The Winged Histories by Sofia Samatar Read Free Book Online Page A

might see freedom in the east at last. At Ashenlo no one spoke of such things: Siski’s guests arrived laughing, their scabbards ringing as they hung them on the wall. They poured in led by Siski who was radiant and triumphant in a pink silk bodice cut low and tight in the arms.
    “This is the informal parlor, the oldest room in the house,” she explained, her face aglow above the rosy silk. She put her hand on a young man’s arm. “Don’t smoke those things, we’ll never get the smell out of the carpets. Let me fill you a nice pipe.” I thought of her as a child, collecting apricots and standing on a stool to watch the jam boil on the big stove, and I thought of her riding Tuik into the desert outside Sarenha and coming back with her hair in tails and her skirt shredded by thorns. She used to be so happy there, especially in the mornings, giggling over her breakfast, making herself choke, then laughing harder. No one could understand her. And Nenya, spooning out the porridge, would say: “Some people eat crow berries during the night.”
    And now, in the evening: her smooth face like a china dish, black brows and lashes starkly painted, a crisp light laugh. “I never did that, did I?” she said, looking around her wide-eyed. “ I don ’t remember, it sounds terrible, not like me.”
    “Do you mean to say you’re not terrible?” said Kai of Amafein, leaning over her chair.
    It was just what she had wanted him to say. Her tinkling laugh, the others closing in on her, the pipe smoke and her bright expectant face looking up at them.
    And I was far away. Sometimes a guest spoke to me—it was clear Siski had told them not to shun me—but mostly I sat by the wall and drank. First we drank Eilami brandy and then we drank mountain wine and gaisk from my father’s cellar. “I knew how it would be,” Siski said bitterly, on one of the evenings—rare after her guests arrived—when she came into my room. “First he says he won’t have anyone and won’t pay for anything. But then he can’t bear to have others pay for it. I told him,” she said, lifting her chin and glaring at the closed door. “I told him, they’ve brought everything from Nauve. If you don’t want us we’ll sleep in the hills.” She was wearing a thin gray shawl and she drew it about her shoulders as though she were cold. Then she gave a hard laugh. “He’s with us now. He can’t help it.” She turned toward me and her face grew soft in genuine amusement. “He’s going to give a party for you. To celebrate your recovery. A garden party with lamps and singers, everything.”
    I said I did not want a party.
    She grimaced fondly and tweaked my hair. “Don’t be silly. Why shouldn’t he give parties for us, if he wants to? I don’t care if he gives us some of his money.”
    “He doesn’t have any money,” I said.
    “Nonsense, where does he get that bolma from, and the wine? No no, don’t be stubborn.” She drew her legs up onto the bed where we were sitting and covered my eyes with her cool hand. “See your party.”
    I took her wrist and pulled her hand away. “He has nothing,” I said. “Do you understand me? Nothing.”
    And on the evening of the party, when the lamps were lit in the garden, she passed with her skirts whispering against the leaves, and with light falling over her shoulders and hair she knelt to give me a glass and grinned and said, “Have a sip of our father’s nothing.” I took the glass and smelled the gaisk; it reminded me of the mountains. In the garden all the voices and laughter were soft. It was not like being inside where the noise became unbearable; the loudness was drawn away and absorbed by the night. The feathery trees swayed above us, hung with round-bellied paper lanterns, and a wooden arch decorated with roses bristled above the musicians. We sat on wicker chairs and smoked. “Look, everything is the color of smoke,” said Siski. Talk and laughter rose in the thin trees. Gastin came