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“It’s our seventh try,” Dahvid replied. “It will work this time.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
He winced. That was one of Cath’s only rules. Her life—at least from what he’d gathered—was full of little, broken promises. She’d made a point of calling out the quickness of his words early on in their relationship. He had a natural tendency to boast. A brashness that manifested from him. He knew it was a habit he’d learned from his father and his older brother. After all this time with Cath, he knew better than to claim something he could not actually guarantee.
“I am hopeful that it will work.”
Cath nodded, bending over him. “You know what they say about hope.”
“What?”
“It’s the brightest bird in the sky and thus the easiest to kill.”
Without further warning, she stabbed him. Just a pinprick, but the first one always jolted through his system. She moved methodically from there, poking and shaping and stretching his skin. He felt the area they’d chosen starting to go numb long before she even reached for the dyes. He truly was hopeful. Failure was so common. Not every image worked. His skin was receptive to magic, but it was a fickle judge of which spells were worthy.
Over the years, he’d learned his own opinion had no sway. It didn’t matter how much he willed it to work. Sometimes, the more he craved the power of a particular spell, the less likely it was that the tattoo would survive the first usage. Martha had wasted a countless number of tattoos. It had been so painful to go through each etching as a child, only to watch the image fade from his skin the first time he activated the spell.
Cath hummed a song. Dahvid clenched his jaw against the occasional spikes of pain. He let out a ragged breath when she finally switched instruments. Slowly an image was taking form. A speckled hart that wrapped around his left thigh. Its head was raised. Two piercing eyes stared into the imagined distance. Only half the creature’s head was antlered. Where the other half should have been—there was an echo, no more than shadows. Dahvid found himself staring into the hart’s dark eyes, mesmerized.
“I am nearly done,” Cath said. “Are you ready?”
This part was all superstition. Some believed a tattoo needed to be activated immediately. Others thought a year should pass, allowing it to sink properly into the skin. One could attempt the magic while holding a certain spice in their right palm. And of course, never activate it during a full moon. Countless methods, but Dahvid had not found any of them to be more certain than the next. Instead, he patiently watched Cath and waited for her signal. She finished a stroke, blew on the spot, and then set her instrument down.
“Now.”
“Back up,” he whispered. “All the way to the corner.”
She moved obediently, clearing a space for him. Dahvid looked once more at the tattoo, taking in its beauty—imagining the possibility they’d discussed. He set aside desire and greed and all his other emotions. Reduced his thoughts to function and form. After a long breath, he took his feet. The cloth fell away. Dahvid settled into a fighter’s stance. Magic flexed in the air around him—ready and waiting. He did not need a vessel. He was the vessel.
“Come on then.”
With one fingertip, he grazed the hart’s antlers. Magic hummed to life. He grunted against the onrush of power. It set his teeth on edge, raised the hairs on both arms. Dahvid ignored the discomfort and pressed that magic forward—forced it into being. He felt the weight of his creation a moment before he saw its reflection in the overhead mirror.
A great helmet crowned his head. Knife-sharp antlers extended out of one side. Shadows dripped out of the other. His eyes were no more than bright slits peering out from the forest-green, plated front of the armor. Dahvid could not help grinning. It looked wild and wicked. He cracked his neck, settled his feet once more, and pushed the magic a step further.
From form to function. The helmet’s power hummed. A vibration that ran down his shoulders, his spine, through his legs. He was about to attempt the fullness of the spell when he heard it. A vague ripple became a resounding crack. Cath let out a cry as the helmet snapped in two. As if it had suffered a direct blow from an axe. Dahvid could only brace for impact as the material fell from his head. It crashed onto the floor, rattling for a moment, then dusting into inexistence.
The magic slipped away. His chest heaved breathlessly. He looked down and watched helplessly as the tattoo—all its bright colors and lovely details—vanished from his skin.
His eyes cut back to Cath. He already had words of comfort ready. They’d been through these failures so many times. But for a brief moment, she hunched over. A stray antler had broken off from the helmet. Launched across the room like an arrow. He saw it had pierced her stomach, deep and centered. A clear deathblow. There was a strange bruise on her throat. A great thicket of black-and-blue skin. There were smaller gashes on her thigh, her upper arm. Blood was pooling out. Cath’s hands pressed to the wound, but nothing could staunch the flow.…
He blinked and there was no blood at all. Only Cath, whole and well, pacing the room with a thousand curses springing from her lips. He knew how hungry she was to get the tattoo right. Like Nevelyn, she believed this would be the tattoo that made the difference between surviving what was to come and dying an inglorious death. She believed she was leaving him vulnerable without it. Dahvid kept staring until he was certain the blood and the wound had been in his mind. All of it imagined.
“We will try again,” he said.
There was the slightest tremor to his voice. He had not completely shaken that image of her away. It took effort to steel his thoughts again, before Cath noted the change.
“Again. Next week.”
He kissed her forehead as she began packing up the materials. An attendant had appeared at the door. They would not be allowed a second more than what they paid for. That was how Ravinia worked. Everything a transaction. Everything at a price. Dahvid let Cath walk in front of him. The place where the tattoo had been was bright red and raw. He ignored the pain as they left but could not help pausing on the threshold. He looked back to where Cath had been standing. There was blood on the floor. A speckled pattern.
When the attendant activated the cleansing spell, however, the room took on its familiar white sheen. No matter how hard Dahvid stared—he could not see the blood. It was gone.
Never there at all.
8 NEVELYN TIN’VORI
Nevelyn did not enjoy the concept of bustle.
