Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The bullet train sliced through the vibrant countryside at over two hundred miles per hour. On the left side of the train, flooded rice paddies were dotted with bright specks that Castiel assumed were harvesters. On the right were endless rolling plains of wheat that shifted from dark brown to golden waves with the wind. Seeing the two grains that required different climates and matured in different seasons ripe at the same time reminded Castiel that he was traveling in between the famous Colt Greenhouses. The domes were so tall and so wide that it was easy to forget that it wasn’t just empty air.

Castiel had seen them once before, years ago when his family had taken a vacation to the country’s capitol, Caelus. The city was larger than some of the countries on the distant eastern continent, and it took a very large contingent to keep the tens of millions of citizens fed and clothed. Castiel came from a small fishing town along the southern coast of Occimundi, far removed from the overcrowding and heteronomy that most of the country experienced after expanding its borders from coast to coast across the western continent a couple centuries before.

Castiel was the very cliché of a coastal bumpkin, plucked from his backwater home for his “once in a generation” talent and brought to the modern metropolis where he could be properly educated and cultivated. He chuckled to himself and scrolled through the orientation information on his tablet. He had seen “The Real House Spouses of Caelus;” he was pretty certain he could navigate the cultural differences despite them all being citizens of the same country.

His finger hesitated mid-swipe when a picture of Master Campbell appeared as one of the orientation guides that would be greeting the incoming students. Castiel was frozen, his jaw slack, finger hovering over the screen. Master Campbell. He wasn’t just one of the ten currently living people awarded the title of Master, he was unarguably the most talented artist to ever pick up a brush in generations. He was even more talented than Head Master Shurley himself. And he was going to waste his precious time on a bunch of green wannabes. Granted, Castiel and his fellow “green wannabes” were all established artists and most had been creating art since they could hold a crayon in their chubby, toddler fingers. However, no amount of national recognition and prestigious awards won could justify Master Campbell taking an interest in them. Maybe he was being forced to do it as part of the job of being a professor at the International Academy of Art.

Castiel looked at the picture of the young Master. He was only in his early forties and was the first person to be awarded the title of Master before the age of forty in decades. Heck, maybe centuries. He definitely didn’t look like his stuffy contemporaries. He was youth and strength and humor as his lips were set in a teasing smirk. His eyes were a clear hazel and his hair a glossy, chestnut brown. He was an attractive man—not that Castiel was going to focus on something so superficial. Castiel’s eyes fell to where the Master’s shirt pulled tightly across his muscled shoulders. Well. He wasn’t going to focus on it.

The train banked hard to the right, but the maglev system made everything so smooth Castiel only noticed it because the rice fields began to fall away. He pressed his face against the glass so that he could see Caelus as soon as it came into view.

Castiel’s breath caught in his throat when he saw the sprawling city shimmering brightly across the entire horizon. He thought he had exaggerated his childhood memory of the grandeur of the place; apparently it had actually faded.

Caelus was a series of uneven concentric circles easily covering one hundred square miles. It was completely possible for someone to live their entire life and never leave the quadrant they were born in. Most of the residential buildings making up the outer ring were constructed from bricks made of the red clay native to the area. The industrial sector was built from dark grey iron and pale grey concrete and was the largest circle. The skyscrapers were great glass monoliths scattered haphazardly among miles and miles of elevated train tracks. In the center, surrounded by a large grassy park, were the buildings constructed when the city had been founded almost a thousand years ago. They were made from Venatorra marble, but Castiel was still too far away to see the delicate, pale green coloring.

He’d only ever seen the city center—nicknamed Viridis City—in pictures and on TV. He hadn’t been able to see it as a child because touring tickets to the city center were expensive and hard to come by. He would see it today though, up close and in person. The International Academy of Art was in the oldest and grandest of the buildings as even a millennium ago people had known that art was tantamount to government.

Hit with a sudden onslaught of nerves, Castiel sat back in his seat. He inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. Only about twenty-five percent of those accepted to the prestigious school didn’t flame out after the first year. Being an artist was the biggest responsibility that could be bestowed upon a citizen. They made order and kept the peace. They were responsible for the prosperity of Occimundi, which was something that had always mystified Castiel a bit. He had studied art all his life and understood quite poignantly how it could move a person to feel the depths and extremes of many emotions, but he couldn’t quite see how that feeling could keep a national population of millions in line. He felt a bit treasonous and ignorant for not having faith in the system, but he’d been drawing his older brother falling into mud puddles and stepping in dog poo for years and yet Gabriel remained glaringly graceful.

His tablet screen had dimmed, but the handsome face of Master Campbell still smirked at him from the seventh page of the orientation packet. His stomach twisted even more. He quickly searched through the documents on his tablet until he found his invitation letter. No one applied to the Academy. Scouts were sent from the school to examine the talents that had been selected for display at galleries all over the country. If they found someone who they felt had an exceptional talent, they were invited to study at the Academy. International students had only one chance to get an invite; they had to be selected to have their work shown at the National Art Gallery—and then get scouted.

Castiel was glad his letter had been delivered electronically because he’d read it so many times he was certain that if it had been made of paper it would be pulp by now. It was perfunctory and straight to the point:

Mister Castiel Novak. Your skill and perception of art has been deemed to be of sufficient caliber that the Scouting Committee would like to extend to you an invitation to attend the International School of Art at the start of the summer term. Please reply with your acceptance or declination within seven days.

Castiel tapped the screen to enlarge the words “sufficient caliber." He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he hoped to all the Muses in Heaven that he wouldn’t disappoint the instructors and shame his family. His family had never put much pressure on him when it came to being successful. After all, not knocking someone up before he was eighteen was pretty successful in his family. Then again, he’d probably only not had that problem because the people he slept with couldn’t get pregnant. Even still, out of nine children, Castiel was the only one who hadn’t given his parents a grandchild. It really wasn’t due to his siblings being irresponsible, Castiel supposed, it was just boredom.

The train banked again and the city fell out of view. Castiel tightened his grip on the armrest of his seat. He was actually missing the boredom of his hometown at the moment. Too much excitement tended to disagree with his constitution. But he couldn’t deny that he was excited. He was truly on his own for the first time in his life. Twenty-seven years old and hell bent on proving he deserved the recognition of the Academy. One day he would be known as one of the great Masters of his generation. As long as he didn’t get homesick and run home after a week.

Castiel chuckled and turned off his tablet. He put away his belongings as the high speed train began to decelerate as it approached the city. He wondered if his family and friends had a pool going for how long it would take for him to come running back home. He didn’t begrudge them for having thoughts like that—he’d never made it more than a week at summer camp when he’d been a child—but this was the opportunity of a lifetime. This was his dream. This was his life.

~~~

This was a nightmare.

Castiel looked at the boys and girls around him. Not one of them could be out of their teens yet. Not for the first time he wondered if maybe he’d fallen in with the wrong group at the train station, but the bus was making the turn onto the wide thoroughfare that led to Viridis City. In an effort to preserve the original structures, no rail tracks had been allowed to be built to service the city center. People came and went on foot or by bus only. Although Cas had heard that there were tour packages that involved horseback riding or canoeing down the Bibilis River, which the original Caelus had been built upon. The once great river was now carefully controlled via levees and canals and had even been redirected when the industrial circle needed more space to expand an electronics factory.

The bus began to rattle loudly as the perfectly smooth streets of concrete gave way to an uneven, narrow brick road. The students and their luggage were jostled so violently that by the time the bus screeched to a halt hardly anyone was in the same seat they had started in. Several people were in a mild panic about the condition of their art supplies. Castiel was less concerned because for a going away present his family had bought him a very expensive and well-made travel case for his supplies. The orientation packets had told them that supplies would be made available for them depending on their course selection, but Castiel had still packed his own brushes, pencils, chalks, pastels, erasers, smoothing cloths, a scraper, an edger, sketchpads, and a few mixed colors in oil paint he had blended himself. He had a feeling he would be told not to use any of his inferior supplies, but if they had been good enough to produce works of “sufficient caliber” for the Academy, surely they couldn’t be too bad.

The group of fifteen students debussed and stood on the dull red bricks, looking a bit shell-shocked. Some of them were probably just sleep deprived. They had come from all over the country, and three had come from overseas. They had all been scheduled to arrive at the train station within two hours of each other. Castiel had been lucky that his train arrived with only fifteen minutes to wait for the international students to be shuttled over from the airport. His trip had only taken five hours, so he’d been able to get up at a decent hour and still felt refreshed. Some had had sixteen hour train rides, and only the Muses knew how long the international students had been traveling.

The driver barked at them to get their suitcases from the compartment under the bus and everyone stumbled over each other to comply as quickly as possible. Castiel hung back and let the others scramble around. His bag was pulled out and set aside as a kid—no more than fourteen—crawled into the compartment to pull out the bags from the back. Castiel took his suitcase by the handle and kept an arm around his supply case even though it was bulky and difficult to hold in that manner. Soon the bus was empty and the driver took off, leaving the students unattended in front of the great International Academy of Art.

As one the group seemed to feel the pull of the looming building and they all looked up, and then tilted their heads more as they tried to see the top of the building. It was gigantic. Not a skyscraper by any means, but several stories tall and made of humongous slabs of pale green marble. A thousand years ago people hadn’t had machinery or modern tools, but here the city center stood—a mystery of ancient engineering.

The buildings of Viridis City were one of the great marvels of the world, rivaled only by the completely subterranean cities built by the earliest Tartarus people to hide from the Viridoctrins. The art made by the ancient Tartarese was dark and disturbing and violent—and one of Castiel’s favorite movements. Many other countries tried to copy the style, but no one could quite capture the cruelty and desperation of the originals. Castiel hoped he’d be able to have more in depth instruction in the Tartarese style. Even the modern movements were more interesting than the obsession with pointillism prevalent in Vacivo.

“Children.”

The group whirled as one, a couple losing their balance and stumbling over the strewn luggage, and saw a short, elderly man with a warm smile. He wore the dark blue robes of a Master Artist, and around his neck hung a sash of pure white. As each individual took note of the sash, the students bowed sharply, creating a ripple of motion in the group.

Castiel was bent nearly at ninety degrees with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. That was him. That was Head Master Shurley. The most revered Master Artist alive. And he was five feet away. He’d also referred to the group as “children,” which did miff Castiel a bit.

“That’s enough of that,” Master Shurley said kindly. “Up. Let me see your faces.”

Everyone straightened slowly, like they weren’t sure they really were allowed to look at the living legend. The man took his time looking each new student in the face.

“I see a lot of potential here. You all must be tired from your travels. Let’s go inside and meet up with your assigned Apprentice. They will be your mentor for the duration of your tenure at the Academy. This person will not only be there for you artistically, but personally as well. Consider this person your friend as well as your teacher. After you meet up with your mentor, you will be shown to your dorm room and then you will convene for a meal—which is probably breakfast for some and dinner for others.”

There was a smattering of polite laughter.

“Then, Master Campbell will take you on a tour of the galleries.”

The noise made by the group then could only be described as tittering. It embarrassed Castiel slightly, but he was sure if he’d had anyone to talk to he would have done the same.

“Yes, yes,” Master Shurley said waving a hand. “The Master Campbell. He’s every bit as handsome and dashing as you imagine. With no small amount of narcissism to accompany it. But don’t be put off by it. All Masters are a bit narcissistic. After all, how can you be one of the greatest artists to ever live if you don’t believe you are one of the greatest artists to ever live?”

The group was confusedly silent, not sure how to take that little speech. Master Shurley didn’t wait for their reactions though as he was already walking up the twelve wide steps to the tall double doors that led into the Academy. Twelve steps: one for each muse. Castiel named them as he walked up the stairs.

Linea, the first stroke.

Forma, shape and form.

Umbra, shading and shadow.

Nuda, negative space.

Mensura, depth and perspective.

Pigmenta, color and tint.

Pinga, draw and paint.

Sculpa, sculpt and model.

Fora, from the external.

Menta, from the mind.

Cora, from the heart.

Anima, from the soul.

Castiel shot a quick prayer up to them collectively as he reached the top. He was one of only two students to notice the small, shallow thirteenth stair right at the door. Everyone tripped over it except him and a student from the far north of Occimundi if her pale skin and red hair was any indication. Castiel stepped on the thirteenth stair and said her name too.

Aporia, confusion and doubt.

She had visited him enough over the course of his art career that he felt he must be a personal favorite of hers. He made a mental note to make a proper offering to her before the week was out.

Inside the main entrance to the Academy was a large hall with a towering ceiling. Balconies on several floors above them lined the walls. A few people moved on them as they went about their business, but all the noise and excitement was coming from a group of Apprentices (Castiel could tell they were apprentices due to the pale blue color of their robes) who were talking loudly over each other and swapping around white cards. Master Shurley didn’t try to get their attention; he just waited until they noticed him and the group. When they did, they only got louder.

Each Apprentice held up a card with a name on it and advanced on the group of students, looking for their charge. In a few short, confusing moments the students were scattered in all directions as their mentors led them from the main hall. Castiel was left standing alone with his suitcase and an arm quickly growing sore from awkwardly holding his supply case. Master Shurley smiled at him.

“I apologize, Mr. Novak. Your mentor won’t be able to join us until later. If you don’t mind, I can escort you to your dorm room.”

Castiel nodded and his mouth went dry. He was going to have one on one time with Head Master Shurley. Of course, the great man was just going to walk him down a couple of hallways, but if Castiel was smart he could use this time to learn something. After two minutes of walking in awkward silence, Castiel was screaming internally at his own lameness.

“Castiel,” Master Shurley finally broke the silence. “May I call you Castiel?”

Castiel nodded dumbly again. He usually went by Cas (only his parents called him Castiel), but he was still reeling from the fact that Master Shurley knew his name. Seemed to know his whole name without having a card like the Apprentices had had. Which meant that Master Shurley recognized him.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that you’re a little bit older than most of the other students in your class.”

Castiel nodded yet again. He must seem incredibly slow to the art Master.

“You were actually scouted back when you were thirteen years old.”

“W-what?” his cotton mouth managed to gasp out.

“Oh, yes. Your painting entitled Black Swells; it was of the ocean walls near Maritima. I believe you did it in the style of the Tartarus Dark Ages. Very gloomy.”

Castiel was feeling lightheaded. The Academy had known about him for over a decade, the Head Master of Art knew one of his paintings by name. The whole moment was surreal.

“I-I…”

“Oh, it’s not an insult. It’s difficult to paint in that style without appearing a little gloomy.”

Castiel had intended for it to feel menacing; he was such a failure.

“The Scouts back then wanted to bring you on right away. You would have been one of the youngest students ever invited to attend the Academy.”

Castiel thought he might feel resentment at being denied that honor, but all he could focus on was the curiosity of why he hadn’t been invited then.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Master Shurley said. “I—oh, pardon me.”

The man reached a hand inside his robe and scratched at his chest. Then he manipulated something on the inner lining, and the robe parted down the middle to swing free. Underneath the Master wore nothing but a white tank top and a pair of blue and orange boxer shorts.

“Shwoo. These robes can be so itchy. We really ought to change the material. Anyway, up these stairs.”

Castiel was startled out of his trance induced by Master Shurley’s skinny, white chicken legs. He followed the man up a set of stairs that had been carved into the marble wall itself. A railing had been hewn from the same rock, which meant the stairs were essentially a tunnel carved into solid marble stone. It must have taken decades to complete.

“Uh, what were we talking about?” Master Shurley asked.

“Oh. Um. I was scouted at thirteen.”

“Ah, yes. Black Swells. After the scouts find talent, they show it to the Order of Masters, and in order to be given an invitation, the artists must be agreed upon in a unanimous vote. Your vote was not unanimous. Not because anyone thought you lacked the skill, but because one of us saw in you the potential to become a Master. In cases like that, we prefer to let the artist grow unfettered by the influence of the Academy. We’ve been following your work for years. We could have brought you on two or three years ago. Hell, I was convinced five years ago, but your mentor wanted to see if you would finally break free of imitating Masters and create your own style.”

Castiel had been looking at the stairs as they climbed, red faced from embarrassment and the effort it was taking to keep pace with the Head Master. At the last comment, Castiel looked up and realized they had reached a landing. Master Shurley was smiling at him enigmatically.

“Tell me, Castiel, do you think we got tired of waiting and decided you were good enough to be a student, or did you break free of the chains of imitation and we decided you should be one of us?”

Castiel was not in the right state of mind to be having this conversation. He was flustered and a little sweaty and how on earth was he supposed to just come out and say that yes he thought he had his own style and was worthy of training to become a Master? Then he remembered Master Shurley's comment about narcissism and the artist.

“I think…” Castiel swallowed. “I think you’ve brought me here to train to be a Master.”

Master Shurley smiled, raised a finger to tap Castiel’s nose, and made a “boop” noise.

That one act discombobulated Castiel more than anything else.

“Right here,” Master Shurley said, and walked a few steps away from the stairs to a pink wooden door that looked a little like diluted blood next to the green marble walls. He opened the door and led them into Castiel’s dorm room. A thick shaggy carpet covered the small room, and the double bed was piled high with furry blankets and a down feather stuffed duvet.

“It gets quite cold in the building, even in the summer. Because of the marble. We do what we can to mitigate the chill, but feel free to ask for a heating unit if you need it.”

Besides the bed, there was a chest of drawers, a desk and chair, an easel and stool, and a cushioned bench underneath a narrow window. The walls were bare except for the random swirling pattern of the marble.

“Another inconvenience is that our ancient architects clearly hadn’t the imagination for electricity. So, we’ve had to run power strips along the floor for your computer and the lamps. They’re tucked under the carpet to prevent you from stumbling over them, but take care not to get the carpet caught in the plugs. We’ve have issues with fires.”

Castiel’s eyes went wide at the thought of waking up to the sight of the furry carpet flaming toward him like a hungry monster.

“Oh, don’t worry. We’ve taken precautions to reduce the risk of fires, but it’s always best to be cautious. Just in case.”

Castiel nodded.

“Unfortunately I can’t leave you be to get settled in at the moment. You’ll have time for that after the tour. You have a private bath, right through there,” Master Shurley indicated a door Castiel hadn’t noticed before. “You have an upgraded dorm because you’re on the Master track, but if you don’t want to share that information with your class just yet, you can tell them it’s due to seniority.”

Master Shurley gave him a wink and Castiel felt even older.

“Do you need to use it?” Master Shurley asked.

“Use what?”

“The bathroom?”

Castiel looked dumbly at the door. Head Master Charles Shurley was asking him if he needed to pee. He shook his head.

“I went at the train station.”

“Excellent. Let’s go to lunch then. I’ll tell you now, Castiel, even if you hate it here and want to stab all your teachers in the arm pit, it’s worth sticking around for the food.”

Castiel followed the man into the hallway and back toward the stairs. He wasn’t sure if Master Shurley was just making a joke or warning him that studying at the Academy was going to be a Trial of the Muses. Not even they had passed those trials; how was he to succeed where the great Muses had failed?

Fortunately Master Shurley and the Apprentices left the students alone to bond over lunch. The group was sat at one long table in a fairly small room, but as promised, the food was excellent. The first course was a butter lettuce and brussels sprout salad dressed with honey vinaigrette followed by a cold cantaloupe based gazpacho served with cheese toast. The main course consisted of the tenderest lamb Castiel had ever eaten along with braised kale and a potato and mushroom hash. Then they were given platters with a selection of goat, sheep, and cow cheeses made locally at the Caelus farms. Finally they were served mango sticky rice with a slightly sweetened sparkling water. If this was what all their meals were going to be like, Master Shurley was right: it was worth staying for the food alone.

Fortunately, the company might also turn out to be worth sticking around for. Castiel found himself sitting at the end of the table across from a young boy from Viridoctrin who barely spoke Loquella (but what he could get out had that sweet, lilting Viridoctrin accent) and the redhead who had also noticed Aporia’s stair when they had arrived. She sat next to him and spoke in an unending nervous chatter about how she very nearly missed her opportunity to attend the Academy because her invite had been routed to her spam folder. She was exceedingly friendly, but her three minute story stretched into nearly twenty minutes as she kept getting distracted by tangents.

“Oh, Muses, I’m sorry. I’m boring you to death, aren’t I?” she asked, mopping up mango sauce with a large clump of rice.

Castiel shook his head. “Quite the contrary; I’ve never been to Frigiterra. It’s interesting to hear about your customs up there. And your hometown sounds beautiful. We don’t have that many trees on the coast. At least, not ones like you’re describing.”

“Tell me about your home.”

“Oh. Well…Um. Actually, first, can I ask you for your name?”

The girl put a hand to her face which was turning a delicate shade of pink. “Aporia curse me. I’ve been rambling to you this long and I never even introduced myself.” She moved her hand from her face and stuck it out toward Cas. “Celeste Middleton. Nice to meet you.”

“Castiel.” Cas shook her hand and grinned. “Celeste. That’s not a name you hear often anymore.”

Celeste rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it. My parents may as well have named me Muse. Anyway, I go by Charlie. I just didn’t know how formal things are supposed to be here.”

“I would assume among friends we can be familiar. I go by Cas.”

The girl smiled brightly and punched him on the arm. “We just became friends,” she proclaimed.

Cas rubbed the tender spot on his arm. “Yeah…I guess we did.”

“So, what medium is your specialty?” Celeste—no, Charlie—asked. “Are we going to be friends and rivals or just friends?”

“Oils,” Castiel replied. “Really painting of any kind, but I feel most comfortable working with oils. And I think my best pieces have been those I’ve done in oil.”

“Well, that’s a relief. I work best with digital art. Not just manipulations, though I’m awesome at that too, but digital painting. I don’t get it, like give me an electronic tablet and stylus and I can create photo realistic images with no problem. But give me a paintbrush and canvas and I’m making stuff like Zacaria,” she referenced the famous abstract painter. “Only, like not in a good way.”

Castiel smiled. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating if you were invited here.”

“No. I just told them I was doing it in the Zacarian style.”

He laughed at her devious eyebrow waggle. “Clever. But, it’s not really surprising you feel more comfortable with digital mediums. Most kids these days grow up on tablets instead of canvas.”

Charlie tsked at him. “Don’t give me the ‘kids these days’ speech. I’m not like these babies over here,” she indicated the rest of the table.

“Oh, does being almost twenty make you feel a generation away from the kiddies?”

“Dude. I’m twenty-three.”

Castiel blinked startled eyes at her. “You look fifteen.”

She sighed. “I know. It’s a curse! But, don’t forget I’m almost as old as you are, pal.”

Cas smiled and wagged a finger at her. “Not quite. I’m twenty-seven. You should show me the proper deference.”

“Eat me, old man.”

Castiel laughed loudly and Charlie joined in by giggling hysterically. They drew the attention of the people near them, but they didn’t share what was so funny. The Viridoctrin boy was looking at them with a small smile on his face. He clearly didn’t understand a word of their conversation, but he seemed comforted to see people being friendly.

“What’s your name?” Charlie asked the boy.

The kid picked up on the word “name” and patted his chest proudly. “Henry.”

“Hi, Henry. I’m Charlie, and this is Cas.”

Henry smiled and ducked his head shyly. Unlike Charlie, Cas was pretty certain the boy looked fourteen because he was fourteen. He had dark hair and dark eyes and just a smattering of freckles across his nose. He was a cute boy, and in a few years would probably be a devastatingly handsome heartbreaker.

“Children.”

The group casually turned to look at the person who addressed them. Then conversation abruptly cut off. Some tried to bow in their seats and some tried to stand and hit their thighs on the table. Cas was one of the latter and refrained from rubbing his sore legs as he bowed to Master Campbell.

The tone in the room was completely different from when Master Shurley had addressed them. Everyone was anxious and ill at ease. Master Campbell’s presence was almost stifling, possibly because he much taller than Castiel had expected. They could feel him looking down at them, his eyes slowly moving over them, assessing them—appraising them like a piece of art.

“Relax,” the Master said.

Everyone peeked a cautious eye up the man. He was smiling at them and the tension in the room eased.

“Welcome to the Academy. At least a quarter of you are going to do adequately.”

The students glanced nervously amongst themselves.

“I assume you’re done with lunch,” Master Campbell continued and the group nodded compliance.

“Excellent. Follow me.”

Everyone scrambled out of their chairs, wiping their faces and clothing to make sure they were free of smudges and crumbs. Master Campbell was already off at a brisk walk and disappearing through the exit. Castiel trotted to maintain pace and some of the others were practically jogging.

“I’m not going to give you a tour of the campus. That’s what Apprentices and maps are for. I’m going to walk you through the Academy’s galleries. First we’ll pass through the Students’ Wing. This is where unusually exceptional art created by students from generations past is collected. There’s no need to make more than a passing glance; the work may be exceptional by student standards, but it’s not real art.”

Master Campbell made a sudden left turn and the group had to skid to a stop and hop out of each other’s way to continue to follow the man down a wide corridor.

“Next we’ll pass through the sculpture garden. For those of you unusually interested in or specializing in 3D art, feel free to stay behind and tour it to your heart’s content. You’re not worth any more effort and will probably fail out in the first couple of weeks.”

Master Campbell pushed through a large blue door and led them outside to a breathtakingly beautiful courtyard. Colorful summer perennials were in full bloom and despite the muggy heat the grass was an effervescent green. They saw Master Campbell nearly across the courtyard, still talking, and had to run down the stone paths painstakingly inlaid a single, small tile at a time in a stunning mosaic of white and grey and silver.

“—will be the art made by those who have been bestowed the title of Master. We have nearly thirty generations of Master artists represented in that gallery. Some of them actually deserved the title.”

Master Campbell used a card key to unlock another blue door and held it open for the students to clamber through. Then he led them down a dimly lit hallway with walls draped in dark, heavy fabric.

“Next will be the Art wing. That’s Art with a capital A. These are the works that are used to govern Occimundi, and to some extent, the world. All old ones, of course. The current Art Treaties are stored in the vaults for protection. That will be the room where you’ll really want to take your time as only the true Masters of Art have their work displayed here.”

Master Campbell came to an abrupt halt and everyone piled up against each other to keep from walking into the intimidating man.

“Finally we’ll pass through the Hall of Portraits. Here you will see some of the most beautiful works of art ever produced by our species. Not all were made by Masters, but all are of a quality superior to anything any of you will ever produce. Maybe. I’ll need to evaluate each of you closely before I determine that my prediction is right. In the Hall of Portraits I suggest you take a good look around. Part of your first year final is to select a portrait and replicate it.”

The group gasped softly.

“No matter what you do the rest of the year, that test will determine whether you’re invited to attend for a second year or asked to return home.”

Everyone gulped nervously.

“Let’s begin the tour. Remember, you can mostly ignore these first two rooms.”

The moment Castiel stepped into the first gallery, his jaw hit the floor. The building was massive with high ceilings capable of accommodating twenty foot tall paintings. Panels were placed liberally throughout the large chamber to allow for more wall space. The paintings were clustered so tightly together it was impossible to determine the wall color. And yet, even with so many paintings—oils and watercolors and pastels and acrylics and even pencil and charcoal drawings—they were all of such high quality. Castiel had been to a couple of galleries before where there might be one or two special pieces on display, but typically most of the other art was good, exceptional for the public, but paled in comparison to Master level works of art. The students who had earned a spot in this gallery most definitely deserved it.

The group fanned out in the maze of panels and art, barely making it more than ten or twenty feet into the room before they were being told to hurry it along from the other side of the room.

“You can come back and peruse the gallery at your leisure on your own time,” Master Campbell called out. “We’re moving on.”

Castiel turned and forced himself to keep his eyes on the ground as he hurried toward the exit so he wouldn’t get distracted. Not everyone made it out into the greenhouse style courtyard before Master Campbell was already marching straight toward the door at the far end. The courtyard was dotted with sculptures and statues done in marble, bronze, limestone, alabaster, terracotta, and several other mediums Castiel couldn’t identify right away. He pulled up short, having lost his breath as he found himself standing in front of The Rape of Cora.

The ten foot tall and twenty foot wide sculpture was flawlessly carved out of black marble by Master Uriel in 453 CE. Castiel had seen it in textbooks only. It was enrapturing in person. Anima and Menta flanked the prone, graceful figure of Cora, weeping as their sister was corrupted by the Devil. Two bodiless hands imprisoned Cora’s wrists. The artist who had sculpted the scene, over six hundred years ago, had never confirmed nor denied that the hands belonged to Aporia.

“Quickly, children!”

Castiel shook himself and ran after the disappearing group. He couldn’t believe that Master Campbell had such contempt for 3D art. Maybe it was because he wasn’t very proficient at it and he was just jealous. Castiel was scandalized by his own thought and giggled nervously as he raced inside the next building. He found himself in a room even bigger than the students’ gallery, but with just as many panels creating another maze of masterpieces. These works were respectfully spaced out, however. The lighting was just barely bright enough to illuminate about a five foot radius around where a person stood.

Castiel was overwhelmed as everywhere he turned was a piece of art he had seen in textbooks or on a very rare occasion at a gallery when a piece was sent on a travelling exhibition. He heard a gasp behind him and turned slowly, unable to pull completely away from the sensation that he was dreaming. It was Charlie who had made the noise and she was flapping a listless hand at him. He walked to her side.

“What is it?” he asked, barely daring to whisper.

“It’s a Michamusa.”

Castiel’s mouth went dry as he looked at the small one square foot painting hanging on the wall at about Charlie’s eye level. Michael Augusta—the first person to ever be dubbed a Master artist. He was so revered, he was given the name Michamusa—Michael Touched by the Muses—and people wondered if the Muses had an unknown brother. His attention to background detail was so subtle a person could look at his works for days, weeks, and still not find all the minute intricacies.

The painting Cas and Charlie stood in front of was almost a thousand years old. Despite the lengths gone through to preserve the work, it had darkened significantly over the centuries. Bright detailed versions of it were available in textbooks, so seeing it in person was almost a letdown as the woman that was the subject of the piece was faded and the background colors blended. The two students leaned in as closely as they dared and strained their eyes in the dim light.

“Oh,” Castiel murmured softly. He could see the rushing river in the background. It looked like it was actually freaking moving. “This is…”

“Incredible,” Charlie finished his thought. “Do you see the birds?”

“Do you see the river?”

“Oh,” they sighed together as they turned their attention to what the other had pointed out.

“Moving on, children!”

Castiel stood up straight with a frustrated growl. “Is he serious? It’s been five minutes.”

“I guess we can always come back later,” Charlie said ruefully.

They began to make their way toward the exit, eyes dragging over the masterpieces around them longingly.

“I’ll probably spend my whole time in these galleries just looking and studying,” Castiel said. “I’ll never get any work done.”

“None of us will. Maybe that’s why so many people flunk out. It’s not because their work isn’t good, it’s just because they didn’t produce any work.”

“I’d believe it.”

They were two of the last ones to exit the Masters Gallery and Master Campbell watched them with a playful glitter in his eyes. Castiel blushed and had to look away. The next gallery was down two flights of stairs, but in a very well lit, open room. Castiel was eager to see what real Art looked like, but was soon disappointed that it was not any more impressive than much of the art in the student gallery. Everyone walked around, looking confused, so Castiel felt reassured because he wasn’t the only one.

He stopped in front of a picture of two men signing a treaty in a room full of witnesses. It was well composed and detailed, probably better than what he could currently produce in terms of realism and technique, however…it felt soulless.

“Examine the Art very, very carefully,” Master Campbell told the group. “There is a reason these pieces are considered Art. Probably none of you will be able to recognize what it is about them that makes them different from all other art, which is okay since none of you will probably ever produce real Art.”

Castiel was irked by Master Campbell’s brash declarations. It went beyond narcissism. It was just plain…asshole-ish-ness. Determined to prove him wrong, Castiel stepped closer to the painting.

The label indicated that it was painted in 982—just under a hundred years ago—in Suree, the capitol city of Vacivo. It must be the treaty that ended the Intercontinental War. It was credited to Master Samandriel Alfre. Master Alfre had never been one of Castiel’s favorites, but seeing one of his works up close it was evident he had an inhumanly steady hand. Castiel leaned even closer, trying to find the brushstrokes. Alfre had been known for painting even large works with tiny two millimeter brushes. Castiel blinked rapidly as he thought he saw a word woven into the off white of the document laid out on the table. His eyes jumped around wildly, unable to focus and yet trying desperately to. For a fleeting moment, he saw it: the document wasn’t formed from simple brush strokes; it was the word “peace” written over and over so closely together and overlapping it gave the illusion of a solid sheet of paper. Then Castiel had to close his eyes and shake his head. When he looked again, he couldn’t find the words. He wondered if he had actually seen them at all.

Castiel looked away from the painting and found Master Campbell watching him from across the room. Staring, really. Castiel stared back, unable to break the trance like a mouse before a cobra. Charlie stepped in front of him and he blinked and looked away.

“I don’t really see anything remarkable about these works,” she muttered under her breath. “I mean, yeah, obviously the skill level is way beyond most people, but they feel…hollow.”

“I know what you mean,” Cas replied just as softly. “But I wonder if that means we just aren’t getting it. Maybe it’s over our heads.”

“Maybe,” Charlie said, but she sounded doubtful.

“Did you see any words in any of the paintings?”

“Words? Like, not the label?”

“No, like, if an object is made of a bunch of words instead of brushstrokes.”

Charlie narrowed a single eye as she looked at him. “I don’t understand.”

Castiel sighed. “Yeah, never mind. I think I was just seeing things.”

“Children!”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “I think even if I was fifteen I’d still be annoyed by that.”

“Tell me about it,” Castiel agreed.

The group moved willingly from the Art gallery, everyone clearly disappointed with the blasé work that was somehow responsible for the governance of modern society. They walked back up the stairs and then were led to a long narrow room with thick red carpet. The walls were lined with large portraits placed every two feet, in gilded, ornate frames. They were all roughly the same size, and depicted a life size rendering of their subject. The students were back to being overawed. Castiel felt a sick twisting in his gut. He wasn’t good enough to be here. These portraits were like photographs. The attention to light and shadow was practically innate. He’d never been good at painting light. Umbra was clearly not one of his patron Muses.

“Holy moose,” Charlie whispered softly. “These…make me feel uncomfortably inadequate.”

“I know, right?” one of the older students said from next to them. “I grew up in Caelus, so I’ve had a chance to tour the other galleries before, but this one isn’t open to the public. This is nuts. They expect us to replicate one of these?”

Cas and Charlie paled at the reminder.

“You think we have to do it with real paint?” Charlie asked nervously.

Castiel shrugged a shoulder and the group broke apart to examine the different portraits. After a few minutes of silence from Master Campbell, they figured out they would be allowed to spend more time perusing the paintings. Probably so they could select one for their final project. If Castiel had to guess, they would need to start working on it immediately if they wanted a chance of being done by the end of the year.

Castiel walked down the corridor, his feet completely silent on the plush carpet. His eyes swept from side to side, taking in scenes from ages long past, foreign countries that no longer existed, and people who had been dead for longer than the Novaks could trace their family tree back in Maritima. He was overwhelmed with the sheer number of portraits to choose from. How could he ever pick one? He’d have to do it at random. He stopped walking and faced the nearest portrait. It was of a young woman with a wolfhound sitting obediently at her side. This would do. It might be good to practice painting something like fur…

Castiel’s eyes were drawn like magnets to the painting hanging next to the woman and the dog. He moved like a puppet pulled by his strings until he was standing in front of the portrait of an officer in dress uniform. He didn’t recognize the era or country from the clothing, so he managed to get his eyes to drop to the placard underneath the painting.

The Viridoctrin General; General Dean Winchester, Commander of the Royal Viridoctrin Armies, 659 of the Common Era, Master Damian Lucifer.

Castiel’s eyes widened. Master Lucifer was, debatably, the greatest Master Artist who ever lived. He looked back up at the painting, trying to focus on brushstroke, color selection, composition, technique, anything…but all he could see was a stoic face with sorrowful green eyes. Just looking into them almost made Castiel’s heart break. Master Lucifer’s skill was unparalleled.

And yet…Castiel couldn’t help but feel that the emotion he was getting wasn’t from the artist, but directly from the subject. He was a handsome man; actually, more beautiful than handsome. He stood in a typical pose for portraits from that era, but he looked almost forced into it, like the formality and decorous nature of the position was unnatural for him. Despite his clean shaven jaw and tight haircut, he looked like a man who was more comfortable outdoors than cooped up in a war room. The tan of his skin against the navy uniform with yellow trimmings furthered Castiel’s confidence in his assessment. The general’s grip on the ceremonial sword was slightly awkward; clearly this was a man who knew how to use a real weapon. Castiel’s eyes traveled up the length of the portrait and again settled on the man’s eyes. Here he found fault with the work of Master Lucifer. Clearly the man had taken poetic license because no human had eyes that clear and bright a green. Even if the hue was unrealistic, the eyes were still mesmerizing and filled Castiel with such melancholy he was afraid he might start crying right in the middle of the Hall of Portraits.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice asked to his right, but Castiel couldn’t pull his eyes away from the painting. “Truly masterful work. I especially admire how the firelight from the lamp plays off the small fray on the trim of his left cuff.”

“Uh-w-what?” Castiel’s eyes flicked down to the cuff, but then returned to the face. “I admit I haven’t really looked at the painting itself yet, I’m still entranced by the subject. I mean, look at that face…it’s perfectly symmetrical. It’s…it’s an artist’s wet dream.”

The person chuckled. “Also just the regular kind of wet dream too, hmm?”

“Well, yeah,” Cas admitted with a huff of laughter. “If it were possible for me to step into that painting I would—ahh!”

Castiel swallowed a screech as he finally turned his head and realized he was talking to Master Campbell. The man smiled indulgently.

“Is this the portrait you’ve selected for your first year final project?”

“Uh, well, I haven’t had a chance to look around much yet.” But, yes, him. I want him. Castiel blushed at his own thought and hoped it wasn’t visible on his face.

“It would be quite brazen to take on Master Lucifer,” Master Campbell said blithely. “I suppose it would be best to choose something else.”

“No.” Castiel realized he was being baited and didn’t care. “I like this one. I think I’ll do this one. If you aim high you keep your eyes off the ground.”

“You’re also more apt to fall short.”

“I’d rather fall short aiming for greatness than to master mediocrity.”

Master Campbell’s smile turned into something more genuine. “I knew I was right in selecting you. I could see you in your brushstrokes and your composition. In your style selection. I think it will be a pleasure to mentor you.”

Castiel was feeling such an odd sensation of embarrassment and euphoria at being praised by the Master that he almost didn’t process that last bit.

“M-mentor?”

“Yes. I apologize for not being available to meet with your earlier and show you to your room, but I will be guiding your education here at the Academy.”

Castiel tried to force his jaw to do something other than flap, but it was bound and determined to make him look like a dribbling imbecile. Master Campbell put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and turned him so that they faced away from the painting as they walked by it.

“Don’t let me intimidate you, Castiel. All the great Masters were novices once. Not a one of us painted a masterpiece the first or even hundredth time we picked up a brush. Well, maybe Lucifer. But then, legend has it that he made a deal with the Devil.”

He gave him a wink and amazingly, Castiel did feel a little better. The Master patted his shoulder and then stepped away to observe another student. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Charlie and a few other students, including Henry, shuffle closer to him.

“What were you talking about?” Charlie asked.

“Uh, just about the portrait I’ve selected for my project.”

The group murmured softly, clearly placated by this response. Then Castiel reasoned that he better drop the bomb now rather than make it seem like he was snobbishly hiding it.

“Also…he said that he’s going to be my mentor.”

“What?!”

The voice echoed around the chamber and everyone turned to look at their small group. The student who had made the exclamation was shrinking behind another one who was not nearly big enough to hide him.

“Well, since you’re all gathering and gossiping, you must be done in here,” Master Campbell said eyeing the group with displeasure. “We’re leaving.”

The other students shot the small group death glares and a few in the group gave Castiel the stink eye—like he had asked for Master Campbell to be his mentor. They began walking slowly towards the exit so that they could still look at the other paintings.

“That’s awesome, Castiel,” Charlie whispered softly. “And ignore these trolls. They’re just jealous. And stupid because they don’t understand how you’ve actually got the shit covered end of the stick here.”

Castiel’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“You heard Master Shurley: our mentors aren’t just supposed to be tutoring us in art, but they’re also meant to be our friends and confidants. A few weeks later when the pressure is really on and you just want to vent about how you hate everything and want to go home, do you think you can tell him that without seriously lowering yourself in his eyes? Or heck, being sent straight home?”

Castiel’s stomach felt like there were frozen worms squirming around in it. “I hadn’t thought of that. Although, he did point out that all Masters were novices once. I imagine that he may very well have felt overwhelmed at one point and can relate.”

“Maybe, but how long ago? He’s only used to success now.”

“Well, damn, Charlie.”

“Sorry.” Charlie linked arms with him and he felt a flush spread from the contact. “I don’t mean to freak you out. This is great. Really.”

“Sure. Very convincing.”

Another arm linked with his on his other side and Castiel turned surprised eyes onto Henry, who was observing Charlie. He smiled up at Castiel.

“Frienz,” he said, his “R” disappearing halfway into an “L” sound.

“Uh, yeah,” Castiel said. “Friends.”

“Think if I slap you on the ass he’ll do it too?” Charlie asked with a snicker.

“Do it and I’ll murder you,” he hissed.

Charlie’s eyes sparkled with mischief, but she behaved.

Once the group was out of the Hall of Portraits, Master Campbell led them back to the room where they’d had their lunch. The Apprentices were waiting for them with a stack of papers.

“These are your course schedules for the first quarter,” a tall, pretty blonde woman said.

“That’s my mentor,” Charlie whispered. “Her name is Jessica.”

“These classes have been selected for you,” Jessica continued, “based on your assessment by the scouts. You’ll be taking classes that play to your greatest strengths and weaknesses. The reasoning being that we can see if your strengths are as strong as they need to be to justify your continuing presence here, and to see if your weaknesses are so great that they can’t be overcome. You’ll be able to choose at least one course in your second quarter. If you make it there.”

The daunting words were tempered somewhat by her kind smile. “Come and get your schedules and then meet with your mentor to discuss them. And also to find out where on campus the classes are because day one starts tomorrow bright and early.”

The group shuffled forward murmuring eagerly and then began to break off with their mentors. Charlie showed hers to Castiel quickly.

“Watercolors and chalks,” she bemoaned softly. “Why watercolors?”

Castiel smiled. “I love watercolors. But, hey, you also have digital art and Paintshop, so…”

“Yeah. Those should be awesome. How about you?”

“Um, I have oils, oh! Watercolors.” They gave each other a discreet fist bump. “And…hunh. It’s blank. Well, it says Art, but that must be a placeholder.”

“Maybe you only have one weakness.”

“I have a lot of weaknesses. I could be in digital art.”

“Well, it has a classroom number next to it.”

“Weird.”

Jessica got their attention and waved Charlie over.

“Well, good luck,” Charlie said. “And I’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast and then maybe you can save my ass in watercolors.”

“Okay. Have a good night.”

“Bye!”

Castiel stood in the rapidly emptying room holding his schedule. He turned back to the other set of doors, half expecting Master Campbell to be waiting impatiently for him and half expecting him to be gone. The man stood still with his hands behind his back. He gave an amused smile at what must be the panicked look on Castiel’s face, a dimple flashing in one cheek. When he smiled like that, he really did seem more approachable.

“Come on, Castiel. Let’s see the verdict.”

Castiel crossed the room and handed Master Campbell his schedule. The Master looked it over and raised an eyebrow.

“Hmm. I wouldn’t have pegged watercolors as one of your weaknesses.”

“It’s not,” Castiel said, confused.

“Well, oils certainly aren’t.”

“Certainly not,” he agreed indignantly.

Master Campbell gave him that friendly, pleasant smile again. “Well, then it has to be watercolors. You only have three classes because Art takes up two slots. So, you’re only given one strength and one weakness.”

Without thinking Castiel snatched the paper back to look at it again. “My watercolors are not my worst medium by far! Master Campbell—”

“Please, just call me Campbell. If we’ll be working together closely, the title will become cumbersome. Now, don’t worry about your watercolor skills. I’m sure you’ll prove them wrong.”

“But, M-Mast—Um, Campbell, what is this placeholder class for?”

“It’s not a placeholder class, you nit, it’s Art.”

Castiel cocked his head. “Art?”

“Yes, Art with a capital A. It’s why you’ve been brought to this school—to learn to be an Artist and create Art for governance.”

Castiel knew he should be honored, but all he felt was despair that he was expected to create the same kind of soulless, uninspiring pieces he’d seen earlier. Campbell placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry. I know what you’re thinking. But all will be revealed tomorrow, and trust me, you’ll understand that Art—is the ultimate form of…moving people.”

Castiel was still utterly in the dark, but he nodded.

“I’ll pick you up at your room tomorrow at 7:45am sharp. Art class will last all morning. Then I’ll drop you off at lunch and one of your classmates will be able to direct you to your next class.”

“Okay.”

“I suggest you get a good night’s rest tonight. You’ll want to be alert tomorrow.”

Castiel nodded again. Campbell gave him another smile and nod, and then left him alone. Castiel looked down at his schedule. He thought he’d been brought here to learn to perfect his craft, not become a politician. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to go to one class. If it was truly their plans to make him become a common painter meant to simply record political events, then he could always go home and live happily on the coast painting what he loved.

That night Castiel tried to take Campbell’s advice and get some sleep, but he stared at the high ceiling in his room for a long time. The bed was comfortable and he was warm enough, but rather than being excited and anxious, he was just disappointed. The International Academy of Art was not turning out to be the experience he’d been expecting.

After a couple of hours he gave up trying to sleep and sat down at the desk. He opened his supply case and pulled out a sketchpad and charcoal pencil. He decided to sketch until he felt sleepy enough to go to bed. After an hour or so, his eyelids finally started to droop. He crawled into bed and fell asleep instantly, the lamp on the desk shining softly on dozens of sketches of the general from the Hall of Portraits.

~~~

At the first sharp rap, Castiel flung the door open. Campbell stood awkwardly with his hand in the air. He raised an eyebrow.

“Ready to go, I see,” he commented dryly.

Castiel shrugged sheepishly and felt a little foolish wearing a worn suit (but the best one he owned) with a white shirt and a blue and white striped tie. Campbell was in jeans and a red plaid button down.

“Should I change?” Castiel asked.

“Yes. But we don’t have time. Come on.”

Castiel groaned softly and moved to join Campbell in the hallway. The man stopped him and pulled the bulging bag off his shoulder. He walked into Castiel’s room and dumped the contents onto the bed. He rooted through them until he found a medium sized sketchpad, a charcoal pencil, and a gum eraser. He put those back in the bag, handed it to Castiel, and then indicated that they were leaving. Castiel looked longingly at his supplies on his bed, but followed his mentor out of the room, pulling the door shut. There were no locks on the dorm room doors.

Campbell walked at a brisk pace which was a little difficult to keep up with, and Castiel was slightly winded by the time they made it to the east wing of the building. He led them down a corridor that obviously didn’t see much traffic, and then used a keycard to let them into a section of building that was clearly not a part of the original as it was made from large, solid slabs of concrete. The doors were metal instead of wood and numbered starting with 33 as far as Castiel could tell. Campbell led them to room 38 and the inside was set up like one would find at an elementary school.

There was a whiteboard on the far wall, a large desk with two boxes covered in cloths on it, four easels split evenly on either side of the desk, three of which had covers, and three chairs with small desks attached to them. Master Shurley and three other world-renowned Master Artists waited on one side of the room. A young woman was already seated in one of the desks. The room reeked of fresh, unventilated oil paints. Campbell nodded to Castiel, and he quickly took a seat next to the woman. Campbell moved to stand with the other Masters and Head Master Shurley took his place at the front of the class.

“Hello, Castiel. Welcome to Art 101. We’ve selected you from millions of candidates to join us in learning how to create Art. How to create Law. And how Art and Law are one.”

Castiel blinked big eyes at him. Then he bent over and dug his sketch pad out of his bag. He sat up straight and poised with pencil in hand. Behind him to his left he heard one of the Masters snort in amusement.

“In order for you to begin learning the techniques, you’ll have to understand what I mean. And in order for you to understand what I mean, we’ll have to show you.”

The other Masters moved forward to stand in front of the easels. Master Zachariah Adler stood in front of the blank canvass, glanced back at Castiel, and then began to sketch rapidly. He was a tall man, balding with a little paunch around the middle, and a sharp, too-clever-for-his-own-good look about him.

Master Anna Milton, a waifish woman in her late fifties with grey streaks in her red hair, took up her post by the covered canvas next to Master Adler. Master Campbell stood by the corresponding covered canvass on the other side of the desk. Master Naomi Freeman was a pretty though severe-looking woman in her 60’s who removed the cover on the last canvass to reveal an incomplete portrait of the person sitting next to Castiel. Castiel turned to look at the other student in the room. She was about his age, maybe a little older, with curly dark hair and brown eyes. She smirked as she glanced at Castiel.

“Get ready to have your mind blown, newbie,” she murmured, her voice low and smoky.

Castiel gave her a mild look, but was distracted when he noticed that Master Adler had been sketching him onto the canvas. And with just a barebones sketch in place had picked up a palette of paint and was beginning to bring the portrait to life. Castiel didn’t know what he had done to be awarded the privilege of being a subject for a Master Artist, but at the same time he felt like maybe it wasn’t a good thing at all.

“Castiel, this is Margaret Masters,” Master Shurley said. “She joined us last quarter from Tartarus as a candidate Artist from her country. We’ll be training her so that she can be her country’s representative during political negotiations.

“Before we begin, there are a few very important things you need to know and agree to. One: what we do in the classroom is to remain strictly confidential. We would threaten you with pain upon death, but as you’ll learn shortly, that’s absolutely unnecessary.”

Castiel shifted uncomfortably.

“You do have a choice in this. The point of this is to teach you how to govern through Art. To train you to be a political emissary because we’ve followed your career and your record and even know who you’ve voted for in the past and what causes you support and oppose.”

Castiel’s jaw dropped.

“Of course, what you champion and believe in and dislike are things that some of us agree with and don’t agree with. The point isn’t to find like-minded people and run a dictatorship here. Occimundi was founded on the principle of democracy.”

Margaret snorted derisively. Master Shurley ignored her.

“It’s because we know you to be honest and a proponent of the system that we chose you. We have faith that you would never abuse your power.”

Castiel shook his head. “What power?”

Master Shurley nodded to Campbell and Master Milton. “Show him.”

They removed the covers from the canvases at the same time that Master Shurley pulled the covers off the boxes on the desk. In the glass boxes, there was a pair of mice each separated by an opaque divide. On Master Milton’s canvas was an oil painting of a box on the desk with the two mice sharing a piece of cheese with the divide gone. On Campbell’s canvas was a glass box on the desk with the two mice fighting viciously. Castiel flinched away from how real and fresh the painted blood looked, and the distorted screech of pain frozen on the losing mouse’s face.

“Castiel.”

Castiel tore his eyes away from the painting and looked at Master Shurley.

“I will say this is plain Loquella. Art…has power. And as the Artist, we have the power to control the subjects of our Art. We can control actions, beliefs, circumstance...To some very small extent weather and nature. We can use our art to affect reality.”

Castiel glanced around the room, looking for some indication that they were waiting for his reaction so that they could laugh at him and tell him they were just messing with him. Everyone looked serious and the smirk on Margaret’s features was gone.

“I don’t—” He tried not to say I don’t believe you. “I don’t understand. I’ve drawn my brother stepping in dog poo a hundred times. He never has.”

A ripple of amusement passed through the Masters.

“Because then you were just making art. Not Art. In order to affect change with paint, you must also use words. The part of the painting that will be controlled by us cannot be drawn or painted in brushstrokes. It must be drawn or painted in the written word.”

Castiel’s brow creased in confusion. He couldn’t grasp what master Shurley was trying to say, until he remembered the painting of the treaty he’d seen the day before. The peace treaty on the table hadn’t been just mixed white paint, it had been the word “peace” repeated so many times that it had become nearly solid.

“Like the peace treaty in Master Alfre's painting,” he said, so that they would know he had a vague idea of what they were talking about.

“Yes, exactly,” Master Shurley said.

“I told you he was sharp,” Campbell said with an edge of pride in his tone.

“So, you’re saying that the Intercontinental War only ended because he painted it to?” Cas could hear the incredulity in his voice and couldn’t control it.

“Oh, no,” Master Shurley said. “We don’t control the world like that. We don’t have that much power nor would we want it. The Intercontinental War was a result of the follies of the people of those times and no matter how much diplomacy was instilled in the Art made then, war was the only solution they could see. When the war ended however, we were tasked with making sure that the peace treaty would hold. And for almost a hundred years now, it has. All countries around the world are flourishing because the peace is holding.”

“Not all countries,” Castiel said. “The entirety of the western half of the eastern continent is under the rule of Vacivo and is suffering every day.”

“That falls outside of our purview,” Master Freeman said.

“Why? If you could get the Vacivo to stop committing genocide, why wouldn’t you?”

“And exercise a Muselike power?” Master Shurley asked. “Our world has experienced that before. Are you familiar with the Dark Ages?”

Castiel shrugged. “As much as anyone can be. We don’t know much about human history before the Dawn of Enlightenment at the beginning of the Common Era.”

“Most people don’t. We do. We know what happens when Artists exercise control over the human mind.”

Castiel swallowed and glanced around. Castiel Shurley nodded to Master Milton. She picked up a brush and leaned close to the edge of her painting and began filling in the bottom corner with tiny brushstrokes.

“I’ve painted my will onto the mice in this painting,” Master Milton said. “I’ve imbued it with peace and amity and cooperation. I’ve made them both docile and then this final stroke will make these two mice, despite being hungry, share a piece of cheese calmly.” She stopped painting and looked up.

Master Shurley removed the divide between one set of mice and placed a piece of cheese in the center. One of them snapped it up and ran away. The other squeaked and looked, honestly, confused. Castiel didn’t see the mice doing anything Master Milton had indicated. He looked at her. She smiled and leaned forward to place one final stroke on the painting. Suddenly the mice moved toward each other and the mouse with the cheese set it down where they could both reach it and nibble on it.

Castiel let out a small sound of disbelief. That had to be a coincidence. He looked at the painting and then back at the cooperative mice. He didn’t really believe the two were connected, but even if they were he didn’t see what was so bad about it.

“So?” Castiel voiced his thoughts. “If she did in fact do that, what’s wrong with it? Being cooperative and sharing food is something humans could stand to do more of.”

“Because, if we allow ourselves to control people like this, what’s to stop us from controlling them like this?” Master Shurley lifted the divide between the other two mice. He didn’t put any cheese in, and they continued on about their mice-y business--until Campbell placed a careless stroke on his canvass.

The mice turned on each other with tiny battle shrieks. Castiel jumped halfway out of his seat as the two animals began to tear into each other viciously. Their squeals of pain were somehow the loudest thing Castiel had ever heard. He glanced at the painting and realized that was where the mice were headed—toward one with a broken leg and gouged out eye ripping the throat out of the other one.

Castiel was on his feet and moving before his brain decided whether he should interfere with the mice directly or the painting. The painting was closer and he shouted “Don’t!” as he dragged a hand through the still wet paint. It smeared and the mice stopped fighting for a moment. They circled and attacked a couple more times, but not with nearly as much vitriol. Then one backed away and the other retreated as well. Master Shurley put the divide back between the mice and Castiel looked down at the mess of red and grey paint on his palm. He looked up at Campbell in horror. The man waved him off.

“It wasn’t a masterpiece by any means, Castiel. It was a tool.”

Castiel curled his hands into fists, the paint squishing out between his knuckles on his right hand.

“I…I’m sorry.”

“For showing compassion?” Master Shurley asked. “Don’t apologize for that. If anything it proves that we were right to select you. I don’t suppose you would even be mildly tempted to control another human in that way.”

Castiel shook his head.

“Well, now the problem becomes are you unwilling to influence a human in some way?”

Castiel swallowed and looked at the floor. “I don’t know.”

“Good. We can work with that. If you’re still willing to learn. You’re not committed to it yet, of course. You can still leave at any time. You can stay as long as you like to learn how to make Art.”

Castiel looked up. “And if I choose not to learn Art, can I still stay at the Academy?”

Master Shurley’s face softened, and he opened his mouth, but didn’t speak. Master Adler spoke instead.

“Of course not. You were invited here because you have a good head on your shoulders and an above-average talent for realism. Your artistic merit is mediocre at best. It would be a waste to train you. You’d never achieve the status of Master without being a Master of Art.”

Castiel reached behind himself to find the desktop to his seat. He used it to guide himself back so he could sit down. His wobbling knees wouldn’t hold him up. He was a mediocre artist?

“Castiel,” Master Freeman said, her voice gentle, but brooking no argument. “You have more talent in your pinky finger than most everyone on the planet. Don’t think that you aren’t skilled. But…you’re twenty-seven. Look at the quality of the works you’ve done. You are not a Master and you never will be. However, you have the skill to be an Artist, and you can achieve the status of Master through that.”

“But if you don’t want to learn Art,” Master Milton said, “you’re of no use to us.”

Castiel could feel tears burning behind his eyes and inhaled shakily.

“You’ll be able to take regular classes in conjunction with your Art lessons,” Master Shurley said. “They will only help you improve. Your art is of sufficient quality to hang in many galleries around the world. But you lack that nescio quid that makes a true Master. However, what you were recruited for is of much greater importance. Castiel, there are ten Master artists in the world, but there are only five Master Artists. Only half of those who even reach the rank of Master are entrusted with this great knowledge.”

“Just you five and a few other vermis from around the world?” Castiel asked bitterly.

“A necessary evil,” Master Adler sneered but didn’t turn his attention away from his painting of Castiel, which was shaping up rapidly.

“Occimundi runs the world, Castiel,” Campbell said. “It always has, even before it was known as Occimundi. Caelus is the heart of government. The heart of Art. The beginning and end of civilization. You’re being entrusted with the next generation.”

Castiel’s fingers curled tightly against the desk. “That’s a lot of responsibility.”

“Less than you think,” Master Shurley said. “As I said before, we don’t make decisions and control people. The world and the countries and the people in it are responsible for what happens in it. We Artists merely make sure that those decisions are carried out as planned, expected, and peacefully.”

“But…isn’t risk an inherent part of making a decision? If you make a decision and know it will work, what is the risk of not going in another direction?”

“The politicians don’t know that,” Margaret said. “They think there is risk. The Artists just make sure nothing spirals out of control.”

“But still, that isn’t natural.”

“No, it’s not,” Master Shurley agreed. “Do you know about the Fall of Celestium?”

Castiel shrugged. He’d taken history in high school. “It was the country that Caelus was founded in. Eight hundred years ago there was a war and Celestium fell, but Caelus was fortified so the people were able to sustain themselves for a thirty year siege. The armies eventually deserted over the years until they had all returned to their native lands. Over the next four hundred years, the Caelus people slowly expanded their control until about two hundred years ago when the entire western continent fell under their control and the united country was named Occimundi.”

“A-plus,” Margaret quipped.

Cas shot her a look, but didn’t comment.

“What do you know about the century preceding the fall of Celestium and the thirty year siege of the city?”

“It was chaos. At least, that’s the way my teacher described it. War, famine, pestilence…people died by the thousands every day.”

“Do you know why?”

Castiel sat back, feeling a little annoyed. He shook his head.

“A few years before, the Artists had the same notion that you did. That influencing human actions and events even a little bit was unnatural. The Devil’s work. So, they stopped teaching Art. They stopped making Art. And they even destroyed the Art depicting the peace treaties holding the tribes together. With the influence of the Art gone, humans were able to behave as humans would naturally behave.”

“Chaos,” Master Milton said. “Your teacher was right.”

“Betrayal, greed, power-hungry, warmongering,” Master Freeman said in her calm, steady voice. “They destroyed the world. The Artists back then waited. They thought humans would eventually set themselves right again. But everything only crumbled faster.”

“It took thirty years for the lost Art to be found again,” Master Shurley concluded the lesson. “Thirty years before they could start salvaging what humans had become without Art to guide them.”

“Do you understand why we are taught that Art is Governance?” Campbell asked. “Because humans are incapable of governing themselves.”

Castiel rubbed his eyebrow and smeared paint along his forehead. His mind was racing with this information. “Can I—am I allowed to think on it?”

“Of course,” Master Shurley said. “We will educate you and train you, and you won’t be expected to give us an answer until the end of the quarter.”

Castiel nodded. “I understand. I also vow silence on the matter. But…I do have to wonder…”

“How has this never been leaked? Even as a conspiracy theory?”

Castiel shrugged and nodded. Master Shurley nodded toward Master Adler. He was very, very carefully painting Castiel’s lips where he had been haphazardly (though beautifully) rendering Castiel’s other features. Then he saw that master Adler was actually writing.

“The people who know about the secret are incapable of talking about it outside of this addition,” Master Shurley said. “Even us. Your fingers will also be spelled to prevent you from writing or drawing it.”

Castiel rolled his lips in and curled his fingers together. He didn’t feel any different, and he couldn’t feel anything on his lips, but he was terrified to know that these people had control of him. That they could take this portrait of him and change it to whatever they liked.

“Rest easy, Castiel. Your portrait will be locked in a vault at the back of this building that has four locks on it. It can only be opened when all four locks are turned at the same time along with a voice command. Each Master’s portrait is locked in the same manner and three of us will have a key, and so will you. You can select which three of us will hold a key to your portrait.”

Castiel closed his eyes. This was all very overwhelming. Then he opened his eyes.

“That’s why there aren’t any portraits of Masters anywhere. Not even in the Hall of Portraits. Not a single self-portrait. They don’t trust it. They—you—don’t trust each other.”

Campbell shrugged. “We do trust each other. But…it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Let’s not think on the gravity of your decision for now,” Master Shurley said. “Quite a bit goes into making Art. It’s not as simple as writing something down and it coming true. If that were the case, every novel and Internet rant would be true, and isn’t that a scary thought?”

Castiel nodded.

“Color selection and mixing is very important. Everything has to match the scene perfectly. It’s the only way the paint has any power. And it must be oil paints.”

Castiel continued to stare dumbly at him. Master Shurley nodded pointedly at the forgotten sketchpad and pencil on Castiel’s desk. With a start, he took the hint and began taking notes. Margaret sighed and sat back in her chair. Apparently she had learned all this several weeks ago.

By noon Castiel’s hand was cramping, his mind was a puddle of goo, and his portrait was mostly completed and magnificent in grandeur. Clearly Master Adler wasn’t just an Art Master, but a true Master of art.

Castiel selected Master Shurley, Master Campbell, and Master Freeman to be the ones who held a key to his portraits vault. Even after seeing it (and his notes) sealed and being given a key to the lock didn’t make him feel particularly safe. There could be dozens of copies of any of these keys and any four people could turn the locks. Of course, it had been Castiel’s voice that recorded the voice command, but that couldn’t be that hard to fake or override. He realized that if he was going to be an Artist, he would have to trust his fellow Artists, just like they would have to trust him. He could paint a portrait of any one of them at his leisure in his own room. What was to stop him from messing with them? Other than the fact that he didn’t actually know the techniques yet, and the fact that he would never feel right or comfortable doing that to someone else.

He supposed that’s what they meant when they said that he had been selected for his character. He was moral enough not to take advantage of this knowledge and abuse the fledgling power given to him. He had to trust that the other five Masters had the same mettle. But what of Margaret? He glanced at her as they walked through the concrete corridor and back to the main building of the Academy.

“You needn’t worry about Margaret,” Campbell whispered to him softly. “She can’t speak or write about the power of Art like you, but unlike you, she also won’t remember anything about it outside of these walls. Out there she thinks she’s simply taking classes at the Academy.”

Castiel stopped walking and gaped at Campbell. The man took him by the bicep and got him to continue walking.

“She consented to it. It’s part of the agreement of giving her the power to work for her own government, but she understands that we can’t just let this information be leaked from Caelus’ walls.”

“Why us? Why has no one else in the world figured this out?”

“The person who discovered the power recruited people from around the world. They are the founders of Caelus.”

“Who was that? And how did he know?”

“Some say she discovered it by accident. Some say the Muses came to her and made her their Chosen One. Some say it was the Devil.”

“What did she say about it?”

Campbell gave him a smile. “She never did say.”

“And no one asked?”

Campbell shrugged. “Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t. But no one alive knows and she’s not around anymore to ask.”

Master Milton held the heavy metal door separating the corridor from the east wing open for everyone to pass through. Castiel watched Margaret carefully to see if anything happened to her when she crossed the threshold. She appeared to be fine.

“Excellent first day,” Master Shurley said. “You must be starving for lunch.”

Castiel and Margaret nodded. Master Shurley faced Campbell. “They’re your charges,” he said.

“Margaret,” Campbell said, “you know where the cafeteria is. Show Castiel, and there I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone to tell you where your next class is.”

“Stellar mentoring,” Master Shurley murmured, but he and the other Masters dispersed without another word.

Castiel turned to Margaret. “Hey.”

“Hi,” she said, somewhat suspicious of his odd tone.

“Did you really forget?”

“Forget what?”

Castiel found he couldn’t even form a thought to express what he meant about the power of Art. He shrugged.

“Well, I haven’t forgotten that you destroyed one of Master Campbell’s paintings. It was a demo piece he was going to destroy anyway, but that takes balls.”

Castiel blushed. Out of everything that had happened that morning, running his hand through the paint to prevent the mice from killing each other seemed like such a trivial thing. He wondered what Margaret thought was the reason he had done it if she really couldn’t remember about the way the painting had controlled the mice.

“Anyway, good thing for you I like balls. I actually go by Meg.” She stuck out her hand and Castiel accepted.

“I usually go by Cas.”

“Great. Now that we’re best-ish friends and all, let’s go get lunch.”

They started to make their way toward the cafeteria, and Castiel chuckled to himself.

“What?” Meg asked.

“If you become a Master, you’ll be Master Masters.”

He sniggered again and Meg rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

“Looks like they picked you more for your talent than your brains.”

When they reached the cafeteria, Meg left him to join her class which had come in at the beginning of the spring quarter. There were only seven of them. Castiel found Charlie and discovered that he was actually grateful his lips were spelled not to speak about what Art class was really about. It had made it easier to joke about how the class was supposed to teach good artists how to be terrible copycats. He felt safe making up a story about how he’d been told that realism was more important than artist interpretation or emotion without the fear of letting anything slip. A part of him wished he could talk about it with her, but mostly, he knew he could have kept the secret without the spell work. He had given his word, and back in Maritima at least, that meant something. Also, he wouldn’t want to put the burden he felt onto Charlie. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

Charlie guided him to Watercolors 101 and they took a seat together in the middle of the classroom. Examples of all the students’ art were hanging around the room. There was a clear divide between the students who were considered to have this class as their strength, and those for who it was a weakness. Castiel’s painting of the fishing boats coming in on a summer night was among the weaker paintings.

“Which one is yours?” Charlie asked, looking at the truly spectacular watercolors hanging to their left.

He pointed to his on the right. “That one. Sail boats.”

“Oh. I thought they had us divided…”

“They do.”

Charlie looked at him and Castiel shrugged. “Art takes up two slots. Oils are a strength. Apparently watercolors are a weakness for me too.”

“Oh. Still better than mine,” she said, pointing to a watery mess of greens and browns.

“You were not exaggerating,” he said, realizing only too late how insulting that was.

Charlie just laughed it off. “I know. It’s rough. Honestly, I think yours is better than some of the ‘good’ ones over there. You know art is subjective.”

“Not here.”

Charlie shrugged but didn’t respond because the professor stood up at the front of the class and began her lesson. Castiel allowed himself to sink into a bit of a funk. Who cared if he had the power to control people through Art?  Apparently he was a hack.