Read Online The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya by Bradley P. Beaulieu - Free Book Online
Authors: Bradley P. Beaulieu
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Galahesh, and that night, they prepared for their welcoming celebration. Atiana stood at the open doors of the grand ballroom. Mileva was already seated next to her husband, Viktor. Ishkyna’s husband would not be present, which was apparently fine with Ishkyna, who was standing next to a man from the envoy’s retinue, a tall courtier with a closely cropped beard and a red silk turban. A ruby medallion with feathers of white decorated the center of the turban, just above his brow. Like many of the courtiers, he wore voluminous pants and a wide cloth belt. The sword hanging at his side seemed similar to those of the streltsi, but it curved more, and the hilt was carved like the head of a falcon, making it appear as if it would be clumsy and unwieldy in battle.
More people filed into the room, mostly relatives, both close and distant, of Atiana’s, but there were others as well: diplomats, officers of the staaya, men and women of business and industry. Father had gone to great lengths, hoping to impress upon the Empire that Anuskaya was no plum ripe for the plucking. But still, he could not be too ostentatious. The day’s events had to be reserved enough to give some sense of how seriously the islands needed the Empire’s assistance.
Atiana hesitated to enter. The memories of Nikandr were still fresh, and over the past few years she had found herself becoming ever more hopeful of some sort of reconciliation between her family and the Khalakovos. When she appeared at functions such as these she often found herself wanting him at her side, escorting her to this grand function. It should have been, she thought. It should have been so long ago.
“The Kamarisi would be pleased.”
Atiana turned to find an Yrstanlan, perhaps thirty years old, standing in the doorway. Unlike so many of the visiting courtiers, he was clean-shaven, and he wore a turban with no feathers—only a simple medallion with an emerald of the deepest, purest green.
“Forgive me,” Atiana said, “but why?”
“In the capital they say Galostina offers little in the way of beauty”—he stared into her eyes, clearly enough to make his point but with a wry smile, as if waiting for some sharp rejoinder—“but it is clear to me now that they were wrong.”
Despite herself, despite thoughts of Nikandr still fading from her mind, she immediately liked him. “I thank you.” She bowed her head and touched her forehead with one hand in the manner of the Empire. “Though I doubt they’ve ever found their way as far as Kiravashya.”
He stepped back and nodded, conceding the point. “Few now ever leave Aleke ş ir. A pity for them; more the pleasure for me.”
“And the Kamarisi, does he ever deign to leave his enclave?”
“He does, but he has many places he must visit.” He tilted his head and shrugged. “Perhaps after this I can convince him to come here.”
“And how would you do that?”
He bowed his head with that same wry smile. “The Kamarisi’s mind is his own, but he listens to the advice of those whom he trusts.”
The man, this elegant aristocrat, became distracted as a group of women in gowns and beaded headdresses filed into the room. As he watched them weave toward their table, Atiana took him in anew. The clothes of all the visiting dignitaries were fine, but his, even if they were a bit understated, were especially so. He wore a silk jacket the color of ivory that perfectly matched his citrine pants and goldenrod belt. The emerald in the brooch pinned to his turban was of a color and clarity that marked it as an imperial stone, one that would be given only to the Kamarisi’s most trusted advisors.
“Were Bahett ül Kirdhash to whisper in my ear, I would listen as well.”
Bahett bowed his head, but did not break eye contact. “To a woman like Atiana Radieva Vostroma, I would do more than whisper.”
“Be careful, My Lord. I am not yet your wife.”
“Your words may be true”—he took her hand and kissed it
More people filed into the room, mostly relatives, both close and distant, of Atiana’s, but there were others as well: diplomats, officers of the staaya, men and women of business and industry. Father had gone to great lengths, hoping to impress upon the Empire that Anuskaya was no plum ripe for the plucking. But still, he could not be too ostentatious. The day’s events had to be reserved enough to give some sense of how seriously the islands needed the Empire’s assistance.
Atiana hesitated to enter. The memories of Nikandr were still fresh, and over the past few years she had found herself becoming ever more hopeful of some sort of reconciliation between her family and the Khalakovos. When she appeared at functions such as these she often found herself wanting him at her side, escorting her to this grand function. It should have been, she thought. It should have been so long ago.
“The Kamarisi would be pleased.”
Atiana turned to find an Yrstanlan, perhaps thirty years old, standing in the doorway. Unlike so many of the visiting courtiers, he was clean-shaven, and he wore a turban with no feathers—only a simple medallion with an emerald of the deepest, purest green.
“Forgive me,” Atiana said, “but why?”
“In the capital they say Galostina offers little in the way of beauty”—he stared into her eyes, clearly enough to make his point but with a wry smile, as if waiting for some sharp rejoinder—“but it is clear to me now that they were wrong.”
Despite herself, despite thoughts of Nikandr still fading from her mind, she immediately liked him. “I thank you.” She bowed her head and touched her forehead with one hand in the manner of the Empire. “Though I doubt they’ve ever found their way as far as Kiravashya.”
He stepped back and nodded, conceding the point. “Few now ever leave Aleke ş ir. A pity for them; more the pleasure for me.”
“And the Kamarisi, does he ever deign to leave his enclave?”
“He does, but he has many places he must visit.” He tilted his head and shrugged. “Perhaps after this I can convince him to come here.”
“And how would you do that?”
He bowed his head with that same wry smile. “The Kamarisi’s mind is his own, but he listens to the advice of those whom he trusts.”
The man, this elegant aristocrat, became distracted as a group of women in gowns and beaded headdresses filed into the room. As he watched them weave toward their table, Atiana took him in anew. The clothes of all the visiting dignitaries were fine, but his, even if they were a bit understated, were especially so. He wore a silk jacket the color of ivory that perfectly matched his citrine pants and goldenrod belt. The emerald in the brooch pinned to his turban was of a color and clarity that marked it as an imperial stone, one that would be given only to the Kamarisi’s most trusted advisors.
“Were Bahett ül Kirdhash to whisper in my ear, I would listen as well.”
Bahett bowed his head, but did not break eye contact. “To a woman like Atiana Radieva Vostroma, I would do more than whisper.”
“Be careful, My Lord. I am not yet your wife.”
“Your words may be true”—he took her hand and kissed it
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