Heart of a Dragon by David Niall Wilson

fascinated.   He'd seen paints before.   He'd even used them once or twice when the church gathered young people in the summer.   They allowed him to attend, even though he had no parents to vouch or sign for him.   Salvatore enjoyed those times very much, interacting with other young people, working on the crafts and hearing the stories of the priests.   He listened carefully and never forgot a tale.   The others, the children from better homes, and those who attended school regularly, seemed to take the words for granted, but for Salvatore stories were magic – almost as appealing as the images he created, day in and day out, to fill his ours and free his mind.
    Martinez worked at the three bowls with a pestle, grinding the ingredients into a paste.   He added oils and some water, and worked at each again.   The old man was patient, and though he could not hear the words, Salvatore saw Martinez was speaking constantly as he worked.   The mumble that was discernable was rhythmic, like a chant, or some sort of incantation.   Salvatore very much wished he could hear, it   but there was the cheese, and the cup of milk to consider, and he was afraid that if he spoke, or moved closer, he would interrupt the old man's concentration.
    Finally the mixtures met Martinez' approval.   He checked the sheet of paper a final time, then folded it and slipped it between the pages of one of his books.   Next he walked to the window and opened the shade.   The late afternoon sunlight streamed in at an angle.   The old man returned to the table and examined the small stands.   The crystals were just out of the sunbeam's reach.   He adjusted them so that the light shimmered through, bent, and sent colored shimmers over the table.   Martinez moved the bowls next, so that the line of light breaking through each crystal found the far rim of each bowl.   Salvatore saw that as the sun continued to set, the light would slice across the center of each bowl.   One yellow, one blue, and one brilliant red.
    Martinez turned to Salvatore and smiled.
    "Now," he said, "we wait.   These will be special paints, the kind of paints that can make a difference.   When you paint Jake's dragon, they will give you strength.   When your vision clouds they will provide clarity.   It is important that you make the connection within yourself – that you see both man and dragon as one.   Do you understand?"
    Salvatore wanted to tell Martinez that, though he always saw the man and dragon as one, and he was certain that he could paint the dragon– particularly with such wonderful paints, that he did not understand.   He did not understand why he was now the center of so much attention.   He did not understand how he could see what others could not, or why it was so important that he do this particular painting now.   He wanted to thank the old man for the food and the drink, and for not leaving him passed out in the street where he'd fallen.
    Instead he just nodded and sipped the last of the milk.   He was very full, and a little sleepy.   He wanted to stand and walk around to look into the bowls, but he could see no way to do so without blocking the sunlight, and he understood somehow that the light was important.
    "What are they?" he said at last.   He pointed at the crystals.
    "They concentrate the color," Martinez explained.   "The light through each contains the purest hue of one of the primary colors, yellow, blue, and Red.   All other colors are shades of these, dilutions, or complex mixtures. The power in a painting–the power in any image–is focused on a foundation of the three.   I have one more thing to do.   Do you want to watch?"
    Salvatore nodded.   Martinez stepped to the sink and small counter that served as his kitchen.   He grabbed a long, slender knife from the rack on the wall and turned toward the door.   Salvatore rose