CHAPTER V: The Seventh Prince

ALXINFIELD, Royal Estate, Year 079 Y.D.

The Royal Estate is as grand as it was, to be exact, in Ilayan's view, it became more splendid, and magnificent as the proud, imposing spires in every tower. Earlier, he transferred to share a ride in Prince Phillipe's carriage, taking the opportunity to change into a velvet doublet that was prepared for him, unexpectedly, by his father, the Duke of Venningham. Although slightly confused, he did not delve with his father's sudden subtle attentiveness, for he reckons that perhaps it was the rumors about him that made his father realize his true value. Or perhaps, his achievements thus far have made him worthy to touch Lord Hugo's strict, demanding standard.

He sits by the soft, velvet cushion, upright and stern despite inwardly fighting against the heat produced by his layered waistcoat, staring at the display of blooming magnolias, camellias, and mulberries that shield their carriage and the following men in mounts from the fierce, brilliant sun of midmorning. It is only him beside his brother, Admiral Leonard. And his father seated next to the Prince on the opposite side. The three engages in small discussions from time to time, yet his mind drifts west, where the Venningham Manor reigns. Now that he is here, he is gradually invaded by trepidation, especially when he thinks about his family, he struggles creating the best possible approach he can take to lessen the distance of Erin and their son from him.

"Did the journey exhaust the General?" Prince Phillipe snaps him out of his thoughts. "It was truly mindless of me to bring you straight to the banquet. I just assumed that since your supposed report to the Emperor was postponed, you can have this time to unwind instead."

"It doesn't matter to me, since there are already guests, I cannot completely refuse, however, I might leave after an hour or two."

"That is enough for small exchanges," the Prince smiles. "Many are curious of your feats, the battle plan you devised against the Loreik Barbarians and several of their high-ranking military officials that you personally beheaded, leading to their shameful defeat. You cannot blame them if they wanted to have a glimpse of your changes."

"The rumors are all exaggerated remarks, I'm afraid I cannot justify them."

"The General's virtue is well-instilled," the Prince praises, eyeing Duke Venningham.

The other only shrugs, for he knows how deep the Prince's mind is, not only him but his mother, Lady Michelle, the lady who ranks the highest among all the hundred concubines of the Emperor, only a step below the empress. The same lady whose ambitious, scheming mind is as transparent as fine glass. And their family, the Brysons, are no less than greedy wolves. With such calculating people, he dared not to drop an ounce of his vigilance. So as, although they had come to an agreement, he did not comply with their real meaning, and he desires no further involvement with their design. For he believes, that the Emperor's sharp eagle-eye has long realized the growing undercurrents in his backyard, year after year.

"If I can be more presumptuous with my question, but more than your glory, I included, also wonders about your plans after Gedeva."

"I will still perform my duty as a General," Ilayan answers, he knows what he said was short, but he did not speak any further. In his memories, he and the Prince are not that familiar with each other to talk about personal matters. On the other hand, it is Phillipe's younger brother, the Seventh Prince, who he had many memories with, a seith like Erin, whose reputation as a cold, erudite and unattainable beauty has spread wide even to the dark, narrow streets on the unkind districts of the capital.

"Then, if I remember correctly, you are now twenty-one, and it must be time for you to marry a main consort. Do you have, perhaps, have possible prospects?" touching his chin, Prince Phillipe asks cautiously, he eyes Ilayan keenly, probing on his reactions.

"I have not even thought of it," he replies coldly. "I am already content with a consort and a son waiting for me at my house."

His words made the Admiral's lips curve an evil, mocking smile, yet he immediately restrains his expression, for the Duke's scrutinizing glare did not miss to land on him. He was careless for a moment, revealing the hideous interior that he carefully hides from the knowledge of his cunning, perceptive father.

Although he is indifferent and did not even express a slight concern to Ilayan, like how he mercilessly sent him, an eighteen-year-old lad, to fight a war in Gedeva. After all, he is a Patriarch, a General, and a Duke. For all the heavy titles and overbearing power he held, only in his two hands, his heart and preference had long vanished, washed away by the duties he committed to. And one of that is cultivating Ilayan to become his heir, which is outrageously ridiculous to him, the eldest, legitimate son of the household, who should inherit everything that the Duke has.

"Indeed, it is an exaggeration," the Duke speaks. "No hero is as naïve as you."

Silence envelopes the carriage, Ilayan did not speak, neither the Prince nor the Duke, only the Admiral indulges in excitement as he sees a sprouting fissure between his half-brother and father.

Only after seven minutes that they finally arrived at the wide, carved, wooden double-door entrance of the Royal Hall, which is firmly guarded by thick, domineering pillars where ladies in damasks and velvets, a few seiths in their robes, and gentlemen in doublets pass to enter the great ballroom.

"Your Majesty," the butler welcomes. "Please come this way."

They are led into the hall which is not without the marching servitors serving courses and courses of extravagant dishes, near the dais, where the Emperor welcomes his guest on weekdays, are the skirted table of high-ranking military officials that are now free from duty like him. On the separate tables, away from the noble sons, are the cluster of ladies and seiths, who from time to time, steal glances from him or the Prince.

When they all recognize Ilayan's presence, they pause from their chatters and merry businesses, even the gallery where the musicians play cease their melodious activity immediately, fast enough that Ilayan did not even hear a note from them.

The Prince lead him to stand by the platform, with a glass of wine in his hand.

"Today's small banquet is meant to celebrate General Ilayan glorious return from Gedeva," he declares to the crowd. "Although the feast of gracious deity Khei'lal has inconvenienced us to prepare a grander welcome befitting your merits."

"Your regards are already enough," Ilayan replies, he said short words of gratitude for those people who, as they say in their pretexts, waited to welcome him. But, he had long realized the purpose of the small banquet, that even his father, who had no time for such ceremony, and sees it as nonsense, actively participates in. He scans the ladies and seiths, they are fixed in the west side of the hall, displaying their best charm.

He did fall into a trap. Inexplicably, his relaxed brows sternly flared, after his small talks with the older officers, who also did not forget to pour him a drink, he immediately took the opportunity to slip away from the intolerable flowery fragrance that invaded his nostrils, when the Prince and his father were both occupied.

He remembers from before, that near the timber screens that separate the kitchen is an inconspicuous door that leads to the garden of roses outside, the passage where he accidentally strayed in when he accompanied Duke Venningham send greetings for the Emperor's birthday.

As he walks, a whole new world unfolds in his eyes, the sound of the singing breeze enters his ears, and also a song that has not changed even after how many times the red and purple sea of roses fell. And at the center of the swaying petals, is a red maple. It peacefully towers the thorny blooms, protecting their beauty away from the harsh sun, as several of its leaves gracefully plummets on the ground. Yet there is one, that is as clear as day to Ilayan's eyes, that lands not on the blanket of zoysia grasses, but dances on the wind, together with a set of long, silky hair gathered by an intricate hairpin embellished in pearls and gold.

Rionne.

Unlike how he was three years ago, the cold beauty he used to meet in the same garden has not even regressed but also became more alluring, especially the deep purple eyes that holds too much depth that he never understood, not even once, despite only being one year younger than him. His red plum lips still play the flute skillfully, producing a very familiar melody, a melody that he not only heard once but more than a hundred, and the melody that he last heard before leaving the capital. Now, becomes the melody he hears first after returning.

After a while, he finishes playing, he hangs the flute in the belt that holds his fluttering royal blue robe.

Ilayan stares at him, as he suspects the alcohol manifests in the way he feels like freely floating. Yet, suddenly, he remembers that it is the same feeling that his deliberate rendezvous, in the garden of roses, with Rionne brings him, every time.

"It's been long," curtsying, Rionne smiles at him. "Welcome back, Ilayan."