The only piece of art to adorn the chambers of the crown prince was a prophetic scene hand-painted by the previous Queen — the prince's late mother. It was confined to a silent corner of the room, away from the passing eyes of the maids and servants, forbidden to be in close proximity to it for any except the prince himself.
Whispers of its existence are often heard in hushed rumors within the palace walls. Some say it was the dead queen's final prophecy, the very thing that unraveled her mind, pulled her into the endless depth of lunacy. Some say it depicted the tragic end of her beloved son, the strokes drawn by her own hand to kill the demon hiding within him, a haunting sacrifice to save the crown from its downfall. The old ones say her wailing cries were often heard by passing servants outside her chambers every single night, starting from the evening she had dreamt it to the night she had taken her last breath. Some say it took her life. Some say it will take his too.
No one had ever seen it, but the rumors of it — thus given the sobriquet of The canvas of grief, said to have been moved to the prince's chambers after the queen's passing — lingered like an urban legend, drifting through the palace like a ghost: never solid, never prominent, but ever present.
A decade had passed since its birth, eight years had gone by since its creator breathed her last, but the artwork stood as fresh as that first night when it was brought to life. Untouched by time. Not a speck of impurity or imperfection tainting its varnished colors.
At the far end of the prince's quarters, a tall pair of doors eased open, spilling in small clouds of mist that vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. Callahan emerged from his bathing chambers, a silk robe loosely clasped around his shoulders. Tiny droplets of water cascaded down a single strand of damp hair as he walked across the cool stone floor, his face just as unreadable as ever.
He accepted the chalice of wine offered by a bowed attendant, then dismissed him with a wave of his hand, making his way towards his personal study, and then to the smaller room beyond that. The canvas stood on a wooden easel, hiding behind a curtain of drapes hanging down the tall ceiling.
Callahan stood there for a moment, watching the strokes of color through the rustling fabric. The image was imprinted on his mind. He had spent too many hours staring at it. Yet, he brushed the curtain aside and walked closer.
The curse that ran down the royal lineage was a century old — unknown in its origin. It had started sometime during the Great Archanis War, that much he knew, but with every succession, it had grown, deepening its connection to the Nether with each subsequent bloodline.
His mother had succumbed to it sooner than his grandfather had, and at times, Callahan could feel it growing within, trying to take hold of his mind. It hadn't succeeded yet, but who knew when the tides were to change.
His mother was plagued by visions of the future just as he is by shadows. They used to come to her in dreams, like a prophetic nightmare — never once a harbinger of joy. Long before the curse had started to corrupt her, she used to cherish painting. Away from the political power play, it was the one thing that calmed her down, made her feel at home — safe. The palace was filled with painted portraits and landscapes created by her. However, as it progressed, the vision became worse, more prominent. It was one thing to see what was to happen. It was completely another to feel it, live it, and wait in dread for the day to come, unable to change it.
Heaven knows she had tried to avoid it. Every one of them.
When a vision showed her the eastern wing of the palace burning, every torch was removed, open fire forbidden, guards doubled for increased security, hearths sealed. And yet, it had happened. At the exact hour she had described it, sunlight passing through a crystal vase set on the windowsill collected at a single point on dry wood had done that.
When it showed her a trusted confidante consorting with enemies of the southern kingdom, she had stripped him of his title before it ever happened. He was exiled to a secure location where every eye was to be on him, only for him to return years later with the said enemy to avenge the injustice he suffered.
It was troubling to understand which action was inducing or deterring which reaction, but one thing was for sure, her visions were like a prophecy — fate held in waiting.
Callahan bought the chalice to his lips, tasting the sweet liquor, as he tilted his head to the side, admiring the last of what was left for him by his mother.
The man captured in careful strokes was drawn when Callahan was barely thirteen years of age. He hadn't grown into an adult just yet, his features were still unfinished and boyish when she had painted it. Yet the man in the picture looked exactly as Callahan did now. Every detail was precise, the hardened eyes, the set of his jaw, the scars scattered around his body. Even the ones that he hadn't earned back when it was drawn, the wound yet to be inflicted in the future. It was him, down to the last detail.
The Callahan in the canvas knelt amidst a snow-covered forest, the bare trees surrounding him like wraiths from the Nether — tall, silent, and watching. Overhead, a full moon hung in a cloudless sky, its silver light spilling across the scene, over himself and glinting off the blood that stained the pristine white snow.
Callahan had always wondered whose blood it would be — his, or someone else's. There were no wounds on his body, at least none he could see. But even if it was going to be his own, that had never been the greatest of his concern when it came to this vision.
His one hand was braced against the frozen ground, fingers half-buried in the snow, holding his weakened body for support. From beneath them, tendrils of shadow crept outward like vines — coiling across the earth, unfurling into the cold air. His eyes were blackened completely, not like when his irises went black when he untethered his shadow self, but the whole thing, even the whites devoured by pitch black darkness.
He was staring up at the woman kneeling upright in front of him. His other hand was wound around her neck, his face twisted into a violent rage. She didn't look affected by it — neither the strangulation nor the shadows surrounding her. Her palm rested gently against his chest, and from her touch, a soft, golden glow pulsed. Whether she was healing him or destroying him, he had never been able to guess.
But that dilemma was eased by the danger held tight in her other hand, twisted and hidden behind her.
Callahan put the chalice on the little table next to the canvas, his eyes not moving from the woman in it. There was no doubt who it was. He had recognized her the instant he had laid eyes on her back in that forest.
Callahan had always wondered what she would be like — a spy? An assassin? A soldier sent by his brother to eliminate him? But even if presented with a hundred options, an apothecary with a rogue's instinct to save lives could have never crossed his mind.
He knew how the scene in the painting played out. His mother's visions weren't frozen pictures, they were alive, real, threaded by strings pulled taut by fate's cruel hand. She had told him about it on her deathbed, among many other things. This image, this moment was how his dreaded life comes to an end, with the woman driving the dagger right through his heart. Him, bleeding out under the soft, falling snow.
His mother had seen this vision like a recurring nightmare — every night. She had watched her son die, lived through the moment, a hundred times. Until, at last, she had lost her mind, succumbed to the madness of the curse.
Arthur arrived at his door. Callahan felt his presence before he announced himself.
'Your Highness, a message has arrived from Emmeline.' His voice sounded distant, blocked by two closed doors in between.
'Come on in,' Callahan said, barely moving. No one was allowed to be around his personal study, much less the room the canvas was kept in. But Arthur was the only living person — except Malcolm — to have seen it before. He didn't mind sharing his ordeals with him.
The doors to his study opened and closed. A few seconds passed, signaling Arthur's hesitation, then the door behind Callahan opened, as the general walked in. He took the scroll with the news that Emma had collected, and unfurled it, reading its content.
Callahan ran a hand through his damp hair, making drops of water run down the back of his neck. The state was in chaos and rightly so. A noble favored by the king himself had been murdered in the middle of the street, with no culprit in sight. It was an inevitable chaos. He had expected that much. What he hadn't expected was the rebellion rising in the southern states — Winslow's Dukedom. But even then, it was hardly anything that couldn't be dealt with. However, working on those required time and he had already wasted enough of it thinking about the apothecary.
'It really is her,' he heard Arthur say next to him. His general's eyes were fixed on the woman in the canvas, a huge frown on his face. 'Should I kill her?'
Callahan's lips curled upwards, no humor in his eyes. 'Should we?' He said, testing his friend. Arthur was a principled man, always against hurting women and children, but when held up against loyalty, his principles took a hit.
Which was why, even after being bested at his own game by the apothecary, he couldn't bring himself to not admire her for her unwavering integrity.
'She has proven to be unpredictable. She might create problems for Your Highness in the future,' said Arthur.
Not might, Callahan corrected. She will. Often while watching himself in the painting, Callahan had wondered what would happen if he just killed her. Would it change the prophecy? His mother's visions have never been wrong. The exact date. The exact time. One way or the other. It was bound to happen. But what if the person in them ceased to exist? What if he took her life long before fate brought them to that fixed point in time?
It was a theory he had always wanted to test. But Callahan was anything if not fair. He was well versed in being hunted — not for what he had done, but for what others feared he could do. Many had tried to kill him, just to veil their own cowardice. He wasn't one to hide behind corpses, killing out of fear instead of reason.
He'll let her live. That is, until she gave him a reason to not to.
With that decision made, Callahan looked down at the scroll in his hand.
'Send a word to the king's chambers — I shall be joining him in the royal court tomorrow morning. And inform the spies to hold their positions until further orders. Malcolm had been unusually quiet today, we need to know how he intends to play this before we make a move.'
He let the scroll fall on the table, and picked up the chalice of wine.
'And the apothecary?' Arthur asked.
Callahan pulled the strings of the curtain, hiding the painting behind folds of shadowed fabrics. 'We'll let her live,' he said. Then, for good measure, added: 'For now.'