“Two months and three days, Sire,” Perkins Fallinwell, the king’s body man, replied. Fallinwell had one of the most hilarious names Christopher had ever heard. There had to be a story behind it, but Perkins, being the pinched-nosed, prune-lipped tosser that he was, refused to divulge a word of it.
“Yes, that’s right—two months. How long does it take to do a portrait? That’s what he was here for, correct?”
“Yes, Sire,” Nysa replied. “My father had commissioned him, but Mister Stow hasn’t yet completed it.”
“Slow bugger, but I’ve heard he’s the best. And I want the best for my little E-line. You say you haven’t seen him in days?”
“One day, Sire,” Perkins Fallinwell corrected.
Vincent clapped Fallinwell on the back. “He carries the royal purse. Can you tell?” The king laughed—a sluggish, honking sound like an influenza-stricken goose. When the king gathered himself, he coughed and then spat on the floor, barely missing Fallinwell’s shoe. A long elastic string snapped to his chin, where it stayed, a shimmering beacon to everyone watching, but the king was utterly oblivious. “Is the painting any good?”
“I, ah…” Nysa bit her lip. “I haven’t actually seen it.”
“You haven’t? Not at all?” The king looked at Wells and then the handmaiden. Each in turn shook their head.
“Sherwood is very protective about works in progress.” Nysa tried to make up for her ignorance with a smile.
“But two months?”
Nysa clasped her hands together. “I think he wants it to be a surprise unveiling. I’m inclined to grant him that pleasure.”
“All fine and good, but I want to see if the man is worth waiting for or whether I should hire someone else. After two months, it must be nearly finished. And I don’t think a painter of portraits will mind if the King of Maranon takes a peek. Where is it?”
“In his room. I’ll have it brought down to the study.” She nodded toward Rissa Lyn, who scurried off. “This way. Let me show you.”
When Bishop Parnell started to follow, the king held up a hand. “Your Grace, your presence won’t be necessary. I’m sure you have better things to do. Perhaps you could have some tea with Pastor Payne. I’m sure this won’t take long, and I will join you shortly.”
Lady Dulgath escorted Vincent down the corridor to the little room across from the stairs. Christopher watched them go, then followed. He wasn’t interested in Sherwood’s painting but was suspicious about Vincent wanting to speak to the lady in private.
Christopher waited outside the door while Rissa Lyn scurried past, carrying the large, covered canvas. He knelt down and fussed with the buckle on his shoe, and she curtsied in his direction after reemerging from the study, then scampered down the hall.
“How long has Christopher Fawkes been here?” the king asked in a tone far softer than he’d employed earlier.
“Since the funeral.”
His Majesty spat. Christopher knew the sound. His memory conjured a vivid, disgusting image, and he grimaced.
“I would be remiss if I didn’t warn you that he wishes to become the next Earl of Dulgath. If he has expressed interest toward you, I suspect it has more to do with winning your land rather than your heart.”
“I appreciate your concern, Your Majesty.”
Vincent went on. “As I said, I have no intention of changing what is working so well. Maranon has always been a lush, rich kingdom, but Dulgath is the icing on the cake. On the way in, I saw how every field was planted, every plant vibrant and strong. Your roads are without holes and the houses are in good repair. Your people are well fed, smiling and laughing. It’s good to see, so I have no doubt about renewing Dulgath’s tenure. You should know that I never had any, although many advised otherwise. Now, let’s take a look at that painting.”
“Oh, I assumed you merely wanted to speak in private. We really shouldn’t—”
“Nonsense, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Even if it’s not finished, it’ll give me an idea of the man’s skill. I really am thinking of having him paint my Evangeline.”
“I’ll just stand over here,” Lady Dulgath said.
“Don’t you want to see?”
“No, thank you, Sire. It would be…rude.”
“Suit yourself. Okay, so—ah, here we are…By Mar! That’s…that’s—no, that’s not right at all. I can certainly see why he wouldn’t let you see it, Nysa. This is most disturbing. Insulting is what it is. Utterly—I can’t believe…damn! This must be some kind of joke, and it’s not a funny one. No, I don’t believe he’ll be painting my daughter after all. Absolutely not! And if I were you, I wouldn’t pay the man for this—this…excuse me.”
The king hurried out of the study, his expression a twisted frown. Vincent the Vile strode past Christopher as if he weren’t there. Nysa Dulgath didn’t follow.
“Where’s the Great Hall?” the king asked Wells as the chamberlain came through the main entrance.
“This way, Your Majesty,” the chamberlain said.
“And get me a drink!” Vincent bellowed.
“Of course, Your Majesty. Right away, Sire.”
Christopher lingered in the hall, watching the open door to the study. After several minutes, when Lady Dulgath still hadn’t emerged, he peeked in. Nysa was at the easel, gazing at the painting and crying. In all the time he’d spent in Dulgath, he’d never seen her display any emotion.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She didn’t reply. With one hand over her mouth, she ran out of the study.
Stunned, Christopher watched her go. Nysa had more in common with the many statues in the castle than with its people. But she had been reduced to tears by a painting.
How bad could it possibly be?
Christopher listened to Lady Dulgath’s receding footsteps, then crept forward to the easel and lifted the cloth.
At first, he wasn’t certain what he saw. A face certainly—a pair of eyes looked back at him with stunning, even disturbing, clarity. But it wasn’t Nysa’s face. This person was bald, cheekbones high and sharp. The eyes themselves were mesmerizing, but even they failed to be the most striking feature.
The ears! The ears are pointed!
The face in the portrait wasn’t human—it was elven. But unlike any elf Christopher had ever seen.
Every elf he’d ever encountered was covered in filth and wore the most wretched, downtrodden expression. Driven from respectable society, they were forbidden in many towns. When tolerated, they could only be found in the worst sections. The males were notoriously lazy, while the females were known to neglect their children. The one thing the genders shared was incessant begging. Dirty hands were constantly outstretched while they mumbled something indistinguishable, and yet their intent was obvious.
Sherwood had portrayed one of those vile creatures dressed in Lady Dulgath’s clothes. However, the most disturbing detail wasn’t the subject’s race but the expression on its face. The eyes bored straight into him, wide and clear. She wasn’t begging, and her expression displayed no hint of shame. What was truly troubling was how the elven female in the portrait appeared to consider herself superior. Christopher could see it in her haughty stare, the square of her shoulders, and that hint of a smirk that declared she knew something he didn’t. This elf was laughing at him, looking out from that canvas with painted eyes and judging him as unworthy.
Christopher snatched up the canvas without thinking. He couldn’t concentrate with those eyes upon him—glaring with disdain, belittling him, insulting his existence, questioning his very right to exist. He smashed the canvas against the wall, splintering the frame. He pulled and wrenched at the thing, trying to tear it in half, but the canvas was stronger than it appeared. He hurled it to the floor and reached for his dagger.
I’ll cut those miserable eyes from your—
“Lord Fawkes?”
Christopher turned and saw Lady Dulgath’s handmaiden.
Her name was Rissa Lyn, and she stood in the doorway in her simple white dress with the faded-blue sash. Her eyes were huge, her mouth a large O.