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by L. E. Modesitt

  “But not so far in advance. People feel that cabinets and sideboards last longer than portraits. They do not. One only has to look at the artwork in the Chateau of the Council to see that. The chests and sideboards commissioned when Riodeux painted Rex Charyn have long since been turned to kindling and burned, but people still marvel at the portrait.”

  “And the bust,” I added.

  “The bust is by Pierryl the Elder and is far inferior to the portrait,” declared Caliostrus. “Pierryl and his son-Pierryl the Younger-were diligent hacks compared to Riodeux. Sculptors have but to remove stone from stone. It is tedious, but it is more a craft than an art.”

  I’d heard Master Caliostrus declaim on that before. To create the impression of life and light on the flat surface of a canvas did take not only craftsmanship but an artistic sense. No one ever expected a bust or a statue to look alive, but merely to present an accurate representation, but everyone expected the best portraits to be good enough that the subject looked as though he could step out of the canvas and resume what he had been doing.

  “Why do they get more golds than you, Father?” Marcyl persisted.

  “Because what people will pay for often has no relation to its true value.” Caliostrus lifted a large mug of tea, slurping slightly as he drank, not that he didn’t slurp whenever he drank. Then he turned to me. “As for you, Rhennthyl, you also have a commission, far more modest, but one must begin somewhere.”

  “Sir?” I inclined my head, as much to conceal my surprise as anything. At last, after all the studies, all the criticism from Master Caliostrus, and all the glasses spent grinding and stirring and watching simmering pots of oils and waxes and solvents and pigments, I would have a chance to show what I had learned and could do on a canvas for a real patron. I thought Ostrius might also have been surprised, since most junior commissions went to him.

  “Craftmaster Weidyn’s youngest daughter has never had a portrait. She’s but eight, and I suggested you could do credible work.”

  “When will I start, sir?”

  “Tomorrow as well.” Caliostrus smiled. “You will have to work in her favorite doll and her cat.”

  The doll certainly wouldn’t be a problem, but, for some reason, few cats cared for me, and that could pose a problem. “The cat . . .?”

  “I suggested that the cat be added later, after you had designed the composition, but I wanted you to know that you would have to work in the creature.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want several possible rough designs ready for me by the end of the day. Oh . . . she is a redhead, I’m told.”

  That made everything worse. A redhead? Their color and complexion were difficult to capture on canvas without making them appear wan and pale. Once more, Caliostrus had presented me with something in a light that seemed far more charitable than it was in fact. A redhead-that was just the sort of portrait where an excellent effort would look merely adequate, and a good effort would come across as poor. That was another reason why I’d gotten the commission, instead of Ostrius. “I will most certainly have my work cut out for me, sir.”

  “Nonsense, Rhennthyl. A portrait is a portrait, and each commission is an opportunity.”

  “Yes, sir.” I would just have to deal with another one of Master Caliostrus’s near-insurmountable opportunities, that and Ostrius’s concealed smirk from across the table. Stanus just looked bewildered.

  Even as a recent apprentice, Stanus should have known the problems of portraying redheads. I’d heard that those were even less than the difficulties involved in living with them, but I’d been unfortunate enough in dealing with young women that I had no experience by which to judge such a statement.

  “The designs before dinner, Rhennthyl, remember!”

  “Yes, sir.” How could I possibly forget?

  4

  750 A.L.

  The most critical are not the successful, nor the complete failures, but

  those who might have achieved something of worth, save for small but

  crucial faults within themselves, for they can seldom bear the thought

  of how close they came to greatness.

  Mistress Aeylana D’Weidyn twitched, then shifted her weight in the high-backed chair. After Aeylana’s first sitting, I’d accompanied Aeylana and her aunt back to their home-if a small chateau three times the size of my parents’ dwelling and grounds could be termed “home.” While at the Chateau Weidyn, I had not only made a sketch of the actual chair that would be in the portrait, but also made the acquaintance of Charbon-a rather oversized feline with sleepy yellow eyes and a deep black coat-and done several quick sketches of him as well, one with Aeylana holding him.

  Aeylana Weidyn was anything but an ideal subject. Even at age eight, she was lanky, with big bones and hands, freckles and a fair skin, and fine orange-red hair that, despite the dark green hair band, had a tendency to fly in all directions. Her eyes were a warm brown that somehow clashed with everything, and her eyebrows were so light and fine that she looked to have none at all.

  “If you would please look in the direction of the easel, Mistress Aeylana?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I was thinking about Charbon. He will be in the portrait, will he not?”

  “Yes, he will.” In fact, I actually had painted much of Charbon, as if he had been sitting erect and regal upon the edge of the seat of the chair beside Aeylana. “He is most handsome.”

  “He’s my cat.”

  I had some doubts about any cat being a possession, but did not have time to say anything because, at that very moment, Ostrius opened the studio door and marched over to my easel.

  He did not even look in the direction of Aeylana Weidyn-or her aunt, who was accompanying her to the sittings. “Rhenn . . . did you finish compounding the deep brown?”

  “No. There wasn’t time before the sitting.”

  “When will you learn to finish things?” he snapped.

  “I worked on it all morning,” I said quietly.

  “You didn’t finish, and we don’t have enough of the deep brown.”

  He didn’t. That was what he meant. “Your father expects me to do a sitting when the patron is here. I’ll get back to it once she leaves.”

  “You’d better.” Without another word, he stalked off.

  The aunt said nothing, but her eyes expressed more than any words she might have spoken as she watched Ostrius close the studio door with a firmness just short of slamming it.

  “I don’t-” began Aeylana.

  “That will be all, Aeylana,” the aunt said firmly.

  “If you would please look at the easel, mistress,” I repeated.

  “I can do that.”

  She could. She just couldn’t keep doing it for long.

  I looked at the left side of her head, just forward and above the ear. Her hair had been a problem, because it was too bright to be captured fairly by any of the earthen reds, and the madder red would fade, while vermilion would darken at the edges where it touched the skin tones. Calizarin red didn’t blend well with the naranje orange, unless mixed with at least a little of one of the ochres, but I’d worked in a tiny mixture of yellow and dull red ochre as a binder between the calizarin and the naranje. Even Master Caliostrus had nodded approval at that.

  Had Ostrius been angry not just because I didn’t have the deep brown formulated when he wanted it, but because he realized I could do something with the pigments that he couldn’t?

  I pushed that thought away. If I didn’t do well on the one portrait assignment I had, I wouldn’t get another any time soon. I concentrated on seeing Aeylana as she was, and on working on the hairline around her right ear.

  By the time the glass chimed out from the nearest anomen tower, I thought I had that section right, and I smiled, both at Aeylana and her chaperone. “Two more sittings at most.”

  “Good. It’s hard to sit still that long.”

  “Aeylana . . .”

  “I apologize, sir.”


  “I can remember when I was your age,” I said with a smile.

  That got me a giggle in return.

  In moments, the two had gathered themselves together and departed for the carriage waiting below. In scarcely longer than that, Master Caliostrus had entered the studio, his brow knit in a frown.

  “Ostrius said that you had not finished the deep brown formulation and that you were less than deferential . . .”

  “Sir, I was most deferential. I started directly after breakfast, Master Caliostrus, and I took no breaks, until just before Mistress Aeylana D’Weidyn was due to arrive. You told me never to be late in dealing with a patron, and I could not have begun the compounding yesterday, sir, because the raw earth did not arrive until just before dinner last night.”

  “Ah . . . yes . . .” Caliostrus paused. “You will get to it right away?”

  “As soon as I clean up brushes and trays, sir.”

  “Good.” Almost as an afterthought, he glanced at the partial portrait, his eyes going to what I had painted of the cat. “You definitely have a talent for the cat. In time, if you work on that, along with other skills, it might prove . . . remunerative. Some of the wealthier older women in L’Excelsis do dote on . . . such companions.”

  He stopped at the door and looked back. “Don’t be too long. Ostrius does need the brown.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  If Ostrius needed the brown so much, why wasn’t he down in the shed working on the formulation? Or, if he didn’t want to get dirty, he could have taught Stanus how to do it. But then, that was still dirty work and required patience, both of which Ostrius avoided whenever possible.

  5

  753 A.L.

  Mistaking a name for its substance is one of the roots

  of evil; holding to substance over names is a source of

  joy.

  I never understood why so many people made a fuss about weddings. I certainly wondered that once again as I stood there in the garden courtyard of Remaya’s parents’ dwelling beside Rousel as we waited for Remaya to appear.

  Weddings are merely an affirmation of what has already happened. They’re necessary for most people, as are the rings that symbolize them, because public affirmations strengthen private commitments, but by the time of the ceremony they’re usually foregone conclusions. If they’re not, there shouldn’t be a ceremony. After eight years of courting and unblemished affection, for Rousel and Remaya both the ceremony and the rings were more for everyone else than for them, but that is certainly the case for all too many ceremonies.

  Ceremonies can also provide a different kind of closure. I hoped this one would, because I had been the one to find Remaya, and from me she had found Rousel. Likewise, after all the years of distrust of those of a Pharsi background, my parents had been forced to accept Remaya. How could they have not? She was beautiful and intelligent and loved Rousel, and her parents, while only tradespeople, were far from impoverished. It didn’t hurt that Rousel was following in Father’s footsteps as a wool factor, either.

  “You have the ring?” Like all bridegrooms, Rousel wore a formal green waistcoat, trimmed in deep brown, with a matching green neck scarf.

  “Right here.” I kept my voice low.

  We stood in front of the left side of the arched canopy of flowers. Behind it, wearing green vestments, was Chorister Osyrahm. Behind us stood our family, Father and Mother on the right, then Culthyn and Khethila. Even with them, but to the right, were Remaya’s parents, and her older sister and two younger brothers.

  A pair of viols began to play, indicating that Remaya had left the house and was approaching, but neither Rousel nor I looked back because we were not supposed to see her until she stood beside him. I did hear a few whispered comments from the small group of family and friends behind us, and all were about how beautiful she looked, but I knew that without looking. I’d known it far longer than Rousel, and with far less effect.

  Before long, Remaya stepped up beside Rousel, and they exchanged glances and smiles. She wore a white gown, along with the bride’s sleeveless green vest, also trimmed in the same rich brown as Rousel’s.

  Chorister Osyrahm smiled beatifically at both of them, then began to speak. “We are gathered here today in celebration of the decision of a man and a woman to join their lives as one. The name of a union between a man and a woman is not important, nor should anyone claim such, for the name should never overshadow the union itself. Rousel and Remaya have chosen each other as partners in life and in love, and we are here to witness the affirmation of that choice.”

  He nodded for them to step forward under the canopy, then waited until they stood under the arch of flowers.

  “In so much as the only true and meaningful commitments in life are made without deception and without reservation, and without a reliance on empty names and forms, do you, Rousel, affirm in full honesty that you commit your body, your spirit, and your free will to this woman, and that you will put no other before her, so long as you both shall live?”

  “I do.”

  Chorister Osyrahm then turned to Remaya and repeated the same charge and vows.

  “I do.” Her voice was warm and husky.

  “The rings, if you will.”

  I handed the ring to Rousel.

  After taking the simple gold bands, one from Rousel and one from Remaya, Osyrahm held them up so that all could see them before lowering them and addressing the couple. “These rings are a symbol of love, for gold cannot be changed, nor imaged into what it is not. In exchanging and accepting these rings, you have pledged that your love will be as unchanging as the gold of which they are made, that no tyranny of names substituting for substance shall ever cleave you apart, and that your love for each other will endure in times good and evil, through sickness and health, and in darkness and in light, so long as your spirits endure.” Then he returned the rings to them.

  Remaya, in the Pharsi tradition, was the first to place her ring, easing it onto Rousel’s finger. Then he slipped his ring upon hers.

  “From two have come one, and yet that unity shall enable each of you to live more joyfully, more fully, and more in harmony with that which was, is, and ever shall be.”

  The chorister stepped back, and Rousel and Remaya kissed under the canopy of late-spring flowers.

  Then they turned and faced family and friends. Remaya’s sister Semahla stepped forward and handed the small green wicker basket of flower petals to Rousel. He held it while she scooped out a handful and cast them forward and skyward. Then she took the basket, and he scattered his handful.

  After that, they walked back toward the roofed section of the courtyard, and Semahla and I followed.

  We had barely stepped into the shadows when Remaya turned back to me.

  “Thank you so much, Rhenn.” Remaya’s smile was dazzling, but it always had been, even when I’d first seen her at the girls’ grammaire when she’d been twelve. “Without you, I would never have met Rousel, and never known this happiness, foretold as it was.”

  Foretold. She’d said that when she had first laid eyes on Rousel. Those with the Pharsi blood have always been said to be able to see what will be before it comes to their eyes. “I’m so glad everything worked out for you two.” What else could I say? I managed a wide grin as I looked at Rousel. “You heard that, brother.”

  He grinned back. “How could I forget?”

  I loosened my own neck scarf, because the late-spring afternoon was warm, even in the shade, especially in the formal waistcoat and matching trousers. They were the finest I’d ever owned, and a gift from Rousel.

  He’d been kind, and very matter-of-fact about it. When he’d given it to me, made-to-measure, he’d said, “I’m the one who wants you beside me. You’re an artist, and I can’t ask you to purchase a wedding suit. Besides, you can keep it for good occasions.”

  I’d just leave it stored with my parents. I certainly wouldn’t need anything that fine for anything involving Master Caliostrus.

&
nbsp; At that moment, everyone surged around Rousel and Remaya, and Semahla and I stepped back. I’d only met Semahla a handful of times, and she was certainly bright and pleasant, if more angular than her younger sister.

  “The past few days must have been crowded,” I observed.

  She laughed. “Hectic, but fun. Everyone likes Remaya. She’s always been the kind one.”

  “I’m sure you are, as well.”

  “It comes naturally to her. I have to try.”

  I supposed I could have said the same about Rousel, except it would have been about charm. He could charm anyone, just by looking at them.

  Serving girls appeared, carrying trays with goblets of sparkling grisio. I picked two goblets off a tray and offered one to Semahla.

  “Thank you.” She inclined her head, then took a sip.

  So did I. The coolness helped a dry throat.

  “Rousel said you are a fine artist.”

  “I am an artist. Some days I think I might someday become a master with a studio.”

  “The portrait you did of Remaya is lovely. Everyone says so. Mother looks at it and wishes that Remaya would leave it with her.”

  “Thank you.” I’d done the best I could. It had been my wedding gift to them. What else could I have given?

  “Oh . . . Remaya needs me.” With that, Semahla slipped away.

  That was for the best. I’d about run out of pleasantries, not that Remaya’s family weren’t good people. Her father was a spice broker, which placed him between a factor and a shopkeeper, but meant he was still a tradesperson of sorts. Still, from the house, they certainly weren’t poor.

  Rousel eased over to me. “How are you doing?”