He'd stopped trying to show the others in the Temple of Prosperity. He bore the burdens of his pictures alone. To his eyes, the canvas was alive with colors, colors that formed a picture that made him shiver. Stars twinkling in the night. A little girl, maybe eight or nine, lying on the edge of the Midden, chest and stomach sliced open, leaking blood. Branded with a claw-tipped hand. Why can't he see it?
Cerimon turned to him. "You'll be wanting to go out, then?" He leaned Errin's easel aside and placed the painting on the floor.
"Y-y-yes."
Errin hated it. Cerimon looked at him the way he looked at a wounded kitten or a lame horse. All the brothers did. He wasn't broken. Cerimon couldn't understand that, or any of the others. And he hadn't the words to tell them. He knew what he wanted to say, but he could never quite get it out.
He took a deep breath. "Night."
"Tonight?"
Errin's words refused to form. He nodded.
"I'll be ready, lad." He pointed to the rope hanging beside Errin's bed. "You just ring that when it's time."
Errin wrinkled his nose. The bell wanted to break his head into a thousand pieces--thousand is a good number--but he had no other way to communicate.
"Eat it before it gets cold, eh?" With a smile--I'm not broken!--Cerimon left.
Errin stuffed fingers into his ears as the door squealed shut. He stared at the bowl, and his stomach growled as he smelled the spicy scent of herbs Addara used to make her soup.
The shaft of light stood like a pillar between him and his meal. He stretched out his arms and felt the walls of his cell. Squeezing his eyes shut, he shuffled forward. Three steps to the light. Deep breath. Jump through it.
A leap carried him past the torturous light but, for a moment, it set his skin prickling. He reached for the bowl of soup--chicken, dumplings, carrots, potatoes, onions, garlic, rosemary--and drained it in a few slurps. Not too hot or cold. Cerimon knew how he liked it.
His attention wandered to the painting. The little girl in the picture looked scared, alone. Why does she need to die?
The paintings never told him why, they only showed him who and when. He never knew what he would see until he finished it. He hated being jerked around, but worse was the burning that grew in his mind if he didn't paint. Last time, Cerimon hadn't brought his paints, and he'd tossed and turned as the monster battered his mind. Only when he put it on canvas would it leave him alone.
He had to see this one. Had to see them all. Too many of them went forgotten, unnoticed by the world. He wouldn't forget them. His canvas captured them, a final remnant of their lives.
Bowl empty, he stood and reached for the walls; wide enough he touched them with outstretched arms. Helped him balance, made it easier to walk. Taking a deep breath, he jumped through the light. Eyes open this time. Didn't hurt as much.
He sank into his chair, covering his eyes. Cerimon and the others needed light. He didn't. Light hurt his eyes, burned his skin, made his thoughts bounce around in his head like a ball on a string. He needed darkness--cool, comforting. Light played with his mind, but darkness simply was. Staring into the shadows, he saw everything he needed to see.
* * *
Errin whimpered as a terrible sound filled the night, and he gripped Cerimon's arm tighter.
"Easy, lad." He focused on Cerimon's calm, quiet voice. "Just a dog."
Errin hated being out of his cell. Outside was too big, too dangerous. Too many things to make his ears and eyes hurt. Colors too bright, sounds too loud. But at least he could comfort himself with darkness. His hood would hide him from the stars above, and Cerimon would protect him from everything else. He just needed to see and he could go back to the safety of his home.
"Gorf! What a stench!" Cerimon grunted and pinched his nose. "I'd forgotten how much I hated the Midden. If only your pictures had brought us to Maiden's Fields, eh?"
Errin didn't know what Cerimon was talking about. He didn't care. He was busy counting. Four thousand, eight hundred, two score, and five steps away from home. Too many.
He almost turned back. Didn't. Couldn't. He needed to see first.
He saw her. Smaller than she looked in his painting. Skin lighter, blood redder. Too red. A dark figure knelt before her, head bowed, eyes wide.
"Blessed Illusionist." Cerimon stopped, bowed his head, and made the sign of the Long Keeper.
With a shudder, Errin turned away from the scene. He had seen. Could return to his cell, safety. In there, no one would hurt him as they had hurt the little girl.
Howling filled the night, and Errin screamed and clapped his hands over his ears. Hurts! He crouched and buried his head in his cloak as more and more sounds pounded him from all sides. Make it stop!
He tried to run, tripped, and fell hard. The stones felt rough against his skin, but no pain. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled back toward the temple.
"Errin!" Cerimon's voice sounded too loud. "Stop, please. You'll hurt yourself!"
Errin tripped again, fell, and rolled. The snap echoed in his body. His left hand--not the hand I paint with, don't need it--hung at a strange angle. He felt nothing. He just wanted to get back to the cool, quiet cell and be alone with his darkness. And his paintings.
Cerimon knelt beside him. "Mistress! You're hurt, lad. Let me help you up."
Errin cringed away from Cerimon's outstretched hand. Don't want to be touched!
"H-h-home." Tears streamed down his face as he climbed to his feet.
Cerimon nodded and adjusted his cloak. "Aye, Errin. Let's get you home."
* * *
Get it off! Errin tugged at the bandage around his left wrist. Hate it! Itches, burns, rubs.
Cerimon had insisted he leave the splint alone. Need to leave it to heal. The hand, thick and stiff, didn't move like it should. At least I still have my right hand to paint.
He didn't want to look at the latest pictures. They'd come to him last night and the night before, filled up four canvases. Men slumped around a table. Screaming men and women fleeing a fire that consumed stone and wood alike. Hanging figures dripping blood onto the wooden planks of the dock. A horrible, twisted face like a demon from the stories Cerimon told him.
The painting of the little girl sat in the corner still. The other pictures didn't bother him as much as this one. He was too late to see her alive. He was always too late.
He counted the footsteps. One clack, two clack, three. Heeled sandals. Addara.
He didn't stuff his fingers into his ears. Cerimon had greased the hinges, and it swung open without a sound.
"Good morning, Errin!" Addara's voice, bright and cheery, slurred. "How are we this morning?"
He couldn't look at her eyes--too bright, too many colors dancing at once--but he forced himself to smile. He wanted to speak, but nothing came out. He had no words to tell her he was happy to see her.
Addara stepped forward and placed a bowl on his bed. "Brought you some of my special porridge. With a pat of butter and a pinch of cinnamon, just the way you like it."
He tried to speak. Couldn't.
She turned to his painting. "Another one?"
He nodded.
"Beautiful, this one."
Does she see it? Maybe she could.
She faced him, and daylight shone on the left half of her face. Cerimon had spoken of the acid attack that left her disfigured, but he saw only beauty in the strange lines and whorls of flesh on her face. He traced the patterns that danced through his mind the same way the pictures did. The patterns changed every time he saw them. He loved them. She was the only one who had them. The only one who interested him. He loved to follow the shifting, swirling shapes and lines, watching as they painted the story of Addara.
"I'll be back in a bit for your bowl. Need to eat to stay strong, eh?"
Don't go! Stay and talk with me. Nothing came out. They never did when Addara was around.
With a bright smile that made the lines in her face curl like a golden rope around a pillar of di
amonds, she left him alone to his breakfast.
* * *
Errin clung to the jerking paintbrush as the picture took shape on the canvas.
Not even the flickering glare of the candle beside his bed could deter him. The force within his mind, whatever brought the images to life, compelled him. It had come in his sleep. Woken him with a scream. Pushed him out of bed to get up, to paint.
He didn't need light to paint. Better in the darkness. Easier to see the picture as it took shape on the canvas.
The paintbrush fell to the floor, and he sat hard on the bed. He would rather ring the bell a hundred times than see the image on the canvas.
Addara. Golden sunlight, white robes, brown mud, black hoofprints, red blood. The colors in her eyes had stopped playing. The lines on her face stopped dancing.
He gritted his teeth and pulled on the rope. The bell attacked his head with its metallic ringing, but he kept pulling.
Footsteps. One, quick shuffle, two, quick shuffle, three. Cerimon flung open the door, candle in hand. "What?"
Errin pointed to the canvas. Look there! Can't you see what happens? No words came out.
"What is it, lad? What did you see?"
"A-A…" Nothing. His mouth refused to form the words. He pointed and waved at the painting. See it, damn you! See what happens to Addara!
Cerimon studied the painting and shook his head. "I can't see it, Errin. It's all black. It's always all black." He gave Errin the same look--sad, disappointed, pitying, not understanding--he always did. "Eminentus says it's the Illusionist's gift to you, the ability to see what no one else can. Those pictures--they're for your eyes only."
Errin shrieked, but no words came out. His breath caught in his lungs. Fire burned in his mind. He ached to tell someone, to explain what he saw.
"Get some rest, Errin. The sun rises in an hour. We can go out after dark, I promise."
He couldn't let Addara die--not her. He'd seen too many others, borne the burden for far too long. If Cerimon couldn't see, couldn't understand, he'd do it himself.
His fingers closed around the fallen paintbrush and he stumbled from the room. Cerimon called out after him, but he didn't stop. He needed to find Addara and stop her from becoming one more image on the canvas.
* * *
Errin ached to flee back to the safety of his cell. Too many sounds battered against his ears, an assault from all around. He wanted to adjust the thick fabric covering his eyes, but he couldn't take his fingers out of his ears. Shouting, laughing, screaming, screeching, cursing--he fought to keep the sounds out. Can't let head explode! Keep going.
Even through the cloth, daylight hurt his eyes. The sunshine burned even through his heavy cloak. His skin crawled, scorched by the unforgiving sun.
Cerimon touching my arm. Don't like it. He would endure the man's touch, needed it to stay upright. The cobblestones--uneven, can't walk straight--tugged at his feet with every step.
He squeezed his eyes closed, and the numbers flowed through his mind. Five thousand, six hundred, eighty-eight. Five thousand, six hundred eighty-nine. Turn here. Five thousand, six hundred ninety.
The numbers helped him get around. One hundred twelve steps from his cell to the temple stairs. Twenty-five thousand, two hundred and fifty-six to the gardens of Maiden's Fields. Four from his bed to his easel.
He remembered the details of his painting. Grey stones beneath Addara's white robes. He'd walked on those stones before. From gold stones of Temple District to red stones to black to grey. Six thousand, four hundred and eight steps to grey stones. Almost there.
"Sure you're up for this, Errin?" Cerimon's voice, quiet and worried. "We can do this later. After dark."
Errin tried to speak. Nothing. He shook his head and thrust a finger ahead. We have to keep going until we find Addara. It's important!
Someone bumped into him, and he shrieked. Too many people. Too much touching.
"Errin, you have to go back. We can't go through this crowd."
"C-c-close!"
His legs, clumsy and weak, tangled as he picked up the pace. He squeezed his eyes tight and leaned harder on Cerimon.
Six thousand three. Six thousand four. Six thousand five.
He hunched his shoulders and made himself as small as possible to avoid the jostling crowd. He wanted to scream, shout, tell them to stop touching him, but he had no words. Had nothing but a picture in his mind of Addara's red-stained robes.
Six thousand, four hundred and three.
He pulled Cerimon across the street--grey stones, close to finding her--and into the shade of an alley. Out of the burning light!
Gritting his teeth against the sounds battering his ears, he tugged at the blindfold and looked around. Too bright, hard to see. Too many colors and sounds. Too much of everything! Every part of him wanted to return to the safety and darkness of his cell.
He saw her. She stood across the street—thirty-six steps--a basket under her arms. The light glinting off her white robe hurt his eyes. Still standing.
He'd always arrived after the pictures formed. Only saw bodies, unmoving, red-stained, pale-skinned. Not Addara. Not too late for her.
He turned to Cerimon. She's going to be run down by a horse and carriage! Hoofprints on her white dress, red leaking from her head. We have to stop it. He screamed and cried, but nothing came out.
"What is it, Errin? What are we looking for?"
Errin's mouth worked without a sound. Words refused to form. "A-A-dd…"
Lines appeared in Cerimon's forehead. "Point to it!"
Errin's finger darted toward Addara. Cerimon followed it. "Addara?"
Errin nodded. In lieu of words, he waved his arms.
Cerimon shook his head. "I don't understand. What about her?"
Errin's head swiveled. People milled around the market, but no carts or carriages.
His gesticulations turned frantic. Make her come here! She's not safe there. "C-c-come!"
Cerimon quirked his head. "You want her to come here?"
Errin nodded wildly, waving his arms with increasing frenzy. The burning in his mind had nothing to do with the sunlight or assaulting sounds. Golden sunlight, white robes, brown mud, black hoofprints, red blood.
"Easy, Errin. I'll be right back."
Cerimon crossed the street--You're too slow! Move faster--and tapped Addara on the shoulder. The young woman turned, smiled at Cerimon, and followed his pointing finger. She waved at Errin, and he gestured for her to come. Together, she and Cerimon returned to where he stood hunched in his cloak.
"Hello, Errin. Didn't expect to--"
Screams filled the marketplace, and Errin shrieked and clapped his hands over his ears. Cerimon and Addara crouched over him as he buried himself in his cloak, rocking back and forth, keening quietly.
He flinched from a gentle hand on his shoulder, dimly heard Cerimon say, "The boy don't like to be touched." The hand left, and the painful sounds faded. Shoulders hunched, Errin peered out from beneath his hood.
Golden sunlight, green robes, brown mud, black hoofprints, red blood. Someone lay on the ground. Dark hair, pale skin, and crimson dripping from her forehead. Neck twisted at an awkward angle.
Not Addara.
Cerimon's eyes flew wide at the sight, and Addara paled. Errin smiled, watching the lines in her face shift and swirl. He liked how they twisted just so when her mouth fell open. His favorite pattern. Comforting and soothing.
"Blessed Illusionist!" Addara climbed to her feet and rushed toward the fallen woman. People crowded around, but she pushed through the throng.
Cerimon didn't look away. He stared at Errin. "You saw that happen?"
Errin nodded. I painted it in my picture. Didn't you see it?
The man sat back on his heels, his face ashen. "Keeper's teeth!" He pushed his hair back from his eyes. "No wonder you were in such a hurry."
Couldn't let it happen. Not to Addara.
Cerimon narrowed his eyes. "But now what? You stopped it
, so is that it?"
He didn't know. Never done this before. Always too late.
"H-h-home…" Away from the sounds and light. No one would touch him there.
Cerimon nodded. "Of course." He reached down a hand and helped Errin stand. "Let's get you home, lad."
Errin craned his neck, but couldn't see Addara.
"She'll be well. You saved her, you know."
Errin replaced his blindfold and returned his fingers to his ears.
Six thousand, four hundred nine. Six thousand, four hundred eight. Six thousand, four hundred seven...
* * *
Errin dropped to his knees, using mud as paint and cobblestones as canvas. Cerimon's voice and the battering sounds of the street around him faded beneath the rushing of blood in his ears.
The blindfold hindered his vision, but his eyes didn't matter. His fingers, hands, and arms moved of their own accord. His brush dipped time and again into the muck as the image--no, please not again--burned in his mind. Addara, Cerimon, and him, lying crushed amidst a throng. Dark boots stained with bright blood.
"Madman!" Harsh, angry voice. Unfamiliar. Hurt his head.
Something bumped into him, and he fell. He curled up, rocking, hands covering his ears.
"You dare profane one of the Illusionist's own?" Cerimon. Angry too. "May the Mighty One fill your purse with dust. May he give you the success you crave, and rip it from your hands. May your mind wither to an empty husk!"
Panting, Errin lay atop his fresh painting of mud and stone. The image refused to leave his mind, and his head threatened to burst from the mounting pressure.
"Errin!" Cerimon crouched over him, shielding him from the bright daylight. "What did you see?"
Words caught in his throat. He waved his muddy hands back in the direction they'd come.
"Back there?"
Errin nodded, seized Cerimon's robe, and dragged himself upright. "A-Ad-da…"
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