The Ranger of Marzanna (The Goddess War #1) - Jon Skovron Page 0,44
days that it would bring her great joy if Galina took a romantic interest in Lady Portinari’s son. Lady Portinari’s descriptions of him had sounded promising, but it was surely no difficult task for someone of Lady Portinari’s intellect to guess which qualities Galina would find most pleasing. Besides, as the celebrated playwright Aleksey Kapnist once wrote, “One never truly knows whether a connection of romantic passion is possible until they meet the person’s shadow.” The likelihood of having such an experience at so contrived an event had seemed rather low, so Galina had more or less resigned herself to once again breaking her poor mother’s heart.
But as Galina sat at the long banquet table in the dining hall and scrutinized the blond boy who sat beside her, she wondered if she might spare her mother yet. Sebastian was, if nothing else, a bundle of fascinating contradictions. He shifted constantly between arrogant and humble, awkward and charming, thoughtful and impulsive. He had a slender frame for a man, and with his full rosy lips and pronounced cheekbones, was more pretty than handsome. Some girls might have found such a feminine aesthetic in a man distasteful, but appearing as it did in stark contrast to both his earnest gravity and his intellectual swagger, Galina saw it merely as another facet of interest in what might prove to be the most complicated boy she had ever met.
Vittorio’s boorish generals dominated the dinner conversation, as they usually did. Their faces already flushed with drink, they held forth on any number of topics, from the length, intensity, and tedium of Izmoroz’s winters compared with the vastly superior Aureumian weather, to the inferiority of the Uaine Empire, who they claimed were mere barbarians who had gained what little power they possessed by means of a pact with demons.
“It’s well known,” declared General Bonucci, a bullnecked man with a fringe of sweaty hair atop his shiny scalp. “Necromancy is no human magic. Surely they’ve sold their souls to a pack of demons in exchange for such hideous abilities.”
“Hear, hear!” General Marchisio, a square-headed fellow with a luxurious beard, pounded his fist on the table in agreement.
Assuming what they said was even true, Galina wondered if these men would be so bold to decry such tactics if they knew that before imperial rule, Izmorozians had a long history of making pacts with supernatural creatures that could perhaps be described as “demonic.” Of course, given their prevailing lack of respect for Izmoroz in general, they probably wouldn’t have been concerned about giving offense, even if they had known.
“Gentlemen.” Vittorio’s stern voice broke into their rambling. “While I appreciate your patriotic enthusiasm, I must ask for a certain amount of decorum at Lady Prozorova’s table. If you wish to pound your fists as if you were in the mess hall, you are welcome to go eat in the mess hall. Do I make myself clear?”
Marchisio blanched. “Apologies, Commander.”
“It is not me to whom you owe an apology,” Vittorio said.
“Lady Prozorova, I apologize for getting carried away.” Marchisio lifted his wineglass. “May I drink to your health?”
Inessa blushed like a girl Galina’s age. Not that Galina would have blushed at such a crude show of respect. “You may, General.”
After Marchisio had drunk heartily to Galina’s mother’s health, Vittorio’s third general, Zaniolo, spoke up. Although just as brusque and ill-mannered as the other two, Zaniolo never lost his composure and, of the three, seemed the most intelligent and perceptive by far. His black hair was grown long on one side and plastered across his scalp with hair tonic as if it somehow hid his baldness. But even if he was somewhat deluded on that count, there was little else that escaped his piercing blue eyes.
“If I may be so bold as to inquire, Lady Prozorova,” said Zaniolo, “where is your dear husband? I do so miss his charming anecdotal descriptions of Izmorozian life.”
“I’m sure Sergey would have loved to be here, General, but he had to leave town for a short time,” said Galina’s mother. “Like most men of idleness, he does dote upon his hobbies.”
“Pray, in what hobby does Lord Prozorova indulge?” Zaniolo’s expression was innocent enough, but the hair on the back of Galina’s neck prickled.
“Oh, his beloved preservation of Izmorozian culture,” she said. “Although, to speak candidly, it seems to me he’s merely collecting silly children’s stories.”
Galina inwardly winced. She could not fathom why her father had ever entrusted such sensitive information to her empty-headed mother. Along with