ALXINFIELD, Year 079 Y.D
Thirteen days of travel exceeded Ilayan's calculation.
Although he is suspicious—not even to his knowledge that Duke Maximo is capable enough to sustain a hundred guards, loyal to him even to death, and fifteen shadow guards, that only the royal family can mobilize, has escorted him to their demise—the affairs of the Duke of Kienfolk are out of his jurisdiction to investigate. Neither the conceited, virile Duke, of only five years older than him, is willing to share a truthful word about his near-death escapade.
"I am on my way to Eastern Turose," he clarified. "I'm in haste for I intend to propose a marriage with the seith son of their newly appointed Duke, so I deliberately took this route bringing all my guard, in hope to create a spectacular meeting with my future consort. Neither in my expectation nor my desire to engage with those rubbish rogues!"
But those combat skills are not mastered by rubbish rogues.
For all Ilayan had known, as result of their victorious crusade against the soldiers of Loreik Empire—whom they convicted as barbarians for their greed-driven aggressiveness and indecent, degenerate customs—their Emperor had compensated three cities near the borders of Gedeva, one of it is the Eastern Turose, in exchange for a ten-year peace treaty.
As diplomatic affairs are outside of his control and legal duties, he can only focus on their main priority, to gather back to the capital in the fastest time, hopefully, before the feast of the diety Khie'lal, celebrated every fifth of May, when Alxinfield, especially the aristocrats, never rest.
Although for three years, Ilayan offered his devotion through candles and incense in a self-made wooden altar, after all, he had married a seith, and he always wished for his safety from afar. The noise of the overcrowded streets and servants hurrying about their duties, refurbishing the great hall in festive tapestries, laying tables of more than a hundred persons, entertaining esteemed guests and elders of the family through lavish dishes served in fragile porcelains, are also vivid in his memories.
But nothing comes in accordance to his plan, for on the same date they reach and disrupted the bustling, yet orderly lime-paved commercial road, narrowed by lining, swaying carriages, in procession to the huge, imposing brick fortress, and welcomed by the sliding latticed metal gates. There are also those in their feet, bathe by the sun's crisp glow, marching by the sidewalk. They consciously produce an aisle for Ilayan and his companions, gazing at them like a fanatic, drawing endless gasps and chatters.
Two hours earlier, they were already captured by the lenses of the watchtower and sent the news to the officials who will welcome them.
General Ilayan has finally returned.
Yet, the hero's welcome seems impossible. The Empress led the imperial concubines to Khei'lal's temple for whole day worship, majority of the princes are called to the Supreme Palace, or are busy with their duties for the feast.
But Ilayan is not someone that must be disregarded. So, on the imposing entrance, awaiting them is the royal police in red and white jackets, and several military officials sporting mailed armors, standing sternly in steel boots.
He scans through them, only to find the father he rarely saw even before he left, the Duke of Venningham, Lord Hugo Valquistine, who he believes, if he is right, is already in his sixties. Yet the dignified man's exterior can still par with other men in forties, with his magnificent suits and refined bearing of which can still make a maiden's heart flutter.
For all that, only he knows the cold and indifferent person hidden by the noble exterior. An excellent patriarch, whose military feats brought glory to Valquistines, and was even praised for his quality descendants. Yet, never acted like a father, to begin with, at least to him, not even once.
Behind him, is his eldest brother, of who he supposed is now called Admiral Leonard, whose broad shoulders and loose collar buttons reveal his sturdy, tanned build and bold spirit. Both of them are followed by no fewer than thirty people, both of the same surname and their retinues.
Much to Ilayan's expectation, he never felt any surging emotions to the relatives who welcomed him after three years of separation, for the people he yearns to see, welcoming his return with a smile, is Erin and his son. Yet, they are nowhere to be seen.
In the center of all the highly regarded personalities, is a neat, comely man, cordial in his gracious smile, regal in brocade royal doublet. Someone Ilayan also recognizes, the one fantasized by countless ladies since childhood—with his golden hair and alluring blue eyes—Prince Philippe. He steps in leather boots as Ilayan and his soldiers dismount. The Duke of Kienfolk, and his remaining strained five men also stride down their carriage and horses.
"Greetings to the Prince," clasping his fist in front of his black laced shirt, Ilayan says. Unlike the soldiers and the Duke of Kienfolk, he did not bow down to the presence of royalty. His eyes are firm, staring straight.
The Prince seems to not mind, for he does know that high-ranking soldiers are proud, will not bend, not even to a prince.
"General Ilayan," he greets, then he eyes the Duke, three steps behind him. "Surprisingly, the Duke of Kienfolk is with you."
"We only met halfway," Ilayan says, cutting off the small talk decisively.
"I hope the General will take no offense with my unceremonious welcome. I'm afraid his Highness cannot meet you for the time-being nor honor you your merits, the feast of the diety Khie'lal also happens to be a major trade event for the realm, and he is still occupied with the envoys of Cride and Lounova."
"I dare not, the realm is far more important than I am," Ilayan politely replies.
The Prince eyes him, with few exchanges of formalities, he motions the royal police to prepare the drum.
"In his stead, I have prepared a banquet for your welcoming ceremony," he says, then smiles like the bright skies of azure waves above them. "The guests already await your arrival. In fact, a change of clothes had also been prepared. I hope you won't decline."
If it's not an act of impoliteness, he intends to refuse a fancy gathering at this moment. But he has no choice, and his father did not even let him speak before conforming to the prince's invitation for him. They all mount their saddles and carriages. Raising two poles attached with fluttering fabric. The Silver Tiger Calvary and the Empire's flag rise imposingly.
"Make way for the Prince and the General!" declares the herald.
Paired with the trumpet's glorious sound, awakening the people's energetic cheers, Ilayan with his entourage trots at the entrance of the City towards the Royal Estate. Like how it was three years ago, Alxinfield's prosperity is still as overwhelming or perhaps improved. The spires of each noble mansion and church point to the heavens with majesty. Merchants in their gold chains are everywhere, and fine buildings and shops dominated the streets where the excited people—men, women, seiths, children—flood.
Suddenly, there are lilies, tulips, and peonies plummeting from above—from every lady blushing in the balconies and open windows of their red-bricked houses and sophisticated wooden tea houses, some are restrained, some are waving and squealing Ilayan and Phillipe's names.
In higher views, everyone can see a glimpse of the gallant young man, the Hero of Gedeva. The same view an elegant tea-house of high-end furnishings and beautiful paintings captures. A smell of freshly brewed tea hovers around the entire second floor, which is occupied by only two people, leaving the chairs and stools of at least fifty, vacant.
In the table where the two people are seated, one wearing a royal blue velvet, complimented by the butterfly hairpin, gathering his waist-length pitch-black hair, and the other in scholarly yellow garments, both are robes.
" Ilayan," squinting his light purple eyes, the dark-browned hair young man says, then he sips a tea. He opens the glistening transparent window beside them, allowing the warm spring breeze to enter, watching the enthusiastic welcome and Ilayan's parade approach their direction. There is a suppressed curve of relief in his white-pinkish face.
"He shouldn't have returned," sitting with elegance, the one in front of him says. He has the same purple eyes as him, yet darker. His calculated movements exude the air of royalty that his slender figure inherently possesses. "I'm afraid that there will be major changes in the capital in the next few days. He'll only blindly send himself to another battle."
"His experienced must've changed him a lot," the other reasons. "His three years in Gedeva will not be of any vain."
"No," clutching the golden swan token lying in his hands, the youth contradicts. "Brains and brawls are different games with different ways to play. The filth of the capital is deep and concealed. And I can see, that he is still the same," he says, aside from Ilayan, his sight wanders to the Prince and the Duke of Kienfolk. Then he picks a crimson rose with jade-like leaves in the intricate porcelain vase on top of their table. Then he gives it to him.
"Here."
Unable to understand the other's meaning, he only stares at him, both eyebrows raising.
"He's coming," the youth says, pointing at Ilayan, who plasters a perfunctory smile to the people calling his name. "Throw it to him."
The young man sighs in response, looking down, Ilayan's face with a trace of immaturity entering his mind. Now all of those clumsy features are gone, yet it refined his mature beauty.
He declines the other and pulls a peach chrysanthemum instead.
"This, I think."
---End of Chapter---
-noir_alois-