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 Poetic Discourse.”
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.
“At hearth, in bed, with feet near bare,
agree with smile demure and fair,
our position’s home; is that where
our spirits, our role, and place declare?”
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? Or hot spiced winter wine?”
“The spiced, please. It was a cold walk here.”
“Rousel always hires a carriage when he and Remaya visit.” That was from Culthyn, who had slipped down the front main staircase from the upstairs sitting room.
“He’s a factor,” I pointed out. “I’m an artist.”
“Master Caliostrus has a carriage,” Culthyn pointed out. “Why don’t you?”
Culthyn clearly took after Rousel, but I only said, “Because I’m not a master yet, and don’t have my own studio. It takes longer when you’re an artist.”
“Father could help with the studio.”
“He can’t,” I pointed out. “You can’t open a studio unless you’re a junior master artist, and that takes at least five years as a journeyman, and you have to be approved by your master and by the guild board.” That approval required either great talent, or a certain amount of quiet “gifting,” but the five-year requirement was absolute.
“That’s awful when you’re as good as you are,” Culthyn declared.
“That’s the way it is, and I can’t change it.”
Nellica reappeared with a tray holding a goblet and two mugs, offering the tray to Father first. He took the goblet. I took the one of the mugs, and Mother the other.
“We’re having stuffed and sauced fowl,” she said. “With all the wind and chill, it seemed a good hearty meal.”
“It sounds wonderful.” Especially since my board at Master Caliostrus’s didn’t include dinner on either Samedi or Solayi nights, although I could have bread and cheese from the kitchen. I took a sip of the spiced wine, far better than that at Lapinina, not surprisingly, since Father always had a good cellar and Mother could make the best use of it.
“I even have a hot winter pudding for desert,” Mother added.
“Which all of us have had to keep Culthyn out of,” said Khethila.
“There was more than enough,” muttered my youngest brother.
“There wouldn’t have been,” noted Khethila.
Before long we had gathered in the dining chamber, where Father did allow me the grace of sitting at his right and motioning me to offer the blessing.
“For the grace and warmth from above, for the bounty of the earth below, for all beauty and artistry in the world, for your justice, and for your manifold and great mercies, we offer our thanks and gratitude, both now and evermore, in the spirit of that which cannot be named or imaged . . .”
“In peace and harmony.”
“That’s the artists’ blessing, isn’t it?” said Khethila. “I like it.”
“A blessing’s a blessing,” Father said dryly, gesturing for everyone to sit down. “So long as we respect the Nameless, the words can change a bit.”
Personally, I preferred the artists’ version, but then, I hadn’t heard the crafters’ version, or that of the imagers, assuming that they had a version.
After carving and serving the fowl, then settling into his chair, Father politely asked me, “How is the portraiture business coming?” He always referred to portraiture as “business.”
“I’ve had three commissions in the last month or so, that is, commissions where the patron asked for me to do the work. The one I just finished was of Masgayl Factorius.”
“Ah, yes, the rope factor. Does cables and hawsers as well. Turns a shiny silver or two on the heavy cabling.”
“You and he see many things in the same way.” That was fair enough, although I had the sense that Masgayl Factorius was far more ruthless than Father.
“Did he pay well?”
“After costs, my share was a gold.” I didn’t have to mention the charge for the ruined brush. “Master Caliostrus gets half the fee, before costs.”