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Raj Djuro was right about the quail. It may well be his days spent in the wilderness of the Mrabu, but Kiet never had anything quite as satisfying. The secret was in the mountains, the innkeeper told him. The wild birds fed on berries that grew only along the foot of the mountains and drank from fresh streams that trickled from the purest water sources. Their meat were plump and juicy, their skin soaked the herbs they were bathed in.

Kiet was just finishing his meal when the door to The Two Peaks creaked open. It was a small inn with a dining area that fit only a half dozen tables, so every head turned at the newcomer.

At least he had the prudence to dress down. The raj had come in a farmer's tunic and a wide-brimmed hat to mask his features. No escort either, though Kiet suspected he had men waiting somewhere to safely take him up and down the Mrabu. Kiet caught his eye, nodded him to an empty seat across his table.

'I did not recognise you, my maharaj,' whispered Djuro. He bowed his head slightly as Kiet waved him to sit.

'Please. None of that.' Kiet was more concerned of wandering eyes and ears than anything. 'I wondered if you would come tonight.'

'As did I, maha—master.' Djuro stumbled over his words, looked around in time to see the innkeeper approaching. They ordered wine and rice cakes and waited for the innkeeper to leave before they resumed their conversation. 'I have friends here at the valley. They could not find you at the inn. I wondered whether my message was too obscure.'

'Your men are correct, I am not staying at the inn.' Not after my little bear attack. 'But obscure your message was not. Far from it.'

'My lord?'

'One can never be too careful is all.' Kiet ate the last of his quail, wiped his mouth and crumpled his cloth onto the plate. Throughout the remainder of his journey down the Mrabu, Kiet wondered whether Djuro had anything to do with the sun bear. He felt now that the raj did not. Besides, he had far too much to gain from Kiet to try to kill him off so early in the game.

'You are right, of course. I should have been more discreet. I'm nowhere near as shrewd as my sister. She would not have made the same mistake.'

'Rajini Dhvani had only the best to learn from.'

'Oh, being at court would have honed her skills, I have no doubt of that. But she always belonged at the Grand Palace.'

'You were close with her?'

'I'm not sure if she's capable of being close to anybody, my lord.' The innkeeper arrived with a platter of rice cakes and a pitcher of wine. The sound of his pouring filled the space between them. When he was gone, Djuro continued, 'But you didn't stay in Shorga long enough just to listen to me gossip about my childhood.'

Kiet studied him over the brim of his wine glass. What did the raj want in return? Kiet could not promise him the Obsidian Fortress. If Omana wanted to bequeath their ancestral home to one of her granddaughter's sons, she was in her power to do so. Unless she was sentenced for treason—in which case the rights writ by her husband return to their first-born son. 'I find that difficult to believe. Rajini Dhvani was a devoted mother, she was close to her children.'

'Only because she saw them as extensions of herself. Their failures and successes reflected that of her own position, their survival or death cements that of her own fate.'

'You speak so ill of your own sister, one must wonder how she has wronged you. She is not to blame for your mother favouring her above her other children.'

Djuro's face soured, if only for a second. 'Of course Mother favours her. She made her the way she is, and now she inures my nieces to the same self-serving sickness! You should have seen the lengths she took to get Dhvani into the Grand Palace, the lengths my sister took to capture the Maha Rama's eye.'

'A tale of romance to withstand the test of time, I'm sure.' Little was written concerning the betrothal of Maha Rama Judhistir Ametjas and Syuri Dhvani Obusirjan, nor of the events leading thereunto; but everyone knew their union was, if anything, transactional.

Djuro chuckled, took a sip of his wine. 'My mother's plans for her have failed, now she tries to salvage what she can. But at what cost? The Obusirjan legacy will crumble at the hands of a woman who doesn't even bleed our own blood.'

Oh, did she bet on the wrong horse? Kiet was tempted to hand the man a napkin. The raj's disdain towards his mother was rooted in something deeper. Something that left a sour taste in Kiet's mouth. The rice cakes, however, did not.

'You must understand,' this the raj said ingratiatingly. It did not suit an Obusirjan. 'My nieces ... they have had terrible counsel. I can only ask that you weigh their errors lightly, when the time comes.'

Strip them off their titles but spare them their heads? Kiet doubted the raj would shed too many tears even if the Maha Rama decided against the latter. 'You suspect them of harbouring your sister?'

'Harbouring, no. But they did abet her escape. And this is no suspicion, my lord. I know it without a shadow of a doubt.'

'And whose counsel was it to blame?' Kiet already knew the answer, but he liked to see Djuro's reaction. An Obusirjan's face was always telling—and his revealed poorly-veiled satisfaction.

'You understand the difficulty for a son to incriminate his own mother. Especially of a crime of this magnitude. Please do not make me say it aloud.'

'Very well.' If he wants to play for an imaginary audience, so be it. 'But what evidence do you have of this?'

Djuro reached into his sleeve, pulled out a small scroll. The wax that once sealed it was plain and black, bearing no insignia or even the slightest pattern. He paused before handing it to Kiet. 'I must request in advance that you allow me to safekeep this letter, maharaj, once you have read it, so that I'm able to return it before anyone discovers its absence.'

'You will withhold important evidence from the kingdom?'

'I would scale the Mrabu a thousandfold over to personally produce this key evidence to court, my maharaj, when the time comes. Until then, it is crucial my mother and nieces do not suspect anything.'

'Of course.' Convenient that it secures your own personal insurance as well. Kiet received the roll, turned it over in his hands. It was short, made of daluwang: textured and deckle-edged paper, its surface marked with the long fibres typical of paper mulberry.

The letter contained a date and a location. Its meaning was clear enough, but it was barely useful. The location pointed to a bay in the south-eastern isle of Kaswar, where sailors and traders from neighbouring Eastern-Isle nations would make their service stops, but the date was already close to a year past. Whoever sent the letter, wherever it came from, Dhvani was long gone.

'It's hardly what I would call incriminating.' Oh, he surmised a lot from the details of the paper and handiwork itself—its origins, for one. The use of daluwang was widespread in Tsunai and Porasau, but here in Surikhand, people used the smooth, sturdy agarwood paper instead. 'This proves nothing against anyone.'

'Don't be so harsh, maharaj. Surely it's a good start. It's only a pity I do not have the resources of the kingdom to investigate it further, otherwise I would have done so myself.'

Neither do I. For all his bluster against Omana, Kiet had come alone, had he not? Did the raj see a Surikh deputation behind him? 'So Dhvani left earlier this year from the bays of Kaswar, likely to Tsunai or Porasau. You'll need to give me more if I'm to try your entire family on this.'

'You know as much as I do, maharaj, but for one other thing ... a speculation on my part. It occurred to me the moment I found this note. You see, my sister did not stake everything on one man. Your father—forever reigns his Grace—was not the only suitor she ever set her eyes upon.

'Back in those days, our mother would take us to Kathedra in her attempt of introducing Dhvani to the royal House. One of our visits coincided with a grand event—what, I no longer recall—but delegates and royal guests from all around the continent had come. It was there where my sister met a foreign boy; one of high birth, though the youngest of many sons. His future was not secure enough for our mother's liking, so Dhvani was made to spurn his advances.'

'But they continued to meet in secret.'

'Exactly so. They were both young, and this before Dhvani became hardened by our mother's strict expectations of her. I believe they spent the entire harvest season together at the Grand Palace, until he had to return. They wrote to each other frequently over the next couple years; this I know since our mother found a letter and discovered Dhvani's little tryst. She made her burn all the other letters and that was the end of their romance. As far as we could tell.'

Kiet eased back in his seat, recalling all the letters and documents he had poured over in his search for Dhvani. He had turned her consortial estate upside down for a single clue as to where she could have fled, and found nothing. Not even the hint of a forbidden romance. 'You believe this note came from that same boy?'

'His letters, too, had been written on yellowed daluwang. So yes, I believe Dhvani sought him for refuge, which he provided with the help of my mother. This proves her complicity.' Djuro took the letter, rolled it, and hid it back into his sleeve. 'Though I wouldn't call him a boy, at this stage.'

Kiet sniffed. Why would anybody risk their own life to harbour somebody charged with treason? For a childhood love some four decades ago that lasted but two, three years? What did Dhvani have over him to make him bend to her will? 'So who is he?'

'They never tell me anything, maharaj, especially not when I was a child. Besides, I was preoccupied with my own boyish concerns back then, I never cared to pay close attention to my sister's.'

'How old was she, when they first met?'

Djuro frowned. 'It was ... three years, I believe, before she wedded the Maha Rama. Yes, it was the year my father fell during a hunt in the Mrabu and thus could not come with us to the Grand Palace. She would have been thirteen when they met.'

Thirteen. That put it back to the year 297. During the season of harvest, Djuro said.

Rarely did the Maha Rama invite delegates from other Eastern Isle nations to join in national celebrations. It must have been a significant event indeed. Nothing came to Kiet's mind—he had not even yet been born; not for another sixteen years.

He had only attended two of such grand celebrations. When his theurgy peaked at first rank, his father held a feast that lasted months. It was customary for all royal houses throughout the continent to announce first-ranking sons in such a way; after all, it was a display of power that involved no threats nor caused offence. Likewise, the second time had been when Khaisan finally settled at first rank—

Kiet smiled, ate the last piece of rice cake. 'Thank you, raj. This is indeed a good start.'

Djuro leaned upon the table, dropping his voice to a low mumble. 'I may be overstepping myself ... but if you were to summon my mother and nieces to trial, they will be obligated to divulge Dhvani's whereabouts.'

Incredible. Djuro was in his mid-fifties and still to learn how to play the long game. Or perhaps that precisely was his problem—perhaps all his life all he had done was wait, watching as his birthright was reduced to currency in his mother's power-play.

What could Omana care for the continuity of the Obusirjan name? She had not been raised to savour its history, its ancestral pride. She had merely tricked her husband into passing her stewardship of the Obsidian Fortress before his death, now she could pass it down to whichever great-grandson seemed promising enough, no matter whose name he carried.

It must have been difficult for Djuro. For all the politics and chicanery of court, Kiet at least had his mother on his side. His sisters were there to protect, not compete with. And yet ... as much as he sympathised for the man, Djuro's impatience was still too obvious for Kiet's liking. It would not be prudent to throw in his lot with such a character.

'My mission here is to gather enough evidence before I can convince the Maha Rama to hold a trial. As it currently stands, he believes Rajini Dhvani to be dead.' Well, he wishes to believe that. It does save him the trouble of causing friction, and gods forbid Maha Rama Judhistir had to deal with friction in his House!

'Then you will need to scour the continent, maharaj. I have given you all I know.'

Perhaps not. All he had to do was scour the Grand Palace annals. But for that, he would need first to return home.

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↝ END CHAPTER TWO ↜

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☆ this chapter is dedicated to kawaakariiii, one of my long-time readers and one of the first to ever send me fan-art! check out their artwork at https://www.deviantart.com/artycherries ☆

Video: Ambient sounds of a quiet tavern
Image: Photomanipulation + digital painting of Raj Djuro by yours truly

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