The Painter and the Prince Who Cannot Be Painted novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Face Nobody May See
A court painter is brought by night to an exile house to paint a prince whose face is forbidden, and the prince walks in wearing the dead King's face.
The decree was read at the gate, by lantern light, and the captain read it fast.
"The name of the man inside is struck from the royal register," Captain Jang said.
"His face may not be drawn, carved, or described to anyone."
"One portrait is permitted, for his mother, the Royal Noble Consort Min, who is dying."
Ryu Do-yun stood in the cold with his painting box on his back and his mouth dry.
He was twenty-six, a junior painter of the Royal Painting Bureau, and nobody had ever sent him anywhere at night.
"One sitting a night," Jang went on. "After the lamps in the guard post are out."
"No word of it to anyone, ever."
"Yes, Captain."
"The guards stay outside the wall. I hold the only key."
"I'll bring your food at dawn, and I'll ask how many nights you still need."
Do-yun nodded.
He looked up at the wall, which was twice the height of a man, with black tiles along the top.
Behind it, the wind off Mount Mani moved in the pines.
"The last painter was quick," Jang said, and turned the key. "Nine nights, and he went home to Gangneung."
"I'll be as quick as I can."
"Do that."
The gate swung in, and Jang did not follow him.
The yard was bare and swept.
A woodpile stood against the east wall, taller than a cart, every log split clean.
One window in the main building was lit.
Do-yun walked toward it with his heart going hard and heavy, because he had been told nothing about the man.
He knew only that this man was a prince, and a traitor, and forbidden.
The door was open a hand's width.
Do-yun pushed it, stepped in, and bowed with his forehead nearly at his knees.
"Ryu Do-yun of the Painting Bureau, Your Highness."
"Look up."
The voice was low, and a little rough.
Do-yun looked up.
A man sat on the floor cushion beside a single oil lamp.
He was huge, even sitting, with wide shoulders under a faded indigo robe worn open at the throat.
His black hair hung loose to his waist, which no man of rank wore in public.
A pale scar split his right eyebrow, and there was stubble along his jaw.
His eyes were dark and amused.
They went over Do-yun slowly, from the topknot to the ink-stained fingers on the strap of the painting box.
"You're young," the prince said. "They usually send an old man with a bad back."
"The old men were busy, Your Highness."
"Were they?" The prince smiled. "Sit, Painter. I'm Yi Gyeol."
"Nobody has said my name to me in three years. I'd like to hear it spoken, even by you."
"Prince Gyeol."
"Mm. Again."
"Prince Gyeol," Do-yun said, and his ears went hot.
"Good enough."
Gyeol rolled one shoulder and the robe slid with it, showing a collarbone and a slab of tan chest.
Do-yun looked at the floor and set up his easel.
He stretched the silk, laid out the charcoal, and ground a stick of ink with water from the jar by the door.
His hands were steady, because they were always steady when he worked.
"Where do you want me?" Gyeol asked.
"Facing the lamp. A little to the left."
"Like this?"
"A little more."
Gyeol moved, and then moved again, and then laughed under his breath.
Do-yun stepped over and tilted the prince's chin with two fingers, to set the angle.
He had done this to a hundred sitters, and it had never meant anything.
Gyeol's hand shot up and closed around his wrist.
The grip was hot and hard, and it did not hurt.
"Don't," Gyeol said, very quietly.
"I'm sorry, Your Highness, I only meant to..."
"Nobody has touched my face in three years."
Do-yun stood bent over him, with his fingers still against the prince's jaw.
He felt the scrape of stubble and the pulse beating under it.
He felt Gyeol's thumb move once over the inside of his wrist, and he forgot how to breathe.
Then Gyeol let go.
"Go on," he said. "I'd like you to."
Do-yun's fingers shook for the first time in years as he finished setting the chin.
He stepped back to the easel and lifted the charcoal.
He looked at the face in the lamplight, properly, for the first time.
The straight nose, the heavy brows, and the long, stern line of the jaw.
His charcoal stopped in the air.
He knew this face.
He had traced it a dozen times for provincial shrines, on silk, from the portrait in the ancestral hall.
It was the face of the late King.
"You see it," Gyeol said.
"Your Highness, I..."
"Now you know why they burned every picture of me."
His smile did not change, but his eyes did.
"Paint it, Painter," Gyeol said. "Let's see what they do to you."
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