The Adorned Read online

  The Adorned

  By John Tristan

  My name is Etan, and I am Adorned.

  A living piece of art, I exist to please the divine rulers of Kered. With nowhere to turn after my father died, I tried my luck in the capital city. Little did I know how quickly I would be robbed, beaten and forced to sell myself into servitude. But I was lucky enough to gain the attention of Roberd Tallisk, an irascible but intriguing tattoo artist who offered to mark me with enchanted ink for the enjoyment of the nobles. I was given a chance to better my station in life, and I could not refuse.

  But the divine rulers want not only the art but the body that bears it. In their company I can rise above the dregs of society and experience a life most only dream of, at the cost of suffering their every desire as a pawn in games of lavish intrigue. Their attention is flattering, but I find I’d rather have Tallisk’s.

  Caught between factions, I learn that a revolution is brewing, one that could ruin Kered—and Roberd and myself along with it...

  101,000 words

  Dear Reader,

  I feel as though every month I start my letter the same, gushing over our month of releases and telling you how amazing and fantastic they are. This month, I’m going to change things up and start by telling you that they’re all quite awful. Okay, not really. Poor authors, I wonder how many of them reading this just had a mini heart attack? Of course you should be excited about this lineup of releases, because it’s another wonderful and diverse month.

  In the new-and-unique category, this month we have our first ever decide-your-own-erotic-adventure. Christine d’Abo’s Choose Your Shot is an interactive erotic adventure that not only lets the reader choose who the heroine ends up with, but what kinky fun the characters get up to along the way.

  We’re thrilled to welcome Karina Cooper to Carina Press. She’s moving her steampunk series, The St. Croix Chronicles, to Carina Press—starting with a prequel novella, The Mysterious Case of Mr. Strangeway, in which a young Cherry St. Croix takes on her first bounty, only to find her efforts challenged by a collector whose motives run deeper than a hefty purse. Look for book three in The St. Croix Chronicles, Corroded, releasing in September 2013.

  We have a strong lineup of contemporary romances this month. Fiona Lowe returns with her next Wedding Fever book, Picture Perfect Wedding. Tamara Morgan brings us The Derby Girl, in which a roller-derby girl lives up to her “bad girl” image to woo an unattainable plastic surgeon, only to discover that he’s the one man trained to see past the surface. In the humorous contemporary romance category, Stacy Gail’s Ugly Ducklings Finish First will be a hit with fans of high-school reunion romances, and with those who like their romance on the more lighthearted side.

  I’m also thrilled to welcome three debut authors to Carina Press this month, all with contemporary romances. In Kelsey Browning’s Personal Assets, book one of the Texas Nights series, a recovering good girl needs the right man to help her find her inner bad girl—which is easier said than done in a small Texas town. Next, when the bank refuses Emma the loan she needs to save her family home, she must turn to her neighbor Mitch McKenna, a sexy real-estate investor whose reputation she’s spent the past six months pulverizing into sand, in Unexpectedly You by Lily Santana. And last, but certainly not least, Knowing the Score by Kat Latham features a smokin’ hot rugby player with a scandalous past who gives up his vow of celibacy to help a virgin overcome her fear of intimacy. Three debut authors offer up three terrific contemporary romance novels—make sure to give them each a try!

  This month we also have three fantastic male/male romances. Kim Knox kicks off a fun-filled science-fiction historical trilogy. As described by the author, Agamemnon Frost and the House of Death is Sherlock Holmes meets The Scarlet Pimpernel. With aliens. Check out further Agamemnon Frost stories in September and October 2013.

  John Tristan joins Carina Press with his male/male fantasy romance, The Adorned. A beautiful young man indentures himself to a tattooist and becomes a living canvas for the artist and his inhuman patrons. And for those who like their male/male romance in the contemporary genre, Libby Drew’s Bending the Iron is sure to hit the mark as she builds a brand for emotional, wonderful male/male romance.

  Following book one of her Magick Trilogy, Magick by Moonrise, Laura Navarre takes us back into her historical paranormal world. When the Angel of Death falls in love with life, will a secret Tudor princess pay the ultimate price? Tudor England and the celestial realm collide in Midsummer Magick.

  Last, Love Letters Volume 4: Travel to Temptation continues the collection of A to Z erotic short-story romances penned by Ginny Glass, Christina Thacher, Emily Cale and Maggie Wells. Volumes 1 through 3 are now available. Look for volumes 5 and 6, Exposed and Cowboy’s Command, on sale in September and October 2013.

  As always, we have a significant backlist of books that I hope you’ll browse and take a look at, in genres from horror to mystery to fantasy to female/female and across the ranges of romance. There’s an adventure waiting for every reader!

  We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Executive Editor, Carina Press

  www.carinapress.com

  www.twitter.com/carinapress

  www.facebook.com/carinapress

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  After the burial, they came to my father’s house to empty it.

  The last of his money had been used to buy the heavy stone that marked his grave,
a jutting tooth of grey Gaelta slate. Now to settle his debts, they came for the books, the disused instruments, the tapestries. It wasn’t enough; it wasn’t nearly enough. When he’d died, they had come to explain the extent of his debts, dressed respectfully in mourning colors. He had levied the house against his borrowing. Out of compassion, they explained, they would let me remain there until after he had been laid to rest.

  I watched them from my chair by the fireplace. The last fire was dwindling there, coals white with ash; the cold winter air was creeping in through the chimney. This time, they had brought strong men from the village with them. The men grumbled and sweated as they stripped the house bare, room by room; they had taken my bed, I saw, and the cabinet where I had kept my few things. Those were beside me in a rucksack, and next to the rucksack was the old brass clock, still well polished, still ticking like a small heart.

  It was nearly nightfall when they’d finished and the two men from the bank came to see me, shuffling up to my fireside seat. They must have told me their names, but I’d forgotten them. The eldest, whose careful moustache was touched with bristly white hairs, held a ledger in his gloved hands. “Etan Dairan?” he asked, tongue stumbling slightly over my name.

  I looked up at him. “You know who I am.”

  “By law we must ask. We will need your mark,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “To show you were present at the proceedings and all was handled properly.” He smiled, his moustache parting like a curtain to show his small, even teeth. “It was handled properly, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would say it was handled properly,” his companion said.

  I blinked at them. They gazed down at me with small matching smiles. “Yes,” I said at last. “May I see the papers?”

  “You can read?”

  I nodded and held out my hands. The older man opened his ledger, not giving it over from his grip. I saw an account in a crabbed hand of each thing taken from us, with its rough value tallied in a column beside it, and some hasty lines assuring the reader all was done in full accord with the law.

  I read it slowly, making sure. They watched me read. Until then, I think, they had not believed I could.

  The younger man tapped his foot in rhythm with the clock. “That is fine workmanship.”

  “It is not my father’s,” I said hastily. “It is an heirloom from my mother’s family. There should have been papers.”

  “Ah, yes.” The elder produced a worn letter that had been tucked in the back of the ledger. “I’d almost forgotten.” He proffered it to me, smiling, like a man giving a gift.

  I took it and held it in my hand; the paper was so old it felt like silk.

  “Can you sign?”

  There was nothing I could object to, but our quills and ink had been taken away. They had me sign with a stub of pencil wrapped in leather, retrieved from behind the younger man’s ear. The elder looked over my signature, nodded, and closed the ledger with a sound like a cracking branch.

  They had taken the lamps. They had been old, those lamps, my father’s pride, some with leaded glass of river-blue. He’d composed by that light, with watery shadows cast on his bent back, alternating between the ink-spattered desk and the harp stool. Now the twilight sky and the sputtering fire cast the only light remaining. The tick of the clock was suddenly very loud.

  “I am sorry,” the older man said, “but you must go now.”

  I stood up and shouldered my rucksack. It wasn’t heavy. I wound down the clock and took it carefully under my arm. The older man was gone already, out of the gloomy house, but the younger had lingered.

  “It is a very nice clock,” he said.

  I looked at him, silent.

  “Have you a place to go? Friends in the village?”

  I shook my head.

  “Family?”

  “None I know of.” My mother had been an only child, like me; a child of her parents’ middle years. Her parents—my grandparents—were long gone. My father had left his family behind to marry a Keredy woman. I did not even know their names.

  “An apprenticeship secured?”

  “No.” He knew this, I thought.

  “Where do you intend to go?”

  “I don’t know. There is the inn.”

  He leaned in close, glancing behind him to make sure we were unobserved. “I’ll give you twenty ral for it.”

  “The clock?” I drew back from him and his narrow, listing form. “The brass alone’s worth that much. It was my grandfather’s masterpiece.”

  “So?” He shrugged. “How much do you have? Enough for a night at the inn? Two nights? Where will you go when that runs out? The winter has been mild so far, but, well...”

  I swallowed. “Twenty ral won’t get me far. I can barter—find work—”

  “As what?” He closed a hand around my arm, easily encompassing the span of it between thumb and forefinger. His palms were slick and warm. “A farmer? A quarryman?” With a laugh, he shook my arm a little, and I wrenched myself away. “Twenty will get you to Peretim. There’s work there, for a boy who can read and write.”

  I almost laughed. “With no apprentice fee? With no references?”

  “Well, have it your way. At least I’m offering you something. When you’re on the street, after your last money runs dry, people won’t care how you cling to that old thing. They’ll just take it.” He sniffed. “Your family was not well liked around here. We had no problems, hiring men to take your things away. An orphan’s things.”

  “I could appeal—”

  “To whom? The Council of Blood, maybe?” He laughed. “How long do you think they’ll wait, these men, to rob a little half-breed like you? These men, with debts of their own? Thirty for the clock and the papers of ownership. And that’s the last offer I’ll make you.”

  For half the thirty ral, he gave me coin in a small leather purse heavy as a stone; for the other, a letter of credit with a bank in Peretim, the capital city. My last night in my birthplace I spent not in my emptied house, nor in the inn, which bustled with my father’s creditors. I slept in the temple stables, where the priest let me stay without charge.

  It had been kind of him, I thought, giving my father a Gaelta burial. The village of Lun had once been Gaelta land; my father’s ancestors had quarried and farmed there.

  But it had been Keredy land for generations, now. Long-ago battles had soaked the Lowlands in Gaelta blood; those who still remained preferred the empty hills. My father had come here to marry my mother, not to return to his homeland. Whatever heritage he had here in the Lowlands was long forgotten, and, save for the new stone raised with his burial, all the markers in the old grave-meadow were pitted with untold years of rain and neglect.

  My father had lived by my mother’s ways, Keredy ways, but as he had lain in the throes of his last fever, he’d spoken of the Gaelta gods and their green heaven. At the last, he spent all he had left to sleep beneath the earth and stone, sent to rest by the half-forgotten prayers of his childhood.

  Half-asleep in the scratchy straw, I hated him for the first time.

  Chapter Two

  The war had ended a month or so before my father did. It had wound down to nothing in the last light of the fall, more ceasefire than peace. Now I was never alone on the roads. Soldiers given their leave and their last salary, camp-followers whose business had dried up: all were going home, or just going elsewhere.

  Not a few had drifted toward Peretim. It was the capital of Kered; they called it the Grey City. It was circled with walls of high grey stone, a sprawling place that had swallowed villages whole. I had been once, as a child, before my mother died; I didn’t remember, but my father had spoken of it sometimes. He liked the old stone of the walls, the cobbled streets swept clean by monks-penitent, the high towers of the palace that stood at its center. He had not liked the noise of a million voices, or to be too far from the green country where his bones had now been laid.

  For the last leg of my jour
ney, I sat in the back of a corn seller’s cart. When we reached the city gates, carts and coaches gathered around us like bees crowding a flower. The corn seller turned to me as he slowed his horse. “Might be a bit of a wait.”

  “What are they doing?” I asked.

  “Well, they don’t want beggars or thieves or false-witches in the city, do they?” He fell silent, watching the carts and coaches before him filter into the city one by one. As we drew closer, I saw the guards at the gate in crimson uniforms, swords and pistols at their belts. They seemed bored, I thought, faces slack and uncaring, no matter if they waved people through or turned them away.

  Closer we crept, and behind us a ragged line was forming. The fine coaches were herded toward other gates: the great Eastern Gate, with its slate arches and statuary, or the small, ornate gates near the Western Gardens. This gate received the hay bales, the carts full of barrels, the shepherds on foot with keen-eyed dogs at their heels, the youths whose soldier-shorn hair was now growing out in awkward tufts. I ran my hand through my own hair, trying to smooth away the muss of travel. I looked too much like those turned away, too ragged and stained. My chest ached, as if I’d been running. I had three ral left in the purse and the letter of credit for fifteen more.

  When near to an hour had passed, we reached the gate at last. There was a single cart ahead of us, on mismatched, wobbling wheels. A tarp covered its wares; one of the guards lifted it and cocked his head.

  “What kind of furs are these?”

  The driver lifted a hand to his windburned face; two of his fingers were missing, the wounds still half-raw. “Lion.”

  “Surammer?”

  He squared his chin. “That’s right.”

  “You know you can’t sell these.” The guard gestured to his companions; they grabbed at the tawny skins, stripping the cart bare.

  “I earned those.” The man’s maimed hand made a fist. “I damned well skinned the beasts myself, when I was down in Suramm.”

  “And ’til a treaty’s signed, all Surammer goods are war booty,” the guard said. “They belong to the Council of Blood.”

  “War booty.” The man laughed and shook his head. “Then they can pay their soldiers, can’t they? Or does it all go to your pay, bloodguard?”