful morning in the palatial ring
Image: Photomanipulation + digital painting of Akai; provincial map of Surikhand by yours truly

Devastating (or auspicious?) turn of events for Kiet to start the day. Please don't forget to vote if you liked this chapter, and leave your thoughts behind if you have a moment to spare.