Mrabu Mountains, Surikhand
The year 339 pos forma

   

Once again it had fallen upon Kiet to right a great injustice.

Whilst the Maha Rama performed his first-year mourning rites, whilst his soldiers spent twelve consecutive days saluting the late consort's empty estates, it was him, the rajini's own flesh and blood, who had to climb to the summits of the kingdom to bring her murderer to trial.

He should be home in Kathedra with his sisters, observing the release of lament over their mother's frangipani in the royal burial grounds. Instead there he was, ten-or-so thousand feet above the valleys of Shorga, hiking along the Ibex Trail in search of the Obusirjan ancestral home. He had spent a cold night camping between shrubs and stone, and just that dawn breakfasted on mountain shrew spiced with lichen.

Kiet sniffed. How far he had fallen since his days as crown prince. Now it was midday and he was down to a last mouthful of wildberries. If he failed to find the Obsidian Gates soon, he'd have to hunt for more shrew.

Just follow the trail, the Shorgan farmers had told him. None had recognised the maharaj's travel-worn face, so none had been too helpful. Once you've hiked a day and a night, search to the west and you'll see the Obsidian Gates through the trees. But until you see it, never leave the trail.

A rather ominous warning, Kiet thought. The only beast worthy of alarm at this altitude of the mountain range were the sun bears, and they generally kept to the denser forests. The trail, by contrast, cut through lightly wooded bushlands, watched by an endless train of langurs. Even now they studied Kiet from the branches. But other than the occasional mating call that would echo through the mountains and startle him in his tracks, they caused him no trouble.

Again Kiet looked westward. The view was yet to change: a splatter of conifers and rhododendrons stretching far until the mountain wall rose up behind them. Anything black would have stood out amongst the sea of green, let alone a giant structure of pure obsidian. Much of the same scenery surrounded him in all other cardinal directions. Shorga valley had long disappeared behind the swerves and swells of the Mrabu, and without the Ibex Trail, Kiet doubted he'd find his way back.

He sighed, threw the last handful of berries into his mouth. 'Looks like it's going to be shrew again.'

A langur laughed above his head, jumping from its branch and landing inches from Kiet's foot. It pulled at his robe before hopping into the brush, higher up the trail.

Pebbles rolled in its wake, but the creature was nimble and sure-footed. Kiet followed. Before long the path tightened around the mountain wall, climbing higher between slabs of stone and ancient roots. Only a wain's length of damar pilau trees separated him from a tumble to the spurs some thirty feet below. Kiet kept his grip firm on the stone wall as he rounded the crag, ignoring the langur's mocking call.

The ledge curved and dipped, the sight below him breathtaking. Canopies rolled as far as his eyes could see, green beneath a languid sky. Once he cleared the ledge, the path before him widened into an inclining saddle, him at its pommel. The langur was gone, deep into the trees that now drew in closer around him. He looked around as a matter of precaution, and there in the distance, on the other side of the crag he had just scaled, stood a structure large and dark.

The Obsidian Gates were really just twin pillars, built into the base of a steep col. Long ago, the narrow pass would be guarded by a half thousand men, stationed all the way from the pillars to the entrance of the grand fortress where House Obusirjan took their residence. Theirs was an ancient family; one whose bloodline traced back to the first imperial princes of Surikhand. Their might and influence may have diminished now, centuries down the line, but they were not so foolish as to leave their entrance entirely without guard.

Kiet was being watched, this time not by monkeys. Scouts, likely, hiding in the ridges high above him. One of them would have been on his way to the Obsidian Fortress by now, to warn of the maharaj's impending arrival. Kiet had let open his robe upon crossing the Gates; a declaration of his name if ever there was one. It flapped now, wild in the concentrated wind, revealing the yi-sang he wore underneath: ornate silver and widow black as were his paternal House colours, hemmed and tied in the royal blue of his maternal. His reflection bounced off the obsidian steps, even weathered and dull as they had become.

Frangipani trees dotted the mountain walls around him, some planted upon the lower ledges, others high upon peaks and clifftops. Their boughs had thickened and twisted from decades of mountain air. They rustled in the wind, dropping leaves and petals as he walked deeper, higher through the pass, until the towering doors of the Obsidian Fortress rose into view.

A home built into the mountains, it would have made a formidable defence. But the times of war and civil strife were generations over.

It was no secret what House Obusirjan thought of themselves—a forgotten nobility, discarded now that they offered no use to the kingdom. Never mind that the Maha Rama had taken their first eligible daughter as his consort in a bid of assuaging their discontent. The Obusirjan were never easy to appease.

Their doors stood open, a dozen soldiers looking like ants at its feet. They bowed when he arrived, though Kiet noticed they were clad in full weapons and armour. Only one of them was without arms. He bowed deepest of all. 'Welcome to the Obsidian Fortress, maharaj. Please allow me to express my deepest sorrows for your late mother's passing.'

Passing. He made it sound a natural act, as though she had died in her sleep and not by a blade forged from the very House he served.

The man introduced himself as the castellan and led Kiet into the Fortress. It was cold and damp, with wind constantly whistling through the hundreds of tunnels that branched into the immense foyer. Mounted sun bears guarded the entry into the courtyard, this a bare, concrete dome that only served to gather sunlight from a sphere in the ceiling and disperse it throughout the tunnels.

More dead beasts decked the next hallway they entered. His mother would have abhorred the place. At least this part of the fortress was warmer, the stone floors softened with pelt and its walls covered with tapestry. Eventually they came to the Obusirjan Ancestral Hall; a large room with soaring windows cut into the mountain side. Kiet blinked at the sudden, intense brightness.

Hundreds of Obusirjan faces were carved upon the stone walls, reaching so high that they faded from sight. All eyes had been expertly shaped to gaze upon the teak doors and whoever dared enter their sacred space.

'Syuri Omana, I present to you His Serene Highness, the Maharaj Kiet Ametjas. Second in line to the throne of Surikhand.' His duty performed, the castellan bowed out, leaving Kiet in the presence of three women; each looking more stern than the other.

They waited by an alcove in the southernmost wall, where a flat seat stretched to fill the recess. Divya and Eshka he recognised—both the daughters of Dhvani and, by extension, Omana Obusirjan's granddaughters. They stood flanking her, faces so stiff they might as well have been part of the ancestral wall. It surprised Kiet to find them there, though he made no show of it. Both were wedded and had children, their husbands lords of their own estates far north where the land and people were more hospitable.

'You will forgive me that I fail to bow before you, my maharaj.' Omana's voice quivered with age. She was a frail woman, made of little more than skin, and she peered out at Kiet with guarded eyes.

'I have never been one for genuflection. Please, rise.' This he said to the granddaughters, who had sunk to their knees, heads lowered in obeisance.

'You honour us with your royal visit. I recall we've not had one in four decades.'

'I'm sure you meant not to denigrate your own kin. Are Mahasuris Divya and Eshka not direct descendants of the Maha Rama? Their blood is as much royal as mine, their mother no less a consort than was mine.'

'My heart bleeds for your loss. Rajini Amarin was truly a remarkable woman. May Ogbu embrace her.'

'Thank you for your words, syuri. I, too, regret the events that took place this penultimate blooming season.'

'I'm not sure the remaining consort would feel the same way.' This was Divya, Rajini Dhvani's eldest daughter and a spitting image of her, too. She was made of all sharp angles and narrow eyes, her dark hair looked silver in the sunlight streaming in from her left.

'I'd be careful of such insinuations.'

'Come now, Kiet. You don't find it the least bit suspect that all three queens consort engaged in an underground war but only one emerged unscathed from it all? One who also by a stroke of divine fortune, just so happened to be the only innocent bystander amongst them?'

'We'll never know what truly occurred that night, unless we offer the accused an opportunity to defend herself.'

'The dead do not speak, maharaj,' said Omana, her voice hard.

'What good fortune it is, then, that your daughter still lives.'

  

   

☆ this chapter is dedicated to Novel_Worm; go follow her profile for "THE BETROTHED EMISSARY" if you're a fan of fantasy romance, though it is currently on hold ☆

Video: Soundtrack from The Hobbit composed by Howard Shore
Image: Photomanipulation + digital painting of Kiet by yours truly

Welcome back to Surikhand! We've been following Isla for so long, now it's time to see what our maharaj is up to. Please don't forget to vote if you liked this chapter, and leave your thoughts behind if you have a moment to spare.