“And then I never saw her again,” Savin says, weary and wistful. The gentle lapping of the sea wears the sand smooth and sloped, red like the rocky wasteland that sprawls between city states. His easel sits on flat rocks and his wet oil paints glimmer in the white sunlight, smeared into one another as he dabs a thin spatula in the mixed pigments and strokes lines and shapes on his canvas. Beside him is his patron, Aormac Lenoch, a nobleman from the city state of Atwurk on a year-long pilgrimage to the North. He’s a thin man with pale skin and cropped dark hair, much like the Atwurkians that visit Nuaranth’s Upper City. His orange eyes glimmer with a light not unlike a Bright Caster’s Inner Light, but to Savin’s knowledge, Aormac is not a Bright Caster. They only live in Nuaranth.
Aormac rests his chin in his cupped hand, fingers fluttering in contemplation. “And did you love her?” He peers at the artist’s studious face. Savin furrows his brow and bites on his wandering tongue, carving the shape of rolling waves with white and wine colored paint.
“In truth, I barely knew her,” he says. “I found her in a dumpster, offered my home, and admired how she grappled with the city without fear. She always seemed so out of place, though. I hope Mavis is doing well.”
“I’m afraid the city is going to eat her alive.” Aormac tuts and chides. “It’s what Nuaranth does to those with no respect for money and authority.”
Savin nods. The noble watches him paint for a while longer before taking out an ornate silver pocket watch, the cover embossed with a filigree design, and studies the watch face for a moment longer.
“Why don’t we call it for today and have some tea, young man?” Aormac says. Savin nods and tucks his paint spatula into a slot on his pallet, lifting the canvas off his easel by the framing. He’s almost done with it, anyway. He won’t need to observe the sea to put on the finishing touches.
Aormac doesn’t so much as camp as he pays to have a slice of a city carted around with him. The entire campsite sits on pavers, the noble’s crew setting up the square patio in a matter of minutes once Aormac calls for camp. His tent has rigid walls, hexagonal as is the Atwurkian style, with glass windows. So does his kitchen staff, equipped with copper bottomed pots and pans, sheltered beneath a hard-topped pagoda while a charcoal fire smolders. As his personal artist, Savin has a “tent” of his own, hexagonal walls firm against the coastal breeze and heated with a central charcoal brazier. If Aormac’s campsite were his permanent lodgings, he would still be better off than when he shared a studio with fifty other artists.
Aormac sits down on a cushioned stool, crossing one knee over the other, and observing Savin as the artist sits across from him. A camp servant comes over with a glass teapot, a waifish creature that Savin has yet to determine the gender of, if they do indeed have one. The waif doles out the steeped amber contents of their pot, pouring it into their waiting tea cups while raising the pot higher and higher above the gold-rimmed glasses in an adroit display of manual dexterity. They finish and bow away, Aormac raising his cup to his lips while Savin blows on his piping hot drink to cool it.
Aormac lowers his drink. “I’ll have you know, Savin, I’m glad I could save you from Nuaranth. Yours is a terrible talent to waste on that machine for pigs.”
“Machine for pigs,” is but one of the many colorful descriptors Savin’s patron uses in the denigration of Nuaranth-by-the-Sea. It’s a “consuming beast” and “all-encompassing meat grinder.” A “tenebrous pit of want and loathing.” Savin takes it that Aormac doesn’t hold much love for Nuaranth, despite the noble’s annual pilgrimage to the walled city-state.
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“Thank you, sir. I’m most grateful for the opportunity,” Savin says, nodding. They continue drinking in silence until a troop of dark dressed people come walking in from further down the beachhead. Their travel cloaks whip around their wiry frames, phantoms in the wind, long knitted scarves trailing behind them as they leave deep foot paths in the soft red sand. The leader of this tribe approaches the campsite and Savin feels a tightness in his chest, but Aormac sips his tea with a whimsical expression on his lips.
“I was expecting you earlier in the day,” the noble says, shouting over the growing wind. “You know I don’t enjoy waiting, Zoreh oth Elnath.”
“Shadowarchs?” Savin says, but not loud enough to be heard. The man named Zoreh pulls the hood of his cloak from his head, revealing a rugged, dark-skinned face. Lines of stress and worry mark his features, deep creases in his forehead, and frown lines on his cheeks. The darkness in his clothes wisps and boils over, spilling out only to be banished by the white sun.
“Aormac, my friend.” Zoreh steps apart from his clan. “You know it’s difficult to meet with you when you’re so close to Nuaranth.”
Aormac scoffs, but waves his hands to call for more tea. The waif returns with a cushioned seat for the Shadowarch, along with a full cup of the steaming beverage.
“Savin, this fine fellow is my friend Zoreh, Clan Father of the Elnath.” Aormac gestures to the rugged man. “Zoreh, Savin is my new artist. He makes paintings for me.”
Zoreh tips his head in respect. “My wife used to be a painter.”
Savin nods, jaw slacking. He’s never met a Shadowarch man before. Zoreh carries a certain gravity around him, a deep melancholy that radiates off him in waves. A powerful gust whips the man’s cloak about, revealing the pitted and stained combat armor of the Nuaranthian militia.
“I’m assuming you’ve found the arrangements I made for you satisfactory?” Aormac says, taking another sip of his tea. Zoreh frowns, shaking his head, setting his untouched beverage aside. “Oh my, what happened?”
“We had to seize the weapons you bought for us from that merchant in Halison,” Zoreh says. “In hindsight, I should have sent one of our Bright fellows in my stead. Regardless, I don’t think he’ll do business with you in the future.”
“Fuck him, then.” Aormac gives a wry smile. Savin shifts in his seat, dying to ask a question but lacking the mental fortitude to open his mouth. Speaking out of turn took Mavis out of his life, after all. “I can feel your question, Savin. Yes, I’m purchasing weapons on the Shadowarchs’ behalf. How else are they going to liberate their kin from Nuaranth?”
“Is drawing the ire of the High Council really a wise decision, sir?” Savin shifts in his seat. Aormac dismisses him with a gesture.
Aormac has to shout over the wind as it picks up again. “They are bringing the coming storm onto themselves. I’m just helping the process along.”
“My people have suffered for twenty years, painter,” Zoreh says. “An entire army is in exile because the Marshal would not turn over the Shadowarchs under his command.”
First was the disappearance of Marshal Gilead sett Carkosa, beloved by all of Nuaranth as a war hero and orator. The portrait of the late Marshal is what inspired that divine, creative spark in Savin when he first laid eyes upon it. Then the High Councilor appointed Fennick sett Harros to that station, only for the firebrand to lose both title and life in a vanity duel against Davin sett Lucanis, Carkosa’s protégé. And Lucanis refused to turn over the Shadowarchs at House Talivar’s request.
So the story goes, as presented to Savin by his older sister, a scout captain for the military.
“Our friends on the inside are moving pieces as we speak.” Aormac takes another sip of tea. “Both in high and low places. All will come to pass soon enough. Provided Zacaer proves himself reliable.”
Zoreh drinks his tea for the first time, eyes staring past the liquid toward some unseen stage. “I certainly hope so.”
“We shall discuss further aid in the future, but now I believe it’s time for an early dinner.”
Savin looks to the kitchen pagoda, watching as the chefs take a last taste of their stew and carve slices of meat off vertical spits. He doesn’t have much of an appetite, however. His mind preoccupied with the prospect of a beleaguered Nuaranth.