Published: June 15th 2025, 10:18:48 pm
Book 1 - A Portrait of Loss
Clairmorne. The crown jewel of Riveaux. The city of a thousand luminaries. Some say it is the center of the world. Others do not feel the need to state the obvious.
The city's luminaries speak unity into being, and write glorious new futures for those bold enough to reach for a new age. It's Artists stand at the forefront of every endeavor. The wonders they paint adorn the streets and dance through the skies. Thousands of lesser craftsmen compete to carve out a workshop for themselves on the Rue Saint-Bernard, or brew smaller joys, either to sustain themselves, or for more commercial purposes. Clairmorne is a place where anything is possible. A city for men and women whose hearts are too large to be restrained by this cruel and mundane world. But it is a city whose terrors cannot help but ever race to match its glories.
Tristan Duclerc has seen the human cost of Clairmorne's Art. Inks blacker than night made with the most bitter of tears. Audiences won with knives, not brushes. Muses and models who gave more than just their likeness to canvas. And ten thousand men and women who cut themselves deeper than they could bear, to shed just one more drop of glory onto the page.
Once, Tristan sought the title of Luminary. Once, he stood at the cusp of achieving it. Then he cast it all aside, traded glory and beauty for a smaller, purer, happiness. A love that made his days worthwhile, and a life that was not slowly killing him. But the life he'd made for himself blackened as surely as any canvas when set to the fire.
Now, once more, he walks the cities of Clairmorne alone. Searching for something the world cannot give him. His palette is almost empty. Only a single color remains, if one can call the accursed hue a color at all. But a vision takes shape behind his tired eyes. The only question that remains, is whether his greatest work will immortalize what he has lost, or destroy the city that took it from him.
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Every detail was different, and yet the city hadn't changed at all.
Rue Saint-Bernard was much the same as it had ever been when I called it home. The avenue was wide enough abreast that a dozen carriages could have passed through side by side. A line of trees divided the street in twain, each leaf a different, riotously bright shade, lovingly Painted by ten thousand eager volunteers who hoped to one day call the most famous street in the world home.
By law, carriages travelled to the north on the right side of the verdant median, and south on its left. By custom, pedestrians completely ignored this convention. It made for miserable traffic, but nobody travelled the Rue Saint-Bernard to get somewhere in a hurry. When the street had first been laid down, more than two hundred years ago, all the plots had been identical. Twenty four feet by forty two feet. All buildings were to required to be built from white limestone, and rise no more or less than three stories. The first floor was to be a gallery, storefront, or other public facing enterprise. The second was to be a workshop. The third, the Artist's residence.
The latter two rules still held, but the former had been relaxed over the years. After all, what was a successful Artist who needed more space to do, but make an offer to his less enterprising neighbor? In my day, the greatest houses had spanned half a block. Five plots. Now, I'd seen one that spanned six.
I supposed that counted as a change, if one was sufficiently pedantic.
I took a sip from my latte. It was excellent. A heady bitterness undercut by notes of vanilla and bourbon. I wondered how many months until the cafe went under. Mere excellence did not survive long on the Rue Saint-Bernard.
I watched the press of humanity slowly pass me by, effluvium flowing in fits and starts through the world's most ornamented pipe. A young boy clutched a piece of folded paper that thought itself a butterfly in his fat hand, more wary of its escape than its destruction. An attendant leaned close to his mother, whispering a price that elicited a wince. The pickpockets, as beloved a fixture of Clairmorne as the Painter's Pigeons, were doing a brisk trade in the late afternoon sun. Most of them were Artless dilletantes, desperate little nuisances plying their trade on a stage too exalted by far.
The criminals were more than little like the Artists of the Rue Saint-Bernard, in that way. I wondered how many of them would outlast this little cafe. Probably not too many, judging by the Truffle Hog with his feet kicked up watching from a boulangerie across the rue. The Painted detectives, with their aquiline eyes and porcine noses, were not a subtle public order measure. But they were certainly an effective one. Many of these pickpockets would no doubt find themselves waking to a knock on the door later tonight, well after they'd thought themselves home free.
I tossed back the rest of my coffee and rose. There was nothing for me here.
I stepped past half a dozen shops, wonders on display in every window. Wooden puppies that gamboled about, chewing at a sign that promised they would one day grow into trusted companions and capable protectors, but never stain your carpets. A winery that advertised a collection of vintages all brewed from the remarkable memories of one Leo Morin, his triumphs and tragedies, distilled for your drinking pleasure. And, of course, one of the dozens of Parisien salons that dotted the rue. This one seemed to specialize in faces. Through a window, I watched an apprentice carefully set stars upon a socialite's brow, a temporary crown for a temporary grace. I'd ever found the practice to be tacky at best, but this was at least more dignified than the so called Artists who dedicated themselves to painting over years and filling out the curves.
I'd always felt that transient works were the province of other Arts, and ill-befit a Painter. A human canvas deserved more respect than one of fabric, not less.
It had not been a popular opinion in my time. I doubted that had changed. It was well known that a canvas grew more potent, the more times it was painted over. But a human being was not a canvas; applied to a person, that process was not so straightforwardly beneficial.
I saw a side street I'd never walked, and followed it on a whim.
An old man sat at the intersection, just off the Rue Saint-Bernard proper, two feet away from the invisible line where the metropolitan police would begin to hassle him about busking.
He was Painting.
His canvas was filled with a field of deepest blue, sky and ocean all at once. A lone ship braved the heroic void, cutting through the glassy waters with a furious spray of foam. Four figures stood at the prow, three men and a woman. One man leaned out further than the ones, reaching for the straw hat that had blown off his head. The woman clutched at the back of his scarlet vest, keeping him from falling overboard, even as a man with a long nose sprinted for the caravel's unattended wheel.
There was a strange sort of romance to the scene, something more intimate and familiar than the typical depictions of heroic explorers. It was a remarkable work for an amateur. If the painter had more years left to him, I'd expect he'd have been snapped up already for an apprenticeship.
Half a dozen young men stood entranced, staring as the old man worked. Their hands twitched occasionally, a sympathetic longing to grasp the helm of their own vessels. I wondered if any of them had appointments there were going to be late for. If they did, it was a valuable lesson. Carriages were not the only ones who shouldn't travel the Rue in a hurry. Pedestrians were just as vulnerable to unexpected delays.
A breeze rolled through, amplified into a proper gust by the geography of the side street, a small opening leading into a rising hill.
One of the audience members gasped, and immediately broke into a sprint.
I smiled. Pictured the sight, his desperate flight fixed to canvas. Once, it would have made for a compelling scene for my own brush. The folly and passion of youth. The fascination of the elderly painter's work. Heroism in novelty, a potential that charged every mundanity with electric possibility. Not pure enough for an Elan, but perhaps it could have made for a decent Contraint. Or merely an image of beauty. A reminder of how all of us had first learned to the Art.
Once, I could have painted the face of the lady love he was standing up in the subtleties of late afternoon light. A sky like a face.
But I didn't have the colors any more. They'd dried up within me, as I'd knelt weeping in the ashes of my life. Only one still answered my call, and it was not what it once was. The smile died on my lips. The vision withered alongside it.
A sudden flash of scarlet filled my vision.
I reached up, and peeled the windblown leaf off my face. It'd been Painted beautifully. A maple that glowed from within like a bloody coal. As brilliant a red as the captain's vest, of the band round his hat, yet while different. Staring at it, I could taste spit like metal, feel the terrifying allure of a new stage. A red like butterfly-love, a joy that was also terror; deeply saturated and completely opaque.
I wondered whose it was. What aspiring Artist had birthed this innate hue. A musician, or romantic?
I pocketed the leaf. It was illegal to pluck them, but merely gauche to pick them up. A thing for tourists, not Artists, to do. One could not extract a hue so deeply affixed, so they were worthless except perhaps as inspiration.
But I was not an Artist, anymore.
I turned, taking in the Rue Saint-Bernard one final time. It was the most beautiful place in the world. I hated that after everything, I still loved it, and everything it stood for.
But I could not help but wonder if it would look better drenched in red, or black.
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I should find lodging.
It would be the prudent thing to do.
The day was dying, casting a third shade of red across Clairmorne's sky. The reputable hotels would be filling their last rooms right about now. I wasn't feeling very responsible. I could stagger into a flophouse later, or sleep on the street.
Nobody would care. Except perhaps the police. And I certainly did not care for their disapproval. Not that I ever had, really.
I passed by a sign for one Madame Benet's Boarding House and kept walking. I followed the side street until it joined into another, then hung a right. Whenever I was faced with a turn, I chose whichever direction seemed most unfamiliar. In the event of a tie, I chose the seedier road. I'd spent twelve years in Clairmorne, but lived fourteen years away from it. The bones of the city might not have shifted an inch, but it was easy enough to find a section of town that wasn't so familiar it ached. A fresh coat of paint over the same old haunts. A place where I hadn't spent endless nights debating the nature of diegetics with Renoir and Jerome, or smoked and danced the night away in Clarisse's arms.
I stopped in the eighth bar I passed. The Graven Stag. It wasn't the nicest, or the seediest. Wasn't the most familiar, or least. But when the realization struck me that at this rate, I was going to waste the whole night turning up my nose at venue after watering hole, the stag was the one in front of me.
And it looked tolerable. Despite the name, it didn't look like it catered to any stripe of Sculptor. Not that it would have been a dealkiller if it did. Sculptors weren't half as territorial about their bars as Writers or Musicians. That said, the Stag looked like more of a working class dive than an Artist's lounge.
But the alley behind it didn't reek of piss, and there was something to be said for that.
A low murmur greeted me, the buzzing hum of lively debate and good banter. The Stag's main room was a cozy little warren, all thick timbers and old brick. A gentle haze of tobacco smoke filled the air. A few eyes tracked me as I entered, judging my careworn wool coat, comparing my face to the area's notables, but I was quickly dismissed. That suited me just fine.
"I'm telling you, this'll be the year."
"Oh, come off it Willem. It's always this year the eleven months before the election, it's always next year the morning after."
"The people are waking up Francois! They're starting to see that the Luminaries are no better than the Immemorials!" Willem shot back.
"Oh? You're telling me you've never had someone Write you a script for a little courage? Enjoyed a Libation or had an old ache Painted over?"
Willem frowned. He was an older man, with a craggy face and thick arms.
"And what of it? Does indulging in their poisons mean I can't name them for what they are? They don't provide those little pleasures out of the kindness of their hearts! The absurd prices they charge for their miracles are the foundation of their unjust rule!"
"Hah! The communist is telling us we shouldn't be able to sell the sweat of our brow? Didn't take long." A third man retorted.
"Your sweat doesn't earn you enough to buy the blood of our sons and the tears of our daughters! You spend your money on food, not ever more perverse works of so called Art! Willem roared, pounding the table with a meaty fist. "Can you not see the difference Gabriel? Some things should not be for sale! But the only way to ensure that is to make sure no man is wealthy enough to purchase them!"
"All I see is that their Arts can be turned to ill ends as surely as any other trade." Gabriel replied, not rising to take the bait. "First it's their brushes. How long until my hammer is a danger the people cannot afford? The Guilds do well enough at hanging the monsters by my reckoning. I don't see the need to topple all Riveaux over a few mad Painters. Let's try to make it a few decades into this century before we kick off another Revolution."
Willem's brows furrowed, but when he opened his mouth, Francois placed a hand on his shoulder.
"It's too early for this much passion, Willem. Let's not give Gustave any excuse to do an honest night's work. I like the Stag."
"Fine." Willem groused, eyeing a man leaning against the far wall. Gustave, apparently. He looked like a strong man, but didn't have the height one would normally expect of a bouncer. But my subtly Painted eyes could see the telltale marks of similar enhancement peaking out from beneath his shirtsleeves. A certain stark emphasis to the lines of his wrist-bones, unnatural highlights that drew the eye to them. A Parisien's transient work, no doubt. Or an aspiring one's attempt at it. Anyone able to afford more permanent enhancement had better opportunities than bouncing a place like this.
I slowly made my way to the bar. Willem might be more correct about the mood of the populace than he knew. We'd had communists fifteen years ago, but they certainly didn't agitate in public. Even students had tended to be cagey about voicing communist sympathies. After the disaster of the Scripted Coup, the ideology had fallen severely out of favor among the more respectable segments of the public.
"Your poison, Monsieur?"
The bartender was of an age with me, just entering the wrong side of forty. I'd like to think I wore my years a little better, but I'd always been too vain to ever really entertain otherwise. He was nursing a glass, engaged in the classic standby of decided unnecessary polishing. Interesting. The house was nigh full, but they didn't seem to be doing much custom.
I exchanged a nod with the man, an unspoken commiseration over the aches of age and the vagaries of economies. Or perhaps it was just a nod to him. You could never really know, how well other people understood you.
I perused the menu. It was much the same as the rest of the city. New names on the same old poisons. Ah, but wasn't that curious. This little hole in the wall had a selection of proper Libations.
"Proletariat's Tears?" I read aloud, amused. There was always some Brewer with odd tastes looking to offload queer Libations, but I wouldn't have expected to see such a thing here. Willem's loyalties aside, this bar didn't seem the type. Too many old tradesmen who'd seen enough failed revolutions for a lifetime. Perhaps they'd just gotten a good price. I'd heard sadness sold better in wine than beer, and I knew for a fact few people really wanted their drinks to have political opinions.
"Indeed. I do not endorse the sentiment, but it sells well."
"Oh?"
"Many young men and women are curious to try the famous Libations of Clairmorne, but find more traditional offerings beyond their means."
Ah. It was another slump then. Twenty years ago, even streetsweepers and waiters in Clairmorne often claimed to have tasted wines renowned the world over. We all thought ourselves aspiring Artists, temporarily embarrassed Luminaries working odd jobs as we slaved away on our masterpieces. Money had poured into the city as its name resounded across the world. A rising star for a new century. The Artists who'd struck it rich in foreign galleries and salons had spent so freely that silver came to gild every palm. Clarisse and I and insisted it couldn't last, but few of our peers had been of such pessimistic nature. I wondered how many of them had been disillusioned by poverty, and how many by success.
"I see. I'll try a glass."
Why not? I had plenty of coin, for all the good it did me. Nothing my heart wanted could be purchased.
"A pint?"
"Half."
"Wise."
The man behind the bar slid a glass across the counter. It was in a pint glass, with the head left on. I stared at the honey colored liquid beneath it's foamy cap, drowning in the massive glass. It was the little things, that got you. Twenty years ago, those little knives for cutting the heads off beers had been in fashion. Écumoir à bière, or something. Everyone had been obsessed with perfect pours and small glasses, watering the floorboards and cobblestones with foam.
Good. It had been a stupid fad. A waste of perfectly good beer, compared to just pouring properly.
I took a sip. It's hard to put into words the taste of a Libation. Especially for someone whose never had one. Feeling doesn't truly translate into taste. Not any more than love can be dissected into lines and curves, or glory crumbled into words. If I had to describe the taste, I would say it was surprisingly citrusy. Light despite it's heartiness. But that wasn't really what you noticed, unless you were looking for it. What the body really tasted like a long day's work, with an aftertaste of getting shortchanged by the man. It wasn't very good. I wasn't really sure what I was expecting.
The bartender noticed the wince I couldn't quite bury, as the exploitative aftertaste hit.
"Yeah. It's certainly an experience."
I chuckled half-heartedly, dropped a pair of coins on the counter, and took a seat at one of the few empty tables. He returned to his spotless glasses, determined to gild a sunrise. I wondered idly if Bartenders could attain a state of Art. Many had doubted that Vinters could, until Jean-Pierre Thienpont had proved them fools. And now the Brewers and Distillers Guilds both claimed Luminaries among their ranks. They might not have reached the status of the trinity, but with the populace's infinite demand for their consumable works, they were certainly minting themselves fortunes at a remarkable pace. Perhaps next century, we might finally see one of them make a bid for preeminence. It'd be a welcome change from the endless stream of Writers and Painters, punctuated by the occasional Musician or Sculptor.
The evening drifted by in fits and starts, marked by the coming and going of different classes of patron. I finished my glass of Proletariat's Tears as the day drinkers began to get replaced by the more respectable evening crowd, just getting off their shift. I finished the damn thing because I ordered it, but the steady build of the aftertaste left me in an even fouler mood than was my usual these dreary days. I replaced it with a proper beer, and stewed in my own misery as I nursed it.
It felt good, to look out at the lively crowd. To imagine the way Willem's heart would break, when he discovered the seemingly inevitable fruits of his faith in the proletariat. To look at the young farrier, Gabriel, and imagine him discovering just how vast the gulf between him, and the Artists he defended really was. To imagine the pain Gustave would endure, when he discovers just how fragile his arms will be when his Parisien's work fades away.
My fingers twitched, but I didn't have an sketchpad with me.
I shouldn't drink too much. I'd end up hitting someone if I did.
My glass ran dry. I rose for a refill. Someone took my seat. I leaned against the wall, scowling to ward off overly friendly smokers.
I didn't know why I was here. I didn't want to talk. I shouldn't keep drinking. It would be downright cruel of me, to provoke a brawl. But then, I didn't know why I was anywhere, really. I didn't see the point of much of anything, without my colors, without her.
I wondered who truly ruled the city these days. The First Light was a Painter, according to the newspapers, but that didn't really tell me anything. The First Light almost always hailed from the Trinity, and powerful Writers tended to love nothing more than being the power behind the throne. Our glorious leader was making the right noises, of course. More equality, more progress, more freedom. The old rallying cry of The Revolution.
The sticking point, of course, is that they never did say more freedom for whom.
Perhaps I should just burn it all down. Give breaking the back of the beautiful monster we'd made an honest try. I had a better chance at it than most, even without my colors. But I knew so very many figures the world would be better off without, and they had no doubt long since forgotten my face. I could do real damage, before they hung me.
Free up a few of those fancy shops on the Rue Saint-Bernard for new tenants. Perhaps they would hold on to their humanity for a few years, before temptation took them.
My glass was empty again. My head buzzed pleasantly, filled with dreams of blood and fire. I drew a finger along the glass's length, slick with condensation. My aimless, tired, ire leaked out from the finger's tip. The sole hue left to me. Color that was not color stained the glass, a thin, oily, film that no amount of polishing would remove. A light that poisoned, my chroma of sorrow. I winced, as I properly registered what I'd done.
I certainly wouldn't drink from that glass anymore, and I wouldn't wish such an experience on anyone else either.
It was as I stood there, pondering how to destroy the ruined glass without drawing attention to myself, that the Painter walked in.