Short Story: Caitir's Final Drawing

This is a short prequel story that follows thirteen-year-old Caitir Tarlach. In Defender of Histories, Aidryn alludes to the fact that Caitir is both a skilled seamstress and talented artist. He indicates that she has given up her talents of drawing and sewing in favor of her mother’s political ambitions. This story explores her final piece of art before she put her sketchbook away for good.

Timeline: Five years before Defender of Histories

Ages for reference: Caitir is 13, Eremon and Lira are 14, Aidryn is 16, Talfryn is 11

Autumn in Iathium wasn’t beautiful—not like it was in the outlying lands. Rain-soaked, trampled leaves littered the cobblestone streets through autumn and winter, making the simple act of walking a hazard.

Caitir’s slipper slid on a wet leaf as the hurried toward Silira Mór’s cottage, Aidryn at her heels. She swore loudly as she caught her balance—and her brother grasped her elbow, steadying her. He guffawed as she tried to collect herself, flustered.

“Careful on the leaves,” he chuckled.

“Don’t tell Mother I said that,” she said breathlessly, heart racing.

Aidryn arched an eyebrow. “When have I ever?”

Cheeks heating, Caitir said, “I don’t know—there’s a first time for everything.”

“We’re here at Lira’s aren’t we?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “Think I’m going to tell that, too?”

“No.”

Caitir adjusted her grip on her leather-bound sketchbook as they approached the door to the cottage. She was in a constant war with her feelings about the girl she’d been friends with for most of her life. Caitir enjoyed Lira’s company, but her mother was so bent on gathering information about some magic she thought Lira was meant to inherit—a magic Lira neither believed in or seemed to possess, herself.

Caitir and her mother harbored a secret dark magic, along with a power from her father’s birth clan—Clan Tarlach. The magic had been Aidryn’s, once, but he’d given it to Caitir to save her life, years ago. Their mother said she’d been gravely ill, and Aidryn had generously given his magic up to heal her. She didn’t know enough about the clans’ powers to understand what the Tarlach magic could do, but she could feel it within her, warm and bright.

She wondered how Lira’s magic might feel, if she ever inherited any. More often than not, Caitir found herself simply craving the other girl’s friendship, but her mother, Aila, often stepped in to remind her of their true purpose for befriending the Mór family. Aidryn often agreed vocally with Aila that Lira’s power was one to be coveted, mirroring the woman’s language and actions until he was out of her sight. But when he and Caitir escaped her scrutiny to spend time with Lira alone, she often wondered whether Aidryn held some genuine affection for her, as Caitir did.

Besides the ladies-in-waiting at the Dome, Lira was the only friend Caitir had been permitted to have. Despite her own mother’s attempts to make her hate Lira, Caitir had to admit she felt more affection than anything for the girl—beyond jealousy or a hunger for power. What was a thirteen-year-old girl supposed to do with magic, anyway?

Caitir knocked on the door to Lira’s cottage excitedly, and after a long moment, it swung open. Lira’s younger brother, Talfryn, stood grinning on the other side, brown curls tousled.

“Hello!” He grinned at them, waving them inside. “Lira!” he shouted, voice cracking. “Caitir and Aidryn are here!”

“I’m back here!” Lira called from the kitchen.

“Right,” Talfryn said, shrugging. “Where she always is, with a book. I’m going to help Mam with the mending now.” He disappeared down the corridor, toward their mother’s chamber.

Caitir suppressed a giggle. Talfryn was eleven, and his voice had begun the early signs of change at the end of summer. Aidryn glanced over at her with a grin as they entered. He shut and locked the door behind them.

They passed through the parlor, where the late Arlen Mór’s suit of armor stood on its rack, polished to a pristine shine. Tapestries depicting Iathium’s armies, dynasties, and might adorned the walls, and its banner of crimson and gold hung from the ceiling as they entered the large kitchen.

Arlen had died two years prior, on a secret mission with Rí Corlan, Iathium’s former supreme ruler. Corlan’s son, Eremon—now fourteen—had taken the throne in his stead.

Warmth bloomed in Caitir’s belly at the thought of Eremon. He was a handsome young man, with silken black hair and angular, gray eyes. Seeing Arlen’s armor always reminded Caitir of Eremon—and here, she could think of him freely, away from her mother’s scrutiny. Aila wanted Caitir to marry the Eremon someday. And, since her mother was high lady in waiting to Eremon’s, the idea didn’t seem too far-fetched.

Lira was hunched over a large book at the work table, squinting at the tiny print. She still wore her crimson archival uniform, its linen apron stained with ink. Her long, brown curls were thrown over one shoulder, and she pressed a finger to the page as she looked up at the siblings and grinned. “Did you know that your family’s estate stands on land that was disputed in the second age? There was a small-scale battle over property lines between two prominent families. People died over who could claim a herd of cows that moved about the property—it’s fascinating.”

Her dark eyes sparkled, but Caitir pursed her lips. “If you say so.”

“What, you don’t think that’s a funny story?” Lira screwed up her brows, then looked to Aidryn. “What about you, Aidryn? Do you think it’s ridiculous?”

“It is ridiculous,” he said, laughter in his voice. “But it’s ridiculous they killed one another over cows they could have divided and bred…for more cows.”

Lira threw one arm into the air, then clapped it on top of her head for emphasis. “I know!”

“Shall I tell Lord Irem that one of his Apprentices snuck a manuscript home in her satchel, or will you tell him yourself?” Aidryn quipped, his voice tinged with amusement.

“Neither, if you please.” Lira raised her chin and leveled a steady gaze at him. “I’d prefer to return it quietly in the morning, while drawing as little attention to myself as possible.”

She scrabbled around for the bookmark she’d left on the table, then slipped it into the book and shut it carefully. Since her father’s death, Lira had a habit of occasionally breaking protocols to bring books home from the archive. Her mother turned a blind eye and no one truly cared, but Aidryn liked to tease her for it nonetheless.

Glancing back up at Caitir, Lira pointed at the sketchbook in her arms. “What did you bring?”

Caitir hugged the book to herself nervously, suddenly hyper aware of the attention now resting on her. When she’d decided to come to Lira’s home to show her this drawing, she hadn’t thought about the possibility of their brothers hanging all over it. And what if Lira’s mother saw it? Would Iva tell Caitir’s mother about it?

“It’s my new sketchbook,” she said, approaching the work table and sitting down beside Lira. “Aidryn bought it for me with his coin from the archive.”

“Oh, fancy,” Lira giggled, smiling up at Aidryn. The corner of his mouth tipped up, and his cheeks turned pink. “What did you draw in it?”

Now, it was Caitir’s turn to blush. “Several thing. Roses from the garden at the Dome. You and Aidryn, of course. Fannin, at Aidryn’s request. And…”

“And what?” Lira asked, nudging Caitir.

“Aidryn, why don’t you see if Talfryn wants to spar—outside?” Caitir’s palms were sweating now.

“So you’ll beg me to bring you all the way here, then bar me from seeing your masterpiece?” Aidryn narrowed his eyes. “If you insist.”

He took a step back, but Caitir felt a guilty pang in her chest. “Fine,” she sighed. “You can stay. You’re always nice to me about my drawings.”

“Of course, I am.” Aidryn walked around behind the girls as Caitir leaned nearer to Lira and opened the book.

Lira gasped, then turned to Caitir, her expression elated. “It looks exactly like him!” She turned back to the drawing—a detailed sketch of Eremon—and peered at it more closely. “The details are perfect.”

“You should come do manuscript artwork at the archive,” Aidryn mused from over her shoulder. “You’re so talented.”

“Lord Irem did say he needs a better artist for the naughty illustrations.” Lira threw her head back and cackled, then leaned nearer to Caitir in mock secrecy. “Aidryn has a problem making everything anatomically correct.”

“Lies!” Aidryn exclaimed, flustered. He was clearly trying not to smile.

“No, thank you,” Caitir laughed, cheeks burning. “But I’m glad you both like this. I was worried it might be all wrong.”

“No; it looks like he posed for you,” Lira said, grinning and breathless. “How did you manage it?”

“I memorized the painting from the Raní’s chamber for reference,” she answered, beaming. “Then I just tried to remember times and places when I’ve been near enough to catch details about him.”

“Well, you should draw his next portrait,” Lira declared. “That would be perfect.”

Caitir closed the book and hugged it to her chest again. “Thank you.”

Pride swelled in her chest, and she looked between her friend and her brother, elated. For a moment, she allowed herself to wonder what it might be like to present the drawing to Eremon himself. If Lira and Aidryn thought it was that good, perhaps there was a way she could get it into his hands. Earn his favor with a real token of admiration. It was more likely to snare his attention than fine gowns or elaborate hairstyles.

Her heart began to race at the notion. The way Caitir felt when she thought of him…it was still so strange and new. She had always been intrigued by him, but over the past year, what had begun as a fascination had blossomed into something far more potent—and unsettling. Now, when she thought of him, she felt strangely weak. The feeling was unnerving, and she wondered whether she was the slightest bit successful in concealing the giddiness that washed over her any time she caught a glimpse of him at the Dome.

Caitir turned her attention back to the moment. Behind them, Aidryn had grown quiet. She knew the wheels were spinning in his mind—and she was eager to talk to him. So she bumped her shoulder against Lira’s and said, “We need to go. Mother doesn’t know we came here.”

“All right,” Lira said as Caitir edged down the bench and stood, smoothing her periwinkle blue skirts.

Lira rose as well, and walked Caitir and Aidryn back to the door. “Good luck,” she said as the siblings stepped outside.

“With what?” Caitir said, hugging her book to her chest.

“The drawings.” Lira smiled warmly. “I can’t wait to see what you create next.”

As Aidryn and Caitir set off down the street, her heart began to race. A plan was beginning to form in her mind, but she wasn’t sure how, exactly, to go about putting it into action. But if it worked, her mother would be so proud of her—and she would succeed in alleviating the pressure both of them felt to get Caitir in front of Eremon.

The siblings didn’t say much on the way home. When they entered the large courtyard, Aidryn peeled off to tend to his horses. Caitir entered the dining hall, where her father, Emyr, was polishing his swords—a sure sign Aila was nowhere to be found. Her heart leapt; now was her chance.

“Father,” she said, stepping nearer to the table.

Emyr’s head snapped up, but instead of looking at Caitir immediately, his gaze went straight to the door where she had entered. He reached for his blades as though to hastily remove them from the dining table, but relaxed when he saw she was alone.

“Caitir.” He visibly relaxed, flashing her a warm smile. His sapphire eyes, so like Aidryn’s, sparkled with pride. “Where is your mother?”

“Still at the Dome, I suppose,” she answered. “Aidryn walked me home today.”

“And before home?” Emyr asked, dark brows rising. “Where did he take you before he brought you back here? By the timepiece, you should have been back half an hour ago.”

“We went to Lira’s,” Caitir answered softly.

“Make sure you keep that to yourself,” he warned, picking up his cloth and going to work on his blade again. “Your mother wants to be with you when you see Lira.”

“If you keep my secret, I’ll keep yours.” Caitir lay her sketchbook on the table and crossed her arms, nodding to her father’s swords. “How does that sound?”

Emyr grinned, showing the dimple in his right cheek that Aidryn had inherited from him. “Agreed.”

“Father…” Caitir ran her fingers over the leather cover of the sketchbook. “Could I show you something?”

“Of course,” he answered, scrutinizing one particular spot in the blade.

With trembling hands, Caitir opened the book to the page with her sketch of Eremon, and pushed the book across the table toward her father. It caught his attention, and his eyes widened when he saw the drawing.

“Caitir…” he breathed, picking the book up and holding it closer. “Did you draw this?”

“Yes…do you like it?” She bounced on her toes, hope swelling in her chest as she stepped closer, glancing between her father’s face and the sketchbook.

“It’s incredible; better than any depiction of Eremon in the Dome.” Emyr closed the book and handed it back to Caitir, then pulled her into an embrace. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you.” She leaned against him, breathing in his familiar scent. He’d seldom embraced her since she entered her teenage years, distancing himself as her mother grew increasingly demanding. Caitir missed the closeness they’d once enjoyed, so she allowed herself to revel in it now.

Her stomach flip-flopped before she took a deep breath and asked, “Do you think the Rí would like it?”

Emyr rubbed her arm and squeezed her. “Without a doubt. I’m not just telling you that because I’m your father; it’s truly remarkable.”

“Then…would you be able to deliver it to him somehow?”

Emyr stilled and grew quiet. “Darling, I don’t know. Protocols around him are tight. Ambassadors rarely interact with him directly; we answer to the council, and to his mother.”

“Oh.” Her heart stuttered, and she looked down at the sword that sat on the table. Caitir didn’t understand enough about her father’s role as Ambassador to Iteloria to know when or how he interacted with the Rí. It was humiliating to be reminded of how little she really knew about the goings-on at the Dome, outside her mother’s attending to Eremon’s mother, Macha.

“If you’ll allow me to hold onto it, I’ll see what I can do,” he said, rubbing her shoulder. “But I can’t promise anything.”

Caitir’s gaze swept back up to her father’s face. “Really? You’ll take it with you, at least?”

“I don’t see why not.” Emyr pressed a kiss to her hair.

She nearly squealed with delight. “Thank you, Father.”

Emyr smiled and opened the book again to admire the sketch. Caitir was too busy studying his reaction to hear her mother enter the dining hall from the courtyard.

“What are you ogling?” Aila asked.

Caitir spun on her heel, nearly toppling over in the process. “Mother!” Tightness gripped her chest, and she suddenly felt as though she couldn’t take a deep enough breath. She huffed tiny breaths through her nose, counting them as though the rhythm might calm her suddenly frayed nerves.

Her mother’s gaze darted from her to the swords on the table, black hair gleaming in the mingling of late afternoon sunlight and the torches that burned in the hall. “Emyr, somehow your blades have made their way onto my dining table, again. Move them now or I will have the blacksmith melt them into candlesticks.”

Emyr closed the book and gave it to Caitir with an apologetic wince, then began hastily sheathing his swords. Aila crossed the room toward her daughter and plucked the sketchbook from her hands. “Let’s see what had your father so awestruck.”

She opened the book and thumbed through its few sketches until she came to the one of Eremon. Pausing, she scrutinized it, her lips parting in surprise. “My,” she said. “What a likeness.”

“Father said it’s very good,” Caitir said, struggling to keep her words measured, her voice even. “That it even looks like him.”

“Well, at a glance, I can tell what you were trying to accomplish.” Aila tilted her head, rotating the book for a long moment before she snapped it shut and handed it back.

Caitir flinched. “You mean it doesn’t look like him?” Even as the words left her lips, her heart was sinking. Emyr wouldn’t look at her, though she tried to make eye contact with him. “But Father said—”

“Your father humors you—as he humors us all,” Aila replied airily. “Now, how were your lessons today?”

She ignored her mother’s attempt to change the subject. “Father said he would take the drawing to the Dome—try to give it to Eremon for me,” Caitir protested, her voice rising. “He wouldn’t have said that if he thought it was no good.”

Aila’s expression was hard. “And why would you want to make that sort of impression on the nobility at court?”

“It’s a good drawing…” Caitir said weakly, her eyes suddenly stinging with tears. “I thought—”

The woman pointed an accusing finger at Caitir. “You thought you could get in front of the boy-king without my help—by presenting yourself as a common artisan with a trade to peddle?” Though her tone grew low and smooth, her words were blade-sharp. “If you go down that path, you will be seen as no better than your brother and Silira Mór, scratching their lives away in the archive. Is that what you want—to be underground for the rest of your life, rotting away among the tomes? No man in his right mind would glance twice at an archivist.”

“There’s a difference between preserving manuscripts and creating beautiful art.” Tears swam in Caitir’s eyes now.

“No; there is not. Tomes are considered high art just like mosaics and paintings; you know this.” Aila moved closer to Caitir and clasped one of her hands, her voice taking on the sweetness of warm honey. She cupped Caitir’s cheeks. “We must elevate you above the working nobility, the artisans. You are art itself, Caitir. We want the Rí to fall in love with you, not offer you a job. Work ethic will not put you on the path to the throne—beauty and grace will do that. You do not need”—she reached for the book, and Caitir relinquished it, defeated—“this.”

Aila handed the sketchbook to Emyr. “Dispose of it.” Her father’s face fell as he gripped the book.

“But Aidryn bought that for me with his own coin,” Caitir protested, a tear slipping down her cheek.

Her mother’s eyes narrowed, and she released her daughter’s hand abruptly. “Then he should not have wasted his meager wages on subpar talent.”

Caitir’s lip trembled as Aila spun and swept from the room in a huff. A sob broke from her lips once Aila was out of earshot, and she gripped herself around the middle, shoulders hitching as she forced herself to suppress it.

Emyr stepped forward tentatively, quietly, and slipped the book back onto the table before her. “I’m sorry, my dear,” he said, backing away slowly. “It truly is a remarkable drawing.”

“But you won’t take it, will you?” She hated the thickness in her voice. The way its quiver broke and scattered her words into a thousand pieces as they left her lips.

“You know I cannot,” he answered softly. “But perhaps you will consider, at least, the contrast your mother described. Artisans are not known to marry into the Rí’s bloodline; this is fact.”

“Since when was drawing relegated to an artisanal trade alone?” Aidryn’s voice sounded from behind her as he entered the dining hall. “I thought young ladies learned all manner of arts and talents to impress their future noble husbands—Rí or no.”

“Stay out of this, son,” Emyr warned. “This goes far beyond talent. Caitir encroached upon your mother’s desire to be the liaison between her and the Rí.”

“Oh, how dare she think up a viable way to get his attention on her own,” Aidryn snapped. “Mother can’t handle losing control, and you aren’t man enough to stand up and defend your daughter.”

“That’s enough,” their father growled, “unless you’d like to take this into the courtyard.”

Caitir shrank, but Aidryn stared Emyr down for a long moment, as if contemplating the idea. The two often sparred at swordplay, especially when they were at odds. It wasn’t unusual for both of them to return with cuts and bruises that needed attention. But tonight, Caitir wasn’t in the mood to dress Aidryn’s wounds.

“No,” she said. “Aidryn—Mother is right. I should be—.”

“She’s not right.” Aidryn cut her off. “I heard the entire thing. Your drawing is not subpar; it’s brilliant. Father said so, too. Mother just meant to wound you.”

“She wants what’s best for me.” The words felt like poison as they left Caitir’s lips.

Aidryn approached her as their father slipped from the room without another word. He picked up the sketchbook and pressed it into her hands. “Keep it. I’m Lord Irem’s heir; one day, perhaps I’ll find a way to give that drawing to Eremon myself.”

She wanted to let his words warm her, but instead she shook her head and pushed the book back toward him. “No, you keep it; it was your money. You can use it to draw those silly sketches for Lira.”

“But it was a gift to you.” Aidryn’s brows knitted.

“I said, keep it,” she said through gritted teeth.

“But your drawings—”

“I’m never drawing again, Aidryn.” Fresh tears streaked her cheeks now. “There’s no point.”

She stepped back, putting distance between them so he couldn’t press her again. Before he could protest, she ran from the room, up the tower stair, and into her chamber, slamming the door behind her. Her breaths came fast and heavy, and she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes in a futile attempt to keep the tears at bay. Finally, she crumpled again, lying down on her bed and pulling the blankets up to her chin.

Caitir cried until her pillow was soaked. Until her eyes were swollen and her nose was so stuffy she couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t fair—and she might have screamed that, right in her mother’s face, if it would have helped her case. But she’d long since learned that it wasn’t worth it to fight, because she would never win. The well of resentment within her grew deeper with each passing year, and she worried that one day, it might swallow her completely.

Night had fallen and she was almost asleep when she heard the door click softly open, and a pair of footsteps pad across the room. From the sound of the gait, it was Aidryn.

Caitir held her breath as he paused beside the bed, then crossed the room to open the wardrobe. She listened to him rummage around for a moment before he finally sighed heavily and shut the door again. Before he left the chamber, he paused by the door.

“I know you’re not asleep,” he said softly. “If you ever change your mind, I’ve hidden it in your wardrobe. It won’t be difficult to find if you look carefully.”

He opened the door to go, then paused. “I wish you wouldn’t take her words to heart. And I hope you didn’t mean what you said. Your drawings truly are exceptional.”

Then, he let himself out.

Caitir heaved a sigh, pulling the blankets tighter. She knew her work was beautiful—Lira, Aidryn, and Emyr had all said so, repeatedly. But Aila had seen something different, and now, there was no moving forward with it. One thing was clear: Caitir couldn’t risk a similar reaction from Macha, let alone Eremon.

Drawing wasn’t worth the heartache—not if it ended like this. Not if she was going to have to fight for it, every step of the way. Better to let it go and use her time for the things she knew would draw the Rí’s attention—dancing, and music, and etiquette. If they earned his admiration, then giving up the things she loved would only be temporary. Once she ensnared him—once she was his wife—she could do what she pleased again.

The thought was oddly comforting, so Caitir held onto it as she drifted off. Perhaps one day, when she was free to do as she liked, she would come here to the wardrobe and find the sketchbook again.

Until then, it was safer hidden away.

_

Want more of Caitir’s story? She has her own POV in Vow of Magic (The Witness Tree Chronicles, Book 3), releasing November 1, 2022!

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