The Adorned by John Tristan Page B

running.

Chapter Thirteen
    Whatever Tallisk thought of my intrusion, he did not see fit to mention it. For a few days I barely caught a glimpse of him; his meals were delivered to his office or his atelier. Still, it was his house, and I was his Adorned—I was sure I could not avoid him for long.
    Until then, I had been spending most of my days in the library. I shared it most often with Isadel; it was her favored haunt. She was there now, sprawled on the tiny sofa, while I sat at the desk, leafing through a folio of Northern woodcuts. Now and then, she made a sound—almost a laugh.
    I glanced over at her. “What are you reading?”
    She held up her book. It was a history of the bandit wars; one of the newest books in Tallisk’s library.
    I smiled. The village boys in Lun had been mad for bandit tales. “You like histories?”
    “It’s not history that’s my interest.” She shut the book. “Half the Sword-nobles you’ll meet in the city earned their accolades back then. It’s good to be informed.”
    “Aren’t there more recent wars to be worried about?”
    She snorted. “Only a few pretend this war had much to do with honor. The bandit wars were fought for noble cause; you’ll find the nobles prefer to remember those deeds.”
    I shrugged. It made little difference in my eyes; either way, there was blood spilled.
    “Etan.” Isadel shifted on the sofa. “Is it true that Gaelta do not take the soldier’s oath?”
    The question surprised me. “You could ask Doiran. I’m only half-Gaelta.”
    “Which means you’ve a foot in each world,” she said. “That’s not an insight to be scoffed at.”
    I blinked at her. “Not becoming soldiers doesn’t mean we’re cowards, you know.”
    “No indeed.” Her eyebrows went up. “Some of you fought with the bandits, as I recall.”
    I looked down. “Gaelta don’t swear by Keredy gods. Unless they’re outcast from their families for one reason or another.” Like my father, I thought—though no one could have mistaken him for a warrior. “You have to swear an oath with a priest to be a Keredy soldier.”
    “And live by the rites of the Storm Lords.” She nodded. “That’s a fair enough reason.”
    I laughed. “Some don’t think so.”
    She went quiet after that, fingers tracing the gold lettering on the cover of her book. I went back to the folio, gazing into the cold and crowded forests of the North.
    In the silence I heard someone clear their throat; it was Yana, standing a step outside the library. “Etan? You’re needed.”
    “Needed?”
    She nodded. “In Master Tallisk’s atelier.”
    I rose from my place at the desk. Isadel laid down her book. “Good luck,” she said, with a smile; I thought it was a genuine one.
    I followed Yana upstairs, and she ushered me ahead with a pat to my buttocks. She was grinning. “Don’t worry so much,” she whispered, and gently shoved me through the atelier’s door.
    Two braziers were lit, warming the room nicely. Tallisk sat at the large tilted desk, dressed in his working-clothes, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Spread out on the desktop was a long roll of parchment, which had been inscribed with a portrait of a young man’s back. It bore a design, delicate and twisting, of lush vines woven together, the leaves brushing against each other as if stirred by a light breeze.
    He turned toward me. There was not a trace of anger in his face, nor of that strange, stormy amusement. He was calm as a priest. He gestured at the design.
    Only then did I recognize the young man’s back as my own, decorated with a profusion of green. I looked closer. My stomach leaped, both in fear of the touch of Tallisk’s needles and in anticipation so keen it was almost greed. I had seen his work on Isadel, of course, and knew it beautiful, but this had been designed around my own contours.
    He smiled at my open-mouthed admiration. “Please, undress.”
    I began to take my clothes off, though when I moved to my