The Adorned

by John Tristan

  I averted my eyes, deliberately looking at the food on my plate instead of Tallisk. What if he saw, and thought me rude for staring? I was rude, to gape so openly. My cheeks felt hot, even in the comfortable cool of the room. It seemed I had not ceased blushing for hours.

  “Etan,” Isadel said, and I started. She was looking at me, smiling, with her fork half-raised between plate and mouth. “That’s an unusual name.” She took a bite, chewing it slowly and swallowing before speaking again. “Are you Gaelta? You have such fine green eyes.”

  I blinked, taken aback by her compliment, but recovered enough to answer. “I am half so, on my father’s side.”

  She looked between me and Doiran. “I thought that Gaelta did not mark their bodies—that their gods forbade it.”

  “I’m half-Gaelta by blood, but I was raised with Keredy ways. I barely speak Gaelte. Just some songs, really.” Landless now, the Gaelta marked their borders with their language. My father stopped speaking it to me when I was five, mindful that I was picking up his accent. I never heard it from his tongue after that, save when he was dying. Even then, though, in those last awful days, hearing its cadences had been an odd comfort to me. Maybe it was just that he’d used the same tongue to sing my lullabies, once upon a time.

  She lifted her brows. “I did not mean to offend.”

  “I’m not—I didn’t mean—” I bit my lips, looking at Doiran, but he seemed nonplussed. Lowland Gaelta were proud of their tongue, but they still lived among the remnants of long-ago conquest: shattered stone circles, upturned grave mounds and desecrated quarries. Perhaps it was different in the Grey City, where dozens of languages warred and mingled—where the guards would stop Keredy soldiers from kicking in a half-breed boy’s head.

  “No matter,” Isadel said, smiling. “If they are willing, and look the part, any could become Adorned, whether Keredy, Gaelta or even Surammer. Is that not so, Master Tallisk?”

  He made a grunting, noncommittal reply.

  “Speaking of Suramm,” she went on, gesturing animatedly with her fork. “The Count tells me Lord Loren is returned at last from Er Surain. With a new Surammer aide-de-camp in tow.”

  This perked Yana’s interest; she looked up from her plate. “A war captive?”

  “No, a turncoat, or so I’m told. The catamite of a Surammer warlord, nonetheless. And what’s more—”

  Tallisk seemed uninterested in the gossip; he cut off Isadel’s next breath with a request for more wine. She scowled at him, but it seemed in good humor.

  “What did Gandor have to say?” she asked him.

  He snorted. “I think you know. Further displays with your Count to arrange. He is become greedy for you, Isadel.”

  She waved her fork airily. “It gives a chance to be seen. That’s not to be belittled.”

  Tallisk snorted again, and returned to contemplation of his wine-goblet.

  Doiran had poured wine for us all, and I took slow sips of it; it was strong, dry and cold. The rest of the meal was passed in silence. It seemed this was not unusual. I glanced about, as covertly as I could, and surveyed the faces of those around me. Tallisk seemed to ignore me entirely, almost as if he had forgotten I was there at all—or forgotten that I was a newcomer, that I had not always been a fixed feature at his table. Yana and Doiran smiled at me, now and then, as we passed the bread-basket back and forth, but neither attempted to engage my conversation.

  After the one question she’d asked me had been answered to her satisfaction, Isadel seemed to be more of Tallisk’s mind. She poked at her meal with the air of one who had already had all she desired that day, but endeavored to arrange it as if she had eaten more than she truly had. “Excuse me,” she said at last, rising from the table. Tallisk remained seated, still working at his lamb. She departed, presumably to her room. I watched her go; her robes were short enough to display a hint of the scarlet snake-tails tattooed upon her calves.

  Looking at her felt like looking at my future, in a skewed mirror. It made me slightly dizzy. I wished that I could follow her; there were a thousand things I wanted to ask. How was it done, I wondered—what art had made the designs on her skin shimmer and breathe as if alive? And how badly did it hurt, to have such inscriptions made?

  I could not trail her, though; even if she would welcome my prying, which I did not think she would, I would never excuse myself from the table while the master of the house still ate. It spoke to Isadel’s standing in the household, or perhaps merely its unusual habits, that she did without even a murmur of complaint.

  Tallisk polished off his food and downed the last of his wine. I rose as he did, my plate long-emptied. His eyes finally seemed to take me in. “I’ll expect you at first light,” he said to me. “There is much work to be done.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, in a small voice.

  It seemed to satisfy. He left the table and ascended, a little slower in his steps now a full belly weighed him down. Once he had gone, Doiran stood and shooed us out of the dining room.

  “Go on,” he said. “I have to clear up. Why don’t you give Etan a tour of the house, eh?”

  Once in the hall, Yana stuck her thumbs in her pockets and looked me with a sidelong smile. “So, a tour. Would you like that?”

  I shook my head. “You shouldn’t feel—I mean, don’t worry if—”

  “Don’t fret too much. You’ll settle in soon enough. We’re a good house, all in all, and Isadel’s not nearly as high-nosed as she seems. You two will get along just fine, given time.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I merely said, “Thank you.”

  “Now come on, follow me. I’ll show you around. All of us are on the first floor, Master Tallisk on the second, and of course the atelier on the third. And you’ve not seen the library yet.”

  I followed her; true to her word, she gave me a grand tour.

  She took me up the stairs and down the narrow hallway. The carpets were deep and soft, of a rich red-brown color, and everywhere the lights burned. This, it seemed, was not a house concerned with its expenses. In his last year, my father had carefully hoarded his candles, straining his eyes to read by scarce-augmented moonlight.

  “Mistress Keel...”

  She made a face of comical disgust. “Oh, Gods! It’s Yana, if you please. Then I’ll forget you ever called me that.”

  I smiled. “All right—Yana. May I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Isadel—her Adornment—” I groped feebly for words. “Are all Adorned so...”

  “Oh, yes.” Her face had become sober. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Beautiful, and strange.”

  With that, I could only agree. “How is it done?”

  “As to that, you’ll have to ask Master Tallisk. It isn’t something I am privy to. Here we are,” she said, and she halted before a vivid red door. The door to the library, I guessed. It stood ajar; she pushed it open and we stepped inside.

  It was not what I had expected. A library was, to most who could keep one, something ornamental: a pretty display box with two or three shelves of books languishing unread, a writing-desk, and perhaps a harmonium or harp if the masters of the house were musical.

  Here, shelves lined the walls, covering even the windows; only lamps broke the gloom. The requisite desk was awkwardly placed near the room’s center, and on its worktop five or so books were spread out, held open by strange markers: a paintbrush, an empty cup, another book. On the shelves I could see no system of arrangement. They were crammed end to end; massive volumes and thin folios were shoved together side by side. There was a reading sofa, as in most libraries, but to fit in amongst the books it was smaller than a child’s bed, and it had been covered in a ragged throw.

  It was as if I’d stepped into another house—another world, almost. Everything in Tallisk’s house seemed gleaming and precise, but this sprawling mess had only one elegant thing about it: Isadel, sitting on the sofa, a book open in her lap. She looked up at us, half smiling, but did
not rise.

  “Yana,” she said, nodding to us. “Etan. Hello.”

  Yana tipped an invisible hat to her. “Enjoying our evening off, are we?”

  She smirked. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Unlike some, I’m not swimming in leisure time.”

  Isadel made as if to throw her book in Yana’s direction, then grinned. “Would you trade?”

  “And have to spend my time being pleasant with the likes of Geodery Gandor? Blood-servant or not, I’d rather kiss a horse.”

  “You’d rather kiss a horse than any man.”

  Yana pulled a face. “By the gods, Isadel, tell me you’ve not touched lips with Gandor. I might have to scrub you clean if that were the case.”

  She laughed. “The Count would cut his lips off first, key-master or no.”

  “Then I’ll have to raise my opinion of the Count.”

  Their banter only half reached my ears. I was caught by the books, by the bewildering variety of them. Most were Keredy tomes, as expected, but here and there I saw the blocky Gaelte script and the complex glyphs of Suramm. Whoever had collected this library was a connoisseur; there could be no mistaking that. I only wondered whether the collector had been Tallisk, or if he’d inherited it from a master or parent.

  “He likes the books.” I caught Isadel’s low voice. “We’ve got a little scholar on our hands, Yana.”

  Yana chuckled. I swallowed and pulled my shoulders tight, trying to collapse into myself.

  Isadel rose from the sofa. The sound of her garments sliding against the sofa was like a whisper. She closed her book and placed it, facedown, on the writing desk, then walked toward me and put her palm flat on my back. It was a gesture meant to comfort, or to steady. “You can read whichever you like, you know,” she said. “All of them, if you wish.”

  I looked up, all around me, at the rising tide of books, and was suddenly grateful for her hand.

  Chapter Eleven

  I woke to the chirp of birds outside my window; they were singing as if spring had come already. The sun had not yet risen, and the sky was deep grey. I had tossed from dream to dream, though I remembered none now that I’d awakened. The bed felt uncomfortably strange below me, the mattress too firm, the quilt too soft. I felt a bit shameful for thinking so; I knew I’d no cause to complain. It was the bed of a rich man, finer than any I had slept on before. I lay there unmoving, listening to the birdsong, watching the slow change in the quality of the light.

  First light, Tallisk had said. It would be soon, now.

  There was a knock at my door, and I drew the quilt to my chin. “Yes?”

  It was Doiran, carrying a wash-basin in one hand, a covered tray in the other. He kneed open the door, smiling. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” I replied. I felt small, tucked up in my bed; I had not been woken this way since I was a boy and my father had hired a nurse to see to the things he could not fathom about my upbringing. Doiran placed the wash-basin on the bedside table and put the tray on top of my lap. “Eat up,” he said. “Then have a quick wash, and get dressed. Master Tallisk will be expecting you as soon as you’re presentable.”

  “Is he up already?”

  Doiran laughed. “As far as I can tell, he’s not yet gone to sleep.”

  I uncovered the tray, and the scent of fresh bread and fruit preserves coiled up to me. I went at it with an unexpected hunger; Doiran poured a cup of tea.

  “Is there anything else you need?”

  I shook my head and swallowed a piece of bread. “No, thank you.”

  “Then I’ll go.” He wiped his hands on his apron. “I’ve laundry to do and a goose in the oven for tonight. Leave the tray on the table when you’ve done, and I’ll come to collect it later.”

  “Wait!” I called out, as he was half out the door. “Who will take me up to Master Tallisk?”

  “Just go the atelier and knock on the door,” Doiran said. “This isn’t the most ceremonious of houses. He won’t care in the least.”

  I merely nodded. It was not a question of etiquette that twisted fearful knots in my stomach.

  I finished my breakfast swiftly and washed myself with great care. I almost wished that I could have another bath, before going up to the atelier to present myself. I contented myself by taking pains to arrange my appearance, picking the best-looking clothes from the wardrobe and using the comb Doiran had included with the wash-basin to run through my hair until it was soft and gleaming. I nodded at myself in the small mirror on the wall. I looked well enough. I would have to do, in any case.

  With slow, unsure steps, I ascended. The house was quiet all through, save for the sound of my footsteps. The door to the atelier was open; Tallisk stood by his worktable. The desktop was a mess of papers, brushes, books. He seemed deep in thought, hunched over as if at some delicate work, though his hands were simply spread on the table. I coughed softly and knocked upon the doorframe, as I had seen Yana do.

  He turned to me. “Come in. Close the door behind you.”

  I did as he told; I was alone with him now.

  He stepped away from his desk and circled me a few times, frowning. “You are settling well?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He paused and thoughtfully touched the line of my jaw; I started, but he did not seem to care. “Take off your clothes.”

  I took an audible breath. “Should I strip entire, sir?”

  He hesitated a moment. “No. You can keep on your undergarments. Put your clothes here,” he said, gesturing to a large tasseled cushion thrown into a corner.

  I made an awkward bow and began taking off my clothing, folding each garment neatly and placing it on the cushion. Tallisk in his turn went around the room and drew aside the curtains he’d drawn over the windows. With the gauze still in place, they were cunningly designed to provide privacy while allowing in the bright morning light. The light was warm and entire, with no beams of shadow across my nearly-nude body.

  My mouth was dry. Would this be the day I had my first ink put on me? I had not seen any of Tallisk’s designs yet, but then, why would he need to show them to me? He did not need my approval. “What should I do?”

  “Remain as you are.” He took a leather folio from the desktop and untied its cover; it contained fresh, blank pages. He had a thin pencil tucked behind one ear, which he now took out. He circled me, an intent grimace on his face, and every now and then he dashed a line down upon the paper. I tried not to follow his motions, to remain still, though I was not used to it and felt my arms and legs tremble with the effort. Tallisk continued his inspection a while, then licked the end of the pencil and drew some lines upon my skin with it—curves and right angles, a bare touch of grey. It was as if a bony finger, or a dull tooth, were being raked across me. “Right,” he muttered to himself, “right.”

  I remained still as he made more sketches upon his pad, shuffling the papers until some ten or more were filled with quick-drawn lines. “Lift your head,” he said. He traced the line of my jaw, the curve of my neck—first with the dull end of his pencil, then with the calloused tip of his finger. I kept my head high, and he accorded the same treatment to my shoulders. When he was done, he rapped them with the pencil, quite hard. “How do you bleed?”

  I was speechless for a moment. Then I asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Each man bleeds different. How long does it take you to clot, after a wound?”

  “I do not know,” I answered, honestly. I had never bothered to track the time I took to heal.

  “We’ll find out then,” he said, and he retrieved a small lacquered box from the table.

  “Find out?” I went cold. He could not mean what I thought he did.

  “Find out,” he repeated, and he snapped open the lacquered case. Inside, there lay a sharp and gleaming little blade. “Hold still.”

  “Sir...” I said weakly, and he paused the blade, an inch from the soft flesh of my shoulder.

  “You’ll fee
l worse pain from my needles.” It sounded as if he’d meant to reassure. “I am sorry, but before you are tattooed, I need to see how you bleed.”

  He was right, and I nodded, but I could not stop myself from shaking. He held me still, as he sliced three short, thin lines into my skin. In a moment, it was over; it had hurt less than his hand on me.

  I turned my head to watch the blood slowly trickle down my arm, the three trails snaking and winding around each other, first warm, then cooling and turning thick and viscous. After a minute or so, Tallisk seemed satisfied. He took from the same lacquered box a strip of white cotton, and mopped up the red drops. A dull pink streak was left, spanning from my shoulder to just above my elbow.

  “You bleed well,” he said, and touched a gentle hand to the wound. “There will be no problem there.”

  I nodded, feeling slightly queasy.

  “I won’t touch needle to your flesh before you gain some courage, though. I can’t have you flinching.”

  I wanted to feel offended by his words, to defend my courage, but the sinking feeling in my belly robbed any honest effort to do so. I could not help it: the thought of pain frightened me. I said nothing; I stood still, and despite the warmth of the sun on my skin I felt cold.

  “I will need time, in any case, to think on your design,” he continued. “I will arrange that you watch me work on Isadel.”

  I sucked in a breath. I had been hoping to sport my first ink before nightfall, but whatever disappointment I felt at that vanished at knowing he would let me watch him work. Trying to suppress my excitement, I nodded to him. “May I get dressed?”

  He made a careless gesture toward my clothes. “Go ahead.”

  As I dressed, I glanced over at the sketches that Tallisk had made. They were of me, there was no gainsaying it. His simple bold lines had captured the outlines of my back, my shoulders, my legs, the pooled shadows between my thighs. The sketches of me were still bare, a blank canvas. I wondered if he had sketches such as this of Isadel. He must have. Had there been more than her? Tallisk was in his middle years, and he would have been apprenticed at twelve or younger if what I knew of tattooists’ ways was correct. It was a long term of study, but he must have had quite a few years of mastership before Isadel had come to him.