Flight From Blithmore Read Free

Brandol
had been eying out of reach. “If we start over every time you want, I’ll run
out of wood in three days. That’s bad for business. Close your eyes again and
carve, as we practiced before. Go by the feel of the grain. Think about what
you want to see on the wood and make it appear. You have the gift.”
    Brandol hated the exercise, and his master knew that, but
he wouldn’t argue. It wasn’t proper, and even the journeyman knew that.
    “Come on, trust that I know what I’m doing. Get yourself
calm so you can focus.”
    “Give it here,” Brandol grumbled. The trembling in his
hands lessened. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the creation in his
mind. The nobleman said he liked fish, so Brandol wanted to carve a scene of
fish at sea with water splashing over rocks and a small boat. He waited for the
inevitable moment when the picture would crumble or fade to a muted color, but
so far it held strong in his mind’s eye. He began carving with simple strokes,
uncertain at first.
    “I’ve seen you slip into a state of mind where your
abilities overcome your thinking,” Master Henry told him. His voice was subdued
enough that it didn’t distract Brandol, but encouraged him. “That’s where your
most exquisite work has been made.”
    Brandol tried to wrap his mind around the word exquisite,
but doing so distracted him from the moment. Thick yellow paint seemed to fill
his mind, drowning out the scene of fish and rocks and boats. His hand slipped
on the wood, putting a noticeable scratch into it; his eyes flew open. Even now
everything still appeared more yellow. In Brandol’s experience, things would
stay this way probably for the rest of the day. The colors always faded slowly.
    “See now, I done it—I scratched it even worse.” He looked
at his master, waiting for the disappointment to show on his face—the
bitterness to creep into his voice.
    Master Henry smiled, showing his white teeth. “How many
times must I remind you that I’ve seen you do work that I doubt even I could
do?”
    “Most of my work’s worse than your ‘prentices, and they
know it, too. Trust me.”
    “You have more potential of brilliance than any of them,
even Darren, and I will coax that talent out of you. Trust me . My
duty to develop your talent is equally important as the duty I have to give
people the quality of woodwork they expect from a Vestin. I send only the best
work out of here, and that includes you. Buried deep beneath inside cave of
doubt and self-loathing is a lake of potential, Brandol. What’s it going to
take for you to see what you have?”
    Brandol looked down, shrugging weakly.
    “Stop worrying so much. Let the work of carpentry absorb
you. The cares of the world should be fleeting compared to the art of creating
beauty from nature’s raw materials.”
    A knock at the main door interrupted their conversation.
    “Come in,” Master Henry announced.
    The door opened, and in walked Master Henry’s friend,
Ruther. He was very tall with shaggy red hair that sat on his head like a mop.
His large gut wobbled in front of him as he entered the shop, waving at them
with his long, thin hands.
    “Hello, Henry,” he announced cheerfully, “and Little
Henry,” he added when he saw Brandol.
    Brandol hated that nickname. While he and his master had
similar facial features: brown hair, blue eyes, and a slender face, they didn’t
look that much alike. Brandol was about two inches shorter and slightly
stockier. Master Henry, on the other hand, had that rare gift from his father
that allowed his muscles to grow hard and strong while maintaining a nice, lean
look. These differences didn’t matter, Master Henry’s apprentices still teased
that Brandol was Henry’s little brother. Each time he was taunted, the shade of
the world around him changed in his mind. Sometimes it turned yellow, sometimes
blue, sometimes red or green or black, and that was how Brandol saw things, in
shades of colors.
    Only a moment