Imager

64

For all the excitement of Samedi, I did sleep soundly that night, well enough that I did not wake until well after breakfast, possibly because the day was so dark and gray, although the rain had stopped. Since Master Dichartyn didn’t have the duty, he wasn’t around, and I had no way to reach him easily. Besides, what could he have done to track down an unknown imager on a Solayi? I’d certainly let him know on Lundi. So I just took my time, still pondering over the strange shield used by the Ferran’s accomplice, and thinking about how I might overcome it should I again come into contact with its wielder.

Menyard was the only third I knew well at lunch, and I joined him and several others, but mostly, I just listened and ate. After lunch, I crossed the Bridge of Hopes, holding full shields, something that was no longer much of an effort, and took a hack out to my parents’ dwelling.

Mother actually was the one to open the door. “Rhenn! What a pleasant surprise.” Her smile was certainly welcoming. “Your father will be so pleased.”

I followed her into the family parlor, closing the door behind me. Kethila was lounging in Father’s chair, reading something, but it wasn’t one of the D’Shendael books.

“Do have a seat, dear. I’ll tell your father that you’re here.”

Khethila closed the book and moved to the settee. “I want to hear all about her.”

“In a moment,” I replied, not that I was about to tell anyone anything more than the absolute minimum. “Have you yet read On Art and Society?”

“The bookshop hasn’t found a copy yet.”

“I’ve read several chapters . . .” I grinned.

“You have it?”

“The Collegium library does. I was able to borrow it.” I glanced toward the back hall leading to Father’s private study. “Don’t let Father see it. I’d suggest not quoting from it.”

“I’ll like it, then?”

“It might make even you think differently.”

“How?”

“She says that financial pressures and childbirth are why there have been almost no women artists. Also that art can easily become a male pretension.”

“She really wrote that?” Khethila frowned.

“You’ll have to read it yourself.” I looked down the hall. “Father’s on his way.”

She gave me a mock glare, which vanished as Culthyn hurried in and plopped himself on the settee next to her.

Once Father arrived in the family parlor and seated himself, Mother settled down in her chair and looked at me. I ignored the look and sat in the straight-backed chair that was at an angle to both the settee and Father.

“Tell us something about her, Rhenn,” Mother pressed.

“Where should I start?” I smiled. “Let me see. Her eyes are stars on a moonless night, her hair darker than jet ebony, her lips redder than flame, her skin fairer than Artiema full at harvest . . .”

“That’s poetry stuff,” complained Culthyn. “You mean she’s got real black hair and red lips? She can’t have white eyes like the stars.”

When Culthyn talked that way, he reminded me of Rousel at that age, and it wasn’t a pleasant memory.

“You could be a little less poetic, dear,” suggested Mother.

“She has black hair, not quite shoulder length when it’s down. Her eyes are black, the irises, that is, and she’s about a head shorter than I am.”

“That still makes her tall for a woman,” Father said.

“Not compared to her cousin. Odelia is almost as tall as I am.”

“What else?” prompted Mother. “What about her family?”

“They’re well off. That, I can assure you. She has a brother a bit younger than Culthyn, and another brother who’s a bit older than I am, I think.”

“You don’t know?” asked Khethila.

“I didn’t ask. I’m interested in her, not them.”

Culthyn grinned.

“She’s involved in the family business, and they make custom and quite costly furniture, usually for High Holders.”

“Exactly what does she do?” pressed Father.

“Believe it or not, it’s rather technical, and she can explain it far better than I can, and I’m certain she will be more than happy to do so next week. Oh, she’s also a very good dancer, far better than I am, and she has a good sense of humor, and a nice smile.”

“Is she fat?” asked Culthyn. “You didn’t say she was pretty.”

Both Mother and Khethila glared at him. Under the pressure of two sets of eyes, he shrank back into the sofa.

“No, she’s not fat. You’ll see.”

“Your description about her suitability leaves a great deal of room, Rhenn,” Mother said.

“I’ve discovered that sometimes it’s best not to say too much. Seliora is very open, and I’m sure you can determine what you think next week after meeting her.”

“Seliora . . . that sounds like . . .”

“She’s Pharsi . . . but they’ve lived in L’Excelsis for at least three generations.”

“Remaya is a lovely girl,” Mother offered.

That was a concession it had taken her ten years to make, although I wasn’t about to complain, since I hoped it would make matters easier for Seliora . . . and me.

“Remaya’s a woman with a child, not a girl,” Father said with a gruff laugh.

After a moment where no one spoke, Culthyn looked at me. “Rhenn, you promised you’d show me what imagers do. You promised.”

I thought about that for a moment. It might keep the subject changed, and I was no longer forbidden to use imaging, but I had to use it appropriately, of course. “All right.” I glanced to the bookshelf, then smiled. At one end of a line of books was a bookend, a marble L shape with a crystal globe anchored to both sides of the green marble. There was only one because, years before, Rousel had knocked the other off when he’d thrown a school book at me, and it had fallen and shattered. I stood and walked to the bookshelf, looking at the bookend. There had to be enough stone and sand nearby outside the house so that imaging wouldn’t be that hard. I concentrated, visualizing a second bookend, identical to the first.

Then, there was one, sitting in the open space of the shelf beside the first.

I turned to Mother. “A bit late, but . . .”

Her mouth had opened, just a little. I had the feeling that she’d never been quite sure whether I was really an imager. Father’s eyes had widened.

“Is that all?” Disappointment colored Culthyn’s voice.

“Can you do that?” I countered.

“No.” The response was sullen.

“Imaging is like anything else. It’s work, and it has to be practical.”

“You take all the fun out of things.”

“Culthyn.” Mother’s voice was like ice in midwinter. “Apologize.”

“I’m sorry, Rhenn.”

“If you don’t want to go to your sleeping chamber, you will be civil to your brother,” Father added. “From what I’ve heard, there aren’t many who can do what he just did.”

“Yes, sir.”

Before anyone else could speak, I did. “Father, I’d be interested in learning what you’ve heard about trade and shipping, especially between Solidar and Ferrum or Jariola.” I did want to know, and I didn’t want the conversation headed back to more questions about Seliora.

“Well . . .” He rubbed his thumbs against the sides of his forefingers, the way he sometimes did when he was thinking. “I heard from Peliagryn that there was a skirmish or something between some Ferran ships and ours in the north ocean, and most of their vessels got sunk. After that, the factors in the isles sent word to Rousel that traders in Ferrial are refusing to accept Solidaran wools. They’re afraid of confiscation if matters get any worse . . . things aren’t quite so bad with Jariola. At the same time, I really have trouble with the Oligarch. Those types don’t really understand commerce at all . . .”

I listened carefully, and not just out of politeness.

Later, we had tea and cakes before I left, and Mother didn’t press me again on Seliora, but she did mention three times how much she was looking forward to meeting her.

That evening at services, Chorister Isola offered a phrase in her homily that, once more, stuck with me as I walked back to my quarters, perhaps because of what Culthyn had said about my imaging not seeming to be so much.

“. . . Exalting one’s name is a vanity of vanities, for a name is merely an ephemeral label that will vanish and be forgotten soon after we have turned to ashes and dust. Even those whose names are remembered are forgotten, because all that is remembered is a label. To seek to do great deeds for ethical or practical reasons is a mark of courage or ambition, if not both; to do so to make one’s name famous is a vanity of the Namer.”

I could see that was another example of the narrowest of paths, as Grandmama Diestra had put it. But I had the feeling that all the paths before me were narrow.