AS GOVERNOR GERRID THUL WALKED through the doors and entered the throne room of his emperor, Tae Cwan, he reflected on how different the place now looked.

After all, the three prior occasions on which Thul had visited were all elaborate state gatherings of nobles and high-ranking officials in the empire. He was only a small part of them, though his standing had grown surely and steadily over the years.

But this, the governor told himself, looking around at the cavernous, high-ceilinged hall and the splendid furnishings…this was different. He frowned. He was all alone now, without a crowd to hide him.

And at the end of the rich, blue carpet that bisected the chamber’s white stone floor, the illustrious Tae Cwan himself waited for Thul. The blue-robed emperor sat between two armed guards on a chair of carved nightwood that had given his forbears comfort for more than a thousand years.

It was daunting. Or it would have been, if the governor were one who allowed himself to be daunted. But he hadn’t risen to a rank of esteem and power by being timid.

Lifting his chin, Thul set foot on the carpet and approached Tae Cwan’s presence. The chamber magnified every sound—the flutter of his cape, the padding of his feet on the blue path, even the drawing of his breath—as if the room weren’t filled with simple air at all, but something infinitely more sensitive and unstable.

Finally, the governor reached the end of the carpet and stopped. His emperor gazed down at him from the height of his chair, his features long and perfect, his expression a tranquil one.

Thul inclined his head out of respect—or at least that was the nature of the gesture. Then he smiled his best smile. “I believe you know why I have come,” he told Tae Cwan, his voice echoing in the chamber like stormwaves on a rocky beach.

“I believe I do,” the emperor replied without inflection, though his voice echoed just as loudly.

Abruptly, he gestured—and a door opened behind him. A couple of attractive handmaidens came through, followed by someone else in the deep blue color that could be worn only by imperial blood. It was Tae Cwan’s younger sister, Mella.

The resemblance was difficult to ignore. However, as often happens in a family, the clarity of feature that made the brother a handsome man made the sister look plain and austere.

Nonetheless, the governor turned his smile of smiles on Mella Cwan, and the woman’s eyes lit up in response. Dark and vulnerable, her eyes were by far her best attribute.

“Proceed,” said the emperor.

Thul inclined his head again. “As you wish, Honored One.” He paused, as if gathering himself. “I have come to profess my love and admiration for your sister, the Lady Mella.”

A demure smile pulled at the corners of the wo-man’s mouth. Unfortunately, it didn’t make her any more pleasant to look at.

“I ask you for permission to make her my wife,” Thul continued.

Tae Cwan considered the governor for a moment. He had to know that nothing would make his sister happier than the prospect of marriage to Thul. And yet, the governor noted, the emperor hesitated.

It was not a good sign, Thul knew. Not a good sign at all.

“I withhold the permission you seek,” said Tae Cwan, his expression stark and empty of emotion.

To the governor, it was more than a disappointment. It was like a blow across his face, with all the pain and shame such a blow would have awakened in him.

The Lady Mella, too, seemed shocked by her brother’s reply. She stared at him open-mouthed, her face several shades paler than before.

Still stinging from Tae Cwan’s words, Thul asked, “Is it possible you will change your mind in this matter, Emperor? Or perhaps reconsider my request at a later date?”

Tae Cwan shook his head from side to side, slowly and decisively. “It is not possible,” he responded flatly.

Thul felt a hot spurt of anger, but managed to stifle it. After all, it was forbidden to show excessive emotion in the presence of a Cwan.

“I see,” he said as calmly as he could. “And am I permitted to inquire as to the emperor’s thinking in this matter?”

“You need not inquire,” Tae Cwan informed him. “I will give you the insight you want.”

The emperor leaned forward on his throne, his features severe and impassive. But his eyes, as dark as his sister’s, flickered with what seemed like indignation.

“I do not wish you to be part of the royal family,” he told Thul. “Certainly, you have been a dedicated and efficient servant who has made considerable contributions to the Empire. However, there is also something dangerous about you—something I do not entirely trust.”

The governor’s teeth ground together, but he said nothing. After all, it was he who had requested Tae Cwan’s response.

“Beyond that,” said the emperor, “you are well inferior to my sister in station. No doubt, she would be willing to overlook this difference now. But in time, she would come to see it as a problem, as I do.”

Mella averted her eyes, her brow creased with disappointment. But like Thul, she was forced to keep her emotions in check.

“These are my reasons for disallowing your request,” Tae Cwan finished. “I assume I have made my decision clear.”

“Eminently,” said the governor, though he felt something twist inside him as he said it. “And though I have not been granted my request, I remain grateful for the audience, as befits a loyal servant of the empire. May you continue to reign in splendor, Emperor.”

Tae Cwan inclined his head, his eyes sharp and alert, though the rest of his features were in repose. “Go in peace, Gerrid Thul.”

The governor cast a last, wistful glance at the Lady Mella. But with her brother’s pronouncement still hanging in the air, she didn’t dare return it.

Thul cursed inwardly. As his wife, the woman would have brought him immeasurable power and prestige—more than enough for him to overlook his lack of attraction to her. But with a few words, the emperor had taken away that dream of power and prestige.

Enduring his loss—one that was no less painful for his never having had the thing to begin with—the governor inclined his head a third time. Then he turned and followed the length of blue carpet to the doors and made his exit.

But as soon as the doors closed behind him and he was left alone in the hallway outside, Gerrid Thul turned and glowered in the direction of Tae Cwan. Emperor though he might be, the governor reflected bitterly, he had gone too far this time.

He had humiliated one of his most determined servants—one who had risked much and accomplished much on behalf of the Empire. He had told Thul in no uncertain terms that he would never be more than what he was—the administrator of a far-flung outpost.

The governor swore again. Maybe he couldn’t ascend to power by marrying the Lady Mella, but he was still no beast of burden to wallow in self-pity. He was intelligent. He was resourceful. And he was every bit as Thallonian as the feared Tae Cwan.

For some time now, Thul had toyed with an alternative to marrying the Lady Mella—one that would allow him to enjoy the prominence he craved without the need to seek the emperor’s blessing. With his first option closed to him, the second came to the fore in his mind.

And the more he thought about it—the more he considered how badly he had been treated by Tae Cwan—the more inclined he was to pursue it.

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The First Virtue

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