He watched her return to her original seat, watched her pour full the tankard in front of her, and he knew that he would not spend this night alone. As he stood and made his way out of the chamber, he thought of his quarters in the Citadel, and the narrow bed he would not share with any priestesses; and then he thought of Calat Hustain, lying on a cot in some northern fort. Two men dwelling in solitude, because it was in their nature to choose it: to remain alone in the absence of love.

And the woman these two men shared, why, she understood nothing.

* * *

Over the past three days, Kadaspala had been spared the company of Hunn Raal and Osserc. He’d not even seen them ride out, and Urusander had made no mention of where they had gone, or to what purpose. This was satisfying, as it left him to work on the portrait without suffering the assault of ignorant commentary, unsolicited advice, or inane conversations at the evening meal. Unshackled from the expectations of his cadre, Urusander was a different man, and their arguments over a host of subjects had proved mildly entertaining, almost enlivening, so much so that Kadaspala had begun looking forward to the meals they took at day’s end.

Still, the situation galled him. Work left him impatient, irritated and dissatisfied. At each sitting’s conclusion he fought to keep from slumping in exhaustion, instead applying himself with diligence to the cleaning of his brushes, his mind tracking the lines of the charcoal studies he referred to again and again when gauging the image on the board – he did not have to actually look at the vellum sheets, so fiercely were they burned into his mind’s eye. Urusander’s face haunted him, as did each subject he painted, but this time it felt different.

There was political intent to all works of art, but this one was too brazen, too bold, as far as he was concerned, and so he found his hand and eye fighting that overt crudity, with a shifting of tones, a deepening of certain lines, with a symbolic language only he understood.

Painting is war. Art is war.

His colleagues would recoil in horror at such notions. But then, they were mostly fools. Only Gallan would understand. Only Gallan would nod and perhaps even smile. There were so many ways to wage a battle. Weapons of beauty, weapons of discord. Fields of engagement across a landscape, or in the folds of a hanging curtain. Lines of resistance, knots of ambush, the assault of colour, the retreat of perspective. So many ways to fight, and yet every victory felt like surrender – he had no power over a stranger’s eyes, after all, and if art could lay siege to a stranger’s soul, it was a blind advance against unseen walls.