The Golden Key

by Melanie Rawn

  “And what you did, burning the hole in the heart—”

  “—was also magic.”

  “Then you … then you—oh, Matra ei Filho, then you are Gifted as was Tomaz, as all the Viehos Fratos—”

  Now he could smile, though it was merely a ghastly stretching of his lips. “Did you ever doubt it?”

  “But that means every Gifted male …” She turned to the ruined portrait again, whispering prayers repeatedly as she kissed fingertips and pressed them against her heart.

  “He told me the truth,” Sario said. “And then begged me for release.”

  “But you don’t know he’s dead!”

  He looked at the painting. At his own handiwork. “He said burning would work. That I had no access to the proper paints—but destroying the canvas would work. I think he must be dead.”

  She drew in a breath. Released it. Drew another, and let it go as well. Then turned to him abruptly. “They must know,” she said. “You must go and fetch them.”

  “Fetch—?” It sent a shiver down his spine. “Who?”

  “The Viehos Fratos.”

  “’Vedra—”

  “They must know. They must come and see.” Quietly she set down the cup of flame upon the floor. Then she lifted the portrait from the easel and placed it meticulously upon the candle-cup, so that fire crisped and caught the charred edge of the hole Sario had already burned. “Go,” she said.

  He stared at her. He watched openmouthed as she struck down the easel so that it fell across the burning painting. Now the brocade cloth burned as well.

  She turned upon him a fierce, singularly fixed glare. Then she opened her mouth and shouted, “Sario! It’s burning—go and fetch aid!”

  He stared at her; at the blazing painting.

  “Go,” she hissed. And then shouted again, begging aid and forgiveness, and he saw what she meant to do.

  Blame herself. For tripping. For knocking the easel over. For burning up the painting in a terrible accident.

  Tomaz Grijalva: dead. And now his painting as well.

  FIVE

  Saavedra was given no time, no time at all, not to change clothing to something more appropriate, not to catch her breath, not even to relieve herself. They simply escorted her without deliberation into the private quarters of Raimon Grijalva, one of the Viehos Fratos. And left her there. Alone. Meant to face a man she had never spoken to, nor had been addressed by, ever; his task was the ordering of vital family business, and she was wholly inconsequential.

  Or had been.

  Saavedra, in her contrived rush to put out the flames in the Crechetta, had—in full view of those Sario had summoned— scorched much of her tunic and trousers, and very nearly caught her hair on fire. All in all it had been an immensely successful undertaking: Tomaz’s portrait was almost entirely destroyed, with more than enough damage done to account for a death she and Sario were to know nothing of—and she had risked herself in attempting to douse the flames. Surely they would see that, the Viehos Fratos. Surely Aguo Raimon would.

  Meanwhile, he was not present. She was left to wait, quite unattended, upon his pleasure—or, perhaps, his displeasure—and she found the task excruciatingly difficult. Anticipating his words, his disapproval, his punishment, knotted her belly so tightly she feared she might never be able to eat again.

  Which might please Sario, because then I would have nothing in my belly to lose!

  It was a small room, a solar, built of arched embrasures in one wall so that sunlight was given leave to enter in full measure. The bricks of the wall were handmade, hand-smoothed, chinked together with mortar, then smoothed again by hand, so that one brick was indiscernible from another. And over it all was layered thin clay, the warm sunbright clay that made her spirit soar, that freed it to fly. Colors and textures did that to her, giving release to her mind so she might imagine anything, and, in the imagining, transfer it to hands, to paper, to canvas; even perhaps to a wall still damp with new paint, a fresco of the landscape that lived within her head.

  But that landscape now, despite the warmth of the sun-bright clay, was not at ease; was freed only to imagine the worst of possible punishments.

  It was a room for relaxation, filled with soothing patterns and colors: a high-backed wooden chair, cushioned in rich sienna-hued velurro; a stool for Aguo Raimon’s feet; a table with books upon it, and a pot holding summer blooms; fine-loomed rugs upon the floor and intricate tapestries on the walls, depending from iron rods and ornate brackets.

  A room for the taking of one’s ease, not for punishment—and yet she could not divorce her mind from that despite the soothing surroundings. Beauty could calm, but also kill, as was proved by the destruction of Tomaz’s self-portrait.

  Saavedra fidgeted. He will have been told how I tried to put out the fire. Surely he will see what I risked to repair my transgression.

  But Aguo Raimon, stepping into the small solar from a chamber beyond, did not in any way suggest by expression or posture that he saw anything of what she had risked. And she recalled that to them, to the Viehos Fratos, the destruction of the painting destroyed also a life. A punished Grijalva, a disciplined man, but now a dead man.

  She shivered. I wish Sario were here. With him present, she would think to protect him, and it was far easier to answer in defense of another than to defend herself.

  But he was not present. They had taken him elsewhere, and now it was her task to explain without hesitation—or with only the proper hesitation—how she had come to burn a painting that was to have been unknown to her. Despite the chamber’s name, women were not permitted in the Crechetta.

  Show him no fear. Let him suspect nothing beyond the obvious: you went where you were not meant to go, and you caused an accident. Accordingly she raised her chin and let the man look at her, even as she looked at him.

  Aguo Raimon wore black velurro, wholly unadorned save for the slender chain of gold around his collar. Saavedra followed the line of the fragile links and sought its ornament at mid-chest: the Golden Key of his family, and hers. A small Chieva, withal, though intricately made; on her it would be too large, but Raimon Grijalva was not a small man. The leonine mane of dark hair that flowed back against his shoulders sprang vigorously from his scalp; he was a young, vital, active man, renowned for quiet fairness as well as talent.

  And abruptly she knew this man was due honesty, insofar as she dared it. “Forgive me!” she cried, falling to her knees. “In Their Blessed Names, I beg your forgiveness!” The floor was carpeted, but the stone beneath was hard on the bones of her knees. Saavedra clasped her hands against her breast and bowed her head. “Matra ei Filho, I never meant it to happen … I only went—I only went because—because—” She drew in a noisy breath. “—because it was forbidden. I admit it.” She did not permit herself to raise her eyes, to see the man’s expression. “Aguo, I beg you—I swear to you—it was not intended!”

  “You have done a great wrong, Saavedra,” he said very quietly.

  “Yes—eiha, yes, I know—oh, Aguo, I swear I never meant for the painting to be endangered—”

  “Far more than the painting was endangered, Saavedra. Far more than the painting was destroyed.”

  She clamped her mouth tight on further pleas. Did he know what they knew, she and Sario? Did he know the truth of what they had intended?

  “Discipline,” he said.

  Her mind turned inside out, frantic with implications. Did he mean the Chieva do’Sangua? Surely not. He would not admit it to her. He would never say that her actions had also killed a man as well as his Peintraddo Chieva.

  “Discipline,” he repeated. “The erosion of which could destroy our family as the Nerro Lingua so nearly did.” His tone softened. “Rise, Saavedra. I am not Premio Sancto to hear your confession and absolve you of this. I am merely a Grijalva.”

  “And Il Aguo,” she murmured.

  “I have that honor, yes … Saavedra, rise. I would have you look at me.”

  Tre
mbling, she rose. She met his eyes—gray, like her own—and nearly quailed. His features were severe for his age, but his eyes were not. She saw something in them very like compassion.

  “I was your age once,” he said. “I went where I was not to go, as you did. No one knew it, and thus I was not punished; but neither did I destroy a painting out of sheer clumsiness.”

  “I tried to stop it,” she murmured. “I did—but I was top late.”

  “Paintings burn too quickly to save, once touched by flame,” he said. “It’s one of the reasons we take such care of our work, Saavedra … you are fortunate you did not burn yourself as well.”

  “That wouldn’t matter,” she said, and then blurted out a purposeful falsehood. “Tomaz may paint another, may he not? I mean—I know it won’t be the same, not exactly the same, but he is a very gifted painter, Tomaz is—could he not paint another?”

  Severity and humor, so at odds with one another, were instantly banished. She saw in his eyes an acknowledgment he could not make to her: what was destroyed was far more than a painting, and could never be replaced.

  “Indeed,” he said with an undertone of dryness, “it could never be the same.”

  “Does he know?” she asked quickly. “Has anyone told Tomaz? Eiha, he will hate me for this …” Saavedra scrambled to summon the proper tone, to obfuscate what she knew with what she might otherwise believe. “And he has the right! It was a beautiful painting!”

  “A masterwork,” Raimon Grijalva confirmed. “A self-portrait is required of all young men who would be acknowledged as Gifted.”

  “Does he know yet?” she asked.

  Il Aguo’s expression was stark. “I think there is no way Tomaz could not know,” he answered precisely. “But—you need have no fear of repercussion. There will be no punishment by Tomaz.”

  “But he would have the right!”

  “He would, yes. But—” He made a brief gesture. “Saavedra, it is of no consequence.”

  “No consequence!” She was appalled; she had to be, did she not? She knew the truth of the Peintraddo Chieva, but he did not know that. I must pretend I am thinking only of Tomaz, and what he would think of me for having destroyed his painting. … “Of course there is consequence! Look what I have done!”

  “Look what you have done,” Il Aguo said. “Indeed. And I think you know.”

  It took effort to keep from blurting out the wrong thing, to concentrate so tightly on what she should know, not what she did. “You will punish me,” she said hollowly.

  “Of course,” he answered. “You abrogated proper compordotta.” Exacting and perfect behavior, as defined by the Viehos Fratos for the family.

  Her mouth was dry. “What am I to do?”

  “Not what you are to do, Saavedra … what you are not to do.”

  “Not—?”

  “You are forbidden Sario’s company for one year.”

  It shocked her. “A year?”

  “One whole year.”

  “But—” This was wholly unexpected, and as painful. “Aguo,” she said faintly, admitting to him what she would not admit to others, not even to Sario, who probably knew, “he is my only friend.”

  “I know that. As the painting was Tomaz’s only self-portrait of any consequence.”

  Even in the midst of anguish, she grasped at subterfuge. “He can paint another, Aguo!”

  “No,” he said. “He cannot.”

  Of course he could not. Dead men painted nothing. But she clung to dissimulation. “Not another just like it, perhaps, but another to take its place.”

  “No, Saavedra. Such things are painted only once. That is what gives them consequence.”

  That, and whatever magic was in them. Saavedra bit into her lip. “Then I am to be exiled in my own home?”

  “You are forbidden only Sario’s company. You will see him, of course—that can hardly be avoided within Palasso Grijalva—but you will not be permitted to speak to one another, or spend time together other than in the classes you take together. And, as to that—” He smiled briefly, “—it has been brought to my attention that you have much skill for a young woman, Saavedra. And you are of an age when those of us responsible for such things begin to consider which young men and women shall be matched according to talent.”

  A wave of heat coursed through her flesh. Saavedra said nothing.

  “He has led you astray, our little Neosso Irrado … do you believe we are blind? You are a good girl, Saavedra, but too trusting of Sario’s intentions. You permit him to lead you into improper compordotta, when he would do better to follow your example. Do not think we have no understanding that it was he who led you into the Crechetta—it is not in you to do that which is forbidden.”

  This left her speechless, though her mind worked frantically.

  “Poor company,” Raimon Grijalva said, “may mislead even the elect.”

  She no longer thought of herself, of what she had done, only of what Sario might be. “But—he’s not truly bad, Aguo! He is Gifted, I know it!”

  “Your loyalty does you credit, Saavedra.”

  “It’s more than that, Aguo.” She surprised herself with her certainty, but it was so powerful she could not suppress it. “He’s different, Aguo Raimon. He’s more than everyone else.”

  His expression now was curiously blank. “How do you know this?”

  “I feel it,” she answered. “I just know it, Aguo. It’s here in my heart.” Saavedra touched her breast. “He never was like anyone else, right from the beginning. And they know it. It’s why they treat him so badly, why they taunt him, mock him, try to make him feel small … because they sense it in him, too, Aguo. He can be everything they long to be, but know in their souls they can’t be. It’s the true-talent, Aguo, but also the spirit.” She looked for understanding in the quiet eyes. “There are those of us who dream, who long to be the best ever; and those of us to whom it isn’t a dream, but something that will be attained. Something that must be.” Saavedra sighed a little. “They are jealous of him, Aguo. Even the moualimos, who know what he can be. You see—”

  A lifted hand silenced her. “Indeed, we do know who is most likely to embody the talent we cherish. But discipline is vital, as is compordotta … a gift can only be honestly and effectively wielded for the good of the family when one understands that misuse of it can cause adverse consequences.”

  Mutely, she nodded; Tomaz had certainly suffered such consequences.

  “There are so few of us now, you see—we must safeguard those of us who are left. We dare not permit an angry young man to harm the ordering of the family.”

  Now she shook her head.

  “You will do better apart from him, Saavedra. Let your own talent blossom; rely not so much upon his Luza do’Orro when you claim your own.”

  It shocked her; he knew of such things?

  Raimon Grijalva smiled. “The moualimos are exacting and sometimes impossible to please, but they are also keen observers of talent, Saavedra. You have more than your share of it.”

  “Not as much as he has.”

  “Sario? Well—perhaps not … but without discipline, talent is nothing. If it cannot be controlled, of what use is it?”

  They moved away from dangerous topics now and into the philosophy of art itself. She came alive beneath his gaze. “But there is honesty in wildness, Aguo—a painter must also be permitted to let himself run free, to see how far he may allow his talent to carry him.”

  “Within reason, of course. But without rules, without discipline, all would be wasted.”

  “But, Aguo, are we not Grijalvas? Are we not free to express ourselves as no other family may?”

  “As we do.” He smiled. “Do not attempt to divert me, Saavedra … I grant you he has talent, and likely is Gifted, as we shall discover soon, but untrained talent may lead one astray from family needs and goals.”

  “He wants to be Lord Limner,” she blurted. “And he could. He is good enough! Would you deny the Grijalvas th
e opportunity to replace a Serrano with one of us, merely because he is occasionally wild?”

  “‘Occasionally,’ Saavedra?”

  “He chafes, Aguo, as surely you must have chafed! You said you were young once, and went where you were forbidden … do you see where it has led you? You are a Grand Master, one of the most renowned limners of the family—it should have been you named to Guilbarro Serrano’s place instead of his modestly-talented graffiti-crafter of a son!”

  He was very quiet for a long moment as she recollected who she was, and who he was. “You truly believe Sario is that talented?”

  “I think he is capable of painting anything! Of becoming anything!”

  He nodded, eyes hooded obliquely. “Yes, it may be so.” One hand clasped the Golden Key depending from its chain. “It may indeed be so. Well, we are finished, you and I—you have been given your punishment. Now go and wash and change your clothes—be certain you have not burned yourself, Saavedra—and remember that this ‘exile,’ as you call it, is to last a year. There will be no mitigation of my decision.”

  “No, Aguo.”

  He kissed his fingers, which contained the key, then pressed them against his heart. “In Their Blessed Names, I declare you dismissed.”

  Though she wore no key, Saavedra mimicked his motion. In silence—he would tolerate no more protestations—she turned and left the solar. I need to tell Sario— And then she comprehended the full magnitude and exquisite appropriateness of her punishment.

  “Matra Dolcha,” she murmured, full of painful tears, “if you can hasten time, I beg you do it now!”

  Raimon Grijalva turned as the man entered the solar. He immediately gestured to the high-backed, cushioned chair, but the other shook his head slightly and instead moved to one of the deep-cut windows. His back was to Raimon.

  “Yes,” the other said thoughtfully, “I do see it now. You were correct to have me come.”

  “Premio Frato,” Raimon acknowledged.

  “She could become as important to our plans as the boy himself.” He turned then and faced Raimon. “I think there is no doubt now that it is the Tza’ab blood. There was always talent in our family, but this is different. This is—more. There have been changes in our talent, in our blood.”