Chapter 33 — The Meeting

After a great deal of effort, Gao Yang finally entered Silverhold in the most conspicuous manner imaginable, under the gaze of the multitudes.

The poor had no time to spare for this place; the common folk had no interest in it; the petty merchants and townsfolk would only speak of it over tea or after supper. But among the nobles—nearly every noble who learned of the news—all had been watching the matter unfold from the very beginning.

Yet the towering walls of the castle, sheathed in silver foil, stood tall and cut off the vast majority of prying eyes. The lower and middle ranks of nobility had received no permission to enter Silverhold, and their channels of information from the higher circles had been cut off by royal decree since the small hours. They could only watch helplessly as the grand procession entered the castle, and afterward discuss those tidings already made public—tidings that were hardly secrets at all.

Victoria Wilde, Grand Duchess of the North, had arrived at Silverhold three days prior.

Grand Duke Bai Yu Franklin of the West and Grand Duke Silas Loren of the East had arrived together an hour ago.

Several advisors and the King's First Minister had also entered the castle.

The gates were now tightly shut, and no one knew what was happening inside.

A banquet? A secret council? A quarrel? Or even a murder?

Countless pairs of eyes fixed upon the castle shifted and turned; the noses beneath those eyes twitched nervously, sniffing for the scent of conspiracy or opportunity, while the mouths beneath those noses opened and shut, producing all manner of novel opinions and rumors. And the listeners were wise enough never to take what they heard as truth, for until the castle gates opened once more, no one knew what a man revived from seven hundred years past might discuss with the king of the present age.

Francis II held no tiresome banquet, nor did he meet Gao Yang in the throne hall by way of a formal "summons." He chose instead to hold this meeting in the "Oak Hall" adjoining the council chamber—and this too was at Gao Yang's request.

The Oak Hall was an ancient place; its existence could be traced back seven hundred years, to when Silverhold had first been laid down. In those days, the castle had not yet worn its present silver-foiled aspect—the name "Silverhold" came about merely because Charles I could think of nothing finer to call it.

As the most venerable chamber in a castle that had been renovated and rebuilt countless times, the Oak Hall had been enchanted some four hundred years ago by a powerful court druid, so that its principal timbers might preserve their living vitality forever (in truth, the enchantment required recharging once every century).

Though the Oak Hall was only a third the size of the main council chamber, small and old as it was, it remained the most extraordinary place in the castle. Only nobles of count's rank or above might ever appear in this hall, and only matters capable of shaping the kingdom's fate were ever discussed here in secret.

A round oak table was set at the center of the hall. The King sat at the position representing the "Crown" upon the star chart; at his right hand sat his First Minister, Aidan, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and deep-set eyes; at his left sat the present Duke of the North, Victoria Wilde; and extending further to either side were Grand Duke Bai Yu Franklin of the West and Grand Duke Silas Loren of the East. A few other noble representatives whose names Gao Yang could not be bothered to remember sat around the table, while the royal advisors occupied another row of chairs behind the King.

At Gao Yang's side stood only Rebecca.

Amber and Sir Byron certainly had no qualification to take part in this, so Gao Yang had simply left them at the residence on Crown Street No. 4. He had never once intended to bring Amber to Silverhold—given that thief lady's professional dedication, she would surely have scraped off every last bit of silver foil from the castle's exterior.

Apart from the First Minister and that advisory council present merely to make up the numbers, every person here was a descendant of those pioneers who had founded Ansul (including Gao Yang, the pioneer himself). This meeting had been imbued with extraordinary significance from the very start.

As a founding ancestor, Gao Yang had no need to bow or pay respects to anyone present, so he simply plopped himself down in his seat with careless ease. Beside him, Rebecca was visibly nervous—the girl clenched her fists and drew several deep breaths before she finally settled into her chair, and in the process forgot that she had, in fact, been obliged to bow to the King.

In such circumstances, though, no one was about to hold it against her. Such was the domineering privilege of bringing one's elder to a meeting.

From the instant Gao Yang strode into the room—clad in ducal attire, the Pioneer's Sword at his hip—every gaze turned toward him, and even after this living fossil had taken his seat, those gazes did not withdraw much. This was, to be sure, somewhat contrary to noble etiquette, yet it was hard to restrain: a figure from seven hundred years ago had just popped out of his coffin and walked up before them—who wouldn't need a second look?

And even as they looked, many among them were still pondering the authenticity of Gao Yang himself—or rather, the attitude of Francis II.

At that moment, the old King rose from across the table. His hair was grizzled, and he looked well advanced in years, yet set off by his splendid raiment he still possessed no small measure of presence and vigor. He led the three Grand Dukes to their feet, and the other attendees rose with them.

Gao Yang watched him, and heard him speak with solemn gravity: "May the gods protect Ansul. Seven hundred years on, we are honored beyond measure to lay eyes upon a hero of the Founding Years. We thank you, and your generation, for the sacrifice and devotion rendered to the continuation of humankind. This land—and every soul upon it—shall never forget the great pioneers. Here, I humbly do reverence to our ancient hero, as a scion of the Moen family, and together with the scions of the pioneers."

The King bowed low, and every descendant of the pioneers (the three Grand Dukes included) made the same gesture.

Now the King had made his stance clear: the resurrection of Gao Yang Cecil could be true.

As to whether it was improper for a king to bow to a duke—in truth, there was no impropriety whatsoever. After all, Gao Yang, dead these seven hundred years, was no mere duke in this moment; he was a symbol. Every year, when these people visited the graves, they bowed several times before the portraits of Gao Yang Cecil and a whole host of pioneering ancestors. Now here stood a one-to-one living likeness—was bowing to him a problem?

But Gao Yang felt something was off. A second later it struck him, and his expression turned strange: "The last time this many people bowed to me all at once, I was lying in a coffin..."

Everyone: "..."

For a moment, the atmosphere in the room turned exceedingly awkward.

Fortunately, everyone present had weathered great storms (though a storm of this particular vintage was indeed a first). They swiftly recovered, straightened up with composure, and the King smiled: "It is only proper for ordinary juniors to bow when they come before their elders."

Gao Yang laughed along, and though outwardly he looked several generations younger than Francis II, his tone was thoroughly that of an elder: "The age gap is a bit large, I grant you, but your expression when you're making excuses is exactly the same as Charles's back in the day."

Gao Yang Cecil had also made his stance clear: the Moen blood in Francis II's veins could likewise be true.

With that, Gao Yang and the old King exchanged a smile, and one could tell the latter was especially relieved—even a touch giddy with it.