The Golden Key

by Melanie Rawn

  “Eiha, he’s all right. Just not Cansalvio!”

  “Do you think me a fool, to waste my teaching on such as he?” It was, truth to tell, his favorite aspect of each life: choosing talented young men, giving them the benefit of his genius, creating a group of Limners who had his teachings in common and who later would form his next life’s own personal faction among the Grijalvas—for of course his next life was always lived in one of those special estudos. To his choice, he said, “I take only the best. When you’ve finished this, we’ll speak again about truly finishing it.”

  “With magic.”

  “Not much, but enough.” He paused, composing his face into grim lines. “Rafeyo, should you be tempted to try this on your own, don’t. I’ll know—the Viehos Fratos know everything sooner or later—and not only will you never study with me, you will never hold a brush in your hand as long as you live.”

  Rafeyo nodded—too quickly. “I know enough to know I don’t know enough to do this on my own, Premio.”

  “Send word when you think this is done. And tell no one what you’ve learned, not even your mother.”

  Rafeyo caught his breath. “How did you—”

  “I told you. We find out everything sooner or later.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  In the late spring of 1264 Mechella was delivered of her second child, a large dark-haired boy she called Alessio Enrei Cossimio Mequel. The absence of his father’s name in the list was not lost on anyone. She damned the gossips and named him as she pleased, as was a mother’s privilege.

  The birth of his son’s son meant even more to Grand Duke Cossimio than the assurance that his line would continue into another generation—for at Alessio’s birth he suddenly discovered how much fun it was to be a grandfather. Lizia’s children had spent their early years at Castello Casteya, so he had missed his chance with them. Though he was fond of Teressa, his booming voice and bristling beard frightened her and she was only now learning not to be shy with him. But little Alessio cooed whenever his grandfather appeared—and moreover was Cossimio’s very image (but for the beard, of course). Arrigo and Lizia looked very little like the Grand Duke; Alessio was a copy in flesh of the Birth of Cossimio III hanging in the Galerria.

  This fascination with his new grandson made his conselhos complain—with justification—that he was neglecting his duties. In truth, he spent the bulk of each day dawdling in the children’s quarters, which now took up half a floor of the Palasso and housed all five of his grandchildren. When told by Lord Limner Mequel—diplomatically, and not without sympathy—that pressing affairs of state required his attention, Cossimio gave an annoyed snort but did not glance up from tickling Alessio’s bare belly with a feather.

  “Let Arrigo do it. He got enough practice after the earthquake.” Then, recalling that being Grand Duke was fun as well, he added, “But don’t let him make any decisions. I’ll review recommendations and decide things myself. Look at this, ‘Quellito! He’s smiling at me!”

  “Your joy in your grandson is a lovely thing, Cossi, but—”

  “That’s just what he is to me—pure joy. I won’t miss Alessio’s first words or first steps, not like I did with my other grandchildren. It’s too bad you’ll never know this, old friend. Tell you what—you be his Zio ‘Quellito. There, you see, he likes the idea—he’s laughing!”

  The Lord Limner decided not to point out that not only did any child laugh when tickled, but that an infant Alessio’s age understood no ideas other than wet, sleepy, and hungry. Mequel simply surrendered to the inevitable and joined Cossimio at the cradle. A pocket yielded a clean new brush, and he drew its silkiness over the baby’s cheek. Alessio crowed, burbled, and belched.

  “A disgusting sound for a future Grand Duke,” Mequel observed. “And the smell won’t do at all—he needs a new cloth. But you know, I can see the attraction of the rest of it. So small and helpless, and those big eyes staring up at one … I suppose even in an old eunuch like me, the instinct survives.”

  “‘Eunuch’!” Cossimio laughed and slapped his shoulder—carefully, for Mequel’s bones were more brittle by the day. “I’m not so far gone in my dotage that I don’t remember Dorrias, Felissina, Yberra, Ollandra, and Tomassa—not to mention those lively redheaded twins from Ghillas! And that little Pracanzan who almost made you a real eunuch when she caught you with your sixth cousin!”

  “Cossi!” Mequel grinned. “Such scandalous talk in front of an innocent child! And don’t you go telling him tales about me when he gets older. What will Alessio think of his Zio ‘Quellito then?”

  Cossimio’s expressive face lost all happiness. He picked up the baby and cuddled him, gazing over the downy head at his friend. “When he gets older, and you’re not here—that’s what you meant, isn’t it? I thought I’d forbidden—”

  “And I replied that I would do my best,” Mequel responded gently. “I will, Cossi. I promised you.”

  “Here,” he said abruptly. “Hold him.”

  “I’m not very good with—”

  “I said hold him!” Cossimio thrust the child into his arms.

  It seemed instinct really did function even in a sterile Limner who would never know fatherhood, for he cradled the child most comfortably and naturally. He touched his lips to the curly black hair and smiled.

  Gruffly, Cossimio said, “Stay like that. This time I’ll paint the picture, Lord Limner, in my mind, so I can see you and him like this whenever I close my eyes. Just in case you do the unthinkable and fail to keep a promise to me.”

  “Cossi—” Much moved, Mequel found he was stammering. “It isn’t—I know I said—but it’s not for me to—” He cleared his throat and ended, “I’ll try. You know I’ll try.”

  “That’s all I ask. ‘Cordo?”

  Alessio waved a fist in Mequel’s face. He rubbed his cheek to the tiny, perfect fingers, allowing himself—just this once—to feel the true depth of his regret that he would be dead before this child reached his fifth birthday.

  “’Cordo,” he answered softly. “I will try.”

  … and will it still be spring when I am freed? If I am ever freed? He has given me a lamp and a candle against the night, and water to drink, and trees outside the window—but there is no scent from the wick or the wax, no savor to the water, no sound of wind in the leaves. Not even he could paint the wind. …

  Will it still be spring? The same spring? A year from now, ten years, twenty—

  Why didn’t he simply steal this life beneath my heart, rather than steal living from me? He could have taken my baby’s life without taking me from the living world of spring and scent and taste and wind—

  Will he free me before he dies?

  Or has he found a way to cheat Death as well as Life?

  Every summer all who could afford it fled the stifling, muggy heat of Meya Suerta. They went east to the seaside, north to the Montes Astrappas, west to the lofty hilltop city of Granidia, and even as far south as the shoreline of Shagarra where one could dimly see the sands of Tza’ab Rih on the horizon. Wherever the wealthy went, it was with one thing in mind: a cool breeze.

  That summer, despite reports of the occasional vibration underfoot in Casteya, half the Court found excuses to go north, for they were sure of finding at least one night’s welcome at Corasson along the way. Some came out of friendship for Mechella, bringing gifts for her lovely new home. Others came out of curiosity, wishing to see the almost forgotten monument to Serrano pride where so many do’Verradas had disported themselves with their Grijalva Mistresses. A few came to spy for Arrigo, for he had not joined the rest of the family at Corasson. He still had not forgiven her for buying it.

  King Enrei had been extravagantly generous at the birth of his first grandson. He was also exquisitely specific about the uses to which the money should be put. A third of the impressive coffer of gold mareias went to education; another third built the long-desired children’s wing onto the hospital in Meya Suerta; the remainder went to Mechella hersel
f. She used most of it to buy Corasson. Arrigo, remaining at the Palasso to attend any little matters that might arise, was almost daily subjected to reminders of King Enrei’s munificence. The vigorous young sancto who oversaw Ecclesial schools submitted plan after plan for improvements on old buildings and construction of new ones. The conselhos responsible for health and public works inundated him with lists and architectural renderings and schedules and estimates for the hospital. The ladies of his mother’s various charity committees sent letters about the schools and letters about the hospital and never failed to call down blessings on Enrei’s name. Neither did any of them—sancto, conselho, nor lady—fail to thank Arrigo for fathering a son and for marrying the living miracle that was Mechella.

  “I begin to understand,” he told Tazia one night, “why women complain of being valued only as brood mares. I was never so loved for anything I did as when I played stud to a Princess.”

  That he could show some humor about it was a relief to Tazia—and confirmed her timing. He’d been ready to return to her. He needed her. Slowly, through the winter and spring, as they resumed the comfortable relationship, his temper improved and he relaxed and she was sure the lines in his face were softening.

  Tazia and Arrigo did not meet every night, as they used to during their twelve years together. But every day messages went back and forth by the hands of trusted servants, regarding everything from the day’s doings to choice gossip to expressions of love and desire. Sometimes they met at her town caza; sometimes she slipped into the Palasso by a back stair. Twice that summer they sneaked away to Chasseriallo, and a dozen times to Caza Reccolto. With most of the Courtfolk gone from the capital, there were few to observe and act the informant, but they were careful all the same.

  Arrigo’s friends sent him letters about Corasson. Clouds of dust as room after room was cleared and cleaned and decorated. Cossimio and Gizella doting on all five grandchildren. Teressa prettier every day. Alessio growing apace. Maldonno’s riding now expert. Grezella caught kissing a kitchen boy, Lizia laughing herself silly over it. Little Riobira embroidering pillows for the salon with Lissina’s guidance. And Mechella: gracious hostess, loving mother, radiant with delight in her happy family home.

  Tazia was receiving the same nauseating news. Steeling herself one night as she lay beside Arrigo in his bed, she said, “You’ll have to go for a visit, you know.”

  “Hmm? Go where?”

  “Corasson.”

  Grunting, he rolled over and reached for a winecup on the bedside table.

  “Just for a few days. Bring her a picture or a tapestry from the Palasso collection, be devoted son and husband and father—and then come back to me.”

  “Why should I make that long, dusty journey at this late date? Summer’s nearly gone—and it’s been so perfect, Tazia, I don’t want to waste a moment of it at Corasson.”

  “But you must go, or people will talk.”

  “Let them. I don’t care anymore.”

  “You have to care, at least for a while. Listen to me, carrido meyo.” She sat up and lit a candle so she could see his face. “Your work after the earthquake showed your father you can fulfill his duties. Now that he’s so besotted with Alessio, he’ll be glad to give you real power, especially after the brilliant work you’ve done this summer. He’s sixty-eight this year, an age when a man is ready to relinquish some of his burdens and enjoy the years he has left to him. You’ll be doing him a favor, Arrigo, giving him more time to spend with his grandchildren.”

  “If only he’d see it that way!”

  She drew in a careful breath. “Shall I tell you how he does see things? Cossimio adores his wife, and to him this is an indication of true manhood. He sincerely loved Lissina, but he worships your mother. So until you have officially been given power enough—”

  “I have to keep our secret, and play the devoted husband.” He made a face and settled back into mountainous pillows. “Which means going to Corasson for a visit. And after I have this power, Tazia? What then?”

  “Rafeyo will be seventeen next year. He’s outstripped all his class and Premio Frato Dioniso tutors him privately—a great honor. Mequel won’t last much longer, but we only need him until Rafeyo is fully trained. Two years at the most. And then—”

  “Dioniso,” he mused. “I like him. But he’s past forty, too old to become Lord Limner when Mequel—” He paused for a swallow of wine. “But as head of the Fratos, Dioniso will have great influence over who becomes the next Lord Limner. And Rafeyo is his special student. Very clever, Tazia.”

  She let herself smile demurely. “I thought so, and I’m glad you agree. With official influence in government, Dioniso’s friendship, and my son as Lord Limner, you can accomplish wonders, Arrigo!”

  “But not for another two years,” he reminded her. “And where does Mechella fit in?”

  “I think her purchase of Corasson indicates she doesn’t want to fit in.”

  “The people think she hung the moon and all the stars. They won’t take it kindly when I openly reinstate you. Eiha, neither will she!”

  “Do you think I’ll enjoy any moment you’re with her? But you must get another child on her, Arrigo. More babies distract her.”

  “I’d rather get a child on you.” He fumbled behind him to replace the goblet, ignoring the shatter of glass as he missed and it hit the floor. “Shall we do that tonight, Tazia? Shall we make a baby?”

  “Oh, Arrigo—if only!”

  “Tonight we can, carrida,” he murmured, drawing her into his arms. “You and I are married, as we should have been years ago. We’re young, and deeply in love, and ready to make a dozen children—the first of them tonight.”

  “Oh, Arrigo. …”

  Dioniso surveyed his small class of favored youths, pleased by their attentiveness even in this heat. They knew what an honor it was to be taught by him. How much more awestruck they would be, he thought with a hidden smile, if they knew who really taught them.

  Rafeyo was fulfilling every promise. Arriano, two years younger and not quite so talented, was repaying Dioniso’s tutelage with a marked increase in confidence and a corresponding growth in perception. Gutierrin and Tiodor were clever in their way, but useful more for their family connections to high-ranking Viehos Fratos than for their artistic abilities. Dioniso could wish for another truly gifted student, someone for Rafeyo to compete with, but he worked with what he had.

  This was to be a lecture, not a demonstration. After making sure everything he needed was on the table before him, he poured himself a glass of cool lemonada and began.

  “Paint in a day to last a century—this is the rule of the fresco. We begin by clothing ourselves in the compordotta of the fresco. That is, Enthusiasm, Reverence, Obedience, and Constancy.” He paused to smile. “To speak of more practical matters, wear something you don’t mind spoiling, for the first part of the process is very messy.”

  He went on to describe how one soaked a wall and coated it with coarse plaster—two parts sand to one part lime. “The Serranos,” he added with a sneer instantly mimicked by his estudos, “used to hire masons to do this. The stink of the lime offended their delicate nostrils. But we are not so effete, and we do our own work from start to finish.”

  The drawing for the fresco having already been done, a small needle was used to prick holes along every line. He held up the golden needle Saavedra had long ago given him for the purpose, then tucked it back into its case and held up a loosely woven bag of charcoal dust.

  “Lay a coat of fine plaster on the day’s section, press the sketch against it, and strike this bag lightly over the whole. When you peel off the sketch, your design will be outlined in black dots on wet plaster. Now time is of the essence. You must paint before the plaster dries, so the pigments bond with the lime. You have about six hours.”

  A groan from Arriano, who was old enough to know how quickly the hours could pass, elicited sideways glances from the younger ones who still thought themselves in
defatigable, infallible, and invincible.

  “For the coarser work, your brushes will be made of the bristles of a white hog. For the finer, bear or sable—although the new brushes made of seal fur from Friesemark and Vethia are becoming highly prized.” Dioniso held up examples of each, then continued, “Mineral pigments are best, things such as ocher, burned grapevines, lapis lazuli, mixed with water. Avoid white lead. A Serrano—” Again the sneer. “—once used it to paint the Mother and Son. The lime turned white to black and the Son’s swaddling clothes looked as if He’d been soiling them for a month.”

  “Appropriate to a Serrano painting,” Rafeyo murmured. “They’re all shit anyway.”

  Dioniso grinned as the students laughed, then rapped his knuckles on the table for their attention. “The rest of the guidelines—formulas, pointers on technique, and so on—may be found in your books. I will see your sketches in three days for the rebuilt Sanctias in Casteya. If any of them please me, their makers may assist in this important commission, and paint their frescoes on an inconspicuous wall of an insignificant Sanctia.”

  “And in later years,” Arriano said, eyeing Rafeyo sidelong, “people will make pilgrimages to his wall and say what a genius he was, even at sixteen!”

  Rafeyo made a face at him—nothing more dire, for the boys were friends even if competitors—and intoned, “No wall graced with a Grijalva fresco could be insignificant—even an Arriano Grijalva wall!”

  Smiling, Dioniso dismissed his little group to plan their proposed frescoes. When they were gone, he climbed the stairs to the Premio Frato’s suite, telling himself it was ridiculous to think that there seemed to be more and more steps every day. He was as spry as ever; his joints did not hurt any more than they ought to at his age; his fingers were yet straight and strong; his mind was as keen and his perceptions as shrewd as they had always been.

  And yet … and yet this body was growing older every day. Every single day. He sank into a large, overstuffed armchair beside a window, letting the hot afternoon sun bake into his bones, and fought back memories of panic.