Read Online Fantasyland 02 The Golden Dynasty by Kristen Ashley - Free Book Online
Authors: Kristen Ashley
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slathered it with heavenly smelling
stuff they gouged out of clay bowl, stuff that made my skin feel
divine, took off my jewels and clothes and ran their fingers
through my hair to pull out the gunked up twists. Then they helped
me don an actual nightgown made of pale pink satin (no joke, a
nightgown , it, like the
robe, had slits up the side, thin straps, the skirt to the ankle,
it fit snug at the boobs and hips but it, like the outfit I wore
that day, was awesome ). They
tried to take my turquoise undies but I flatly refused and after a
brief verbal tussle that made no sense to any of us, they gave in,
murmured words that I took as goodnight and left me
alone.
So I climbed in the bed, sat cross-legged in
the middle of it, pulled the silk sheet up to my lap and waited for
my warrior king to come home so I could carry forth my plan to get
a few very important things straight.
And I waited.
Night had fallen and I was usually asleep by
the time he returned so after I waited for awhile I figured I was
in for a long one.
So I looked around the tent, having been in
it for days, I was seeing it for the first time.
The bed was smack in the middle on a painted
blue wooden platform that was probably one foot tall. There was a
mattress, I knew, what it was made of, I didn’t know but it was
thick, tall and soft. It was covered in heavy hides that were also
soft, warm and comfy (the day was hot, the sun shone brightly, but
when it dropped, it got cold). This was covered in a heavy, light
blue silk sheet (which didn’t do much to ward off the cold, I had
discovered, so it was lucky we slept on the fluffy hides). The
pillows didn’t have cases, they were square or rectangular and,
like the big cushions the girls had set outside for Diandra and me,
they were silk, satin and brocade, no tassels or fringe and not in
rich colors but in pastels.
There were heavy-looking trunks lining the
circular tent on one side, all wood, all carved, all with latches
with strong looking locks hanging from them. Some of them were
inlaid with what looked like mother of pearl. Some of them
surrounded by sturdy-looking black iron.
On the other side of the tent, a narrow,
rectangular wood table, also carved, two chairs at each end,
ladderback, cushions on the seats with tassels. There were silver
and copper candlesticks with candles (now burning) of all shapes,
sizes and widths that scattered the top. And against that side of
the tent beyond the table, two short, square chests with
latticework doors and brass latches. In one, I could see a variety
of small to medium-sized clay pots and in the other there was what
looked like pottery or enameled clay plates, bowls and jugs plus
silverware that I already knew was used at the table.
At the back of the tent, a three panel
screen made of wood with a light green gauze hiding what was behind
it from view. This was where the chamber pot was.
Close to the entrance flaps, a small bed of
hides that was at least three feet tall, one hide stacked on top of
the other, a bunch of cushions at its head, a squat, carved, small
round table also at its head, also covered in candlesticks of all
shapes and sizes. A place, maybe, to read (if they had books in
this hellhole) or lounge.
There were more tall candleholders, dozens
of them; these wrought iron, scrolled, all holding thick candles
and dotted around the room, lit. A number of them circled the bed,
not close, not far and at what seemed like random places.
The stone ground was covered with thick,
woven rugs with rough designs on them. They were, I’d experienced,
slightly abrasive on your feet but they were a heckuva lot better
than the stone.
I studied the space.
With night having fallen, the candlelight
dancing, the silks and satins gleaming, the torchlight from outside
glowing against the sides of the tent, I noted that in my world,
this would be an exotic and romantic setting. Comfortable. Inviting
you to relax, lounge and, if you were lucky enough to be
stuff they gouged out of clay bowl, stuff that made my skin feel
divine, took off my jewels and clothes and ran their fingers
through my hair to pull out the gunked up twists. Then they helped
me don an actual nightgown made of pale pink satin (no joke, a
nightgown , it, like the
robe, had slits up the side, thin straps, the skirt to the ankle,
it fit snug at the boobs and hips but it, like the outfit I wore
that day, was awesome ). They
tried to take my turquoise undies but I flatly refused and after a
brief verbal tussle that made no sense to any of us, they gave in,
murmured words that I took as goodnight and left me
alone.
So I climbed in the bed, sat cross-legged in
the middle of it, pulled the silk sheet up to my lap and waited for
my warrior king to come home so I could carry forth my plan to get
a few very important things straight.
And I waited.
Night had fallen and I was usually asleep by
the time he returned so after I waited for awhile I figured I was
in for a long one.
So I looked around the tent, having been in
it for days, I was seeing it for the first time.
The bed was smack in the middle on a painted
blue wooden platform that was probably one foot tall. There was a
mattress, I knew, what it was made of, I didn’t know but it was
thick, tall and soft. It was covered in heavy hides that were also
soft, warm and comfy (the day was hot, the sun shone brightly, but
when it dropped, it got cold). This was covered in a heavy, light
blue silk sheet (which didn’t do much to ward off the cold, I had
discovered, so it was lucky we slept on the fluffy hides). The
pillows didn’t have cases, they were square or rectangular and,
like the big cushions the girls had set outside for Diandra and me,
they were silk, satin and brocade, no tassels or fringe and not in
rich colors but in pastels.
There were heavy-looking trunks lining the
circular tent on one side, all wood, all carved, all with latches
with strong looking locks hanging from them. Some of them were
inlaid with what looked like mother of pearl. Some of them
surrounded by sturdy-looking black iron.
On the other side of the tent, a narrow,
rectangular wood table, also carved, two chairs at each end,
ladderback, cushions on the seats with tassels. There were silver
and copper candlesticks with candles (now burning) of all shapes,
sizes and widths that scattered the top. And against that side of
the tent beyond the table, two short, square chests with
latticework doors and brass latches. In one, I could see a variety
of small to medium-sized clay pots and in the other there was what
looked like pottery or enameled clay plates, bowls and jugs plus
silverware that I already knew was used at the table.
At the back of the tent, a three panel
screen made of wood with a light green gauze hiding what was behind
it from view. This was where the chamber pot was.
Close to the entrance flaps, a small bed of
hides that was at least three feet tall, one hide stacked on top of
the other, a bunch of cushions at its head, a squat, carved, small
round table also at its head, also covered in candlesticks of all
shapes and sizes. A place, maybe, to read (if they had books in
this hellhole) or lounge.
There were more tall candleholders, dozens
of them; these wrought iron, scrolled, all holding thick candles
and dotted around the room, lit. A number of them circled the bed,
not close, not far and at what seemed like random places.
The stone ground was covered with thick,
woven rugs with rough designs on them. They were, I’d experienced,
slightly abrasive on your feet but they were a heckuva lot better
than the stone.
I studied the space.
With night having fallen, the candlelight
dancing, the silks and satins gleaming, the torchlight from outside
glowing against the sides of the tent, I noted that in my world,
this would be an exotic and romantic setting. Comfortable. Inviting
you to relax, lounge and, if you were lucky enough to be
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