“What about the commission? You haven’t said a word to me!” he argued, beginning to feel uneasy and getting louder. “What am I supposed to paint!?”

The ranger took two saddlebags from the back of the wagon, threw them on the ground, and pulled a dagger from beneath his robe. It was ornate, and clearly well maintained.

Divine’s sake, I didn’t notice that before.

The ranger took the blade and slid it under the lid of one of the wooden boxes in the back of the wagon, prying it off. The painter was relieved to know the dagger’s intended use. With an open hand, the ranger gestured toward the boxes. The painter approached. Inside were glass jars of the silkiest, most vibrant hues of oil paint he’d ever seen. He grabbed one, holding it up to the sun to admire its opacity. His delight quickly turned to confusion, but he stuffed the saddlebags with supplies, anyway. The ranger opened another crate containing a palette and the finest horsehair brushes the painter had ever seen, birch handled and clamped with silver.

If the gods painted, they’d use one of these.

While the painter grabbed as many as he could and stuffed the bags, the ranger tossed the painter’s sparse luggage on the ground. The painter’s heart skipped a beat as he watched the satchel with his original masterpiece hit the dirt. He shot the ranger a look, and any fear he’d had of this mysterious ranger evaporated for a second. His face began to flush and his eye twitched, but a look at the dagger kept his canines at heel. He turned his attention back to the painting supplies and set them aside with more care than the ranger had shown. The ranger, successfully unloaded, adjusted his robe to the side and twirled his brilliant dagger back into its sheath. Remarkable proficiency with at least two weapons had now been displayed.

“What am I to paint?!” the painter asked, his arms open in exasperation.

The ranger tossed the heavy book and it thudded against the painter’s chest. He did well to catch it, and himself, before either fell. He laid it carefully beside the saddlebags while the ranger climbed aboard the now single horse wagon, and began to trot away. Still confused, the painter jogged to catch the wagon and grabbed the shoulder of the ranger. The ranger’s head swung around and his hood pulled back just enough to reveal his face for the first time since they’d met. His skin was a greyish tone and his eyes were pure black. No whites or pupils, just solid dark from lash to lash. The painter stumbled back. Either by chance or by intent, the sun caught the hilt of the ranger’s dagger and the painter took it as a sign to stand down. With hands raised in surrender, he started backward slowly.

The ranger reset his hood and pointed to the top of the stone archway. It was no engineering marvel; it was a run-of-the-mill town arch with a Banner hanging from it. In fact, the arch looked like it might fall down if something bumped into it. Other than its mediocre construction, this one was like nearly every entrance to every town the painter had been to, as small a sample as it was. The ranger turned his head back to the road and flicked the reins.

The painter turned back to the archway and collected his saddlebags and the book. With his back leaning against the wall, he took the tome into his lap while the ranger disappeared around a bend.

The painter cut the binding and peeled back the wrapping. Inside was an impressive tome, easily a thousand pages of precisely cut parchment. It was bound by a leather he had never seen before, and had ornate inlays of gold, silver, and titanium. There were even a few metals he couldn’t identify.

Still unclear about his task, he furrowed his brow and opened the cover.

The Banners of the Realms

He read on.

A visual guide to all twenty-five thousand houses, towns, and families, great and small.

At the bottom of the page,

Illuminated by Lohmen Dreisler

He hadn’t seen his name written in years, as he no longer bothered to sign his masterpieces. He flipped to the next page and found it nearly blank except for evenly spaced numbers. At the top left of the first page was the number 00001. He took a deep breath, looked up at the stone archway, and had a chuckle to himself.

You’re not painting the archway, you dolt. You’re painting the Banner.

He flipped to the last page. 25000.

You’re to paint all of them.

Clarity and recollection overcame the painter. The handsome sum in his floorboards and the promise of two-thirds more wasn’t his biggest commission. It was several years’ salary.

The book sat blank in his lap for some time. He hadn’t painted anything new in over five years and wasn’t sure if he could, let alone travel entire continents by himself. But up until this morning, he hadn’t been able to travel this far, either. Whatever had been troubling him, whatever had tethered him, must have been released. He was finally free.

His thoughts turned to his son.

I’ll be able to search everywhere...

He still hadn’t decided whether his commissioners were benevolent in granting him the means to search for his son, or vultures preying on his situation. He was certain they knew of his loss, but it didn’t matter to the painter-turned-illuminator, for he had renewed hope.

He found a suitable rock in view of the Banner and grabbed the saddlebags filled with paint. He picked out the required colours and poured small drabs onto his palette. Then he dipped a fine brush and began to paint the Banner of Nymph Skull Crown. House 00001, a single-point Banner with a field of bright gold.