Chapter 41 - Flowers Follow the Sun

“Propserity makes friends, adversity tries them.”

- Publilius Syrus.

There were few things in the civilized world more educational than listening to well-bred women tear apart someone who was not present to defend herself. Seraphina de Sariens had discovered this truth in her first life, rediscovered it in Aranthia, and now found it held equally true beneath the Jade Dragon Throne.

The ladies who had come to call upon her that afternoon represented several respectable branches of the Imperial court. None were important enough to threaten Seraphina directly, but neither were they so unimportant as to be ignored. There was the unmarried daughter of a Vice Minister, the widowed sister of one of the capital’s senior magistrates, the young wife of an official attached to the Ministry of Rites, and two cousins of families whose names appeared many times in the Empire’s long history. In other words, they were precisely the sort of people from whom useful gossip flowed.

The Spring Palace received them magnificently. The blonde girl had Miriam serve them jasmine and green tea in thin porcelain cups, accompanied by candied fruits, little cakes filled with sweet bean paste, and delicate fried pastries twisted into flowers.

Seraphina occupied the place of honor beneath an open pavilion overlooking the garden. She wore pale gold and spring green, her short blonde hair decorated with only a few carefully chosen ornaments. Desdemona sat to one side, looking altogether too pleased with the company, while Meilin occupied the other.

The Imperial girl was composed again. Well, mostly. Or, at least, she had lost that annoying haunted and guilty look.Still, there remained something quieter about her following their little misunderstanding. She smiled when etiquette required it and spoke pleasantly when addressed, but she no longer leapt into conversation with quite the same ease.

Did she think of herself the main character of some drama, the Aranthian noblewoman thought to herself.

However, overall, Seraphina considered it a marked improvement.

“My mother insists that Aranthian ladies truly wear their shoes indoors,” one of their guests remarked with horrified fascination.

“Some of the rather backward thinking ones do,” Seraphina replied, remembering her own cultural heritage. “I think it is because some of them sometimes need to leave in a hurry.”

That drew a titter of polite laughter.

Another woman leaned forward. “And your men really kneel before women when proposing marriage?”

“On one knee, traditionally.”

“How extraordinary. So then, are the men subordinate to the wives?” asked a girl with wild eyes.

“I find it quite appropriate,” Seraphina said with steady eyes.

That earned yet more laughter.

The questions continued in much the same fashion.

Did Aranthians truly eat cheese with nearly every meal? Not every meal, Seraphina explained, though Northerners seemed intent upon testing that proposition. Did noblemen dance while holding women about the waist? Sometimes. Did women truly inherit titles in their own right?

At that, Seraphina raised an eyebrow. “Of course. I am the heir to my father. Unless he has a male issue.”

Several of the women exchanged looks.

“In the Empire,” Lady Jiang observed, “a daughter may inherit property if there are no suitable sons, but a great hereditary office is more complicated.”

“How terribly inconvenient for daughters,” came Seraphina’s dry response.

That produced a more cautious round of laughter.

Seraphina, in turn, asked about the Imperial examination system, household registration, ancestral rites, marriage customs, and the peculiar Imperial obsession with recording everything upon paper.

The last subject offended Lady Aelia Xu, the magistrate’s sister. “Records preserve order.”

“Records preserve the version of events written by the person holding the brush,” Seraphina countered.

Meilin glanced toward her, and Seraphina smiled innocently.

Lady Aelia considered the statement, then laughed. “You truly are more Imperial than people say.”

Seraphine looked demurely down, a small smile curling her lips. “A dreadful accusation.”

“No, no. A compliment,” Aelia replied with mock shock, covering her face with a fan.

“Then I shall forgive you,” came the young girl’s response, her smile widening.

The conversation drifted naturally from customs to court, and from court to scandal. It was Lady Jiang who finally mentioned General Fan.

One moment they had been discussing whether Aranthian noblewomen were truly expected to know how to ride; the next, the Vice Minister’s daughter was shaking her head over her cup.

“The entire affair was disgraceful.”

Seraphina affected cultured ignorance. “What affair?”

Lady Jiang lowered her voice despite the fact that everyone in the pavilion already knew perfectly well what she meant. “General Fan.”

“Ah,” came the collective sound of faux surprise.

“I always thought there was something crude about her,” Lady Aelia confessed with a lilting giggle. “A soldier is a soldier, certainly, but one need not carry the battlefield into a palace.”

Another woman nodded quickly. “Precisely. My aunt met her once after the western campaign. She said General Fan barely knew which fork to use.”

The Empire did not ordinarily use forks, but Seraphina decided not to point this out.

“She was always a country bumpkin,” Lady Jiang declared with a small laugh. “A heroic one, perhaps, but still a country bumpkin.”

Meilin’s cup stopped halfway to her lips. Seraphina noticed, and so did Desdemona, judging by the sudden sparkle in her eyes.

“She rose very far,” Meilin offered quietly. “On her own merit.”

“Oh, certainly,” Lady Jiang agreed. “No one denies her victories. Though, her second was no doubt in charge of overall strategy.”

“But military talent is not refinement,” Lady Aelia added. “The court indulged her because she was useful.”

There it was, and Seraphina almost smiled.

Only days ago, the Avenue of Heavenly Peace had vanished beneath flowers thrown in Fan Xiwei’s honor. Women had leaned from balconies to catch sight of her. Children had carried wooden swords bearing her name. Officials had competed to claim some distant connection to the victorious Flower General.

Now, apparently, no one had ever liked her. Seraphina looked from one pleasant face to another. How quickly flowers turned toward a new sun. It was almost admirable how this world mirrored her original one.

Lady Jiang had, Seraphina was fairly certain, had been a fan of the general. If court gossip from her new intelligence assets were to be believed, Lady Aelia’s family had hosted officers from Fan’s army less than a month ago. Now that great general was reduced to a mere country bumpkin.

Seraphina took a slow sip of tea. She knew this dance very well.

Once, rooms had brightened when Seraphina de Sariens entered them. Then Este Lize happened. Then the Crown turned. Then Seraphina became inconvenient.

The fall from grace was rarely a fall at all. It was everyone around you suddenly insisting that they had never seen you standing so high.

A tiny shudder passed through her.

“I confess,” the blonde girl remarked pleasantly, “General Fan and I did not enjoy the happiest of introductions. Nevertheless, she has served the Empire with distinction. To a limited degree, at least.”

Meilin looked at her sharply, and the other women hesitated behind their colorful fans. 

Seraphina smiled, flashing teeth as she thought, One must never join the pack too eagerly. It suggested that one belonged among dogs.

“Of course,” Lady Jiang agreed quickly. “No one would deny her service.”

“Certainly not.”

“But service does not excuse everything,” Lady Aelia added.

“No,” Seraphina agreed. “It does not.”

That was enough. The subject died gracefully.

It was replaced, somewhat inevitably, by marriage.

“My elder brother is unmarried,” Lady Jiang remarked with suspicious casualness.

Seraphina nearly sighed, but Desdemona brightened immediately.

“Is he?” Seraphina asked.

“He is twenty-two. He serves under the Ministry of Works and has recently been appointed assistant superintendent of the southern canals.”

“How industrious.”

“He is also quite handsome.”

“That is more promising.”

Lady Jiang laughed. “And he has no concubines.”

“More promising still,” the blonde Aranthian noted with a genuine smile that was not quite a smirk.

Meilin lowered her face toward her tea.

Another of the women immediately rallied on behalf of her own family. “My second brother has just returned from the northern provinces. He holds a cavalry command.”

“Does he have all his teeth?” Desdemona asked, trying to stifle a giggle.

The woman stared.

Seraphina closed her eyes briefly. “Desdemona.”

“It is a sensible question.”

“It is,” Seraphina admitted, “but perhaps not the first one.”

The gathering dissolved into laughter.

Names followed. Brothers, cousins, nephews, and, in one ambitious case, a recently widowed uncle who was apparently only thirty-one and possessed three estates. Seraphina listened to it all graciously as she asked the correct questions without appearing to interrogate anyone; education, position. temperament, family connections, health, and personal interests.

She neither accepted nor rejected.

“I would be delighted to meet your brother should the opportunity arise,” she told Lady Jiang diplomatically.

It was exactly enough.

By the time her guests departed, at least three Imperial families had acquired reason to believe that Seraphina de Sariens might conceivably marry into them.

Seraphina considered the afternoon quite profitable.

***

Later, Meilin brought poetry. It arrived in the form of three bound volumes, two scrolls, a writing board, and several fine brushes.

Seraphina stared at the collection. “I thought poetry was supposed to be enjoyable.”

“It is,” the lady of the Empire replied a little tersely.

“Then why have you brought enough material to construct a fortification?”

Meilin gave her the faintest of smiles.

That, Seraphina thought, was better.

They had taken seats beside an open window in one of the palace studies. Spring air drifted through the wooden lattice, carrying the scent of blossoms from the garden.

Meilin opened the first book. “Court poetry follows established structures. The most respected forms are descended from the eastern poetic traditions, but several were influenced by the old Legionary verse.”

Seraphina leaned forward despite herself. This might prove to be mildly interesting.

The Empire was a strange civilization, built upon layers that should not have fit together and yet somehow did. Its oldest culture was unmistakably eastern. But, scattered through it like old bones beneath a newer city, remained the legacy of the First Legion. Or, if the lore of this world was actually based on something resembling proper logic, the Ninth.

Stone arches, aqueducts, civic duty, eagle standards, certain names, and fearsome military organization. And, of course, roads that would stand the test of time.

Poetry, apparently, had not escaped, Seraphina realized as Meilin drew several characters upon the writing board.

“This is an eight-line court form. The first couplet establishes the image. The second develops it. The third turns the meaning, and the final couplet resolves it,” the dark haired girl explained.

“Simple enough.”

“It is not,” Meilin replied haughtily, a trace of Desdemona there.

Naturally, true culture never came simply

“The middle lines require parallel construction. Certain tones must oppose one another. Repetition is permitted only under particular conditions. The rhyme is fixed, and the older schools also require a measured break within each line derived from Legionary cadence.”

Seraphina stared at her. “So one takes a perfectly good thought and imprisons it.”

“One gives it structure,” the other girl corrected.

“In Aranthia, we have structure,” Seraphina shrugged.

“Yes, but not this structure. This is beauty.”

Aranthian poetry was more familiar to Seraphina. Rhyming couplets, lays, chansons, rondeaux, ballads, courtly verses built around repeated sounds and measured syllables. A competent poet might spend an entire evening finding a suitably elegant rhyme for amour without embarrassing himself.

Imperial poetry seemed less interested in rhyme as Seraphina understood it and more concerned with balance. Images answered images. Heaven answered earth. Spring might oppose winter. The placement of a single character could ruin the architecture of the whole.

It was poetry that was all construction, the shape as well as the meaning gave it beauty. Aranthian verse, by contrast, was music.

She read one short poem again.

A mountain watched a river. A returning crane crossed autumn clouds. A lantern burned in an empty room.

The final line revealed, without ever stating it plainly, that the poet was waiting for someone who would never return. It could be infuriating if you did not know where to look.

“Hmm,” she mused.

Meilin looked pleased. “You like it.”

“I did not say that.”

Seraphina slowly looked at her, and Meilin immediately lowered her eyes.

Interesting, perhaps the girl was recovering faster than expected.

Seraphina returned to the page. “The construction is excellent. But Aranthian verse has greater musicality.”

Meilin thought for a moment. “Perhaps difference is what makes things beautiful.”

Seraphina scoffed. “What a meaningless statement.”

Meilin looked offended. “It is not meaningless.”

“Of course it is. People say such things when they are afraid to make judgments. If two paintings hang beside one another, one may be better painted. If two singers perform the same song, one may sing it better. One cannot simply declare that their differences make them equally beautiful and flee from the responsibility of taste.”

“But beauty does not always have to be ranked,” came the other girl’s protest.

“Everything can be ranked.”

“That sounds exhausting… and soulless."

“It is called having standards.”

Meilin laughed despite herself, but the Aranthian noblewoman unsurprisingly did not.

Because, quite suddenly, an image had passed through her mind. Silver-white hair. Soft eyes. That maddening expression of innocent coquetry . Este Lize, the hussy. The silver whore.

Seraphina’s expression darkened.

How many times had people, no doubt behind her back, said something similar? Este possessed a different sort of beauty. Este was gentle where Seraphina was proud. Este was blessed where Seraphina was cursed.

And, all of that resulted in the Crown Prince Velens ending up looking at Este Lize instead of the woman to whom he had been promised.

Seraphina’s fingers tightened around the page.

Difference was what made things beautiful? Absolute nonsense.

If Velens had possessed proper taste, he would have recognized the objectively superior choice and none of this would have happened.

Meilin noticed the change in her face. “Lady Seraphina?”

“Nothing.”

Meilin wisely did not pursue the matter.

Seraphina picked up the brush. “Show me the tonal rules again.”

Meilin leaned closer. “The second and fourth positions are most important. Here—”

The door opened violently. Shocked, both girls looked up.

Sir Ferdiad Frest entered without waiting to be announced, and that alone told Seraphina something was very wrong.

The Knight was evidently flustered. There was a tension in his face that wiped away the usual trace of roguish amusement.

“Milady.”

Seraphina set down the brush. “What is it, Sir Frest?”

“There is an army approaching the city,” he answered flatly.

Meilin stared at him. “An army?”

“That is what the Imperial scouts are saying.”

Seraphina rose. “How large?”

Frest shook his head. “No reliable count yet. Thousands at least. Maybe considerably more. The reports are confused.”

“Whose banners?”

“That is the problem…” he began hesitantly.

Meilin had gone pale. “How did an army get this close to Tianhua without anyone knowing?”

Frest looked toward her, then back to his mistress. “The first riders reaching the gates are saying there was nothing there.”

Seraphina frowned. “Nothing?”

“Empty countryside. Then an army,” he stated hesitantly, wincing.

“That is impossible,” said Seraphina dangerously, green eyes narrowing.

“Yes,” Frest agreed quickly. “Which is why everyone is currently jabbering like frightened washerwomen.”

Seraphina crossed the room toward the window. Beyond the Spring Palace walls, Tianhua remained deceptively peaceful. Roofs climbed toward the horizon in ordered layers of tile and stone. Smoke rose lazily from kitchens. Somewhere nearby, a bell sounded the hour. Nothing looked wrong.

“The Imperial scouts believe it came out of nowhere,” Frest continued behind her. “And judging by the way it is advancing, they do not think it has come to pay its respects.”

Seraphina remained still for a long moment. Then she turned from the window. All thoughts of poetry, unsuitable brothers, court gossip, Fan Xiwei, and silver-haired hussies vanished from her mind.

“How long?”

Frest rubbed the back of his gorget. “Not long enough.”

At last, Seraphina smiled, and it was not her usual pleasant smile that captured the sun.

“Then I suppose,” she said, “we had better do something about it. Or, in this case, I had better do something about it.”