by Melanie Rawn
And then, perhaps, he would bring Saavedra from her painted prison, and—
—and live a life together, and then die? End as spiritless meat and bone in separate graves, all thought and feeling and brilliance and magic gone forever?
Shuddering, he set down Sario’s skull and left the atelierro.
“She’s not at all as you said,” Leilias Grijalva told her brother as they walked through what had been a prosperous market town. “Did you see her face as she read Gizella’s letter? And she didn’t even ask about Arrigo!”
“Why should she, when his silence tells her all she needs to know?”
Leilias shrugged. “You said he’s annoyed, but she’s doing him nothing but good here. They’ll rule one day. People will remember her work on their behalf.”
“Her work. Not his.” Cabral kicked at a stone, hands jammed into the pockets of his heavy gray woolen jacket. “He sits in his father’s place, hearing disputes about ore shipments and the price of seed corn and a hundred other useless things that could just as well be done by the senior conselhos, while she—” He broke off abruptly.
Leilias said nothing for ten or twelve steps. He glanced down at her and frowned. She wore the despicably superior expression she used to when they were children and she’d been listening at key-holes. Growling at her, he demanded, “Don’t you have to inventory the brushes or something?”
“Now, you know very well that’s only my excuse for coming along on this little outing. At your suggestion, I might add! But she seems to be doing very well without us. I must say I’m surprised to find her competent at something other than childbearing.”
He glared. “Mallica lingua!”
“Find a more original insult, frato meyo,” Leilias said merrily. “Everyone knows I have a sarcastic tongue! What I was going to say is that it’s in Meya Suerta she’ll need our help. Especially now that Arrigo is visiting Tazia again—alone, and, he believes, in secret.”
“What?” Cabral grabbed her arm. “What have you heard?”
“I had it from someone at Palasso Grijalva, who had it from someone in Arrigo’s service, and I’m not going to tell you anything else until you calm down.” She shook herself free of his grip. “What use will you be to Mechella if you can’t keep your countenance for five minutes and go around rattling your own sister’s teeth out of her head?”
Cabral’s jaw clenched so hard that a muscle in his cheek jumped. After a moment he said, “Has Arrigo resumed with Tazia?”
“It’s only a matter of time. He won’t like it when Mechella comes home a heroine. And you know Tazia—all honey and oil to soothe his hurts.”
Cabral shook his head. “If he begins again with Tazia—Matra ei Filho, it’ll kill her,” he whispered.
“Eiha, we’ll just have to see that it doesn’t. That’s your plan, isn’t it? To protect her against Tazia and her little whelp Rafeyo?” She shrugged, righting her cloak. “Which reminds me—did we have to bring him along? He’s got talent, granted, but he makes me nervous.”
“Premio Frato Dioniso’s idea. If we’d left him at home, someone might have suspected something.”
“And so it begins,” Leilias murmured. “Suspicions, rumors, denials—what’s believed, thought, felt, guessed, known, unknown—and who’s on whose side. It will split the family, you know. Those for Mechella, those for Arrigo, and those who don’t want anything to do with the whole mess. Poor Mequel. It’s his health we ought to be concerned about.”
“No mention of ‘poor Dioniso’?”
“It’s anybody’s guess as to whose side he’s on.”
“His own.” Cabral kicked another rock.
Leilias paused before the Sanctia, razed yesterday after Lizia determined that no part of it was salvageable except the belltower. “What a ruin! Reminds me of Tavial’s Siege of the Tza’ab Castello.”
“Tavial didn’t paint that,” her brother replied absently. “Sario did, before the siege even took place.”
“Another clever Grijalva. Don’t you wish we were clever enough to paint these villages back into being? That would be real magic, not that ‘power of artistic genius’ nonsense people credit us with.”
Cabral said nothing. But if Leilias knew anyone in the world, she knew her brother. This time it was she whose hands grabbed his shoulders, her voice low and tense as she demanded, “What is it? Tell me!”
“I don’t know anything, really—” But he met her eyes, dark hazel like his, and she caught her breath.
“Are the rumors true? The whispers?”
He shrugged her off. “You mean the ones that stop when a woman like you or a mere limner like me comes into a room? I’m not sure, Leilias. But since I’ve lived at the Palasso—” He stopped, then with seeming irrelevance said, “Rafeyo makes me nervous, too, and not just because he’s Tazia’s son. There’s something about his eyes. …”
“He’s always been an arrogant little mennino,” she mused.
“‘Always’?” he echoed. “How do you know?”
Leilias looked him square in the face. She said nothing more. She had no need to.
“Matra Dolcha!” Cabral ground his teeth. “Last year was his Confirmattio!”
“We talked a bit, and I almost liked him for a while—in a way. It was his suggestion that I make a perfume for Mechella’s wedding gift. But now that he’s a Limner—there is something about his eyes, you’re right. As if he knows exactly what he wants and is only biding his time, laughing behind his hand.”
“Just like his mother.”
“I’d guess they’re after the same thing, in the end.”
“You stay away from him,” he warned suddenly.
“No need to say that twice! After the Confirmattio, Cansalvio blushed and stammered, and the other two at least looked sheepish if they saw me around the Palasso. Rafeyo stared me right in the eye and winked!”
“If he comes near you again, I’ll break every bone in his hands!”
Leilias patted his arm, a smile hovering around her mouth. “Grazzo, frato carrido, but I can take care of myself. Save your righteous wrath for Mechella. She needs protecting much more than I.”
Three mornings later a caravan of wagons arrived from Meya Suerta. Mechella was struggling with a heavy box in the back of a wagon when two large hands grasped it for her.
“Allow me, Your Grace,” said Cabral, hefting the wooden crate to the ground.
“Grazzo, Cabral—just don’t scold,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Help me with the rest?”
The supplies included food, clothing, blankets, tents on loan from the Shagarra Regiment, and six boxes labeled “From the Children of Palasso Grijalva.” These proved to contain toys, and Mechella exclaimed in delight at the dolls and games and painted wooden horses and knights. In one box was a note addressed to her and signed by Premio Frato Dioniso.
In you, Dona, the Mother blesses Tira Virte beyond our
deserving. The children here hope these small gifts will
bring smiles where smiles are needed.
Your humble servant,
Dioniso
“How sweet of all your little cousins to give up some of their toys!” She held up a pair of porcelain dolls with silk-thread black braids. “These are just what I need to keep the children busy. I’m running out of stories to tell!”
While Cabral stacked boxes, she called over a few villagers to begin distributing blankets and food. Suddenly, without warning, the ground quivered underfoot. Mechella lost her balance—more from fright than the severity of the temblor—and would have fallen had Cabral not caught her up in his arms.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’ll stop in a moment.”
She was biting both lips between her teeth. Her skin was milk-white and her blue eyes were huge and she was rigid with terror against his chest, but she did not cry out. When the shaking stopped, she bent her head to his shoulder and let out a long, shuddering sigh. She wore a scarf to protect her hair from dirt and dust,
and he turned his cheek to it, wishing it gone so he could feel that wealth of sungold silk against his face.
He let her go. She gripped the side of the wagon for support. He rather felt like doing the same. She was dressed no better than a camponessa and she smelled of sweat and garlic and she was pregnant with another man’s child—and when she gulped down her fear and smiled at him he thought he would fall on his knees at her feet.
“I—I was told this would happen,” she managed in a small voice. “But it wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Nothing compared to what destroyed this village. Are you all right, Your Grace?”
“Yes. I won’t be so silly next time, now that I know what to expect. I—”
“’Chella? Oh, here you are!” Lizia came striding up, a long sheet of paper trailing from her hand. “Eiha, you’re a real Casteyan now—you’ve been through an earthquake! Not much of one, but it still qualifies. Now, come with me. Rafeyo has an idea.”
This idea proved to be the solution of how to paint the adoptions while legalizing property rights. The boy spread out a sketch on a fallen slab of building stone and explained.
“I had some problems in composition—these will be very awkward pieces, which annoys me—but that won’t matter to these people as long as the paintings are legal. In the old days we used to do a Will as a series of scenes inside a connecting ivy vine for fidelity. I propose to use the same pattern. We paint the child in the middle. The old name is symbolized to his right, in this example by the two pears in his right hand for Pirroz, which puns with piros—that means ‘pear,”’ he added condescendingly to Mechella.
“Go on,” she said evenly.
“The new name goes on the left—in this case a simple pebble in his palm, for his new family have been stonemasons forever, which is why their name is Piatro. As for the section of orchard the Pirroz boy inherits from his dead father—behind on the right, as seen from the main road with all landmarks clearly visible. The village house was harder. There is no house anymore. But when I inspected the location from the rear, there’s a direct line-of-sight to the Sanctia. It’s the only thing in the village left standing.” He leaned back from the sketch. “So. We end with four elements: child, old name, new name, and inheritance.”
Cabral frowned. “What if you can’t find a convenient pun?”
“I’ve read through the list. They’re all pretty obvious.” He shrugged. “All componessos are named for their occupations or characteristics—Anjieras, for instance. The family came here from somewhere else and the name ‘estranjieros’ stuck.”
“You’ve solved our problem most cleverly, Rafeyo,” said Mechella. “Grazzo.”
“It wasn’t that hard—if you don’t mind clumsy painting.”
Not a hint of a Your Grace, still less of respect. But Mechella only smiled, and Cabral cringed within that she wasted that glorious smile on this boy who hated her.
“I don’t agree, Rafeyo,” she said. “Look at the way you’ve sketched the boy—as if he’s cradling the pears in memory of his dead parents, and yet holds the pebble as if he’s been given a diamond. This is much more than a legal document, Rafeyo. It’s the work of a true Limner.”
Cabral inspected the sketch again. Mechella was right. Despite Rafeyo’s contempt for the commoners he was now obliged to paint—no glorious grand canvases here, he thought, remembering the boy’s ambitious words in Diettro Mareia—this work had been done with great sensitivity. Cabral felt a surge of pride in his family that could produce such instinctive artistry even with minimal efforts—and an entirely different warmth that Mechella had absorbed so much of his own teachings about that art.
Rafeyo did something unexpected then: he met Mechella’s gaze for a long, assessing moment, lowered his lashes, and murmured, “Grazzo millio, Dona Mechella.”
Thus were the orphans painted, all of them dumbstruck that actual Grijalvas were drawing their pictures, and the finished portraits were given to the local Sanctias for safekeeping. Mechella met with each surviving sancta and sancto, outlining their duties toward each child and family. She always finished with, “I shall expect a report each Penitenssia and Sancterria—more often, if you like or if there’s something special to tell me. I’m deeply concerned with the welfare of these children and your village. I hope you’ll do me the honor of accepting this toward reconstruction of your beautiful Sanctia—it isn’t much, but it will get you started on your building fund.”
Winter approached, and the day snowclouds threatened over the Montes Astrappas Lizia announced that they had done as much as they possibly could. The injured were recovering, the dead were buried, the orphans placed with families, the paintings finished, and there were enough walls with roofs on them to shelter diminished populations until spring. Roads only just cleared of tumbled boulders would soon be rendered impassable by snow.
“And besides which,” Lizia finished, eyeing Mechella, “you’re getting bigger by the hour. Cold food, no bed, and unspeakable sanitation I will tolerate—barely!—but not the sight of my only sister with her back naked to the wind because she’s too pregnant to lace her gown!”
They went home by way of Corasson, an estate long held by the Grijalvas. On the journey there, Mechella heard its history from Lizia, and did not much like the tale.
In 1045, Clemenzo III became Duke of Tira Virte at age eighteen. The next year he fell violently in love with Saalendra Grijalva—much to the annoyance of her family, which had another girl in mind for him. But he would have none but Saalendra, and they conducted much of their affair at an estate halfway between Meya Suerta and Castello Casteya.
“Which was at that time famous for its splendors,” Lizia sighed. “Clemenzo’s grandmother was a do’Casteya, so he had cousins at the Castello who welcomed him whenever he and Saalendra wanted some fresh mountain air. But he was a rather odd man, en verro.”
Odd, because he had ideas about including lesser nobles and even merchants in government. Like his great-grandfather Alejandro, he saw them as a counterweight to the great counts and barons, and made known his intention to reconvene the Corteis. He also resolved on war with Pracanza rather than endure any more border skirmishes—or marry the princess offered as peacemaker as Renata do’Pracanza had been offered to and accepted by Alejandro. When Clemenzo was assassinated in 1047, some thought the greater nobles were responsible and some that Pracanza was behind the crime. But it was also said that Clemenzo had been murdered—and Saalendra with him—by persons acting in revenge for the rejected Grijalva girl.
Whatever the case, Clemenzo’s brother became Cossimio I, and in 1049 the exquisite Corasson Grijalva became his Mistress. They also spent much time at the estate where his brother and her cousin had been so happy. In 1052 he purchased it for her, and there they lived the whole year round. There was no more talk of expanding the government or of war with Pracanza. Affairs of state bored Cossimio and he left everything to his conselhos—who, fortunately, included the highly capable Timius Grijalva, Corasson’s half-brother, who would one day become Lord Limner.
Then, in 1058, Corasson died in a riding accident. Shattered, Cossimio returned to the capital and buried his grief in work. Shortly thereafter he wed Carmillia do’Pracanza—younger sister of the princess proposed as his brother’s bride—and ruled for another thirty-seven years. He never again set foot within twenty miles of the estate, renamed Corasson by the Grijalvas to whom it now belonged, and when he died, his Will specified that his heart be entombed with his dead Mistress. Duchess Carmillia, who never even heard Corasson’s name mentioned—let alone suspected her husband’s deathless devotion to another woman—ordered his heart removed from his corpse as he had wished. Then, with her own hands, she flung it into the deepest swamp in Laggo Sonho.
“What a horrid story!” Mechella exclaimed.
“It has its deplorable aspects,” Lizia allowed.
“I wish you hadn’t told me. I’m sure I won’t sleep a wink inside such a dreadful place.”
/> “You mustn’t blame the house, ‘Chella. Corasson is really quite wonderful, though we won’t be seeing it at its best time of year. And it’s quite comfortable for all it’s so old. A place for lovers. …” She sighed, and after a moment continued softly, “Ormaldo and I spent a few nights there right after we were married, on our way to Castello Casteya. I think I began to fall in love with him then.”
With her first sight of Corasson, contrary to all expectations, Mechella also fell in love. All the house’s unsavory associations went clean out of her mind. Every spindly tower and fanciful crenellation, every winter-bare climbing rose and venerable oak, every arched window and rounded turret enchanted her. It was like the castles of her childhood in Ghillas, though it lacked moat and drawbridge because it had never been meant for war.
“I don’t recall the original name or who built it,” Lizia said as the carriage rattled up the drive. “You’d think all these towers and turrets would make it look ridiculous—like a manor house trying to give birth to a castle. But instead, it’s beautiful.”
Cabral handed them down from the carriage. “It gives me great pleasure to welcome you to my family’s most charming property,” he said with a smile. “But it must be a quick welcome without a tour of the grounds—I think it’s about to rain.”
It did rain, and for three solid days, miring the roads in mud. Mechella spent the time exploring the lovely old caza with Leilias, whose sharp tongue both shocked and amused her.
“It’s a rather scandalous place, even aside from its history,” Leilias said as they admired the dining room’s painted ceiling—which featured scores of scantily clad youths and maidens draped languidly and sometimes licentiously around a sylvan glade. “Cabral says the pair in the middle are supposed to be Clemenzo and Saalendra. Personally, I’ve never entered a room here without wondering if they or Cossimio and Corasson made love in it!”
“In a dining room?”