The Golden Key

by Melanie Rawn

  The day after it happened, a group of nobles and their wives came to the Palasso for an afternoon of music and conversation. Arrigo welcomed his guests, saw to their comfort, and kept his countenance when Tazia arrived alone.

  “Garlo’s deep in consultation with his stewards—something tedious about the crops. But he insisted I come today. I hope it’s all right.”

  “It’s kind of you to join us,” Arrigo responded, and directed her to the wine and cakes before turning to welcome the next couple. It didn’t occur to him until people sat down for the concert that he and Tazia were the only ones lacking their spouses. The chairs had been arranged in pairs with small tables between them, each husband and wife together. Arrigo sat alone. So did Tazia.

  The music was provided by the latest sensation: the eight-year-old daughter of Baron do’Varriyva. Little Clemenssia’s artistry with the gamba was nothing short of extraordinary. She entered with perfect aplomb, enchanted them for an hour, and then was taken back home by her mother for an afternoon nap. Listening to her, watching her small clever fingers dance across the strings, Arrigo was struck not only by her precocious brilliance but by the incongruity of a nobleman’s daughter evincing a talent other than for needlework or flower arranging. Clemenssia had a genuine gift, and her parents were at virulent odds over allowing her to pursue it without being subject to the usual strictures on a highborn girl to get herself married as soon as possible. Arrigo wondered what might have befallen him if he’d had a gift for music or literature or even painting, like the Grijalvas—and gave sincere thanks to the Mother that he did not. He couldn’t imagine the misery of wanting desperately to pursue one course when duty compelled him elsewhere. It was bad enough wanting to do what he’d been born for and knew he would excel at, and not being allowed to do it.

  After Clemenssia’s performance, the company broke into small groups to chat. Arrigo drifted, ever the affable host, gathering the latest gossip. This ought to have been Mechella’s task, freeing him to talk politics with the men.

  At length he found himself at the refreshment table, where a footman poured more wine into his glass. All at once he heard Tazia’s voice behind him.

  “Poor child, her father’s winning the battle for now. Although my cousin Lissina and I intend to join the fray on Clemenssia’s side.”

  “Charming as her playing is,” replied the Countess do’Najerra, “her duty is to marry. With a few children underfoot, she’ll soon forget all about the gamba.”

  “How can you think so!” Tazia exclaimed. “It would break her heart to give up her music. It’s one thing to be born to a duty you want to perform, and quite another to be forced into it when your heart’s life lies elsewhere.”

  “Nonsense,” snapped the other woman. “She’s eight. How can she know what she wants? And why should she have the pleasure of choice when the rest of us don’t?” She paused. “But of course you did, Tazia. Or were you, too, merely doing your duty?”

  Arrigo felt his breath stop. Was this what Tazia had endured since their parting? He composed his expression, and turned; Zandara do’Najerra was so flustered by the sight of him that she nearly dropped her sweet-laden plate. He gave her a precise count of three to meditate on her blunder, then said blandly, “Just the lady I hoped to see! Zandara, my mother would take it as a great favor if you’d join her hospital committee. They plan a new children’s wing, and no one has more experience of children than yourself. How many little brothers did you raise?”

  “Seven, after my mother died, Your Grace, and six sons and three daughters of my own.”

  “And another expected, perhaps?” He gave her rigidly corseted waistline a casual glance. She turned crimson and set down her plate. “Eiha, my mistake. I’d heard a rumor, but rumors are so often wrong, aren’t they? May I tell my mother you’ll oblige her?”

  Stiff as her stays, she replied, “I’m honored, Don Arrigo. I’ll consider it not only my duty but my pleasure.”

  “How lucky,” murmured Tazia, “to combine the one with the other.”

  Arrigo betrayed not a hint of his amusement, but Tazia had known him a very long time, and when she glanced up at him with twinkling dark eyes he was hard put to keep a straight face. The Countess do’Najerra, knowing herself overmatched, excused herself and left the two former lovers alone.

  “That was very naughty of you,” Tazia observed.

  “She deserved it, the silly cow. Does that sort of thing happen often?”

  “Not as often as I’d like. I rather enjoy outwitting them. Though it would be more fun if they had more wits.” She gave him a smile and started to walk away.

  “Don’t go just yet. We haven’t had a talk in a long time.”

  “Would it be proper? Oh, don’t frown so. I only meant that word might get back to Dona Mechella, and she might not understand that there’s nothing between us.”

  “There used to be a great deal between us—which is why half these women would go running to Mechella with the tale of our conversation if they could.”

  “I heard she wasn’t feeling well—again. I hope she gets over it soon. I’d hate for her to miss another autumn and winter social season.”

  “I’ll convey your kind wishes for her health.”

  “Now you’re frowning with words! I’d better leave before people think your awkwardness means something it doęsn’t.”

  “Why shouldn’t I have a casual chat with an old friend?”

  She laughed lightly. “‘Friend’ if you must, but spare me the ‘old’!”

  “You’ll never be that.” He sipped wine. “Did you mean that about taking little Clemenssia’s side against her father’s matrimonial ambitions?”

  “Certainly. You heard for yourself, the child is uniquely talented. Why should she be forced to marry if that’s not her will?”

  He gave a shrug. “She’s only eight. She doesn’t know what she wants.”

  “You agree with Zandara?” Her elegant brows arched. “Eiha, I suppose putting duty above personal preference is bred into you do’Verradas.”

  “And into you Grijalvas?” He lowered his voice. “Was Zandara right about you?”

  Her lashes swept down in sooty shadows on her cheeks. “You know she wasn’t, Arrigo. You know it! Now let me go, please.”

  Her steps were a little too swift as she walked to her chair and snatched up her shawl. He knew everyone was looking. But by the time she joined the group at the windows she was all charm and smiles. Such was her duty now, as the Countess do’Alva.

  And her pleasure?

  Did she love Garlo? Odd that he’d never asked himself that before now. Nearly a year since her marriage, and he’d never even been curious. It hadn’t occurred to him what she might be going through as the discarded Mistress. Surely the same had not happened to his father’s Mistress! But Mechella had not befriended Tazia the way Gizella had done with Lissina. That was wrong of her, he decided. And he was at fault, too, for becoming husband and father had occupied him so totally that he hadn’t even wondered if the woman he’d once loved was happy.

  He finished his wine and held out his glass for more, cursing himself for coldness and heartlessness. He’d make it up to her, he vowed he’d see to it that she was as respectfully treated and as admired as Lissina.

  And in this he required Mechella’s cooperation.

  That evening, while she picked listlessly at her dinner tray from the shelter of her lacy bed, Arrigo explained the Countess do’Alva’s predicament and his desire that Mechella assist in remedying it. Then he sat back in his chair with every confidence of his wife’s instant acquiescence.

  “No!” Mechella snapped. “I won’t! How can you ask that of me, Arrigo?”

  “All you need do is follow my mother’s example,” he said patiently. “It isn’t easy for Tazia—”

  “Don’t say her name in my presence!” She pushed herself higher against the snowbank of pillows. “And don’t ask me to feel sorry for her either!”

 
The notion of anyone’s pitying Tazia struck him even more forcibly than Mechella’s outrage, so much so that he simply failed to react.

  “That woman was your Mistress for twelve years! How could you even think I’d want her in the same room with me, let alone—”

  “My mother—”

  “I’m not your mother! I’m your wife! What if it were the other way around, and I’d had a lover I wanted you to befriend so his feelings wouldn’t be hurt?”

  He laughed at that. “You’re being ridiculous. Women don’t take lovers.”

  “Grijalva women do! And so have women of your own family—Benedetta, or whatever her name was—Cabral told me all about her when he showed me her portrait!”

  “Benecitta, and she’s nothing to do with this.” She was being completely unreasonable; he gritted his teeth and returned to his best, most rational argument. “My mother never had the slightest difficulty being kind to Lissina.”

  “Do you know what your mother told me the very day I arrived here? She said that woman was no Lissina!”

  Rising, he glared down at her. “She has a name. Tazia do’Alva. I suggest you start using it, because you’ll be meeting her rather often from now on.”

  Mechella began to cry. “Arrigo—please, please don’t ask that of me, not now when I’m so ill carrying your son—”

  “You said last time it would be a son, and it wasn’t.” Her gasp told him he’d gone too far. Bending down, he took her hand and kissed it. “I didn’t mean that, carrida. I adore Teressa. And I adore you. That’s why all this is so absurd. What threat could Tazia ever be to you?”

  “Your mother said th-that, too,” she sniffled. “Oh, Arrigo, please don’t let’s fight about this. I can’t stand it, my nerves are in shreds.”

  “Regretto, carrida meya.” He stroked her loose golden hair, and after a time she calmed down and knuckled her eyes like a child.

  “Then—then you’ll send her away?”

  “What?” Arrigo pulled back as if she’d hit him.

  “I don’t want her here! Not when I’m so hideous. Please send her away, Arrigo, I’ll never ask anything else of you again, I swear it.”

  Coldly, he replied, “To send her away would be to admit publicly that I still have feelings for her that could threaten you. Did you think of that? Do you ever think about anything or anyone at all other than yourself?”

  She covered her face with her hands and wept bitterly. But he was already gone.

  FORTY-TWO

  The first storm of autumn brought near-disaster to Galerria Verrada. The wind clattered a roof tile into a gutter, blocking it and exposing a section of tarred paper that worked loose and ripped away. When the rains came, wood and plaster were soaked by water backing up from the clogged gutter. Drip became trickle; trickle turned to stream; by mid-afternoon a torrent gushed down into an attic everyone had forgotten existed.

  When the flood was discovered, crafters risked their lives in the wind-lashed rain to cover the roof, replace the tile, and clear the gutter. Servants frantically began to mop up the water flowing down the attic stairway to a storeroom where lesser art treasures were kept. More servants hustled paintings out of harm’s way into the Galerria. Grand Duke Cossimio himself took crowbar in hand to pry open crates, horrified at the potential damage to his family’s heritage. Grijalvas were summoned immediately. Lord Limner Mequel, recovered from his illness, was first on the scene, and when he saw the sopping ruin of Yverrin Grijalva’s beautiful Betrothal of Clemenzo I and Luissa do’Casteya, his eyes filled with tears.

  Happily, this was the only major casualty. All other damage was confined to water-warped frames, some spotting, and a few smudges here and there, all easily repaired. The greatest danger was mold, a familiar enemy in Meya Suerta’s humid climate and one the Grijalvas knew how to fight. Easels were brought and the paintings at risk were set in the Galerria to dry. All others were propped against walls until new crates could be made for them.

  Thus the entirety of the do’Verrada collection became available for Mechella’s education. Cabral was assigned to the Galerria until rescue operations were complete, and she took him from his work quite often to discuss pictures that hadn’t been seen in generations. Births and Marriages of do’Verrada relations; Deeds for various Grand Ducal properties; Wills, landscapes, icons, portraits of the Lord Limners—all were there for her education and pleasure.

  “That’s only a copy, of course,” Cabral explained as they admired the Lord Limner Timius Grijalva. “The original is in our Galerria with the other portraits of the Lord Limners. And if you’re about to say that they all look alike—eiha, you’d be right! We’re inbred, we Grijalvas. It’s rare these days that someone is born with hazel or gray eyes, or fair skin, or something less than the distinctive Grijalva nose.” He touched his own nose ruefully. “I’m one of them, pitiful thin thing that it is!”

  “And with greenish eyes as well! At least that makes you recognizable among all your cousins,” she teased. “What’s the standard Grijalva type, then?”

  “Mequel,” he answered promptly. “A few inches over medium height, black haired, dark brown eyes with long lashes, dark skin that never sunburns—”

  “I could wish for that. I’ve acquired quite an amazing collection of hats!”

  “Grijalva skin with golden hair? No, Your Grace’s coloring is perfect as it is.”

  “Eiha, I’m glad Teressa is staying blonde—at least I’m not the only one in the Palasso anymore! What are all these paintings over here?”

  He sidled past a scent-pillar in the crowded Galerria, knelt, and flipped through canvases leaning against the wall. “Ah, I recognize these. Some of the earliest Grijalva works. This one is the Birth of Renayo, Duke Joao’s little brother, who died when he was four. See how it lacks the framing runes? Those didn’t come into fashion until Lord Limner Sario’s time, about fifty years later.”

  “He changed a great deal about the way Grijalvas paint, didn’t he?”

  Cabral gave her a smile over his shoulder. “You see, Your Grace doesn’t need to take notes on my interminable lectures!”

  “Is that a challenge?” She regarded the Birth with eyes newly educated in distinctions of style and composition. “It looks almost primitive, doesn’t it? But I thought all the Births of that period always included the mother. Why isn’t Elseva do’Elleon—” She broke off with an annoyed little shake of her head. “Of course. Renayo was a boy, and to paint his mother with him would be heretical.”

  Cabral nodded. “Scenes of a mother with her son are confined to religious paintings. So little Renayo is all alone in this portrait. But—now, where did I see it?” He sorted canvases and pulled out a small portrait of a woman in blue holding a naked infant girl. “Joao’s sister and her daughter,” he announced.

  She searched her memory of the family genealogy. “Caterin and … Alanna?”

  “Alienna,” he said. “But that’s very good, Your Grace. Nobody remembers Caterin nowadays.”

  “Except for her portrait, she might as well not have lived at all. That’s sad, Cabral. Very sad.”

  “Not at all, Your Grace. Because of this portrait, she lives forever.”

  “Trapped in a painting—as we all shall be one day,” she replied with a little shrug and a smile. She drifted away from the works spread out before her to a painting with its back to the Galerria. “What’s this one? It’s not damaged, but it’s set apart as if waiting for a curatorrio to work on it. Help me move it.”

  Together they turned the huge framed wooden portrait around, leaning it against the nearest scent-pillar. Mechella ran down her mental list of identifying characteristics—runes, colors, pose and placement of the figure, floral and herbal symbology, clothing, and so on—but this painting was like none she had ever seen before.

  Along the border was a wealth of runes in gold paint given depth by black shading to the left of each sigil. The portrait itself was complex in composition, and odd with it as well, for the
re were more runes and patterns on the edge of the table in the painting, barely visible beneath a gold-fringed green drape. A mirror on an easel behind her, a painting within the painting over her right shoulder, part of a velurro curtain in a corner—still, one saw the young woman, not the things that surrounded her.

  She was dark-haired, gray-eyed, beautiful in the way most Grijalva women were. She leaned intently over the table, the pearls swagged at her bodice seemingly caught in mid-motion. One long, slender hand lay flat beside a large book, the other reaching toward a small lantern as if she wished to adjust the light. The volume’s gem-set leather binding was barely hinted at, a mere glimmer of colors and gold, for the book lay open on the table for her study.

  To her left was a formidable door: iron-studded and iron-bound, but neither locked nor barred. Behind her, arched windows were set deep into thick walls, shutters folded back to admit the first dawn sunshine of a fine spring day. On one sill was a fat candle about six inches high, only just snuffed, a threadlike mist of smoke trailing upward from the blackened wick. Fine, delicate work, that—Mechella had never seen anything like it before. Yet even as her gaze roamed the painting, she realized that she was choosing the direction of her contemplation, that there was no discernible flow of shape and color and angle and line through the portrait. The pose of the woman’s hand did not draw her eye to the other books on the table; the silvery sheen of dawn found no echo in the silver pitcher glistening with condensation; the shadows cast by the lantern on ash-rose gown and pallid cheek did not repeat in similar shadows around the earthenware bowl of fruit. Cabral had been teaching her the interior geometry of paintings, but this had none as far as she could tell.