"I paint a black picture because there is no other to do it."
The paintbrush danced over the canvas, leaving trails of swirling colors in its wake. Errin twisted the worn wooden handle between slim fingers, but he had no control over it. A compulsion yanked his arms about like one of Brother Trollus’ marionettes, moving his brush as if by the Illusionist’s own hand.
Liquid color splashed the walls, his face, the cold stone floor of his cell. Droplets of light that tried to draw his attention from the picture burned into his mind.
He wouldn't let it. He had to get the image out now. If he didn't, it faded for good. Though he hated every one of the pictures, he'd always painted them. Unthinkable.
A final jerky twitch of the brush, and he slumped onto his bed. He'd forgotten to breathe again. But he'd rushed to finish before the light burned him alive. A single shaft of daylight, nothing more, but he hated it. Hurt his eyes, felt like his skin was on fire. He ran a hand across the cool stone walls. Better. Shadow is much better.
He counted the footsteps. One, shuffle, two, shuffle, three. Brother Cerimon. Bringing lunch, I hope. The frenzied pace of his painting left him hungry.
He pulled the scratchy blankets up over his head and closed his eyes against Brother Cerimon's candle. Too bright.
He groaned in time with the squealing hinges and clapped a hand over his ears.
"Easy, Errin." Brother Cerimon's voice. Deep, quiet, calm. "I've brought food. Addara's soup, your favorite."
He lowered the blanket, squinted at the man at the door.
"S-s-soup!"
Cerimon smiled and nodded. "That's right, Errin. Soup." He set the bowl down on the wooden cot and stepped back.
Errin liked Cerimon. Never tried to touch his shoulder or hand. Kept far back, moved and talked quietly. Easier for Errin.
"Another black picture, Errin?" Cerimon stared at the canvas, head tilted.
Black? Errin wanted to scream. What are you talking about? It's right there! "G-girl..."
Why didn't the other brothers see the images? He'd painted dozens, maybe hundreds, but no one understood what he tried to show them. He lacked the words--he only had his brush and paints. Why do they all see black?
He'd stopped trying to show the others in the Temple of Prosperity. He bore the burdens of his pictures alone. To his eyes, the canvas was alive with colors, colors that formed a picture that made him shiver. Stars twinkling in the night. A little girl, maybe eight or nine, lying on the edge of the Midden, chest and stomach sliced open, leaking blood. Branded with a claw-tipped hand. Why can't he see it?
Cerimon turned to him. "You'll be wanting to go out, then?" He leaned Errin's easel aside and placed the painting on the floor.
"Y-y-yes."
Errin hated it. Cerimon looked at him the way he looked at a wounded kitten or a lame horse. All the brothers did. He wasn't broken. Cerimon couldn't understand that, or any of the others. And he hadn't the words to tell them. He knew what he wanted to say, but he could never quite get it out.
He took a deep breath. "Night."
"Tonight?"
Errin's words refused to form. He nodded.
"I'll be ready, lad." He pointed to the rope hanging beside Errin's bed. "You just ring that when it's time."
Errin wrinkled his nose. The bell wanted to break his head into a thousand pieces--thousand is a good number--but he had no other way to communicate.
"Eat it before it gets cold, eh?" With a smile--I'm not broken!--Cerimon left.
Errin stuffed fingers into his ears as the door squealed shut. He stared at the bowl, and his stomach growled as he smelled the spicy scent of herbs Addara used to make her soup.
The shaft of light stood like a pillar between him and his meal. He stretched out his arms and felt the walls of his cell. Squeezing his eyes shut, he shuffled forward. Three steps to the light. Deep breath. Jump through it.
A leap carried him past the torturous light but, for a moment, it set his skin prickling. He reached for the bowl of soup--chicken, dumplings, carrots, potatoes, onions, garlic, rosemary--and drained it in a few slurps. Not too hot or cold. Cerimon knew how he liked it.
His attention wandered to the painting. The little girl in the picture looked scared, alone. Why does she need to die?
The paintings never told him why, they only showed him who and when. He never knew what he would see until he finished it. He hated being jerked around, but worse was the burning that grew in his mind if he didn't paint. Last time, Cerimon hadn't brought his paints, and he'd tossed and turned as the monster battered his mind. Only when he put it on canvas would it leave him alone.
He had to see this one. Had to see them all. Too many of them went forgotten, unnoticed by the world. He wouldn't forget them. His canvas captured them, a final remnant of their lives.
Bowl empty, he stood and reached for the walls; wide enough he touched them with outstretched arms. Helped him balance, made it easier to walk. Taking a deep breath, he jumped through the light. Eyes open this time. Didn't hurt as much.
He sank into his chair, covering his eyes. Cerimon and the others needed light. He didn't. Light hurt his eyes, burned his skin, made his thoughts bounce around in his head like a ball on a string. He needed darkness--cool, comforting. Light played with his mind, but darkness simply was. Staring into the shadows, he saw everything he needed to see.
