“The painter.” The priest nodded, and looked at Rielle. “I suppose in this exceptional circumstance it would be acceptable, if the young woman is willing to have you as an escort.”
Rielle nodded. “I am.”
“Then be sure to take her home directly, Aos Saffre. We will need to question her.”
“I promise to deliver her promptly and unharmed.”
That appeared to satisfy the priest. “No need to leave the safety of your home again, Ais Lazuli,” he assured her. “We’ll visit once the tainted is secure.”
Rielle nodded again. “I’ll let father know you are coming.”
He traced a blessing in the air, then joined the other priest, who was holding her abductor by the arm as firmly as the man had held her. The sound of cheers and approving whistles surrounded her and she looked around to see that people were leaning out of windows and peering from doors.
“Well, you heard what he said,” Izare said, giving her a smile as dazzling as his earlier one. “I’m to take you straight home. Follow me.”
CHAPTER 2
After they had been walking for several minutes, Izare turned to her. “Thanks to you the city is safe again.”
Rielle looked away. “I had no idea a tainted was free in the city.”
“Priests have been hunting him for weeks.” He gestured to a side street. “This way.”
Earlier he’d led her straight through the lingering Stain left by the priests. With no choice but to follow, Rielle had held her breath as she stepped into the darkness. Unlike in her earlier encounter, she’d felt no resistance. Relieved, she’d trailed behind Izare, feeling a little shy of this handsome stranger. The streets were only wide enough here for two people to pass anyway, and she didn’t want to block the way for oncoming traffic. But as they reached wider streets Izare slowed until she walked beside him.
He is very good-looking, she mused. And it’s not just because he was a friendly face at the end of an ordeal. His hair was straight and black, his flawless skin the same hue as the stormwood shavings the dyeworks used to make a rich gold-brown. As he glanced at her she noted that his eyes were a tawny yellow-green. He moved with an unconscious grace, arms swinging. When he turned away again she looked closer, wondering what it was about the shape of his face that made it so appealing. Was it the high cheekbones? The angle of his jaw?
He met her gaze again. “How are you feeling? You seem remarkably well recovered.”
“Do I?” Rielle shrugged. “I’m alive. That’s something to be happy about. Though…”
“Though…?”
She shook her head. “I’m also a little disappointed.”
“Disappointed?” His eyebrows rose.
“In myself. I always imagined I’d do better, if something like that happened to me.”
“You tricked him into stepping in sight of a priest. It was very brave of you.”
“Yes, but before then I didn’t even try to fight him. His grip was so strong.”
“Men are usually stronger than women,” Izare pointed out. “You could hardly expect to fight him. Instead you were smarter. You could have panicked, or not done anything to risk his anger, but you didn’t.”
She sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I only … I wish I was stronger.”
He grinned. “Then you would be all big arms and bulging muscles. I have to say, I’m glad you are not. You are…” He stopped abruptly, stepped back and examined her. “Not beautiful but pleasing. Well-proportioned. Tall enough to give your limbs grace yet not too thin. Your face…” – he moved closer, staring at her intently – “… is interesting. Not a classic shape but … unique. Rewarding to those who take the time to look again.”
Nobody had ever dared to speak to her, the daughter of a wealthy family, so plainly before. Conflicting feelings rose: hurt and the beginnings of outrage at his directness and honesty, amusement that he was right that she was not beautiful. Her skin was too light a brown and her nose too straight. Yet as he’d described her face his voice had softened and his strange praise sent a shiver through her that was both discomforting and pleasant.
He straightened. “I’m sorry. I have made you self-conscious. It is a bad habit and a consequence of my profession. Let’s continue.”
“Your profession? Ah. You are a painter,” she recalled as they started walking again.
“Yes.”
“What do you paint?”
“Whatever people pay me to paint. Mostly spirituals. Occasionally portraits.”
Spirituals were the backdrops to the small altars every household in Fyre maintained. Even foreigners who did not follow the same traditions purchased them so that their guests could perform the rituals. Aunt Narmah had painted the one in Rielle’s home, choosing a night scene, which was the time when the Angels were at their quietest and most communicative. The sky was coloured an intense dark blue that could only be achieved using a rare, expensive pigment from distant Surlan that was more expensive than gold and told visitors of the family’s wealth as well as its piety.
Cheaper spirituals painted in less pricey hues were sold in the market. Did Izare produce some of those? The priest, Sa-Elem, had recognised his name, however, which suggested better-quality work.
“Do you paint for pleasure, too?” she asked.
“When I have the time.”
“What do you paint then?”
“My friends and … well, anybody I can persuade to sit for me. What about you?”
“My aunt, the workers,” she told him. “Objects around the house. The view across the river. Only for pleasure, of course.”
He blinked in surprise. “You paint?”
“Yes. My aunt teaches me. She’s very good.”
Izare nodded, but his attention had shifted away as they emerged from the poor quarter onto a wider road. Rielle recognised it as Temple Road, and stopped.
“Ah. I know where I am, now. I can continue on my own, if you need to return to your work.”
“Oh, when I make a promise I keep it,” he told her. But he did not move, and was looking at her thoughtfully. “I would very much like to paint your portrait, Ais Lazuli.”
She stared at him in astonishment, but as he met her eyes and smiled she had to look away. Putting a hand up to lift her scarf over her head, she found no sign of the light material and felt a stab of alarm.
“Oh! My scarf! I must have lost it.”
“You were wearing one when I first saw you.” He looked back the way they came. “I will search for it after I see you home.”
“No, I must go back. If mother sees me without it she’ll be furious.”
She took a step towards the poor quarter, but he stepped in front of her. “I think you have a very good excuse and, besides, Sa-Elem said you were to go straight home. It’s only a scarf and I’m sure a girl like you has plenty more.”
Her face warmed at his casual reference to her family’s wealth. He was right, though. Drawing in a deep breath, she turned to face home. As they walked she considered what Sa-Elem might ask her when he eventually turned up. He would want to know how she had come to be abducted.
She couldn’t tell him about the Stain she had seen, but she didn’t think she’d need to. While seeing Stain was not forbidden – her aunt had been stretching the truth when she’d told Rielle that the priests would take her away – if the priests learned that she could they would always be checking to see if Rielle had learned to use magic. If it became publicly known, her family’s trade might be affected. People avoided those who could see Stain. Some thought the ability was passed down through family lines and others thought it was a punishment for a sinful nature. Either way, it limited a person’s marriage prospects.
Remembering how the tainted had screamed, she shuddered. Why anyone would learn magic, she couldn’t imagine. Thanks to Stain, it was impossible to hide the use of magic. Eventually the priests would find you, and nobody truly knew what happened then. Tainted people were taken out of Fyre to a p
lace across the desert.
Sa-Elem was only half of the source of her worries, though. Her mother was going to be horrified to hear how her daughter had been dragged through the poor quarter. She might forbid Rielle from walking home alone from temple classes again, sending one of the servants to accompany her. Probably one of the dyers, who would confirm everything the girls in temple lessons thought about dye workers smelling bad. That’s a little unfair. Everyone cleans up when they need to and they can’t help it that some odours linger. But Mother would probably remember at the last moment and whoever she sent wouldn’t have time to wash. Everyone was busy preparing for the coming Festival, not least her parents.
“So,” Izare said, breaking the silence. “Will you pose for me?”
Rielle looked at him sideways, amused that he had asked again. “Looking for a new client, are you?”
“I would paint you free of charge.”
She regarded him with unconcealed disbelief. He smiled. What is he playing at? she wondered. Does he truly want to paint my portrait, or is he hoping to gain something by flattering me?
“I doubt my mother would approve,” she replied.
“You doubt it. That’s a start. Doubting does not erase the possibility.”
“Perhaps it would be more accurate to say: ‘Mother will never approve’,” she corrected. “Therefore I cannot accept.”
She expected him to be annoyed by the rebuttal, but he merely sighed and nodded. “Is there no situation in which she would allow you to sit for your portrait?”
“None comes to mind.”
“Well, you must let me know as soon as it does. Is that your home ahead?”
Looking up, she saw the familiar walls of the dyeworks coming into view. A rush of longing went through her. “Yes.”
“To think that I have passed it so many times not knowing that such an intriguing woman existed within.”
She raised her eyebrows at the flattery. He grinned. “Too much?”
“Definitely.”
He laughed. “You have brothers, haven’t you? No woman is immune to praise that does not have a sibling to blame for it.”
“A cousin. My brother is much older than I, so we didn’t play together as children.”
“I would like to meet this cousin.”
“If you think he’d like a portrait done you’ll be disappointed. He runs the ordering side of the business, finding dyes and fabric to import and making sure they get here.”
“So you are all alone?”
“Of course not. I have my family.”
“Nobody your own age at home, though.”
His words brought an unexpected pang of sadness. She did miss Ari, and all the children of the dye workers her age now spent most of their time working in the pits or looking after their young families, or had left to live with their new husbands. And I’ll be doing the latter soon if Mother has her way. Finding a husband was the main reason she was going to temple lessons. By meeting girls her age and of the right class her parents hoped she might meet eligible men among their brothers and cousins.
And Izare is definitely not from the right class.
She shook her head at the thought. Why did I even think that? I’ve only just met him. I don’t even know if I like him. Is it because he’s good-looking, or I am fool to flattery? She frowned. And wasn’t he negotiating with a prostitute when I first saw him?
They had reached the dyeworks now. As they walked towards the shop door, it flew open. Rielle flinched as her mother strode out.
“Rielle! Where have you been? Where is your scarf?” Mother’s eyes moved to Izare. “Who are you?” she asked in a more restrained tone.
Izare bowed. “My name is Izare Saffre. I offered to escort your daughter home after she was rescued by the priests.”
She stared at him, then her gaze shifted to Rielle. “Rescued?”
“I was … It was … It’s a long story.” Rielle sighed. “Sa-Elem will be visiting later to explain.”
Her mother’s eyebrows rose and she looked at Izare again. “Well, then. I suppose you’ll be wanting—”
“—to leave now that I have seen your daughter safely home. Farewell, Ais Lazuli,” Izare finished. He bowed to Rielle, then turned and walked away.
Her mother looked uneasy as she watched him go. “What was his name again?”
“Izare Saffre.”
“I suppose we can find and reward him, if he did rescue you.”
Which is why he left so abruptly. He doesn’t want one. After all, he didn’t rescue me, the priests did. Once again, her mother hadn’t been paying attention. In fact, she looked as if she might run after him, so Rielle stepped around her. “I’d better clean up before the priests arrive.”
Narmah stood in the shop doorway, her expression anxious. “Are you unharmed?” her aunt asked.
“Yes. Unless you consider embarrassment an injury.”
“Did I hear right? Something happened to you and the priests are coming? And why aren’t you wearing your scarf?”
Rielle smiled. “Yes, you heard right, but it’s nothing to be alarmed about. I’ll tell you all about it, once we’re inside.”
CHAPTER 3
The stones and dust that poured out of the jar onto the grinding bowl were a rich brown. Narmah seized the smooth round rock and began crushing.
“Get to work,” she told Rielle.
Looking down at the thick slab of polished stone before her, Rielle sighed. “You said we were going to paint.”
“No time for that now, but we may as well put what we have left to good use.”
Taking down a jar from the shelves, Rielle measured out some of the chalk within and dumped it on the mixing slab. She added the tree sap, thankfully already pulverised, and mixed it in with a scraper. By the time it was well combined Narmah had swept the results of her grinding through a filter and into a smaller jar. Taking this, Rielle measured out the pigment and added it to the mound of powder, stirring it all together. Next she added water and a dash of nectar to preserve, working with the scraper until all the powder was wet. The mix was now a gritty blood-red paste. Picking up the refiner, she set the large head down, seized the handle in both hands and began to grind.
Though it was hard, boring work, today Rielle found the motions calming. She let her thoughts circle along with her movements. Memories of the day flashed through her mind all out of order: the wall of blotchy Stain that had spilled out across her path, Izare’s smile, the priest pushing past her in the poor quarter, the tainted writhing and screaming.
She stopped. The paint had spread out over the slab in a thin, red smear. She pushed it to the centre with a scraper and began grinding again.
It had been horrible seeing the man suffer, but the priest had done it to stop him using magic, no more. He had learned something he knew to be forbidden. He had stolen from the Angels. He’d dragged her around the poor quarter … though why she could only guess. Had he hoped to use her as a hostage, if he was cornered? It was the most likely reason, she decided. Would the priests have let him go to avoid harm coming to her? Would he have taken her with him, to ensure they didn’t follow?
She shuddered and paused to scrape the paint to the centre again.
Despite everything, she couldn’t help feeling some sympathy for the man. He must have grown up, like her, knowing he could do something that was forbidden. But that was the only similarity between them. He had succumbed to the temptation. As a child she had wondered what she might be able to do with magic and wished she was free to find out, but whenever she had looked at the paintings of the Angels in the temple and on spirituals and heard stories of their kindness, she wanted so badly to meet one that she knew she would do nothing to anger them.
Looking down at the growing swirls of paint, she remembered the Stain created by the abductor. Had he observed her noticing it? Would he tell the priests? Would they believe him? With the scraper, she moved the paint into a puddle at the centre then pushed the refiner
over it again. If he had and they did there was nothing she could do about it.
The priests had cleansing rituals to erase the taint of using magic from their souls. She had once longed to be a priest and thought it unfair that women were barred from the role, but that wish had faded. Life held other attractions. Love. Children. Painting. Izare’s face rose in her memory and she nearly laughed aloud. He was interesting, but not as a prospective husband. She was mostly curious to see his work.
“What are you smiling at?” Narmah asked.
Rielle shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Nothing, eh? It’s never nothing when someone smiles like that.” She was continuing to grind down the pigment, stopping to filter it into the jar. “It’s that young man who walked you home, isn’t it?”
“Yes and no. I was wondering how good he is at painting.”
“Izare Saffre? Oh, he’s very good.”
Rielle stopped grinding and turned to stare at her aunt. “You’ve seen his work?”
Narmah smiled. “So have you. He did the paintings at our local temple.”
“He did those?” Rielle felt a shiver run down her spine. The smaller local temple had been built a few years ago, a few streets away from the dyeworks. Since then Rielle’s family attended the regular ceremonies and sacrifices there. Rielle would have preferred to have lessons there, too, but the girls from families her mother wanted her to associate with went to the main one.
The paintings had amazed Rielle when she first saw them. The Angels were so real she sometimes felt sure they were about to move and speak. The sun was coloured so cleverly that she wanted to shield her eyes, and the storm clouds loomed with a tangible sense of threat.
Her mother did not like them, saying they were too unconventional. Which only made Rielle love them more.
Turning back to her grinding, Rielle pushed the refiner in circles and found her feelings and opinion of Izare shifting. It was hard to reconcile the impression she’d formed of him with someone who could produce such glorious temple paintings. He was too forthright, too cheeky. A painter of spirituals should be dignified and pious. But perhaps it was the memory of him chatting to the prostitute that lowered her opinion of him.
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