The Price of Perfection

A story set in the World of Dusk and Dawn.

Cover Art by Kim Holm

Lord Antoni De’Mingi was a master at his craft, though he’d never allow himself to believe it. Regardless of the praise he often garnered from his work, he was his worst critic. He’d made a small fortune before he’d even so much as listen to a compliment from a peer. He felt in his heart that if he allowed himself to give in to the praise that he’d stop growing as an artist and a creator. He’d spend countless hours fretting over the smallest details of a piece, examining individual fibers on the parchment, searching for imperfections, then systematically destroying them to make way for the beauty of excellence. Though it seemed that no matter how hard he tried, that particular form of beauty—perfection—was something that he simply could not achieve. How could he hope to? What artist of his age ever had? When he’d study formative works of the great Valentine artists of old, he would perceive these works as inherently perfect, beyond criticism. He wondered if Astrofus looked at his sculpture—The Pale Lady Conquering Death which was rendered entirely from a slab of marble—and thought it to be worthless trash just as Antoni did his own work. Surely, his contemporaries such as Julio Contras, Sylvia Jimenizo-Astez, and the overrated so-called Chamomile had such thoughts. Only their work was actually garbage. His was truly on a higher level. So why did he feel this way? Oil paintings were the new standard in high Valentine art, and thus they came at great cost and Antoni had made it his mission to master the medium. One morning he woke in a cold sweat; he had dreamed of what would become his greatest work. A piece that would stand the test of eons. Naturally, his usual pigment supplier had run dry, much to his distress. So, it was time for a trip into the Bell Quarter of Valencia. If something couldn’t be found elsewhere, one could always sell their soul to the church in exchange for whichever nonessential good they’d like to acquire. The Bell Quarter was always prim and proper. The trees and shrubberies cut to precise specifications. The white stone pathways that curved between the reaching buildings, immaculately clean. If nothing else, this place was beautiful. Perhaps that was only good thing that the new God had brought with them. He entered a shop which usually would be reserved for only the holy scribes. Antoni however, was able to cut corners and pull strings. This was one of the many benefits to being the most prestigious artist in the greatest of the Great Cities. Despite the fact that his work was far from perfect, many were too ignorant to recognize that. Thus, he had connections. He didn’t understand them, but he didn’t argue with them either. “Greetings Lord De’Mingi.” Said the tired fool at the counter, dark rings under his eyes. A pathetic visage to show in public. “Good day to you—” he trailed off, unsure of the fool’s name. He didn’t much care to find out either. “Francois, my lord.” The fool said, clicking his tongue. “Francois Hartenfel.” Hartenfel? The poor bastard was related to the worst artist of their time. Now Antoni understood why he looked so exhausted. If he himself had been plagued by such shame, surely, he would look and feel much the same. But Antoni De’Mingi benefited from a clean name and good reputation. Despite the fact that he had yet to achieve proper perfection. Though it helped that he was the closest to it. “My condolences, Manon was close friend of mine. I was saddened to hear of his rather violent passing.” “Thank you, my lord. Though, I didn’t know him well. He was a distant cousin on my father’s side. We met on scant few occasions.” The fool was likely better off for that. The less time spent around failures like Manon Hartenfel, the better. “Ah, so all is well. No harm done. At least his work tripled in value since his demise, surely that will aid the estate in these trying times.” The fool stared at him for an uncomfortable moment. Antoni lifted and eyebrow and then he cleared his throat. “May I get you anything, lord? Canvas or brushes, perhaps?” “Actually, as it happens, I’m in need of high-quality oils. I have an inkling for a piece and only the very best will do.” And so, he acquired everything he would need to sequester himself in his studio for days before having to resupply. He did—much to his chagrin— have to sign a contract, agreeing to produce a work of religious value. He hardly thought that he’d need to hold true to such nonsense once he completed his magnum opus. This inkling was utter genius, he could feel it. Perhaps it was even given to him by God. A masterpiece given by God, that should be a tremendous religious value. He went to work. For three weeks, he hardly slept, ate, or drank. He would only stop painting to use the privy when it was absolutely necessary. If he spent too much time away, he would lose the inkling. That is how these things worked. Ideas visited for a short time, and one has to provide food and board before the damned thing gets tired of waiting and goes to the next undeserving schmuck. Stroke after stroke, layer upon layer, and soon a face began to take shape on the canvas. It would be woman’s face. She was coming to life before him. Art is to create. To breathe life into the lifeless. There were bumps on the road to perfection. Sometimes he would slip and smear color where it should never go. Sometimes, fatigue would overtake him, he’d doze, and a patch would dry before he was finished. But the road to perfection is never perfect. Any creator knows that much. He was a master at correcting the faults. Turning the ugly into the desirable. There wasn’t a thing on this planet that he couldn’t turn into art. Given enough time, of course. And then, it was finished. She was finished. “Gods in Hell…” he said as he took in her visage. Raven hair. Gray eyes. A stern, but soft face with an expression of knowing. Perhaps she was all knowing. She did, after all, possess the beauty of a goddess. And he had given it to her. He had given her shape. He achieved perfection. And how he loved her. What would he do? Surely, no other soul was worthy of her grace. For five more days, he sat in utter silence and admired her. This woman, this goddess, this entity that he had created. Then it occurred to him. This image was truly given to him by divine providence. He didn’t create the visage. No man alive, could stand to comprehend such beauty on their own. It was a gift from God and now he knew it was his divine task to find whomever it belonged to. He sent letters to his contacts. Contacts that he trusted with tasks that needed to be kept quiet. Within the week, two people in black arrived at his door. A man and a woman. He poked his head out. “You are the ones I sent for?” he said, his toned hushed so that no one lurking in the darkness of the street would overhear. The man, his face completely obscured clicked his tongue. “We are.” Antoni ushered them in. Even in the light of his entry hall, the figures remained shadowy. Their features were almost entirely hidden from him. He didn’t like to be kept out of the loop, but he valued such caution in those he employed. “I have something to show you that no other living person has or will ever see.” Though he couldn’t see their faces, he knew that the pair were intrigued. “Lead on, monsieur.” The woman said, her accent was thick. He led them to his studio and with dramatic flair, unveiled the painting. Her eyes seemed to absorb his very soul. If the two were impressed by his life’s masterwork, they made no effort to show it. It took everything in him not to scream at them for their insolence. But how could he expect a pair of brutes to appreciate such elegance? “I need you two to find this woman and bring her here. She will be my wife.” They looked at each other, then the man nodded. “It shall be done, my lord.” “Good! I expect swift results.” “We are professionals, monsieur.” The woman said. Though only two days passed before their return, it felt like years to Lord Antoni De’Mingi. He spent the days the pacing in his study and nights staring at the ceiling from his feather bed. All he could draw himself to do was ponder at what he would say to his new wife. He would frequent the studio to stare at her. She would stare back with her knowing gaze. She saw right through him. Never had anyone understood him so thoroughly. When the knock on the door came, he nearly had a heart attack. This was it. It was time to meet her. The woman of his dreams. The subject of his masterpiece. She had to love him. Who wouldn’t after bearing witness such a resplendent work of genius? He opened the door, the shadowy man stood on the stoop, only lit by the faint light of the moon. “Just you? Where is my wife?” The man clicked his tongue and turned to reveal the woman standing behind him. Raven hair, gray eyes. Her knowing expression saw right into his essence as if they’d met before. Perhaps she had painted him too and it was all meant to be. He was at a loss for words. He could hardly breathe, let alone speak. “It is a pleasure to meet you, monsieur,” she said in the most elegant drawl, “I have seen you in my dreams.” “And I, you.” He said, stammering. “Please, come in.” The man put a hand up. “Payment.” “Why yes, of course! You are more than deserving.” He led them to his study. “Ten-thousand, just as we agreed.” He said as he handed the shadowy man a small heavy chest. He opened it and seemed satisfied. “I’ll see myself out, my lord.” After the man left, Antoni started shuffling through the rest of the paperwork. “I’ve drawn up everything that we need, my love.” He felt her touch his shoulder. “We can marry here; all we need do is say the vows and consummate—” There was a sharp burning feeling between his ribs. The little breath he had left him all at once. Something warm was flowing down his mid-section soaking his blouse and silken breeches. “What is the value of such a masterpiece after the tragic death of the author, monsieur?” He turned, agony, horror, and betrayal washing over him all at once. His love was holding a dagger which was protruding from his ribs. He wanted to ask why, but all he could managed was a pained gurgle. She flashed a knowing smile, her face shifting and contorting until he no longer recognized her.