The Adorned (19 page)

The Count had risen as well; he regarded the newcomer with the still air of a stalking beast. I saw Isadel’s hand on his wrist; he slid away from her touch. “Be welcome here, Sayel. How fares the princess?”

Sayel kneeled—almost fell, in fact, knees cracking with a groan—and produced something small and white from her robes. “She writes to the Council of Blood.”

The Count cleared his throat. It stilled the whispers. When he extended his long fingers to take the princess’s letter, no one gainsaid him the right.

The letter was written on a papyrus scroll, sealed with a ribbon of white linen. The Count took his time reading it, in silence. I saw Lord Loren’s hands tense into fists and release. No one spoke. I heard Tristen writ-Tallisk’s breathing, close beside me.

Finally, the Count rolled up the scroll and held it between his fingers. “Princess Itayysa arrives tomorrow,” he said. He did not need to raise his voice; we all leaned toward his every word. “Peace is coming to both our lands, my friends, riding with the dawn. All that remains...” He smiled; even from a distance I could see its dazzling, knife-edge charm. “All that remains are details.”

The crowd began to cheer. The first came from a Blooded woman, who raised her fist like a fighter and whooped. After that there was no holding it back; left and right, the guests leaped to their feet and exulted.

Lord Loren was not shouting, not cheering. His smile was its own knife, thin and uncharming.
Details
, the Count had said, as if they were useless trifles and the princess was coming merely to enjoy his feast. I wondered how heavy those “details” weighed on his Sword-noble’s mind.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Princess Itayysa arrived when she had promised—the next morning, along with the dawn. The grand retinue had been turned outdoors to greet her; sofas had been moved from the great hall onto the grass, and a circle had been cleared for her welcome on the lawns, strewn with carpets to save her feet from the grassy ground.

I wondered how the Count—for he was the architect of all of this—directed it. He seemed to stand in the calm center of the commotion, untouched by the ruckus around him as servants and bloodguards scurried this way and that.

For a moment I wondered where Isadel was, then. She was not in the Count’s circle; indeed, I had not seen her at all that morning. A murmur from Lord Loren turned me back to him. He too was watching the Count, and his face was carefully neutral. Istan stood over us, parasol unfolded, shielding my ink from the first pale rays of the sun; we had been granted a prime place, with a good view of the road below. We would be among the first to see the princess’s carriage arrive.

I shifted on the sofa, not quite comfortable. Everything seemed too silent, too poised. I glanced up at Lord Loren and cleared my throat. “My lord?”

“Hmm?” He did not look at me.

“What happens now?”

He half turned and showed me the edge of a smile. “We wait for Princess Itayysa to show herself, of course. Then, as the appointed representative of Queen Sula, she will negotiate, and finally sign, the treaty. Then there shall be much rejoicing, no doubt.”

Istan made a sound that could have been a suppressed laugh. I wanted to ask Lord Loren more—to ask him when he would send me to the Count, and with what words—but then the princess’s carriage came around the bend of the hill and began its slow rise to the lodge, and whatever words I had on my tongue were drowned out by the sudden tide of cheers and applause.

The carriage reminded me of Maxen Udred’s rickshaw, made massive and covered with a great white canopy. It was built around the same lines, though it was drawn by a massive tawny beast rather than a human servant. The beast had something of both lion and horse in its features, and its eyes were great and green, glowing like the eyes of the Blooded in the early morning light.

Nearer and nearer it came, with its escort of mounted warriors. There were four of them, in white scale-mail armor. At their head, unarmored, was the courier Sayel—or someone wearing an identical lacquered mask. She dismounted and opened the carriage’s door; the Princess Itayysa stepped out, accompanied by two maids.

The princess wore white robes, deceptively simple: the lines were clean, but the fabric shimmered when she moved, woven through with subtle threads of gold. Her face was half-obscured; she did not wear a full mask, as her courier did, but a veil of silvery seed pearls, and her arms jangled with golden bracelets. Her maids were bald and bareheaded in fawn robes; both of them held small wooden boxes in their unadorned arms.

The Count stepped forward, arms raised in welcome. “Princess Itayysa. Your presence could dispel thunderclouds.”

She laughed, and the pearls of her veil shook lightly. “Count Helsin Karan. At last we meet.”

He extended his hand, and she took it. He steered her gently to his couches. Two forces met there: his bloodguards, fine and unscarred in their red uniforms, and her attendants in white, with hooded eyes and broken noses.

“My friends,” the Count said, “Queen Sula has sent this princess to put the seal on our peace with her gentle hands. Let us welcome her, and her purpose.”

He was declaiming, I realized—he was saying his lines, an actor upon a stage, all eyes upon him. And Itayysa? She was his leading lady, playing the role to the hilt.

“Your Grace,” she said, bowing, her voice like a purr. “May I present my Queen’s gifts, as a sign of her goodwill?”

“As if your presence was not gift enough!”

Her gifts were brought out with all due ceremony: trunks full of furs and silks, a slice of Suramm’s bounties. The Count cooed over each gift as if it had been specifically selected for him. For all I knew of Princess Itayysa and her Queen, they might have been.

“Look at them, preening like cats.” It was a young Sword-noble who muttered this, standing a little behind us. “We are the ones who bled for this. We should be the ones to get
gifts
, if anyone does.”

I glanced over at him. Something in his face reminded me of the penniless soldier at the Grey City’s gate, with his lion furs and his half-healed wounds. Lord Loren cast the man a warning glance, and he fell silent. Loren’s hand rested hard on my own, an anchor there as the cheers began to roar.

“They are fawning over her,” he whispered. His breath was warm on my ear. I half turned; his expression was caught between contempt and admiration. He shook his head. “Queen Sula was wise to send someone like Itayysa.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone beautiful.”

I looked back to the Count’s circle. The Blooded were watching Princess Itayysa, and I recognized the hunger in their glowing eyes. I had seen it before, fixed on me.

“They go to war for treasure from distant lands,” Loren said, “and for the spectacle of battle. They like to
watch
, to bask in our reflected glory. And then they make peace, for the opportunity to feast.” He smiled down at me; his eyes were far away. “In the end it makes no difference to them, as long as there is beauty to pursue.”

“But...” I swallowed. “It makes a difference to you.”

He shrugged sharply, an almost painful gesture. “And what if it does? My title and my privilege come from serving their desires. I scraped up a bloody mess of glory, and in return? I am a Sword-noble, and my family will never want for a thing. So I do what they ask.” He took a breath. “Come now, Etan. Let us make our appearance.”

He dragged me along, not ungently, to the charmed circle where the Count stood with the Queen’s ambassador, surrounded by admirers. Istan and the parasol, I noted, had been left behind.

Coming closer, I could not keep my gaze from Itayysa. It was true dawn now, and the sun was rising; the seed pearl veil she wore gleamed with it. She tilted her head as we approached, curiosity in her eyes; the Count clapped his hands together.

“My dear Haqan!” The Count’s smile was wide; I saw the edge of his teeth, sharp in the sunlight. “And lovely Etan. I wondered where you were hiding.”

“Is this one of your painted lovelies?”

This was Itayysa. Her accent recalled Istan’s, though with a sharper edge to it. She regarded me with dark, clever eyes. They were much like Lord Loren’s, I thought, those eyes. From the look of them, the Southerner and the Surammer could have been brother and sister.

“One of the finest,” the Count said, and he drew me to him—heedless of who had brought me. Still, what could I do, save go? Loren had released me willingly enough.

Over Loren’s shoulder, I glimpsed Isadel at last, dressed in a dark, diaphanous gown. She was watching us, but I could not read the look in her eyes.

“Your highness.” Lord Loren bowed to the princess, low and solemn. “You bring us a great gift, today.”

“Peace is not a gift,” she said. “It is, always, a collaboration.”

“I wonder...” Loren frowned, silent for a moment, then regained his speech. “I wonder if I could renew my request to join in the negotiations, Your Grace? It would mean much to me, if the princess does not object.”

“You still wish to come and sign the treaty, Haqan?” The Count’s voice was curious, but there was a smile in it. “Such interest in peace, for a warrior.”

“War was merely my business, Your Grace,” he said. “Peace was always my goal.”

“
You
wish to sign it?” Itayysa’s surprise sweetened her voice. “What a scholar’s gathering this is. In Suramm, only the holy and the rich are lettered.”

Loren inclined his head toward her. “And which are you,
uskaya?
”

I saw the shadow of a smile under the shimmering veil. “I did not know you spoke my language, my lord.”

“I am a borderlander, your highness. I would have to stop my ears to not learn at least a few words. The term for ‘princess’ is among that...small trove.”

I thought of Istan, missing now from Lord Loren’s side; I would wager that “a few words” was rank understatement.

But then, what I thought did not matter. The Count was petting my hair and ignoring me; his eyes were on his lord and on the princess. I was superfluous here, I thought: a simple adornment. Who would bother to ask the baubles and ribbons for their opinions?

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The business of peace, it seemed, was slow going.

We had been at Fevrewood for a week, and I was sick of feasting. Those of us not needed for the negotiations had nothing better to do but drink and dance and loll useless on soft couches—and, every night, after the Count called an end to the day’s bickering, he and his retinue came to join us. The Blooded took their indolence seriously; needs must we did as well.

Tonight, Istan had come to dress me for the feast in proper display-clothes; I had been given into his care while Lord Loren attended to the negotiations. Indeed, I had seen Istan far more than I had Loren—the latter had never even entered my room.

Istan was kneeling before me now, lacing up the trousers which Lord Loren had chosen for me. They were fitted to the very skin, and they had to be fastened up their sides in a series of intricate knots; it was a task my fingers were not equal to. Istan’s hands were as brisk and deft as if I were a tailor’s display doll, but still I shifted uncomfortably under his touch.

Istan made an irritated sound. “Hold still,” he said. “Or I will need to start again.”

I tried to look away, to not notice his presence kneeled before me. It was not as easy as I would have hoped. At last he finished tying the last knot and rose, nodding, satisfied with his own work.

I tried for a smile. “How do I look?”

“See for yourself.”

He steered me to the tall mirror. Two figures were reflected there, pale and dark, not quite smiling; both seemed like strangers to me. I watched them for a moment, silent. The laced trousers suited the young man in the mirror. He wore no shirt above them, only a kind of spidersilk-thin sleeveless jacket, the back low enough to show all of his Adornment. He was beautiful and still, with only the inked leaves on his shoulders in motion.

“You’ll do,” Istan said at last. “Come now, Lord Loren is expecting us.”

We made our way outside, with Istan a half-pace behind me. The night was blood warm and full of music. We moved between tables heaped high with fruit and sweetmeats, between richly pillowed couches whose feet dug dark ruts into the grassy ground. A wading pool had been dug and lined with smooth round stones. There was no river for many miles. I wondered where they had found the water, and how far they had carried it. Here and there, the guests were dancing, in whirling groups or close as lovers. Here and there, gleaming eyes noted our progress, firefly bright in the dark.

At last, I saw Lord Loren. He was at rest on a couch, eating a pear. Istan nudged me gently in his direction, and I kneeled by the couch. “My lord.”

He grinned. “Etan.”

Istan took up his place behind us, hands clasped behind his back, his face turned to the rising moon. Lord Loren finished his pear with two ravenous bites, eating even the core, and sucked the last scraps of flesh from the stem.

“Would you like one, Etan? They are delicious.”

I shook my head; I was nowhere near hungry.

“Come now, have a pear. Have some cider. It is tradition, here.” He touched the bottom of my chin lightly. “And enjoy yourself. Our masters command it.”

“Yes, my lord,” I said, in a near-whisper. I followed his orders—I drank, and I ate fruit and sweetmeats. I watched the dancing, and how after the dance no few guests stripped off their clothes and splashed in the wading pools, their laughter louder than the music. I half longed to join them, to sink myself into cool water, but I was here to serve Lord Loren’s pleasure, and he had not ordered me to leave his side.

We were not the only ones to hang back. Itayysa and her honor guard kept aloof from the splashing cheer—and so, to my surprise, did the Count. He was ambling around the grounds, Isadel on his arm, sampling the food, sipping the wine, stopping to bestow a kiss or a smile on a chosen few of his guests.

At last, he came to us. His smile rested on Lord Loren. “May we sit with you, my dear friend?”