The Adorned (29 page)

“Before the week is out, I will send Artor with what you require,” she said. Then she bowed—not low, but still the gesture was startling in someone of her rank. “I am indebted to you, Maestro Tallisk.”

“A debt soon discharged.” From the tone of his voice, I knew that he was smiling. Whatever favor she had requested, it seemed that he approved of it.

The Countess looked up. She saw Isadel and I, standing above them. Snooping. She smiled, showing the sharp teeth at the corners of her mouth. She was well matched with her husband, the Countess Kateya. “Isadel.”

“My lady.” She curtsied.

“I will see you soon.”

With that, she left, and Isadel let out a breath. Four pairs of curious eyes rested on her, though in Tallisk’s, curiosity was mingled with a sort of satisfaction. Whatever deal he had struck with the Countess, it must have been to his advantage.

“Well, don’t all stand there staring,” she said, her voice coming out shrill. She hurried down the stairs, then took a silent moment to compose herself. She looked up at Tallisk. “Master Tallisk. What did she say?”

He looked at her for a long moment. “I think you know.”

She closed her eyes. “And what did you answer?”

“One month,” he said. “That is how long it will take to complete you. After that, your bond will be sold to Countess Karan.”

Isadel let out a long breath. “Thank you, sir.”

It was strange. Back in the summer, when I’d returned from Fevrewood, he had raged to think that someone coveted the bond of his Adorned, yet he had ceded Isadel to the Countess with something that was almost grace. I turned the thought over in my mind, unsure what to make of it.

“She was very generous, your Countess,” he said. “In purchasing your bond.”

She raised her head. There was pride there, I saw, shining like a lamp. “She would not do anything less.”

Tallisk snorted. “A clever one, then.” He looked at us, standing there around him in a cluster, and scowled. “Yana, Doiran...don’t you have work to do?”

“Sorry, sir,” Doiran said. “Supper will be ready soon.”

“Good.” His eyes came to rest on me.

Isadel caught his look. “Etan is in high demand, and will be more, now that the Count is married.”

I glanced at her. Her words sounded reassuring—there would be income lost, with Isadel out of the household. But there was something in the set of her mouth, the light in her eyes, that was too knowing for my comfort.

Tallisk glanced at me. “I know,” he said, and his voice made my breath catch in my throat. “I know.”

Chapter Forty-Four

There were no more feasts for Isadel to attend, no more assignments. Her last month in our household was spent almost entirely under the needle, and she was sore and grumbling with it. I was called a few times to small household parties, though never by the Karans. Nor did Lord Loren call for me, though I knew he still resided in the city.

There was not much of a mood for feasting, it seemed. Perhaps the Blooded were tightening their belts, after the excesses of the wedding. Trade into the city had slowed, as well. Doiran had begun to grumble about the food he could find at the markets. There was barely any fruit to be found at any price, and the last soup he’d made for us had floating in it carrots as thin and twisted as broken fingers.

I was reading in my room when I heard Isadel come down from the atelier, wincing under her breath. She paused at my door, tapping gently on the frame. “He wants to see you, while there’s still light.”

I put down the book, closing it on a pen to keep my place. “Thank you.”

“Don’t
thank
me.” She stretched carefully. “The way he’s been working on me lately, ah! It’s like the ink’s scratched on with a damned rake.”

“It will be worth it, though, in the end. Won’t it?”

“Yes,” she said. She looked up, toward the atelier. “He’ll put his mark on me soon.”

“And then you’re off to the Karans’ house.”

“Yes.”

“Isadel.”

“What?”

I sighed. “I will miss you.”

She looked at me sideways and smiled. “I’ll miss you as well. Now, who would have thought that?”

With that she left, and I climbed up to meet Tallisk.

I entered the atelier and saw fresh tools laid out: inks and needles and a washbasin with clean, steaming water. Tallisk stood facing the window; I cleared my throat.

He turned. “Etan.”

“Sir.” I bowed my head. “Should I undress?”

He shook his head. “We are not working on you today.”

I frowned. “Then—”

“We are working on
me.
”

Before I could form a reply, he removed his shirt. His chest and shoulders were a tangle of ink. I had never seen his tattoos displayed so clearly before as they were in the atelier light. I saw the starburst at his breastbone, a blue like ancient silk, and the blocky black script circling his neck. Crescent moons formed interlocking patterns, from his collarbone to his hips. On each shoulder was inked an obscure, inhuman face, with goatish horns and skin pitted like stone. The left was snarling, the right weeping, and the tears fell down his arm into a pool at his elbow, where concentric rings pulsed outward hypnotically. All of it was faded, and most of it was shadowed with a thatch of black hair.

It was nothing at all like the careful designs Isadel and I shared, nothing like the delicate work he had done on Tristen writ-Tallisk or Arderi Finn. It was piecemeal, some work exquisite and some barely competent, and none of it shot through with the subtle, shimmering motion lent to ink by an infusion of Blood. Still, the whole of it suited him like a second skin. I could not keep my eyes off him.

“Etan?”

His voice, not quite gentle, shook me out of the reverie, and I met his eyes. “Sir?”

“I’ve seen your work on paper. I want you to attempt it on skin.”

I lost a breath to the shock and stared at him, open-mouthed.

He grimaced. “Stop gaping like a fish. As you can see I’m no masterpiece; it won’t matter if you foul up the lines.”

No masterpiece
, he’d said—but I saw the way his ink fell across muscle and tendon, and the thought of putting my own scrawl there, on the few inches of bare skin he still had on his chest, made my stomach flip inside me. “Sir, are you sure?”

“Most apprentices begin on pigskin, or old leather. When Master Meret took me in, he said there’d be no such easy ways in his house. Living skin is nothing at all like leather, or like paper. So we practiced on ourselves, and on each other. Well, you’ve got no skin to sacrifice to practice. That belongs to me. But mine?” He shrugged. “I’ve been a sketchbook before.”

I held out my hands. “
Why
, sir?”

He breathed out heavily. “Because I want to see.”

“See what?”

“See if you can.”

It was a challenge. I could hear it clear enough. I met his eyes and held them. “Then I’ll try.”

“Good.” He dragged two low overstuffed chairs across the room. He had taken those chaise from elsewhere in the house; he had been planning this. He twisted them to face the light and placed them close together. When we sat in them we would be face to face.

He took his rolling table, with the tools and ink, and looked over the bottles and gleaming needles With slow care, he picked out black ink and a familiar needle, one of the largest ones, used for the heaviest outlines. He set them aside. Then he took the basin; beside it, I saw, were a razor and some soap. With his tools arrayed around us, he sat down in the chair. Waiting.

I took a deep breath. “What do I do?”

“Decide your placement, first, and prepare the area.”

It was almost dizzying to be given such license, to let my eyes wander all over his broad chest, looking at every detail of him, every line of ink and skin. There was a spot a handspan above his hip, between two curving moons, where I saw empty flesh. “There,” I said, pointing. “Is—is that all right?”

He nodded slowly. “You know what to do now.”

I took up the washcloth, dipped it into the warm water, and skimmed the fabric over the surface of the soap. I thought he must have heard my heart beating, it was so loud to me. I bowed down over his belly and touched the washcloth to the curve of his hip, lathering the soap into a rich foam. I felt him move beneath the cloth, shifting slightly under the pressure of my hand. Then I took up the razor. I had shaved myself enough, but this was different. I willed my hand to be steady. I could hear his breathing, feel the warmth of his skin. Slowly I passed the razor over the lather, uncovering the bare skin beneath.

I swallowed, my throat painfully tight. I dipped the cloth into the water; it went opaque with soap. I rinsed away the remnants of the lather and leaned back a little. A drop of sweat trickled down the back of my neck. I felt its movement like a wet fingertip.

“Now the brush.” Tallisk’s voice was low. “Outline your design. Keep it small.” He chuckled. “Not that there’s much room.”

I dipped the brush into the ink and bent over him. I could feel his breath on the crown of my head.
You could lean down now
, some high distant part of me whispered,
lean down and kiss that bare edge of skin.
I breathed slow and regular and silenced that voice, and I painted a stark, simple glyph on Tallisk’s skin. It looked like a Gaelta carving, I thought, but not quite; it was too regular, each side a mirror image of the other.

“There,” I said, and I leaned back.

“Now the needles.”

I spoke with half-held breath. “Don’t you want to see the design?”

He lifted one corner of his mouth. “I trust you.”

I almost laughed at that—almost. I took up the large needle that he had chosen for me. It would suit this design, with its simple, stark lines. I licked my lips. How many times had these same needles driven ink into my skin? How many times had I seen them used, followed Tallisk’s hand as he worked on me? Still, it was different.

“Etan.”

“I’m scared, sir.”

He put a hand on my shoulder. I leaned in to the touch.

“There is no need to be.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

He cocked his head. “Do I hurt you, when I tattoo you?”

“Yes, but—” I shook my head.
It’s different
, I wanted to say. “I do not mind it.”

“Etan,” he said again. “Look at me. Do you think I would mind the needle? Now do it, before I change my mind.”

Something in the tone of his voice shook the fear out of me. Perhaps it was just that the gentleness went out of it, and Tallisk was more familiar gruff and complaining. I took a breath and drove the needle into his skin.

He did not wince or move, but his eyes closed. I watched him a moment, watched his breathing. Then, again, I tapped down the needle. Blood welled to the surface in fat red drops. I wiped them away with the washcloth. He kept his eyes closed as I worked on him. I went slow and careful, so I was not even near finishing before the light began to fail.

“Sir?”

He opened his eyes and looked not at me but at the new tattoo, vivid and black and swollen with blood, as if he were trying to decipher it.

“What do you think?”

“It isn’t bad.” He looked up at me. His dark blue eyes held me still. Finally, he cleared his throat. “The salve. Get the salve. It is next to the blue ink on the table.”

I fetched the bottle of salve, and he took it from me, carefully feathering it onto the raw skin.

“It won’t need a bandage,” he said. “It’s small enough to go without.” He put the bottle back on the table. “You did well.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“You—you should go now.”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.” Yet I stayed there, not moving. I wanted to lay my head against his bare chest and hear his heartbeat. I wanted to feel the raised lines of ink on his skin.
And why not
, the thought came. I had put them there.

I traced a fingertip against the new-marked skin, very gently.

“Etan.” Tallisk hitched a breath. “Etan—no—”

Slowly, I lifted my hand and rose from the chair. Blood beat in my ears like wings. “Thank you,” I said, trusting nothing louder than a whisper. Then I turned away, leaving the atelier on unsteady legs.

Chapter Forty-Five

When the Countess came to collect Isadel, she came in force, with a trail of retainers—as if it were a visit of state, and Isadel some foreign queen.

I saw her retinue from the parlor windows: Artor Lukan was there, a reliable shadow, always two steps behind her, along with two coachmen to drive her great carriage. Instead of the Count’s porters she had brought grim Northerners in grey uniform, each with a rifle slung across their shoulders and a saber at their hips. Trunk by trunk, they carried Isadel’s things out of the house, tromping past the parlor with regular, hard-booted steps.

More armed Northerners waited outside, their faces grey as their uniforms. They were bloodguards in all but name, I thought, the Blooded’s own private soldiers. She had brought enough of them to hold a small fortress.

The Countess herself had not emerged from her carriage. I thought I could see a shimmer of her bird-bright eyes through the windows, but it could have been only a trick of the light.

The door opened behind me, and I turned away from the window. Isadel entered the parlor, dressed so soberly she might have been in mourning: she wore the heavy cloak that Tallisk had given her over a long dress, and her hands were covered by black gloves. Not an inch of her Adornment was on show.

Somewhere below her somber clothes was the last of her ink: Tallisk’s mark, subtly worked into her completed design. It would have been made in ordinary ink, that mark, the only part of her Adornment that would never move or shimmer, or respond to the Count’s touch. The one part that was his alone.

The illusion of mourning dress—and the rhythm of my thoughts—was suddenly broken by her smile. It was as bright and nervous as a young bride’s. She turned before me, almost twirling. “How do I look?”

I appraised her for a long moment. “You look...noble.”

She laughed. “Thank you, I suppose.” She twisted off a single glove; her hand looked very pale.