'Stories their children shall nonetheless to their own children tell. Stories of valour and glory, befitting of our realm. Generations from now will they look upon the past and wonder, who was it whom then sat upon the hornèd throne? Certainly it could have been not Khaisan.'

Not Khaisan. He knew where it all led, and still Kiet wondered if he misunderstood the Rama. But Judhistir stood, staring unblinking at him, his frown more of resolve than it was anger or disappointment.

'You, Kithrel, will the Ametjas Oath swear. You will bear the crown. You will sit the throne. You will keep the glory of our House and realm.'

This is it. Kiet held his feet firm. This is what Isla's been planning for.

But he felt no relief, no triumphant rush. His heart beat faster, but for neither eagerness nor joy. But it has to be done. 'What then, of Khaisan?'

'He shall in your place take the provincial seat of Pior Lam.'

'He'll not take gladly to so considerable a change. Nor will Persi, who holds Kam Phor.'

'What of it thus? Will they mine royal decree rebuff? Usurp the throne and name traitors of themselves? Shall it even so be have you still allegiance of our four remaining provinces and alliance to the Jade Empire to your claim defend. Wiser it would be for Khaisan to challenge you through dominance of jii, yet verily do I doubt this path he'd dare walk.'

Kiet smirked. He feared not a contest of dominance—in fact would he welcome it. It would spare the realm a civil war and countless unnecessary deaths. But Judhistir was right. Khaisan would sooner send men to die before he'd risk humiliating himself before the people.

'I shall tonight with mine council sit, and by the morrow the decree have drawn. And upon your nuptial blessings, the announcement shall by the people be heard.'

That gives me three days to prepare. As if he had not enough on his platter.

'The Khan and his children will have reason no more to carry their affront home. Perhaps tales will they spread of how Surikhand's heir was for their benefit replaced, but our tale—yours—shall by a furlong triumph over theirs.'

'You and your tales, Rama. Your people are not children and our lives no storybook scene.'

'Spare me, Kithrel, your bleeding heart! No longer have you the liberty to indulge in it so, much as no longer might you be able to play to theirs. Oh, do I know the tunes of your song ... the greatest freedom whereupon your title had to Khaisan been passed. The relief, the intense apathy in which you could indulge. To pick and choose your cares as like condiments at a banquet.'

Kiet scowled. 'That is an uncharitable reading of my character.'

'The people's prince!' Judhistir let out a sharp laugh. 'Soon will you have the luxury no more to play such facile roles! Nay, t'will be the intolerable lords and obsequious nobles you need keep first and forever in mind, and well enough as you deal with them at present, even you will find yourself worn by their constant bickering, their opposing demands, subtle threats and blatant lies!'

'You make the throne sound so appealing, Father, how can I wait to sit upon it now?'

'Your derision escapes me not, nor has it ever. Thought you I saw none of the disappointment you so attempted to conceal? Or that cold frustration whenupon another of your propositions I needed deny? All too well do I know how oft you wished I made for this realm a better king.'

'That is not at all what I think.'

'Perhaps had you everything right. I pray only that you might stand firm where have I faltered; resolute where have I been with uncertainty plagued. Of all mine faults and oversights, this at least is one mistake I will make good.' His scowl turned suddenly to a cheerless smile, and the chamber chilled with a draught that whistled down the dais.

It is done. Kiet hardly could believe it—Isla's plan had worked. No one had needed die; not even a drop of blood had been shed. Thus why this great unease? 'I'll not fail you, Father.'

'That, too, I know well.' All the fire had gone from Judhistir's voice. 'For all your obstinance and starry-eyed philosophies have you been to your Rama a dogged reminder of what and for whom it truly is he sits upon the hornèd throne. You have, mine son, done me great pride.'

Kiet started to respond but managed only a few awkward sounds—in fact he could barely look his father in the eye, and not only for his sudden burst of sentimentality and earnestness. It was the guilt, eating up at Kiet greater than ever, buzzing in his ears and pulsing through his head. That he had manipulated his father—in his age, his health, no less—and so well that the Rama could now speak with such conviction as though the words were entirely his ...

No. Never had it been disappointment that he hid; only an interminable guilt. It had always been easy to blame his failures upon the Rama, whilst very well Kiet knew the invisible chains that confined his every move. 'Father—'

Whatever he meant to say was cut by the buzzing in his ear, so high-pitched now it sent a prickle down his neck. Something's wrong. Kiet reached for the kalis at his back, but the hilt tore away from his hand as he drew it, and he could only watch as his blade went singing through the air.

His father fell back with a gasp and a choke, thrust back against the backrest of his throne, Kiet's sword buried clean through his neck.

For a moment was Kiet too stunned to move; the scene before him too absurd, too impossible to comprehend. But blood spluttered out of the Rama's mouth and the reality of it sunk in all at once.

No.

'No!' Kiet ran for his father; sunk beside him in the pool of his blood. Judhistir tried to move but only spluttered some more, pinned thoroughly against his throne. 'Father, don't move, just—'

Just what? All the pranopeucy in his kalis would save his father not from this—it was a wonder he lived even this long—not all the tabeeb, the therapeuts in the palace—'Guards!' Kiet yelled back at the doors. 'Guards!'

Judhistir's hand curled around Kiet's wrist; his grasp was weak, but enough. Kiet forced himself to look at his dying father, his eyes wide, skin growing more pale with every second. He shook his head faintly, tried to speak but managed only a gargle.

'Stop—don't speak!' He felt the panic even in his voice. The Rama was slipping, his gaze fading, and eventually his hand dropped, limp, from Kiet's arm.

No. It was the only word, the only thought that ran through his mind. But through the cloud in his vision, Kiet caught a shadow behind the screens left of the dais, and suddenly did his head clear.

He rose, slow and heavy.

'Gods damn you!' A sudden force kept him from taking even a step further. Khaisan edged out from behind the partition. His scowl was ugly with hatred, his eyes burned with a loathing matched by Kiet's own. 'Face me, you coward!'

'You've brought this upon us all.' Khaisan spat and retreated back behind the screens, just as the doors creaked open.

The force withdrew from Kiet's body and he turned to see four guards, come at last from all his shouting. Their eyes widened at the sight before them: the blood drenching the lower half of Kiet's robe and yi-sang; the Maha Rama lifeless in his throne; and of course the kalis, still lanced deep in his throat.

'Rouse the Maha Garda and seal all exits! It was Khaisan! He came from the royal entrance and through it now escapes!'

The guards only exchanged glances. Of course Kiet knew how it looked, how he sounded; but did they really think he would his own father slay?

'What are you waiting for? He is fleeing! Search the side entrance yourselves if you doubt me!'

'What is all this?' Another voice pushed through, and with it came Persi, shoving the guards out of his way until he stopped short with a gasp. His mouth dropped open, his head shook in disbelief.

But Kiet saw the act behind his empty eyes, and his head filled entirely with rage. 'You!' He leapt down the dais and across the chamber, but the guards had their swords drawn to a point before he could come anywhere close to his half-brother. 'You put him up to this!'

'You dare accuse—'

'Our own father!'

'First attempt you to place blame upon my absent son, and now this?' Persi hissed through gritted teeth. 'I have been in the presence of these good men to bear witness; who can speak the same for you? Apprehend this kingslayer at once!'

Again the guards hesitated. It was to them Kiet spoke, 'What reason would I have in murdering my own father?'

'So go with them without incident and you shall ample time be given to speak at trial.'

'Trial?' Kiet scoffed. 'With you and Khaisan sitting as Bench? You may as well my head cleave now.'

'As you wish.' Another ringing shot between Kiet's ears, although this time fainter and less high-pitched. Khaisan had from Persi inherited his mind-bending, after all, except he outgrew his father by two ranks.

But even at third rank Persi's theurgy weighed down Kiet's feet. He could move, but it was an infuriating experience—like running in a dream—and fought though he did through the heaviness in his muscles, the guards had him surrounded in a matter of seconds.

Persi yelled at their leader. 'Cuff him!'

I think not. The guard unhooked a pair of theurgic cuffs from his belt, but he was slow and tentative. Kiet had by then already dug deep into his core. It stirred awake, roiling and warming like a little ember in his chest. But he gathered no theurgy from it—instead he fed it.

Everyone had jii whether they were theurgic or unblooded. His tutors used to argue amongst themselves—some claimed it was part of one's soul, others claimed it was one's soul, and the rest claimed it was something else entirely. Whatever it was, it was the only thing that could be harnessed to protect the mind from unwanted intrusions; but when it did come with theurgy, it could also be harnessed in another, more powerful way.

And Kiet's theurgy was already powerful to begin with.

His core was ripe with jii, and he unleashed it out of him like a harbour wave. He pushed into its flow with every surge; it felt liberating, in a way, like removing one's boots and armour after a long week's march. Only this was more ... empowering, as though the chamber and all within it both living and dead belonged to him.

Swords clattered onto the marble floor as one after another the guards succumbed to his jii. They trembled where they stood, lowered their gaze. Some fought harder than others, but Persi most of all.

'You dare!' His voice shook, his theurgy ebbing and flowing as he struggled against the force of Kiet's jii. 'Khaisan is now Rama!'

'No, Persi. The Rama intended to install me as his heir—and for that your son murdered him.'

He managed a laugh even as he fought to keep his head raised. 'Of course he did. Where then, is his royal decree? How is it thus that none of his most trusted advisers have this vital decision ever even heard?'

'You know as well as I that only now has this decision been made.'

'How well you weave your lies, your conveniences, but this garbage fools none! Only a traitor and usurper would dare his jii exert when he is not sworn to the throne!'

Enough. Khaisan would have by now already cleared the royal entrance. Clearly Persi wanted only to buy him more time—then there'd be no evidence that he had been at the palace at all. And like a fool had he entertained him.

Kiet gave his jii one last push, and finally Persi yielded to the fear. He dropped to his knees, palms flat against the floor, sweat staining the receding line of his hair. His theurgy snuffed out like a candle, and Kiet breathed in relief. He looked around at them all. The guards had long been silenced by the dread of his jii, now they kowtowed around him, some shaking whilst others frozen stiff.

'Hear me or not, but what I've told you today is true.' He turned for the throne, a lump immediately catching in his throat as his eyes fell upon it: the blood dripping onto the dais, his father's lifeless body ... Kiet approached, looking away from his sightless gaze, and grasped the hilt of his kalis.

His hand would not move. He had to force himself to draw it out his father's neck—slowly at first. Gently. But he felt every pull of muscle and tissue, heard the soft squelching of steel against flesh, and he ripped it out with a roar to cover its sound.

❖

↝ END CHAPTER FORTY-TWO ↜

❖

☆ this chapter is dedicated to BramWel1 ☆

Video: Music is OST for Assassin's Creed
Image: Centre image—© Jhon at DeviantArt; remaining images—original artists unknown