Khaisan said it would take him a few days. It took him weeks.

Kiet presumed it was not due to any great difficulty or lack of resources on his nephew's part. If Khaisan lacked anything, it was motivation. The crown prince spent his days compelled into conference after conference, reading through draft agreements, discussing proposals, debating drafted laws.

At least that was his excuse. Though certainly Judhistir intensified Khaisan's involvement in the tedium of governance, the days Kiet joined their private assemblies spoke very poorly of his nephew. Khaisan was as contributive as the stubborn wooden chairs: mute, uncomfortable, and approaching the discussion only when literally dragged to the table.

Kiet adjusted the sheath hanging at his waist. He was at the barracks of the Maha Garda; a large facility that sprawled across the north-western section of the palace. The men here neither fawned nor gushed as the dhayang would. They bowed when he strolled by but quickly returned to their own business. Many were too occupied to even notice the maharaj; sharpening blades, hanging linens, a pair arm-wrestling on the polished stump of a tree.

He had spent years living there himself, immersing in a soldier's life. It would have been six summers since his service ended, yet nothing had changed. The section consisted of longhouses—wood on stone after the traditional style of the Eastern Isles—built in rows, monotonous and dull but for the upturned eaves and wood shake shingles upon their roofs.

The rows all led to the grand pagoda, standing enclosed in a wide courtyard where presently many of the royal soldiers trained. This was where Kiet found him, shooting at a line of straw men some sixty yards across the court. 

Khaisan had been spending much of his time training with the Maha Garda—one of Judhistir's instructions that he evidently found agreeable—though unlike Kiet, he was determined not to spend his nights at the barracks.

Khaisan let loose an arrow. It struck his straw man dead centre of its gut.

'You've improved. Last time I saw, you could not even reach that distance.'

Khaisan started. 'Last time you saw was when we were children.'

That was far from the truth, but Kiet understood his nephew wanted not to lose face with all the soldiers surrounding them. 'You called me here, I assume to give me good news.'

Khaisan smirked. 'Always straight down to business. Why can we not first enjoy ourselves? Someone hand my uncle a bow and full quiver!'

Some things never change. If he knew he would be entertaining the crown prince's need for affirmation, he would have come better prepared. Kiet accepted a bow, tested its spine. He drew his first arrow.

'Ten points for the chest, fifteen for its head.'

'I trust you will not be using theurgy.'

'Do I need to hand you my bloodrune?' Khaisan paused, eyeing Akai who stood paces away. 'Since when do you keep a personal guard?'

'Since I have one.' Kiet let fly his arrow. It struck wide, hitting the straw man on its shoulder.

Khaisan did not even try to hide his glee. His own shot landed square on its bust. 'You're out of practice. That's ten for me.'

'I've a lot of things on my mind.'

'Like your appointment to Pior Lam?'

It was yet to be announced, but of course the Rama-in-Waiting would know of it. Kiet twisted his string, adjusting the brace height of his bow. 'Like what we talked about.'

'Brighten up, uncle. I have what you're looking for.'

Kiet nocked his arrow and took aim. It sunk just right of the dummy's chest. 'If you call me uncle but one more time, I will strike you.'

Khaisan laughed. At least Kiet was keeping him in good spirits. His nephew pulled a roll from his sleeve. 'Over six hundred guests attended my father's tenth namesday, though I don't know how you think this will help you find Dhvani.'

It was a thick roll, opening horizontally and stretching far beyond the span of Kiet's arms. He read through it briefly as Khaisan took his next shot. 

Guests were at least listed by origin. Most consisted of Surikh highborns, but the last third contained foreign names from foreign realms.

'That makes twenty.' Khaisan's second arrow had landed mere inches from his first.

Kiet rolled the parchment shut, passed it to Akai and prepared his next shot. He had tested the wind, he was comfortable with the draw weight. His arrow whistled through the air and landed firm on the straw man's brow.

'Nice follow through,' Khaisan gave him. He aimed also for its head. It was much smaller than the rest of its body, and his arrow grazed its cheek. Straw fragments scattered in the breeze. A small bird landed on its head once all settled. Khaisan lowered his bow. 'Ah, shame. I suppose it must end at twenty-fifteen. Good game, uncle.'

Kiet cast off his bow and quiver, biting the retort back in his lips. A part of him was tempted to provoke the Rama-in-Waiting, but he was immediately ashamed by such puerile desires. He pitied Khaisan his imagined inferiority. Feeding into it would make no one a victor. 'I shall see you in tomorrow's assembly. Try to at least look interested.'

'Vying for a position as adviser already? No need, uncle. Provincial Princes are considered royal advisers by default, or did you skip that day in class?'

'You need to do better, Khaisan, and take your role more seriously. Maha Rama Judhistir will not live forever.'

Khaisan turned slowly to face him. 'Such words can easily be heard as a threat.'

'Even the Rama knows he is not immortal. Why do you think he pushes you harder each day? This realm will one day rely upon you.'

'You underestimate me. Always have.' Khaisan fitted the arrow in his hand, lifted his bow high. The small bird was now fluttering around them, swift and noisy.

The black bands around Khaisan's wrists lit into a pattern of silver threads as he took aim. 

He was fast, but Kiet was faster. He stepped towards his nephew, grabbed the arrow midway just as it took flight. His palm throbbed where its point scraped his skin. The shaft still thrummed in his hands, guided by Khaisan's theurgy. Kiet fought, crushed it in his fist and let its broken pieces fall.

Khaisan sniffed. His wrist bands dimmed to its regular black. 'Better have that attended to.'

Blood trickled down Kiet's fingers, but he only wondered how the swiftlet had escaped its cage. He whistled for it and it came, shaking its pointed wings as it settled on his shoulder.

'You should have said it was your pet, uncle.' Khaisan laughed. 'Who knew you would bond with such a small creature? I could crush it in one fist!'

Kiet raised a brow. The idea of bonding was farfetched to him. 'Unlike some, nephew, I need not concern myself with the size of things.'

Predictably, the surrounding soldiers burst into laughter. Even Isla would have liked that one.

Maybe not. She never did appreciate his lowbrow humour.

Kiet left before Khaisan could collect himself and come with a retort.

    
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For the first time since his mother's death, Kiet visited her menagerie. Kiesja did well keeping the place in order, but somehow it only felt emptier. The birds at least had again begun to breed. Nests covered the branches of their rose-apple trees, now in full bloom with their explosions of bristle-like flowers.

Kiet walked until he reached the heart of the atrium. A cage once stood where a fountain had now been erected, framed in flowering senandu. The plant was in its vegetative stage; leaves thick and bright, coiling up around the tiered stone basin and reaching for the sun. Kiesja had wanted to burn it down to its roots, but Kiet instructed against it.

In one hand he held a cage. He set it now upon a bench sheltered amongst a line of kersen trees and opened its door. The swiftlet hopped out, pecked at some insects crowding a splatter of fallen berries. 'You can stay here until I return.'

He had fed it his theurgy, back in those caves. 

Would that affect the bird, make it more attached to him somehow? 

Kiet had fed other creatures before—his theurgy often left him no choice—but he had never stayed to study its long-term effects.

He had what the scholars called pranopeucy; a little-known condition that allowed him to take from one living being and give to another. What it was precisely he took remained an issue of contention. Some argued it was energy, strength—others said he drew on time. Then there were those who claimed that he fed on a creature's very soul. The only thing all agreed upon was that no pranopeut had survived their theurgy longer than a few years.

Judhistir had brought many experts into Surikhand to prolong his son's life. Scholars from Cor Regnis with their wild experiments, priests from the Godsthronian kingdoms with their sacred texts, shamans of Terra Sol who spoke to spirits and concocted strange remedies, and of course daemologs across the Eastern Isles with wisdom from the epperstrom.

One by one they left, defeated. The Cor Regnants were experts with mind-weavers and time-weavers—what they called cognitists and chronometrists—but when it came to essence-shifters such as Kiet, their experience was scarce and dated. Likewise, Terra Sol had an abundance of skin-shifters but little else. Their shamans could offer no help.

Were it not for the priests and daemologs, Kiet would never have survived his childhood. An odd partnership, for certain. It was from the former he learned that his theurgy corrupted him. Drawing essence from another being meant more than drinking in their strength, their life, their time—it meant drinking in a part of them, fusing it into his own core. He could drink only from so many cups before he began to lose himself. 

Or so the priests theorised.

But it was the daemologs who came with a solution. The essence he drained needed a place to go, so they taught him how to channel his pranopeucy; how to take from a target and dispose it into another. Kiet had killed many beasts those first years. He had to learn the hard way how much to give and when he could give it. The larger and more intelligent, the more they could withstand; but the stronger and healthier, the more adverse also their reaction. Beasts in their prime would go mad whilst creatures on the brink of death would sprout with life anew.

The swiftlet took flight, exploring the atrium.

'Keep away from the senandu!' Kiet warned.

It had been several turns of the month and it was yet to exhibit signs of corruption.

Ah ... Kiet winced. 

There had been another creature at the brink of corruption. He had spoken to its owner here, at this very fountain where there once stood a cage ... 

Had her salamander been properly restored to the epperstrom? It troubled him to think of the consequences otherwise.

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↝ END CHAPTER SEVEN ↜

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☆ this chapter is dedicated to BTSPokeARMY; thank you so much for your support! ☆

Video: Early morning at the training yard
Image: Map of the palatial ring by yours truly; centre image—© Heng Tang at ArtStation

A very short chapter this time, but at least it tells you a bit more about Kiet's theurgy. Please don't forget to vote if you liked this chapter, and leave your thoughts behind if you have a moment to spare.