The Golden Key

by Melanie Rawn

  Spring, Winter, Summer—and her own Autumn; all the seasons of the year, and all the important rooms in the Palasso. One day she might even find this funny.

  “You were listening at the door.”

  “I was, Your Grace, and I can’t say it shames me.” Her soft lips thinned and her plump chin lifted; it was a camponessa’s face, broad and plain as the earth, and as wise. “Dismiss me for it, but this whole year I’ve been waiting for just this moment. Primavarra, she’s my twin, when she heard about that woman coming back, she said to me, ‘You tell her Grace that when she needs us, we’ll be ready.’ I’ve told all my sisters how good and kind you are, all innocent and unknowing of the nasty ways of the Grijalvas.”

  Mechella was well and truly startled—at first by the torrent of words, more than she’d ever heard at one time from Otonna, and then by their meaning. “You don’t trust the Grijalvas?”

  “Not a bit.” Otonna folded her arms over a well-filled bodice of Verrada blue. “It’s not decent, giving over a young man to an older woman who’s meant to—to do what they do, which is keep Limners powerful at Court. Why, the Blessed Alesso who died freeing us from the heathen Tza’ab, he’d put a stop to it were he alive, and that’s fact. It was that slinking Sario who trapped the do’Verradas into generation after generation of scandal, and he used Saavedra to do it!”

  “He did?”

  “He did! He gave her willingly to Duke Alejandro, bringing him to the Grijalvas instead of to the Serranos—so Sario could be made Lord Limner! And then when she vanished, he painted that picture so poor Alejandro would always have her Grijalva face before him, and when Alejandro’s son came of an age for it, he was given a Grijalva woman for a Mistress as a seal on the bargain that made them Lord Limners one after the other, with the Serranos nowhere to be found!”

  “I see,” Mechella said faintly.

  “The sanctas and sanctos have the right of it about the Grijalvas,” Otonna continued, “but even they don’t dare challenge them—and that’s worrisome, Your Grace, when even those who speak for the Mother and Son stay silent. And that one—Varra’s husband, he’s master of Don Arrigo’s horses, many’s the time he went to Chasseriallo, so he’s in a position to know about her.”

  Mechella nodded, confounded by this unsuspected view of the Limner family. “Yet you’ve said nothing to me before.”

  “Eiha, Your Grace had to learn on her own, Primavarra said to me, and she had the right of that as well. She was always the quickest—out of the womb before me, into service first of us four, and risen high in the Grand Duchess’s favor as well.”

  Forcing herself out of bed, remembering Mequel’s painful movements and wishing for half his bravery, Mechella asked, “But what about Cabral Grijalva?”

  “As Your Grace’s eyes and ears inside their Palasso?”

  Mechella gave a start at how easily the maid followed her thoughts. “I was thinking of it, yes.” How horrified Aunt Permilla would be to hear her ask the opinion of a servant. And how far away and thoroughly irrelevant Aunt Permilla was now.

  “Eiha, there’s Grijalvas and Grijalvas, aren’t there? Proof enough in the sisters Larissa and Margatta, cherished friends to our blessed Duchess Jesminia. And Baroness do’Dregez, Lissina Grijalva that was, she’s a fine kind lady with nothing but goodness about her. And Mequel isn’t so bad, though he is one of the odd ones.”

  “Odd?”

  “As I say, there’s Grijalvas and Grijalvas. Yberria’s husband, he’s their cook, he said when I asked that Cabral isn’t one of the unnatural ones—meaning those squint-eyed painters who can never father a child and put strange magical signs all over their pictures, and also the women who have one baby after another in hopes of getting a painterish son, just like prize horses bred for hunting.”

  In her year as Arrigo’s wife, she hadn’t even thought about what the Ecclesia or the commoners or anyone else thought of the Grijalvas. Limners were simply a fact of life in Tira Virte. Surely the sterile Limners couldn’t help what they were—and Mequel was one of the dearest men she’d ever met. As for the other painters, they worked on behalf of Tira Virte, not themselves. Still, she agreed with Otonna’s judgment of Grijalva women although a highborn wife was in much the same position when it came to it. The getting of a son was Mechella’s primary responsibility, too. It put her on similar footing with the Grijalva brood mares. And she didn’t like it at all. She must be worth more than that—mustn’t she?

  Otonna said, “But Cabral’s on your side, see if he isn’t, and against his own Grijalva kin if it ever comes to it. And how is it I know this?” She smiled. “Only that he painted a copy of Your Grace’s Marriage—and has been in love with you ever since.”

  Mechella sat down very hard on the bed. “Cabral?”

  “En verro, and anyone without Your Grace’s sweet innocence would have seen it weeks ago. But don’t ever let on that you know. Eiha, there’s the hour chime, I’ll have to hurry the lads with the bath water. Will Your Grace wear the lavender or the pink today?”

  FORTY-THREE

  Four days later, Arrigo and his sister welcomed their guests—twenty-two titled parents and their forty noble offspring, aged ten to thirteen—to an afternoon of puppetry and games nominally hosted by Count Maldonno do’Casteya. The gathering, ordered by Cossimio and organized in haste, would serve to make known to his adolescent peers the Grand Duke’s grandson. From the ranks of the boys would come his friends; one of the girls might become his wife. It was devoutly hoped that Maldonno, raised in a ramshackle castello and as much a stranger to elegant silks as he was to the great names he met that day, would begin to see that he had a position to uphold. He simply could not run wild through the Palasso, and he must learn his role in society—as the unfortunate incident of the pony in the Galerria proved (though Mequel laughed uproariously when he heard of it, Cossimio was not amused).

  Lizia, equally accustomed to casual manners, was as uncomfortable at the party as her son. “I don’t see why this is necessary,” she complained to Arrigo between arrivals. “He’s always been free to do as he likes without all this formality stifling him—unlike all these little hothouse flowers! Matra ei Filho, it’s just like when we were children and Mother gave all those hideous parties, which you hated as much as I did, don’t deny it!”

  “Had to be done, then and now,” Arrigo said, not without sympathy. “Calm down, Lizi, I’ve invited a few who aren’t ‘hothouse flowers.’ Tazia’s bringing some cousins.”

  “What? Are you mad? Grijalvas rubbing shoulders with do’Brazzinas and do’Varriyvas? The least we can expect is a score of black eyes! We’ll be lucky if they don’t all leave!”

  “No one will leave.” He turned to greet an approaching baroness and her sweating, lace-collared twelve-year-old son. After Lizia made the proper noises and the pair joined the party, he went on, “They’re not stupid. Someday one of those Grijalva boys will be Lord Limner.”

  “How nice for one of them,” she snapped. “And speaking of Grijalvas, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Tazia. You’re making Mechella very unhappy, you know. Or did you know?”

  “Leave my wife to me,” Arrigo responded sharply.

  “And your former Mistress? Shall you leave her to her husband?”

  Stiff-lipped, he replied, “Stay out of it, Lizia.” Then, catching sight of a familiar mane of glossy black hair, he said, “And here’s the Countess now.” With her middle stepson and six other boys—including, he saw with a start, her own son, Rafeyo.

  Verradio do’Alva, a scrawny sullen-faced boy in a silver satin jacket, was completely overshadowed by the sturdy, plainly dressed Grijalvas. After directing the youngsters to the games and refreshments, Arrigo smiled at Rafeyo and said how good it was to see him again.

  “Just don’t tell him how he’s grown!” Tazia winked at her son, who blushed and made a face. “Or that he’s ready to grow one of those silly half-beards that are the fashion with young men these days. Such talk makes m
e feel old enough to be his great-grandmother. I must say the sight of the Countess isn’t helping. You look twenty-two, it’s positively depressing.”

  Arrigo chuckled. “You’ve hit her in her vanity, Tazia—”

  “No, she in mine!” Tazia laughed. “That must be your son over there, Countess. He has the fine Casteyan look of his father about him.”

  “We all think so,” Lizia answered, thawing a bit.

  Arrigo said, “Rafeyo, you must be well into your studies by now. How are you enjoying life as a Limner?”

  “Very much, Your Grace. It’s quite challenging.”

  “I gather you’ve been brought along to supervise the younger cousins?”

  The boy replied with another grimace.

  “And at Dioniso’s suggestion,” his mother continued, “he’ll make some sketches as practice, and a memento of the occasion.”

  “Delightful idea,” Lizia said. “I’d like to have one, if you don’t mind, Rafeyo.”

  “Honored, Countess,” he bowed.

  “Lizi,” said Arrigo, “I think everyone’s here, and even if they aren’t, I’m dying of thirst. Shall I bring you something to drink?”

  Thus he escaped with Tazia to the refreshment tables. Plates of fruit were predictably untouched; plates of sweets had been just as predictably demolished. Seven gigantic crystal bowls held variously flavored lemonadas dyed improbable colors, and Tazia pointed hesitantly to a garish purple. Arrigo laughed while the servant grinned and dipped a cup for her.

  “It’s only plum juice,” Arrigo said. “And not bad, really.”

  “I foresee frightful experiments in kitchens all over Meya Suerta. All these children will want something green to drink the way it was at the Palasso!” She sipped, nodded approval, and went on, “And no wine, not even for the adults. Very wise. I take it you remembered what happened to you at age fourteen during Mirraflores?”

  He groaned.

  “All Meya Suerta heard you up on the balcony, drunk as a brace of barons and singing at the top of your lungs!”

  “How indelicate of you to remember so clearly what I swear I don’t remember at all! Have one of these cakes, the pastry cooks have a new recipe.”

  “No, thank you—and we really must stop meeting like this, always at a table laden with sweets. Arrigo, you’re ruining my waistline!”

  “You’re babbling,” he observed softly. “I’ve never heard you do that before, Tazia.”

  “I could say the same of you,” she replied just as quietly, just as mindful of the nearby servant. “Arrigo—”

  “Is it getting any better?”

  “If you mean am I still beset with caustic countesses and baronesses with barbed tongues—not so much anymore. Thank you. If you mean—” She broke off and looked away.

  “Tell me.” When she shook her head, he urged, “Tazia, tell me!”

  “If—if you were asking if it’s getting any easier being without you, the answer is no” Raising her face to look him in the eye, she finished with a bright social smile. “You’re very kind to give Rafeyo such notice, I’m grateful. I should go look at his sketches. If you’ll excuse me?”

  “No, I will not excuse you. I—”

  A small gasp from the servant made Arrigo’s head turn. His wife was hurrying through the doorway of the music room, heading straight for him and Tazia with an expression of worry and fear on her pallid face.

  “Arrigo—” Mechella didn’t even see Tazia. “There’s dreadful news,” she whispered. “You and Lizia must come at once.”

  “What is it? Teressa? My parents?”

  “No, no, they’re well. It’s—”

  She saw Tazia. Her cheeks flushed and her whole body went rigid with loathing. Tazia met her gaze for a moment with something indefinable flickering in her eyes, then looked away.

  Concerned and annoyed, Arrigo said, “People are watching, Mechella. You’ve upset everyone. Why didn’t you send a servant? Tell me what’s wrong, so I can set their minds at rest.”

  With a last hate-filled look for Tazia, she said, “There’s been a terrible earthquake in Casteya, in the foothills of the Montes Astrappas. Hundreds are dead, perhaps thousands—”

  “And my father has sent for me to help him.” At last!

  “I don’t know, I haven’t spoken with him. I only heard by accident, on my way to the Galerria. Some servants were talking, one of them had taken the courier up to your father. I came as soon as I could, to tell you and Lizia—”

  Arrigo swallowed anger. The servants had known before he did! His father was even now planning rescue efforts, commanding food and workers and medical help for the stricken area, while he, the Heir, the next Grand Duke of Tira Virte, stood in a room filled with children.

  He glanced around for Lizia. The man whispering urgently in her ear was his father’s personal aide. There was no alteration in Lizia’s expression as she heard the news, only a twitch in one cheek, a brief clenching of one hand. Fiery as she could be, she knew how to conceal her thoughts and emotions in front of others. His gaze slid to Tazia—her face was as smooth as his sister’s—and then to Mechella.

  “Go to your father,” Tazia murmured. “He’ll need you.”

  Arrigo couldn’t help a bitter retort. “Will he?”

  Mechella surprised him then. “Of course he will! I’ve already sent word that you’ll be there immediately. And—Arrigo, I hope I’ve done right in this—I ordered our carriages made ready. They’ll hold a lot of food and blankets and medicines, and they’re much faster than wagons.”

  “Well done, Your Grace,” Tazia said, nodding approval. She might not have spoken for all the notice Mechella took of her.

  “Everything should be ready by first light, Arrigo. We’ll leave—”

  Lizia was making the announcement, serious but calm, alarming no one: minor temblor, minor damage, ho reason to cancel the entertainment, understand that we must leave you now, go on enjoying yourselves—

  Arrigo stared at his wife. “‘We’?” he echoed incredulously. “‘Leave’?”

  She looked him straight in the eye, not upward, as Tazia had to. “We must help in any way we can, and how can we know what’s needed unless we’re there?”

  “Your Grace.” Tazia was frowning. “I’m aware that you don’t know about such things, but one earthquake is almost invariably followed by another. In your condition you really mustn’t think of such a journey.”

  Mechella rounded on her, blue eyes flashing. “How dare you tell me what I must and mustn’t do! These are our people, and we’re going!”

  “Your Grace!” Tazia shrank back with the shock.

  Before anyone could say anything else, Lizia’s heels clicked angrily toward them across the tiled floor. “What are you waiting for?” she snapped. “Arrigo, Patro wants us at once.”

  He suspected that it was only Lizia, Countess do’Casteya, whose presence had been commanded. Nodding to Tazia, he took his wife’s arm and his sister’s, and together they left the music room. But he glanced back over his shoulder at Tazia—abandoned, alone, eyes wide with worry for his safety and hurt at Mechella’s rebuke. Arrigo suddenly found himself in the grip of powerful and conflicting emotions.

  Tazia knew the risks of the journey to Mechella and the child, and the danger of further tremors, and she was afraid for them—for him. Mechella cared more for the people than for any danger to their unborn son. She didn’t know enough to be frightened. Eiha, but she was right. These were their people, and it was their duty to help. She understood that with the instincts of a Princess of Ghillas. Tazia did not. Yet it had been Tazia whose first words were that his father would need him, though Mechella had arranged the journey even before hurrying to tell him of the disaster, showing a presence of mind and a practicality he had not hitherto looked for in her. Still, her furious reply to Tazia’s justifiable concern was inexcusable.

  What it came down to, he told himself as he assisted his pregnant wife up the stairs, was that Mechella had
reacted as the royalty she was: duty first, personal concerns unimportant, her only thought their people’s need. But Tazia—

  Tazia’s every thought was for him as a man, as Arrigo—for his very personal need to be of use, and for his safety. …

  “Can’t spare you,” Cossimio growled at him across a conference table littered with maps and lists. “I want you here, taking over my other duties until this is resolved.”

  “But—”

  “No argument! I’ve had enough of that from the conselhos! Not enough this or that or the other damned thing to send to Casteya’s aid—we’ll just see about that! I’m the Grand Duke and when I want a thing done, Nommo Matra ei Filho, it will be done!”

  Gizella said soothingly, “That’s why your father needs you here, Arrigo. He must go himself to the warehouses and granaries, otherwise—”

  Arrigo couldn’t give up just yet. “I could be doing that on the way to Casteya. There are storehouses along the route, and things wouldn’t have to go as far.”

  His father scowled mightily. “And I say you stay here. Lizia has to go, Casteya’s hers, but not you. You’ll take my regular duties, end of discussion.”

  Arrigo intercepted a glance of sympathy from his sister. He refused to acknowledge it. Mechella stared in silence at her laced fingers in her lap, all the spirit gone out of her. She wasn’t willing to fight for what she knew to be their rightful duty as Don and Dona. Not that this surprised him; in the past year she must have learned how futile it was to argue with Grand Duke Cossimio II when his mind was made up.

  The next morning she did not send for her maid to prepare her bath and dress her. Arrigo, enquiring of Otonna as to whether his wife intended to remain in bed all day—again—received nothing more than a shrug and a few words professing ignorance of Her Grace’s plans. So Arrigo was as surprised as anyone when a courier came in at noon with a message from Lizia: the caravan of carriages taking her and supplies to Casteya was also taking Mechella.