Two squat, dirty men tarnished the dazzling white of the small, household chapel; they sweated and swore, erecting a new three-foot, bronze statue in an alcove, centred behind the altar.

“Oi, Ferrand, yer red pissing beaver, not that way, you’ll scratch the marble.”

“Better than losing me foot, Herve.”

“I don’t want t’ lose my head ‘cause yer fucked up. The boss is watchin’. He’ll know it was us.”

Dolwillen was indeed watching the filthy bronze workers.

I don’t trust anyone else enough to direct the placement of the new statue.

It was a sculpture of Heorþ, the Goddess of Autumn, crowning a mortal man with a wreath of wheat. The mortal man’s likeness to Dolwillen was uncanny, only taller, and with thicker hair.

The statue is most impressive, but it is only a scale model of the one to be placed in Héorefeld’s town square, later this year. A larger, fifteen foot message should be the correct level of subtlety for the general populace.

Dolwillen dipped one hand into his pocket and caressed the heartstone. With the other, he extracted an extravagant watch. He frowned. Guntard was two minutes late.

That is unacceptable. I have the first in a series of paintings to start today and I do not want to be up all night.

He placed the watch back in his pocket and drew his sword, Beceorfan. Dolwillen paced up and down the aisle, swinging Beceorfan. It was difficult to move at a brisk pace and keep the silver circlet on his brow.

How does the King manage this? That mildewed monarch often moves erratically, jiggling in random directions in a most undignified fashion, yet the crown on his head never shifts, swaying with him as if it were glued on.

Clinging to his crown and tapping the tip of his sword against the stone floor, Dolwillen considered the different merits of pitch pine and fish glue.

“Don’t stare at his Grace, Herve. Watch yer clods instead.” The statue clunked and scraped into its final position.

“Makes me nervous, all them swishing sounds,” said Herve. “Don’t like that sword clinkin’ neither, it’s right ominous.”

“It’s right what?” said Ferrand.

Herve puffed himself up but didn’t try defining the term, “What do you suppose he’s mumblin’ about?”

“Why don’t you bloody well ask him? I’m finished here,” said Ferrand.

“I’m not licking no lord’s sweetmeats. You do it.”

“Sweetmeats got nothin’ to do with it. Yer just have to be polite is all. We can’t slip out,” said Ferrand.

“You’ve less backbone than a jellied eel,” said Herve. “What’s wrong with sneakin’? It’s bad fer yer constitution to interrupt a Duke mid-mumble.”

They were saved by the arrival of a moist Drýmann. Perspiration poured from his face as he gasped. His skin was an unpleasant, pale yellow, and the dark patches under his eyes sagged all the way to his cheekbones. He wore a black wool bliaut with fewer folds than normal and black, sheepskin boots with copper clasps.

“I apologise for the delay, your Grace,” said Guntard. “I have finished the canvas you requested.”

The tapping and clinking came to an abrupt halt. The two workers snuck out.

Guntard is five minutes late, yet success should be rewarded. I suppose leniency is a gift of its own.

The colour had already begun to bleach from Dolwillen’s vision and the beginning of a headache was squeezing his brain with about as much compassion as town crier on a Sunday morning.

Guntard presented a small, metal stylus, “I finished the last few details on this yesterday. I tested it on the housekeeper’s cat. It worked as intended.”

“Well done, Guntard.” Dolwillen patted the Drýmann on the shoulder. The man was shaking. He must be tired, “Take a day off, then make another stylus for yourself.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

Dolwillen stalked out. He heard a thump as Guntard collapsed in one of the pews. The corridor leading to the chapel was one of the few in the main residential hall that was part of both the main and servant thoroughfares - the chapel, by tradition, was open to all. There were no services, household priests, or days that people were expected to attend. Worship was a private affair. Dolwillen rarely visited and never prayed.

The only religious guidance believers could hope for came from the six deities, there were no priests. No one, not even the King with his divine right, was not allowed to speak on behalf of the Gods, yet Dolwillen remained undeterred from his plan to prove to the serfs, freemen, nobility, and other lesser creatures, that he possessed the blessings of the divine.

All I need is a little magic, a liberal sprinkling of blackmail, coercion, bribery, and other, less ambiguous forms of authority.

A young woman, fifteen, maybe sixteen, rushed along the corridor with two other women in their twenties. They wore ankle length, brown wool tunics and were pushing a narrow, wooden handcart with a black iron frame and wheels. It held a large tapestry. The women stopped and curtsied as Dolwillen approached, but it barely passed muster as an inelegant bob. Dolwillen halted.

They remind me of rabbits, wide eyed and all aquiver. The older women are no good. One is pregnant and the other has a pockmarked face. The youngest, however, has long red hair, clean, unlined skin and a royal, heart-shaped face - adequate for my needs.

He pointed at the youngest woman, “You, go to my apartment, put on the dress that the maid gives you and wait for me.” Dolwillen didn’t wait for a reply and marched off, swigging from his flask. Consumed with his own thoughts, he never noticed the quiet sobs and sympathetic, yet relief-tinged murmurs echoing along the corridor.

Dolwillen’s awareness reasserted itself on the walkway above the entrance hall. A section of the railings was a slightly different colour. He frowned at the imperfection.

A foul, twisted thing noticed him from the far side. It circled closer. Dolwillen suppressed a shudder.

“Good day, father,” said Cerddin.

Dolwillen tensed as he was forced to breath the same air as the disfigured man.

Cerddin’s face was pink and puffy. Liquid wept from beneath the red silk eye patch every time he made any kind of facial expression.

“Good morning, Cerddin. You look much better. There’s a healthy glow to your re-rounded cheeks.”

A spasm of rage washed across Cerddin’s face. Red streaks mixed with fluid leaked from his eye. “You’re too kind, father. Guntard said I should be healed within another month. When do we set off for the ball?”

“I am leaving at the end of the week. I am afraid you’ll have to stay here and watch the estate. I don’t want to come back and find the servants have robbed us blind.”

“I thought I would be attending.”

“You were mistaken.”

“Then how do you expect me to make connections, choose a wife, and continue our line if I cannot go?”

“Negotiations will be more successful if you remain unseen.”

“Women love scars,” said Cerddin, frowning.

“And they will continue to find them appealing if you stay out of sight,” said Dolwillen. “I cannot have someone representing the future King looking like they lost a fight with a small furry animal.”

“It was a Draca!”

“It doesn’t matter what it was. You lost. Your appearance has less appeal than an Eten. At least the ugly brutes have the decency to be symmetrical with their freakishness. You, on the other hand, have less appeal than mongrel bitch’s chew toy. Now, unless you have something more important to discuss than your nauseating visage, I will see you at supper. Do not be late.”

Cerddin gawked, too dumb to reply. With a great effort, Dolwillen tore his sight from Cerddin’s hidden, dribbling eye socket and ghastly scars. Dolwillen staggered away, clinging to the balustrade all the way to the end, slugging brandy as he lurched forward. After recovering his equilibrium, Dolwillen headed for Guntard’s tower.

Dolwillen had commissioned it especially for the Drýmann, tacking it onto the main hall. He could have given Guntard an ordinary room, or a space in the low vaulted, subterranean galleries below. Any indoor area would have been sufficient for the feeble man’s abode, but only a tower had felt right.

A tower has gravitas, something severely lacking within my decorative, socially compliant estate.

He passed through the heavy door separating the tower from the rest of the hall. The room was tidy, well lit, fragrant, and was the most innocuous chamber that Dolwillen could imagine. Books, scrolls, and brass oil lamps filled every alcove.

Anyone looking for the nefarious paraphernalia of an evil Drýmann would have left feeling uninspired and disappointed at the lack of withered heads, fetishes, and secret rooms. The three rooms above the first were much the same.

A portrait of the housekeeper’s cat, painted onto a small piece of canvas and resting on a faded wooden easel stood out amid the clutter. The colours were good, although they suffered from a slight, blue hue. The representation of the subject was accurate and the scene well composed.

Dolwillen rummaged through the drawers until he found a magnifying glass. Each individual thread on the red, silk cushion and every feral, moulting hair of the claw-happy cat was present. Dolwillen nodded.

A most convincing likeness, it might even console the stupid woman when she notices her disgusting pet is missing. Feeling hopeful, Dolwillen exited the room and headed for his own chambers.

A girl stood in his antechamber like a porcelain mannequin. Had it not been for her darting eyes, he might have dismissed her as a decoration. Her skin had been painted white, then dusted with gold and silver grains. Her lips were the darkest of reds and her eyes were lined with daffodil yellow and shadowed with a pale, silvery blue.

Gorse and nettle flowers were woven into her hair, matching the embroidered patterns outlining the contours of her short, sky-blue bliaut. The clothing was scandalously short, appearing as if a washer woman had pinned her clothing up to her thighs, but without the extra material. Pure white silk hose covered her legs and she wore light yellow, pointed silk slippers.

Dolwillen smiled. I made the right choice and the maid has polished her well.

He settled among a nest of soft animal furs and scented cushions.

The girl still faced the door he’d entered from. Only by looking with great care did he notice the slight curl and uncurling of her hands. Within the voluminous sleeves, peeked pink-tinged skin where her hands had been scrubbed and softened to a more pleasing texture.

“Dance,” said Dolwillen.

The girl swayed a bit, tottered a few steps and stopped.

“Face me. Continue.”

This time she took greater, swifter steps, pirouetting on her toes, swaying her hips, and gliding her delicate hands through the air. Her tempo increased as her dance became wilder. The light reflected off her cheeks, shimmering in the late morning sun. She leapt, stretching out her white painted legs. The dress slid up her thighs, exposing her short white braies. The girl stumbled and halted.

Dolwillen snarled. She is doing it wrong. The inspiration isn’t coming. Perhaps there is a better way to set the mood.

“Lie on the bed.” Dolwillen followed the mute girl into his bedroom, “Pull the left side of the bliaut over your shoulder.” A white, gold-dusted shoulder appeared, “Place your head on the pillow, put your legs together and curve them to one side.”

The girl obeyed but the bliaut slid up again and she tried to pull it back down.

“Leave it,” said Dolwillen.

Much better.

“Don’t move.” He left the room returning with an easel, some canvas, and the engraved steel stylus. He set up in front of the window, careful to give himself and his subject the best light possible.

“Smile.” No, that is awful, far too rigid. “Stop smiling, close your eyes.” A bit better. It will do. “Don’t fidget, just lie there.”

Dolwillen examined the canvas. It was stretched across a wooden frame, three foot by four foot and secured with iron pins. Unlike the normal, hemp based material, there was no give in the fabric when he pressed it and the canvas was smooth, not rough. He tapped the surface with a finger. A bright tone chimed through the chamber. He did it again.

The girl peeked at him.

“Keep your eyes shut,” said Dolwillen.

One side of the canvas was coated with a glass-like substance, except it was thinner and more flawless than any glass he’d seen. Its only imperfection was a slight hint of blue. Stylus in hand, Dolwillen stepped back.

He pressed the symbols Guntard had suggested. They bloomed with a faint, white glow. The stylus warmed in his hand. It was pleasant. He held the glowing implement at arms length and drew his first mark on the canvas. The smooth surface softened beneath the steel tip, gliding through the hard surface with just enough resistance to keep his line steady.

It took Dolwillen several hours to finish the basic marks and outline the contours of the piece. He kept the background clear, only marking out the bed and the girl. Nothing else mattered.

The girl flicked open her eyes and moved her legs half an inch. His concentration was shattered. She swallowed.

“Are you painting me, your Grace?”

Dolwillen sighed, “I will be. It will be many hours before I get to that point.”

“M, ma, may I see it?”

“You will have ample time to observe yourself once it is done. It will be going in the chapel for all to see,” he said.

The girl blushed. “May I take a little walk? It will help me stay still if I can stretch my legs.”

“You have five minutes and not a second more.” The girl rushed from the room. He stretched, cracking his spine and shook the stiffness of his hands. His joints popped. Dolwillen wandered over to the window and stuck his face against the cool glass.

He felt refreshed. His world was bright and no pain scurried about his skull. There was no burning need to scour his nerves with strong spirits, or draw power from the heartstone. His world had shrunk to a small rectangle, a single space where every mark was his own.

The girl returned and lay down. Fabric crackled as she smoothed her bliaut and carefully arranged herself in the exact same position. Dolwillen returned to the canvas. Five minutes later, the girl was asleep.

It was eight fourteen when he stopped. He’d filled in much of the detail and faint colours had appeared on the canvas beneath, even though Dolwillen had yet to apply a single paint.

The girl’s eyes had been open now for some time, but her face and body were still. A small smile graced her lips. Dolwillen covered the canvas with a cloth. Her smile faded.

“The maid will be back in a moment to help you out of the dress. Be here by nine tomorrow morning and ready by ten. I will resume painting then.”

Dolwillen left the bedroom, leaving the stunned girl behind him. The maid rushed passed. He sat back in his furs. He never noticed when the girl, now a more natural cream, curtsied and ran from his chambers. He was too absorbed in his own thoughts, recollecting every mark his stylus had made, chipping away at the outlines of her pure white skin.

He spent the rest of the day in contemplation.

The following morning, Dolwillen entered his bedroom. The girl lay on the bed in the same position, wearing her clothes and makeup.

“It’s very good, your Grace.”

“What?”

“The, the painting, your Grace. I took a, a peek at it earlier while my hair was being brushed.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I’m sorry, your Grace. I wanted to know what I, I look like. I’ve never seen myself in a, a mirror.”

Dolwillen uncovered the painting. He supposed it didn’t matter, she wasn’t important.

“How do you feel today?”

“Fine, your Grace,” she paused. A troubled expression asserted itself on her face. In a bright voice she said, “Perhaps a little tired, your Grace. I didn’t sleep well on account of the strangest dreams.”

An interesting development, “Such as?”

“I can’t recall exactly, your Grace, but I remember flying. I felt ever so light and the sky kept getting closer and closer. I hope I don’t have that dream again.”

“Once this painting is done, dreams will be the least of your problems.”

“Will I be famous, your Grace?”

“Oh, I have no doubt.”

The girl beamed.

“Now, shut up and stay still.”

The girl obeyed. She’d stopped smiling. Dolwillen didn’t care. He tapped the symbols and resumed painting. The girl’s breathing slowed and she drifted off. Dolwillen added more details and textures. The closer the painting represented the physical objects, the deeper and more accurate the colours on the canvas became. Yet with every mark he made, the girl and the bed lost their colour. Dolwillen was ecstatic.

It’s working!

He stopped for a short lunch. The girl continued to sleep while her facial muscles spasmed beneath her painted skin. The gold and silver motes had lost their colour entirely, fading to grey spots on her pristine complexion. Her luxurious red hair, in contrast to the portrait, was a translucent, faded red, like a single drop of blood in a bowl of cream. The vibrant drapes and dark hard wood of the four poster bed looked like they’d had their colours stolen by the sun.

Dolwillen returned to the canvas. He stroked the girl’s painted, sleeping form with his nail. The girl woke with a gasp, “Your Grace, may I take a break. I don’t feel too well.”

“Nonsense. You’ve done nothing but sleep all morning.”

The girl appeared bewildered.

“Stay where you are,” said Dolwillen. He watched the girl observe her surroundings - the faded bed, sheets, and grey dust on her skin. She lifted a hand, brushing her hair from her face. As it passed across the back of her hand, she blinked.

“Your Grace, there is something wrong with my hair.”

“It’s the light. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, it shouldn’t look like this!” Her voice climbed in pitch. It jangled his senses.

How unpleasant.

The girl tried to prop herself up on her elbow but she flopped down, panting. “I, I should go, your Grace. You won’t be able to paint me like this. It’ll, lo, look wrong”.

“I decide what I can and can’t do,” said Dolwillen. “Unless you want to take a break in the lower galleries, you will stay where you are!”

The girl still tried to move, but she couldn’t get up by herself, no matter how much she strained.

She rocked back and forth, sliding herself across the bed, panting.

Dolwillen found her sounds and movement most hypnotic.

Her bliaut slid above her hips and the sheets wrapped around her legs. She crashed to the floor, bringing the bed covers with her.

Dolwillen stomped around the bed to her side. He pulled the covers off. The girl’s eyes were unfocused and she’d stopped moving. He replaced the blankets and cushions, then lifted the girl back onto the bed. She was incredibly light, about the same as Beceorfan.

Dolwillen straightened her clothes and arranged the girl until she matched the image on the easel. He closed her scattered eyes with two fingers and spread her hair over the pillows. The girl didn’t wake. He watched her erratic pulse race in her neck then returned to the canvas.

Dolwillen picked up the stylus and twirled it between his fingers. Holding the heart-stone in one hand and the stylus in the other, he was able to see strands of colour being pulled into the top of the stylus and spreading from its tip into the modified canvas below.

He resumed painting. By late evening, the work was finished.

The portrait is perfect.

Upon the canvas was an image of a sleeping, porcelain white girl with silver and gold dusted skin. She had a small frown on her face and lay alone on a heavy, four poster bed with cream, silk sheets. Small, vibrant flowers were woven into her hair.

The background was a slightly off-white with a faint blue tint, making the outlines of the bed incredibly stark. Dolwillen couldn’t shake the impression the girl in the painting was still breathing, but no matter how close he looked, the portrait was static.

He gazed at the empty space in his bedroom where the bed and girl had been. The floor beneath the bed was dusty. His eyes narrowed.

I’ll try the maid next. I want to improve my skills though. Dollwillen tapped his stylus against the easel. He smiled as an idea began to bloom.

A family portrait.