Ace of Portraits

Emory often thought about the adventures she could have had, had she been a little less of a Blackthorne. Children played just beyond the window, kicking around a magicked ball. The ball gained a life of its own, whizzing about, chasing the chubby brunette boy that kicked it. She envied them often. Days rolling in the fields and giggling with friends over shared berry tarts were never part of her childhood.

“Emory! Even the saints won't have the patience to deal with you. Are you listening to me, child?” Brennan Blackthorne booms. 

Brennan was biologically her uncle, the youngest of her mother’s generation of Blackthornes, and the closest thing she had to family after her parents and younger sister had disappeared off the face of the earth during a pilgrimage to the Holy Temple up at Mount Silver.

Being a Blackthorne came with certain parameters— protect your hands, at all costs, lest they be damaged. Brennan made sure that it was enforced at all times. Every family in the Kingdom of Havila had some form of gift. Especially Northvolk. Every Blackthorne in history possessed an artistic skill with a dangerous undertone of enchantment. Emory’s mother could sculpt figures that came alive, while her great-aunt could create marble animals. 

The problem with her ability was that it had started to veer so dangerously away from parlour tricks that the Council their family was a part of, had officially marked her as a hazard.

“I am, Bren.”

He clicked his tongue, paced a few steps in frustration and then exhaled deeply before flopping beside her. His authoritarian charade melted slightly to make way for concern before his paint-crusted palm grabbed her shoulder the same way he’d done countless times before, “This is important, Em. They think you’re a liability. You stop showing up, and they’ll think you’ve gone rogue. They’ll hunt you down.”

Emory swallowed the ball in her chest, and leant her head against Brennan's arm, “Don't worry so much, alright?”

Bren shakes his head and then stands, “Go get dressed.”

A little while later, when the sun had set and the night markets had come to life, Emory found herself in an awkward seat between Lilia Punzel and Wilfred Rao in the rotunda of the Council Manor— both of whom recently suffered a nasty breakup with each other. The chamber was mostly empty because the architecture was menacing enough to scare the wits out of any child and elder alike. Depictions of war were etched into the marble and rose from the emerald-toned wainscotting to the top of the dome. The only light in the entire behemoth of a chamber was the grand chandelier that dangled dangerously above them. Any hesitant rays of moonlight that found rare purchase through the stained glass at every window were effectively murdered by the doom and gloom the rotunda held.

Emory hated this place as a child and it certainly had never grown on her in the time since.

Brennan rolled his eyes discreetly at something ancient Xen Trevyn murmured. The old bastard was at the doorstep of death and liked to make bad jokes, chortle about them, and create spectacles with those who didn't agree with his every word. He was Head of the Council and someone Emory thought Brennan could contest with his growing popularity and sway.

“You. Emilia,” Trevyn called out suddenly, locking eyes with her.

“Is there some Emilia you’d like me to find for you, Sir?” Emory tried to taper her goading smile down. Lilia coughed in a weak attempt to mask her laugh. 

Brennan looked as nonchalant as ever, but she caught the warning glowing in his sage green eyes. Emory always felt Brennan had struck the lottery in their genetics.

Trevyn’s brows narrow and taps his cane on the ground, “I have a task for you, girl.”

“Years ago, you painted something, yes?”

“I paint a lot of things, Sir.”

Not people anymore. Not after my family realised just what my abilities were. Emory stuck to landscapes, animals and any art that lacked human realism.

“You painted something for an elderly patron of your grandmother.”

“I don’t see where this is going, Sir,” Brennan cuts in curtly.

“Then listen before you interrupt an elder, boy!” Trevyn snaps.

Emory forced a smile, “So what then would you like me to do, Sir?”

“The man’s name was Matias Rosenfall.”

Her eyebrows rose in shock. The Rosenfalls had some kind of premonition. In the more recent years, they had gone completely missing. Stories floated around the city of the only heir running away and joining the rebellion brewing against King Oberon Havila. The Rosenfalls had a history of working for the military. While they maintained their secrecy, all history books listed Matias Rosenfall as the paranoid brother of the late General Maddox Rosenfall.

“Okay…”

“I need you to restore the painting,” Trevyn all but declares. All her portraits of people were destroyed soon after they realised she could control people through her art.

“With all due respect, you know what happens when I paint people, Sir. No human should take away the will of another.”

“It is precisely why, through order of the King, we need that painting. Matias knows the whereabouts of Striker Havila. The very same Striker Havila who some of the patrollers have recently observed as associating with rebels. He is a traitor to the Crown, Emily.”

The cogs and wheels in her head turned. The only thing she’d ever heard of Striker Havila was when her parents had told her about the day the King announced his birth. Striker was the child of General Maddox’s daughter and the King’s son— an oddity most Havilians gossiped about because the king disowned him before he even turned eighteen. It was no surprise that he would join the rebellion. 

“Emily!”

“Emory.”

“Right, Emory. All of you here are the future of this land, Blackthorne. The blood will be on your hands if you don’t do this. The rebels have attacked several small towns. Do you want to be responsible for the next?”

Emory twisted her hair nervously, and inevitably nodded.

~~~

“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done!”

When Trevyn had asked, she hadn’t had time to think it through. The closer she got to finishing the portrait and the more she thought about it, it was starting to seem dangerous. The reason she stopped painting was because a man had almost drowned the last time she painted him— she’d been young, craving a swim in the nearby lake, lacked control of her abilities and had forced a man who could not swim into the lake unknowingly.

Emory knew Brennan was fighting the urge to strangle her. He paced once again— a tick of his— around the cozy living room turned art studio. 

“Just do it and get over it, Em. The sooner this is over, we can all go back to our normal lives. This might even get them to be less wary of you,” Brennan talked in a hushed tone, eyes drifting over to the sentinels who had started monitoring the premises their home stood on. 

Emory yanked the tarp off, revealing an almost perfect portrait, lacking only one singular sliver of dimension at Matias Rosenfall’s eyes. 

“Just trust me on this, kid. I’ve kept us alive this long, haven’t I?”

Despite her gut instincts, she picked up the expensive Magtov hair paintbrush her aunt had given her all those years ago and dipped it in brown ochre before laying a gentle swipe over Matias Rosenfall. Even the dust particles in the air seemed petrified to move. Emory moved her brush back and a loud boom thundered around them, the epicentre of the otherwise harmless-looking painting. 

A moment of normalcy passed and she let out a breath. 

Brennan glanced at her and then scoffed, “And here we thought something actu—”

The painting distorted in front of her eyes, stretching, contorting, and the paint started to pool at her legs, an endless stream of ivory, terra rosa, cerulean and ochre. Brennan grabbed her arm, yanking her back as a stream of curses flowed from his lips like a song.

“This was a bad idea,” he snaps. “Your abilities have grown. Literally!”

“No shit, Bren! Should we run?”

“Why run, children?” The smooth baritone of the voice came seemingly from the monstrous painting. All the shades of paint swirled and coagulated, rising higher and higher like an invisible sculptor attempting to shape paint before a man formed. Matias Rosenfall in a semi-realistic form stood before them and Emory swore she had finally lost her sanity.

~~~

Emory sat in silence, wondering at her life. Her uncle stood at the centre of the room, donning a sword like it would somehow protect them from a paint creature while said paint creature stayed confined by the canvas’ dimensions.

Matias glanced at the guards beyond the window before looking back at her.

“The sound must be centralised. We have no time to waste, children. Your father confided in me once, about your abilities, and I knew instantly, you were the key,” Matias Rosenfall narrated in all his six-foot-paint glory.

“To what? I don't even know what I'm doing!”

Matias shakes his head, “There's no time. You just need to remember that everything is not as it seems. The rebels invaded those cities, but none did the damage Trevyn claimed they did. You must tell her what you know, Brennan. Tell her.”

Brennan’s face hardened into a glare, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don't tell me! What am I supposed to do with this? Go to King Oberon!”

Matias turns frantically behind him, “I have to go. Just bring this painting to the palace.”

“And get my niece executed for treason? No way!” Brennan booms.

“Listen and listen well, Rosenfall—”

“Then just let the King interrogate me through the painting.

Godspeed, children!”

The paint that had formed Matias Rosenfall bubbled once again, more and more vigorously before exploding with a pop. Paint splattered everywhere, coloring the entire room.

“This is going to be a royal pain in the arse to clean up.”

~~~

Royal hallways often held artifacts from times long past and velvet curtains in all sorts of prints, but this royal hallway was nothing but maroon carpet, paisley wallpaper and gold sconces. Still, the lack of regalia adorning the passage did nothing to assuage her frazzled nerves.

The guards stopped at the cream double doors that separated the hallway from the King’s office before the doors swung open to reveal the King himself. King Oberon took her by surprise. He looked older up close, like Father Christmas with his rounded belly and pure silver hair, but given his imposing size, the King might have been terrifying in his heyday.

Emory dropped into a curtsy, “Your majesty.”

“Rise. We must make haste.”

She nodded and pulled the painting into the room, “If I could say something, your majesty…”

The King ordered a lanky, relatively young-looking guard to shut the door before he started toward his desk. The guard moved around the gaudy sofa that sat central to all the tall bookshelves. A variety of stationery decorated the empty spots in the shelving— paperweights, envelope openers, knick-knacks and framed antique letters.

“Go on.”

“This painting… It comes alive. The subject is… called through the painting. I don’t know how it works.”

The King and old Tevryn, who sat in the corner, instantly looked up at her.

“All the better. We’ll question Matias ourselves.”

She eyed both the men and nodded after a long second, “Right. At your discretion.”

Emory set the painting down on the floor before undoing the threads she had tied in an attempt to seal whatever enchantment it conjured up. Her lungs couldn’t draw in any air and heat was scorching her eyes from the sheer terror of it all. Suddenly, her boring old life didn’t seem so bad anymore.

The King waved her away just as the boom sounded again. Despite expecting it, she jolted.

She was either going to be executed by the King or murdered by rebels and neither sounded particularly more pleasant than the other. 

The paint started to mutate once again, but it was the loud crash of what sounded like porcelain outside the doors that caught her attention. None of the other people in the room seemed to care save for the guard closest to Emory. The double doors swung open, almost crushing her behind it in the process.

A covered man, taller than even Brennan, who stood at over six feet and three inches, shoved not only her uncle, but the crown princess forward. The princess, Aruna Havila, was the most recognisable member of the royal family— people sang ballads of her beauty. Nobody seemed to care that she probably had some of the strange abilities her strange half-brother would have.

The covered man shoved the black linen scarf off his head and Emory inhaled sharply in shock. A large scar slashed across his face, the skin lighter across his eyebrow and temple, but his face was still disturbingly handsome. Electric blue eyes were the only thing she noticed at first glance. Still, resentment built in her as Brennan’s busted lip came into focus. 

Brennan surged forward and tugged Aruna into his arms, “Don't crying, Aruna.”

If passing out was an option, Emory would have taken it from every single curveball she'd been thrown in the days since the Council Dinner. 

She could hardly wrap her head around it. It left a sour taste in her mouth for the sole reason that her uncle didn't even trust her enough to tell her of his latest romance. 

The man strode forward toward the now fully formed paint creature before more covered men and women filed in. All the intruders were dressed in black and wielded weapons. Emory took a subtle step back toward the bookshelves, reaching for the envelope cutter she had spotted before.

“Striker, don't do this. You're my half-brother and he's my grandfather, how can I pick?”

Striker. The Striker Havila. He wasn't so good-looking anymore; just a walking hazard.

“You know what happened that night. You just chose to be a coward.”

“Stop talking to her at all, you bastard,” Brennan snarls.

“You know what— all of you shut up!” Emory screeched, shoving the envelope opener in her back pocket discreetly. 

A blade sliced through the air, missing her by a hair's breadth before a gurgled sound escaped behind her. Emory turned to Tevryn as he grabbed his wound, pouring red, red, red. The knife stuck out of his shoulder unnaturally. She froze and turned back to the masked girl behind Striker.

She raised her hands in surrender. Emory had skill with a paintbrush, not a dagger. Striker's gaze finally dropped to hers, “You know what your precious King did, Blackthorne? Would you like to hear the filth my sister and her lover closed their eyes to?”

The puzzle pieces finally started to make sense in her brain. Matias knew that by making a dramatic appearance before she met the King, Brennan would meet Aruna to discuss what had happened and the rebels would be able to round up all their targets at once. Emory was only ever collateral. Only ever a pawn in a grander chess game-- a talented, enchanted artist of a pawn, but a pawn nonetheless.

“I don't give a crap. No one has the right to kill anyone.”

Striker tilted his head and scoffed, “That's exactly what they did. He's been rounding the weaker up and mass executing them. Anyone who showed support for the Kingdom of Arith for allowing the powerless into their ranks. Your uncle had snuck in to meet Aruna the night they'd brought children. He massacred the children of the protestors to make sure the rebels wouldn't grow in numbers.”

“Your mother—” King Oberon interjected.

“I dare you to say her name,” Striker lifts his sword from its sheath. The crisp sound of metal against metal filled the heavy air.

Everything swirled around her as she stared Brennan down, “Is this true?”

The furrow of his brows were enough for Emory to infer from.

“How could you? They were kids, Brennan! Kids!”

“What do you want then, grandson?” Oberon asks imploringly. Gently, even.

“I want a written statement of your crimes to the Judges.”

“You want the throne, boy?” 

Striker waves his sword around like a toy, “No, but that won't be your concern. Quicken your pace.”

Oberon nods, “As long as I get to live.” 

“Are you even worthy of life?” the guard gritted out as he stared at the King. 

The King stepped toward his desk and picked up an empty stretch of parchment. Striker tapped his foot, “Hurry up. I don't plan to die of old age in this room by the time you finish.”

Oberon lifted an ink pen and started scribbling words down. 

“Can I go?” Emory whispered.

“And miss the fun? Come on, Blackthorne!” Striker taunted.

The desk went flying between them, Oberon dropping to his knees after the outburst. The candles land on the carpet, flames spreading faster than naturally possible, catching the King's sleeve.

Magic candles.

Striker roared, “Run! Everybody leave!”

The long lost Havila prince grabbed her arm, yanking her along. 

“Let me go!”

“They will claim this was foul play and that we did it. You're frankly more useful for communications to the rebellion alive than dead which you will be when the Judges order your execution. Take your pick!” 

She looked back at where Brennan and Aruna had stood, noting they had escaped on their own. Her normal life was over. 

Emory didn't have much else anymore anyway and maybe that's why she nodded and let the rebels pull her away from the fire. 

By the time night had fallen, they were away from Northvolk and everything she had ever known.