by Pam Uphoff
“Oh.” Emre blinked, wiped tears. “Nick. Damn the man for waiting too long to run for it. I’d rather have lost India, than him. But he didn’t give anyone else a vote. ‘They’ll come for me, and that will give you enough time.’ He said. He was right, but it still wasn’t worth it.”
Ra’d shrugged. “If I’ve learned one thing since we returned, it’s that we can’t live in the past. And the future’s fine.”
Emre shrugged and turned back to the table. Sat and started eating.
Ra’d nodded in satisfaction. Your glow is strong again, even shielded.
“So, Grandfather. You’re awake and well. Please try to finally untangle this mess you’ve made, and, well, you’ve got several of the Bags here. Bubble some of those Lost and see if the sane priests can cycle down. I don’t know if those priests who have gone too deep can recover.”
“We were always in touch with the collective, you know.” The old man eyed him.
“I know. But you weren’t so close to being inhuman. A year with only sporadic contact with the One, and you look like you’ve found your soul. Let them try to find theirs.”
Ra’d picked up the wet painting and set it in the fast room. Closed the door. “The senior priests are starting to take control, starting to do some of the right things. They’ve stopped kidnapping and castrating ten-year-old boys. Following the law is always a good sign.” He started cleaning up his paints, putting everything away, and then into the “painting” bubble.
The new picture was the last one—dry after four days in the fast room. He boxed it carefully. Slid it into the bubble and closed it.
Ra’d looked at the open door of the fast room . . .
“I’ll leave that here. You, and others, may need it.”
He unlatched the front door and walked away.
The Lost Ones scuttled toward him, and he stopped, opened his mental shields.
:: I am sorry for what they have done to you. But I will not be your Master. I accept no slaves, no servants. ::
They flinched back, and milled about for a moment before they turned away, heading in the direction of Emre’s little house.
The three priests who had greeted him blocked the path.
“I am a loner, not a joiner, or even a leader.”
Unvu was tightlipped in disapproval. Usse shrugged, nodded.
Jeb stepped out of Ra’d’s way. “Pity . . . But thank you for giving us back Emre. We did not realize what we were doing to him. It won’t happen again.”
Chapter Four
A one man show for a Warrior of the One
“I decided to make use of your expertise, in choosing which pictures to show. So I brought everything.” Ra’d suppressed a grin as they looked back out the doors. He produced the “inventory” bag and held up the shiny metal handles.
“Oh.” Administrator Cake—which was apparently spelled Keyq—swallowed. “Is that your father’s . . .” She trailed off at his shaken head.
“No, this one is new. Now where shall I unload it, so you can see what I’ve got?”
A corridor with three alcoves. Or perhaps it counted as a single large room with interior walls to hang things on. Whatever. It had good lighting. He chose a wall facing the entrance and pulled out the new painting, and the old. Leaned them on the wall . . . shifted them a bit so the light hit them just right.
He glanced at the Cake Lady. Standing silent, wiping a tear.
Yeah, deep down inside we recognize the prophets, even in pictures.
He walked around the room pulling out pictures. Half from childhood memories, half from old photographs, or the vids Nighthawk had given him. Copies of training videos from fourteen centuries ago. The Prophets as teenagers and young adults. Their personalities shining through as they goofed off, chatted and kidded each other.
Hopefully something of their personalities showed in the paintings . . .
He left Cake weeping and phoning her boss to come down here right now!
And started unloading more paintings in the next alcove.
The Comet Fall Old Gods, the Baby Gods he’d met—Xen Wolfson’s picture was probably going to have women drooling all over it—some places on Comet Fall that Nighthawk had taken him to. The Fire Mountain Inn—better known as Harry’s Tavern—the village of Ash, the breathtaking Mount Frost, waterfalls into a series of hot springs.
No pictures of Nighthawk or the kids. Those were his, and he wasn’t sharing them.
Last alcove. Portraits, again. Oners, this time. The President, Urfa, Izzo, Ajha. Lesser known people. Taix Castellanos, brilliant and fierce in her kitchen. The Teamers he’d worked with. Some good, some hopefully showing the subtle wrongness of their souls.
I am, perhaps, a little too sure of my abilities.
Several of Rael. It had been impossible to capture her in a single painting. Deadly, poised, ready to leap into action. Laughing, all in clashing colors, eyes gleaming with mischief. Alone and remote, dancing a kata on a beach at dawn. She was going to kill him when she saw it. She didn’t realize he’d seen her, the week he’d spent in Montevideo. And she certainly hadn’t danced naked.
And his “family.” Isakson, his two wives, and the other women widowed at Rangpur over a thousand years ago. The kids. His sister—half-sister—funny how he hadn’t realized how she’d grown up until he’d gotten it on the canvas.
He walked back to the first alcove, where a dozen people were wandering around, a few pointing at walls and trying to figure out what to put where. But most of them were just taking in the paintings.
Excellent. Perhaps my ego is not too out of touch with reality.
And perhaps, through my paintings people will see the Prophets as people. Extraordinary people, but . . . people, not gods.
Not the way a Warrior usually fights for his beliefs.
But it’s a place to start.
He cleared his throat. “I wondered if you might like the two big ones out in the foyer, for everyone to see at a good viewing distance. Advertising, but . . .”
“But everyone should see these. Those two especially.” An old man stopped before the portrait of Nicholas. The smoke of the fires behind him, uniform filthy and torn. Blood here and there, mostly dried. That eagle-eyed piercing stare and determination showing in every fiber.
We lost the battle, but he never quit.
Ra’d blinked back a bit of moisture in his own eyes.
“So, have you seen the rest?” He kept his voice brisk and hustled them out.
Tried, and failed, to ignore Cake’s return to business matters. “We’ll need a sneak preview, a reception for the patrons in the evening, and then a grand opening. and then open to the public in the morning. I’ll have to check the dates . . . get advertisements designed and scheduled, talk to the Arts journalists . . .” She broke off to pat his arm. “Don’t look so worried, we’ll invite a thousand people or so, but only three or four hundred will show up.”
“I see.” Well, they can’t be worse than politicians, can they? “So, when is this all going to happen?”
“Oh, we need at least two months’ lead time, three more likely, to stir up public interest . . .”
***
“Humph. You ought to have done a more formal portrait of the Prophet Nicholas.”
Ra’d nodded politely to the chubby middle-aged man. “That was done from the memory of the last time I saw him.”
And they’re using it in all the advertisements. It’s my most famous painting already, and only these few idiots have seen the actual painting.
He mentally kicked himself. Be tactful, dammit!
“Perhaps someday I’ll paint something more formal.”
“Humph! That’s so undignified.” Pudgy edged suddenly away.
Don’t leak! Just show enough glow to be respected. Don’t let the softies irritate you.
He smiled and turned to a woman, weeping at the Emre portrait. He kept turning and stepped away, down the hall and into the hushed alcove of the Prophets.
Nice and peaceful.
Keep walking. The fewer you talk to, the fewer you’ll want to punch.
As he’d expected, his almost-father-in-law’s portrait was attracting women. Someone was talking about Those Left Behind, waving at the Card Game. Ra’d walked on . . . in the last alcove, the President and Urfa were snickering at the Dancer.
Scar, who was watching the crowd like a well-trained guard, grinned as he caught Ra’d’s eye. “Dead meat. Fortunately she couldn’t make it tonight.”
“I’m more worried about Wolfson.” Ra’d looked at the painting. Shrugged. “You know Rael, she was wearing purple and orange. Totally shattered the impact as the light got bright enough to show colors. So, it’s her fault I needed to leave the clothes out.”
Urfa laughed. “Stick to that story. All of us will believe it.”
“Ajha promised to send me Across for a month. I’m sure Rael will have calmed down by the time I return.” Ra’d glanced around. “And I promised to not do this again for at least three years.”
Other Titles by Pam Uphoff
Wine of the Gods Series:
Outcasts and Gods
Exiles and Gods (Three Novellas)
The Black Goats
Explorers
Spy Wars
One Alone
Comet Fall
A Taste of Wine (Seven Tales)
Dark Lady
Growing Up Magic (Four Novellas)
Young Warriors
God of Assassins
Heirs of Crown and Spear
The Fiend
Empire of the One
Warriors of the One
Dancer
Earth Gate
Mages at Large
Art Theft
Triplets
Sea Wolves
Bad Karma
Dark Side of the Moon
Cascades
Olympian
Embassy
Rael
On the Run
God of the Sun
Cannibal World
No Confidence
Pure Poison
Flying
Last Merge
Nowhere Man
Black Point Clan
External Relations
Meet the Family
Mall Santa
Saturday Night
The Directorate Series:
Directorate School
A Tale of Three Interns
Trouble in Paradise
First Posting
Surveillance
Fort Dinosaur
Shadow Zone
Project Dystopia
Fractured Loyalties
Cooking Hot
The Boy
One Love
The Lawyers of Mars
Fancy Free
Time Loop
In the Rift
Writing as Zoey Ivers
YA Cyberpunk Adventures:
The Barton Street Gym
Chicago
Atlantis+
Fantasy:
Demi God