The Chronicles Of The Council #1: The Sun's Tears

Chapter 36: Laelia - Art

"Art and love is the same thing: It's the process of seeing yourself in things that are not you." - Chuck Klosterman

Candles lit my way to a small hall with paintings on the walls. They are similar to the Vaubadon family portraits in the passages earlier, but these artists are, without a doubt, superior in skill. I have no idea as to my exact whereabouts, but my gut tells me that it is somewhere outside the castle limits.

One painting, in particular, catches my attention. I halt at the beautifully horrifying canvas with its life-sized subjects. A man with a crimson mane, clearly Ardam Vaubadon himself, in full golden armour has conquered a heap of contorted bodies with limbs poking out at grotesque angles. His polished sword is planted in the carnage - with him leaning on the jewelled hilt. I can't help but marvel at the preciseness of every limb and digit of the slain: the diameter of the severed limbs have been depicted accurately; muscles and bones at the correct position and in beautiful proportion. A dust storm gathers on the horizon and I can almost make out the dust particles in the cloud.

"It is a scene from the Wars of Ardam, depicting the king conquering his enemies. The artist thought he was doing it right, but his work isn't historically accurate," a warm voice, strained and vaguely familiar, echoes through the hall.

My heart misses a beat as I am addressed from the darkness. I breathe out slowly, and my first and only thought is that the passage that brought me here must remain my secret. Admitting its existence to the wrong person could be dangerous and ill-fated.

I remember reading something about this painting. Turning around, I hope to keep my unexpected companion's attention from my dirty cobweb-caked dress that betrays the fact that I didn't enter through the door. "Obviously the artist couldn't get it right if the painting was painted only about three hundred years ago and King Ardam lived more than a millennium and a half ago."

"Obviously." The playful candlelight keeps the majority of his features a mystery, but it lights up some of his golden curls that are more luminous than the current light source. 

"King Ardam never stood on the bodies of those he conquered. He burned them as soon as he had the sworn fealty of those who lived," I blab next, biding my opportunity to discern his features.

"Burning them was also not desirable. He should have given his enemies a chance to say their goodbyes to their loved ones."

"I don't see what is wrong with burning the dead. We do it all the time."

My hands slam my mouth shut. Now he definitely knows I am an intruder. As far as I know, humans always bury their dead.

"I don't object to the burning of corpses, but I detest handling bodies as objects with no value. Laelia Elderlight, your customs of burning the dead and scattering their ashes on the forest floor are all too familiar to me." My new acquaintance steps out of the shadow of a statue on the opposite side of the hall.

Even from this distance, I can tell that he has the most mesmerising eyes - a colour lighter than sapphire and darker than the sky. There are two flames in his eyes: the reflection of the candles and a lively spark of mischievousness burning in them. There has only ever been one like him: Khairrim Cadeyrn.

Meeting one's patron, guardian, lord and all-whatnot in a room with ghastly paintings at the end of a secret passage in a human city, leaves one at a loss for words. Thus I revert back to the topic at hand: "He had to burn the bodies or everyone would have died of diseases. He was doing the most logical thing, and what was best for the majority of people."

As he approaches me, I see a faraway look on his face. He attempts to flatten one of his rebellious curls and then trace his smooth and angular jawline with the same hand in a fluid movement. The hope that he never grows a beard is interrupted by his dashing smile: "You know your history."