Wayne Batson - The Rise of the Wrym Lord

“Oh, Maryland, huh? What’s your next class?”

“Uh, art, I think.”

“Art? With Mr. Kurtz?”

Aidan looked at his schedule. “Yeah, Mr. Kurtz, room 192.”

“Me too,” said Antoinette. “I’ll walk with you.”

Aidan wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. The thought occurred to him that Mr. Bluehair and the rest of the trench-coat clan might not like it.

They easily found the class. Students filed in and checked the seating chart. Antoinette waltzed in and quickly found her seat. Aidan didn’t have a seat on the chart and stood there like he’d just been hit by a bus. He had, in fact-a bus named Antoinette Reed.

Finally, Mr. Kurtz-a tall, slender man with a beak nose and big eyes-came over to Aidan.

“Your schedule, please,” he said, drawing out each syllable ridiculously. “Yup, no doubt about it, you belong here.”

He showed Aidan to a stool. In some ways, Aidan was relieved that it was on the other side of the room from Antoinette. In another way, he was a little disappointed.

Aidan glanced up at her. She immediately looked away. Had she been staring at him the whole time? This is getting strange, he thought.

L ook at the book about master artists in front of you,” Mr. Kurtz directed the class. “Each book is different. Your first assignment is to select one work of art and replicate it to the very best of your ability.”

The textbook in front of Aidan was a collection of pencil and charcoal works by English artists.

“You may use pencil, pastille, pen and ink, or even watercolor paints, if you wish,” the art teacher continued. “Do your very best work because I will be grouping you by your level of skill. When you finish, clothespin your work to the line above your head. You may begin now.”

Aidan looked up. And sure enough there was some sort of clothesline-pulley contraption rigged all the way around the art room. Pictures could be hung from the clothesline and then rotated around the room by a master line near Mr. Kurtz’s desk.

Cool! Aidan thought. I wonder if Dad would let me put one in my r-

“You ought to get started, Mr. Thomas.”

Aidan turned three shades of red and hurriedly flipped open his book. The drawings were amazingly well done. But none of them really captured Aidan’s creative eye. He was about to raise his hand when Mr. Kurtz broke the creative silence.

“A student has asked if something original could be drawn rather than imitating one of the masters. The answer to that question is yes. You may always be original, but be careful not to waste time thinking of what to draw or paint. You have only one hour remaining.”

That was a relief to Aidan. Without any hesitation he grabbed a piece of sketch paper and launched into a rendering of the Seven Fountains of Alleble. Following the frenzied movements of Aidan’s pencil, the fountains came to life. The perspective was from a castle balcony looking out over the dry seventh fountain. The other six fountains followed a gradual curl and nearly disappeared at the horizon. Aidan moistened the ends of his fingers several times and smeared the plumes of water spraying out from the center of each enormous fountain.

Tudor cottages, castle towers, and merchant shops sprang up on both sides of the fountains. Aidan even tried to draw in the cobblestones of Alleble’s main thoroughfare.

It is looking very good, Aidan thought. So real, in fact, that for a few moments, it brought back the vision from the night before. There stood the tall Glimpse warrior Captain Valithor, leaning, staring into the dry fountain. Another vision of that fountain flooded into Aidan’s mind, and there were Glimpse men, women, and children standing waist-deep in ugly black oil. A flaming torch arced into the night sky and plunged inevitably toward the fountain, toward the oil-

“All right, time’s up,” Mr. Kurtz announced. Aidan came racing out of the trance. “Please hang your works of art on the gallery line. And don’t forget your autograph. An artist always signs his or her work!”

Aidan looked down at his work and signed his name at the bottom. He picked up the sketch and was about to clothespin it to the line, when he froze.

Beyond the last fountain in his drawing, beyond Alleble’s outer walls, two dark jagged mountain peaks stabbed up through distant clouds. Aidan knew what they were. They were the mountains of Paragory, The Prince’s Crown. Only, he did not remember drawing them into the scene.

“Mr. Thomas, please hang up your work,” chided Mr. Kurtz.

Aidan did as he was told. Mr. Kurtz gave a yank on the master line, and the art show began. Swaying from the gallery, the artwork of thirty students cruised clockwise around the room. From time to time, Mr. Kurtz commented or criticized some of the works, but he kept the line moving.

“Hmmm, there’s a fine piece of work,” he said. “And that one is very nice. Oh, someone needs to work on color choice. There’s a good still life. Oh, dear, now I wasn’t aware that Van Gogh did stick figures, but I guess we all must begin somewhere.”

But then, Mr. Kurtz actually did stop the rotating gallery. He let the master line fall from his hands, and he stood gazing at a picture. From Aidan’s place in the room, all he could see was a lot of black and red ink.

“Now, this is interesting,” Mr. Kurtz remarked. “The use of red draws the reader into the center. Brilliant, really. Now many of my students try to create something spooky or sinister, but they simply cannot pull it off. One child tried to draw a haunted castle, but it looked for all the world like Snow White and the seven dwarfs might come marching right along.”

Laughter rippled through the art room. “But this,” Mr. Kurtz continued. “This is positively chilling.” The art teacher seemed to shudder involuntarily, and then he pulled on the main line to continue the art show.

The red-and-black work of art drew stares from the rest of the class as it sailed around the room. As it came closer to Aidan, he began to feel very cold. The scene showed dark, twisted leafless trees in the foreground and towering black mountains in the back. In the center of the image was a huge set of doors opening from the bony roots of the largest mountain. Red light spilled out from the doors, revealing a cavern within and bathing everything in bloody light. But what captivated the eye and strangled hope from the heart was the train of unfortunate souls being led into the red cavern. Silhouetted against the surge of red were hundreds of beings, obviously bound by chains at the neck, hands, and feet. They were being drawn relentlessly into the bowels of that horrid mountain by dark figures on horseback who had swords, spears, and whips. There seemed no escape for the prisoners. And though what was waiting for them in the blood-red blaze of the cavern could not be seen, it was clearly an end too horrible for words. “The Gates of Despair…” Aidan muffled a gasp as the scene passed.

The bell rang, and the class began to file out as the art teacher said, “Ms. Reed and Mr. Thomas, please stay after class. I wish to speak to you about your art.”

“I’m glad you both chose to create something original,” Mr. Kurtz said. “What do you call this piece?”

“I… I don’t know,” Antoinette Reed answered. “It came from a nightmare I’ve been having. I think I’ll call it Despair.”

Aidan’s eyes narrowed. Does she know? And if she does, which side is she on?

“You have named it well, Ms. Reed,” said Mr. Kurtz. “Something in my heart aches when I look at it. Very powerful work, yes. And what of yours, Mr. Thomas? Have you given it a name?”

“The Seven Fountains of Alleble,” Aidan replied. He studied Antoinette.