The Adorned

by John Tristan

  “What’s on your mind, Etan?”

  Loren’s voice came unexpected, and I started. “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “You looked so thoughtful, there.”

  I looked down at the plush carpet. “I was only thinking that being Adorned is different from what I expected.”

  “What had you expected?”

  I laughed softly. “Truly, I do not know. Only that it is not this.” I wonder if it was the liqueur that loosened my tongue.

  He gave me a curious look. “Do you know how it began? The tradition of Adornment?”

  I shook my head. It was not something that Tallisk had seen fit to share with me, if indeed he cared for such history at all.

  “It was a mark the Blood Kings put on those they cherished.” He pulled up his sleeve and showed me his own tattoo, his mark of distinction. “Like mine, you could say, as well as yours, but multiplied exponentially. It was a sacred bond, equal parts of ink and Blood—a contract, and a vow.”

  I sucked in a breath. One drop of the Count’s blood mixed with the ink of my Adornment had sufficed to make the very lines come alive on my skin—and to make me feel his heartbeat as my own when he had touched me. What had it done to the Blood Kings’ chosen to be so blessed, so claimed?

  Lord Loren rolled his sleeve back down. “Now, of course, we nobles of the Sword must make do with ordinary ink, and the Adorned are cherished for the mark rather than the marked. The Council does not make blood-vows; that was the privilege of kings.” He subsided and smiled. “But that is all the dusty past, isn’t it? As so much is.”

  For a moment, all was quiet. A soft rain had started to fall, pattering on the tower roof.

  “Come here a moment,” he said, beckoning me to follow.

  He went into his bedroom, where a fire was burning, low and dim. I halted in my tracks for a moment, unsure, but Lord Loren laughed.

  “I am not going to throw you atop my blankets like a battlefield catamite, Etan. I only want to show you something.”

  I went. He lit the lamps; Loren preferred to do things with his own hands, I had noticed. He’d cut the roast suckling pig and poured wine for his guests, of Blood and Sword both. Now he carefully trimmed the wicks where it was needful, and made sure each lamp glowed bright and golden.

  “There,” he said when he had finished. Then he pointed to a tapestry hung above his bed. “Do you know what that is?”

  I stepped closer. The tapestry showed a valley, gently sloping, carved by the track of a wide, white river. In the valley there was a castle in the ancient style, low and fortress walled. A town surrounded it, clinging to the castle walls like a nest of cubs nursing at their mother’s side. The sun wheeled yellow-white overhead, crossed by a dark flock of birds.

  “Is it a Southern city, my lord?”

  He nodded. “Perayan. Where I was born. Where my family still lives.”

  It was a beautiful place, though it seemed small compared to the Grey City. That thought sent a little shock through me. All of Lun could have fit inside the palace courtyard; I had no right to call Perayan small.

  “I should be there,” he said.

  I said nothing, only watching him. He half reached toward the tapestry, as if he could step inside it, as if it was a gate to his home. Then his hand dropped, and he shook his head.

  “Do you know why we went to war with Suramm, Etan?”

  I opened my mouth, then shut it without speaking. The war had been far away from us, in Lun; there had been vague rumors of broken promises and border raids, but that was all. I did the most honest thing I could and shook my head.

  Lord Loren chuckled. “You know, neither do I. And even now that we have laid down our swords, I find that I cannot go home. There is the long business of peacemaking to be done—who gets what parcel of contested land, who owes blood debt to whom. War might be a bloody business, but at least it is always simple.” He sighed. “I imagine Suramm will send an ambassador to pick at our treaties, soon. And for that, I must remain here.”

  “An ambassador?”

  He nodded. “You will be called for that as well, I imagine. If not by Count Karan, then by one of his cronies.”

  Like you. I bit my lip on the unflattering thought.

  He turned away from the tapestry, frowning. For a brief, mad moment I thought that he had caught my unspoken words, but his eyes were distant, and I realized he was not truly looking at me at all. Was it still Perayan he saw, in his mind’s eye? I wondered.

  “If you could do some good...” he said slowly. “If you could make a change for better in the world...how much would you risk?”

  I blinked at him, uncomprehending. “I don’t know, sir. I—I suppose it would depend.”

  “Ah. A diplomat’s answer. I wish I could master the art of them.” Seeing the look on my face, he snorted a laugh. “Never mind my rambling. Let us get you home, hmm?”

  At that, we left his bedroom, and he doused the lights behind us.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It was a grey, oppressive afternoon, the sky a steel dome marbled with the shadows of lightning. For once, I was glad to remain indoors. Isadel and I sat opposite each other in the library, playing a game of Conquest. She was glaring at the results of my last move, and constantly tapping one of her pieces against the edge of the board, faster than the tick of a clock.

  After a few minutes had passed, I sighed. “The board won’t change if you stare at it any longer.”

  She flashed me a rapid smile. “There’s no rule on how long one can take contemplating one’s moves.”

  Since Lord Loren’s feast, three weeks gone now, neither of us had been called for display again. Isadel had seemed unconcerned with the lull, at first. “This will happen,” she had said. “Sometimes for no reason at all. Give it time, and you will be so busy with displays you’ll long for the quiet.” Still, it had started to wear on her now: the quiet, and the inconstant weather, which promised summer sun or storms and never quite delivered either.

  Finally she made her move, a clever capture. I was sure she was about to gloat when I caught her eyes flickering to the door.

  Tallisk was standing there, leaning against the frame. He held a piece of paper in his hand—a letter, I thought—and his eyes slid from me to the letter and back again, with a sort of curious skepticism. It was as if he could not quite reconcile the two.

  “Etan,” he said, and I stood, bowing slightly. He made a face at the gesture. “I need to speak to you.”

  “What is it, sir?”

  He glanced at Isadel. “In private. Come.”

  She looked up. “You’ll finish our game later, Etan?”

  “Of course.” I smiled at her. “I can’t let you get the upper hand, can I?”

  Rolling his eyes at us, Tallisk left the library. I trailed behind him. To my surprise, he took me not into his atelier, but into his private rooms. I’d not entered them before. They were smaller than I had thought, and they smelled of cotton and cigar smoke, dim and warm. I glimpsed his bed, wide and white, through a door half ajar. He closed that door; we were left in his office.

  There was a desk, smaller by far than the one upstairs. He leaned against it. I took my place on a small pillow chair, looking up at him. His gaze slid over me, not quite meeting mine. It was if he were avoiding my eyes.

  “So.” He had rolled the letter into a tube, and was twirling it between his fingers like a thin cigar. “There’s finally been a request for your services.” He unrolled the letter on the desktop, placing a finger atop it to keep it in place. “More than one request, actually.”

  I could not stop myself from glancing at the letter, under my lashes. I could not make out sense in the tight-packed scrawl of it, and there was neither seal nor device to be seen.

  “It seems you’ve sparked a bidding war,” he said.

  I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “The Queen of Suramm is sending her ambassador to finalize the terms of our treaty.” It was strange to hear him
speak of such things; politics were not often discussed in Tallisk’s house. “The war will be over in truth, at last.”

  “There will be a feast,” I said; it was not quite a question.

  His smile was one-sided. “Of course there’ll be a feast. And every Blooded lordling is scrambling to outdo the others. Which means that you are...in demand.”

  “And the Count allows it?”

  He shrugged. “Why wouldn’t he? A hundred years ago, an Adorned might have been for their patron alone, but Karan has never cared much for tradition.” He breathed out sharply and tapped his fingertips on the desk. “There is a request from a Sword-noble, as well.”

  I frowned up at him, waiting for more. There was a moment of silence.

  At last, he sighed and tossed me the letter. “Read this.”

  I took it and scanned the tight lines of it. Halfway through, I felt the blood drain from me. Lord Loren’s signature at the bottom was a looping scrawl. “He means this?”

  “He does not seem the sort to jest.”

  I read the letter again, to make sure I had grasped its meaning: Loren had requested my display to coincide with the ambassador’s visit to Count Karan’s estate in Fevrewood, where the negotiations would be taking place. I would be leaving the city for the first time since I had arrived there.

  “You must have done well with him,” Tallisk said, “to impress him so.”

  I looked up. It was the first he’d spoken of my displays. “Thank you, sir.” I handed the letter back. “You said there was...a bidding war. Who else asked for my display?”

  He smiled, or made some approximation of one. “Are you eager to see how wanted you are?”

  I held his eyes. “I only want to know.”

  “A Lord and Lady Arash,” he said. “And Lord Sefer, who is on the Council.”

  All three had been guests at Loren’s feast. I nodded. “And the Count?”

  He watched me for a moment. “Yes. Yes, he has made a request for your...company. I do not think Loren knows Karan has requested you, or he would not seek to bring you as—” he searched for the word. “As his guest.”

  I remembered Lord Loren’s keen eyes, watching the Blooded crowd around me at his feast. Maybe, I thought, and maybe not. “Which offer have you accepted, sir?”

  He sucked at his teeth. “None, yet. I thought I would ask you.”

  I blinked, surprised. He had no need to. “Ask me?”

  “If you had a preference.”

  “A preference?” I near-stuttered the word. What should my preference matter to him? But he looked down with serious eyes, as if I were an equal in this, as if my word had as much weight as his. It unbalanced me; I looked away from him and swallowed.

  “Well? Do you?”

  He rocked back and forth on his heels. At last I looked up. My eyes met his, and for a moment I lost my words. Then I licked my lips and spoke. “I do, sir.”

  His voice was soft. “And which will it be?”

  “I would accept Lord Loren’s offer, sir.”

  “Hah.” He tilted his head. “And risk displeasing the Count?”

  I held his eyes. “The choice is yours, in the end.”

  He made a disgusted sound and threw up his hands. “I suppose it is, isn’t it? I would be done with all of this frippery, were the choice truly mine.”

  To that I had no reply. I was not even sure what he meant.

  He frowned and dropped his hands. “I have little patience,” he said, “for business. Or for politics.” He sighed. “Lord Loren’s letter did arrive first. I shall tell the Count you have already been scheduled for display, if that is what you wish. He should not take offense to that.” He looked at me, head tilted once more. “Etan...if you feel you cannot do a display as long as a week, then I shall decline.”

  “No,” I said, and I shook my head. “I can do it. I will do it.”

  “Good,” he said. Some tension seemed to leave him, and he breathed out. “I only regret I will not be able to add to your Adornment before you go.”

  There had been a date on Lord Loren’s letter, but in my rush to read it, I had not marked it well. “When do I leave?”

  “In two days.”

  “Two days!” I felt suddenly queasy. “What about display clothes—what about—”

  Tallisk fought down a smile. “You will be ready.”

  “How will I even get there? I—”

  Tallisk leaned down and pressed a finger to my lips. “There’s no need for you to worry.”

  It was more the sudden touch that silenced me, rather than the shape of the gesture. I stared at him, my skin prickling with gooseflesh. For long seconds he said nothing. Then he drew away. A gloomy look came over his face for a moment, then swept off of it like a wave, leaving him unreadable. He nodded, more to himself than to me.

  “You may go.”

  I stood and bowed. My steps were not quite steady.

  With my hand upon the door, I felt a frown crease my forehead, and I turned back to him. “Sir...will Isadel be coming to the feast?”

  “She has not as yet been invited,” he said. “But I am sure that the Count will take her, when I let him know you are unavailable.” He gave me a jaundiced look. “Do a favor for me, and spread no gossip to her yet. I wanted privacy to talk to you for a reason.”

  I nodded slowly. It troubled me, to have to keep silent, but I would accede.

  I went back into the library. Isadel was still there; when she spotted me, she rose from her couch and returned to the Conquest board. I sat down opposite her, and she smiled. “Well? Will there be more displays for you?”

  I laughed, a little. “More than I’d anticipated.”

  “Is that so?” She leaned back. “You’re turning into quite the prize, aren’t you?”

  Her tone was neutral; still, I thought I sensed an eddy of something darker below the words. She has not as yet been invited; the words gnawed at me. I almost wished Tallisk had given me leave to speak to her about it—though I hated to think what she would have said.

  Then she smiled, sunny and true, and I could do nothing save return the expression. “It is your turn, Etan,” she said. “I’ve waited long enough for your next move.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Outside the carriage’s windows, the sky was an almost violent blue. A few hours’ ride had sufficed to take us outside the grasp of the sullen storm clouds that hung over the city. Now it was as if we were riding deeper and deeper into summer, with a swollen sun lighting the way ahead.

  The land was a tightly woven quilt of black and green, and the wind was sweet and warm. We were passing the vineyards of Thel, whose bottles were found in every wine shop and eatery of the Grey City...not in the Count’s cellars, though, or in Tallisk’s for that matter. I leaned close to the windows, watching the fields roll by. They were emptier than I’d expected. Every now and then figures would rise up among the vines and watch us pass, their faces too distant to be seen, but they were few and far between.

  I craned my head, gazing down the road that stretched before us. Fevrewood was two days’ ride from Peretim, the last remnants of an ancient forest; I had checked its shape and boundary in an atlas in Tallisk’s library. The atlas was twice as old as I was, but it seemed little had changed since then: Fevrewood was still a rough circle in the midst of rich farmland, with two great roads cutting a cross into the green.

  At the midpoint of that cross stood Fevrewood Lodge, our final destination. Once, the forest had been the Blood Kings’ private garden, and after the hunt it was Fevrewood Lodge they had retired to; why it had been chosen to serve for the negotiations, I was not sure. Perhaps it had been the Surammers’ choice. Perhaps they wanted to stay well out of the Grey City, where men spat and called them dogeaters; I could not blame them for that.

  Lord Loren’s retinue rode in two carriages. The rear was a large, plain hire, which held his luggage as well as his cook and his servants. I rode in the front, in his own carriage; it was smaller
, and of Southern make, with plush seats and windows of real glass.

  Lord Loren sat opposite me. He was dressed, as I was, in plain traveling clothes; so attired, he looked even more like a darker, slighter image of Tallisk. For the few hours we had shared the carriage he had not spoken to me, not looked at me, not seemed to notice I was there at all, and I was beginning to feel the creep of nerves.

  We were not alone in the carriage. Sitting beside me was a man who had been introduced to me as Istan, Lord Loren’s valet and scribe. He was near my age, perhaps a little older, slight and dark, with soft features and shrewd eyes.

  I had thought he was a Southerner, at first, like Loren himself, but his name and subtle accent proclaimed Surammer heritage. He had the lilting tones of one whose manhood had been taken before his voice fell: in Suramm, I knew, it was not priests who were so altered, but the sons of dissenters, so their lines withered without issue. I wondered what had brought him into Lord Loren’s service.

  Istan had not spoken to me either, but at least he had looked at me, his eyes hunting for the hidden trails of my tattoos. Some little showed, peeking under my coat: a trailing leaf on my arm, a budded flower near my collarbone, lines moving subtly across the canvas of my skin. I didn’t mind; I preferred such naked curiosity to Loren’s unseeing gaze, which registered me as little as if I were a shape in the clouds, or a gnarled tree by the side of the road. I only wished someone, whether Lord Loren or his valet, would go ahead and speak to me as well.

  Since that seemed unlikely, I turned away again, leaning my head against the window. The blue of the sky was darkening to twilit mauve, and the city was long out of sight. I wondered if Isadel was close behind us, or already ahead, riding with the Count; as Tallisk had expected, he had called for her display the moment he had learned I had already been reserved.

  “My lord, it is getting dark.”

  The sudden voice startled me, after so long a silence. Lord Loren blinked slowly, as if he had been sleeping with his eyes open, and unfolded himself into straight-backed dignity. “So it is. Let us stop for the night. I have no desire to spend it trundling through the forest.”