King Silawet led the procession in deep indigo robes embroidered with golden thread. Beside him walked Queen Inthranil, robed in handwoven fabric of soft sky blue. Behind them, in respectful silence as custom demanded, followed Prince Rachasihwong and Prince Wihokrat.
The five daughters of the tributary cities stood in orderly formation, each adorned in the traditional dress of her homeland:
Supimpha, wrapped in firm brocade adorned with naga motifs,
Pen Duean, graceful in a smooth indigo ensemble, lotus blossoms tucked in her hair,
Kantra, cloaked in deep crimson-dyed silk with a sheer hide headdress,
Wilawan, elegant in creamy golden Bua silk, draped with a garlanded lotus shawl,
And last, Buakesa, robed in brilliant red silk, her metal ornaments clinking softly with every step.
The monks chanted sacred verses from the Royal Temple. Offering bowls were passed reverently, accompanied by murmured prayers.
The morning sunlight shimmered off the temple's courtyard fountain. In that moment—there was no talk of love, no thought of power—only faith and threaded silk, waiting to be woven.
Once the ceremony ended by late morning, the gong echoed again through the palace grounds.
The Royal Guru stepped forth and declared with a steady voice:
“The Sirarom Pavilion shall now open to welcome the daughters of the five cities to demonstrate their craftsmanship.
The competition will begin tomorrow… and end on the day the Buddhist Lent concludes.”
The Sirarom Pavilion, a royal handicrafts hall, sat within the eastern palace gardens. It consisted of one central pavilion, encircled by four smaller halls in the cardinal directions.
Each structure, adorned with carved teak, was surrounded by frangipani trees and clusters of orange jasmine. Open terraces allowed wind and light to pass freely, veiled only by sheer cotton drapes that softened the midday sun.
This would be the stage upon which destinies would be decided.
The procession moved toward the pavilion, their path lined with gold, shimmering silks, and admiring gazes from nobles and servants alike.
When the gong sounded again, the Royal Guru announced the Thread Ceremony.
A golden casket was brought forth, containing five silk-dyed threads—each color corresponding to a pavilion's direction:
Deep red (East)
Navy blue (South)
Pale yellow (West)
Emerald green (North)
White (Central)
Each maiden stepped forward and drew one thread.
Buakesa drew the emerald green thread—designating the North Pavilion, the one closest to the river, and coldest by night.
Prince Rachasihwong, watching from the Central Pavilion, remained outwardly composed… but within, his heart already stirred, as though tied to the threads not yet stretched across the loom.
At dawn the next day, light streamed through bamboo groves flanking the Sirarom Pavilion. The scent of perfumed water, morning dew, and fresh lotus mingled in the cool air. The temple bell rang thrice at the break of day—signaling the opening of the handicraft pavilions to the first light.
The five daughters of the tributary cities stepped quietly into their assigned pavilions. Each hall stood in serene beauty—still, solemn, awaiting the first touch of their hands.
Silk threads. Wooden looms. Fragrant timbers. Tools arranged with reverence—waiting.
The rules of the contest were declared once more by the Royal Guru:
“From this day onward, each daughter must complete every stage of the weaving herself. No man or woman may set foot within another’s pavilion. Palace women will rotate shifts to observe and record entries and exits.
All cloth must be completed by nightfall on the final day of Lent.
Judgment shall be passed by King Silawet, Queen Inthranil, and Prince Rachasihwong.”
Supimpha adjusted her naga-engraved loom, gently tugging the first thread into place.
Pen Duean arranged her indigo-dyed cotton with the grace of a mountain breeze.
Kantra sharpened her trimming blade and tested her warp with a warrior’s precision.
Wilawan bowed low before her first lotus-threaded fabric, then began to stitch golden filaments into the opening line of the day.
And as for Buakesa, she sat in the northern pavilion—gaze sweeping lazily toward the other pavilions.
She exhaled softly, then placed her reed shuttle down upon her untouched loom.
A palace attendant stood nearby in silence—watching every movement. No one spoke. No one smiled. Only the sound of footsteps on polished wood… and the subtle stretch and pull of silk threads being woven, line by line.
The Sirarom Pavilion, once merely a training hall, had become a sacred arena. Here, five women would weave not only cloth—but destiny itself.
Whose thread… would bind a heart in the end?
Three nights passed beneath the shade of the Northern Pavilion. Buakesa’s fabric remained light and sparse. The crimson-patterned Jewel Orb design she’d envisioned refused to manifest. Her unfamiliar hands throbbed. Her once unshakable confidence—wavered.
She stared down at the tangled threads with dry eyes, then glanced toward the central pavilion—where Kantra stood tall and unwavering, her cloth already boasting three sections of a fierce tiger circling the moon—an emblem of her borderland city.
To her left, the Eastern Pavilion glowed. Supimpha’s naga design twisted beautifully in silver silk. Her loom was flawless, her tension perfect.
Buakesa stormed back into her private chamber that night, face taut with frustration. Kaew, her maid, sat quietly in the dim light, sorting threads while waiting for her mistress to return.
“Kaew,” Buakesa’s voice was low—but darkly charged,
“You know I’m falling behind… if I keep weaving like this.”
Kaew paused, frowning, but said nothing.
Buakesa leaned in.
“I’ve thought it through… someone must be delayed—at least a day or two.”
Kaew swallowed.
“Milady… what are you planning…”
Buakesa’s lips curled slightly.
“Scatter cowhage into Kantra’s underrobe. Let her itch so badly she can’t weave.”
Kaew hesitated… then nodded.
That very night, Kantra’s body broke into a rash. The royal physician was summoned at dawn.
The next day, Buakesa fanned herself as she peered at her fabric. It still lacked elegance—but she smiled anyway. Kantra’s progress had halted, falling behind by a full segment. But that wasn’t enough.
“I heard Supimpha sent honey-dried bananas to her pavilion,” Buakesa murmured,
“Carried by her own maid.”
Kaew added softly,
“Delivered straight into the Eastern Pavilion.”
Buakesa set down her teacup.
“Tell the palace kitchen to send this gift tray to Lamkhunchi. And add… this digestive powder inside.”
Kaew’s eyes widened.
“Milady… you’d put laxatives in Lady Supimpha’s sweets?!”
“Do as I say.”
Buakesa snapped, her glare silencing any protest.
That evening, Supimpha collapsed within her quarters—pale and weak, stricken with violent stomach troubles. The royal physician was summoned again.
“Perhaps spoiled food,” the doctor murmured, dabbing sweat from her brow.
“Might’ve been those honey bananas…”
Her handmaid muttered while tucking her in. No one questioned it—not even Supimpha, who merely offered a wan smile.
“Next time, I’ll make them myself…”
Back in the Northern Pavilion, Buakesa fanned herself in silent victory. Her fingers moved slowly. Her eyes… scanned the air like a predator. The breeze rustled the garden leaves, but no wind blew as fiercely as the envy stirring in this woman’s heart.
Buakesa slammed open the door to her pavilion, eyes ablaze. Sweat beaded her brow. Her robe was stained with dust and silk fibers. The fabric on her royal loom remained bare—no pattern had emerged, not a single motif of the Jewel Orb she had dreamed of. No matter how she tried, the design refused to take form.
“Lady…”
A gentle voice called softly. Kham In stepped forward, carrying a brass bowl of fresh water.
Buakesa slapped his hand away.
“I don’t want it!”
Kham In froze, bowing quickly.
“Forgive me, my lady… may I ask how many sections you’ve completed today?”
She snapped her head toward him—the question struck her heart like a whip.
“What do you mean by that!?”
“I only… worry for you,” Kham In replied softly, voice trembling with concern.
“You return each day so weary… I just wondered how far you’ve come, in case I could prepare—”
“Enough! Hold your tongue, Kham In!”
She shouted, eyes narrowing into daggers.
“You’re saying I can’t weave, aren’t you?! That I’m no match for those other daughters!?”
“No! That’s not it…” Kham In raised his hands in protest.
But before he could finish—
SLAP!
Her palm landed hard across his cheek. The sound rang out like thunder. His slight frame staggered with the force.
He collapsed to the floor, still bowing—one hand on his reddened cheek.
But Buakesa wasn’t finished. She stormed forward, stomped on the hem of his garment, and kicked him across the floor. He slid, hitting the corner bench with a thud.
“You look down on me, Kham In? You think you can teach me!?”
Her laughter was sharp, manic, rising and falling like a broken melody.
“Don’t you ever think you can run from me. You’re my servant—and you’ll stay that way until you die! Don’t compare me to them!”
Kham In lifted his head slowly. His eyes shimmered, but there was no anger in them—only quiet.
“I never… meant to shame you, my lady…”
“Shame? You act like you know better than me!”
She lunged forward, grabbed his arm, and yanked him up from the floor.
“You’re nothing but a servant… a lowly, unnatural boy!
Even if someone gifts you a fine bracelet—it’s only pity.
No one would love someone like you!”
Kham In stiffened. His wide eyes darkened with quiet pain. He clutched his arm where she pushed him again.
“Don’t forget your place, Kham In… You are beneath me. Beneath. My. Feet!”
Her voice cracked like thunder, echoing through the room. The silence that followed was filled only by her ragged breath. Then she turned, flung her shawl over her shoulder, and stomped up the stairs—slamming the door behind her.
Kham In remained curled on the floor, back against the bench. One hand on his bruised cheek… the other over his chest. He didn’t sob. But tears flowed quietly—like a torn thread, snapped on the loom. A thread that could no longer be tied.
As it had always been… every time his mistress’s mood turned cruel.
Evening breeze rustled the garden leaves. The last light of the day slipped beyond the horizon, leaving only the shadow of the moon hidden behind great trees by the river.
Beneath the old pavilion by the palace pond, a lone figure sat silently, head resting on his knees.
Kham In sat cross-legged at the base of a wooden pillar. An oil lamp flickered nearby, casting a soft glow onto the water. The bruise on his cheek was still fresh. His eyes were swollen from tears that hadn’t stopped since dusk.
He’d slipped away to avoid worrying anyone. Just to… rest his heart.
His bare feet touched the cool wooden floor. The river lapped gently against the bank, whispering its comfort. Then came soft footsteps—not hurried, but quiet… as if meant to be heard.
Kham In looked up slowly… and quickly bowed.
Prince Rachasihwong.
He wasn’t in ceremonial robes, but in simple indigo cotton. Bare-chested, his body glistened faintly from sword training. Even at night, he bore a quiet radiance that made Kham In lower his eyes.
“Kham In…”
The voice was softer than ever—not the voice of a prince, but of someone who came to heal.
Kham In tried to stand, but a gentle hand stopped him.
“Don’t get up. Just stay.”
The Prince sat beside him, slowly. A faint scent of silk and sweat lingered on the breeze.
He said nothing for a while—just looked at the face that turned away from the light.
“Who hurt you?”
The question was too direct to deflect.
Kham In’s eyes fell. He clutched the edge of his garment tightly.
“I… I slipped, my lord.”
The Prince turned, meeting his eyes instantly.
“Don’t lie, Kham In.”
“I’m fine,” he whispered.
“If speaking the truth would ruin another… I’d rather stay silent.”
The Prince was quiet for a long moment, then slowly reached out and touched his bruised cheek.
“I remember your hands well,” he whispered, close now.
“The hands that wove… that gave me banana cake… that passed me the jade bracelet.
They’re too delicate to be treated like this.”
Kham In looked away again—but this time, a tear slipped down his cheek.
“Ai…” he sobbed softly.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this…”
The Prince leaned closer, his hand resting gently on Kham In’s shoulder.
“If you cry… let me be the one to wipe your tears.
If you’re in pain… I’ll be the one who stays.
Not because of who you serve… but because you’re Kham In.”
Kham In bit his lip. A single tear dropped to his lap.
Prince Rachasihwong removed the sash from his waist and gently wrapped it around Kham In’s shoulders.
“Tonight… let me sit here with you.”
Kham In didn’t answer—but he nodded softly.
The Prince smiled.
The lamp cast golden light across his face… a face that looked like something from a dream.
Beneath fireflies and moonlight, in this forgotten riverside pavilion, there was no sound but the flow of water, the beat of two hearts, and a silence made soft by care.
Like a thread… quietly beginning a new weave—
One that no fabric had yet known…
And one that, perhaps, might wrap itself around both their hearts.
Silken threads drift gently in the breeze,
Smiles forced to hide a wound unseen.
A weaver’s hand, though crushed beneath,
Still finds a heart… that dares to dream.
—
Comments (0)
See all