The Golden Key

by Melanie Rawn

  “No,” she replied, smiling mysteriously.

  The cargo proved to be paintings. Zevierin and Cabral uncrated them, playfully chiding Mechella for banditry.

  “They were all in storage,” she said defensively. “Nobody wanted them but me. Mequel was kind enough to authorize my having them, and Cossimio agreed to let them out of the Galerria. En verro, I can’t depend on my Grijalvas to provide pictures enough for all Corasson!”

  “I should hope not!” Leilias said indignantly. “I have much better uses for Zevi’s time!”

  Shortly thereafter, the men went up to their atelierro for tools to repair a frame damaged in transit. Mechella opened another crate herself, and she and Leilias lifted out the portrait.

  “Oh, Mechella! There’s been a mistake—that’s the Saavedra!”

  “No, Leilias, there’s no mistake. I asked for her.” She stood back from the huge wood-panel portrait, sighing softly. “I used to hate this painting. But I’ve been thinking about her quite a lot recently. She and I have several things in common.”

  Leilias stared. “Such as?”

  Gazing at Saavedra’s beautiful gray-eyed face, she murmured, “We both wanted a man we couldn’t have. We both carried the bastard child of a man we loved—a child impossible to acknowledge for who he really is. The difference is that although we were both caught in a web we didn’t weave, I’ve broken free.” She clasped Leilias’s hand. “Something I never could have done without you and Zevi and especially Cabral. I see Saavedra and know how lucky I was to escape.”

  Leilias suddenly saw The First Mistress with new eyes.

  “Look at her face,” Mechella whispered. “She’s caught and she knows it.”

  “Yes,” Leilias heard herself say. “Poor lady.”

  “I’ll never be able to live openly with Cabral or reveal that Renayo is his. But that matters so little compared to the happiness they bring me! Saavedra was never happy again. Whatever happened to her after this was painted—whether she left Tira Virte and had her baby or was murdered—she never escaped. I see her, trapped forever in that painting, looking just as she did centuries ago, and I pity her.”

  Only this woman, Leilias told herself, would pity the First Mistress. Only she would not blame her for beginning the tradition of Grijalva Mistresses that had been the cause of her sorrow. Only she would feel compassion, not hatred.

  “Eiha,” Mechella went on, smiling, “besides, it’s a masterpiece, and nobody else wanted it, and something this lovely ought to be seen and admired. You know how I am about orphans!”

  “And besides that,” Leilias added, “in time, it will remind Alessio and Renayo of the tragedies Saavedra caused.”

  Mechella blinked in surprise. “I suppose so, although I hadn’t thought of it that way. I don’t want my sons to hurt their wives the way Arrigo hurt me. But you mustn’t hold Saavedra responsible. She was the tragedy.”

  “And she’s right,” Leilias told her husband a few days later. They were riding south to Meya Suerta through the fullest glory of spring, just the two of them on horseback with nothing but their saddlebags. The freedom of it made Leilias recall Mechella’s words about being trapped, and as she detailed the conversation Zevierin nodded agreement.

  “Saavedra wasn’t responsible, Sario was,” he said. “The Mistresses were part of how he destroyed the Serranos—financially, artistically, socially—”

  “I’ve been comparing myself to Saavedra, too,” Leilias admitted. “And thanks to you, I’ve escaped. Have I told you yet today that I adore you?”

  “Probably, but tell me again.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I’ll need to hear it rather often in the next month or two.”

  “That’s nothing to do with you and me. I mean, it is, but—oh, you know what I mean.” More severely, she said, “And don’t you dare look so wistful. As far as I’m concerned, you’re already the baby’s father.”

  He made big eyes. “I only meant that I’m nervous about taking my place among the Conselhos.”

  “Liar.”

  Zevierin had been summoned by Premio Dioniso to the spring convocation. As Corasson’s Limner, his status was just above Itinerarrio and just below Embajadorro, which entitled him to a seat on the council of the most senior Viehos Fratos. They, naturally, were determined to know everything that transpired at Corasson. Zevierin was equally determined not to tell them a damned thing.

  The convocation would formally celebrate those who had become Confirmattio this spring, and then consider the lists of probable candidates for elevation to Limner at Penitenssia. All over Palasso Grijalva anxious young men would watch for any indication of their chances for this honor. Zevierin was not looking forward to having his every sneeze remarked on and his every facial twitch noted. He remembered most clearly what he and his fellow estudos had been like the last half-year of their training. Were they good enough? Had they learned everything necessary? Had the Grijalva Gift run true? And even if it had, did they possess talent enough to use it?

  But people would study him not only as a Conselho but as Leilias’ husband—for she was taking this opportunity to find a father for her first child. Their first child. Zevierin reflected that he’d be doing his share of scrutinizing faces: which man would she choose?

  Their arrangement was not uncommon. Sometimes a boy and girl would fall in love when very young, or during their Confirmattio nights. If he turned up Limner, they married when his apprenticeship ended and a fertile Grijalva male sired her children. Zevierin and Leilias were an oddity in that they were both well into their twenties and everyone knew her opposition to becoming a “brood mare.”

  Most of the curious looks, though, would come because they were in high favor with Mechella. No one knew how power would balance out at Palasso Verrada. Those Grijalvas in Tazia’s camp were supremely confident. Mechella’s adherents among the family were more cautious. Zevierin wondered what they would say if they knew her younger son was family.

  None of these matters were discussed at the convocation. The Conselhos reported on various family activities: this year’s Confirmattio (two Limners and three disappointments); the Galerria Picca (an economic disaster, as usual, but the good will of the public was priceless to them), finances (excellent; the proceeds from selling Corasson had been invested in a wildly profitable iron mine), the condition of the Palasso (rain damage to the roof), and the storefront businesses in public document paintings (thriving, as ever). Then came reports from all Itinerarrios, read in a stultifying monotone by their director. Mercifully, there were fewer Embajadorros; their letters were bellowed out by vigorous, white-haired, deaf-as-a-brushpot Josippo, the only Conselho not a Gifted Limner, who had been overseeing Grijalvas in foreign courts for thirty-five years.

  His roaring report from Ghillas was the first thing that interested Zevierin all day. Embajadorro Anderrio had been at Aute-Ghillas a little less than five years now, and had many interesting things to say about King Enrei III. Hearing his description of the young king’s habits and character (one could not fail to hear it within the confines of the Crechetta; good thing the room was soundproofed), Zevierin suspected there would be no Enrei IV. Mechella’s brother seemed incapable of making a decision about which horse to ride, let alone which noble virgin to marry.

  Eiha, all the better for little Renayo, he thought, hiding a smile. The Viehos Fratos were delighted that King Enrei had selected his younger nephew as his heir—envisioning, as did the rest of Tira Virte, a blissful alliance leading to an ecstasy of profitable trade. Zevierin tried to imagine what it would be like to be the uncle-by-marriage of a King.

  There was one other claimant, an intricately connected cousin called Ivo. He had his supporters, but Mechella’s son had more. She was remembered lovingly in Ghillas. Anderrio’s report ended with the delicate suggestion that if Enrei asked for guidance, it should be given with all generosity and speed.

  “Which translates,” Zevierin told Leilias that night in bed, “as ‘Don’t let him
do anything so colossally stupid as to make the Ghillasians reject Renayo just because Enrei chose him.”’

  “Which further translates into, ‘I want permission to do a few magical paintings for him if he really starts falling on his face.”’ She sighed and rubbed her cheek to his chest. “I wish you could do one for me of a man who looks just like you and has all your best qualities.”

  “I note that you don’t say all my qualities.”

  “Everything but your nose, carrido! It suits you perfectly, but imagine it on a poor defenseless baby!” She laughed and kissed what was undeniably the most prominent feature in his face. “If only you could paint a Grijalva with all my requirements, have him step out of the painting when we need him, and then go back into it until the next time we want a child!”

  “Of all the clever things Grijalvas can do, creating life does not number among them. That’s what we need women for—among other things,” he added hastily as she sucked in an outraged breath.

  On the second day of the convocation, after the Viehos Fratos had duly deliberated over the various reports, planning and policy were announced. Zevierin yawned through most of it. Then it was time for individual questioning: what had each Limner painted this year that could be considered even slightly magical? Zevierin had his answer ready in the time-honored formula: “Apart from the Birth of Renayo, I have painted nothing of Aguo, Seminno, or Sanguo.” It was at least within speaking distance of the truth—he hadn’t actually painted Lissina’s Will at Corasson, only finished it there. But Premio Dioniso didn’t call on him, or on anyone for that matter. Instead, he stood before his ornate chair with Lord Limner Mequel on one side of him and Il Aguo, Il Seminno, and Il Sanguo on the other, and lectured the assembly on the perils of recent trends in painting.

  “Imprecision!” Dioniso said, his deep strong voice carrying the accusation to the rafters. “Inaccuracy! Inexactitude! All for the sake of a pretty picture!”

  He strode to a huge easel, looking nowhere near his forty-seven years, and flung the tarp aside. Revealed was a fine painting of horses in full gallop across Joharran sands. Manes and tails whipped in the wind of their passage; hooves dug into the dunes or reached eagerly for still more speed; eyes black and glowing as hot coals were wild with the joy of freedom. During his training Zevierin had seen sketches that conveyed this same urgency of motion, but this was the first time he’d seen it in a fully realized oil painting.

  “Isn’t it pretty?” Dioniso sneered, contempt lashing at the Limners. “This is a Deed establishing ownership of these three stallions. See how their manes streak back in a blur of color! Feel the desert wind, hear the pounding hooves! Movement, sound, sensation—all evoked by mere paint!”

  Marching to the other side of the room, with the self-portraits of every man here gazing down on him to double the living faces into a huge crowd, Dioniso tore the covering from another painting, this one a Marriage. It was at a different angle and farther from Zevierin than the other picture, and he could discern only the vague outline. Dioniso described it for them all.

  “The fisherman’s daughter marries the vintner’s son. Her dress is embroidered with nets, his coat with lattices that support vines. Lovely, appropriate. Yet how does the Grijalva paint it? As a landscape! And of Laggo Sonho, of all the Mother-forsaken places! Where are wishes for happiness and love, children and wealth? The bridal pair are mere incidental figures in this pretty painting of a swamp in all its springtime splendor!”

  Now Dioniso strode to his chair, and from beneath it grabbed a much smaller painting. As it was passed from hand to hand around the room, he gave his scathing commentary.

  “A Birth—for a paying customer, no less, a noble family of Taglis! All the correct symbols are present—wheatsheaves for Riches, white lilac for Youthful Innocence, laurel for Glory, roses for Love, thistle for a Male Child, and so on and so forth. And so pretty it is, too! Eiha, somewhere in it is a child who will one day be a baron—but who can see him for the still-life this Grijalva has done? Was the baroness brought to bed of a baby boy or a basket of flowers?”

  Somehow he managed to spear every Limner in the place with a look of utter disgust. “I won’t tell you who painted these. I won’t embarrass the artists—though they richly deserve it and I’d pinprick a few of those painted fingers overhead if I thought it would do any good! What I want is to show you the degeneration that awaits if this trend continues.

  “On what does our magic depend? Precision. On what does our reputation rest? Accuracy. On what does every policy and plan of Tira Virte rely? Exactitude. And what have these three Limners painted? A Deed where the items in question are nothing but streaks and blurs! A Marriage in which the bride and groom are but figures in a landscape! A Birth where the flowers and the fruit and the leaves and the sheaves make the child an afterthought!

  “Yes, the pictures are pretty. Yes, the horses seethe with motion and you can almost hear and feel and taste the desert wind. Yes, this is a perfect rendering of where the young couple will make their home. Yes, there is a baby in there—somewhere. In themselves, these paintings perform their function—barely. But I defy anyone to look at this Deed of ownership and pick these three particular horses out of a herd!”

  He turned his back on them and started for his chair, then just as suddenly swung around again. “Tell me what will happen when another Deed of property is painted, this one of a field or a building or an orchard, with the borders marked in blurs! Will such a document stand? It will not! And what about a Peintraddo Sonho to cure a little girl of nightmares? What if, instead of painting the frightened child in the precise attitude of sleep, she becomes a mere daub of color—a nightgown, a blanket, a suggesting of her black curls on the pillow? Will the protections in the painting and the spells for sweet dreams function? They will not!”

  Dioniso walked to his chair and sat down, sweeping his gaze once more around the Crechetta. “Some of you will say it is permissible to paint some things in this new style. Things not of vital importance. Things that among people of good intentions would not be challenged. Who would question that these three fine stallions belong to the Count do’Granidia, or that this couple is well and truly married, or that this baby was born to a baron?

  “But there are other paintings in which precision and accuracy and exactitude are essential. And I tell you that if such are ignored in some pictures, they will soon be ignored in all. Without precise rendering, magic does not function. Without accurate detail, the lingua oscurra does not work. Without exact attention to form and composition, power will not inhabit our paintings. And then, Fratos ei Conselhos, we Grijalvas will be out of a job.”

  Settling his formal gray robe of office around him, his gold-and-jeweled color glinting, Dioniso said in normal tones, “Now we will consider the list of those eligible for elevation at Penitenssia. Yvennal, read the names.”

  Zevierin remained stunned by the tirade all day long. As he and Leilias dressed to meet her mother and stepfather for dinner at a restaurant near the Zocalo Grando, he kept shaking his head over Dioniso’s vehement eloquence.

  “You’d think those poor Limners had purposely plotted the downfall of the Grijalvas,” he said, knotting a length of crimson silk around his collar.

  “Mmm.”

  “I kept waiting for him to order their Peintraddo Chievas taken off the walls so he could stick pins in their hands.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she said, twisting another braid atop her head and pinning it in place.

  “Not that I don’t agree with his analysis, more or less. Nothing wrong with a pretty picture, but our work has to do so much more.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you heard anything I’ve said in the last ten minutes?”

  “Of course. Hurry and put on your jacket, Zevi, we’re going to be late.”

  Outside the Palasso in the evening bustle of crowded streets, she hooked her elbow with his and murmured, “I don’t like talking inside the Palasso.”

  Aft
er due consideration, he said, “Shall I paint a protection or six on our rooms?”

  “They’d know—and wonder what we’re hiding.” She paused at a shop window, pretending to admire a display of clothes. “I heard something worrisome about Rafeyo today.”

  “So did I. He’s to become a Limner at year’s end.”

  “We knew that. There’s worse.” She pointed at a child’s dress. “Wouldn’t Teressa look adorable in that?”

  “We’ll buy it for her tomorrow,” he promised, as aware as she that there were too many people close by. They continued walking and the homeward bound shopping crowd thinned, and eventually they felt safe enough to renew the conversation.

  Leilias began, “I talked to Arriano this morning—he’s as near a thing as Rafeyo has to a friend.”

  “The boy sees everyone as competition,” Zevierin mused.

  “Not Arriano, Grazzo do’Matra, who said some very interesting things to me today. He asked a few questions about perfumes, then slid around to the subject of Corasson. The roses, the forest plants, the herb gardens, just polite interest. Then he let something slip. He was curious, he said, because Rafeyo had told him how beautiful Corasson is at all seasons of the year. Zevi, Rafeyo was only there twice—once on the way back from Casteya and once when he brought Count Garlo’s letter!”

  “In winter and in late summer,” Zevierin said thoughtfully. “And hated it.”

  “Which of the boys is lying?”

  “Neither. No, I take it back. The only lie here is that Rafeyo thinks Corasson is beautiful. The rest is true, and we both know it.”

  Silently they crossed the great Zocalo in front of the cathedral, pausing to stare up at the statue of Alesso do’Verrada high atop the fountain.

  Zevierin said, “So Rafeyo has been to Corasson several times. To spy for his mother?”

  “Tazia doesn’t give a damn what Mechella does or says or thinks. She’s got Arrigo on a tight rein, the next Lord Limner is her son—why should she care what happens at Corasson?”