The Golden Key

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The Golden Key Page 55

by Melanie Rawn


  They faced each other in the red-brick kitchen across a massive wooden table laden with tiers of pastries. For several moments neither woman spoke. Then Mechella leaned forward, fists braced on knife-scarred wood. Tazia tilted her head to one side, arms folded, the exquisite shawl slipping a bit from bared shoulders.

  “Well? Be quick, I have guests waiting.”

  “I have no interest in anything you could say to me, but I advise you to listen carefully to what I am about to tell you.”

  “And that might be?” Tazia asked, faintly smiling.

  “Stay away from Court.”

  The smile widened.

  “Go back to your estates. Go on a journey—preferably to Merse, and the longer you spend there the better. Go anywhere at all. But leave Meya Suerta and don’t come back.”

  “This is what you drove an hour here to tell me? You could have put it in a letter—phrased less offensively, too. Then again, I’ve heard your spelling leaves your correspondents baffled at best.”

  “Offending you is the very last thing I care about. I give you until the Sperranssia holiday to make your arrangements.”

  “You give me?” Tazia gave a gay little chirrup of laughter, as if she had never enjoyed anything so much or found anyone so deliciously droll in her entire life.

  Mechella’s cheeks flushed. “Interrupt me again and I’ll order your packing myself—now, tonight. Believe me in this, you will leave Court.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “You forget yourself.”

  “To the contrary, I know exactly who I am. Don’t you?”

  Mechella’s back stiffened. She stood straight again, fingers clenched. “I know what you are. We have a saying about women like you in Ghillas.”

  “But we’re not in Ghillas.” With an air of patient sweetness, Tazia said, “Tell me, I’m curious. What precisely do you think you can do to force me into this exile you speak of?”

  “A conversation with your husband would suffice.”

  Tazia burst out laughing. “You ridiculous creature!”

  “How dare you!”

  “Next you’ll tell me I’ll pay for this, or I haven’t seen the last of you, or some other tired old cliche. No wonder you bore poor Arrigo to distraction!”

  Mechella was quivering with rage. “Chiras!” she hissed. “Canna!”

  At the obscenities, Leilias knew all was lost. She shut her eyes and leaned her forehead to the wall, not wanting to hear any more.

  “The least you could do is learn proper enunciation.” Suddenly the amusement vanished from Tazia’s voice. “Sow, am I? Bitch? We have sayings in Tira Virte, too. ‘Merditto alba,’ for instance. Literally, it’s ‘white shit’—but the real essence of it is a little different. And entirely appropriate to the high and mighty Princess of Ghillas. What ‘merditto alba’ really means is that you think your shit doesn’t stink.”

  There was a brief, deadly silence. Then, in a voice as cold as stone, Mechella enquired, “What was it again? Merditto Alva?”

  Leilias didn’t understand the crisp ripping sound she heard next, but the angry swish of silk warned her to hurry back down the hall, where she waited as if she’d been there the whole time. Flushed and furious, Mechella strode by without seeing her. Leilias ran to keep up, hoping she’d have the sense not to confront Arrigo.

  Confront him she did, but not in the way Leilias feared. A brief pause in the hall to regain control, a squaring of her shoulders, a smoothing of her hands down her gold-and-silver skirts—and from the salon doorway Leilias saw Mechella glide sedately toward her mortified husband, place a hand on his arm, and lean up to kiss his cheek.

  “Bonno Natallo, carrido,” she said, her accent flawless. Then, turning to the shocked and secretly delighted guests—who would all dine out on this for months—she produced a smile to outdazzle the blazing lustrossos. “Forgive me if I don’t stay. I only wanted to surprise Arrigo as arranged. Have a lovely evening—no, dolcho meyo, you needn’t see me home.”

  Leilias half-strangled on repressed laughter. He’d stay, all right. She’d left him no choice. He would stay, and endure every bright social smile that hid rampaging speculation, every sidelong glance of sly amusement. And so would Tazia—once she recovered from Mechella’s parting shot.

  But minutes later in the dark carriage, when they were clear of the torchlit drive, Mechella burst into tears.

  “’Chella, you mustn’t,” Leilias soothed, stroking the golden curls. “She knows now you’re someone to be reckoned with, you showed her for the bitch she is—don’t cry, ‘Chella, please.”

  “You h-heard?”

  “Every single syllable—which you pronounced perfectly, by the way. Especially when you called her ‘merditto Alva’!”

  Mechella gave a choked little laugh. “That was a good one, wasn’t it?”

  “Brilliant! Now, dry your eyes. We must put you to rights before we get to the Palasso. You’ll have to go past some guards, and they’re dreadful gossips.”

  Mechella shuddered. “Gossip! No one will talk of anything else for the next year! He doesn’t love me, he never d–did—they all know it, Leilias, they all laugh at me and p–pity me behind my back.”

  Leilias wanted to shake her. “It’s either one or the other, they can’t do both. You can make yourself into what she called you—a ridiculous creature—and they’ll have every right to laugh. Or you can make yourself pathetic, and they’ll be justified in pitying you. Or …”

  “Or what?”

  “You can show them all the woman you showed Arrigo tonight.”

  “Oh, Leilias—that was the hardest thing I’ve ever done!”

  “Nonsense. Keeping yourself from clawing that woman’s eyes out—now, that must’ve been damned near impossible!” This time Mechella laughed more easily, so Leilias added, “Is that why you had your hands clenched so tight? Your nails must’ve sliced into your palms!”

  They reached the Palasso near midnight. Descending from the carriage, Leilias nearly tripped over a trailing length of lace. By lamplight she saw the pattern: sunbursts outlined in gold. Mechella saw the direction of her gaze and gathered the material in both hands as they went up the steps.

  “He gave her my shawl, Leilias,” she whispered, forlorn as a child. “My shawl. It tore when I grabbed it off her shoulders, but I just couldn’t bear it any more, seeing her wear what my people gave to me—”

  “Let me take it to the maker, I’m sure it can be rewoven good as new.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t! She’d know I’d been careless of her beautiful work, I’d be too ashamed.”

  Which, Leilias reflected as she coaxed Mechella to give her the lace, was one of those vital details that would make the tale of this night resound to Mechella’s credit. It was reminiscent of the way her Grijalva cousins sketched out the composition of a painting. Telling little touches here and there were minimal in and of themselves, but taken altogether these unpretentious truths added validity to a portrait. First the lacemaker, then the lacemaker’s friends, and then all Meya Suerta’s common folk would know about this night exactly what Leilias wanted them to know—and embroider the whole story as finely and creatively as this shawl. The Courtfolk would hear—and possibly believe—Tazia’s version. But the people loved Mechella.

  “I’ll take care of it,” she assured Mechella, and smiled to herself. “Shall I come up with you? No, I see Otonna is waiting. Dolcho nocto, Your Grace. Try to sleep. Everything will be well, I promise.” Eiha, yes, she would see to that.

  By early afternoon Dioniso had heard two conflicting but equally diverting versions of the previous night’s scandal at Caza Reccolto. So the portrait of the future was taking shape, he mused, and it was time he began adding his own brushstrokes. He knew just where to start.

  The boy was all alone in the atelierro allotted to those currently studying with Il Aguo. Rafeyo sat on a stool half-turned from the door, an empty easel before him and sketches spread on the floor at his feet. Of wate
r there was plenty: tears of angry frustration were knuckled away at regular intervals as Dioniso watched. But not a drop reached the pencils scattered any whichway on the nearby table.

  His first impulse was to tell the boy not to waste his substance. It had been a long time since Dioniso had used his own tears; they’d been difficult to come by for decades. But he stayed silent while marveling at the emotions of youth that could so easily produce that precious moisture.

  He cleared his throat to alert Rafeyo to his presence. The tousled dark head turned, a frown marring his features. In the time since Dioniso had first seen him, he had grown much taller and the severe adult lines of his face had emerged through boyish softness. But the eyes that regarded him resentfully were those of a thwarted, sulky child.

  “Never tell me that at your age you’ve already run out of ideas, Rafeyo.”

  “They want formal drawings of Corasson. It’s not my idea.”

  “That’s our lot as Limners. We paint what we’re told.” He bent, picking up a sketch by one corner, trying to recall exactly what Rafeyo would have learned by this point in his training. With the changes Dioniso had already made in the way the boys were taught … enough, perhaps. But he was about to learn more.

  Rafeyo kicked at the table, and pieces of stone crockery rattled. “Heard it before—that we have to use every chance to paint something really special. But everybody else gets to paint whatever they want—look at all those boring old things put up for best of the year! And the winner! Imagos Brilliantos on Astraventa—Premio, I could do better than that in my sleep!”

  Dioniso’s lips quirked; precisely his own opinion, but it wouldn’t do to say so. It was a treacherous balance, establishing authority while fostering familiarity. Besides, as Premio Frato he had cast the deciding vote for the abysmal painting. It had been necessary to gain its influential maker’s support. And he’d refined his thinking over the last weeks; should the Grijalva “best” decline in quality these next few years, the talent of “Rafeyo” would be all the more noticeable. So he’d allowed the ghastly piece to win the prize.

  The boy was still complaining. “And they won’t even let me near oils yet—when they know that’s what I’m meant for!”

  “Eiha, let’s see what you can accomplish with pencils.”

  “Pencils!” he snarled. “Little girls draw stick-figures of their dolls with pencils!”

  “But little girls aren’t asked to execute the picture that will drive up the price of Corasson when Dona Mechella opens the bargaining.” Rafeyo’s frown deepened, confirming that he’d heard all about last night. Dioniso smothered a grin. “All you need to do is make it pretty—she won’t notice any of the finer points.”

  “And let anyone see my name on an inferior work?”

  “Indignation is an asset, but don’t overdo it. Pencils or not, it’s an honor to be chosen to draw this. If you’re clever enough, reminder of Corasson’s beauties will fetch us a better price. Our purse is in your hands, Rafeyo.”

  “Wonderful,” he muttered. “They only picked me because I was there and got bored and sketched the filthy old pile.”

  Dioniso sighed. “If I show you something useful, will you keep quiet about it?”

  Sullenly: “Show me what?”

  “I suggest that you stifle your wrath at the injustice of not winning for year’s best initiato. Patience. At not quite sixteen, you’ve time.”

  “The moronno who got it is only ten months older than I!”

  “Too bad,” he replied without sympathy. “You’ve been weeping large and bitter tears over it, to no avail. Squeeze out a few more and I’ll tell you how to use them.”

  Fresh rage and humiliation stung new tears to Rafeyo’s black eyes, just as Dioniso intended. He caught them on the tip of a pencil labeled Serrano Brown—eternal reminder of the family he had long ago systematically destroyed for the sake of his Duke, his country, and art—and, not incidentally, the Grijalvas. The magic produced by these few droplets of water would be mild at best, but he had an idea.

  “Now, Corasson must look its best, ‘cordo? Therefore you will work as if it were spring, not winter. Climbing roses in full bloom and fully leafed trees are worth a few hundred mareias.”

  “But this is to be nazha coloare—”

  “The limitations of monochrome can be overcome. Warm and soften the composition by using browns and grays more than black. You can get around nazha coloare with faint suggestions of red and yellow in the roses, green in the trees and grass—more of an instinct that color exists than the certainty of its presence. Do you see what I mean?”

  “I—I think so.” Rafeyo began to look interested. “It takes a delicate touch to do something like that. Show me, Premio Dioniso?”

  Rafeyo learned quickly. After two false starts soon crumpled and tossed away, the boy tacked up a fresh sheet of fine paper and, after a glance at his strewn sketches, began to draw.

  Dioniso watched, gratified, as the outlines of Corasson took shape in muted grays. He noted the mannerisms of the boy’s concentration: one ankle wrapped around a leg of the stool, lower jaw thrust forward, an occasional tap of the pencil on the front teeth. The young body moved with enviable grace when he leaned back for perspective or selected another pencil—at which times he invariably licked his lips.

  When he reached at last for the Serrano Brown, Dioniso stopped him. “Wait.”

  “What for? You’ve broken my rhythm!”

  “You’ll get it back. Your tears are on this pencil, part of its substance now. Use it carefully—for what you felt as you wept will linger in every line and shadow it draws.”

  Rafayo eyed him narrowly. “You mean even without scents worked into the paper?”

  “Even so. Pay attention. You could use this brown for any number of things—define a highlight, suggest a shadow, contour, shape. But what you felt with those tears will be felt by any person who stands at Corasson in the exact place you use the pencil.”

  He had the satisfaction of seeing the boy so stupefied that he very nearly lost his balance on the stool. It took Rafeyo a couple of tries to find his voice; when he did, he rasped, “How, Premio? How is this possible?”

  “For now you need only accept that it is possible. Think about Corasson, Rafeyo.” He made his voice low and lulling, the kind of tone that could seduce a woman from her virtue or a boy into his magic. “How it will look in the spring, who might walk through a door or beside a wall or beneath that big oak tree. …”

  The Serrano Brown hovered, darted forward like an arrow to define the rough bark of the oak on the south side of the house.

  “Is it exactly as it was?” Dioniso murmured. “Does it match not only your sketches but your memories? Consider the slant of spring sunlight. Is this as true a rendering as if it were spring and you were drawing the tree from life?”

  Rafeyo hesitated, drew in another line here, another shadow there.

  Dioniso murmured soundless words learned centuries ago; they would not be as powerful here as if he drew with his own substance, but they would add just enough to Rafeyo’s work to make a difference.

  “Are you certain this is how it will be?” He leaned forward, his face just above the boy’s shoulder, his cheek nearly touching Rafeyo’s cheek. “What do you feel?”

  Trancelike—so very close to the real thing, an amazing accomplishment of sheer instinct in one so young—Rafeyo said slowly, “Angry … it’s so unfair … they patronize me, treat me as a child … I want what I was meant for … the canvas … the oils. …” He gave an anguished sob. “Chieva do’Orro, I want to paint! They won’t let me, they won’t give me a chance—”

  Dioniso inhaled the scent of his breath: chamomile from afternoon tea, basil from stew served at lunch. They would do. Magical Energy and Hatred. With these and his emotions of rage, resentment, and desperate longing for what he did not possess, encounters beside that oak tree at Corasson might prove entertaining.

  Pulling back, Dioniso breathed a
few more silent phrases before replacing the brown pencil with black in the boy’s unresisting fingers. “Touch the tip to your tongue before each stroke,” he whispered. “Yes, that’s it. Now finish the tree.”

  Considering the limitations of monochrome, the result was uncannily lifelike. But now, of course, the oak did not match the rest of the picture. Dioniso waited for Rafeyo to come out of his haze—shaking himself like a puppy in from the rain—before he spoke again.

  “Do equally good work on the whole or they’ll know you’re up to something.”

  The harsh command startled Rafeyo. “Wh-what?”

  “Look at it!” Dioniso snapped. “One absolutely magnificent tree trunk—and a whole page of inferior scribbles! I’ve seen better graffiti from the charcoal stub of an alleyway Qal Venommo!”

  “It is not inferior! It’s just not finished yet! I’ll show you, you just wait.”

  “I am as accomplished at that as I am with oils—which, if you continue so impatient, you will never learn from me.”

  All the defiance washed from the dark eyes. “You mean—you would teach me?”

  How he had always loved that look in a young man’s eyes: awestruck, eager, humble and proud all at once … eiha, it had been such a long time … the Luza do’Orro was there in Rafeyo, and a joy to behold.

  Rousing himself, he replied. “If you demonstrate enough talent—and produce a work that significantly increases the price we get for Corasson!” He decided to smile, and was rewarded with a brilliant grin. Yes, a handsome boy, with everything else he required besides. “I’m bored by the Viehos Fratos,” he went on confidingly, “and I intend to take on a few select students. Only the most promising, of course.”

  “Me and who else?” Rafeyo asked, his natural arrogance reasserting itself in the implication that none of his fellows was as worthy of Dioniso’s time.

  “Arriano, perhaps.”

 

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