by John Tristan
Istan bowed his head. “Very good, my lord.” With catlike grace he clambered out of the still-moving carriage to speak to the driver; soon we were slowing, and the honor guard riding alongside the carriages searched for a place to camp.
The guards were Southerners to a man, in the blue uniforms of soldiers. They were nothing like the ragged veterans of the Grey City, though: they were young and proud and well fed, and each one of them regarded Lord Loren with something approaching awe. Still, seeing them I couldn’t help but recall fists and feet, and the red of my blood on the stones.
Soon enough we found our place: a sheltered clearing in a copse of trees just below the roadside, out of the path of the wind. The soldiers put up two tents with battlefield efficiency. The tents mirrored the carriages: one was large and plain, the other small and plush. Torches were lit against the coming dark, and fire pits were heaped with hot stones—for cooking, and for the servants and soldiers to warm themselves by.
Istan led me inside the smaller tent. Lord Loren was already waiting within, sitting on a cushioned chair; I wondered where that had been tucked away.
He rose to greet me. “Would you take his coat, Istan?”
In the privacy of his tent, my Adornment could be displayed—after all, he had paid for the privilege. Istan slid behind me and took my coat. As it came off my shoulders, I heard his intake of breath. He had only caught the barest glimpses of my ink before. Now it was revealed, the shifting green given a coppery shimmer by the lamplight. At the curve where my neck met my shoulders, a purple flower bud shivered as if about to open.
“Extraordinary,” Istan murmured, my coat still in his hands.
“Istan.” For the first time since we had left Peretim, Lord Loren smiled. “Will you leave us for a moment?”
He laid my coat down, bowed, and retreated without another word, leaving me alone with Lord Loren. Outside the tent, I heard the soldiers laughing.
Lord Loren circled around me, his hands hovering over my shoulders—as if he wished to touch my Adornment, but did not quite dare to. Still, I could feel the warmth of his skin. “Is it true,” he murmured, “that you are still marked with their Blood?”
I hesitated. Tallisk had not pressed any particular discretion on me, but I did not want to give away a secret of his trade. Still, what other substance held such power? I thought of Lord Loren speaking of the ancient link between his own marks and mine, and I frowned—he must already know. “It is true.”
He nodded; it seemed he had merely wished to hear it from my lips. “In the days of the Blood Kings and their companions, it was said that they could hear their masters’ thoughts—that they could feel every beat of their hearts.” He watched me, his eyes narrow and shrewd. “Is that true?”
I thought of the Count’s hands on me, that first time in his garden, and how his blood had seemed to rush through my own veins—after that, his touch had only roused a bare echo of that feeling. “Not—not quite, my lord,” I said. “That privilege is denied me.”
“Heh.” His laugh was short, almost a cough. “If it was a privilege.” He sighed and sat back down, his hands linked in his lap. “Still, there is some link between you.”
“He is my master’s patron—” I began, but Lord Loren cut me off with a gesture.
“I have a confession to make, Etan. I’m afraid I contracted your display under false pretenses.”
“My lord?”
“You are meant as a gift,” he said.
I opened my mouth, full of questions, then shut it as I understood. “For the Count.”
He nodded. “For the Count. When the time is right, I will send you to him.”
“Why, my lord?” I dared to take a step closer to him. “He—he could have hired my display himself.”
“Indeed.” He grinned up at me. “But then you would not be a gift. You would not arrive with me, and return to the Grey City at my side.”
I puzzled at his words. “Do you want me to spy on Count Karan, my lord?”
He laughed. It was a sincere laugh, though there was a lacy edge of shock to it. He had not expected my bluntness, I think—but I was not Isadel, able to leave my words laden with double meanings. “Gods, no. He is my liege lord, Etan. But...”
But. I bowed my head and waited for him to speak again.
“I have known him for near all my life,” he said, soft-voiced. “Yet you are closer to him than I will ever be. You share his bed. You share his Blood. So much rests on these negotiations, Etan, and what he might dismiss from me would sound more palatable from a sweeter mouth.”
He rose from his chair and lifted my chin with a single finger. His eyes were beautiful, I realized—dark and serious, long-lashed, and bright as gems.
“I do not want you to be a spy, Etan. I want you to be my envoy where I cannot go. But if you feel I am asking you to violate your honor, then I will return you home, with my apologies.”
He meant it. I could see it written in his dark eyes. If they had been blue rather than black, they could have almost been Tallisk’s...
“No,” I said. “I—I will do it.”
He released me and let out a breath. “Thank you.”
Of course, I wanted to say, but I did not. I touched my face where he had held me, and I turned away.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I woke drenched in light. The skylight above my bed let in the glow of the midmorning sun; for a moment, I watched white clouds drift past, seeing shapes in them that echoed animals and spires. I rose and wrapped a silken robe around me. It was cool and soft as still water against my skin.
On the low table, someone had placed a steel bowl filled with slowly melting ice. A glass salver floated inside, filled with nectarines and tiny jewel oranges. I picked up a nectarine and bit into it, relishing the cold sweetness, letting the juice color my lips. I hadn’t been hungry, on waking, but the fruit had looked too delicious to pass by.
We had reached Fevrewood Lodge the night before. The road had climbed and climbed, until finally the dark canopy had broken open into starlit sky—and there it was, on top of a great heaped hill, pale marble and dark wood, with uncounted windows that looked down on the forest. As our carriage had drawn closer, I’d seen how it had been built on ancient foundations of rough, dark stone; something had stood here, atop this hill, since before the gods had blessed the Blooded with a measure of their powers.
It was a beautiful place, I had to own it. Beautiful, and massive; here, there had been no check on the ambitions of the builders. The only structure I’d ever seen that rivaled it in size was the Grey City’s palace. A room had been granted to each guest, even to their servants, each wide and generous and—come the morning—soaked in summer light.
After devouring the nectarine, I stretched out from toe to tip; I still nursed a few stubborn aches from the last leg of the trip, a tiresome trek down an old, narrow road. I could see why Lord Loren had not wished to travel through the forest at night—even by day it was eerily dim and quiet, and too warm even in the shade. More than that, there was a sense of something concealed in its green-black depths, just off the rutted road. From my safe spot within the carriage, I would glance between the trees and the shadows of trees and shiver.
A knock on the door plucked me out of my reverie. Without waiting for my assent, it opened. It was Istan, looking as fresh and well groomed as if he had been awake for hours; he probably had, I thought.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning.”
“You keep well, I trust?”
I nodded. “Very well, thank you.”
That, it seemed, was enough pleasantry for him. “Will you please come with me? The ambassador is expected to arrive later today. You should be ready within the hour.” He smiled crookedly. “You will need to shave.”
“Oh...?” I touched my chin. There was stubble there. This was new to me. My father had never quite managed to grow a beard; I had thought it’d be the same for me. Usually, I could wait
a week between shaves without a prickle appearing. It had been barely three days since I last touched a blade to my face.
“A nuisance, I imagine,” Istan said. He smiled again. “Come with me.”
There were no springs to provide hot water to Fevrewood Lodge, but they made do; the water in my bath was lukewarm and comfortable. Istan shaved me with a deft touch, and even trimmed my hair, rubbing it with fragrant oils when he was done.
“There, you are fit to be dressed,” he said. “Follow me.”
He led me into an adjacent chamber. Lord Loren had brought a selection of display-clothes along with us. As Tallisk had told me, there was no need for me to worry about clothing: all I would wear was provided. My work was merely to wear it well.
Istan selected a pair of loose white trousers and an open vest with a low-cut back, displaying my Adornments without exposing too much of me. I liked the feel of the clothes, of the clean linen against my skin.
“Would you like to see a mirror?”
I turned to Istan, who was smiling. There was something locked behind his smile, I thought, something that reminded me strangely of Isadel.
“Please,” I told Istan, and he took my hand, leading me to a large, silvered mirror. It was ancient, but well polished—I saw myself, a ghost in white and green. My hair gleamed coppery with the sweet-smelling oils.
“They will find you satisfactory,” Istan said; he made it sound a grand compliment.
I inclined my head. “Thank you.”
He muttered something in his own tongue, and we went back into my rooms.
Another of Lord Loren’s servants, whom I had seen but had never spoken to, had cleared my breakfast of fruit and made my bed. Before she left, she handed Istan a parcel wrapped in a green shawl.
I turned to him. “Are you accompanying us?”
He nodded, unfolding the parcel. With a flourish, he produced a white parasol. “For when we go outside. I am to make sure your Adornment is unblemished.”
I suppressed a smile and took his arm. He raised an eyebrow. “Lead the way, then.”
He half shrugged and led me out of my room. We descended a great spiraling staircase, arm in arm—and there were the gates to the great hall. I stopped before them and released Istan’s arm. Through thick panes of glass I saw the wavering shapes of the guests. I heard laughter, and the hum of a dozen conversations.
“Are you ready?” Istan’s voice was not unkind. “Lord Loren is waiting for us.”
I nodded. “Then let us not disappoint him.”
He smiled and opened the door. At once, we were surrounded by beauty.
To celebrate the coming peace, each celebrant had brought a beautiful thing. The great hall was full of them; there were tapestries, tiger-skins from Surammer hoards, and trifles of glass and silver. They sparkled in every corner, a load of extravagant gifts; I wondered for whom they were meant.
And then, of course, there were the Adorned. Lord Loren and the Count were by far not the only ones to bring us to the feast. Some, I knew, had come from the city—a few among them were my brethren of a sort, bearers of Tallisk’s ink. There was a tall man with curving waves and waterfalls winding down his powerful legs, and a woman with the sacred vultures of Madame Death perched on her shoulders; each of them bore, subtly inked into their design, the same mark I had worn in ivory upon my debut. I think I would have known them, though, even without it. Every tattoo-master had a particular hand, a style as uniquely their own as their signature. I was beginning to know Tallisk’s well.
Others had come from further afield. Some were from the Northern city of Elor, where the art of Adornment was said to have begun, and some were from the South, with stark designs against their darker skin. They had, for the most part, a martial theme, begun five or six years ago when we were still in the thick of the war. Their skin was inked with swords, shields, living tapestries of ancient battles, heraldic beasts.
On one man’s muscular back Madame Death herself sat displayed, proud upon her throne of bones, looking down on a bloody battlefield. Her blazing eyes tracked our progress across the room.
It was not a comforting sight.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
There was a high-spirited air about the hall, a festal air, as if the negotiations were already complete and all that remained was the celebration. Despite the early hour, carafes of wine were flowing freely, and gentle laughter whispered through the crowd like warm wind.
There were more guests there than I had thought would come for peace talks, though just enough for one of the Count’s parties. They were dressed, as a rule, in the colors of summer and plenty, flaunting green silks and cloth-of-gold; the Blooded wore coronets of silver leaves, or glass flowers in their long hair, while some of the Sword-nobles wore real flowers, tucked behind an ear or woven into chains.
Lord Loren, dressed in his sober finery, was not among them. He sat on a low chair, watching the crowd, hands empty of goblet or sweetmeat. On him, I thought, those flower crowns and pretty garlands would only look wilted and absurd.
“There you are,” he said, as if he had been waiting for me. He rose to take my hand. “Come. I want to show you off.”
I cocked my head and smiled a little at his choice of words, but there was no time to dwell on them. With his hand firmly gripped on mine, he steered me through the great hall to a little island formed by three reclining couches.
Two were already occupied; a Blooded woman sat on one, feeding grapes to a pale Northern man leaning against her. The other held a man I recognized, if only by sight: the tall Adorned inked with waves and waterfalls.
Closer by, I knew for sure he was my writ-brother. Tallisk’s mark was inked in soft, pearly grey on his lower calf. It was subtle enough that a careless eye would miss it; it rose like mist from the slow-moving river twined down his leg. I knew what I was looking for, though. Our eyes met for a moment, and he smiled; he had a charming smile.
“Sit, Etan,” Loren said. His voice had the tone of a command, and I obeyed, awkwardly upright on a couch made for lounging. He sat upright beside me; behind us stood Istan, his expression placid, the white parasol folded shut in his hands.
“Would you like something to eat, Etan?” Loren asked.
I shook my head.
“Perhaps a drink?”
That, I thought, sounded welcome. I nodded. “Please. But—not wine, please.”
“Of course.” He jerked his head toward Istan, who put the parasol down and went to fetch us cool apple juice muddled with mint. I drank it gratefully; it was too warm and close here, too many bodies in too little space.
The Northern man stood and left his Blooded companion with a bow; she then looked up at us. It seemed she had only now noted our presence. Her firefly-green gaze traveled over my Adornment—and the rest of me. From what I could tell, she seemed to like what she saw. “Is he yours, Loren?”
“He is under my display.” Lord Loren bowed to her. “Lady Reise, I am pleased to present Etan writ-Tallisk.”
Her mouth quirked. “No wonder he is so beautiful. Our tastes are alike, it seems. This,” she said, gesturing to the Adorned on the couch beside her, “is Tristen writ-Tallisk.”
Tristen rose from his sofa and bowed to us, turning so we could see the breadth of his Adornment. I caught the flicker of Loren’s eyes toward me and rose as well. Side by side, the similarity of our ink could not be denied. It was subtler than most, with the line and shade of it more prominent than the color. The motion of the ink across our skin was so light you could almost forget it was moving at all. I wondered if that was a deliberate choice, or the result of different patrons, with their different Blood.
“Beautiful,” Lady Reise said. “How sorely we need such beauty, to distract us from this interminable waiting.” With that, we seemed dismissed. Her Northern companion had returned with a jug of wine, and Lord Loren had joined her in drinking it. He was listening, his face placid, to her complaints—“How long does it take one to travel from S
uramm, really.”
In the meantime, Tristen writ-Tallisk was looking at me with curious eyes. “So, you are my writ-brother?” His accent was formal, and vaguely Southern. “Your ink is beautiful.”
“As is yours,” I said. “I’d not seen one of Master Tallisk’s Adorned completed before.”
He smiled, as though pleased by my admiration. “How is Master Tallisk, these days? We have not spoken in some time.”
“He is—” I searched for words. The image of Tallisk rose in my mind, and I wondered at how to describe him. Had he changed, since inking Tristen? If he had, how would I know? Lamely, I settled for “He is well.”
“Give him my regards, when you see him?” Tristen smiled. There was a fondness there, but it was a distant sort, as for an old teacher or a faraway patron. “I would do so myself, but my work has taken me out of the Grey City.”
“Of course,” I said.
He nodded to me, then rose to his feet and returned to his sofa. Lady Reise beckoned him nearer, stroking the length of a white-crested wave tattooed across his ribcage; it broke to foam under her fingertips.
I took up my place beside Lord Loren. I felt myself frown and was not quite sure why. How swiftly would the years in Tallisk’s house pass, I wondered? When they were over, would it be the same for me? Would I pass my regards to him through some messenger, some new Adorned of his, and never see his face again? A strange chill went through me; I could not quite reconcile myself to that future.
Beside me, Loren suddenly tensed and sat upright, like a wolf that had scented prey. I followed his gaze. The great door to the gardens stood ever-so-slightly ajar; a bloodguard had entered, quick-stepping between the revelers. I tracked his progress along with Lord Loren—the bloodguard’s trail ended at the feet of Count Karan.
I had not noticed the Count before, in the sea of faces, but now that I saw him I wondered how I’d missed him. He was dressed all in white, lounging on a massive couch and holding court amidst a small knot of admirers. Isadel was among them; she was wearing a dress of gold thread woven so loosely that it seemed transparent, a mere gleam of glitter on her skin. I tried to catch her eye, but she did not see me.