Page 174 of Born of Blood and Ash

Years likely meant decades. All I could do was stare at himin stunned silence. Honestly, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Those longfingers of his were talented, and I’d always thought they were far toograceful for someone who had only ever handled a sword or dagger. I knew—

“Portraits?” I asked. “You said you’ve painted portraits?”

Ash nodded.

A sudden sense of knowing filled me. “You painted theportraits of your parents.”

He didn’t answer immediately. “I did.”

I was once more staring open-mouthed at him.

“When Kolis killed my mother, he also ensured that alltraces of her were destroyed,” he said after a moment. “My father was toopreoccupied with a babe he never planned on rearing alone and grieving to stopit.”

A bitter knot of grief settled like a stone in my chest.

“So, there were no portraits of her. When my father waskilled, there was nothing left behind of him either. I already had no realimage of my mother in my mind, and I knew that as the years passed, I wouldforget what my father looked like, too. I didn’t want that.” His foreheadcreased. “I painted him first—when the memories were still fresh. Then, with Nektas’s help, I painted my mother. It was the last time Ipainted.”

Sadness mingled with awe as I murmured, “My gods.”

Grabbing hold of the sides of my vest, Ash’s gaze met mine.“What?”

“It’s just…beautiful and tragic,” I said, breathing throughthe sting in the back of my throat. “I wish I had better, more eloquent words.”

He paused to kiss me. “Your words are always good enough.”

Actually, his were. Mine were poor imitations. “Youcan paint, Ash.”

He gave me another half-shrug.

“Seriously,” I insisted. “Your mother looks real.”

Pausing, he frowned. “That’s because she was real, liessa.”

“I know. That’s not what I meant. I never would’ve guessedthat someone who hadn’t seen her—who only had the memories of another to gofrom—was the one who had painted her. That takes real skill. You’re not justgood,” I told him. “You’re really, really good.”

Ash was quiet.

“And I’m not just saying that because I can’t draw astraight line.”

His lips twitched. “I’m sure you can draw a straight line.”

“No, I can’t. If you don’t believe me, ask Ezra the nexttime we see her.” As soon as I said her name, I yearned to see her. It was hardto move past it. “She’s witnessed my poor attempts at doodling. I’m bad, likereally, really bad.”

A grin finally appeared. “I wish to see just how bad you areat drawing.”

“No, you don’t.” I eyed him, suddenly thinking about all thebare walls in the many chambers. “Do you still have those other paintings?”

He nodded.

“Where are they?”

“In one of the chambers you apparently haven’t entered yet,”he answered.

“Take me to them. Right now,” I demanded. “I want to seethem.”

“I would be glad to. But not right now.”

My eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

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