The Adorned

by John Tristan

  “No,” Tallisk said.

  Doiran blinked at him in surprise, but said nothing.

  Tallisk opened his mouth, then closed it; it was as if he had surprised even himself with that singular word. “Not while we’ve got beggars on every corner, and more outside the city each day.” He sounded almost defensive. “It’ll be hard enough to feed the four of us, never mind another mouth.”

  Somehow I doubted the truth of that; Isadel had told me how much the Countess had offered for her bond. Still, none of us gainsaid him.

  He sighed and strode out of the parlor, making his way up the stairs two and three steps at a time—as if he were running away, I thought. Yana grimaced; Doiran shrugged. Moments later, both of them left as well.

  I went to the window and jerked the curtain aside, just a little. Nightwell Street was dark and empty, but the sun was still hanging above the horizon, ripe as a blood orange. Somewhere in the distance, I heard shouting and the low peal of bells. Fire, I thought—the old tower bells were always rung when there was a fire.

  Slowly, I pulled the curtains shut. The sound of the bell dropped to a distant, muffled echo. The lamps in the parlor had not yet been lit, and the room was cavern-dark, save for a ragged square of light that shone through the edges of the door.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Tallisk left the house early the next morning, before the sun had risen. When he returned that afternoon, he had us gather around the table and poured us each a generous glass of wine from the barrel that the Karans had given us. The room was hushed enough that the slosh of wine in glass nearly echoed. Tallisk drained his own wine before he spoke.

  “They’ve closed the gates,” he said.

  Yana gaped at him. “What?”

  “The Council voted. They’ve closed the city gates.” He poured us another measure of wine, smaller than the last. “After the bloodguards threw out all the refugees that they could find.”

  Yana swore under her breath and gulped down her second glass. “It doesn’t make sense. How can they—how would they even know who to throw out?”

  Tallisk chuckled hollowly. “Pick up anyone who looks Northern and poor. I imagine they made more than a few mistakes.”

  Doiran made a kind of low, keening noise of worry and twisted his hands together. “And those who look Gaelta?”

  I looked up at Tallisk, waiting. His dark blue eyes slid over mine, and it seemed his gaze was fixed on something far behind me.

  “There weren’t many Gaelta coming from the North, as far as I could tell, but...I don’t know.” He let out a low breath, almost a sigh. “The city’s a damned hornet’s nest,” he said. “Only waiting for a kick.”

  Yana grimaced. “Sir, my mother—she’s old and alone—she’ll be worrying...”

  He nodded to her. “Take the afternoon, Yana. Go see her.”

  She bowed to him. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Just take care,” he said gruffly, and then he turned toward Doiran. “Doiran—you might want to check on your family.”

  Doiran smiled, but it was a wan and trembling smile, ill at ease on his face. “Ah, they’re a big bunch. They can take care of each other. Who’ll take care of the house, if I go?”

  Tallisk shrugged. “It’s up to you.”

  Doiran hesitated a moment. “Though—I don’t know—if they were throwing Gaelta out...”

  “Go, Doiran. I know they’re not far. You’ll be back soon enough.”

  Doiran rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Still, there’s no supper made.”

  “There’s cold meat and bread and wine.” Tallisk looked at me a moment. I saw myself reflected, dark and blue, in his eyes. “Etan—Etan can make do with that. Can’t you?”

  I bowed my head. “Yes, sir.”

  “And you, sir?” Doiran’s voice was gentle.

  “I’ll make do as well.” He left the room and climbed the stairs. Doiran and I tracked his progress. He went with slow ponderous steps, as if he were sleepwalking; I felt a weird wrench in my heart, watching him. Did he miss Isadel, I wondered? Would he miss me, when I left?

  “Well, Etan,” Doiran said with forced cheer. “You’ll have the house near to yourself tonight.”

  “Doiran.” I bit my lip. “Were you in this house when Arderi Finn lived here?”

  “Arderi...” He heaved a sigh. “Yes, Etan, I was.”

  “Was he—” I swallowed. “Was he much like me?”

  Slowly, Doiran shook his head. “Not one inch, lad. You’re like night and day.”

  I half smiled. “And how many others have there been? Adorned, I mean.”

  “Five, in my care,” he said. “Including Isadel and you. They all did well enough, as far as I know—even Arderi, in his own way. Tallisk doesn’t often talk of the others, though, and, well...” He laughed. “I don’t run in their circles.”

  “Do you miss them?”

  “A little. You always miss someone you’ve got to know like that. A member of the household.”

  I looked up. “Tallisk doesn’t.”

  “No, perhaps not.” He sighed. “Etan...look. I know he’s been giving you things. Paper and paints and such.”

  “He’s not done it before? Given such things?”

  He shook his head. “Not as far as I know, or Yana.”

  A thrill of jealous pride went through me at that—a half-formed image of Arderi Finn bent over his own sketches dissolved like sugar in tea. Then I thought again of what Doiran had said, and I glanced sidelong at him. “You’ve been discussing me?”

  “What, you think we don’t gossip?” He grinned for a moment, then turned serious once more. “What I mean, Etan—ah, stuff it, I’m not a man to give advice on this. Call me superstitious, but it feels like Madame Death’s waiting at the corner, do you know? I just think we should seize what chances we’ve got while we can.”

  My laugh was soft and bitter. “I would rather have him as master alone than risk losing him.” My nails pressed into my palms. Losing him, I thought, like Arderi Finn.

  “It’s up to you, lad,” he said. “But I’d think he would not take it amiss if you brought up apprenticeship.”

  I blinked at him. “Apprenticeship?”

  “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “To be his apprentice?” I swallowed a lump in my throat. I could feel my heart beating in my fingertips, echoing the first time he had put a brush in my hand. I thought of the growing stack of papers in my room, filled with slow improvement; of Tallisk saying he couldn’t apprentice; of Meret’s mischievous smile—then of the small tattoo I had inked onto Tallisk myself. That would be on his skin forever, just as his art was on mine.

  “When I came here,” I said slowly, “I had nothing, save what the gods gave me. Now a hundred heads turn when I show my Adornment. I’ll never want for anything, with Master Tallisk’s art on my skin. But...but I’d let him scratch it all out, if he’d take me as apprentice. Yes, Doiran. Yes, it is what I want.”

  The words had poured out all at once. They had been long-dammed in me. I saw the world go blurred and blinked hard. When I closed my eyes, I saw the strange geometries of my designs: triangles and interlocking lines in glowing, impossible black. I sat down on the nearest chair. It was that or crumple; I felt as if I’d taken a blow to the chest. For a moment I thought I’d start coughing—blood spraying, sickness on my breath, Madame Death come at last to claim her old prey—but in the end it was just my hammering heart.

  Of course I wanted to be his apprentice. But, impossibly greedy, I also wanted more.

  Doiran gave me a dubious look. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded slowly, not trusting my voice. He kneeled down in front of me, searching my face with his big, friendly eyes.

  “Seize your chance,” he said, low-voiced. “I’m not often one to meddle...”

  I laughed. “Truly?”

  “I’d cuff you for that if you weren’t near crying.” He smiled. “Believe what you will, but I keep my
thoughts to myself more than not. But not now. Master Tallisk says the city is a hornet’s nest...well, sometimes you pass those by without getting stung. But still, I am a superstitious man, and I think to myself take your chances while you can.”

  “What chance will you take, Doiran?”

  He stood up. “I don’t yet know. Maybe I’ll marry at last. Find a nice young wife.” He grinned and offered his hand; I rose from the chair, now a little steadier on my feet.

  “Thank you,” I said. “For everything.”

  He patted my shoulder. “I’ll see you soon, Etan. Keep the house warm, eh? I won’t be away long.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  I had not seen Tallisk since Doiran left. I made my own dinner, pouring myself some wine from the house carafe, and ate alone. Now, still alone, I sat in the library with a single lamp burning.

  From the half-open window I heard the sounds of the city seep in. The house was quiet enough that even distant voices, distant panic, echoed around the room. Superstitious or not, I thought Doiran was right: Madame Death was walking the streets tonight. I heard a sound like a woman sobbing, and muffled shouting. I went to close the window, hand on the curtain as I looked out over Peretim. There was smoke on the horizon beyond the city walls.

  I shivered and closed the curtain. Doiran and Yana were out there, in the noise and coiled tension of the city. I thought I should say a prayer for them, and for Isadel, but no words came. If the gods took notice of them, they already knew their worries. If they did not, why would my prayers make them?

  I left the library. Upstairs, I saw a light shining from Tallisk’s atelier. The door was slightly ajar. I heard him moving about the room, heard the rustle of paper, the clink of glass on glass.

  I stood a moment at the foot of the stairs, still and unsure. Doiran’s voice resounded in me: take your chances, he had told me. I smiled in the darkness. If he knew what chance I intended to take, he might have advised differently.

  Then I climbed the stairs and knocked at the atelier door.

  Tallisk’s voice answered, harsh and distant. “What is it?”

  “Sir.” I closed my eyes. “It’s me.”

  There was a scrape of wood—he was rising from his chair—and the door opened. Tallisk stood there, a glass in his hand, hair slightly awry.

  “Etan.”

  I looked up at him. “May I come in?”

  He opened the door a little further and inclined his head. The liquor swirled in the bottom of his glass as he moved. The atelier was well lit; there was a faint, sweet smell of incense and burnt sugar.

  “Sit down,” he said. “I’ll pour you a drink.”

  There were few places to sit; the easy chairs were gone, perhaps moved back to Tallisk’s bedroom. There was Tallisk’s chair, where he worked, the tattooing chair, an old wooden chest. My eyes found a padded footrest; I pulled it closer and sat there, looking up at him.

  He retrieved a glass, smaller than his own, from the drawers of his desk, and poured each of us a generous measure. I cradled mine in both hands, inhaling the sharp, sweet smell of it.

  “Your troubles washed away,” he said, raising his glass.

  “And yours.” I raised my own glass; he lowered his to clink lightly against mine. I watched the dark amber slosh of the liquor and took a small sip. It was sweet on my tongue, and fiery in my throat.

  “Not that such a small glass can wash away all our troubles.”

  I looked down. Tallisk still wore the finery he’d dressed in for Isadel’s departure, calf-high leather boots polished to gloss-black shine.

  “Etan...”

  He looked down at me and took a long drink, emptying his glass. He stepped closer to me. The hand that still held the glass reached to me. His knuckles lightly brushed my forehead.

  My pulse felt very near to my skin. I leaned into his hand, warm skin and cold glass, and closed my eyes.

  I turned my head sideways, just a little, so that my cheek lay against his wrist. I could feel his pulse there. Its beat matched my own.

  I breathed softly through parted lips. His thumb brushed the edge of my ear. I must have made some sort of sound.

  Tallisk laughed harshly. There was no humor in it, only a strength of feeling that made my hair stand on end. “You should go,” he said.

  I looked up at him. “Should I?”

  “Once—” he said, and his voice seemed hoarse and faraway, “once I threw a boy from my house because he did not love me.”

  He pulled away. I swallowed hard and looked at him; he was standing with his back to me.

  “It was a cruel thing to do, cruel and unworthy. I did not wish to be cruel; I vowed that I would never make the same mistake again.”

  I stood up, slowly, and set down my glass. I reached out to him, hand stretched so I could almost touch the small of his back. He hunched his shoulders.

  My hand dropped to my side.

  “You should go,” he repeated. He turned around, and his eyes were dark.

  I raised my head by slow degrees, and it was Tallisk who looked away. “Why?”

  “Because if you don’t...”

  I reached for him. There was a triangle of bare skin at his collar, where I could see the edges of his blue starburst tattoo. His arms were tense, each muscle hard. I felt his shoulders shift; I put my hands around his waist.

  “If I don’t—?”

  He bent down to me, as if pulled by unseen strings. I felt his breath whisper over my cheek. Then his mouth was on mine; I tasted him, one sip and I was drunk on him. He tasted of liquor and smoke.

  “Ah—Etan—”

  The flickering lamplight turned his eyes from blue to black. He pressed hard against me. I could feel the bare edge of skin at his collar. I leaned into him, and then we were falling, sliding down, and I was on top of him. The breath was knocked out of me and I laughed. I could not help it. My heart beat hard and hot; I felt it in my chest, between my legs.

  I wanted him. More than the ink on my skin. More than anything.

  “No.” He rose, pushed me off him. “Not here. Not—”

  “Please.” My skin burned. I could not stop touching him. “Ah, please.”

  With an oath, he pressed his hands into my shoulders, pushed me backward. Onto the long black chair where he had put his Adornment on me. He tore off his shirt, slipped out of his trousers. He climbed on top of me; his weight leaned into me and I could barely breathe and it was like nothing else, like nothing else before. The Count’s fingers rousing his Blood in my ink, the kiss I had stolen from Lord Loren, the cool deliberate hands of the Blooded: they were blown away like ashes on the wind.

  He pulled at my robes. I felt him hard against me. His hand was on me, moving slow between my legs, and then he took my thighs and moved them apart.

  His hand curled around me, found me. He was rough, almost careless, until I was pressing up into his hand, tender and trembling, and then he let me go. I made a sort of soft begging sound; I saw his smile white in the half light. He licked his fingers—moved them hard inside me. I cried his name.

  He withdrew his fingers and took my thighs, one in each hand, spreading them, raising them so I presented a more tempting target. He was pressing against me, inside me. He brought his mouth down to kiss me once more, and I was full of him, and we fit together—oh gods—as if we had done this a thousand times before.

  He was motionless inside me for a moment, and then his face pulled away from mine and his hips moved hard. One hand was on my shoulder, pushing me into the bed, one hand down between my legs. I felt small and taut and hot in his grip. His mouth was against my neck, his teeth against my skin. He moved faster, deeper. I cried out. His hand covered my mouth and I licked at it, insatiable. His fingers were in my mouth. He was breathing hard and ragged. He pushed my hand down between my legs and whispered, “Feel, I want you to feel,” and I touched him and found he was in me completely.

  My heart beat too fast to keep time. I felt him tense and he bit
down on his lip hard to stop crying out as he spent. I sounded my own cry against his hot hand as he withdrew from me. He regained his grip on me with his other hand and sped his motion. I arched upward, up, and—with a jerk of my hips, with a muffled exclamation, I came.

  Sweat-slick, skin against skin, we lay together on the chair. He turned to take his weight off me, but did not turn away. Our breaths matched each other. We said nothing. Our hands were tangled; they had fallen together of their own accord. The windows in the atelier were shut, but the curtains were open—wordless we turned toward the starlit night.

  The streets below were eerie-empty. The moon shone bright over the city, grey walls high, the palace at its center like a shadowy hand.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  I woke to warmth and the slow sound of breathing next to me. For a few breaths I did not know where I was. The ceiling above was a strange pattern, the bed too hard and wide. Then I passed a hand over my face, sweeping away the fog of sleep, and I remembered.

  I touched my mouth. It felt near-bruised, but I smiled.

  Tallisk was there, looking at me. I could not guess how long he had been awake. He lay on his side, head resting on the curve of his arm, and watched me. The light outside the window was thin and clear. It was barely past dawn.

  I turned on my side, so we lay face to face, and frowned. There was something in his expression I did not recognize, something I had not seen there before, and it took me a long, silent moment to puzzle out its meaning.

  It was joy. Joy cradled like a fragile thing.

  “Hello,” I whispered.

  He reached out and brushed my cheek. “You are well?”

  I laughed. “Of course.”

  “Don’t jest.” He pushed his hand into my hair, tangling it there. “Don’t jest, Etan.”

  “I am not. Believe me.”

  “Doiran and Yana will be returning soon.” He pulled me closer. We were near mouth to mouth, but he wanted me closer. “Would you mind them finding you here?”

  “No,” I said.

  We kissed. After a while, he drew back slightly.