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On the night when everything shattered, Halward Pavus had been thinking of his son. As usual, this placed him at war with himself, consumed by dark thoughts and frustrated wishes. Suddenly and impetuously, he gave in to the urge to stand in front of the portrait and gaze upon it. And so he turned left down the corridor and then took the stairs to the third floor study.
The door was locked, as always, because the study had been unused for years. It had been Dorian's room once, during his childhood and adolescence. And though it was not as stylish and splendid as his sunlit quarters in the Qarinus estate, it had been a perfectly suitable place for the boy to stay whenever the family came to Minrathous.
The painting itself was quite strange. Oh, it looked simple enough: a portrait of Dorian, startling in its likeness to the young man himself. And yet a spell lay upon it, which Halward could not explain. Though he had studied the painting scrupulously, his prodigious intellect had been unable to make sense of the magic at work. All he knew was that the image had changed from the day it was painted.
That night, as he gazed upon the portrait, Halward made note of the insolent expression, which had only become more belligerent in recent years. The eyes, which had at first held a youthful curiosity, now seemed to shine with cruelty. They were red-rimmed and bloodshot, as though tainted by overindulgence. Halward had become certain that the portrait's expression was nothing less than a revelation. It wore the true likeness of Dorian's soul.
Dorian, the drunkard. The wastrel. The vain. Dorian, who fellated men in brothels and allowed himself to be shamed by lecherous commoners. Dorian, the ungrateful son. He had been given every advantage, but he chose instead to squander his birthright. He had dragged the family name into filth and deviance.
And so, in a rising fit of misplaced rage, Halward reached for his belt and drew out his knife. He was tired of being mocked by a painting — with its baffling magic and his son's mocking sneer. He would put an end to it, now and forever. He raised his knife and stepped forward to stab the canvas as hard as he could.
The next morning, one of Lord Pavus's enslaved servants found him. From the trail of blood, it was clear he had dragged himself away from the study, where the violent deed had been done. He'd made it as far as the conservatory at the end of the hall. There, the prize fig trees and coffees, exported from the deepest jungles of Seheron, thrived in the rich air, which was heavy and humid, smelling of earth. On the floor, with his own knife buried deep in his heart, lay the body of Halward Pavus, cold and dead.
No trace of his assassin was found, and yet it could not have been suicide — the man was too proud. Or so said his wife, Aquinea, whom the authorities had summoned as soon as they learned of her husband's death. She declared it to be awful and tragic, but her eyes held no sorrow. She seemed more inconvenienced than truly bereft.
"I'll send for Dorian," she said. "I'm afraid I cannot stay."
A week later, the profligate son returned.
Dorian Pavus arrived in Minrathous along with Lord Trevelyan, the former leader of the southern Inquisition. Together, the two men had stumbled their way into a romance that was neither flashy nor selfish nor proud. Rather, it had grown from the first spark of their affection into a strong and serious mutual regard — a love both passionate and patient, exciting and mature. It was more beautiful than anything Dorian had ever felt he deserved.
Of course, Dorian had always doubted himself in matters of the heart. After all, his own father had held such a low opinion of him — and had treated him to mountains of abuse and disdain. It had taken Dorian many years to at last get free from the terrible weight of Lord Halward's expectations. For this reason, love did not come to him easily. And the joys he had won were those he had worked for.
After a long day of paperwork — arranging for the body to be sent to Qarinus, bound for the family crypt; and then converting dozens of writs of enslavement into contracts of gainful employment, with decades of back pay included for his father's entire staff — Dorian poured himself a glass of Antivan brandy and sighed.
"You were right to come here with me, amatus," he said.
With a sad and gentle smile, he turned to look at Trevelyan, standing beside him amidst the glossy leaves of the fig trees and coffees in the room where his father had died.
"There, I've said it. And so you must be pleased with me — after all, it's not often I admit I've been wrong. I suppose I'm more like my father than I'd like to imagine."
"No, I don't think that's true," Trevelyan said. "But let's see this portrait, shall we? The one that you think must have killed him."
"Ah, yes, that cursed thing. Follow me," Dorian said, and led the way down the hall to the study.
The portrait was hung on the wall. And gazing upon it, Trevelyan gasped.
"But I thought you said it was horrible — a version of you, but sour and older and cruel."
In truth, he'd never seen such a marvelous portrait. The young man — Dorian at age sixteen — seemed practically alive on the canvas. He wore rich and shimmering fabrics, and his bold, dark features were bathed in the soft golden light of a summer morning. He held his chin slightly forward — as though lifted in elegant defiance — and his eyes seemed to shine with a brilliantly curious delight.
"It seems the spell was broken when my father died."
"I don't understand." Trevelyan blinked in puzzlement as he looked from his handsome lover to the beautiful picture of Dorian's younger self.
"I was always clever," Dorian said. "Though I'm sure my father would have called me devious instead. It was I who cast the spell–"
"You?"
"As a means of protection, yes. An obscure old spell I'd discovered while away at school. It bound the picture to my father's heart. For me, it became a convenient way to gauge his ever-shifting moods. The worse he felt towards me, the worse I looked over there."
With a flick of his finger, Dorian gestured to the canvas, where the painted boy looked so daring, so hopeful, so young.
"Oh, my love," Trevelyan said. "I'm sorry that your father never saw you."
"Yes," said Dorian, turning towards him for his virtue and softness, his gaiety and gladness, his love and support. "As am I."