Chapter Twenty-Two: The Grand Ceremony of the Alliance of the Five Kingdoms (Part Two)

After a burst of commotion, the sound of a bronze gong echoed once more. The Minister of Rites announced in a clear voice, “Of the Six Arts, the art of ritual comes first. Princes, please prepare yourselves.”

Each art would have five participants, one prince from each of the five kingdoms.

No sooner had his words ended than Gu Nanyuan, Second Prince of Baixi, Shen Xinan, Second Prince of Beixiao, Fu Chen, Sixth Prince of Nansheng, Changsun Chengjue, Fourth Prince of Xize, and Wan Qi Shu, Third Prince of Dongze, rose together and walked toward the drill ground.

“What do you suppose your lord is doing right now?” Changsun Chenmin asked, his tone utterly languid as he picked up a longan and began peeling it with surprising care.

“He’s probably reading,” answered Su Qingfeng, who stood straight-backed behind him, his reply calm and measured.

“No, I’m sure he’s lying on the ground, hands behind his head, napping,” Changsun Chenmin replied, handing the freshly peeled longan to Su Qingfeng. “Here, just peeled.”

“You keep it for yourself,” Su Qingfeng replied, icy and aloof.

“Don’t read too much into it. I was just curious,” Chenmin shrugged, popping the fruit into his mouth.

Su Qingfeng’s mouth twitched, and he ignored him.

“The Six Arts, the first is the Five Rites. These originally referred to rites for auspicious, inauspicious, guests, military, and celebratory occasions. Today they are tested in conduct, sitting, eating, drinking, and speech.”

Once the Minister of Rites finished speaking, dozens of palace maids and eunuchs began arranging tables four meters from the high platform—three on each side, and one at the front.

Soon, an elderly man, leaning on a cane, was escorted by a woman around forty to the foremost table, where he took his seat. She sat beside him, closest to his left.

The crowd scrutinized the elder: clad in grey robes, his hair streaked white, a long black beard cascading from his chin, which he occasionally stroked. His eyes were vacant and clouded, as if he had long since seen through the world’s affairs.

The woman’s figure was full, her hair coiled behind her head. Though her lips and brows carried a smile, it never reached her eyes, and her coldness was impossible to hide.

Two women dressed as palace maids stood to either side, left hand pressed to their abdomen, right hand atop the left.

Seeing this, the five princes glanced at each other, uncertain of what was expected.

“Second Prince of Beixiao, please,” the Minister of Rites called.

Shen Xinan, after glancing at Mu Chengyan on the platform, stepped forward, his stride neither hurried nor slow, gaze fixed ahead, exuding a dignified bearing.

Before the maids, he extended his hands from his chest outward, performing the return salute.

Someone below cried out, “Those women are mere palace maids! He’s a prince—why salute them?”

“Yes, isn’t that lowering his own status?” another echoed.

Yet the maids, far from flustered by the prince’s sudden gesture, responded with a graceful curtsey, their manner natural and composed.

Shen Xinan moved to the center, bowed, his hands folded one within the other at his chest, and shifted them downward.

“Wait at the side,” the elder commanded, his voice deep, brooking no argument.

“Yes,” Shen Xinan replied respectfully, standing aside, his expression unchanged.

This action further baffled the audience.

“Fourth Prince of Xize, please.”

Changsun Chengjue walked steadily to the maids, pushing his hands forward and slightly downward, performing the earth salute. The maids again responded with a dignified curtsey.

He quickened his pace to the elder, performing a long bow, then stood beside Shen Xinan.

Another round of murmurs swept the crowd. For two princes to offer such respect, surely the elder’s status must be extraordinary.

“Second Prince of Baixi, please.”

The whispers reached Gu Nanyuan’s ears, and he hesitated, glancing around before steeling himself.

Facing the mysterious maids, he thought, “If they’re just ordinary palace maids, won’t saluting them draw ridicule? But if Shen Xinan and Changsun Chengjue both saluted—what if they are important? If I neglect them, I’ll pay dearly.”

Weighing the risks, he performed the earth salute to the maids. The Emperor of Baixi frowned, clearly displeased.

Gu Nanyuan proceeded, bowed to the elder, who regarded him with a meaningful glance and waved him aside.

“Third Prince of Dongling, please.”

Wan Qi Shu and Fu Chen exchanged a glance, Fu Chen smiling and patting his shoulder. Wan Qi Shu nodded and stepped forward, his pace measured.

Having spent much time traveling with Fu Chen, he carried the air of a wanderer, unfamiliar with ritual. The endless rules annoyed him, yet he could not escape them.

He stood upright, arms extended as if embracing a drum, right hand inside, left hand outside, and performed the timely salute to the maids.

He moved with caution to the elder, hands interlaced, left hand outside, palms inward, arms extended before him as if embracing a ring, hands raised to his chin, bowing long and low.

“Sixth Prince of Nansheng, please.”

Fu Chen took a deep breath, straightened his robes, closed his folding fan and tucked it into his sleeve. He walked forward, performing the timely salute as Wan Qi Shu had done. The maids responded with their curtsey.

He then hurried to the elder and performed a long bow.

Once the five had lined up, the Minister of Rites declared, “Sit.”

While waiting, all but Gu Nanyuan—who was preoccupied with thoughts of Bai Qingye—had observed the elder’s posture.

The elder sat on the floor, both knees touching the ground, thighs resting on his heels, posture upright and stern, back straight, eyes forward—perfectly composed.

The five approached the table; Gu Nanyuan followed Fu Chen, Wan Qi Shu, and Changsun Chengjue, circling to a corner of the mat to take his seat.

Shen Xinan stood beside his seat, drawing puzzled looks.

“Humph, what airs. We’ve all sat, why is he still standing?” Gu Nanyuan thought, shifting reluctantly from the center of his mat to its edge like the others.

The elder asked, “Why not sit?”

Shen Xinan bowed slightly, replying, “The mat is not straight, so I cannot sit.”

Indeed, his mat was askew. Mats must be placed properly, their edges parallel to the surroundings, positioned suitably. One does not sit on a crooked mat.

The elder stroked his beard, squinting, a hint of pride hidden in his tone. “Straighten it and sit.”

“Yes.”

Shen Xinan bent to adjust the mat, then sat calmly.

According to ritual, before eating, one’s body should lean back to show respect. Only Shen Xinan and Changsun Chengjue did so; the other three leaned forward.

The elder observed Gu Nanyuan, who sat with torso upright, legs stretched out, feet splayed, and frowned, saying, “You were taught daily by your eldest brother in childhood, yet now you show none of his bearing.”

Gu Nanyuan immediately straightened his posture. One could hardly blame him for his casual attitude—pampered from birth, he’d only learned the basics of ritual, and few dared correct him.

He was never meant to be a refined gentleman; much could not be expected. His privileged mother ensured his status. Comparing him to Gu Qiuci, sacrificed long ago, was nothing new—but to say, face to face, he was inferior to a dead man? That was a blow to his pride, and Gu Nanyuan quietly noted the slight.

The nearly invisible woman clapped her hands, and a group of maids arrived, bearing dishes and jade pitchers.

The arrangement of dishes was meticulous: to the left, cooked meats with bones; to the right, large cuts of cooked meat, wine, and tea; innermost, sauces and condiments; outside, roasted meats; to the right, steamed scallions; dried meats, curved to the left, straight to the right. If fish was served, the tail faced guests; for dried fish, the head faced guests; in winter, the belly faced the right, in summer, the back faced the right…

“Eat.”

No one moved their chopsticks, and two women below whispered behind their fans:

“They’re told to eat, so why aren’t they starting?”

“Don’t be silly! If the host doesn’t move, how can the guests start?”

“Oh…”

“Our ancestors cultivated five grains to nourish the people. We must eat with gratitude,” the elder said, waving his sleeve to signal them.

The five responded in unison, “Yes.”

Changsun Chengjue and Shen Xinan leaned forward, covering their mouths with wide sleeves for each bite, eating only the dishes closest to them.

Gu Nanyuan, Fu Chen, and Wan Qi Shu were polite enough—not drinking soup, not making noise.

They ate with care, silent, not wandering with their chopsticks, not moving them from dish to dish without pause, not poking through the food, not burping or sneezing.

When the elder stopped eating, they immediately set their chopsticks down.

Suddenly, Fu Chen’s chopsticks fell to the ground, and Wan Qi Shu looked at him, worried, while Fu Chen inhaled sharply.

Shen Xinan and Changsun Chengjue remained expressionless; Gu Nanyuan wore a cold smile.

Fu Chen quickly picked them up and set them aside.

The elder spoke, “There are twelve taboos in eating, which must be heeded. First, uneven placement; second, pointing with chopsticks; third, sucking chopstick tips; fourth, tapping bowls and dishes; fifth, searching the plate; sixth, poking through food; seventh, dropping soup with chopsticks; eighth, turning chopsticks upside down; ninth, sticking chopsticks into food; tenth, sticking chopsticks upright in rice; eleventh, crossing chopsticks; twelfth, dropping chopsticks.”

“Yes,” they answered.

At that moment, all eyes fell on Bai Qingye atop the platform, though she remained unaware. She was propping her chin with one hand, the other tapping a fruit plate with her chopsticks, as though she hadn’t heard the elder’s admonition.

“Fourth taboo: tapping bowls and dishes,” Fu Chen reminded, his tone calm, not looking at her.

“Ah?” She stopped, embarrassed, and the blush that had just faded returned to her cheeks.