The Princess Carala, youngest legitimate child of the Emperor Somilius Deyn III, was among the best educated people in the Anointed Realms, but once she fled the city of Talinara she began to understand how little she really knew of the great wide world beyond its walls. The business of trying to win her father's favor was something she left to her elder siblings. The Malachite Throne held no interest for her, and she was perfectly comfortable resting so far down the line of succession. That, along with her father's affection for her (or what passed for such in Somilius Deyn III), gave her a little more protection from assassins' knives than she might have otherwise enjoyed. So she had focused on books, and histories, and the great tales, and tried her hand at music (at which she had inherited some of her father's talent), at dancing (at which she had inherited a great deal of her mother's talent), and at painting (at which she grudgingly admitted she had no talent at all). All her life she had rested easily in the assurance that, no matter what else happened, as long as the House of Deyn persisted she would be allowed to pursue her own pleasures and her own curiosities.

And so when her father had summoned her and informed her he intended to marry her off to Denisius Gallis of Marhollow, she had accepted it agreeably if not passionately. She had known Denisius a little bit since she had come of age, and enjoyed the fact that he was neither a craven liar like Varallo Thray nor a swaggering blowhard like her brother Silenio, who still boasted about the stable boy he had eviscerated for insulting him during one Weektide riding lesson, as if that were a feat worthy of Il-Hethma the First Knight himself. If nothing else Denisius seemed unlikely to forbid her from continuing her studies, her dancing lessons, or her attempts at poetry . . . though she supposed if he insisted she abandon her efforts at painting, she would give it up with the slightest sensation of relief. Repeatedly she had asked her mother to take down the landscape painting of the lost city of Atrolom that hung in the Empress-Consort's private salon since Carala had presented it to her on her fifteenth birthday, but Yvelle wouldn't hear of it. At least she had the good sense not to lavish praise on it to her salon's infrequent visitors.

The Empress-Consort's salon was, of course, one of dozens in Talinara (though undoubtedly the finest), and it was because of one of these many salons that Carala ran afoul of the creature who irreparably altered the course of her young life.

Paela Greythorne, who had returned to using her family's name after observing the minimum six weeks' period of mourning prescribed in the Chronicle of Sorrows following the sudden death of her husband Tomas Rial, had been in the process of dedicating just such a salon. There was no better way to celebrate her return to Talinara's high society now that she was no longer expected to wear black and adorn herself with grim iron replicas of her fine jeweled brooches, rings, and bangles, and she intended to make as gaudy a splash as possible. If that included a painting by the Emperor's beautiful and unattached daughter, then what did it matter if she wasn't exactly a grand master of the palette? Madame Greythorne did, however, seem a little less thrilled at the prospect upon learning Carala had been promised to Lord Marhollow.

"Still," she had said, taking Carala by the arm and patting her gloved hand as she led her through the banquet hall where a portrait of her departed husband on one wall was draped with black, watching her with greedy little teardrop eyes, "perhaps this can serve as a bit of an announcement to the city before the Cathedral of the Graces cries the banns? Or is the Lord Marhollow of another faith? I don't know much about the Gallises, I'm afraid. Had you decided on a subject for my little gathering?"

"I had considered the Gates of Ismene at sunset, perhaps with sailing vessels passing beneath them." This had been a calculated decision, as the Rials were a powerful merchant family whose wealth had derived from a shipping company that plied the routes of the Azure Sea, whose southwestern end was marked by the Gates.

Madame Greythorne clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "No, no dear princess, I think that won't do at all. Surely there are enough tributes to poor Tomas all through the house." Carala had not personally seen any besides the perfunctory black ribbons hung from his portrait, but thought it might be best not to argue the point. "I think it might be much preferable to have some sort of dedication to your intended -- Lorith, isn't it?"

"No, Madame Greythorne. Lorith is his eldest brother. I've been promised to Denisius."

Madame Greythorne now looked positively crestfallen. "Eldest? Denisius isn't the second son?"

"No, he's the Lord Marhollow's youngest."

"I see," replied Madame Greythorne neutrally. Somehow she had slipped her companionable arm from Carala's without the princess noticing. Carala dearly wished the widow Greythorne would find the effrontery to withdraw her invitation to the salon, but such an insult to the House of Deyn was something no one in their right mind would countenance, even under a gentler sovereign than her father. Most certainly an ambitious widow of the House of Greythorne would never dream of committing such a faux pas. Indeed, despite the blow to what she had mistakenly thought to be a social coup, she recovered almost at once, finding a new tack with a skill Carala had to admire. "You will be staying in Talinara once you are wed, yes? I imagine the Chalcedony Palace is much preferable to Coldspring Hall. I would even think your intended will be gifted with a townhouse here in the city as part of the dowry, if I know your father at all. This would be a wonderful chance to introduce him to the people who matter here, even if he won't be attending in person."

Carala wondered if Denisius would have received an invitation if this interview had gone closer to the widow Greythorne's expectations, but kept a polite smile on her lips, only nodding in assent.

"Why not a portrait, then? I can just see it." Madame Greythorne spread her hands expansively as she led Carala into the brightly lit hall that would be a new salon in a few months' time, workmen putting up fresh coats of paint and plaster, the beautiful glass doors that opened onto the gardens wide open for ventilation. "The Guildmaster Minstrel leads a performance of the Deyn anthem, giving way to that of Gallis -- on fewer instruments, of course, your highness, I would never think to offend the dignity of the Throne -- the painting is draped with you at its side, then we have one of my house servants whisk the draping away with just a bit of flair -- and there he is, Denisius Gallis, groom to the Princess Carala! Yes, I think this will be a wonderful opportunity for you both, my dear."

"Oh," Carala stammered, losing her poise for a moment. "Oh no, Madame Greythorne, I really do not think that would be best for your salon. Portraiture isn't my area of expertise." In fact Carala would freely admit if asked that she possessed no areas of expertise as far as painting was concerned, but portraiture was something at which she was so unskilled the prospect of painting one for public consumption was downright terrifying. She half-feared that the assembled courtiers at the widow Greythorne's salon would come to the conclusion, if they saw such a portrait, that the Princess Carala must be feeble-minded.

"Nonsense! I am sure you will perform most admirably."

"Perhaps, Madame Greythorne -- I could accompany the Guildmaster Minstrel, the Gallis anthem is a very lovely song, I think your guests -- "

"And risk you outsinging the Emperor? No, my dear, no-no-no, it's a portrait of your intended or nothing. Now, let's turn to the matter of how you'll be dressed -- black is no longer necessary, of course, but there is a certain solemnity required." Madame Greythorne was far from the most powerful of the quasi-nobles who orbited the Chalcedony Palace and its intrigues large and small, but she was very used to getting her way, and Carala was a little too far away from the Malachite Throne to exert much pull over her. Though she supposed if it really came down to it she could persuade Silenio to put his sword through the woman's throat. The prince was a thug and a bully, but he'd always had a soft spot for his little sisters.

The widow Greythorne, having positioned the Emperor's daughter precisely where she wished her to be for her upcoming gala, now turned her attention to a beleaguered housemaid, who had apparently ordered the wrong style of upholstery for the salon's furniture. "No, no -- far too somber. Tomas's funeral was weeks ago, that's not what this is about!" Carala took the opportunity to escape into the gardens, drawing a deep breath of its flowers and fresh air. Maybe she'd have enough time to improve her technique before the salon, at least enough so that she could display a portrait of Denesius without hiding her head in a sack.

The relief Carala felt upon escaping the widow Greythorne's presence was short-lived, however. After a minute or so of strolling through the small but lushly furnished gardens of the Rial estate (or perhaps it was the Greythorne estate now), she became abruptly aware that she was not alone. Normally this was not something that came as a surprise; most of her life was spent surrounded by her handmaidens and at least one representative of the household guard. Moments of solitude were rare blessings. But her handmaidens had been asked to wait in Madame Greythorne's foyer, and her guard (two soldiers today; the minimum for excursions into the city proper) had been barred from the house altogether, the widow finding their uniforms and shortswords and stiff leather helmets bearing the eagle of the House of Deyn distasteful. As she had paid for the soldiers to lunch at the Queen's Swan Inn, they raised no objection. The widow Greythorne was an expert at ensuring her insults were veiled if not wholly velveted. Yet despite Carala's precise awareness of where her various hangers-on were located, someone was in this garden with her. She could hear the chuckle of water being sipped from a skin, and, more pointedly, she was intensely aware of a pleasurable, distinctly male aroma.