by John Tristan
I almost laughed. “My lord, I might share a small quantity of his Blood, but if you think that makes us family in his eyes—”
“No.” He shook his head. “It is not that. It is that you are writ-brother to Isadel writ-Tallisk.”
“I—I don’t understand.”
“The Blooded are a sacred lineage. We all know this. But there is more to the tale. The Blood of the gods is a double-edged gift. They have their strength, their grace, their long, long lives. But should the Blood grow too strong, should old line mingle with old line...” He laughed harshly. “After too long, their offspring will become...inhuman. They need to dilute their precious Blood, every now and then, with mortal vigor. The gift of Blood, they call it. It is a secret only their boon companions know.”
Noble name I’ve lost, but noble blood I still have—I remembered Isadel’s words. If I were common-born, my lady’s plan would come to naught. The gift of Blood...could it be Isadel’s children who would be heir to the Count’s fortunes?
“Still,” I said slowly, “even if you are right, the bonds of writ-siblings are not like the bonds of blood.”
“Perhaps not.” Lord Loren smiled. “But you are the one messenger I have left, Etan.”
“And if I fail to sway him?”
“Then you fail. But things will change, one way or another.”
I nodded. “What message do I take to him, then?”
“That he has two choices. This city is like a pot of bubbling water, Etan. The Council—Count Karan—they could stop it boiling over, but only if they were to throw open the gates and their private stores, and to do it soon. If they do not...” He shrugged; his heavy soldier-blue cloak moved over his shoulders. “Then their gates will be broken down and their stores plundered. He must choose whether he wishes to be a savior, or a martyr.”
I looked down, almost smiling. “Shall I put your words in more diplomatic terms, my lord?”
He nearly laughed at that. “Perhaps you’d best.” There was a pause, and then he said, “Does this mean that you will do it?”
I nodded. “I owe you that much, my lord.”
He made a face. “You owe me nothing, Etan. I will make sure you are well paid for your time.”
“And what good will that do us, my lord, when there is no more food to be bought?”
He was silent. For what seemed like a long while, he watched me, his dark eyes narrow and considering. Then he took a small package out from the recesses of his cloak. “Here,” he said, and he pressed it into my hands.
It was perhaps the size of my palm, and wrapped in silk. A faint sweet smell rose from it—a hint of burnt sugar. A shiver went through me, shuddering the lines of my Adornment. “What is this?”
“A gift for the Count. Should your words fail to sway him.”
My fingers clenched tighter around the silk. I looked up at Lord Loren. He looked so like he had that night in his tent, on the road to Fevrewood—like a commander, giving orders to his soldiers. But there was something else in his eyes as well, something I had not seen there before.
He was desperate, and he was frightened.
“It is a gift from Suramm,” he said with feigned lightness. “Candied lemons. The Count may enjoy them.”
“If my words do not sway him,” I said slowly.
He nodded, and he gingerly put his hand on top of my own. “I am not asking you to do anything,” he said.
“Save...carry your message.”
He drew back. His small, silk-wrapped package felt oddly weighty in my hand. “I will deliver a note of credit to the bank in Master Tallisk’s name,” he said.
“Thank you, my lord.”
He hesitated for a moment, as if he wished to say more. I held his eyes. Finally, he looked away. “All the luck to you, Etan writ-Tallisk. I will see you soon.”
With that, he left. I heard the hoofbeats of his horse clatter away down Nightwell Street.
Tallisk came into the parlor. I still stood there in the dim, holding the package in my hands. He put his arms around me, pulling me close to him. I felt the warmth of him, the too-fast beat of his heart.
“Do you really intend to do this, Etan?”
I nodded. “I told him that I would.”
He swore, but he kept holding me. “When you return,” he said, “we’ll leave. This house—it’s too tempting a target, should things get ugly.”
I turned against him, trying to meet his eyes. “Where will we go?”
“I still have friends here.” He grinned. “Believe it or not. I’ll send Yana ahead to find a place for us all.”
“When will we come back?” I said it almost in a whisper. I had come to love this house, to know it as my home.
“When all this is over,” he said. “When the city is safe again.”
I said nothing more, and only listened to the sound of his breathing, his hammering heart. Safe—I wondered what that meant, in the end. My hands were still clenched around the silk-wrapped package, its subtle scent a sweet-sharp ghost.
Chapter Fifty-One
The carriage rolled through the empty streets, the clatter of the wheels the loudest sound in the strange hush of the city. Now and then I saw a flash of a red uniform, the gleam of a rifle or a saber in the evening light; a curfew had been called, and the bloodguards were out to enforce it. Of course, the Count and his guests would not be so constrained; my driver and I had the city near to ourselves.
The Count’s manor was dimly lit, with an amber glow of light shining through the windows. I saw lanterns burning in the gardens, catching at dancing shadows. I was led out into the celebration, cutting a path through the gardens. In the gaps between the trees I glimpsed trays of fine food heaped high, curious eyes, the half-bared flesh of the guests. Loren’s package was still warm in my sweat-slick hands. A gift of candied lemons, from Suramm. Should my words fail to sway the Count.
I glanced up at my escort, the driver who had come to fetch me from Nightwell Street. “Where is His Grace?”
“In the greenhouse, with his favored guests,” the man said. “I have been told to take you there.”
The greenhouse—I had never been there before. It stood behind a grove of tangled trees, surrounded by a shallow pond almost like a moat. A path of dark, mossy stones led across it to a house of glass shining in the grey starlight. Within it I saw hovering lamplight and the outlined shadows of greenery.
Halfway across the makeshift moat, I paused. The stone beneath my feet was slick with moss. I took a breath, and dropped the silk-wrapped package. A subdued splash, like a leaping fish, was all the sound it made. Then it was gone, swallowed by the waters.
I would take Lord Loren’s words to the Count, but not this. It was a message I would not countenance myself to carry.
My escort had paused at the door to the greenhouse and looked back. I crossed the last stone and stepped inside, into a slice of spring captured in glass, and he closed the door behind me.
There were fewer revelers here than in the gardens, warm among the hanging lamps and the green, loamy scent of healthy soil. I saw their eyes in the dim light, glowing like fireflies. Vines hung heavy with young fruit. Somewhere, an unseen musician was playing the harp.
“Etan.”
Count Karan came out of the darkness, his eyes green and bright. I bowed to him—he took my hand and pressed his lips to it, cold and soft.
“You came.”
“I came, Your Grace.”
He released my hand and turned around, arms spread. “How do you like my greenhouse?”
“It is beautiful,” I said, and meant it, but I wondered how many those new-blooming spring fruits would feed. I cleared my throat. “Is Isadel here, my lord?”
“Indeed.” His smile was wide and sly. “This feast is partly in her honor, you know.”
I thought of Loren’s words—the gift of Blood. I only hoped my writ-sister knew what she was doing.
“If that is so,” I said, “I would much like to see her.�
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“In time.” He chuckled. “She is with my lady wife now, and I will not disturb them.” He slid closer—he put his arms around me, holding me fast. I remained still and closed my eyes; I felt his breath on my neck. “You know,” he murmured, “I have missed you, Etan...”
For a moment I let him kiss me. Then I opened my eyes. Gently, I pulled myself out from his embrace. “Your Grace,” I said. “There is something I must tell you.”
He blinked at me. He was not used to having his caresses thwarted. “What is it?”
“Do you know that I almost did not come, tonight?”
“Yes, I was told as much.” He cocked his head, half smiling. “And now you seek to tell me what changed your mind, am I correct?”
I nodded. “I was convinced otherwise. In order to—to carry a message to you.”
“Oh?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And what message would that be?”
“If you open the city gates—”
He made a sound of disgust, but I went on.
“—and open your stores, this greenhouse, your cellars...if you did that, Your Grace, then the people would praise your name.”
“Would they?” He laughed. “I rather doubt that, little Etan. The people are in no mood to praise my name. Do you hear what the Sword-nobles mutter about me outside the Council doors? Have you seen the mud and shit flung at my bloodguards?”
“No,” I admitted.
His laugh had turned into a sneer. “I thought not.”
“But—but they would not treat their savior thus.”
“Their savior?” His eyes narrowed with sudden understanding. “He put you up to this, did he not? Haqan. Lord Loren.”
I nodded. “Even so, Your Grace—I think he is right.”
“It is not your concern to think about.”
I spread my hands. “It is my city, Your Grace. My home.”
“Hah.” He looked me up and down. “And here I was given to understand you were a Lowland boy.”
“I was,” I said. I turned slowly in the dim light of the greenhouse. The lamplight reflected on the greenery of my skin. “I was not born into the city. I was not born with your Blood upon my skin, either.”
He laughed, though there was a lace of irritation to the sound.
“So allow me to speak on this, Your Grace.” I took a breath. “Lord Loren says you have two choices: you can be a savior, or you can be a martyr.”
He showed his teeth. “If that is meant to be a threat, it leaves me unimpressed.”
It did not matter what Loren had intended it to be; not anymore. I shook my head. “No, Your Grace. Only a message.”
“That’s enough.” The Count’s lip curled. “I had enough of this business with Haqan—the man does not know where to draw a line! I certainly did not summon you to squawk about politics. I have heard all of this before, Etan. Do you think I am blind and deaf to what goes on in my land?”
“No, Your Grace,” I said. “But a single drop of water might tip over a bowl.”
He snorted a laugh. “Did Haqan tell you that?”
I raised my shoulders. “He told me I should try and convince you. That this might be the last chance to—”
“Last chance!” He laughed again, though the sound had turned scornful. “I have lived hundreds of years, and passed through my share of bad winters. This will all pass in its own time. Now, I brought you here to share in joy. Let’s hear no more about politics.”
“It isn’t politics,” I said, my voice rising. “There are people starving outside of the gates. If you would just open the gates, open your—”
Lightning-quick, the Count’s hand closed on my wrist. There was anger flashing in his eyes; I had never seen it there before. My heart beat double-time. I felt the slow, strange crawl of his Blood through the tender veins of my ink, prickling my skin. “You’re hurting me,” I said, in a low, flat voice.
“I know.”
The prickle in my Adornment became a kind of awful heat. Gooseflesh rose on the back of my neck. My skin crawled; it was as if his anger had slid underneath it and sunk tiny poison teeth into my veins.
“I told you to stop, Etan.” His voice was calm, but his hand closed tighter. I felt the press of his clawlike nails on the tender skin of my wrist. “This is my feast, and I have no interest in this seditious prattle.”
I wrenched sideways, heedless of the pain. “Then perhaps it is better that I go.”
He let me go then, dropping my hand with a dismissive flick. The crawling heat across my skin snuffed out like the fire in a drenched hearth. “Perhaps that would be best.” His firefly eyes fixed on me in the darkness of the greenhouse. Whatever human light I had once seen in them was swamped by their cold green glow. “You have begun to bore me.”
Once, Lord Loren had told me, the link between Blooded and Adorned had been a sacred trust. They had heard each other’s thoughts, felt the beat of each other’s hearts. But this was how the Count used his Blood: to wound in a fit of pique, like a cruel boy swatting at flies. In that moment, I wanted to bleed away each tainted drop of it.
With careful grace, I bowed to him, and when I spoke my voice was winter cold. “My apologies, Your Grace. It was not my intent.”
“No, I suppose not.” He licked his lips. “But I hope that the next time we meet, you take care to remember why I call you.”
There will not be a next time, I wanted to say. Instead I bowed again and left the greenhouse, making my way across the slick flat stones, while somewhere in the pond below a gift of candied lemon was dissolving in dark waters.
Chapter Fifty-Two
When the sun rose over Nightwell Street the next morning, we began packing our things.
Tallisk and I were alone in the house, with Yana sent out to find us a safer place. As I gathered my possessions, I thought of the small bag I had carried from Lun to Peretim with barely two changes of clothes inside it. Now there were my display-clothes, and folios filled with my sketches, and Tallisk’s library full of books to pare down into what would fit into two sturdy leather packs.
It was easier than I feared it would be. After all, I reasoned, it would all be here when we returned, waiting for us. I chose one set of display-clothes, a few books and a folio of empty paper; drawing supplies had been hard to come by, these past few months. Other than that, what would I need? I had Tallisk at my side.
He was finding it harder to sift through his possessions. He grumbled at having to leave his tattooing tools behind, and he made faces at the prospect of abandoning his library. With clothes, at least, he managed better than I; it took him barely an hour to fold and pack all the things he ever wore. I watched him do it, lying on his bed—on our bed—as he tucked away the last few armfuls.
I had almost begun to drowse when there was a hard, staccato knocking at the door. I sat up, startled, eyes suddenly wide.
“Damn it,” he said. “If it’s one of those blasted bloodguards again...”
I suppressed a yawn. “Shall I go?”
“No.” He set down the bundle of clothes and shook his head. “It’s all right. I’ll go.”
I went with him, following a few steps behind. He didn’t go to the door directly, but to the parlor to look out the window. His voice rang out a moment later; there was a strange tone to it.
“Open the door, Etan.”
I did. Standing on our doorstep was Isadel.
I stepped back in surprise. She wore a fine, high-collared dress, and her hair was braided tight against her skull. She looked as noble and severe as a young priestess, and as pale as a corpse.
“Isadel—what—?”
“Etan.” She bowed her head a little, a nod of acknowledgement. “Will you not let me in?”
Behind her I saw a carriage, plain and sturdy and surrounded by armed men on horseback. They were Northerners to a man, save for one: Artor Lukan, on a great grey mare.
Tallisk had appeared behind us. “Isadel. What are you doing here?”
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bsp; She arched a brow. “Not wishing to linger on the doorstep.”
He grunted. “Come in, then.”
She did; we stood in the hallway in an awkward tangle. Isadel half smiled at the floor, smoothing the lines of her dress. “Are you not going to offer me a drink? It is a host’s duty, after all.”
Tallisk sighed. “Do not push me, Isadel. This isn’t the time.”
At that, she laughed. We took a step back at the sound, both Tallisk and I—it was like a breaking string. “If now isn’t the time, then I don’t know when is. But never mind—I have brought my own.” She took a small bottle from the recesses of her cloak. “So let me offer one to you.”
It was a very fine liquor; I had only seen it in the Count’s cabinet.
Tallisk stood aside to let her enter. “Come into the parlor, then. We’ll share a drink.”
Isadel sat down and waited for Tallisk to pour the liquor. There was one mark of her Adornment visible—a rose petal at her wrist, half showing under her sleeve. She took a long swallow and set the glass down. “I will be blunt and swift, because I have no choice of it: we are leaving.”
“Leaving? Leaving the city? I thought it was sealed.”
“My lady has her ways.” She turned away. “And she knows it is no longer safe for us here.”
Tallisk laughed humorlessly. “If anyone’s safe, it’s the Count and his kin, behind those gates. Or doesn’t he have enough bloodguards to stop the rabble?”
Isadel looked up at him over her glass. Her eyes were flat and cold. “Roberd...the Count is dead.”
In the sudden silence of the parlor I could hear the distant echoes of the city. There were shouts, hoofbeats. In here, there was Isadel’s breath, soft and rapid as she held back her tears.
“How?” I barely dared to whisper it.
“It was one of his bloodguards. He had—he had received word that his family had starved.” One corner of Isadel’s mouth lifted in the twisted echo of a grin. “His Grace was a good man, I think, but he was never kind. Perhaps he should have learned the trick of it.”