The Gantean (Tales of Blood & Light Book 1) by Emily June Street
Authors: Emily June Street
Ads: Link
away from the sights. “It smells so awful I wonder why the Galatiens permit it to exist?”
We passed run-down shanties made from scavenged materials—metal and rotting wood, mostly—with sometimes only fabric to cover doors and windows. Not even Queenstown had prepared me for such a crowd, and I did not regret being hidden inside the carriage with Ghilene. Beggars reached eager hands as we passed, shouting and waving for notice. I had never seen people so destitute before—in Gante no one was left behind in this way.
Two routes led up to the High City, both equally impressive. A straight stair formed a direct route for pedestrians, while a road for vehicles etched hairpin turns up the steep incline. The road traffic moved slowly as larger carriages negotiated the sharp turns. I studied the view of Galatien Province’s rolling green hills, so different from Entila’s rocky terrain or Gante’s stark tundra. This province was lined with farmlands and dotted with healthy trees and shrubs. When we arrived on the plateau that supported the High City, guards dressed in grey and gold escorted us through a network of streets line with buildings made from a pale white stone to the Crystal Palace itself.
Though I had read descriptions of it in Tiercel’s books, words could not do the sprawling Crystal Palace justice. Its massive walls created a hex-shaped perimeter, girded by six enormous pillars of crystal.
Ghilene pointed at the rose-colored crystal column. “The mages who founded the High City brought the pillars from far away.”
From Gante . Every Gantean knew the troubled history of those pillars. Stolen from Gante by the Lethemians centuries ago, they had created the original rift between Iksraqtaq and sayantaq.
Lady Entila exited her carriage on the arm of her white-cloaked mage while Culan Entila helped his sister from hers. A gilded door unfolded from the Palace walls at our approach.
The guards led us into a spacious receiving atrium. As soon as we entered weall bowed deeply out of respect for the presence of the King, though I felt odd giving such honors. In Gante we revered only the Cedna above any other. We had no important lineages or families, and blood relationships meant nothing to us. Iksraqtaq considered blood special only because it fed the Hinge.
Welcoming conversations floated around me, but I paid little attention. Instead I observed the dazzling sights that assaulted me from every direction: long velvet drapes that ran the twenty spans from ceiling to floor, mirrors as big as the fishing nets I once wove, ornate chairs so padded in silk and pillows I could barely discern their shape.
“Be welcome, cousins.”
I peeked up to catch a glimpse of Lethemia’s king. Tiercel had mentioned him more than once during my training. Mydon I Galatien represented the least of the sights here, a man of medium height with thick golden hair worn Lethemian-style, unbound to the shoulders. His facial hair—an unusual feature for a southerner—pointed into a close-trimmed beard and moustache.
He exchanged bows and formalities with Lady Entila and her mage, though neither of the Entilan children stepped forward to participate, so I stayed back, holding up the cumbersome train of Ghilene’s green dress so she could move freely. All through our approach to the Palace she’d fretted about tripping on the thing, telling me exactly how I must manage the fabric. My own simple dress had no such hazards.
“Here are my sons, Prince Costas and Prince Adrastos,” Mydon Galatien announced generally. The elder prince stepped forward to shake Culan Entila’s hand.
As I peeked up at the Galatien sons, an almost physical rope of sensation tugged below my chest , as though my insides were yanked out through my navel, stolen, like my breath, by the prince in white above me.
“Be welcome.” The prince took Ghilene’s hand, bringing it to his lips. He had bronze skin and equally bronze hair, cut much shorter than
We passed run-down shanties made from scavenged materials—metal and rotting wood, mostly—with sometimes only fabric to cover doors and windows. Not even Queenstown had prepared me for such a crowd, and I did not regret being hidden inside the carriage with Ghilene. Beggars reached eager hands as we passed, shouting and waving for notice. I had never seen people so destitute before—in Gante no one was left behind in this way.
Two routes led up to the High City, both equally impressive. A straight stair formed a direct route for pedestrians, while a road for vehicles etched hairpin turns up the steep incline. The road traffic moved slowly as larger carriages negotiated the sharp turns. I studied the view of Galatien Province’s rolling green hills, so different from Entila’s rocky terrain or Gante’s stark tundra. This province was lined with farmlands and dotted with healthy trees and shrubs. When we arrived on the plateau that supported the High City, guards dressed in grey and gold escorted us through a network of streets line with buildings made from a pale white stone to the Crystal Palace itself.
Though I had read descriptions of it in Tiercel’s books, words could not do the sprawling Crystal Palace justice. Its massive walls created a hex-shaped perimeter, girded by six enormous pillars of crystal.
Ghilene pointed at the rose-colored crystal column. “The mages who founded the High City brought the pillars from far away.”
From Gante . Every Gantean knew the troubled history of those pillars. Stolen from Gante by the Lethemians centuries ago, they had created the original rift between Iksraqtaq and sayantaq.
Lady Entila exited her carriage on the arm of her white-cloaked mage while Culan Entila helped his sister from hers. A gilded door unfolded from the Palace walls at our approach.
The guards led us into a spacious receiving atrium. As soon as we entered weall bowed deeply out of respect for the presence of the King, though I felt odd giving such honors. In Gante we revered only the Cedna above any other. We had no important lineages or families, and blood relationships meant nothing to us. Iksraqtaq considered blood special only because it fed the Hinge.
Welcoming conversations floated around me, but I paid little attention. Instead I observed the dazzling sights that assaulted me from every direction: long velvet drapes that ran the twenty spans from ceiling to floor, mirrors as big as the fishing nets I once wove, ornate chairs so padded in silk and pillows I could barely discern their shape.
“Be welcome, cousins.”
I peeked up to catch a glimpse of Lethemia’s king. Tiercel had mentioned him more than once during my training. Mydon I Galatien represented the least of the sights here, a man of medium height with thick golden hair worn Lethemian-style, unbound to the shoulders. His facial hair—an unusual feature for a southerner—pointed into a close-trimmed beard and moustache.
He exchanged bows and formalities with Lady Entila and her mage, though neither of the Entilan children stepped forward to participate, so I stayed back, holding up the cumbersome train of Ghilene’s green dress so she could move freely. All through our approach to the Palace she’d fretted about tripping on the thing, telling me exactly how I must manage the fabric. My own simple dress had no such hazards.
“Here are my sons, Prince Costas and Prince Adrastos,” Mydon Galatien announced generally. The elder prince stepped forward to shake Culan Entila’s hand.
As I peeked up at the Galatien sons, an almost physical rope of sensation tugged below my chest , as though my insides were yanked out through my navel, stolen, like my breath, by the prince in white above me.
“Be welcome.” The prince took Ghilene’s hand, bringing it to his lips. He had bronze skin and equally bronze hair, cut much shorter than
Similar Books
