Chapter Eight: The Painter

Behind the barracks, just outside the castle walls, were the training grounds. Usually, in the morning, the children of the paladin school trained here. It was summer, though, and most of the students had traveled home. Only a handful remained, and they were kept busy training the horses with Morgan Torn.

Susana watched her mother, Morgan, stride confidently across the dusty corral, her fiery red hair whipping around her face in the breeze. She wore men's pants, tucked into a pair of riding boots, with a linen shirt cinched by her sword belt. She approached a majestic black stallion, its muscles rippling as it pawed at the ground impatiently. Morgan raised a hand, and the horse calmed immediately, sensing her command.

Morgan patted the stallion's head, then quickly and calmly settled on its back. The horse bucked, but Morgan held on tight and spoke calmly. Then, she began riding the horse in a circle around the corral. The horse was skittish at first, but Morgan's firm commands soon had him settled into a smooth trot.

As they circled around, Morgan’s voice rose. The stallion responded eagerly, his powerful legs propelling him forward with increasing speed.

Susana watched her mother train the horse, admiring the raw power and beauty of the animal. Her mother had trained countless horses over the years, and it was always beautiful to watch both trainer and animal at work. When the horse was done with training, it would go into the paladin’s barracks, where it would serve out a hopefully long and illustrious career.

After putting the horse through its paces, Morgan dismounted from the stallion and patted him affectionately on the neck. "Good work, boy," she murmured, her voice soft but firm.

She handed the horse off to a stableboy, then approached Susana, smiling broadly. “Susana, surely you didn’t come just to watch an old lady train some horses?”

Laughing, Susana hugged her mother, smelling the fresh scent of hay. “I wanted to see you. I just got back, and the King is sending me off again to the East.”

Morgan sighed and opened the fence gate that separated the training yard from the rest of the training grounds. “At least your father is going with you this time. I’m going to miss you both. I have a feeling I’m going to throw myself into horse training while you both are gone.”

“You could come with us?” Susana said hopefully. Her mother was a full paladin knight, although she had given up full duties long ago and focused on horse training.

Morgan waved the thought away. “I’m too old for the field anymore. Besides, I have work here to do with the horses and novices.”

They walked across the training yard to the small cottage that was the only home Susana knew. It was made of fieldstone, with only three small rooms and a private privy. Here, the Knight Commander lived with his wife, and here was where Susana grew up, just steps from the training grounds.

She had spent her young life here, with the other novices, learning sword fighting and magic, and her parents had watched proudly as their daughter became one of the best.

Slipping through the gate, her mother’s chickens lazily pecked at the long grass, barely moving out of the way as they passed.

Opening the wooden doorway, she stepped inside and watched as her mother grabbed the kettle, filled it with water from the nearby pitcher, and put it on the stove. She stuffed a log into the firebox, filled her hand with fire, and instantly the fire was lit. While they waited for the water to heat up, her mother pulled down three cups and placed them on the table, along with a chunk of bread, butter, and cheese.

Before the water was even done, her father came in the door, his huge frame stomping inside. He pulled off his cloak and hung it on the peg by the door.

“Susana!” he said, his voice full of joy. “You’re joining us for lunch today? And where is your lovelorn sidekick?”

She grinned. “If you remember, Father, you gave Patrick gate duty today, on the north entrance.”

Morgan poured their tea and placed it on the table before sliding into an empty seat. “When are you two going to get married and make me a grandmother?”

Susana’s grin faltered, and she glanced at her father, then silently took a piece of bread.

“What did I say?” Morgan asked, glancing at her daughter.

“It’s my fault, I suppose,” Dean said sourly, taking a swig of his tea. “I’m sending them on the mission east. I need you, Susana. You’re one of the few experienced paladins who have been out there, you know the area, and the dangers.”

Susana pursed her lips. “Patrick and I are hoping to get married when we return, if YOU give us both leave at the same time.”

“Of course,” Dean said. “I feel bad sending you out again so soon, when you’ve just returned. But what the king wants...”

“I know, I know. We serve the king. You don’t have to tell me again,” she said, looking down at her tea thoughtfully. “You know, I’m worried about Lise.”

“And Oliver?” Dean said with a sigh. “He seems to have recovered from the events of last week. But those two do seem intertwined. I wish the boy wouldn’t take the oath he took all those years ago so seriously.”

“But he does. He always has. Remember when we were younger, and we would find him hiding in our privy reading his Bible when he was supposed to be practicing horseback riding?” Susana said with a laugh.

“It wasn’t easy for him. He was supposed to be the heir, and then he wasn’t. Thankfully, he had Rordan and Viola to guide him,” Dean said, picking up his bread from the wooden table and taking a big bite.

“Are my paints still in the back room?” Susana asked, looking toward the closed door.

“Of course. It’s your room. It always will be, even if you prefer to sleep in the barracks,” her mother said kindly. “Besides, I can’t stand the thought of throwing even one of your masterpieces away. I change the one over the fireplace often.”

Susana gazed over to the fireplace, with the two chairs set in front of it. Above it was the painting she had done of the castle of Eastmere. The magic she had infused it with caused the picture to look alive. The sun shone down, and she could see, in the picture, tiny wagons moving into the castle gates. She knew if she looked closely, she might see the very small figure of Patrick at his post at the gate.

“I like that one, I can see what the weather is first thing in the morning.” Dean said, with a smile.

“I wanted to paint this afternoon. I don’t have duty until tomorrow morning.” She said, wiggling her fingers in anticipation of getting a hold of her paints.

“It would be lovely to have you painting again, dear.” Her mother said, tipping up her mug and taking the last drink of tea.

“I’m off to the training ground again. The king wished for some sword practice this afternoon.” Dean said, taking the last bite of his bread. He wiped the crumbs off of his shirt, and stood up.

“You would think the King would be more careful. Is it really necessary for him to swing sharp pointy swords around, however blunted? He had plenty of training in his youth,” Morgan said, a tone of reproach in her voice.

“Not to worry, he is training with Lise,” Dean laughed, a deep belly laugh.

“Lise! Really? She’s the best swordsman in the knights. She’ll stick her brother for sure.” Morgan said, shaking her head. “I might have to watch this, though. It should be good.”

Susana helped her mother tidy up, and then bade them goodbye, as they left for the training ground. She opened the door to her room, and saw it was just as she left it. With her single bed in the corner, a few old dresses she hadn't worn in ages in the wardrobe, and most importantly, her easel and paints under the window.

Grabbing her apron from where it hung from the corner of the easel, she looked around at her canvas. Not much left, if she would have been thinking ahead, she would have gone down to the city, and bought more. But this would have to do. The piece she had was only big enough for a small painting. What would she paint? She thought and thought, and then realized she might be able to make something useful.

Humming, she cut the pieces into four small squares. She prepared her paints, mixing the pigments with a bottle of mineral oil she kept at the side. Then, she began to paint, a little at first, and then dabbing color more aggressively across the canvas.

She was in a trance-like state, and she reached the point where she started to enfuse her magic. She let it flow into her hand, and as she painted, the canvas began to glow.

It was a small painting, and it didn’t take her very long to finish. As she finished the final strokes, the small painting she had done of Patrick jerked to life. She sat back, this was not the first time she had painting a real person, but something about this felt different.

Frowning, she put down her paintbrush, trying to pinpoint the difference. And then, feeling like she was on the cusp of a great discovery, she poured her own special brand of magic into her hands and began to move them over the still wet painting. More and more she poured, until she was spent.

Looking at the painting, she gasped. It looked so life-like and real, it was as if she could reach out and touch it.

So she did, touching the figure of Patrick on the shoulder. Instantly, the figure in the picture looked up. “What was that?” She heard, as if listening to someone speak from far away, or in another room.

“Patrick?” She said, “Did you just feel that?”

She saw the figure in her painting turn around, searching behind him, a concerned look on his face. “Susana? I heard you, but where are you?”

Her mouth fell open, “Patrick. You are in my painting. You came to life, not like usual, where it is just a depiction of you, but I've made an actual connection.”

He stood, looking off into the distance. She could tell he was still on duty, as he was in full amour, and behind him, wagons passed at the gate. “I can’t see you though. Only hear you.”

“I’ll experiment more. Can you come to my parent’s cottage when you get off duty?” She said. Excitement was building in her, if this worked, she might have just unlocked a wonderful ability.

“Of course. NOw, see if you cut this connection. The other men are starting to look at me oddly.” He said with a grin.

She sat back quietly, looking at the picture. Then, with a shrug, she waved a hand over the painting, and instantly, the background noise from the gate was gone, and Patrick’s picture lost that real like quality. It still moved, like all her other magical pictures, but no sound accompanies it.

She looked at some of her other canvases stacked on the wall, and wondered if she could push her magi

“I like that one; I can see what the weather is first thing in the morning,” Dean said with a smile.

“I wanted to paint this afternoon. I don’t have duty until tomorrow morning,” she said, wiggling her fingers in anticipation of getting ahold of her paints.

“It would be lovely to have you painting again, dear,” her mother said, tipping up her mug and taking the last drink of tea.

“I’m off to the training ground again. The king wished for some sword practice this afternoon,” Dean said, taking the last bite of his bread. He wiped the crumbs off his shirt and stood up.

“You would think the king would be more careful. Is it really necessary for him to swing sharp pointy swords around, however blunted? He had plenty of training in his youth,” Morgan said, a tone of reproach in her voice.

“Not to worry; he is training with Lise,” Dean laughed, a deep belly laugh.

“Lise! Really? She’s the best swordsman in the knights. She’ll stick her brother for sure,” Morgan said, shaking her head. “I might have to watch this, though. It should be good.”

Susana helped her mother tidy up and then bade them goodbye as they left for the training ground. She opened the door to her room and saw it was just as she had left it, with her single bed in the corner, a few old dresses she hadn't worn in ages in the wardrobe, and, most importantly, her easel and paints under the window.

Grabbing her apron from where it hung from the corner of the easel, she looked around at her canvas. Not much left; if she had been thinking ahead, she would have gone down to the city and bought more. But this would have to do. The piece she had was only big enough for a small painting. What would she paint? She thought and thought, and then realized she might be able to make something useful.

Humming, she cut the pieces into four small squares. She prepared her paints, mixing the pigments with a bottle of mineral oil she kept at the side. Then she began to paint, a little at first, and then dabbing color more aggressively across the canvas.

She was in a trance-like state when she reached the point where she started to infuse her magic. She let it flow into her hand, and as she painted, the canvas began to glow.

It was a small painting, and it didn’t take her very long to finish. As she completed the final strokes, the small painting she had done of Patrick jerked to life. She sat back. This was not the first time she had painted a real person, but something about this felt different.

Frowning, she put down her paintbrush, trying to pinpoint the difference. Then, feeling like she was on the cusp of a great discovery, she poured her own special brand of magic into her hands and began to move them over the still-wet painting. More and more she poured until she was spent.

Looking at the painting, she gasped. It looked so lifelike and real, it was as if she could reach out and touch it.

So she did, touching the figure of Patrick on the shoulder. Instantly, the figure in the picture looked up. “What was that?” she heard, as if listening to someone speak from far away, or in another room.

“Patrick?” she said. “Did you just feel that?”

She saw the figure in her painting turn around, searching behind him, a concerned look on his face. “Susana? I heard you, but where are you?”

Her mouth fell open. “Patrick. You are in my painting. You came to life, not like usual, where it is just a depiction of you, but I've made an actual connection.”

He stood, looking off into the distance. She could tell he was still on duty, as he was in full armor, and behind him, wagons passed at the gate. “I can’t see you, though. Only hear you.”

“I’ll experiment more. Can you come to my parents’ cottage when you get off duty?” she said. Excitement was building in her; if this worked, she might have just unlocked a wonderful ability.

“Of course. Now, see if you can cut this connection. The other men are starting to look at me oddly,” he said with a grin.

She sat back quietly, looking at the picture. Then, with a shrug, she waved a hand over the painting, and instantly, the background noise from the gate was gone, and Patrick’s picture lost that real-life quality. It still moved, like all her other magical pictures, but no sound accompanied it.

She looked at some of her other canvases stacked on the wall and wondered if she could push her magic a little bit farther and make them come to life, to real life, just as she had done with the picture of Patrick. She thought she might be able to. It involved much more magic, but she had that in droves.

Humming to herself, she looked at her three other scraps of paper, knowing exactly who she would paint next.c a little bit farther, and make them come to life, to real life, just as she had done with the picture of patrick. She thought she might be able to. It involved much more magic, but she had that in droves.

Humming to herself, she looked at her three other scraps of paper, knowing exactly who she would paint next.