by Maya, Tara
#
"I never liked that girl," Forthia said, stepping from the panel in the wall where she had been concealed. Her plum dress-coat was almost black. The tight leather pants she wore instead of the looser style more commonly favored by ladies made her look like a soldier. She had a kukri hooked on her belt.
Othmordian tried to not show that his older sister had taken him by surprise. He had not meant for her to overhear his sordid conversation with Lyadra. Also, it was nearly sunset. He did not have time for a long argument. Still, he had best not try to put this off.
"Forthia," he greeted her. "Did you spy on Arnthom as well?"
"You are not Arnthom," she said. "And to answer your question, yes, I often listened in on his privy councils from that behind that panel, at his invitation."
"I don’t recall inviting you."
"Perhaps you recall my challenging you," she said and pinned him with a look that made him feel eight years old again. "And after what I just heard…" She shook her head.
Othmordian sighed. He shoved himself back from the table. Glamoured food spoiled so quickly. The overripe scents only nauseated him now. He stood up and shrugged out of his black velvet cape-coat, then loosened the elaborate ruffles of the blouse at his neck.
"You had your reasons to doubt me before you overheard my sparring with Lyadra, else you would not have challenged in the first place. Well, pour out your accusations, then."
"It is a story of a moody child," said Forthia. "A stray child, his mother called him before she died, last born, when she thought her time for bearing past. Born the same year Arnthom married Tulthana, and during all the years they tried and failed to conceive a babe of their own, Arnthom would pat this stray on the head and promise him a throne. It was a blow to him when a real heir was born. Suddenly he went from heir apparent to being packed off to a lonely school on a distant moor."
"It was a relief to me, not a burden, to be spared the throne, Forthia," Othmordian said. "And as for the school, that was my request as well. I wanted to study magic. And I first went when I was thirteen, three years after Drajorian’s birth."
"Yes," Forthia said, "I know. After you tried to kill him."
Othmordian frowned.
"No one told me," she said. "I have my ways of knowing."
"So I have discovered," he said dryly.
"If you were willing to kill your nephew when he was but a toddler, how much more so now that he the only remaining threat to your power?"
"And you think I killed our brother too?" Othmordian asked. His hand itched, and he toyed with the edges of the bandages, trying to scratch without removing them.
"There is more," she said.
"Say it then."
"No one allowed the glamourers to perform an investigation of our brother’s death. Nonetheless, I secretly asked the Head Glamourer of Mangcansten Lodge to report his findings to me. He confirmed that Arnthom was killed by a brink. He also told me about your time as a student at his school, before you were expelled. And why you were expelled."
Vivid memories flashed across Othmodian’s mind: the drunken smell of paint thinner, the sound of scribs on linen parchment, the giggles in the dark after the proctors extinguished the candles in the boys’ dorm. Most wonderful of all, had been the early mist-filled mornings walking out alone on the moor, with only a sketchpad and a pack of wild dogs for company.
"He told me," continued Forthia, "That you were a mediocre artist, not a true glamour caster, except in one area. You could draw dogs like no one else, all kinds of dogs. He said that you even inquired into a forbidden area, how to make a certain kind of brink called a Smoke Hound. The Smoke Hound must be drawn with a burning coal. When it is brought to life, the hound moves with a hide of flame and smoke. The artist, however, is left with a burnt hand."
Forthia held out her palms. "Put your right hand in mine, Othmordian."
He did so. His right hand was swathed in bandages.
Tears pricked her eyes. "Oh, Othy." She released his hand. She drew a deep breath and looked him in the eye. "Have you anything to say to me?"
"Just this," Othmordian said. He caressed Forthia’s cheek with his good left hand.
He glanced out the window, at the purpling western sky. He must soon attend to other matters. Time, time, he was running out of time. Fifteen minutes to sunset…five years to Drajorian’s majority. He would not allow even Forthia to stop him.
"The Head of Mangcansten," she said in a low voice, "has promised me the support of his entire Glamourers’ Lodge if I oppose you. As you know, all the notables who subscribe to Mangcansten will follow suit. You cannot hope to rule Cammar under such circumstances."
"Indeed, Forthia. But I have already communicated with the Head Glamourer of Langmar Lodge. They took me in after Mangcansten expelled me, and I have been their grateful supporter ever since. And vice versa. Langmar will uphold my claim to the throne, even if I am formally charged with treason by the Four Officiants of our late brother." He smiled without pleasure. "As you know, all the notables who subscribe to Langmar will follow suit."
The blood drained from her face.
"You are threatening civil war."
"No, big sister. You are threatening civil war. I am merely pointing out how closely matched the sides will be if you carry through your threat. It will divide the kingdom in half, Lodge against Lodge, noble against noble, sister against brother. Is that what you want?"
She did not answer, but for the first time, she looked her age, a decade and a half his senior. He knew that she would renounce her challenge on the third day for fear of destroying the whole of Cammar. Her shoulders slumped and she left bent over like an old woman.
#
As soon as Forthia had departed, Othmordian hurried from his chamber to the Northeastern Tower. A spiral staircase led him to the uppermost chamber, the Queen’s secret atelier. She had once been a student at Langmar Lodge as he had, except that her skill, unlike his, would have been prodigious enough to make her a master glamourer, had she not been chosen as the wife of a king.
Queen Tulthana already sat at her easel, the veiled prince at her side, standing. A paint-splattered artist’s apron covered her crimson dress-cape. She was close to fifty, yet remained a handsome woman. Now, however, she looked exhausted. Since her husband’s gruesome death, her face had been etched with deep lines of pain and worry. She looked up as Othmordian entered the atelier.
"I feared you would not come," she said, "That you would seek to punish me for challenging you."
He did not answer at once. Instead he strolled to the far wall, which was covered with a large tapestry, embroidered with pomegranates, cypress trees and curling vines. He fingered a tasseled tie, but did not open the curtain.
"Why did you challenge me? I thought we had an agreement." He glanced at the veiled young man, the false Drajorian. "I wonder if you have decided to renege on our bargain."
"No, Othy." A pleading note entered her voice. "You hold the life of my son in your hands. After Lyadra and Forthia challenged you, I felt it would look strange if I did not as well. I also hoped to forestall any other challengers. If I took the position of third challenger, and then backed down, no trial could proceed."
"Ah."
"It would be Drajorian’s death otherwise. I know that truth too well."
"I wondered if you had decided to try again."
"Never," she whispered.
"You should never have tried it in the first place." He stroked the bandages on his hand. It itched, but he couldn’t scratch it. "It would have saved us all a lot of trouble if I had had killed Drajorian when he was three."
"Please, Othy. Don’t kill him."
"I only spared his life to please you, but you have to do your part, Tulthy," he said. "People are beginning to suspect I have the real Drajorian locked up in a dungeon. You have to give the new glamour a mouth."
"That would make it too easy to turn the glamour into a brink," she said. "If someone discovered
what it was, and sacrificed a life to make it a monster…."
"Don’t you trust me, Tulthy?"
He had to look away from the bleakness in her face. The tower had two large windows, one facing dawnward, one facing duskward. The eastern window was already showing stars, the western window glowed with dying ruby light. "It’s time."
"Take off your veil," Tulthana instructed the silent young man.
The young man lifted the dark gauze. Where his face should have been was only a formless, parchment blankness. A moment later, the last sliver of sun dropped below the horizon. The blank faced man dissolved, leaving only a crumbled blank sheet of canvas paper and a ribbon where he had stood.
Othmordian let out a shuddering sigh. "Give the new one a face."
She nodded. She sketched a face onto her drawing, unclipped the parchment, and rolled it up in carefully knotted ribbons. She set it down on the floor. An instant later, a young man, veiled, twin in limb and stance to the one who had dissolved with sunset, stood there, silent and indifferent.
"Go to your bedroom, Drajorian," Tulthana instructed him. "Arise before dawn and come back here."
"Yes, mother," the glamour said in a hollow voice. Othmordian wondered how long that would fool anyone.
At dawn, this construct would dissolve, just as the other had. In the meantime, if anyone, servant or noble, checked in on "Prince Drajorian," he would appear to be right where he should be. No mystery unexplained. A lie covered by another lie.
The doppelganger drifted obediently from the room.
Othmordian tightened his jaw. He remembered watching Tulthy in the days shortly after Drajorian’s unexpected birth had been announced. He remembered the pang he’d felt watching her cuddle the new baby, an empty feeling, like the hunger one felt after too much glamoured food. After his own mother had died, Tulthana had mothered him, and he had loved her so much that at night he used to lie awake, imagining how it would feel if she were killed too, just to brace himself against the pain. So he would be able to survive it.
He unsheathed the kukri he wore at his waist. He advanced toward Tulthana.
"And now, Tulthy," he said, "Now for the blood to bring the brink to life."
Part Two: Waiting for Dawn
He wiped the blood from his hands before he left the atelier.
He dined alone, on real food--plain, hard bread. The servants, as he’d instructed earlier, had a bath drawn for him when he reached his quarters. Steam rose like smoke from the big wooden tub and the water had been scented with mint. He scrubbed his bare skin until it reddened like boiled lobster. Dark, guilty thoughts made it impossible for him to relax. The memories were visceral: a metallic taste in his mouth, the sound of Tulthy’s sobbing. He wished his dogs were here, but he had promised. He had made so many promises, hadn’t he, and he was finding them harder than ever to keep. Dawn seemed far away.
The water cooled. The once clean water was now gritty with dead skin and it no longer felt good, but he did not leave the bath until he heard a soft knock on the door. Startled, he tossed on a robe.
Lyadra entered.
He stared at her.
"Midnight, you commanded me." She still wore lace and gold.
"Yes." He felt like an idiot. "I’m to paint you. Yes."
"Here? No servants answered my knock at the main door, so I just..."
"No, not here, in my studio. Come."
It was a typical studio, large, empty, with one bay window, which during the day provided excellent light. All it provided now was a backdrop of stars under a sliver moon. A pedestal, which usually held baskets of fruit, or other objects, such as knives, useful to glamour, stood in front of the window. He lit a dozen sconces one by one.
"No couch?" she asked. "No chains? Where do all the other slave girls pose for you?"
"You’re the first."
"What honor you do me." Her voice was rich with sarcasm.
Without asking, she removed her clothes. Cream silk and gold brocade puddled at her feet. The shameless wench. No doubt she couldn’t wait for the jewels he had promised her. She rested her hands on the pedestal. Auburn hair curled down her back, a cascade of corkscrews and curlicues. Her skin glowed like a Habtheine peach.
The first time he had seen her naked in the moonlight, she had smiled for him. They had both been so young, so in love—or so he’d thought. She did not smile now.
For a few moments, he studied her, saying nothing, nor moving. His fingers trembled when he reached for the jars of paint. Vermillion. Burnt Umber. Cadmium Red. Brushes, made from the fur of martens. Turpentine. The familiar scents, sharp and slightly alcoholic, reassured him. He set a new canvas on the easel and began to paint. He planned to paint wet on wet, with the sketch, underpainting and highlights all added swiftly, mixed on the canvas and done before dawn. He must finish before dawn.
The sketch went well. He outlined her pose, the angle of her head, the length of her calf. Firelight lit her from one side, starlight from the other. The mix of warm and cool struck him as evocative, the perfect way to capture her deceptive nature. But when he tried to draw her eyes, and the tiny frown lines around her lips, his strokes faltered. This was not working. He knew this painting could never capture her soul.
He put down his brush.
"Lyadra," he said. "Who has painted you before?"
Her lip quavered. "You can tell?"
"Did you give yourself to a lover? Body and soul?"
"It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago."
"You little idiot. If someone else has your soul, I cannot take it. His painting must be destroyed before mine can be finished."
She lowered her head and her hair veiled her face.
"Tell me his name," commanded Othmordian.
Still, she stayed silent. He smashed the canvas to the floor, rushed at her, and shook her. "Give me his name!"
He lifted her chin. Her hair fell away and he saw that her lips moved but no sound came out. She was weeping, but silently, helplessly.
"The man who painted you, who bound your soul, he forbade you to reveal his name?"
She nodded. Even the slight motion seemed to cause her pain. After he released her, red smudges remained on her cheek, and for a heartbeat, he feared he’d somehow left blood stains, tainted her, but then he realized it was only paint, the dark mix of vermillion and burnt umber he had been using to capture the hue of her hair.
"When?"
He wasn’t sure she’d be allowed by the geis to answer, but she replied, "Just before I broke my betrothal to you."
Years. She had been enslaved years. And he’d never guessed.
"You took a lover when we were still betrothed? You were just a girl."
"Believe what you wish."
"Are you able to tell me where he keeps the portrait of you?"
Again, it surprised him when she whispered, "Yes."
Yet why be surprised? What would her master have to fear? If he controlled her soul, he could command her not to touch the painting, and she would have to obey, even if it were hanging on a wall in front of her. Those who had their souls stolen by painting could not destroy the art that enslaved them.
"Can you show me?"
"Yes." She knelt and clutched her cream and gold garments, twisting the cloth around her fingers. She glanced up at him. He had always admired the translucent grey of her eyes, but now they looked opaque. "What will you do?"
"Destroy it."
"If you can’t?"
"Is your lover a master glamourer?"
"May I dress?"
He nodded. Lyadra stepped into her pants, raised her arms and pulled on the lacey blouse. Her breasts jutted forward, and he had to resist the urge to pluck one like a peach and taste it. It infuriated him to think of another man, a real man, not a painted boy like Drajorian, touching her, tasting her, as Othy had when they had both been sixteen, in love with each other, themselves and the starlight. A moment later, she buttoned her jacket tight across her cleavage.
"No need. It’s in the palace."
"You astound me. Lead on."
She walked without looking back. They traversed corridors lit only by infrequent pools of lamplight. The carpet gave way to stone and the cold seeped through his slippers. He wished he had taken the time to put on boots.
They reached a double door of thick, carved wood, which he did not recognize. He had seldom visited this part of the palace. She did not touch the bronze knobs, only waited. He pushed experimentally. Hinges creaked, the door swung inward. He entered first.
#
Othmordian was not sure what he expected. A ceiling three stories high arched over a large hall, empty except for a cavernous fireplace at the far end. A fire blazed, two chairs before it. There were no other furnishings except thousands of paintings . Every space on the ample walls had been taken by a painting, large or small, until the walls looked like giant jigsaw puzzles.
Every picture was a portrait.
Most of the figures were shown head to toe: men in armor, holding kukris or pikes or crossbows. The largest paintings had dozens of figures, all martial. Each painting was tied with a dark plum colored ribbon.
The Painted Army. So it was real. He whistled.
"The one who enslaved me," Lyadra said bitterly. She pointed.
His sister Forthia rose from her high backed chair.
"Lyadra, step away," said Forthia. "You’ve done your part."
"This was a trap?" Othmordian asked Lyadra.
"I never had a choice," Lyadra. "Not when I broke my vow to you. Not tonight."
Forthia smiled sadly. "It had to be done, Othmordian. The royal family needed the alliance with Lyadra’s lineage. Drajorian was the heir. But you were so besotted with her, and she with you, you refused to see that. I only did what I had to. Just as I do now."
