Hadrian’s laughter flooded through my mind. It took me a minute to realize that his laughter was for me alone. I glanced his way only to find him still staring straight ahead and looking slightly bored. “Only you would think of that,” he sent.
“So how do they do it?” I couldn’t help wanting to keep him distracted. He was dreading the ceremonies ahead.
“A team of fifty gardeners work constantly to care for all the grounds. The High King’s gardens are famous throughout the kingdom for their elaborate beauty.”
“I personally love the willows best,” I commented. “I have spent a great deal of time among them and found they are wonderful company.”
Hadrian’s warm agreement was interrupted by a greeting party appearing on the wide raised terrace that spread before the main entrance. I recognized the arches and columns behind them from my one previous visit. Hadrian straightened his shoulders and Renato sent me instructions on what exactly to do as we drew up. Stiffening my own chest beneath my new uniform, I composed my face and raised my mental guard. From now on, Hadrian and Renato’s lives were my main concern.
By the time we were within hearing, the welcoming company had arranged themselves across the top steps of the terrace. Each king, with their chef advisor at his side, stood stiff and formal. My father was on the far left, the position of the house that hasn’t had the high throne the longest. Ten generations of kings had passed since the Ilars had held the highest kingship. As I lowered my guard slightly toward my father, I was almost paralyzed by the hatred that radiated from him. Instinctively I raised my guard again. Then, more cautiously I tried to see the object of his displeasure. Despite the warnings of Hadrian and Errol, I was stunned to find that it was Hadrian. I was even more disturbed to discover that the other kings near my father also seemed to share his emotion.
On the other end of the array, the former High King Honorus’ son, Cayphis Honorus, planted his feet firmly on the marble beneath them. A sensation of relief seemed to come from him aimed toward Hadrian. He alone among the lower kings appeared pleased to see the Sept Son arrive.
“Welcome Sept Son Aleron,” High King Deucalion Marcellus called out to us from his place standing before the kings. Surrounded by six armed, formal guards and wearing the elaborate robes of the High King, I almost didn’t recognize the childhood friend of my brothers.
Janus and Deucalion trained together, fought together, and for much of their childhood were inseparable. I remembered him as a gangly teenage boy from the summer I first tagged along with my brothers. While Janus, Clovis, and Blan all ignored me or told me to go away, Deuc always found time to distract me with a game or prank idea. Even now, there was kindness in his saddened, weary eyes as he stepped forward to greet Hadrian as he dismounted.
“Welcome to my estate. May you be blessed while you stay beneath my roof and bless my household with good things.” It was the formal greeting demanded by ceremony, but I could see that he truly meant it as he grasped Hadrian’s left forearm and saluted with his right hand.
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