Gallel's Heir

Chapter 6: The Lesson of the Naya

He shall carry the world and mend the deepest wounds.
He shall illuminate the darkest corners
and brighten sadness to joy.
His touch shall heal the world.
He shall raise the dead to life.
There is no life without death.
—Anath shen Sorrel Albandor of Yambisey

The clock struck late afternoon, and Canúden arrived in one of Gallel's middle galleries. It was a long, gaudy room full of portraits, a purple carpet, and musical instruments: a lute, a theorbo, a vice-guitar, and others with strings or holes. Four large windows, as tall as the high ceiling, brightened the room. An easel with a clamp and thin sheet of polished wood, a few stools, and two tables, cluttered one corner. Cushioned couches and bookshelves lined the  periphery. The calming, citrusy smell of oil paint infused the room.

As much as he disliked the gilded frames, the paintings on the walls opposite the windows were fascinating. Scores of Kel Tutang's forbears seemed to look down on him from floor to ceiling, even when their eyes stared in different directions. He marveled at the styles of dress through the generations. Did women really wear such stiff, high-necked dresses? The royals' expressions and postures hinted at their characters, self assured and content, or prideful and angry. How old were the most ancient portraits? A thousand years maybe? Would one of his paintings end up there, to stare down on another art student a thousand years hence?

Pol del Allen briskly entered the gallery with a packet of papers under his arm. An older gentleman with short, steel-colored hair, he carried himself well. The roughened lines on his face depicted good health. Some women might still find this man's toned arms and body attractive. He wore a loose linen shirt and a del's vest, red but tatty; he wouldn't likely wear his nicer clothes for an art lesson. He smiled and held out his free hand as he approached Canúden. "Good afternoon, den Ubal," he said.

Canúden smiled back and warmly took his master's hand. "Good to meet you, del Allen," he said. "You are the art master?"

"Of course," said del Allen. "You will do as I say, and become great. Or not become great, depending on your talent." Del Allen spread his right arm wide. He spoke, not with arrogance, but with the  authority of someone who knew his art. "Everyone can learn to scrawl lines, but not everyone can paint murals in Gallel, or paint a face someone would want to buy. Fewer can paint something that would make a person's heart move. What do you hope to accomplish here?"

Canúden laughed. "Accomplish? I want to learn to paint."

Del Allen snorted familiarly, setting his papers on the table next to the easel. "I know that. Everyone can learn to paint — not well, perhaps, not with passion, but well enough. What do you want to do with it?"

"I... don't know. Paint murals in Gallel."

"Ah, you want to replace me!" Del Allen gently slapped Canúden's cheek; his fingers were soft, not calloused like Ma's, and stained with purples and greens. "It's all right, boy. My time's almost up. I'm older than I  look, and I'll want someone I trust to replace me. You won't be great for years to come, if ever, and then you'll be great forever. Take a seat at the easel. You're going to draw a naya."

"One single fruit!" Canúden hadn't known what to expect, but it wasn't to spend time with fruit.

Del Allen held up a finger. "If you're going to draw something more complicated, you need to know how light reflects." He pulled a naya from his pocket and placed it on the darkwood table several paces in front of the easel. Sunlight from the windows illuminated the green and purple patches of color, the side closer to the window brighter, and the side closer to the table dimmer. "What do you see? What colors?"

"Uh, green and purple." Color danced before Canúden's eyes, details that touched points in his mind like gentle caresses. He squinted. "Maybe yellows and reds. Pink? Orange?"