The Adorned by John Tristan

and half fire.
    Isadel yawned and stretched her neck, then lifted one leg in the air, placing her foot upon Tallisk’s shoulder. He neither moved nor made comment.
    After the flame had been painted, he stood back for a moment, considering. I peered over his shoulder. The ink had dried to a greyish gloss, a guide for his needles.
    Then he began to mix his inks. Red powder, vivid as sunset light, was mixed with a clear oil until it made a thin paste, then thinned again to liquid smoothness. At the last, he took out a plain wooden box. With brisk care, he removed a small silver vial. Isadel’s eyes were fixed on that vial—and the eyes of her snakes, as well. He unscrewed the top. A strange scent suffused the room for a moment: a whiff of hot copper, of the air before a storm. He tipped a single drop of tar-black liquid into the ink. There was a sound like a hissing breath, and the black was swallowed by the red.
    Tallisk’s hand hovered over his tools. He picked up one of his needles. It was not a single sharp point, but a tight cluster of them, affixed to a smooth ivory handle. He dipped it in the red ink. Isadel reclined on the tattooing-chair, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond the ceiling. There was a slight tension in her limbs, now. I took soft, slow breaths, to keep from holding them.
    When Tallisk struck needle to flesh, Isadel flinched, but only slightly, and only for the first strike. Afterward she seemed to drift in a kind of reverie, heedless of the blood that streaked down her thighs. Tallisk wiped her skin with a soft white cloth. It went red with mingled ink and blood.
    A soft knock sounded. Tallisk drew back with a hiss of irritation. “I am busy. ”
    “I know, sir.” It was Yana’s voice. “I wouldn’t disturb you, if it wasn’t—”
    “Open the damned door, then.”
    She did not quite step into the room, but lingered in the hallway. “Sir, Geodery Gandor is here. He asks if he might see you.”
    Tallisk cursed and wiped his brow. “Without even the courtesy to send a message? Tell him he can go to death’s river.”
    Isadel cleared her throat. “Gandor is—”
    “I know!” He stood up and rolled down his sleeves. “Get dressed,” he said to Isadel. “You’re coming with me.”
    “You’ll have to give me a few moments.” She stood up, pulling on her robe; I handed her the cords and ribbons. “To make myself presentable.”
    “No.” His smile was flat and humorless. “If he comes to us without announcement, he shouldn’t expect to see us prepared. You are fit to be seen in my household; that should be good enough for him.”
    Isadel narrowed her eyes, but said nothing.
    “Yana.” Tallisk turned toward his key-master. “Tell Doiran to prepare some drinks. As for you...” He turned to me and shook his head. “Just keep out of the way. Understood?”
    I nodded. Tallisk thundered his way down the stairs, with Isadel on his heels; she tried to smooth her hair down as she went. Yana followed them. I was, for the moment, forgotten.
    I stepped back into the atelier. I moved slowly and lightly, my feet soft on the warm floor. The tattooing-chair was in the brightest spot of the room; the shadowy corners held different mysteries. Tallisk’s massive desk, covered in sketches. Drawers, some pulled open, full of strange tools. Books and folios filled with exquisite illustrations; I went and hovered over one of them, open on the desktop. It showed a woodcut of a forest path, crosshatched and shadowy, the trees bent, leering figures over a lone traveler.
    I pulled away, not letting myself turn the pages. I would touch nothing.
    Another corner, I saw, was cordoned off by thick green curtains. Something glimmered behind it; I saw it, over the curtain rail, through the barely overlapping edges of the velvet. Opening curtains, that would hardly count as touching something, would it? I slipped my hand between them and drew the curtains lightly apart.
    They hid a small alcove, almost a half-circle,