THE LAST SPRING BANQUET
Spring, in the southern provinces of the empire, had always been gentle. It was not the sudden, riotous bloom that overtook the capital after winter's cruel reign. No—here, in the lands under the stewardship of the House of Rong, spring arrived like a poem: with the faintest kiss of dew on orchid leaves, the shy unfurling of petals, and the rustle of silk robes across white-marbled corridors.
The Orchid Pavilion Estate, nestled between a river and a low mountain, had long been praised in imperial records for its refined beauty. Generations of scholars, courtiers, and calligraphers had gathered beneath its willow-shaded verandas to compose verses and sip plum wine under the full moon. Its fame was not merely due to its scenery, but to the people who inhabited it—the House of Rong.
And that year, like every year before, the first full moon of the third month marked the estate's famed Spring Orchid Banquet.
---
Lady Rong Zhaoyan was only seven, but she already knew how to bow gracefully, recite the Book of Songs, and read the brushwork of her grandfather's poetry. Yet that morning, long before the guests arrived, she was simply a child—barefoot in the dew-laden garden, chasing butterflies through the pink mist of magnolia blossoms.
"Zhaoyan, your feet will catch cold," scolded a gentle voice behind her.
It was Yu-mama, her elderly nursemaid, carrying a fresh robe lined with rabbit fur. The girl giggled, her black hair flowing behind her like ink in water.
"But Mama Yu, the butterflies are only awake in the morning!" she argued, hands cupping a soft-winged creature as if it were a jade ornament.
Yu-mama sighed, kneeling to wrap the robe around her young mistress. "Even butterflies rest, my lady. And you must dress for the banquet. The guests will arrive soon."
Reluctantly, Zhaoyan nodded, her almond-shaped eyes gazing longingly at the fluttering wings before she turned and let herself be led back inside.
The corridors of the Orchid Pavilion smelled of fresh bamboo and sandalwood. Eunuchs bustled quietly, laying gold-trimmed mats and setting down trays of crystal sweets and lotus pastries. Maidens in pale blue hanfu flitted about like willows in the wind, adjusting scrolls and plum blossom arrangements.
In the central hall, Lord Rong Shuchang stood watching the preparations with the quiet dignity of a man who had lived through five emperors. His silver hair was neatly tied in a scholar's knot, and his dark robes bore the embroidery of an imperial advisor: twin cranes soaring amidst clouds.
"Is the calligraphy wall set?" he asked one of the junior stewards.
"Yes, my lord. The brushes and inkstones are laid out beside the east veranda. Poet Li from Jianzhou has already sent word that he will compose today's first verse."
Shuchang nodded with faint approval, his aged gaze drifting beyond the veranda toward the pond. The lotus shoots had just begun to peek through the water, shy as girls behind silk fans.
Zhaoyan came skipping in just then, curtsying to her grandfather with a grace far beyond her age.
"I practiced my poem," she announced proudly. "Would you like to hear it?"
"Of course, little orchid," Shuchang said, a rare smile gracing his face.
The girl clasped her hands and stood tall.
"Spring dew falls on orchid tips, Moonlight paints the swan's white hips. A single flute in the breeze replies, To the plum tree's soft goodbyes."
There was a pause, then a quiet clap from Madam Wen, Shuchang's daughter-in-law, who had just entered with her retinue. "Lovely, Yan'er. Your tones are getting better."
Zhaoyan flushed with pride.
Madam Wen was a striking woman—elegant, sharp-eyed, and always dressed in the softest lilac tones. Once a noble from the western provinces, she had married into the House of Rong two decades ago. Though her husband had perished in a border skirmish, she remained in the Pavilion, raising her daughter-in-law's only child as if she were her own.
"Now come," she said to Zhaoyan. "You'll open the banquet with your recital. It's your first time, after all. You must be brave."
---
By midday, the Pavilion was filled with laughter and the clink of wine cups. Courtiers, poets, and visiting officials strolled the shaded gardens and painted terraces, admiring the rare orchids in bloom. There were whispers of politics too—of shifting alliances, of generals being recalled, of eunuchs gaining new power in the inner palace.
But no one dared speak too loud. Not in the Orchid Pavilion.
Zhaoyan stood on the terrace, tiny hands clutching her scroll as she read aloud. Her voice rang like a silver bell, clear and innocent. The guests applauded, some laughing with affection.
But not all eyes were joyful.
One man—a censor from the Ministry of Justice—watched the child with unreadable calm. His robes bore the sigil of the Emperor's inner court. And when he smiled, it did not reach his eyes.
Lord Rong noticed.
So did Madam Wen.
When the sun dipped low behind the mountain, the guests departed with polite bows and verses exchanged. But the Pavilion felt heavier somehow. The spring wind had turned colder.
That evening, as lanterns were lit and the family gathered for tea, a lone horseman arrived at the outer gate. He bore a scroll sealed with vermillion.
The guard who received it turned pale.
And by nightfall, the scroll had reached Lord Rong's hands.
He read it once. Then again. And then he sat very still.
"A decree from the Throne," he said at last. "We are to prepare for inspection. On suspicion of treason."
The room fell silent. Even Zhaoyan, seated with a sweet bun in her lap, looked up.
Outside, a single orchid petal drifted down, landing in the koi pond with barely a ripple.
---
Later that night, after most lamps were extinguished and the Pavilion lay in slumber, a strange hush fell over the estate. Shadows flickered past rice-paper walls, and footsteps padded through servant quarters far past the time any should be awake.
In the study, Lord Rong sat in deep thought, hands resting on the scroll that had shattered their peace. Beside him, Madam Wen quietly refilled his cup with steaming tea.
"The edict was vague," she said. "Yet its arrival on the night of the banquet—it's not a coincidence."
Lord Rong's eyes were heavy. "No. Nor is the silence that followed. Too many old allies refused to meet my eyes today. Some had none of their usual retinues."
He looked out at the garden, where the lanterns had gone out one by one, as if unwilling to witness what came next.
A knock interrupted their murmuring.
It was a trusted steward, face pale as wax. He bowed low, whispering, "Master, two of the guards stationed at the southern gate have disappeared. Their weapons were found, but no trace of blood."
Madam Wen stiffened. "Do you suspect... defection?"
"I suspect betrayal," Lord Rong said grimly. "Someone within."
---
Elsewhere in the estate, a young maid was caught near the storage hall, clutching a small scroll meant for delivery to the prefect's office in town. The steward who found her dragged her into the cellars. Under the flicker of torchlight, the girl confessed—tears streaming, voice trembling.
"The Chancellor's men... they said if I delivered it, they'd grant my brother a post. I—I didn't mean for harm to come..."
By dawn, she was gone. Silenced.
But the ripple she caused did not stop. Rumors slithered like snakes through the estate. Zhaoyan, too young to understand, sensed the fear. Her favorite maid no longer smiled. The guards no longer bowed to her playfully. Servants whispered behind doorways. Once, she heard Yu-mama muttering a prayer under her breath.
"Who would betray Grandfather?" she asked one night, voice small.
Yu-mama said nothing. But her eyes—old and wet with sorrow—said everything.
That night, the Pavilion felt colder than ever.
As the moon rose, round and pale over the Orchid Pavilion, a wind swept through the garden and scattered the petals from their stems. One by one, the orchids fell.
-END OF PART I-