Covenant of Shadows

The slaver

"I am sorry, I didn't mean what I said about your parenting," Clen said as they trudged out of the Dueling Hall.

They were at each other's throats until their frustration was drenched with exhaustion, and they both called it quits.

Clythia's panic had sparked when she realized she had lost count of how many times she had wielded magic. If Casarda's notion was true, nothing would happen to her until all others were affected, but she decided not to tempt fate. Thus, besides chastising herself, she had warned Clen not to use magic for the remainder of the day, despite his grumbles.

"I am glad to see the fire in you," Clythia said. "Though, I am a bit disappointed that the death of your father is what brought it forth."

Before Clen could respond, General Arkansov met them at the top of the second landing. Behind him, a state room's door was ajar, revealing canvases and lavish seats with paintbrushes arrayed neatly.

"No one dead, yet," Arkansov's brow perked up, his tone wary. "Good."

But Clythia's attention had drifted past his broad shoulders to the room. A glimpse of long auburn hair, captured with stunning hue and texture on a canvas, was peering through.

Clythia strolled past the General and into the room. The painting portrayed a very young girl with auburn hair fluttering in the supposed wind, gold eyes filled with sharp sapphire tears, clutching a wooden toy, with children playing in mud behind her.

And those honeyed eyes seemed to echo loneliness and yearned protection and screamed helplessness. Her clothes were neat white but despite her vibrant background the child had succumbed to despair.

It was surprisingly lifelike, so much so that it didn't feel like a painting but rather a girl frozen in time and captured in a frame. Clythia traced the edges and curves of the girl's eyes, nose, and shoulders, igniting a mellowness within her.

"It is beautiful," her tone reflected the cathartic feeling swelling in her. "Who has such talent?"

"It's one of the servants," came the General's voice from behind. Clythia, still mesmerized, didn't drift her eyes off the painting. "She's friends with my daughter and she gifted her a beautiful portrait on her birthday. I was so stricken by her talent that I asked the seneschal's permission for the servant to use this room."

"You did well." She faced the General. "Wait, your daughter is friends with a servant?" The General gave her an I-believe-so shrug. "And now I'm more intrigued to meet this person, but for now, I am exhausted."

Clen was gazing at a painting of a bow and arrow shooting down on Zyvern—a blue ball interrupted by greenery, portraying islands and continents. Zalax was the smallest at the north, and below it was DavinSaw, the largest. To its right, Makefort and Surial were rendered with accurate precision. On the southeast, Nadir was painted, and on the northwest, below DavinSaw, Elfive was depicted. The foreboding Stormia was underneath them, acting as a god supervising from below—the only land hued chalky.

"The servant drew this too?" Clythia approached the painting.

"No one else is as talented as Afia in this castle," said the General. "Or anywhere, if I'm being truthful."

"Afia," the name rolled off her tongue, coated with curiosity. "Only a gifted artist can portray like this, and a knowledgeable one," she trailed off, her chin tilted. "And one could wonder how a servant came to have both."

But her fatigued limbs were screaming for an ounce of rest for her to summon the servant right then.

She turned to Clen. "If you make any ruckus while I'm sleeping, you won't have fingers to do your dirty work anymore."