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The dining chamber had been decorated for the Rama and his guests. It was a hollow pagoda of three tiers, and the Ametjas banners hung now from the open balconies circling above him: the silver and blue lotus mandala, Chei's copper wreath behind a backdrop of green, and of course the reigning capradon, dagger and rice stalks in its claws, the nine-pronged crown between its antlers.

Only Dhvani's consortial emblem was missing. Every year had Dhvani come to visit the Water Palace, yet so quickly its residents could pretend she never existed. She had been chief organiser and overseer of their annual Civil Servants Examinations—now clearly a front for what must have been her hunt for unusual and talented theurgists.

Not like your mother had been any better.

Kiet searched the crowd upon thought of his own mother's crimes, but it was no use. The hall was far too wide and crowded. Rows and rows of tables filled the space between him and all eight sides of the pagoda. The Rama's hunting guests were seated in the foremost rows, and their decidedly masculine faces blocked the view of everyone else's.

His own table was at the very centre of the room—octagonal, to mimic the pagoda itself—so everyone on all three floors of the building could watch him eat. Clearly this was why they instilled dining etiquette upon every royalborn child from the moment they knew how to chew.

The only other at the table was Persi, sat two spaces on his right. Any closer and people might think they were friends.

'Will the Rama be attending?' asked Kiet.

His brother stirred the rice wine in his hand. 'He's never missed a hunting feast, and he means to keep the tradition.'

'Good.' I suppose that means he's feeling up to it.

'I heard what you did for him today,' continued Persi. He sounded tired and looked moreso; his stubbles were untamed, his cheekbones sharper than Kiet remembered. 'The Rama is lucky to have a son of your theurgy. Though I cannot say the same of those beasts who perished in the course of your training. Let us hope for your sake that our father does not share their fate.'

Right. This is why I never speak with him unless required. It was too late, now. 'How passed the hunt for you, brother? Caught anything of note?'

'My men and I brought down a sambar and his hind.'

A gong sounded as though on cue, and an endless flow of servants entered from all four doors of the pagoda, weaving between each table to serve the trays balanced on their heads and hands.

The royal table was soon filled with colour: bright yellow tins of sun-dried mangoes, pale green platters of young papaya salad, brown bowls of deep-fried pork rinds, and of course the bubbling pots of Persi's venison red curry ...

Only once all had been served did the gong resound once more to announce the Rama's arrival, escorted by Khaisan and Andhika. The former was beaming from ear to ear, a green mantle patterned in faded arrowheads draped over his yi-sang: mark of the Champion of the Hunt.

The Rama took the cushion left of Kiet, separating him from Khaisan's triumphant sneer. Small victories, Akai had said. Kiet was glad to surrender this one to his nephew if it meant keeping Nagha out of his murderous eye.

Judhistir lowered himself slowly onto the cushion, as though the movement weighed heavily on his back. Kiet's pranopeucy must already be washing from his blood. Everyone followed suit once the Rama was seated—drinks were poured, music commenced from the balconies, and the pagoda buzzed with chatter.

Plate-samplers and cup-tasters came forth to taste each serving from the royal table. Kiet waited, patient, whilst Tika took a portion of every meat and vegetable on his splate.

If Khaisan wants me poisoned, it surely would be neither here nor now. He listened vaguely as his nephew recounted in detail his pursuit of the red king crane, but Andhika's rolling voice interrupted him mid-sentence.

'Is it true?' His half-brother asked, leaning across the table to better see him with eyes as wide as his smile. 'What the soldiers say? Some claim to have seen a horned rukh flying around the Seven-Skies—that you tamed it with a touch!'

Persi cut in before Kiet could answer, 'A creature as large as a horned rukh would have been sighted by all, and from miles away.'

'Well, they did say it was still a capelet.'

'They say many things, do they not? Have these times of peace made fishwives of our soldiers that they have nothing better to do than gossip? Perhaps we should loan them out for the Napoi to make use of.'

Andhika's excitement doused like a warm fire in heavy rain; something often observed when he and Persi were in the same room together. The Provincial Prince of Djatiswara was twelve years younger than his brother and a diametric opposite in all ways. Jovial where Persi was brooding, timid where he was bold. He was a slightly larger man, too, with healthy cheeks and a growing belly—not that it ever kept him from participating in the Rama's annual hunts.

'I, for one, believe my uncle could not stand the fact that he's lost the hunt.' Khaisan laughed, waving the chicken thigh in his hand in Kiet's direction. 'His mind has ... created this fable of an extinct bird to replace the one he failed to capture.'

'Capradons are endangered, not extinct,' Kiet corrected with a smile. 'Few of our sattwalogs have caught enough signs of their nesting and—'

'Ugh, how dull. Here I thought I was seven summers done with my lessons.' Khaisan looked around the surrounding tables, his voice lifting. 'I'm certain our guests would much more appreciate a tale of action and adventure rather than a lecture on the habitat and migration of the horned rukh.'

Kiet shrugged. He had no disagreements there. If more men would take to lectures over adventures, perhaps the realm would be not so stagnant as it was these past decades.

Khaisan was already regaling everyone within hearing range of how he tore through the woods after the red king crane. Apparently it had led him on a chase through swamp-leech territory, and he barely cut through them unscathed.

'... the largest I have yet to see! Long and thick and fat like cow intestines, only vivid red and squirming. Were it not for that, they would have been indistinguishable from the surrounding mud.'

Kiet looked at his bowl of laksa and slid it towards his plate-sampler. 'Take it all.'

She bowed repeatedly, her words drowned beneath the rest of Khaisan's story. He lifted his arm and pulled down the sleeve of his robe to display the mark on his forearm where one of the leeches had momentarily latched on to him.

'You should have that seen to,' said Andhika. Clearly none of his own appetite had been affected, for he took another skewer of blood sausage onto his plate.

'Ah, it was but a nibble.' Khaisan laughed. 'They even say swamp-leeches suck the venom and illnesses out of a man.'

Sure. Right along with your spinal fluids.

'In any case, I skewered them right through and leapt off my horse as the leeches began to devour it!'

Farewell, Buckskin. Of course it would only have taken a flick of his nephew's theurgy to rescue his horse—or even capture the bird, for that matter—but that would have made for a far less interesting tale. Kiet turned down the platter of sausage skewers offered to him.

Khaisan grew more and more animated as he recounted the rest of his adventure, ending at last with the red king crane impaled upon his spear. And with this he rose, sugar cane juice in hand. The music tapered to silence, the rest of the people swiftly followed, lowering their dining reeds or cleaning their hands in the washing bowls served with each dish.

'So this scar will I proudly wear,' declared Khaisan to the pagoda, 'to honour the sacrifice of my own steed. To honour the Rama, whom upon every year is graced with nightly visions, sent by the gods themselves; that thus with this prize another year of their blessings shall rain upon his realm.'

He nodded at the chief of his men, who in turn waved towards the eastern doors, and in came a pair of servants carrying a wide, wooden platter between them. Upon it sat the red king crane—no longer red, no longer crowned, for all the feathers had been plucked off its body. It was much smaller now, naked and roasted; dressed only in a thick marinade that was made to resemble a body of water at its folded feet. Its head was tucked modestly into its neck, wings folded as though nesting.

Kiet recalled the majesty of its dance, back upon Lake Spiderseye, and whatever was left of his hunger quickly evaporated. The crowd around him, however, had broken into cheers and applause. He looked at the row behind him where sat Akai and the truth-weaver—the latter's face gone even more pale than usual, eyes as wide and aghast as his open mouth. Kiet broke into laughter.

'Something humours you, uncle?' Khaisan's eyes settled upon him over the top of Judhistir's horned crown.

Fuck me. 'No, Khaisan, not at all. Please continue.'

Khaisan scowled at him before kneeling at the Rama's folded knees. 'To you, Rama, I present the red king crane. May forever reign your Grace.'

'Forever reigns his Grace,' the pagoda echoed full of excitement, Kiet muttering along with them.

At least his nephew had some respect of courtly charade—though perhaps his father had something to do with that. Persi's grin was a rare sight as he sat, nodding at his son's performance.

The roasted crane was lowered onto the centre of their table, turned to face the Maha Rama. Kiet turned away from the burnt sockets of its eyes.

'I thank you this gift, Khaisan, and heartily do I receive it.' Judhistir placed a hand over the maharam's head in blessing. When finally Khaisan looked up, he was beaming just as proudly as his father. 'Your efforts today will be forgotten not. Whilst was I hindered from claiming this blessing myself from the gods, came you in to secure their prize.'

Never mind that it was Khaisan's intervention that hindered you in the first place. Truly was Kiet glad Judhistir had for once only good things to say to his grandson.

'And how have they blessed me. A realm so prosperous, subjects loyal and good, and sons so dutiful, without hesitation would he his own veins open to only serve his father!'

Kiet held back a tired groan as Judhistir turned to face him, but at least Judhistir specified no further details of their hunt that midday.

'Verily the greatest gift one could from the gods acquire, is a spring of devoted children; and that have I aplenty.' His gaze was intent upon Kiet. 'And gods willing, mine son, shall soon you, too, be blessed with the same.'

The groan escaped him then. Kiet squirmed on his cushion, wishing that he could—very much like Nagha—simply flap his wings and fly away.

'Already mine heart yearns to see the blossoms of your seed—'

Oh, gods, no. Kiet pleaded the Rama with his eyes. We are having this conversation not in front of a chamber-full of Water Palace dhayang and loose-lipped nobleborns.

'Legitimate ones, at least,' chuckled Khaisan under the Rama's continuous oration.

'—and eagerly it awaits to receive the beauty who has at long last succeeded in taming this licentious son of mine.'

'Now wait one moment—'

Titters broke amongst the palace dhayang, but Judhistir was relentless. 'So let it be known, Kithrel, that this eager father has messengers to the Jade Empire sent forth, and erelong shall they return with the Jade Princess to join us in Kathedra.'

'Wait,' repeated Kiet, this time in hard dismay. 'Father, are you being not hasty?'

'Hasty? At mine age?'

'Rama—'

'Our hunting misfortune this day has brought me only clarity. No longer have I the vigour and acuity of mine youth, and ere the clouds gather thick before mine eyes will I—nay must I—attend to the blessings of so exemplary a union.'

No.

'After all the blood our realm has thus seen, after all the tears it has shed, a celebration is long overdue. We will commence at once its preparations. A feast so grand our guests will for cycles remain sated; songs and dances and shows by only the greatest artistes in all the continents! Ah ... yes ... it shall with the Rising Year coincide, and as dawns the first-and-sixtieth day of the Blooming Season, so shall you and the Hanjou Fukuse be wed!'

'Why stop there, Your Serene Highness?' Khaisan goaded from Judhistir's other side. 'If a wedding is to be the peak of the celebration, then we must build up to the climax. There must be games, contests—'

'Oh, now you are capable of contributing valuable input.' Kiet could contain it no longer.

'—a tournament! What more can fire the people's anticipation?'

'A tournament,' echoed Judhistir. Even the rest of the pagoda whispered amongst themselves at that.

Kiet threw down his dining reeds. This was one battle he'd never win.

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↝ END CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR↜

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☆ this chapter is dedicated to putzerl ☆

Video: Ambience of Yesteryear
Image: Lower right image—© Betobe Workshop at ArtStation; remaining images—original artists unknown

Sorry, but I guess the moment you've all been dreading for is coming sooner than expected XD But hey, at least there will be a tournament?