The Golden Key

by Melanie Rawn

  Alone now, Mechella extended long legs to stretch, reaching her arms high overhead as if to embrace the warm spring sun. Agnetta knew there was scant time for what must be accomplished before noon—a complete change of clothing to what Mechella laughingly termed Court Finery Second Class—but despite the need to hurry, Agnetta let her be. This was the last of her girlhood; soon the adult chaos of celebrations, preparations, and farewells would begin.

  She was so young. Too young.

  At length the servant bowed to necessity. Approaching Mechella, calling her name, she ached anew at the ardent excitement of the lovely face turned to her.

  “There’s news?”

  Of her own misgivings, Agnetta was blunt. “The Grijalva has returned from Tira Virte—and your father is as happy as a pup wagging two tails.”

  The next instant Agnetta was being whirled across velvety manicured lawn and Mechella was singing with laughter.

  “’Chella! Stop that, I’m dizzy—”

  “So am I! Isn’t it perfect? I’m to marry Arrigo do’Verrada!” She kissed Agnetta’s wrinkled cheeks, her own smooth skin flushed with joy. “We’ll marry and have a dozen children and be the happiest couple in the world!”

  Matreia e Filei, I hope you are right, my darling. Extricating herself from the jubilant dance, she caught at Mechella’s hands. “’Chella, listen to me. Is this what you want? Is he what you truly want?”

  The Princess laughed again. “Agnetta! I’ve been in love with him since his state visit! For all these five long years I’ve dreamed of nothing else! But Papa’s been so stubborn—I told him when I turned eighteen that I was ready to marry, but he kept putting it off—” Headlong chatter ceased. Abruptly suspicious, knowing Agnetta’s every expression far too well, Mechella demanded, “What’s wrong? Tell me what you’re thinking!”

  This she most certainly would not do. She knew what Mechella did not: that amenable as Arrigo’s parents had been two years ago to the alliance, Arrigo himself had balked. Not even Lord Limner Mequel’s own portrait of Mechella last year had moved him toward a betrothal. What had changed his mind? Or perhaps the right question was had it changed?

  Eihia, to the Flames with his mind! What about his heart?

  Mechella made a face that mocked Agnetta’s sour look. “You’re thinking of that Grijalva woman, aren’t you? Don’t worry, Enrei explained it all to me.”

  “He did?” gasped Agnetta, vowing to wallop the Crown Prince herself if he’d revealed anything that might hurt his sister.

  “Eihia, yes,” Breezily now, mimicking the sophistication of her elders: “All do’Verradas take such women as their official Mistresses. It’s a traditional arrangement with the Limner family.” A little-girl giggle escaped. “Enrei likes the idea of an official Mistress!”

  “I’ll just bet he does. What else did he say?”

  “First of all, when the Heir is betrothed, the Mistress retires from Court with gifts of property and jewels and all that.” She dismissed the Grijalva with a negligent wave of her hand. “The do’Verradas are very generous. Second, the Mistresses are always barren, so there’s no danger of a bastard claimant to the throne. We know what trouble that can cause! Third—and I think Enrei will use this with Papa—it’s much better to have the Heir keep to one woman rather than cause scandals chasing noble virgins at Court, or tavern wenches who might not be very clean.” A vague frown informed Agnetta that her innocent darling had no idea that “clean” referred neither to laundry nor to bathing.

  Mechella’s expression turned mischievous. “Finally, Enrei says, think how lucky the wives of the Heirs are, knowing their husbands know everything about pleasing them in bed!”

  “’Chella!” But the admonishment was automatic, and she couldn’t help a smile. Annoying as he sometimes was, the Crown Prince actually made a good deal of sense. Still … “I’d like to be present when your brother presents this Mistress notion to the King. Birthday fireworks would be nothing to compare!”

  They laughed and started for the terrace of the Pallaiso Millia Luminnai, where tonight every one of the Thousand Candles would be lighted in the grand ballroom when the news was officially announced. Mechella chattered all the way to her suite: how handsome Arrigo was, how charming, how accomplished at music and hunting and chess (which Mechella had labored to learn after his visit), how wise a ruler he would be, how much she desired to help him in his duties, how she yearned for children, how she hoped to be accepted by his people … and on and on, all with a sweet ingenuousness that wrung Agnetta’s heart.

  She listened in silence, telling herself that if this marriage was what Mechella truly wanted, then all speed to the wedding. She did not say that the kindness of a grown man to the fifteen-year-old daughter of his royal host had nothing to do with what would happen between them when they were husband and wife. Agnetta knew herself hopelessly prejudiced, but in that moment of spring with her Princess outshining the sunlight, Agnetta could believe that when it was written, this tale, too, would have the happiest of endings. Faced with such goodness and such determination to love and be loved, how could Arrigo do’Verrada do otherwise than adore her—she who was so young and beautiful, so kind and gentle, so innocent and trusting. …

  “ … and so insipid it beggars the imagination. And they expect me to marry this infant!”

  Tazia Grijalva cast a quick glance at the tall, uniformed figure pacing the morning room of her little caza in the best part of Meya Suerta. Any other woman would have told him to sit down and stop carving up her carpets with his ceremonial spurs. But Tazia had never in her life been like any other woman—not even any other Grijalva woman.

  “She’s very pretty,” Tazia said. “I’ve seen the portrait.”

  “She’s well enough, I suppose.” Arrigo gave a shrug that made the gold braids of his epalettos dance and glitter. A handsome man, he appeared to best advantage in the green tunic, black trousers, and high black boots of the Shagarras—an honorary captaincy in a regiment that for the last century had done nothing more militarily strenuous than stand sentry at Palasso Verrada. The deep color of the tunic brought out the gold flecks in his brown eyes, and the epalettos lent pleasing width to his shoulder. But although he was just thirty, the wavy black hair was a touch thin at the crown of his head and his devotion to long hours outdoors had put tiny lines into the tanned skin around his eyes. More serious were the twin furrows of discontent framing his full lips. She knew their source. He was in a uniquely painful position: an intelligent, capable, dedicated man who had nothing to do but wait for his father to die. This, more than his years, had marked his face, this terrible knowledge that he was fully prepared to serve his people while also knowing such service could only come when the father he loved was dead.

  It had been Tazia’s task these twelve years to make him forget as often as possible, to keep those lines from deepening any further, to cheer him when he was depressed, to applaud him in those duties his father allowed him to perform—to love him. This she had done, and gladly. But soon the work would fall to another woman. A pale, pretty, innocent girl from a foreign land who neither knew Arrigo nor understood him. And if the Princess failed in her charge …

  “She’s so blonde,” he continued, striding back and forth as if still on the parade ground. “It’s almost unnatural.”

  “Arrigo!” Tazia laughed and set down her embroidery. “Surely you’re not suggesting she dyes her hair! Carrido, don’t be so silly. Every family has its characteristic looks. We Grijalvas have our distinctive noses—some rather more distinctive than others, to be sure! No do’Verrada daughter stands more than an inch over five feet tall. It’s the trait of the Ghillasian royals to be very very pale. Which reminds me, you must warn her about how fierce our sunshine can be.”

  “I don’t like blondes. And she’s a bore—barely educated—”

  “I hear she’s been studying our dialect—and chess, too,” she added archly.

  He gave a derisive snort.

 
; “You are being silly. She’s very much in love with you already, and only twenty.” Eighteen years younger than I—Matra ei Filho, young enough to be my daughter! Banishing the thought, she said, “The girl is only trying to please you.”

  “You please me.”

  Crossing to her chair, he snatched the needlework from her hands and his eyes possessed her in the uncanny manner of all the do’Verrada men. It had taken her breath away from the first—she who was so intent on being his Mistress that until she met him she hadn’t even considered what it might be like to be his lover.

  “You, and none other,” he added softly.

  She flowed up into his arms, knowing she should not. It was time for her wean him from her as delicately as she knew how, for kindness’ sake. But the Princess would have him soon enough. Tazia would relinquish him because she must, but until then she would take and enjoy what was still hers alone.

  And yet … and yet.

  Later, while he dozed with his head cradled between her breasts, she wondered whether she must truly give him up forever. Some of her predecessors—most notably the grandmother for whom she was named—had resumed the Marria do’Fantome after the death of their Grand Duke’s wives. Not that she wished any harm to Mechella—Matra Dolcha, no! But could they not share his life, his loving—and his power?

  Grandmother Tazita had done so. Hers was a life to be envied. The perfect Mistress’s life. After producing a child for the family—a daughter, Zara, who was Tazia’s mother—Tazita became the Mistress of Arrigo II before his marriage to Nadalia do’Joharra. When the Grand Duchess died, Tazita resumed her position and held it for twenty-one years until her Grand Duke’s death. In Grijalva lore, Tazita was known as Nazha Coronna: the Uncrowned. Even during his marriage, though faithful to his wife, Arrigo II made no political move without consulting her. After Nadalia died, he would have married Tazita had it been allowed. Now, a mere thirty-one years after her death, she was a legend.

  Her portrait in the Galerria Grijalva showed a smiling young woman, black hair curled and braided in the elaborate fashion of the time, voluptuous figure encased in a velurro gown of Verrada sapphire blue cut so low her nipples were nearly exposed, a blood-red ruby on a gold chain clasped around her creamy throat. But Tazia remembered her grandmother as she had been in her sixties: hair gone silver, soft curves melted away by the illness that would eventually kill her, the jewel lost in a billow of lace hiding her scrawny neck. All that remained was her glorious smile, given to her six-year-old namesake as she said, “If you are very good, very obedient, and very clever, you might have a handsome do’Verrada of your own one day. After all,” the old lady added with a twinkle in her black eyes, “your full name is Tazita, just like mine, and the newborn Heir is another Arrigo, is he not?”

  What Grandmother had not told her, and what she had discerned for herself over the years, was that whereas goodness and obedience were all very well, the main thing was to be clever. The recurrence of names was an omen, but fate did not necessarily cooperate unless one nudged it now and again.

  Matra ei Filho, how clever she must be if she wished to rival her grandmother’s career! The only time Tazia had ever mentioned the coincidence of names, Arrigo arched a brow and remarked that it would be nice if he could have something to call his own. Educated by his father’s tutors, replacing his father as captain of the Shagarra Regiment, patron of his mother’s pet charities, owner since his eighteenth birthday of the Heir’s Jewels and suite at the Palasso and of the hunting lodge at Chasseriallo, and on and on—no wonder he wanted to have something to call his own. Tazia had never again referred to their becoming a second Arrigo and Tazita. Instead, she set about making him feel himself unique in the annals of Tira Virte. In this she had succeeded for twelve years.

  But now he would marry. If he was not the first do’Verrada to wed the daughter of a king, at least he would be the first to wed a Ghillasian. Tira Virte had been attempting a marriage alliance with the powerful northern kingdom for two centuries. The schemes of the late Lord Limner Pedranno and his successor Mequel had finally borne the desired fruit. Mechella was not just a Princess of Ghillas, she was the Princess of Ghillas, the only royal female of marriageable age and a dizzying dower prize. The money was substantial, of course, but the real benefits were free access to Ghillasian ports, reduced tariffs, and favorable prices—and more to come when Mechella made King Enrei a grandfather. But, most importantly (although most obliquely to everyone but the Grand Duke and the Viehos Fratos), a Limner would be credentialed and permanently installed at the Pallaiso Millia Luminnai in Aute-Ghillas, complete with a cadre of copyists. What a Grijalva saw, he could paint; what he could paint could be used.

  Tazia had a general knowledge of how vital a Limner was at Aute-Ghillas because her son had shared with her all he had clandestinely discovered about Grijalva secrets. Rafeyo was just fourteen, even now undergoing Confirmattio, and though his sterility was not yet beyond doubt, he had always been utterly sure of what he was. Tazia was proud of him, and prepared to become even prouder, but the truth was that Rafeyo’s birth had been a mistake.

  In four Confirmattios she had escaped pregnancy. Then, in 1247, lack of suitable girls compelled her—at the age of twenty-four!—into service one last time. Infuriated when her fourth cousin Renallo fathered a child on her, she bore her son in bitter resentment. His birth accomplished one thing, however: she would never again conceive. For this she was grateful to the boy, for at least he had spared her the process that would have rendered her barren, a mysterious procedure all Mistresses underwent to prevent any bastard do’Verradas.

  Tazia began with resentment, progressed to impersonal gratitude, and gradually developed a vague interest in her son, but mothering him was left to her own mother, Zara. Tazia was too busy recovering her waistline and ensnaring Arrigo to bother with the child. If she thought of Rafeyo at all those first ten years of his life, it was with the remote curiosity of a much-older sister who wonders how a little brother fares.

  Recently they had begun to spend more time together. He was a handsome boy, his burgeoning talent was a credit to her, and Arrigo not only didn’t mind his visits, he actually liked Rafeyo. Arrigo would make a good father, she thought, brushing her lips to his thinning hair and picturing his children as cozily friendly with her as he was with his father’s former Mistress, Lissina.

  Once a week Rafeyo came to Tazia’s caza and told her everything in his head. When he discovered certain things or overheard certain others, she knew about it shortly thereafter. She encouraged him to investigate, cautioned him not to be caught lest he be marked as Neosso Irrado, and anticipated the day of his Confirmattio—when her value to the family would increase for having produced a Limner. It wouldn’t be long now before that happened—of the three girls he’d bedded this winter, none had become pregnant. One more, and Rafeyo Grijalva, only son of the Heir’s Mistress, would be Confirmattio.

  Sometimes, after the enforced intimacy, young couples fell in love and later married, especially if a child came of the bedding. Renallo had briefly tried to court Tazia after she turned up pregnant; his wooing had lasted only as long as it took her to say five words: “I intend being Arrigo’s Mistress.” Rafeyo would never be so foolish as to become enamored of any of his bedmates. He knew his duty to his mother and his talent. No Lord Limner ever married; Tazia couldn’t imagine Rafeyo wanting to. He was hers, and she smiled with the pleasure of anticipating herself mother of the Lord Limner. …

  Nazha Coronna, mother of the Lord Limner.

  She supposed she ought to be shocked by her ambition. But as she stroked the rippling muscles of Arrigo’s back, she had only a mental shrug for the boldness. Why should it not happen that way? It was eminently practical and would make everyone happy. Arrigo would be a find Grand Duke. Tazia was a perfect Mistress and understood Court politics inside out. Rafeyo was Gifted and had the talent to use it. The three of them would accomplish wonders.

  As for Mechella de Gh
illas—everything Tazia had heard about the girl indicated she was rather stupid and totally ignorant of governance. Court life might suit her, but Court politics would not. With enough babies to keep her busy, she’d hardly notice Arrigo’s absences. Tazia was willing to share for the sake of appearances. With Arrigo’s heart in one hand and Arrigo’s power in the other, and her son as Lord Limner to aid and abet the whole, she could afford to be generous.

  The years spread out before her in shining splendor. Rafeyo would become Confirmattio, learn all there was to learn about the Limners’ art—and tell Tazia every detail; Mechella would have lots of babies; Arrigo would do his duty by providing those babies while missing Tazia so dreadfully that he would propose she return and become his Nazha Coronna; and Tazia herself … hmm. Perhaps she, too, ought to marry. Nothing like a wealthy, complacent husband to deflect gossip while Mechella came to terms with reality and Tazia established her position so firmly that none would dare gossip. Yes, a husband. She even had a man in mind.

  It would happen as she wished, with a minimum of effort and fuss. Within five years all would be arranged to Tazia’s satisfaction and the greater good of Tira Virte.

  Because, when it came to it, no matter how pretty Mechella was and no matter how many babies she gave Arrigo, it was Tazia he loved. What woman, lovely and fecund though she be, could compete with that?

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The Ghillasian capital, Aute-Ghillas, eagerly anticipated the forthcoming arrival of Don Arrigo do’Verrada. Don Arrigo, who anticipated his forthcoming marriage with nothing approaching eagerness, was going to be a little late arriving. The gist of this—gently and diplomatically phrased—brought a heartfelt cry from Princess Mechella.

  “But when? When?”

  King Enrei frowned, irritated by his daughter’s frets. Lucky for the girl that only her family was there to observe. They in turn were observed by the professional eye of the Grijalva Limner, who told himself that a portrait capturing the moment would be less than flattering.