pause, then announced, “Second recognition-and the prize of two golds-goes to Aurelean D’Kocteault for his portrait of Mistress Karlana D’Kocteault. The judges would note that this study is a fine example of a traditional portrait.”
I had to agree. It was indeed an example of tradition. There wasn’t a single item of originality or true artistry anywhere, and I hadn’t seen an original brushstroke in the entire painting. It didn’t hurt that Master Kocteault was the previous guildmaster of the Portraiture Guild and that the portrait had been a flattering image of Kocteault’s elder daughter, who did not look anywhere near so fair as Aurelean had depicted her.
“First recognition goes to Elphens D’Rhenius, along with the prize of five golds. The judges would like to commend journeyman Elphens for his creative use of light in his study of the lower gardens on Council Hill.”
I managed not to snort. Creative use of light was appropriate-since the indirect light he’d depicted in his view of the gardens through a fall mist would have required the sun to be in three places-or that there be three suns in the sky. But Elphens was the journeyman for Master Rhenius D’Arte, considered by some as an equal of Estafen or Jacquerl.
For all that I had expected something like that, the walk back to Master Caliostrus’s in the chill and the dark was less than pleasant. The wind had picked up, and tiny flakes of ice pelted my exposed face, head, and neck. Many of the lanterns outside doors had blown out, and with the storm above, the rays of neither moon penetrated the clouds to offer light.
When I finally reached my small room, my feet were close to numb, and I could not feel the tip of my nose. Even as a journeyman, my quarters were on the street level, between the storerooms and the gallery, where the noises, the odors, and the cold were always the greatest. It took me two tries to slide the door bolt into place. My fingers were so cold that I had to fumble with the striker for several moments before I finally lit the small lamp on the chest.
I pulled off shoes that were both cold and damp, undressed down to my drawers quickly, hung my shirt and trousers on the pegs beside the tall and narrow chest, then wicked down the lamp and blew out the last flicker of flame before clambering into bed. Fortunately, when I’d left home to apprentice to Master Caliostrus, Father had sent me off with heavy blankets and even an old but serviceable comforter. Occasionally, when I visited, Mother slipped me silvers, reminding me that they came from Father, but that he was too proud to hand them to me personally. I had the feeling she was telling the truth about that.
As I lay there in the cold in my narrow bed, slowly warming up, I tried not to think too hard about the patent unfairness of the Festival Hall judging. I’d known it wouldn’t be any different from what had happened, because it had been that way for the previous years, ever since I’d first been an apprentice. Even in the chill of my chamber, before long I was more than warm enough, even in the depths of a cold Ianus, and eventually, I drifted off to sleep.
I woke somewhere in the darkness, so black that I could see nothing. Had the freezing flakes of the night before piled up so high that they had covered and blocked all light from my single narrow window? I felt around, but my blankets and comforter were gone, not that I felt cold, and I sat up, only to discover that I’d been lying on a bench of some sort.
How could that have been? Where was I? Why was it so dark? I knew I’d gone to sleep in my own bed. I needed light. I needed a lamp, one that was lit!
Suddenly, there was light, and I was back under my blankets, peering at the bright glow of the lamp on the chest across from the bed. I just looked at it for a long moment, then to the door, but the bolt was still in place. The window hangings were also shut.
I knew I’d blown out the lamp. I’d even checked it, and I’d never turned the wick up that high because it burned oil too quickly. Was I dreaming?
Gingerly, I eased out from under the now-warm blankets and comforter. The chill, especially from the ancient cold tiles on my bare feet, assured me that I was awake as I crossed the short distance to the chest. The topmost part of the lamp mantle was not that warm, but the lamp had been wicked up.
Had I lit it in my sleep?
The chill of the floor tiles certainly would have awakened me. I’d been dreaming about needing light, needing a lamp, but just dreaming about light didn’t light lamps. I made sure I wicked down the lamp before blowing it out and hurrying back under my blankets. Then I watched the lamp, but it did not light itself.
Again, I slept.
9
755 A.L.
Reality is an illusion based on the understanding of the perceiver.
The walk to my parents’ dwelling felt even farther than to the Guild Square, although the distance was about the same, except I had to walk east, rather than south, but that might have been because Solayi was even colder than Samedi had been, with a wind that howled and sucked every bit of heat out the paving stones and buildings along the Midroad. The angled pale white light of the sun, even in midafternoon, seemed to radiate chill rather than warmth. I finally thumped the bronze knocker on the door, and Nellica, the new servant, opened the door. As I handed her my coat and scarf, I was more than happy to be out of the cold.
Mother scurried into the foyer. “You’re looking well, Rhenn, if a bit chilled.” She wrapped her arms around me for a moment. “Come in and warm yourself by the parlor stove.”
I didn’t need a second invitation and followed her through the left archway and into the family parlor, not the formal parlor.
Khethila was curled up on the corner of the settee closest to the large ceramic stove, a thin book in her hand. She looked up and smiled. “Rhenn!”
“Khethila.” I eased around to put my back to the stove. “What are you reading?”
“Madame D’Shendael’s
I’d heard of her. She had gathered a group of High Holders’ wives and even some assistants to the Council to her evening salon, where all manner of topics were discussed, many of which reputedly suggested a certain lack of prudence in dealing with the Council. “She’s rather controversial, isn’t she?”
“She does ask questions. Lots of them.”
“Such as?”
Khethila bounded to her feet, the book still in hand. “Listen to this.” She cleared her throat and began to read in a husky voice that reminded me that she was no longer a child.
Just at that point, Father stepped into the parlor through the doorway from the lower study. “You’re not reading that trash again, are you, Khethila?” His eyes flashed, and I could sense he was even more angry than he’d been when I’d told him I’d never be a factor.
“She’s only telling Rhenn what’s in the book, dear.” Mother shot a warning glance to Khethila, before stepping forward and taking Father’s hands. “Besides, we don’t get Rhenn here that often anymore, and we’d all like a pleasant dinner.”
Father glared at Khethila, and she lowered her eyes, but her jaw was firm.
“Let me have Nellica bring you your wine,” Mother continued. “Would you like some of the Dhuensa, Rhenn?
