the magnificent banquet. Perhaps a long speech earned a hammer-blow to the toes. Aranya felt dizzy and grateful for Yolathion’s presence as he led her up to the small stage, which had been installed for the occasion. She eyed the large lampstands at the rear of the stage with trepidation. The lights beckoned her, seducing her senses, kindling the powers within her.
She had considered calling her work The Butcher of Jeradia. It would have been apt. Instead, she had left it untitled.
Garthion waited on stage. His father Thoralian sat in the seat of honour, front and centre . His dark eyes hinted at dark, unspoken emotions as she passed by. ‘Immadia’ she heard someone hiss. And, ‘enchantress.’ Clearly, little had been forgiven or forgotten. Aranya stiffened her back. She would represent Immadia with honour.
The herald, dressed in unrelenting crimson, looked like a blot of blood onstage. He raised his arms for silence.
A touch awkwardly, given the chain linking her to Yolathion’s right wrist, the Immadian Princess and her escort ascended to the platform.
Clearing her throat, Aranya pitched her v oice to carry out into the hall. “I have not lived many summers upon the Island-World. Those I remember were consumed with the battle between the forces of Sylakia and Immadia,” she said, grateful that her voice remained clear and steady. “In the fall of last year, First War-Hammer Ignathion brought King Beran’s resistance to an end, thus completing Sylakia’s conquest of the realms north of Herimor and the Rift.”
A great roar of approval from the throng startled her into silence. The Sylakians stamped their boots and thundered their fists on the tables, making the fine porcelain leap about. A crystal glass shattered somewhere further back in the hall. At length, the herald beckoned for calm.
“I am honoured to represent the Kingdom of Immadia before you today–”
“Slave!” someone yelled.
A round of cruel laughter echoed amongst the rafters. Yolathion touched her elbow as if wishing to transfer strength to her.
“Without further ado,” she announced, bright of cheek and pulsating of heart, “I give you my portrait of Garthion, son of the Supreme Commander.”
She tugged the cover off the painting.
At exactly the same moment, driven to a fever pitch by her surging emotions, the two lamps behind the stage burst into flames. Everyone in the room gasped as one. Perhaps they thought it planned.
The painting was a half-length portrait of Garthion in his Hammers dress uniform, drawing back his arm to strike, but he held a whip in his hand rather than a Sylakian war hammer. Behind his head, deliberately drawn in a similar posture, was the head and body of a windroc striking with its claws, wings outspread, although their victim was off-canvas. She had blended the two torsos together, so that they seemed to belong to one creature.
“Extraordinary,” breathed Yolathion.
Garthion seemed taken aback. He stared at himself; after a time, however, Aranya saw a perverse smile creep around the edges of his mouth. He said, “I see authority and strength in this man. You’ve captured my power perfectly.”
What others saw as cruelty, the Sylakian viewed as strength and authority. Aranya exhaled. Now she knew she must go through with her plan.
The Supreme Commander began a slow boot-tramp of approval. The sound picked up in the hall until the rafters rang once more. Aranya bowed her head stiffly and held her palm upward to acknowledge the crowd’s approval.
Garthion drew unexp ectedly close. He hissed, “So, this is what slavery means, Princess of Immadia. I see you have understood the lesson well.”
Aranya touched her tongue to her lips. “My lord, I haven’t told you how the painting was executed. You have probably noticed how deep and dark is the red of your robes. I used real blood mixed in with the red paint to create the precise effect. It will continue to darken with age.”
“Real blood?
She had considered calling her work The Butcher of Jeradia. It would have been apt. Instead, she had left it untitled.
Garthion waited on stage. His father Thoralian sat in the seat of honour, front and centre . His dark eyes hinted at dark, unspoken emotions as she passed by. ‘Immadia’ she heard someone hiss. And, ‘enchantress.’ Clearly, little had been forgiven or forgotten. Aranya stiffened her back. She would represent Immadia with honour.
The herald, dressed in unrelenting crimson, looked like a blot of blood onstage. He raised his arms for silence.
A touch awkwardly, given the chain linking her to Yolathion’s right wrist, the Immadian Princess and her escort ascended to the platform.
Clearing her throat, Aranya pitched her v oice to carry out into the hall. “I have not lived many summers upon the Island-World. Those I remember were consumed with the battle between the forces of Sylakia and Immadia,” she said, grateful that her voice remained clear and steady. “In the fall of last year, First War-Hammer Ignathion brought King Beran’s resistance to an end, thus completing Sylakia’s conquest of the realms north of Herimor and the Rift.”
A great roar of approval from the throng startled her into silence. The Sylakians stamped their boots and thundered their fists on the tables, making the fine porcelain leap about. A crystal glass shattered somewhere further back in the hall. At length, the herald beckoned for calm.
“I am honoured to represent the Kingdom of Immadia before you today–”
“Slave!” someone yelled.
A round of cruel laughter echoed amongst the rafters. Yolathion touched her elbow as if wishing to transfer strength to her.
“Without further ado,” she announced, bright of cheek and pulsating of heart, “I give you my portrait of Garthion, son of the Supreme Commander.”
She tugged the cover off the painting.
At exactly the same moment, driven to a fever pitch by her surging emotions, the two lamps behind the stage burst into flames. Everyone in the room gasped as one. Perhaps they thought it planned.
The painting was a half-length portrait of Garthion in his Hammers dress uniform, drawing back his arm to strike, but he held a whip in his hand rather than a Sylakian war hammer. Behind his head, deliberately drawn in a similar posture, was the head and body of a windroc striking with its claws, wings outspread, although their victim was off-canvas. She had blended the two torsos together, so that they seemed to belong to one creature.
“Extraordinary,” breathed Yolathion.
Garthion seemed taken aback. He stared at himself; after a time, however, Aranya saw a perverse smile creep around the edges of his mouth. He said, “I see authority and strength in this man. You’ve captured my power perfectly.”
What others saw as cruelty, the Sylakian viewed as strength and authority. Aranya exhaled. Now she knew she must go through with her plan.
The Supreme Commander began a slow boot-tramp of approval. The sound picked up in the hall until the rafters rang once more. Aranya bowed her head stiffly and held her palm upward to acknowledge the crowd’s approval.
Garthion drew unexp ectedly close. He hissed, “So, this is what slavery means, Princess of Immadia. I see you have understood the lesson well.”
Aranya touched her tongue to her lips. “My lord, I haven’t told you how the painting was executed. You have probably noticed how deep and dark is the red of your robes. I used real blood mixed in with the red paint to create the precise effect. It will continue to darken with age.”
“Real blood?
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