The Golden Key

by Melanie Rawn

  The man shot a swift glance of loathing at them both, and walked away.

  “Impudent camponesso,” Rafeyo remarked. “Eiha, what does the chiras do’orro have to say for herself these days?”

  “She begs to inform her beloved husband that the evening they shared at Fuega Vesperra—Matra, the moronno can’t spell anything but her own name!—the evening produced a happy outcome. She—”

  Tazia strangled on a gasp. Rafeyo put a steadying hand on her arm. “What is it?”

  “Merditto! The filthy sow is pregnant!” She crushed the page in her fist. “He lied—the filho do’canna lied to me! He said it wasn’t what it seemed, he never touched her except to shake the wits out of her—”

  Thoroughly bewildered, Rafeyo said, “But I thought you wanted her to have more babies, to keep her occupied.”

  “And do you think I meant it?” she snapped. “He is mine, Rafeyo—he swore he’d never touch her again—damn him! I won’t have it, I simply will not have it!”

  “Mother, please—calm yourself. It’s you he loves.”

  “Don’t you understand? He saw her, he wanted her, and he took her! Merditto, practically in public on the ballroom floor! Don’t you pay attention to anything but your stupid paints? He lied to me, he betrayed me—and she’s laughing at me right now, I can hear her!”

  “She doesn’t want him anymore. You said she doesn’t.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a man! Of course she doesn’t want him! She did it to humiliate me! She lured him off and came back looking as wanton as a Niapalese whore!” She looked around wildly. “A pen—I need a pen—”

  He produced a pencil from his jacket. She snatched it and dropped to the floor and, smoothing the page on the blue rosette tiles, scrawled one scathingly obscene sentence.

  “You take this to him. Do it now. Find whatever sewer he’s in and give this to him!”

  “Of course, but—” He took the paper and tried to help her to her feet. She fought him off, her face crimson and her lips pinched white. “Mama!” he cried, alarmed.

  “Do it! Now! This minute!” She glared up at him, on her fists and knees on the floor, a crumple of topaz silk and mortified pride. Her breathing was ragged, her black eyes ferocious. “You’re my son. Defend me!”

  Blindly, he strode from the Picca into the street. Somehow he found his way to Palasso Verrada; somehow he found words to tell a footman that he must deliver a message from the Countess do’Alva to Don Arrigo. Somehow he climbed the stairs to the private quarters without stumbling to his knees as his mother had done.

  Arrigo had lied to her, betrayed her. Rafeyo saw the magnificent paintings lining the hallways and staircases, all of them done by loyal Grijalva hands for lying, betraying do’Verradas. All this beauty, all this genius, at the service of a man who could do this to Tazia.

  His mother. On her knees. His mother, from whose body he had taken life, from whose body Arrigo had taken pleasure for as long as Rafeyo had been alive. Arrigo cared nothing for Tazia’s humiliation. She meant nothing more to him than one of these paintings on the walls: another magnificently beautiful Grijalva for him to possess.

  And Rafeyo was compelled to serve this man. One day he would serve him as Lord Limner.

  And Mechella, too. Grand Duchess of Tira Virte. She, too, he must serve.

  It was her fault. Oculazurro corassonerro—the old saying, first used by Casteyan camponessos of the blond and brawny northerners who raided their lands long ago, fit Mechella perfectly. Blue eyes, black heart. If she’d never come to Tira Virte—if she’d been content to bear children and raise them and be sensible—if she’d never been born—

  If she died.

  He must serve Arrigo. He had no choice. Besides, it wasn’t Arrigo’s fault. He was only a man. It was Mechella’s fault this had happened. When she was away at Coras son, everything was perfect between Arrigo and Tazia. Mechella was to blame. And if she went away permanently. …

  He must serve Arrigo. He had no choice. Lord Limners served Grand Dukes.

  But he would never serve her. Never.

  He gave the folded, crumpled page to Arrigo’s servant. “For His Grace’s hand only,” he managed. “From the Countess do’Alva.”

  “I’ll see he receives it.”

  “Unopened.”

  Affronted, the man drew himself up and haughtily slammed the door in Rafeyo’s face.

  He was beyond caring. As he descended the stairs two at a time, words came into his head, his lips moving on them like a sancto chanting his devotions.

  Never serve her. She’s to blame. It’s her fault. Never serve her, never—

  And with the words and the soundless litany came an idea.

  He was out in the street, sunshine glaring in his eyes, before it took shape—a sketch only, a swiftly drawn fa presto study for a much more elaborate piece. But he saw it, and not even all the blank spaces that were his ignorance could prevent him from laughing aloud.

  Ignorance was a temporary condition. Il Aguo, Il Sanguo, Il Seminno—they would teach him. Premio Dioniso would teach him more. He would use all of it. He would start now with things he knew must be included, things he could already do, and as he learned new things, he would fill in those empty spaces. He, a true Grijalva, would create such magnificence and such beauty as had never before been seen.

  But no one would see it except him: its creator and its destroyer.

  FIFTY-TWO

  The summer of 1267 was the most wretched in all Arrigo’s life. Never in the history of Tira Virte—all four hundred and forty-eight years of it, back to the day Renayo do’Verrada had been proclaimed Duke—had an Heir been treated so.

  Betrayed and rejected by the woman who had once adored him. Thrown out by the woman he adored. Rendered powerless by his father, no longer delegated even the most trivial of duties. Deplored by his mother. Castigated by his sister. Barely tolerated by his people. How had this happened to him, who had been their darling, their Neosso do’Orro?

  He went to Chasseriallo and stayed there, despite the turgid heat of the riverlands in summer. He spent his days endlessly pacing his chambers and his acres, and his nights alone in his broad silken bed—wondering who had been and probably still was in Mechella’s.

  As for Tazia … she was an unhealed wound that caught in his chest with every breath. He would not beg to be heard; he would not implore her to believe. Yet that summer taught him as nothing else could that he loved her, wanted her, needed her—and should have married her.

  How perfect it would have been. He could have lived his own life, been of use, carved out a place for himself. With Tazia at his side openly and legally he could have worked wonders. Children wouldn’t have mattered, Lizia’s son Maldonno could have inherited.

  Instead, he’d done everything he was supposed to do. He’d taken a Grijalva as his Mistress. He’d given her up. He’d taken a Princess to wife. He’d fathered a son to inherit the Grand Dukedom and a daughter to bargain away in marriage. He’d helped Cossimio to the fullest of his abilities in every manner permitted him. He’d cared for his people.

  And yet this had happened to him.

  He was thirty-six years old and his life lay in ruins.

  He found escape in a long-standing invitation to return to Diettro Mareia, not as a visiting noble but as a friend of Principio Felisso. He booked passage on a merchant ship, intending to stay at least a month. But a scant ten days into his tour of the countryside—escorted by Felisso and featuring every winery and high-class brothel in sight—a courier caught up with him, bearing a letter from Tazia.

  Arrigo rode night and day to the nearest port, caught the first ship, and paced the deck all the way across the Agua Serenissa. Tazia met him on the quay of Tira Virte’s main eastern port. The Countess do’Alva was unrecognizable in the do’Verrada sapphire worn by senior servants at the Palasso; she dropped a curtsy and gestured to the waiting carriage. Therein, she pulled the curtains despite the sizzling heat and they made love for th
irty minutes.

  Tazia was no fool. Recognizing even through her fury that Arrigo was her only chance for power, she took him back. And she had missed him, much more than she’d thought she would. They lived the last weeks of that summer at Chasseriallo, and to the Flames with what anyone saw or heard or thought or wrote in letters to Corasson.

  A few days into the new year of 1267, Mechella was delivered at Corasson of Renayo Mirisso Edoard Verro, named after the first Duke of Tira Virte, her own long-dead mother, a favorite hero of Ghillasian history, and the courageous Grijalva who had been Duke Renayo’s dearest friend. Little Renayo was said to be of average size, though surprisingly sturdy for a child born nearly six weeks too soon. But no one counted on their fingers or arched their brows, for the tale of Fuega Vesperra was well-known.

  Zevierin painted the Birth. A copy was sent to Mechella’s brother, King Enrei. Two copies were sent to Palasso Verrada: one for Cossimio and Gizella, one for Arrigo. All were painted by Cabral.

  The Grand Duke unveiled his copy of the portrait during a special celebration. All the Courtfolk were invited to exclaim and admire before dining on eight courses accompanied by wines Arrigo had brought back from Diettro Mareia. It was remarked that Tazia spent quite some time staring at the painting of Renayo. The baby was blond and fair-skinned like Mechella and little Teressa, but had dark hazel eyes. He looked nothing at all like Arrigo.

  After the banquet, Tazia found occasion to pass Arrigo where he stood by a window, a large glass of brandy cradled between his palms. All she said was, “I believe you.” But later, when he slipped from the Palasso by a back stair and met her in the secret room of her empty caza, she was more eloquent.

  “I am ashamed, carrido meyo. I am so ashamed! My jealousy blinded me to the truth. You couldn’t possibly have done what she made everyone believe you’d done. I beg you to forgive me.”

  “Forgiven, dolcha.” He sat beside her on the sofa and took her hand. “Forgiven the day I received your letter in Diettro Mareia. The fact that you came back to me even though you didn’t believe me at the time makes it all the sweeter.”

  “You are a marvel of a man, Arrigo. I wish I was half as good a person as you are.”

  “Your goodness is in loving me.”

  “I do, dolcho meyo, with all my heart.” She paused, stroking his fingers. “But I doubt even you could forgive her for what she’s done. And to send you a painting of the child!”

  “This party of my father’s, it was a nightmare,” he agreed. “All evening long, hearing people say how pretty the baby is, how much he resembles Mechella—”

  “Her crime cannot go unanswered, Arrigo.”

  He thought for a time, watching her eyes. “One thing repeats over and over in my mind. She told me that she had her Grijalvas, and I have mine.”

  “You have me, and Rafeyo, and Dioniso—we are all of us yours, you know that.”

  “Rafeyo’s learned a great deal. I know he’s the special student of Premio Dioniso. And I know a few things about what a Grijalva Limner can do.”

  “Eiha?” she asked carefully.

  “Would Rafeyo be willing to paint something for me? Nothing elaborate, nothing too serious. I’m not even sure what would be possible, or even appropriate.”

  “I—I don’t understand. I never paid much attention to the painters.”

  “Dioniso painted dreams into an icon for Principio Felisso. Maybe Rafeyo could paint a few nightmares for Mechella.”

  Tazia snorted. “I’d settle for the Qal Venommo used against us in Granidia!”

  “That was for the common folk. They’d never believe such things of their Dolcha ‘Chellita.” He spoke the nickname as he would a curse.

  “If done correctly, they might. But Rafeyo’s genius shouldn’t be wasted on mere scribbling on walls. And Mechella deserves worse than to be embarrassed.”

  “Yes, but what? Of all the options possible, which would be the best?”

  “Obedience would make a good start.” She ticked off the list on his fingers. “Loyalty, chastity, submission—and a dozen or so more of the wifely virtues she so conspicuously lacks.”

  “Any change in her behavior would create suspicion—and she has her Grijalvas, too.”

  “None of them clever enough to cancel what my son can do.”

  “That’s motherly pride talking.”

  “Arrigo—” She drew in a deep breath and slid even closer to him on the sofa. “Rafeyo tells me things. Dioniso has taught him far in advance of what his fellows are learning. He’ll be Lord Limner within a few years. But we don’t have to wait that long to do something about Mechella. With what he knows now, Rafeyo can bring her to heel.” She met his gaze squarely and murmured, “Amoro meyo, he has, in fact, already begun.”

  Spring came early to Corasson that year of 1268, and never more beautifully. Climbing roses rewarded two years of tender care with masses of blooms that covered the house to the second-floor balconies. Every garden seemed eager to show itself equally dedicated to Mechella’s pleasure; flowers burst from green leaves in colors profuse enough to render even a Limner drunk. Even the curious little pocket gardens tucked between wings of the house showed tiny white flowers in cushioning mosses. The days were so warmly sunny that the first outdoor lunch of the year was held the morning after Astraventa.

  Mechella and Cabral had celebrated the anniversary of their son’s conception with a reenactment of the circumstances. She was still rather stunned by their love; one hour she would feel as if she’d been married to him her whole life, and the next could be spent in passion so new and urgent it was as if they’d never touched each other before. Instinct told her that life with Arrigo could never have been like this—indeed, had she not escaped to Corasson and Cabral, she would have soured into a bitter and shrewish woman. She didn’t understand why, but her Grijalvas did: Mechella was a creature whose purpose in life was to love and be loved. In her children, her family, her friends, and her people, she had found much of what she needed. But in Cabral she was wholly fulfilled.

  That afternoon, with Astraventa still lingering in their smiles, they lounged with Zevierin and Leilias on blankets spread over the front lawn. The baby slept in Mechella’s lap as his father tickled his nose with a new paintbrush. Renayo woke, yawned, and grabbed for the brush with typically long and well-shaped Grijalva fingers.

  Cabral laughed. “Fifty mareias that he turns out to have a talent for art.”

  Zevierin sighed a vastly patient sigh. “A hundred that he won’t know one end of a brush from the other.”

  “Men!” exclaimed Mechella. “Why is it, Leilias, that they look at a baby only to decide his future? Women are content to enjoy the present, helping a child grow and learn—”

  “I am!” Cabral grinned. “I’m helping him learn about his birthright as a Grijalva.”

  Leilias pulled a face. “I’m more interested in his birthright as a de Ghillas. It pays better.”

  Mechella couldn’t help giggling. “Wouldn’t that be the most incredible thing? A de. Ghillas and a Grijalva, with the surname do’Verrada, on my father’s throne?”

  “It’s provisional only,” Zevierin reminded her. “Failing any heirs of King Enrei’s body. And now who’s plotting Renayo’s future?”

  Cabral was trying to tug his brush from surprisingly tenacious infant fingers. “Your brother will marry and have a dozen children of his own. Although I admit it gives me a certain amount of truly vicious pleasure to consider the matter—Arrigo had a tantrum when he heard about the decree your brother signed. If it ever comes to pass, he’ll have a seizure.”

  “But Cossimio and Gizella are thrilled,” Mechella purred.

  “They ought to be.” Leilias reached over to feel the baby’s diaper; still dry. “I suppose,” she enquired sweetly of her brother, “that Arrigo’s fits are your only reason for enjoying the notion of your son as King of Ghillas?”

  Just as cloying in tone and expression, he replied, “My son and your nephe
w, Leilias. Be sweet to him, and he may make you a Princess one day.”

  “I’ll take him over my knee if he tries!” she laughed.

  Zevierin rapped his knuckles on the wine crate that served as a picnic table. “Enough, children. Whatever the future may hold, for now Renayo’s a baby who’s getting a sunburn.”

  Otonna was called over from the rose arbor where she and the farm manager—her sister Primavarra’s husband’s cousin’s son—were finishing their lunch. The maid took the baby upstairs, cooing over him all the way, while the young man trailed behind her.

  “Is he imagining certain things?” Zevierin asked quizzically.

  “Himself, Otonna, and their baby?” Mechella stretched out with her head on Cabral’s knee. “She’s not serious about him. If she were, she’d go with him to his cottage once in a while, instead of always taking him to her own bed—beneath the roof of Corasson.”

  “The wicked spell still lingers,” Leilias chuckled, ignoring the men’s confused expressions. “But getting back to the subject of Renayo and the throne of Ghillas—”

  “The claim is through me,” said Mechella. “Arrigo’s nothing to do with it.”

  “Or him,” Cabral added, winking at her.

  Leilias had more or less grown used to the freedom of their actions and speech. There was no danger of discovery, she told herself; everyone here was loyal. The lovers were circumspect when visitors came to Corasson. Not even sharp-eyed Lizia had suspected anything during her stay here. And in any case, the Serrano who had built the place had put in four hidden staircases, one of which led from Cabral’s third-floor chamber down to Mechella’s second-floor suite. There was no danger, Leilias repeated to herself. No one would ever know.

  And even if they did, Zevierin could paint them into not knowing.

  Her husband shaded his eyes against the sun, squinting down the drive. “What in the world is all that?”

  “A wagon from Meya Suerta,” said Mechella, not even bothering to look. “I expected it this morning.”

  “Not more furniture!” Leilias exclaimed.