The canvas seemed almost alive.

Yonas applied deft strokes of his brush, gradually filling in the details of the portrait. It was still at the stage that most artists would consider the preliminary sketch, with only the broadest of lines still requiring hours of attention before they were sculpted into a likeness of their subject. Yet Yonas had somehow imbued even these rudimentary splashes with a vitality that seemed not just to match its subject but to surpass it.

In truth his model was not at her best due to her present circumstances. Being incarcerated in a dungeon is never conducive to one's attractiveness, or so Yonas would imagine. He had never actually been in a dungeon before. His long, lithe fingers, as delicate as the soft bristles on his brush, adjusted their grip, causing a minute change in the angle of his stroke and the pressure he applied. Even in these early stages he needed the painting to be perfect. Anything less would do a great disservice to both his reputation as an artist and to the subject he was painting.

Not to mention the fact that it could quite possibly get him killed.

So he showed her haughty brow, with furrows caused by a predisposition to scowling. He also showed the way her chin looked stronger than it actually was, due to her constantly setting her jaw in a most pugnacious fashion. The whole face was marred from its natural prettiness by a tightness to the features that removed any soft edges. The formal hairstyle that pulled the auburn tresses back so they were under tight control, not even a single strand being allowed to take on a wayward angle, did nothing to alleviate the impression.

'It must be a terrible thing to have lost all your teeth at so young an age,' said Yonas.

His subject looked at him from where she sat on her cold, hard bench. 'What makes you think I've lost all my teeth?'

'I thought that was the reason you never smiled. You didn't want anyone to see your toothless gums.'

She sniffed imperiously.

'You really should try smiling. It's very little effort, and it's virtually guaranteed to make you feel better.' He beamed an exaggerated smile at her. 'See?'

She regarded him, unamused. 'You have cabbage stuck in your teeth.'

Embarrassed, he turned away, his tongue running over his teeth; but he couldn't detect the offending matter. Grinning sheepishly, he pointed at her with his paintbrush as though daubing a spot of paint on an invisible canvas. 'You were teasing me.'

'I was hoping to embarrass you into silence.'

'A wasted effort, I'm afraid. My talent for chattering is second only to my talent for painting. The only way to give your ears peace from my eternal prattling is to wrest control of the conversation from me and say something yourself.'

She drew herself up. Although she remained seated, her regal bearing was such that she seemed to dwarf him. 'I am the Princess Mirralee of the royal household of Cardania. You shall address me as Your Highness and shall speak only when I give you leave.'

'Unfortunately, Your Highness, you are not in Cardania, and I am not one of your subjects.' He added another stroke to the portrait. 'Indeed, you are one of mine.'

'You really are the most infuriating wretch.'

'Actually, I believe that honour goes to Hertüle the Annoying who makes his living as a professional irritant, pestering moneyed travellers until they pay him to leave them be; however, I understand I hold the amateur title.'

Mirralee's eyes narrowed. He was sure she was about to deliver a crushing putdown when a key rattled in the lock and the door swung open. Swung being something of an exaggeration, the heavy wood and metal slab barely inched along as two burly gaolers leaned their weight against it.

The door finally stood fully open, and the gaolers stepped to either side of the doorway. Two guards followed them, their rapiers and flintlock pistols bouncing gently in the leather harnesses that held their weapons to their tunics. Yonas caught a glimpse of more people standing outside, but he didn't get a clear view because his attention was focused on the two who now entered the cell.

The first was King Henrionnü, a slight figure, still in his nineteenth year, his fine girlish features not yet defined by the weight of age and experience.

The second was altogether more imposing: Varn, King Henrionnü's Vizier, had a lean, lupine visage; his grey hair and neatly trimmed beard resembling fur; his dark eyes intelligent, scheming.

'Your Highness,' squeaked Henrionnü, awkwardly performing the short bow used between two royals.

'Majesty,' replied Mirralee, showing him how it should be done.

Three pretty maids filed into the cell, carrying soap and brushes. 'You may leave now, Yonas,' said the King. 'It is time for Her Highness to undertake her ablutions.'

'If I may be of assistance, Your Highness,' said Yonas. 'I can ensure your bathing leaves every inch of your skin pure and unblemished. I have an artist's keen eye.'

'A little too keen in this instance,' said Varn.

'Actually, there is a rarely used Cardanian custom which calls for a male attendant whilst bathing,' said Mirralee. She turned to Yonas, 'Of course the attendant should first be made a eunuch.'

'I withdraw the offer. And certain parts of my anatomy.' Bowing to the attended nobles, Yonas collected his paints and canvas and exited the cell.

Outside four burly men struggled to carry a large wooden tub of soapy water. Yonas tried not to laugh -- all this trouble when it would be far easier to escort Mirralee to the royal bath chamber. It was not as if she would have the opportunity to escape.

He glanced back into the cell. King Henrionnü was exiting quickly, clearly flustered by the thought of soon-to-be-exposed female flesh. Varn followed his measured stride gracefully, assuredly.

'A moment, Yonas,' said Varn. 'What progress with the portrait?'

'It is preceding nicely, Excellency. But would it not be more practical to use the Princess's royal seal to convince her father that you do indeed hold her?'

'Your thoughts echo my own,' said Henrionnü.

Varn's tone was smooth, amused and more than a little patronising. 'The royal seal could be stolen. But everyone knows that special paintings of the kind you are undertaking require the subject to be present for them to work.'

'Ah, yes, Your Excellency. A good point.' Yonas tried not to look too disappointed. He had hoped that if Varn reflected upon the matter he might decide that the seal was indeed the better option; then Yonas wouldn't have to visit the dungeons. Although he never had to experience their most dreadful features firsthand, they still made him uneasy.

'Return here in an hour when Her Highness has completed her bath,' said Varn.

Yonas sighed. 'Yes, Excellency.'

* * *

Yonas handed the package to the lady-in-waiting. 'Your portraits, milady.'

'My thanks,' she said as she dropped a small bag of gold coins into his palm. 'I shall look for you at His Majesty's court.'

'You have another task that requires my talents?'

She eyed his wiry frame appreciatively. 'You could say that.'

As she left his apartment, the sweet promise of her words lingered in Yonas's ears. He stood at the door of his apartment admiring the way the lady-in-waiting jiggled across the courtyard. A man could get himself into all sorts of trouble with a maiden like that, not that he actually believed she was a maiden.

And he was, after all, in more than enough trouble already by even painting her portraits. In the matter of this potential dalliance, he told himself, he would be more cautious.

He knew he wouldn't take his own advice. He never did.

Packing away his painting materials, he hid them beneath the floorboards. It was strictly forbidden for him to paint any pictures but those commissioned by King Henrionnü, for Yonas's paintings were magic.

He could paint a picture with such eye for detail, such attention to minutiae, that the picture would actually come alive. The figure would flow across the canvas, mimicking the motions of the original subject. Sometimes, when he painted exceptionally well, the picture would actually leap off the canvas, a two-dimensional figure made of paint.

This was the kind of picture the lady-in-waiting had just purchased. In fact she bought four of them. As she aged and her beauty faded, she would sew the pictures together to form for her self a new skin from the portraits of her youth. Thus, she would appear to be forever in her prime.

Yonas had a small black market business with select members of the palace, both men and women. But he had to be careful; if he was caught, he would become much better acquainted with the dungeons. And it was unlikely he would have a bath brought for him.

King Henrionnü's late father had been the one to instigate the restrictions on Yonas's painting. His talent could overthrow the monarchy; a single canvas doppelganger is all it would take. Of course, the impostor would be mute, but that was not an insurmountable problem. There were several good mimics available.

So Yonas was not to use his talents unless the King decreed it. And now the King had. A likeness of Princess Mirralee was needed to accompany the ransom note to be sent to her father.

This was Varn's idea of course. He had been manipulating Henrionnü from the moment the boy's father died. There were rumours that Varn had been instrumental in the former King's death, but the gossip didn't last long. Neither did the gossipmongers.

Yonas finished packing away his painting equipment and donned his feathered beret to return to the dungeon. Once there his preliminary sketches would be returned to him so he might continue his work.

He thought of the dungeons and shivered. He hoped the assignment would be finished soon.

* * *

'Are you sure you're all right, Highness? You look pale.'

'I assure you I am fine.'

'Good.' Yonas's paintbrush wobbled slightly. He was unsettled by what he had seen on his arrival at the dungeon. On his last visit it had just been a normal cell, but this time he arrived fractionally early and saw the gaolers prepare Princess Mirralee for visitors.

It seemed the heavy door and stone walls were not enough to imprison a solitary female. The gaolers were using their most horrendous restraint -- the living shadows.

When the cell was plunged into darkness, with only the faintest of lights to cast some feeble illumination, the shadows would leap away from the walls and wrap themselves around whoever was in the cell, holding them in a dread embrace. As Yonas arrived, the gaolers took lanterns into the cell to disperse the shadows, sending them scurrying back to their intangible state. The shadows moved back slowly, reluctant to relinquish the nourishing glow of warm flesh. Even as the gaolers swung their lanterns, the shadows darted forward whenever the swing moved away from them; then they jumped back waiting for another opportunity, like a pack of dogs nipping at the heels of a wounded animal.

Mirralee stood teetering, barely conscious after her ordeal with the shadowy ghouls. Yonas wanted to rush in and hold her in case she should fall to the hard stone floor, but he was afraid. So he just watched from the door, cursing himself for a coward.

Now he found himself concentrating not so much on his painting but on trying to make amends for his poor behaviour. 'Are they giving you enough food? I can get you some more if you wish.'

'I have eaten, thank you. But I think you should be more concerned with your own diet. You look like a beanpole.'

He smiled, relieved that she was regaining her fire. 'Nonsense, this is the whipcord physique of the seasoned athlete.' He flexed his muscles comically.

Mirralee was unimpressed. 'You're only concerned with my welfare because you want my father to think that I am well. He could crush this puny nation within a week. That is why you have resorted to this treacherous subterfuge, pretending I receive only the greatest care and attention; and then you imprison me in those infernal shadows.'

Yonas started guiltily. 'My concern is genuine, Highness.'

'Why should I believe you?'

He explained his present circumstances. When he had finished, she looked at him, weighing his sincerity. 'If your lot is so unbearable, why do you not just leave?'

'Because if I do anything that flouts the restrictions laid upon me, the King would put out one of my eyes and chop off my painting hand.'

'That is rather persuasive.'

'I find it so.'

He didn't tell her that he did defy the rules that held him, but only on certain terms, such as his black market, so carefully guarded that the danger barely registered even as an abstract concept. But escape, with its open defiance and direct action, was something that terrified him.

Mirralee gestured to his easel. 'How did you come by your skill as a painter?'

'As a youth I was apprentice to Tychirö, the great sorcerer artist, an astounding fellow with a long, flowing beard and eyes that saw everything. That was what allowed him to paint as wondrously as he did. He saw the same talent in me; but, alas, he perished before he could pass on all his secrets.'

'What do you mean, he saw everything?'

'I once saw him save a village that was about to be flooded. He painted the water as it raged across the land, its waves cresting and crashing as it swept over everything in its path. And there he stood a tiny figure with just a canvas and a brush. He painted the water in such detail that the painting looked more real than reality itself, capturing the very essence of the water. The flood flowed into the painting, seeking to regain its essence. Tychirö folded the canvas up and walked off with the flood in his hand until he came to arid farmland suffering from a harsh drought. He unfolded the painting and the water gushed out, filling the dry riverbanks and feeding the roots of dying trees and plants.' Yonas smiled nostalgically. 'He was a great man.'

'And you can see things in the same way?'

'Me? I see what lies before me, the physical presence of muscle and flesh, of leaf and petal, of stone and mortar. I see no deeper than that.'

'I thought artists were perceptive, seeing deeper truths than those with more pedestrian vision, divining meaning from nature and constructing symbols that reveal society's greatest strengths and expose its greatest hypocrisies.'

'I nurture my talent not my insight. I'd rather be an incomplete artist than' -- he looked down at the hand holding the brush--'an incomplete artist.'

She crossed the cell and stood before him. 'So what do you see when you look at me? Am I someone who deserves to be imprisoned in this way?'

He tried not to look, to hide behind a jest; but he found himself staring at her, attempting to read her smallest movement, her tiniest thought. She was proud and strong, yet fair and noble, wise and compassionate. But did she really possess these qualities, or did he just wish them upon her? Moreover, did he wish them upon himself?

He turned away, breaking the moment. 'I'm sorry, Highness. I see nothing but a model who has broken her pose. Could you please return to your seat?'

* * *

Yonas stood in the corridor outside Mirralee's cell, puffing nervously on his pipe. The long, thin stem reached down to his chest where he held the bowl and its tiny furnace of tobacco. The smoke formed clouds before him, making him feel as though he were flying through the sky. He glanced at the foreboding masonry of the dungeons. The smoke tainted the image, turning it to a dark, stormy sky about to be lashed by rain and lightning.

Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned to see Varn's wolfish face smiling at him. 'Taking a sabbatical?'

'No, it's a pipe.'

Varn kept smiling, but Yonas could tell he wasn't amused. 'Will the painting take much longer?'

'A little while. The Princess's complexion keeps fluctuating between porcelain and bright scarlet with a brief visit to every shade in between.'

'Perhaps if you stopped infuriating her with your juvenile witticisms.'

'I only jest in self-defence, Excellency. Without my japery I fear her aloof silence would drive me insane.'

'Humph.' Varn stepped in close to him, adopting a conspirator's air. 'I was wondering, has this endeavour increased your appetite for painting? After all, it is some time since your last work.'

He shrugged. 'I can only paint when the King decrees.'

'I hate to see a great artist go to waste. I am sure I could procure you materials. It would allow you to keep your hand in.'

'If I paint for anyone besides the King, I won't keep my hand at all.'

Varn stroked his beard. 'The King is young, still adjusting to his new responsibilities. It's easier for him if he doesn't know everything that occurs within the palace. After all, there are already several things of which he is unaware.'

Yonas wondered if Varn had discovered his black market of paintings. It had been stupid to keep the business going. This wasn't the first time Varn had hinted at Yonas doing some work for him. But with this new element of blackmail, he didn't know if he could still refuse him.

'If I was going to practice my skills... do you have any suggestions what I should paint?'

* * *

The canvas he had hidden beneath his tunic chafed at his skin. He was glad when the door of the cell slammed shut behind him and he could remove it.

'Highness, I have some good news, some bad news and some very bad news.'

Princess Mirralee sat up, her pose changing from haughty stoicism to guarded optimism. 'What is it?'

'The good news is that someone is planning to rescue you. The bad news is that Varn is plotting against King Henrionnü and wants you as a bargaining chip.'

'And the very bad news?'

'I'm the one planning to rescue you.'

She blinked in disbelief. 'You?'

'It's a disappointment, I know; but all the dashing, swashbuckling heroes are busy at the moment.'

'Even if I trusted you, how would you engineer my escape?'

He held up the spare canvas. 'Varn gave me this so I could paint another picture of you, one that he could use to prove he has you, not Henrionnü. The painting I give to Henrionnü is to be a normal painting that anyone could have painted. That way your father dare not move against Varn for fear of what he might do to you, and Henrionnü dare not move against him because the might of your father's armies will be at Varn's disposal. Varn will win both countries in a single bloodless coup. He really is the most caring of tyrants.

'But I intend to paint a picture that will draw you into it as Tychirö did with the flood; then have the King's courier send the painting to your father with you safe inside. Henrionnü will think it's the original painting. Varn will think it's the forgery. Neither of them will know you're inside it.'

'But you said you couldn't paint that well.'

He grimaced. 'You've detected the one flaw in my plan.'

Mirralee frowned, considering her options. 'I suppose I have nothing to lose. You had better start painting.'

And he did. Working quickly, he used the spare canvas to paint the special moving picture Varn had requested. Sweat poured off him. He had to make this painting as good as the one he had already started and in a fraction of the time. Anything less and Varn would spot the subterfuge. His brush was a blur; his face, a study in concentration.

Finally, exhausted, he finished the painting and set it to one side to dry. Taking a deep breath, he turned to the more difficult task, completing his previous picture so effectively that it would capture Mirralee's essence so she could stow away in it.

He gazed at her, trying to see beyond her physical form, to read her soul, to fathom the most unreachable depths of her being and touch her innermost thoughts and desires.

'You like to eat raw pig's liver,' he said wonderingly. 'You nibble little strips of it as a snack.'

The Princess looked embarrassed. 'My physician has prescribed it for a digestive ailment I suffer from.'

'No, that's wonderful. It's disgusting but it's wonderful. I could see the thoughts inside you.'

'Can you see anything else?'

'Er... your favourite colour is lilac, you learned to ride when you were eight years old, you...' He stopped painting and grinned at her. 'You think I have a nice smile?'

Mirralee blushed as she waved her hand at him irritably. 'Just concentrate on your painting.'

'Yes, yes, of course.' He daubed at the canvas, his eyes never leaving Mirralee. She was a revelation to him, her personality constantly surprising him with its twists and turns, the pet hates and the foibles and the memories and the dreams of the future. It was all such a wide and diverse palette, much richer than anything he could ever hope to paint.

But he was painting it, his brush moving almost of its own accord, selecting colours, adding subtle nuances with each new stroke. His subconscious guided it faultlessly, and his will was guided by Mirralee's.

'This is amazing!' he gasped. 'The painting is almost complete!'

Mirralee suddenly rushed towards him, shrinking as she did so, ignoring the rules of perspective. Although she remained in her seated pose, she somehow leapt over the top of the canvas and was swallowed by the picture.

Yonas stared at the portrait worriedly. 'Highness?'

The portrait moved, turning its head first one way and then the other and waving its arms about experimentally. 'This is the strangest sensation I have ever experienced.'

'Are you all right?'

'I... I think so... yes.'

'Close your eyes.' He quickly daubed paint over her, using clumsier strokes than before, trying to disguise her.

As he waited for the paint to dry, Yonas reiterated the escape plan. 'I will give you to Varn, who will think you are the normal portrait and send you back to your father. The other painting I will give to Varn privately so that he thinks it is the one worth sending to your father.'

'And you will escape before he discovers the truth?'

'Hopefully. I have portraits commissioned by one of the noblemen of the court; I can use them to disguise myself as I leave the palace. With luck I will be out of the country before the ruse is discovered.'

'Will you come to Cardania?'

He hesitated, caught off guard by the question. Then he smiled, 'It's a distinct possibility.'

Testing the paint, he found it dry and so rolled up the canvas. 'Remember, keep absolutely still.'

Tucking the canvas under his arm, he picked up the lantern and dimmed its light. The shadows started to swirl about on the far side of the cell, sensing imminent freedom. Backing over to the door, he banged on it with his fist to signal he wanted to come out. Then, cursing, he shook his aching hand; the door was a lot harder than he had expected. He called to the gaolers instead, 'I've finished. Let me out.'

The door swung slowly open as the gaolers heaved at it. A thin sliver of light shone from the door's edge, gradually widening into a triangle, using its new geometry to explore the cell. As it reached the point where it would reveal the bench where Princess Mirralee should be sitting, he dropped the lantern. The glass smashed -- the sound shatteringly loud in the eerie silence of the dungeons -- and the light sputtered out.

Instantly the living shadows leapt forward, enveloping the bench in their darkness. Finding no flesh on which to suckle, no human warmth to comfort them, they swept across the cell looking for someone to embrace. They headed toward Yonas.

'Let me out!' He squeezed past the gaolers and out the cell. Once outside he yelled at them frantically. 'Shut the door! Don't let them escape!'

He hoped they wouldn't realise that opening the door would be just as effective a method of dealing with the shadows, the light causing them to disperse, rendering them harmless. Fortunately the gaolers did as he asked, and the door slammed shut.

The gaolers glared at him for being so careless with the lantern.

He laughed nervously. 'Oops.'

A figure appeared at the end of the corridor. It was Varn. He strode towards Yonas with frightening purpose, a predator stalking its prey. 'I trust the portrait is complete.'

'Yes, yes.' Yonas's hand trembled as he passed Mirralee to the Vizier.

Varn unfurled the canvas and studied it appreciatively. 'Ah, yes. A very good likeness.'

He reached out his hand to Yonas, 'And now the portrait commissioned by his majesty.'

Yonas started. 'W-what?'

'Do not take me for a fool. I know the picture that I hold contains the real Princess Mirralee.' Varn smiled wolfishly at the portrait, 'Isn't that so, Highness?'

Mirralee remained silent. Yonas held his breath, hoping the ploy would work.

Varn sighed, 'Perhaps I was mistaken. This is just an ordinary painting, not even blessed with the gift of movement. I could rip it to shreds and no one would care.' He took the edge of the canvas between the finger and thumb of each hand and began to tear.

'No! Yonas held out the other canvas to Varn. 'Take it! I will paint anything you want, but I beg you please don't destroy that painting!'

Varn took the proffered canvas, smiling condescendingly. 'You do realise that I couldn't actually have destroyed the painting. Princess Mirralee is the key to all my plans. If you had held your ground, there were still several avenues of escape you might have employed.'

Yonas sagged. 'Well, I'm new to political intrigue.'

'Idiot,' said Mirralee.

'You're the idiot who trusted an idiot,' he shot back.

'Now, now, children,' said Varn. 'Let's not bicker. Instead, let us view this other masterpiece that Yonas has crafted.'

Varn unrolled the second canvas with a triumphant flourish. Then he jumped back in fright as a sword-wielding figure leapt from the canvas.

Yonas chuckled. 'You didn't know I'd painted a portrait of C'haront, the finest swordsman in the King's Guard, did you? It's possible that this replica might not possess quite the same level of skill as the original, but personally I doubt it. Would any of you gentlemen care to prove me wrong?'

C'haront's portrait waved its rapier menacingly, driving Varn and the gaolers back. The figure was even more intimidating due to its fantastic nature. Being only two-dimensional, every time it turned sideways in a fencing stance the swordsman became invisible. Paradoxically the needle-like blade of its rapier could be seen only from the side; otherwise it was virtually an infinitesimal point, its attacks impossible to discern until the unlucky opponent felt them strike home.

Yonas snatched Mirralee's canvas from Varn. 'I'll have that, thank you.'

Then he ran from the dungeons, leaving Varn and the gaolers cowering before C'haront's blade.

'Why are we running?' asked Mirralee. 'We have Varn trapped. We could expose all his plans.'

'Not when he realises C'haront's blade can't harm him.'

'But I thought...'

'It's composed purely of paint. If the sword strikes anything solid, the blade will crumble. The canvas it leapt from is more dangerous. At least that could inflict a paper cut.'

'How long before they realise?'

'I don't know. Varn's clever, but fear may dull his wits. How are you faring?'

'I would be better if you weren't carrying me under your armpit. You're beginning to sweat.'

'Sorry.'

Reaching the courtyard, he stopped, hiding in a secluded spot while he donned the painted disguise of the nobleman. He now appeared to have gained five years in age and ten pounds of muscle. 'How do I look?'

'Very handsome. The guards will never realize it's you.'

Mirralee was right. The guards bowed courteously to him as he rode out on the horse he stole from the stables on the way to the palace gates. Yonas rode stiffly, his back muscles tense, fully expecting to be struck down by a musket ball at any moment. But soon then they were out of musket range, and there were no pursuers on horseback.

'I think we're safe.'

Looking back he saw the palace had disappeared over the horizon. Stopping the horse, he unrolled the canvas so that Mirralee could step free, back into the real world. He watched as she eased out the kinks in her aching body.

'Being rolled up into a scroll is a rather unpleasant experience.'

'It's comfortable up here.' He patted the saddle. 'I know you like to ride.'

She climbed up behind him, and the horse trotted forward once more. He felt her arms around his waist as she steadied herself. 'I prefer your new waistline,' she said. 'You were too skinny before.'

'I don't eat enough raw pig's liver.'

'It's not as bad as it sounds. Besides, you're not perfect. You have a bad habit of never stopping talking.'

'Highness,' he said playfully, 'has this adventure not taught you to look beyond the surface and see the hidden depths that exist in the world?' He tossed aside the canvas that had been her home for the last few hours. It fluttered away on the breeze. 'After all, you yourself are no oil painting.'

Copyright © 2004 by Stuart Young