by John Tristan
Then Dayon took my coat, and I was revealed. I thought that after Isadel’s Adornment, mine could only be anticlimactic, but I heard gasps and murmurs as my shoulders were bared. I wished for a moment I could see myself through their eyes. Even Dayon lingered a moment too long; I felt his eyes on me, sure as if his gaze were solid.
“Dayon,” the Count said, “please make sure all is in readiness here. And sound the hours. We shall go into the gardens now, and meet our guests.”
Chapter Nineteen
Dayon vanished, taking our cloaks with him. A bell rang, sounding the hour, steady and low as a witch’s drum. Count Karan beckoned us closer. He slipped an arm around each of us, encircling our waists; I felt the slow play of his fingers on the small of my back, cool as water. A bare echo of the twinned heartbeat I had felt when he had brought my Adornment to life whispered over my skin, then was gone. The Count had not seemed to notice it at all.
“Helsin,” Isadel whispered—she used the Count’s name, I noted with a small shock—“what are we to do with your guest?”
“With Haqan?” He laughed softly. “You need do nothing. Just be your lovely selves.”
The Count led us out into the gardens. Lights had been hung about the trees, burning with cold green flame; they were firefly lights, made of the heatless fire that only Blooded magic could kindle. I had read that you could bathe in those eerie flames and step out unharmed—not that I wished to risk it.
Then, within the tinkling music, there was a bell that rung a higher note, and the sound of a happy bustle. The gates were opening; the guests were here.
The gathering was not formal. No cryer sounded their entrance, no supper would be had. It seemed the elect, of the Blood and the Sword both, felt no need for such formality. They moved with assured grace, plucking morsels of food and crystal glasses from delicately proffered trays.
Some of them—Sword-nobles, who had won their acclaim in battle—wore openly the tattoos of their rank, marking victories on their skin like lovely scars. I wondered if Tallisk had inked any of them—or, indeed, any of the Adorned who accompanied them. Those stood tall and proud, men and women whose skins swirled with subtly moving colors, with a drop of sacred Blood inked in each design. Some wore little save loincloths; others were draped in robes that cunningly showed flashes of their tattoos.
Then I spotted the guest of honor: he was easy enough to pick out of the crowd, with applause springing up around him like mushrooms. The Count took notice and steered us toward him, one on each side of him like an honor guard.
“Haqan!” His voice called out, clear as the bell that rang the hours, and he smiled at his guest.
“Your Grace.” Haqan Loren bowed to the Count. He was a tall, trim Southern man, with dark hair going grey at his temples and the edges of his beard—a noble of the Sword through and through. He bore a vague resemblance to Tallisk, I thought, though his skin was darker, his features sharper and more peregrine. “My thanks for the feast.”
“It is for you, dear Haqan.” The Count released us to clasp his guest’s arms; his hands were pale and small against Lord Loren’s muscles. Still, Loren near-winced under his grip.
The Count released him, smiling his fox smile. “May I introduce to you Isadel and Etan writ-Tallisk? They are displayed to celebrate your feast day.”
Loren smiled at that, thin-lipped but sincere. “Writ-Tallisk? I’ve heard the name. Was your master not apprenticed to Deino Meret?”
It seemed that Count Karan neither knew nor cared about this fact, but Isadel confirmed it, with a pretty bow. “Yes, my lord.”
“He gave me this.” He tapped at his wrist. There was a tattoo there, a black apple, encircled by a spiked coronet. It was a martial mark, though I did not know its meaning. Loren circled us with slow steps. “Lovely. And I note the colors.” His smile flickered toward the Count. “You have outdone yourself on my account, Your Grace.”
He waved a hand, airily dismissive. “Think nothing of it.”
Loren chuckled. His eyes, then his hands, were on me, resting lightly on my green-inked shoulders. It felt strange. The only hands to touch me there had been Tallisk’s and the Count’s. “You are barely needle-touched, aren’t you—Etan, was it?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Still in your early days, then?”
“A little over a season, my lord,” Isadel said.
He favored me with a smile. “I’ll look for you again, then, when you’re nearer completion.”
I bowed to him, murmuring my thanks.
The Count beamed. “You like them, then?”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“Good.” He slid an arm around Lord Loren’s waist. “I am glad to be the agent of your joy. Now come. We must circulate.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Isadel, I will see you when the moon’s apex is sounded. Until then...enjoy the celebration. Beautify my gardens. Isadel, you will take care your young coeval does not overindulge?”
“I do not think,” Isadel said, patting my shoulder, “that Etan is the sort of boy who gets in the drink at first chance. Are you, Etan?”
“No,” I said, soft-voiced.
“Good,” he said. “The appeal of an artwork that entirely drains one’s cellars is limited.” With that proclamation, he left us, weaving himself and Lord Loren into the crowd. A moment later, his rich laugh could be heard.
Isadel looked me over. “You look as if you could use a glass, though.”
I licked my lips. They were bone-dry. “Do you think I could sit down a moment?”
“Come on.” Isadel seized my wrist. Sofas had been arranged throughout the gardens, in shadowy corners under the largest trees. As we searched for an empty one, I saw eyes on us: the eyes of the Blooded, gleaming green in the dark like firefly lights. My own eyes were lightless, the color of moss. Theirs, it was said, shone with the glory of the gods, their long-distant ancestors. They had lent me some of that glory—I had the Count’s Blood, making the ink on my skin dance—but I thought it was a pale substitute for their inborn grace.
“You become used to it,” she said.
I laughed. “You do?”
“Believe it or not.” She snatched a glass from a nearby servant’s tray and proffered it to me. I drank it, slowly; it was sweet as juice but with a burn. “This is your first display. The Count shall expect you to stare and stumble a bit; it’s part of your charm.”
“Oh, thank you,” I said, a little sour.
She smiled. “For now, at least. No one is adept at their first try, Etan. You’ll need no artistry to impress. Not with the way you look.”
I looked at her sideways. “Do you mean that?”
“Never ask that of a compliment.”
“I must have pretty skin at least,” I said. The drink must have loosened my tongue. “Or Ta—Master Tallisk would not have bought my bond.”
She pursed her lips, considering. “Pretty skin is not uncommon. He must have seen something more in you. You were not nearly the first to be brought to him by some bond-broker with an eye.”
I looked up at her. “How many others?”
“In the last year? Four or five that I know of. Some more beautiful than you, to my eyes.”
“You know how to cheer someone.”
She lifted a brow. “Well, you are smiling.”
She was right: I was. A warmth had spread in my chest, and I could not entirely blame the liquor. “Thank you,” I said.
“I am going to mingle,” she said, rising. “You can stay here, if you wish, or do the same. When the apex is sounded, come inside. I will find you.”
“What should I do if anyone speaks to me?”
“Well, answer them! You know how to talk, don’t you?” At my expression, she sighed, rolling her eyes. “Treat them as you do Tallisk. You are courteous enough with him.”
“But they are nobles!”
“They are less your master than he, despite their rank.”
There was truth in this, and
a comfort that I clung to. I nodded to her and watched her part the crowd around her with her mere presence, drawing the touch of both eyes and hands upon the coiling snakes that rested on her skin.
“She is quite a work of art, no?” came a voice behind me. I turned; it was Lord Loren himself. “Of course, so are you.”
I rose and bowed to him. “S-sir.”
“There’s no need to stutter on my account.” Out of the Count’s sphere, he seemed more at ease. A grin showed his white teeth. One at the front was cracked. “Not with all these nobles of the Blood about; you’ll swell my head with your shyness.”
“It is your feast, my lord.”
He laughed. “It is Karan’s feast, in truth. I’ve merely given him a convenient opportunity to show off.” He seized the half-full wineglass from my hand and set it down. “Dance with me, young Etan?”
I swallowed. “Of course, my lord.”
He dragged me to a clearing in the garden surrounded by musicians. Others, Blooded and their companions, were already dancing, swaying to the gentle beat. I had not been prepared for this. I had never danced before in my life—thankfully, his lead was strong enough to carry my fumbling steps.
We spun around the clearing. The grass was soft and cool under my bare feet.
“Are people watching us?” he whispered in my ear.
It took only a glance to confirm it. They were: curious eyes, glowing in the dim. I nodded.
“Mark them well,” he said. “You’ll no doubt be requested to display by them.”
“And by you, my lord?” It was a bold thing to say, but I felt bold, suddenly. Perhaps it was the wine, though I’d barely had a drop.
He laughed; it seemed my boldness pleased him. “By tradition only the Blooded may display the Adorned; they belong to them. Yet a Blooded lord has been known to grant certain privileges to his Sword-nobles. So...we shall see, Etan writ-Tallisk. We shall see.”
Certain privileges... I wondered if all the Sword-nobles who had brought Adorned along tonight had begged permission from their Blooded lieges to display their inked guests—or if the Count had issued some sort of blanket proclamation so that his feast would be the most beautifully attended.
The song came to a finish, and the dancing ceased. The musicians bowed to our soft applause.
“Thank you for the dance,” Lord Loren said. “Come, sit with me.” He pulled me onto one of the couches, and I came up hard against his shoulder. I stammered an apology; he did not seem to care. “I must say Karan has an eye for beauty. And for skill—though I might flatter myself with that.” He turned up his hands; his palms were thickly callused, a warrior’s hands. “After all, he lifted me to Sword-noble after the Battle of Tai Rock.”
“Tai Rock...” I frowned. “In the bandit wars?”
He nodded. “Twenty-five years ago, nearly.” He cast a wry smile in the Count’s direction. He was whirling Isadel about the clearing to the rhythm of a cheerful reel. “And he’s not aged a day since then, curse his burning veins.”
There was a high, clear sound, like a bell, or a single note from a master-singer’s throat. The moon was high above us already, standing at its apex. It was time to leave the gardens.
“Ah.” Lord Loren stood. “I think we are required inside.”
I bowed to him. “We celebrate your feast day, my lord.”
“Mm, yes.” He smiled and pressed his lips to the back of my hand. They were warm and rough. “I am sure I will see you again, young Etan. One way or another.”
Chapter Twenty
When the last of the bells had rung and the last guests had left, the Count remained on his couch—I on one side of him, and Isadel on the other—and summoned drink after drink. Where they went, I was not quite sure, as he seemed untouched by inebriation. There was a bright edge to his smile and to his eyes—that was all.
Servants busied about us, tidying, removing the decorations. He watched them at their business. “Did you enjoy the feast?” he asked; his hand was at Isadel’s neck, toying with her hair.
“As always,” she said.
“It is not over yet.” His hand closed hard in her hair, pulling her head back. She hissed softly. I saw one of the petals at her throat, very red. The Count closed his teeth on it in a slow and vicious kiss.
His other hand was suddenly on me, on my thigh, his grip hard. He wanted to make sure I was watching.
He released her. The petal was redder; his bite-marks were vivid around it. Isadel shifted on the sofa, trying to compose herself.
“Come,” the Count said, and he stood. “Come with me.” He led us out of the empty hall. The servants had melted away, unobtrusive. We moved through a weave of corridors. The Count laughed and seized my wrist. His eyes sparkled.
He flung open the doors to his bedchamber. It was massive, truly massive, and the ceiling was arched like a temple, or a cave. A fire blazed high in the hearth, and firefly lights were strung around the posts of a bed so large it could sleep a family entire. The canopy was of white silk sewn with red jewels. It fluttered down over the bed like bloodied snow.
Isadel walked to the bed and lay down upon it as if it were her own. She lifted one leg so it parted the slit of her skirt. The Count took one foot in his hand and kissed it, his tongue tasting the tail-tip of her snake Adornment. The snake’s head on her shoulder closed its eyes in lazy pleasure.
I stood back, watching—I could not help but watch. My throat was dry and my heartbeat echoed in every vein.
“Come here, Etan. Come here.” The Count beckoned me closer. I sat down upon the bed; Isadel moved back. I felt her shifting on the blankets.
The Count kneeled before me. His breathing had gone soft and shallow. His fingers slid from my calves up to my hips, underneath the ties of the breechclout. His hands were deft, graceful as a harpist’s—and cold. The leaves inked on my arms shivered and unfurled at his touch.
“You are a lovely boy,” he said. “The Lord of Stars is your true patron, Etan, as he is of all beautiful things. Never forget that.” He smiled, as if enjoying a private jest. “Your patron, yes, and my ancestor. You could say that makes a bond between us, as sure as that of my Blood.”
He slid the breechclout down my legs. My heart was hard and loud within me; I felt it pulse in each line of my Adornment. He tossed the breechclout aside carelessly, and left me stark naked. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Look at that,” he said. “Lovely.”
The way he spoke, so soft-voiced, so complimentary, made me smile despite myself. It made me like him a little more. I still felt strange, though, in this bed, with his cool hands on me. Isadel and her snakes watched us with dark-eyed, brooding patience.
In the end it did not matter, though. His touch was deft enough to rouse me.
“Ahhh,” he said, “do I not do good work?”
He moved over me, parting my legs gently, and lowered his mouth. I made a high noise, almost a squeak, and heard Isadel laugh softly. I screwed my eyes shut, skin hot.
“Don’t laugh at him,” the Count said. “He is a modest boy.”
He returned to his work. A bolt of sensation went through me, sharp and sweet, and I felt the Count murmur with satisfaction through the conduit of my skin.
Then he withdrew for a moment. I held very still. “Isadel?” the Count said.
“I am here, Your Grace.”
“Will you grant him his modesty?” I heard the rustle of Isadel’s skirts as she rose—saw her circle the bed, closing the canopy around us. The light went hazy, studded with glints of crimson. The Count bent down over me and trailed a kiss down my neck. His shirt had come undone, baring his smooth chest. I closed my eyes and felt his fingertips gently brush my lashes.
“No,” he said. “Keep your eyes open.”
I did. I watched him, his own eyes the brightest thing in the subtle dark. He moved over me, parting my legs gently, and licked his long fingers. Hot and slickened, his deft fingers slid against me, into me. I swallowed, adjusting myself.
“Am I hurting you, Etan?”
“N-no.”
“Tell me, if I am.”
“I will.”
“Good.” He was more forceful now. He moved slightly; his other hand clenched around me. “I can feel your heart beating there,” he said, and he laughed delightedly.
It seemed to go on for an age, that twinned touch—then he ceased, grinning. I shivered. No wonder he had felt my heart beating; it seemed so loud it encompassed me. He caught my gaze, his vulpine eyes gleaming. “Are you ready?”
I nodded to him, and he smiled. For a moment he drew back, shedding the remnants of his clothes. Then, he moved atop me. I saw he was smooth between his legs, smooth as if shaved—and hard as a branch. He held my legs in his hands and came into me; there was an instant of something like pain.
“There,” he whispered, and his eyes went distant. My arms wrapped around his shoulders; I felt his muscles move under my hands, taut and wiry. I felt pulled taut myself, plucked like a harp string. My breath came in shallow gasps. His hand tangled in my hair.
For a hallucinatory moment, I did not see his firefly eyes: in my mind’s eye, I saw dark blue and starless black, and I bit my lip against crying another’s name.
Then the moment was gone, and the Count looked down on me with a satisfied smile. He held my eyes for a while, then lifted himself away from me and sat on the edge of the bed. “Thank you,” he said. “I’d not had a boy such as you in far too long.”
I could not quite think of what to say, so I lowered my eyes and nodded my regard.
He stood up, pulling open the canopy. I watched him. He was beautiful, I thought, but now that he had left me I saw more clearly the remoteness of him; whatever still connected us had fled when he took his hands from me. He moved without a whisper, padding across the room like a cat. He touched Isadel’s chin. “Bathe me,” he said.
She had been waiting, kneeling. She rose, graceful, and took up a silver basin. She poured clear water from a glass ewer and took a white cloth, dipping it into the water. She slowly trickled the cool water over the Count’s skin, washing him, wiping away the sweat of exertion. He made a sort of purring sound, rolling his neck and shoulders.