Tournament or no, affairs of the realm must go on, and with two out of his three consorts fertilising the frangipani and his Maha Rani too sickly to listen to disputes between entitled nobleborns, the Rama had little choice but to sit for the afternoon audiences himself.

Of course that did not stop him from celebrating his grandson's victory at the archery range. He had been more merciful in the past two hours than in the past two decades combined—though it was difficult to tell whether that was due to Maharaj Khaisan's successes or the poison whiskey in his hand. Even now he swirled his cup in the air and the two quarelling men silenced before him until the Rama's cup-bearer came to pour him his sixth mug.

Isla knew. She had been counting each cup, watching as the Rama's interest progressively dwindled along with his sobriety. He was likely more bored than even she was, only with better cushions on his throne. Isla had been sitting for so long, she could not even feel her knees. New supplicants came and went, but she remained, sitting far at the end of the audience chamber, hidden nestled among a flock of equally faceless petitioners.

The Rama took a gulp of his whiskey and nodded for the men to continue.

Isla let herself drift over the chamber, her presence as small as she could make it. Six soldiers guarded the three doors to the chamber, though only one of them was open. Another four stood along the Rama's dais. All ten of them were sharp and alert, their walls thick and heavy like concrete blocks; they made the gathered supplicants feel by comparison like dainty feathers floating in a gentle breeze.

Then there were two others whose presence she only felt but did not see. They were hidden behind the paper screen partitions winging the edges of the dais; one guarding the royal entrance to the left, while the other guarded the servants' to the right. To think that only a few years ago, she had been one of those girls coming and going through the side exits, serving these royalborns their drinks.

Isla drew a heavy breath. I'm stalling again.

She felt the Rama even from where she sat. Most people liked to keep their presence small and unfelt, but his jii grew more obtrusive the more he drank, and that thick haze of whiskey alone was enough to make her gag. How did no one else in the chamber feel that?

None of them are foolish enough to open their core in his presence, Isla reminded herself. After one final hesitation, she forced herself to wade through the murk, steeling her own mind against its cloying warmth. It made her insides sweat, and she shuddered on her cushion.

But the haze masked her presence, too. A lonely fish in a dark ocean, she circled around him again and again, studying his jii, searching for even a hint of the gravitational pull of his void ...

And found nothing.

Beyond the haze was an even deeper, swirling mess of cognition. Animalistic, almost, in how instinctive and fleeting they were, connected by a synapse of meandering thoughts. Isla stepped in, ready to spring back out at the first hint of trouble—but none came. She waited, watched, silent and small. Every breath she drew made her own head swim, drowning in the taste of earth and velvet and the sickly pungent smell of burning aqhla.

She could feel the grinding tremors of walls being built behind her, only to stop half-way and later begin anew.

He's losing it. Isla swam deeper into the ocean. Just another slither of fog amid the burning haze.

She found her sprout right where she left it, now a healthy sapling, stretching this way and that. The discontent was close to riping, the anxiety near blossoming, but Isla brushed her will around it and recoiled at the scent of rot, gnawing at its roots.

Pride.

Not the Rama's ego, but his paternal satisfaction, freshly fuelled by his grandson's victory over the archery field.

Ah ... but if Kiet had competed—it sickened her to whisper the words, but the pestilence must be doused with fire—if he competed, Khaisan would never have stood a chance.

The idea sunk into him, so ready was he to accept it, but up on his dais, the Rama's spirits were not to be shaken. He dismissed the two arguing men after giving them the most trite solution to their disagreement and waved for another refill of his cup while his herald called for the next supplicant.

A woman came to bow before the dais and took her place upon the supplicants' cushion across the Rama's throne. Her voice shook when she spoke, head hunched to the floor. She had left her rice to dry under the sun, she said. It was her last harvest of the seeding season—she had waited weeks and weeks until the sky remained clear with not a single sign of rain—until finally she could prepare her produce for market. Now her fields were all ploughed up and ready for the coming year's cultivation.

'But my neighbour's pigeons, My Rama, came and ate half my harvest away! What they didn't eat, they shat upon, and now I'm left with nothing suitable for market, and no way to purchase quality transplants for seeding!'

The accused neighbour was brought forth, arguing first that it was not his pigeons—that there was no way she could know it was his pigeons, and then even if they were, she should have known better than to leave her grains unattended.

'That is how I know they were his pigeons, My Rama!' contended the woman. 'I have straw men in my fields, and water rockers beside. They've kept every other pest away—but his pigeons are used to such ploys and have no fear of walking men, let alone straw ones!'

The tale amused the Rama, and his laughter burned bright around Isla.

Would Khaisan be able to see the humour as you do? She wheedled into him. Do you see him sitting where you are? Listening to tireless petitioners share all their tireless woes? Can he remain impartial and judicious in his counsel?

Truth be told, she had Maharaj Persi to thank for the idea. Isla pushed the thought into his mind along with a fresh burst of purpose.

Have you never wondered how it was you who grew fit for the throne? Not Junaedi, named after ambition and victory, nor Jyatmika for splendour and chivalry, nor any of your many other brothers. It was you the gods ordained for the horned throne, Judhistir; for the tale of the rice stalk and the capradon. For benevolence and wisdom—the principles of this kingdom and the virtues of your name. Your mother heard the gods' whispers when she named you, your father read their signs when he made you heir. They put their trust in the gods, and the gods have not erred yet.
                      

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She was always getting lost in the maze.

How many times had Jinsei found her, wandering the same turns over and over again, before showing her the way to the rajini's estate?

They should really put up signs around this place. Though of course that would defeat the entire purpose of the maze. If they were designed to keep busybodies away from the consortial estates, then they did their job well.

Isla stopped between a fork in the hedge. The sun was setting, hunger and cold creeping in. She had spent at least another hour in the Maha Rama's audience chamber following her mind-crafting, sitting and watching and remaining as inconspicuous as she could. Now she was drained both in mind and body.

But it had not been for nothing. She took the turn right, hoping her instincts would guide her home.

She was close. They were close. Maharaj Khaisan's performance with the bow would never be enough to make up for all his other, more underwhelming qualities. Especially not after she was done with the Maha Rama that afternoon.

Isla paused. The maze looked much different, now that it was all decorated in colours. Baubles were stuffed into the yew hedge like little fruits in a bush: golden glitters floating in jars, paper flowers tied between the brambles ... even the stone lanterns had been fitted with scented sticks. They all messed with her senses and what little muscle memory she was working off on—she had relied too often on Jinsei, and before that, Pep had always led the way. How could she be so incompetent that she struggled with something so simple as directions?

Voices drifted from the distance, cutting through Isla's gathering panic. Perhaps she would not need to camp out in the bushes, after all. She hurried down the passage, and just around the bend she spotted a pair of idling guards.

They straightened as she approached, one's hand falling just below his belt and the sheath strapped upon it, and only once she came close did she realise they were guarding an entrance into the hedge wall between them.

'The fountain is closed at this moment, dhayang.'

Dhayang. Of course. She was wearing a syarong—and a simple tie-dyed one at that—and had purposely left out any affiliation to her grandmother before sitting in court. 'I'm only looking for Rajini Chei's estates.'

The men looked as though they doubted she had any business at the rajini's estate.

'Her guards won't allow me entry if I didn't belong there. So you can either point me in the right direction, or I'll hang around here and follow you once you're done.'

'Oh? All the way back to the guards' barracks?' They snickered, made some more standard passes, and between their mild flirting, Isla caught a glimpse of the fountain through the gap between them.

It was large and round; a ridged bowl plated on a mat of trimmed grass and circled by a wooden bench upon which sat Kiet and his future bride.

Candles floated in the water behind them, their collective reflections blurring Isla's vision. She stepped quickly back behind the hedge wall before either of them could spot her.

'Did you get that?' One of the guards had apparently been speaking.

'Huh?'

He frowned down at her, clearly frustrated that she had not been paying attention. He pointed further down the path. 'Keep going, first turn left, third turn right.'

Oh. 'Right. Thanks.'

She sped past them, past the break in the maze wall between them. But she could not help herself. She snuck one last look, enough to catch the hanjou sobbing into Kiet's chest.

Suddenly she was in no mood to return to the rajini's estate.

     
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☆ this chapter is dedicated to MilD2012 ☆

Video: Java Delta - Meditation & Relaxing Music
Image: Original artists unknown