The Adorned (18 page)

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 Suramm,
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.

Others had noticed the bloodguard’s entry as well, now. Slowly, the buzz of conversation stilled, and all eyes turned toward the Count and his companion. The crowd watched them with heads bent, whispering together. I was aware of a sense of indrawn breath, a sense of
waiting.

Then the bloodguard stepped away, and the Count rose from his couch wearing a satisfied smile. “A rider has come from Suramm, bearing news. Shall we see what she has to say?”

Before the murmur of gossip could rise to a roar, the garden doors were flung open, and two bloodguards came in, flanking their guest.

How the Count knew she was a woman, I could not tell—the figure was short and slender, with a rider’s stance, and her features were hidden entirely by a black lacquer mask. “My lords,” she said—her Kered was pure and near-accentless, but distorted by the mask. “My name is Sayel. I am courier to Princess Itayysa.”

This Itayysa must be the ambassador whom we were all awaiting, I thought. So they had sent a princess. Loren rose from his seat beside me. I felt the sudden chill of his absence; a breeze curled through the hall from the open doors.