The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 4: The Princess's Suitor, Part 2

 Hesitantly she turned and saw lounging on a marble bench half-concealed by a flowering rosebush a man with cropped chestnut hair, dressed in rough tradesman's garb that highlighted rather than concealed his powerful physique. Dark brown eyes regarded her with open curiosity, and as he lifted his waterskin to his lips Carala couldn't help noticing the way sweat limned the muscles of his upper arm, where he sported a single tattoo: a pair of stylized feet adorned with wings.

Well, it's the only tattoo I can see, Carala thought. An atavistic shudder twisted her belly.

"Beg your pardon, milady," the man said. "Just taking a little break here in the garden while the boys work. I'm paid to guard, not to haul, and certainly not to paint." He smiled at her, the lines of his face creasing into a handsome series of angles that would have been at home in any of Talinara's salons or music halls alike. The man extended a hand. "Tacen. I'm a guard for Swiftfoot Carting-- Lady Greythorne has us hauling in a forest's worth of new furniture from Ismene. A real pleasure to meet you, milady."

Carala did not extend her hand in return. The man's station was totally unknown; at best he was a commoner, but an indentured worker (and therefore a debtor or even a criminal) was just as likely. She did, however, favor him with a polite smile. "Thank you. I ought return to the Madame Greythorne, though."

"Won't even tell me your name?" The man affected a pained expression and raised the back of one hand to his forehead like a tragedian mourning the loss of his lady love in an opera at the Silverlamp Theatre. "I had no idea my face was so awful, forgive me for showing it in public, milady."

"Your face is very nice," Carala said, unable to stifle a little laugh. "But really, I do have business inside. Madame Greythorne is not a woman one should keep waiting."

"I agree completely," Tacen said with a knowing wink. Carala could feel herself blushing. "But before you go, would you at least tell me your name?"

Carala smiled a trifle crookedly. "The Imperial Princess Carala Deyn. You may call me 'your Imperial highness,' if you need to call me anything."

Tacen's eyes widened in horror and he nearly fell to the floor as he sank into a clumsy bow. "Oh gods -- my apologies, your Imperial highness, I didn't know, please, I meant no offense -- "

Another laugh escaped Carala's lips, but she actually felt a little sorry for Tacen and shook her head, inviting him to stand or sit as he liked with a curl of her fingers. "No offense is taken, Tacen. I do not believe it's actually a crime to address a member of the Imperial family uninvited anymore."

Tacen didn't look entirely sure of that himself, but he offered a relieved smile. It looked even better on his face than the cocky one which had initially greeted her. "Well, thanks, your Imperial highness -- I -- you know, you work in the capital, you hear stories, but you never really expect to see a princess -- I mean, someone from the Palace unless you're, well, actually working near the Palace, so your -- uh -- your Imperial highness, I just -- "

Carala interrupted his stream of babble with a low and pleasant laugh, hiding her mouth behind one gloved hand. Tacen smiled sheepishly. "I think just 'your highness' will do from now on."

"All right. I mean, uh, yes, your highness." Tacen seemed to consider offering a sip from his waterskin but thought better of it, instead awkwardly shifting it from one hand to the other.

Carala turned her back on this, meaning to head back into the house. Part of her -- the paranoid part cultivated by her father, by men like Varallo Thray, and by the knowledge that three of her siblings had committed offenses grave enough to cost them their lives -- was sure this encounter had not been accidental; that one did not merely "bump into" the youngest daughter of Somilius Deyn III. But a more optimistic side of her wanted to keep this as a pleasant memory; a few minutes in an otherwise disagreeable morning where she and a handsome commoner had flirted a little, as though she weren't as much a prisoner of the Chalcedony Palace as any of her brothers and sisters had been, especially the ones who had no obvious role in her father's plans and political needs.