She followed Cinnia down three corridors, a flight of stairs and a small mezzanine before reaching a short hallway so dark Louvaen couldn’t see anything beyond the corona of Cinnia’s candle. Cinnia raised the light. “Look.”
The bottom edge of a framed picture hung just above Louvaen’s eye level. She took the candle from Cinnia, raising it for a better view. The flame’s light wavered across a portrait of a young Gavin, no more than nine or ten. The head-and-shoulder portrait depicted the boy in a white shirt and black doublet of embossed velvet. Even at that early age, Louvaen saw hints of the fine bone structure beneath the babyish feature. His hair was almost white, not yet darkened to its current golden color, but the green eyes were as calm and mysterious, looking back at the viewer as if he held all the secrets of the world in his gaze. She saw nothing of Ballard in him.
“He was a handsome boy then as well.”
“Look at this next one.” Cinnia pulled her a few steps further down the hall.
Louvaen raised the candle a second time. Another bust portrait. Even under a powdery film of dust, the woman portrayed was breathtaking. Gavin’s resemblance to her was unquestionable, down to the wide cheekbones, straight nose and perfectly curved mouth. He had inherited his mother’s hair as well but not the eyes. Her eyes were cerulean, and the artist had somehow managed not only to capture their deep color but also a certain brittleness. She wore a sumptuous, outdated gown of silk encrusted with jewels and decorated in the finest lace. The design showed off a graceful neck and smoothly sloped shoulders. Her headdress, like her gown, reflected a style Louvaen had only seen in ancestral portraits, and she wondered why she’d chosen to pose in such antiquated garb. The clothes were beautiful, no doubt: a fitting match for the woman who wore them. She easily matched Cinnia in looks, but where Cinnia possessed a warm beauty, hers lacked any vitality. She reminded Louvaen of a diamond—cold, glittering, equally hard.
“De Lovet’s mother.”
“I’d bet my favorite ribbons on it. Gavin told me her name was Isabeau, and she carried the title of most beautiful woman in six kingdoms.” Cinnia paused. “I wonder if she was lonely having that kind of fame.”
Louvaen’s heart lurched in her chest at the melancholy notes in Cinnia’s question. Beauty was not always a blessing. The candlelight caught and illuminated the corner of another frame and the two moved on. Louvaen almost dropped their meager light when she saw what it revealed. “My gods,” she whispered.
“You recognize him? Who is it? A king? A famous knight?” Cinnia’s voice pitched higher with excitement at her sister’s exclamation.
“De Sauveterre,” she murmured.
Cinnia gasped. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” As dazzled as Cinnia had been by Isabeau’s portrait, so was Louvaen captivated by Ballard’s.
This was Ballard de Sauveterre—of that she had no doubt, but Ballard before the flux, before the strange markings, sunken eyes and pallid skin. Before the suffering had sculpted the deep crevices and brackets into the corners of his eyes and mouth. His features were as unyielding then as they were now, but they were painted in the burnished tones of a man who lived in the sun. Even his hair, more soot than pewter in the painting, gleamed with ruddy highlights. Unlike the portraits of his wife and child, his was a full length work. The artist had portrayed him armored, standing in three-quarter view. He held a sword in one hand and the reins of a lightly barded roan courser in the other.
She’d seen family portraits painted in a similar style in the homes of lesser noblemen. Those men had experienced more action in a counting house or in the beds of their mistresses than on a battlefield, but it was a popular thing to have oneself painted as a warrior knight of old, dressed in armor with a prancing stallion to take one off to the glories of war. This portrait had the horse and the warrior, but the similarities ended there. Instead of a posed stance with green fields or drapes of tapestry spilling over side tables in the background, the artist had painted Ballard as if he were just leaving for battle. The armor was not the full harness of plate. Instead he wore a knee length mail hauberk over a padded gambeson with a black and gray partied surcoat over those. He held a sword in one hand, and Louvaen suspected the blade was no prop but a weapon that had drawn rivers of blood in its wielder’s grip. Ballard gazed at the viewer as if impatient to be done with such nonsense, and those dark eyes burned with a ruthlessness that told a tale not of war’s glory but of its savagery.
Cinnia shivered. “Has he changed much from that portrait?”
“The wild magic has altered him some. Scarred and washed him pale. He’s younger there, and his hair is darker. You’d still recognize him though.”
“And he has claws now.”
Louvaen chuckled. “He has claws, but I’ve done a fine job of trimming them. Maybe now you can look upon him.”
Cinnia crossed her arms. “I meant no insult.”
“I know. So does he.” Louvaen sensed an unspoken question and used the candle to illuminate her sister’s face. “What?”
The girl arched an eyebrow. “I think you’ve grown to like him, Lou.”
Louvaen’s eyes narrowed. Good gods, the last thing she needed was her sister trying to play matchmaker. “He’s been a good host to us.”
“That’s all? He’s simply a good host?” Cinnia eyed her suspiciously. “Nothing else?”
“No. Why?”
Cinnia shrugged. “I just wondered.” Louvaen exhaled a silent breath of relief when she turned her attention back to the portrait. “Not nearly as handsome as Gavin, but there’s a presence there. I wouldn’t want to cross such a man.”
Louvaen followed her gaze. “No wise person would.” She passed the candle back to Cinnia. “We better get to our rooms. It’s late, and I’m frozen to the bone.”
At Cinnia’s door, Louvaen embraced her sister and kissed her forehead. “You know I love you, yes?”
Cinnia hugged her hard in return. “Yes, and I love you too. I just wish you trusted me as much as you love me.”
Louvaen stroked a hand over the girl’s thick braid. “The flaw is mine,” she said. “I’ll bargain with you. Give me your patience, and I’ll give you my faith.”
Cinnia grinned. “Somehow I think my part of the bargain will be easier to uphold than yours, but I’m willing.”
