Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

Still, the situation galled him. Work left him impatient, irritated and dissatisfied. At each sitting’s conclusion he fought to keep from slumping in exhaustion, instead applying himself with diligence to the cleaning of his brushes, his mind tracking the lines of the charcoal studies he referred to again and again when gauging the image on the board — he did not have to actually look at the vellum sheets, so fiercely were they burned into his mind’s eye. Urusander’s face haunted him, as did each subject he painted, but this time it felt different.

There was political intent to all works of art, but this one was too brazen, too bold, as far as he was concerned, and so he found his hand and eye fighting that overt crudity, with a shifting of tones, a deepening of certain lines, with a symbolic language only he understood.

Painting is war. Art is war.

His colleagues would recoil in horror at such notions. But then, they were mostly fools. Only Gallan would understand. Only Gallan would nod and perhaps even smile. There were so many ways to wage a battle. Weapons of beauty, weapons of discord. Fields of engagement across a landscape, or in the folds of a hanging curtain. Lines of resistance, knots of ambush, the assault of colour, the retreat of perspective. So many ways to fight, and yet every victory felt like surrender — he had no power over a stranger’s eyes, after all, and if art could lay siege to a stranger’s soul, it was a blind advance against unseen walls.

This portrait of Urusander — which he now sat facing, as the last of the night’s candles flickered and wavered — bore all of Kadaspala’s wounds, yet who might see that? No one, not even Gallan. One learns to hide the damage taken, and an eye pleased is an eye seduced.

And Urusander was well pleased indeed.

He was done. He would leave with the dawn. I have painted a man worthy of being her husband. They will see his strength, his resolute integrity, because these lie on the surface. They will not see the underside of such things — the cruelty beneath strength, the cold pride behind that stern resolution. The blade of judgement grasped firm in integrity’s hand.

They will see in his stance his soldier’s discipline, and the burdens assumed without complaint. Yet see nothing of withered empathy or unreasonable expectation.

In the tones they will find warmth with but a hint of the underlying metal, and in so seeing they will understand nothing of that melding of fire and iron and all that it promises.

My power is vast, the talent undeniable, the vision sure and true. Yet all it leaves me is torment. There is but one god, and its name is beauty. There is but one kind of worship, and that is love. There is for us but one world, and we have scarred it beyond recognition.

Art is the language of the tormented, but the world is blind to that, for ever blind.

Urusander, I see you — I face you now — in the failing light, and you frighten me to the core.

‘You will not dine with me on this last night?’

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Still, the situation galled him. Work left him impatient, irritated and dissatisfied. At each sitting’s conclusion he fought to keep from slumping in exhaustion, instead applying himself with diligence to the cleaning of his brushes, his mind tracking the lines of the charcoal studies he referred to again and again when gauging the image on the board — he did not have to actually look at the vellum sheets, so fiercely were they burned into his mind’s eye. Urusander’s face haunted him, as did each subject he painted, but this time it felt different.

There was political intent to all works of art, but this one was too brazen, too bold, as far as he was concerned, and so he found his hand and eye fighting that overt crudity, with a shifting of tones, a deepening of certain lines, with a symbolic language only he understood.

Painting is war. Art is war.

His colleagues would recoil in horror at such notions. But then, they were mostly fools. Only Gallan would understand. Only Gallan would nod and perhaps even smile. There were so many ways to wage a battle. Weapons of beauty, weapons of discord. Fields of engagement across a landscape, or in the folds of a hanging curtain. Lines of resistance, knots of ambush, the assault of colour, the retreat of perspective. So many ways to fight, and yet every victory felt like surrender — he had no power over a stranger’s eyes, after all, and if art could lay siege to a stranger’s soul, it was a blind advance against unseen walls.

This portrait of Urusander — which he now sat facing, as the last of the night’s candles flickered and wavered — bore all of Kadaspala’s wounds, yet who might see that? No one, not even Gallan. One learns to hide the damage taken, and an eye pleased is an eye seduced.

And Urusander was well pleased indeed.

He was done. He would leave with the dawn. I have painted a man worthy of being her husband. They will see his strength, his resolute integrity, because these lie on the surface. They will not see the underside of such things — the cruelty beneath strength, the cold pride behind that stern resolution. The blade of judgement grasped firm in integrity’s hand.

They will see in his stance his soldier’s discipline, and the burdens assumed without complaint. Yet see nothing of withered empathy or unreasonable expectation.

In the tones they will find warmth with but a hint of the underlying metal, and in so seeing they will understand nothing of that melding of fire and iron and all that it promises.

My power is vast, the talent undeniable, the vision sure and true. Yet all it leaves me is torment. There is but one god, and its name is beauty. There is but one kind of worship, and that is love. There is for us but one world, and we have scarred it beyond recognition.

Art is the language of the tormented, but the world is blind to that, for ever blind.

Urusander, I see you — I face you now — in the failing light, and you frighten me to the core.

‘You will not dine with me on this last night?’

Startled, it was a moment before Kadaspala turned in his chair to face Lord Urusander. ‘For an instant, Lord, as you spoke, I thought I saw the mouth of your portrait shaping your words. Most… disconcerting.’

‘I imagine it would be, yes. You have fashioned a true likeness.’

Kadaspala nodded.

‘Will you copy it yourself in the Hall?’

‘No, Lord. The Citadel’s artists will do that. They are chosen especially for their skills at imitation. When they are done, this painting will be returned to you here — or wherever you end up residing.’

To that Urusander said nothing for a time. He walked slowly closer to where sat Kadaspala, his hooded gaze on the portrait. Then he sighed. ‘Where I reside. Do I appear so displeased with my present abode?’

‘I saw nothing of that, Lord.’

‘No, you wouldn’t. Yet,’ and he gestured, ‘you would have me… elsewhere.’

Faint bells chimed to announce dinner, but neither man moved. ‘Lord, it is a portrait of you, by the hand of Kadaspala, who has turned down a hundred commissions.’

‘That many?’

‘Those denied do not announce their failure, Lord.’

‘No, I suppose they wouldn’t. Very well, then, why did you accept this one?’

‘I had a thought.’

‘Indeed, and will you tell me that thought, Kadaspala?’

‘If anyone can prevent civil war’ — and he nodded towards the portrait — ‘it is that man.’

Breath hissed from Urusander and his words were harsh with frustration. ‘This is all madness! If the nobility so resent the Consort, then they should challenge Mother Dark herself!’