by Melanie Rawn
However, Grand Duchess Gizella was observed to sigh quietly and close her eyes in what was interpreted as a brief prayer of thanks. Lissina, Baroness do’Dregez and Cossimio’s former Mistress, glided unobtrusively to her cousin Mequel’s side, and mere moments later the Lord Limner was dancing with Tazia. The Grand Duke missed the whole thing in conversing with the Count do’Alva.
It was all a terrible letdown. The avidly anticipated meeting was over, and the only fireworks of the evening came that midnight.
The next day was another story.
In the do’Alva caza, situated in the newest and most fashionable quarter of Meya Suerta, Tazia was besieged with callers. Most remembered to congratulate her on her marriage before turning to eager discussion of the previous night’s ball. Count Garlo put in an hour’s dutiful attendance in his wife’s reception room. Lissina, who’d been through much the same thing years ago, kindly arrived early and stayed late to help Tazia fend off the more pointed verbal darts. She also let it be known that the Countess would henceforth be privileged to sit on charitable committees overseen by herself and the Grand Duchess. Nothing like Gizella’s name to squelch gossip.
But Tazia needed no assistance in once again frustrating those who had come to dine off her discomfort. By evening half Meya Suerta joined the Grand Duchess in a sigh of relief; the other half sighed for disappointment.
Publicly, Tazia was a model of modern compordotta, the elegant art of correct behavior. Privately—that evening, alone in the soundproofed room of her own now-empty little caza—she paced and wept and cursed both Arrigo and his pale, pregnant bride.
“Canna!” she raged. “Witless idiot! How dare that stupid cow simper at me!” She threw a silver box of sweets; the muffled thunk against the thick tapestry was distinctly unsatisfying. “And that condescending pig Arrigo!” A gilt wine cooler followed the box with equally ungratifying results. “I’ll carve that smirk off his face with a butcher knife!”
At last she collapsed on the sofa, exhausted, her nose running and her eyes burning and her head feeling as if it would explode like last night’s fireworks. After a time she rose and went upstairs to collect a few personal items—her excuse for visiting her old house. The mirror showed the damage wrought by tears; that, and the damage wrought by the years, succumbed to the cosmetics on her dressing table.
“A true Grijalva,” she told her reflection bitterly. “Paint is magic in our clever hands!”
But it would be such a long time before Rafeyo learned enough Grijalva magic to be of use to her. Until then, she was on her own.
A heavy crystal bottle of perfume smashed into the mirror, and at last she began to feel better.
A few days after Fuega Vesperra, Dona Teressa do’Verrada was born. The labor was surprisingly easy after the difficulty pregnancy, almost as if the baby was quick into the world to apologize.
Regretful as he was that the child was not a boy, Arrigo nevertheless was enchanted by his tiny fair-haired daughter. That evening he stood alone on the Appearance Balcony to announce the birth, the cheers of the populace ringing sweetly in his ears. When, ten days later, the child and her mother went to the Cathedral Imagos Brilliantos for the first time, the people of Meya Suerta turned out in even larger and louder numbers.
Palasso Verrada was inundated in gifts. Hothouses of flowers, orchards of fruit, baby clothes enough for an entire province, mountains of toys, libraries of books—one room and then two and then four were set aside for the display of presents from foreign rulers, the Courtfolk, the lesser nobility, merchants, ambassadors, craft guilds, and commoners from every corner of Tira Virte. One thing alone marred Teressa’s arrival: Lord Limner Mequel had taken ill, and could not paint her Birth. The task fell to Dioniso Grijalva by Arrigo’s specific request, and the portrait that came from his brushes was one of the loveliest ever done. At its completion, a small army of copyists went to work, reproducing every stroke to be sent to foreign courts and ranking nobles.
Mechella’s first venture outside after the Ecclesial ceremony was to visit Mequel at Palasso Grijalva. This caused a sensation, for no do’Verrada had set foot there since Duke Alejandro paid his respects after Lord Limner Sario’s death. Mechella’s concern for Mequel was seen as further evidence of a warmly affectionate heart, and her visit produced an immediate improvement in his condition.
She caused more amazement by asking to tour the workshops. Dioniso was her escort from classrooms to copy hall—where eighteen portraits of her daughter, all lined up and ready for crating, gave her a sudden fit of giggles.
“Regretto,” she apologized. “They’re beautiful, and I mean no insult. It just occurred to me how Teressa would feel, seeing all those babies that look exactly like her!”
The Limner smiled politely. “Perhaps you’d like to see the Galerria?”
“I’d love to, but I’ve stayed too long as it is, Teressa will miss me.” After a moment’s hesitation she went on, “I know your original will hang in our Galerria, to look at whenever I like. But babies grow up so quickly, and …”
Correctly interpreting her expression, he asked, “Would you like one of these copies for your private rooms, Your Grace?”
“Could I? Oh, but if I did, someone would have to paint yet another copy.”
“No importado. It’s good practice for our youngsters.”
She walked slowly among the easels, pausing here and there to look more closely at this painting or that. Finally she returned to a particular copy. “They’re all wonderful, but this one is closest to your original.”
“The artist will be honored, Your Grace.”
“I’d like him to deliver it personally, so I may thank him.”
“Cabral will attend you at your convenience.”
Dioniso escorted her from the workroom along a low, drafty corridor that he described as being one of the oldest parts of the Palasso, built before Duke Renayo’s bequest four hundred years ago. “The age of this section is seen in the barrel vaulting and blind arcades—so termed because the stone walls between each set of columns block the view. There are always two columns to honor the Mother and Son—” He broke off. “But I’m boring Your Grace.”
“Not at all,” she lied. “Who are the people in the portraits along the—what did you call it? Blind arcades? Shouldn’t the pictures be in your Galerria?”
He shrugged. “The people are of minor importance, or the paintings themselves are not up to standard.”
“Minor to whom, Dioniso?” she asked indignantly. “Certainly not to those who loved them! And whose standards? The limners who did the work surely did their best!”
He bowed sincerely. “It is the unique gift of Your Grace to see people, not politics and paint. I knew even in Aute-Ghillas that you would bring gifts to Tira Virte that have nothing to do with your lovely face, your dower, or your children.”
“It’s kind of you to say that,” Mechella said, surprised by the way he saw her. “But I wish I understood more about other things. I know nothing about your art, for example. You Grijalvas are so vital to our country, I want so much to know all I can about what you do.”
“When Cabral brings the painting, perhaps you can spare some time to walk with him through the Galerria Verrada. He’s quite knowledgeable, and a much better speaker than I!”
And so, several days later, Cabral Grijalva presented himself and his copy of Birth of Teressa at Palasso Verrada. After he directed the hanging of the picture in Mechella’s sitting room, they went to the Galerria for her first lesson in art.
“… and here you see another example of chiaroscuro in the play of sunlight and shadow over Duchess Enricia’s wedding gown.”
“‘Chiaro—’? I should have brought a notebook,” Mechella sighed. “I’m afraid I’m terribly stupid about remembering all this.”
“Not at all, Your Grace,” Cabral replied instantly. “I’m the one at fault for trying to tell you all of it at once. No wonder the Viehos Fratos keep turning down my request
to teach.”
She dimpled. “If you can teach me, you can teach anyone, and I’ll tell them so if you like! But why won’t they allow it?”
“I do not have the Gift,” he said simply.
“How can you say that? Ignorant as I am, I knew right away that your copy of Dioniso’s painting was the best of them all!”
“Your Grace’s praise is more than I deserve. I should explain that there are two sorts of Grijalva. The first are like me—a certain amount of ability in original work, and sufficient skill to mimic real talent.” He paused, then admitted diffidently, “I had the honor of copying your Marriage last year.”
“Did you? I’d love to see it.”
“It was sent to Merse. We don’t have much trade with that country, so true talent wasn’t required. The copy was only a courtesy. You see, the real Limners have an almost magical touch. See here, how Duchess Enricia’s skin looks as if you could feel the warm softness of her cheek? I can’t do that. And I could never teach anyone else how to do it either.”
“Have you tried?”
He seemed taken aback. “It isn’t permitted. I’m only a copyist. Oh, I do original work in my spare time, when I’m not needed elsewhere, but I’m not good enough to waste paint on.”
“You’re just as good as the rest of them—better!”
Cabral shook his head. “I do not have the Gift,” he repeated. “My friend Zevierin, for instance, is an extremely accomplished Limner. His copy of your charming little Teressa will be sent to Your Grace’s father, the King.” He smiled. “But mine will be seen by you every day, and to me this is the much greater honor.”
Mechella spread her hands in a gesture of helpless confusion. “I suppose you Grijalvas have your reasons for the way you do things, but it seems to me your talent is wasted, not the paint you use. May I ask one last question before you go?”
“I am at Your Grace’s service as long as you wish.”
“Two questions, then. First, how can anybody tell when one limner has this Gift and another doesn’t?”
“All Grijalva boys are tested. Those who succeed are taught differently from those who fail, according to the precepts laid down three hundred years ago by the great Lord Limner Sario.”
“Some of his pictures are here in the Galerria, are they not?”
“Yes. He did some excellent work, for his time. But his most important legacy is not in his paintings but in the system he devised for nurturing talented young Limners.”
“Of which you do not feel yourself to be one. Eiha, Cabral, I disagree. And my second question proves it, for I would like to ask if you’ll teach me about painting. The Grand Duchess is forever escorting guests through the Galerria. If I knew more, I could free her from having to repeat herself so often! She’s been so sweet to me, I want to help her however I can.”
Cabral bowed low. “It would be an honor and a pleasure, Your Grace. But I must warn you,” he went on with a quiet laugh, “that you’ll get a large dose of history along with art. All Tira Virte’s past is on these walls.”
“That’s another reason I want to learn,” she confided. “I’d remember the history so much better by hearing about the people and looking at their faces. Would twice a month be too often? Would it take you too much from your work?”
“I will be here every day if you wish it.”
“Oh, any more often than once a week and I’d never remember a thing! And next time I promise to take notes!”
FORTY-ONE
That summer saw Mechella’s entry into all the delights and pitfalls of Court life. Gizella and Lissina kept careful eyes on her, but soon realized that not only was the girl newly confident now that she’d borne Arrigo a child—even if it was only a girl—she was so charming that even her rare mistakes made her more beloved.
True, her education was not extensive nor her understanding deep, but she was so humble in her desire to learn that the stodgiest scholars endured her ignorance with smiles. She tended to a slightly glazed expression when politics were discussed, but she was a divinity on the dance floor. She had scant notion of where each noble’s estates were located, but she always asked after the children and grandchildren by name. Her notes thanking this countess or that baroness for a wonderful dinner were written in a childish hand, but with such innocent sincerity that even her spelling was instantly forgiven. And her face, her figure, her jewels, and her clothes were the envy of every woman in Meya Suerta.
Arrigo nearly burst with pride whenever he looked at her. When they toured schools, village fairs, Sanctia hospices, or guildhalls, the people chanted her name even more loudly than his. Everywhere she was deluged with irises, her favorite flower. When it was rumored she had a fondness for almonds, baskets of them appeared whenever she did. She was seen wearing a Casteyan lace shawl, and the camponessa who had made it as a wedding present grew very rich in commissions for wealthy noblewomen. Mere days after she donned an embroidered apron to tour a feeding kitchen for the poor, every woman in Meya Suerta with any claim to fashion sported a similar garment.
In one thing alone did Mechella displease Arrigo: she loathed Chasseriallo. Thinking to give her respite from the constant round of parties, balls, and charity work, he arranged for a week’s stay at the lodge in autumn. The moment they arrived, she began to cough. By next morning she was running a fever and spent the whole time in bed. Moreover, she had nightmares: moss festooning the oak trees wrapped around her throat, the torpid river suddenly became a torrent that swept her away, the little chirruping tree-frogs swelled to the size of horses and crashed through the roof. At length he had pity on her nerves and took her back to Meya Suerta. But he couldn’t help remembering times spent here with Tazia—she who waded hip-deep in the river to fish beside him, she who loved the dark mystery of the trees, she who joined him in hunting and wild rides over the hills and the ancient bathtub every evening. …
Disloyalty to Mechella shamed him. As she recovered her spirits in Palasso Verrada, and became once more the lively, adorable girl he’d married, he forgot Tazia. Almost.
By Providenssia Mechella was pregnant again, and even more ill with it than the first time. She took to her bed and canceled her engagements—not that any of her official appearances with Arrigo had any real import. At farm fairs, he judged the horseflesh and she the baked goods and embroidery. They attended ceremonies blessing a new mine or mill or medical facility. They dined with the Drapers Guild, the Vintners, the Clockmakers, the Linen Merchants, the Goldsmiths, the Corn Factors. She enjoyed it all, even the boring speeches, for there was always the promise of talking to people and hearing their concerns. And they told her everything, from worry about a child’s broken wrist to their views on trade with Taglis.
But Arrigo fretted. He had thought his marriage would change things. With a wife to assume some of the social burden, he had thought he’d be free to work with his father on matters of state. He knew his ideas were good ones. For instance, Tira Virte ought to be selling wagonloads of gorgeous Casteyan furs to the cold northern kingdom of Merse. Opening one market, Arrigo reasoned, would eventually open others. But Cossimio shook his head. Trade in luxury items was no way to establish Merse’s dependence on Tira Virte; political cooperation was gained through fear of losing an essential supply of foodstuffs or minerals, not cloaks for the wealthy. Further, the Merseians didn’t adhere to the practice of painting rather than writing treaties, so how could any business be done with them?
Arrigo understood this painting angle better than his father suspected, but revealed nothing of his knowledge. The information Dioniso had given him about Grijalva art not only made sense and explained many historical puzzles, but worried him as well. No aspect of governance or foreign relations could be trusted unless a Limner painted it—and this gave entirely too much power to the Grijalvas. Seeing no way around this entrenched power, Arrigo decided that if it could not be curbed, then at least he would make certain he had his own Grijalvas from now on.
And so he e
ncouraged Mechella’s art lessons with Cabral, and met with Dioniso at least once a month, and wondered when the time would be right to include the Count and Countess do’Alva in the small entertainments he hosted at Palasso Verrada. Now that Mechella was pregnant again and too exhausted to attend, he felt he could issue the invitation. Besides, what gossip could come of a gathering of a dozen or more people? It wasn’t as if he were summoning Tazia to an intimate midnight supper. And he was no longer in love with her anyway.
One thing had definitely changed since his marriage. When he appeared alone now in public, disappointment showed on every face. Gifts were always for Mechella; flowers were always her adored irises. Arrigo began to realize how deeply she was loved by the people of Tira Virte. His people. It was gratifying, of course, to have her such an overwhelming success, but annoying when they called her name and demanded to know why he hadn’t brought her with him, even though they knew she was again pregnant.
The first time it happened, he held up a hand for quiet and the Gemcutters Guild fell silent in their huge tapestried Hall. Smiling, Arrigo said in a voice that carried all the way to the painted rafters, “Regretto, but Dona Mechella was not feeling well enough tonight to join me, though I can’t say that I entirely regret being the cause of her indisposition.” There were cheers and laughter; someone cried out, “Good to see a man who enjoys his work!”; someone else yelled, “This time a son!” Arrigo grinned, and told his wife about it the next morning when he presented her with the guild’s gift: bracelets of a dozen different stones, one for her and one for Teressa. Mechella blushed, and they laughed together.
He used the same little speech several times to similar effect. But one day no one laughed, and a voice called out, “If it was you suffering to bring the next Heir into the world, you’d not be so quick to joke on it!” The woman was immediately silenced by her mortified husband, and red-faced officials of the Woodworkers Guild apologized profusely, but a chant rose in the courtyard outside as Arrigo left the building: “Mechella! Mechella!” He didn’t tell his wife about it, and never used the witticism again.