His determination to win her over resulted in Talon sitting quietly, biting his tongue to keep from laughing, as Demetrius tutored Rondar in how properly to pay court. Talon knew himself to be no expert in such things, and judged that the girl had a great deal more to say in these matters than the boy, but his experience with Lela and Meggie at least had made him a little more comfortable around girls than Rondar and Demetrius. Around all girls, that is, except Alysandra.
His initial attraction to her had been supplemented by his reaction to Gabrielle’s warning. He now found her both appealing and daunting in the extreme. There was a sense of danger about her, and he wondered if it was of his own imagining, or if there was something truly risky in having any contact with her.
He decided that the best answer was avoidance, and when a situation arose which threw them together he was polite, but distant. He also found as many excuses as possible to keep away from her until he puzzled out how he felt about all this.
Nakor and Magnus provided new things for him to do all the time, and one afternoon he found himself undertaking the strangest task so far. Nakor had taken him to the top of a hillock, upon which sat a stunted birch tree, nearly dead from some pest, with gnarled branches and few leaves. Nakor had handed Talon a large piece of parchment stretched over a wooden frame, then a fire hardened stick, with a charcoal point. ‘Draw that tree,’ he said, walking away without waiting to hear Talon’s questions or remarks.
Talon looked at the tree for a long time. Then he walked around it twice, and then stared for nearly half an hour at the blank parchment.
Then he noticed a curve below one branch, where a shadow formed a shape like a fish. He tried to draw that.
Three hours later he looked at his drawing and then up at the tree. Frustration rose up in him and he threw the parchment down. He lay back and looked up at the clouds racing overhead, letting his mind wander. Large white clouds formed shapes and in those shapes he saw faces, animals, a castle wall.
His mind drifted away, and before long he realized he had dozed off. He was not sure how long he had slept for – only a few minutes, he judged – but suddenly he understood something. He sat up and looked at his parchment; then the tree, and frantically began another drawing, to the left of the original sketch. This time he stopped looking for details and just tried to capture the sense of the tree, the lines and shadows which his hunter’s eye had revealed. The details weren’t important he realized: rather, it was the overall sense of the object that mattered.
Just as he was completing the drawing, Nakor returned and peered over his shoulder. ‘Have you finished?’
‘Yes,’ said Talon.
Nakor looked at the two trees. ‘You did this one first?’ He pointed to the one on the right.
‘Yes.’
‘This one is better,’ he said, indicating the drawing on the left.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I just stopped trying to do everything.’
‘That’s not bad,’ said Nakor, handing back the drawing. ‘You have a good eye. Now you must learn how to record what is important and not what is unnecessary. Tomorrow you will start to learn to paint.’
‘Paint?’
‘Yes,’ said Nakor. Turning back towards the estate, he said, ‘Come along.’
Talon fell in alongside his instructor and wondered what Nakor meant by ‘learning to paint’.
Maceus scowled as he watched Talon. The man had appeared as if by magic outside Nakor’s quarters the day after Talon had sketched the tree. He was a Quegan with an upturned nose, a fussy little moustache and a penchant for clucking his tongue while he reviewed Talon’s work. He had been teaching the young man about painting for a month now, working from dawn to dusk.
Talon was a quick study. Maceus proclaimed him without gifts and lacking grace, but grudgingly admitted he had some basic skill and a good eye.
Nakor would come in and observe from time to time as Talon struggled to master the concepts of light, shape, texture and colour. Talon also learned to mix his colours and oils to create what he needed and to prepare wooden boards or stretched canvas to take the paint.
Talon used every skill he had learned in every other discipline he had been taught, for as much as anything he had ever tried to master, painting caused him seemingly unending frustration. Nothing ever looked the way he had imagined it would when he started. Maceus had started him off painting simple things – four pieces of fruit upon a table, a single leather gauntlet, a sword and shield; but even these objects seemed determined to escape his efforts.
Talon studied and applied himself, failing more often than not, but slowly he began to understand how to approach the task of rendering.
One morning he arose and after finishing his duties in the kitchen – painting made him long for the relatively simple joy of cooking – he found himself looking at his latest attempt, a painting of a porcelain pitcher and bowl. Off-white in colour and with a decorative scroll of blue knotwork along the rim of the bowl and around the middle of the pitcher, the items required a subtle approach.
Maceus appeared as if sensing he had finished, and Talon stood aside. Maceus looked down his nose at the painting and said nothing for a moment. Then he pronounced: ‘This is acceptable.’
‘You like it?’ asked Talon.
‘I didn’t say I liked it; I said it was acceptable. You made correct choices, young Talon. You understood the need for representation rather than exact delineation in the painted knotwork. Your pallet was correct in rendering the white.’
Talon was gratified to earn even this guarded praise. ‘What next?’
‘Next, you start painting portraits.’
‘Portraits?’
‘You’ll paint pictures of people.’
‘Oh.’
Maceus said, ‘Go and do something else. Go outside and use your eyes to look at the horizon. You’ve been taxing them with close work for too long.’
Talon nodded and left the room. Everyone else was doing their assigned work, and he didn’t want to ride alone, or walk down to the lake and swim on his own. So he wandered across the meadow north of the estate and at last came across a group of students working in the small apple grove that bordered the deeper woods.
A familiar figure called out to him and he felt his pulse race. ‘Talon!’ Alysandra cried. ‘Come and help!’
She stood at the top of a ladder which was leaning against a tree. The ladder was being held by a boy named Jom. Talon saw that there were twelve students in all; six pairs.
Talon came to stand at the foot of the ladder and called up, ‘What do I do?’
She leaned over and handed down a large bag of apples. ‘Put that with the others and fetch me another bag. That way I don’t have to climb up and down.’
Talon did as she asked and carried the apples to a large pile of full bags. In the distance he saw another student driving a wagon slowly in their direction, so he assumed it was close to finishing time. He took an empty bag back to the ladder, climbed up a little way and handed the bag to Alysandra.
Her hair was tied back and tucked up under a white cap, accentuating the slenderness of her neck and how graceful her shoulders were. Talon saw that her ears stuck out a little and found that endearing.
‘Why don’t you go and help the others?’ She said after a moment. ‘We’re almost done.’
Talon jumped down and grabbed up an armful of bags. He exchanged empty bags for full ones, and by the time the wagon pulled up, the harvest was complete.
The students quickly loaded the wagon and started the trek back to the estate. When they were almost there, Alysandra fell in beside Talon and said, ‘Where have you been keeping yourself? I hardly see you any more.’
‘Painting,’ said Talon. ‘Master Maceus has been teaching me to paint.’
‘Wonderful!’ she exclaimed and her eyes seemed enormous as she looked up at Talon. She slipped her arm through his and he felt the softness of her breast against his elbow. He could smell the faint scent of her mixed in with the overwhelming scent of the apples. ‘What do you paint?’
‘Mainly what the master calls “still life” – things he arranges on a table, or pictures of the land. Tomorrow I start painting portraits.’
‘Wonderful!’ she repeated. ‘Will you paint a portrait of me?’
Talon almost stuttered. ‘Ah … certainly, if Master Maceus allows it.’
