Chapter 9

+ CHAPTER 9 +

The Prince and the Blade

 

The skies above Teluk Langkawaii darkened with heavy clouds the morning Musang arrived. Not a storm—but a stillness, a hush that spread across the land like the breath before a thunderclap. He came not in a chariot nor under a royal standard, but on horseback, clad in black, flanked by a modest entourage. His tengkolok was of deep obsidian, his kris held sheathed beneath a simple sash.

 

The guards at the gates did not bar him. They bowed low, unsure whether out of fear or reverence.

 

Inside the sacred hall, the Nine Kings—and Queen Hijau—waited in a semi-circle beneath the domed ceiling. In the center, a single dais had been prepared. Upon it, the Keris Matahari gleamed under the filtered morning light.

 

Musang entered slowly, every footstep echoing like a gong. His gaze swept the faces of the rulers—some wary, some unreadable, and one all too familiar.

 

Deramang stood at the far end. Their eyes met.

 

“Prince Musang,” Queen Hijau said with grave courtesy. “You stand before the Nine. State your claim.”

 

Musang bowed respectfully, then raised his voice for all to hear.

 

“I am Musang anak Megat, last son of the late King Megat of Dharmasraya. I have returned not to spill blood, but to correct what I believe to be a wrong. I do not come with resentment—I come with reason.”

 

He gestured toward the Keris Matahari.

 

“That blade was forged not to favour one bloodline forever. It was meant to guide the High King chosen by merit, not tradition. My brother was first to be chosen, yes. But since then, the kingdom has suffered under imbalance—economic strain, divided loyalties, fears whispered from coast to coast.”

 

Gasps and murmurs stirred the chamber.

 

Musang continued.

 

“I do not claim the throne for vanity. I claim it for the people. Let the Keris choose again. Let it decide—not man, nor lineage.”

 

Silence followed.

 

Deramang stepped forward. “And if the blade does not choose you?”

 

 

Musang’s reply was immediate. “Then I will return to exile. And I shall never speak of kingship again.”

 

At Queen Hijau’s gesture, the chamber grew quiet. A solemn sheikh in white robes, guardian of the hall, stepped forward to take the place once held by the late Tuan Guru Putih.

 

“Then let the blade decide.”

 

Deramang approached first. He placed his hand upon the hilt of the Keris Matahari. A soft golden light pulsed from its core. The blade remained still, humming faintly.

 

Then Musang approached. He placed his hand beside his brother’s.

 

The chamber dimmed.

 

The blade’s glow flickered—then flared.

 

Both brothers stepped back instinctively.

 

The blade rose.

 

Unaided, it floated above the dais, spinning slowly in the air. The light swirled between golden and silver—sun and moon.

 

The hall watched in awe.

 

Then the blade stilled, its point turning toward the horizon—neither toward Deramang nor Musang.

 

The sheikh interpreted the sign.

 

“The blade does not choose between you,” he said. “It chooses the future.”

 

Whispers rippled through the court. The meaning was unclear—yet profound.

 

Queen Hijau stood once more.

 

“The Keris Matahari has spoken. Neither of you shall claim the High Kingship today. You shall both serve—but not rule.”

 

Deramang bowed his head. “Then I shall return to Dharmasraya. And govern justly.”

 

Musang hesitated. Then, slowly, he nodded. “I will stand beside my brother. If that is what the realm needs.”

 

For the first time in years, the brothers bowed to one another.

—

Far away, in the hills of Kampung Menanti, Kelana woke from a dream of fire and light. He ran to the clearing where Kenyalang perched on a bamboo pole.

                                     

“I saw the blade,” he told Perak, breathless. “It floated in the air. It didn’t choose a king.”

 

Perak exchanged a look with Kiambang. “Then its time is near. You must begin the journey.”

 

Kelana nodded. “To where?”

 

“To the source,” Perak replied. “To where the sun meets the water.”

 

In Bukit Laksamana, Terang stood atop a high terrace, watching the sea beyond the cliffs. Beside him, his mother Mawar watched silently, her silk veil trailing in the wind.

 

“Why did they cheer for him?” Terang asked. “They feared him. And yet they bowed.”

 

“Because fear is easier than faith,” Mawar answered. “But one day, you will be the one they follow—not for fear, but for truth.”

 

Terang turned away. He no longer wore black. His robe was simple, undecorated. A single question stayed on his lips, unspoken:

 

What if the blade never chooses me?

 

He looked toward the distant waves, where a hawk flew low, and a hornbill followed.

 

The blade had chosen the future.

 

But whose?

To be continued...

 

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Copyright © Omar Onn. The Keris Matahari