The Golden Key

by Melanie Rawn

  Not bothering to look back, Eleyna ran. And hated herself, for was she not running back to the safety of Palasso Grijalva? That was not safety, but a prison!

  Her parents wanted their daughter to be Don Edoard’s mistress. Mistress to the Heir to the throne—that was power! That was influence! By that means they could control the Viehos Fratos, power which had been denied to her mother’s branch of the family for two generations—her mother, who was the niece of the fabled Tazia, mistress to Arrigo III … the woman who had dared to try to kill Grand Duchess Mechella.

  But Eleyna didn’t care about that kind of power. She wanted no part of it. That was why they had never understood her.

  She ran now, back to them, only because she was afraid. Behind, the dull roar turned into riot as the noon sun beat down on the city of Meya Suerta and a volley of musket fire broke the peace of the Iluminarres Procession.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Rohario Alejandro Enricci Clemenzo do’Verrada, second son of Grand Duke Renayo and the late Grand Duchess Mairie, was the last person in the cathedral to realize that a riot had started outside in the zocalo.

  The weight of the ceremonial clothing made it hard to move, but since he had no responses to speak, no verses to declaim, he had long since lost track of the ceremony. He stood in front of the altar—his appointed place—and stared at the monumental altarpiece that dominated the Sanctuary. The Mother, Her infant Son sitting on Her knee, gazed down on him. She wore cloth of gold robes in the antique style, draped elegantly along one arm; the other arm was shadowed by Her Son’s chubby figure. It was an old masterpiece, the only item saved from the original cathedral when it had burned down in 1155. When the cathedral was rebuilt, the Birth of the Holy Child took pride of place.

  Matra Dolcha! It was a glorious painting. Rohario knew its history well: It was the last masterwork painted by the legendary Sario Grijalva. Although over three hundred years old, its fine golden luster still shone as if it was freshly painted: the calm, embracing gaze of the Mother, the delightful and delighted infant smile of Her Son, the attending angels with wings upswept and both sun and moon casting light over the Throne. The luza itself was so subtly done that it was only from this close that Rohario could see how that light played in the robes of the angels and along the form of the Mother, golden sunlight painted ever so slightly distinct from the pale silver beams of the moon.

  There was something almost magical about it. Even at great state ceremonies like this one, when he might kneel among a thousand worshipers, Rohario still felt Her gaze like the weight of his robes. It wasn’t heavy, but reassuring: solid, tangible. Even when his dear mother had died and he had knelt, weeping, at the service given in her honor, even then the serene gaze of the Mother had soothed him. Even when his father had remarried that beautiful but brainless northern princess with her cartloads of gold and a merchant fleet as dower—but no ear for music, no eye for art and the most horrific accent—even then, as he stood through the marriage ceremony, his anger and frustration and disappointment had slowly drained away.

  He let that peace pour over him now, as if it were a whisper for his ears alone: All will be well.

  When a sancto jostled his elbow, Rohario started. A strange roar echoed through the cathedral.

  “I beg your pardon, Don Rohario,” said the sancto, a white-haired man Rohario knew instantly: Sancto Leo was chaplain for the fourth service each month, a kind old man with a particularly gentle voice. “Please, my lord. We must hurry. You must get those robes off.”

  “But the ceremony isn’t over yet.”

  “There is a … disturbance outside, my lord. Please. We must get you back to the Palasso.”

  Slowly it dawned on Rohario that, despite the calming presence of the altarpiece, Sancto Leo was terrified.

  “What kind of disturbance?” He shrugged off the heavy robes into the waiting arms of a white-faced servitor, then took a few steps toward the great doors. In the vast nave of the cathedral, people milled: sanctos, sanctas, other members of the procession. The high vault made them all appear tiny, insignificant compared to the majesty of the Matra ei Filho. Rohario saw no sign of the Premio Sancto or the frail Premia Sancta.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord. This way. We’re going out through the chapter house. It isn’t—” Leo broke off, waving away the servitor, and grabbed Rohario’s arm to tug him toward the door that led into the rooms behind the Sanctuary.

  “It isn’t what?” protested Rohario.

  The old man’s grip was amazingly ironlike, reminding Rohario of his old nurse, Otonna, who would come every day at noon to drag him out of the Galerria back to the schoolroom for his lessons. Because he hated scenes, he gave in.

  Sancto Leo led Rohario into the warren of small rooms where the Premio Sancto prepared his lessons. Several other men, servitors and sanctos, followed like so many frightened sheep.

  “It isn’t safe,” said the old man. “A riot has broken out. Nommo do’Matra! What has the world come to? This would never have happened when I was a boy. Why, Grand Duchess Mechella, Matra bless her memory, would have ridden out in her carriage and the mob would have prostrated themselves at her feet in shame. It’s a terrible thing, a terrible thing.”

  There were no windows in these back rooms, so Rohario could not look outside. He had never seen a riot, never even suspected one might happen in, of all places, Meya Suerta. But he had heard that in recent months mobs had burned down the king’s palace in Taglis and rioted for bread in the city of Niapali. Maybe, like a plague, the restlessness had now infected Tira Virte’s populace.

  “Eiha!” said Rohario suddenly, dredging up some gossip he had heard in passing at a concert four nights before. “It’s something about the Corteis, isn’t it?”

  “Matra ei Filho!” exclaimed the old man. “What is it you do all day, ninio? Do you know nothing of what goes on in this city?”

  “Of course I do! I’m helping my brother Edoard arrange for a Grijalva Mistress.”

  Sancto Leo stopped in his tracks. It was gloomy back here; a few candelabras leaked light into the air. But there, above a mantle, hung a perfectly charming portrait of Premio Sancto Gregorrio IV at his Ascension. That would have been—what?—one hundred years ago. Rohario recognized it as the work of Oaquino Grijalva. Because of the Premio Sancto’s elaborate headdress, Il Cofforro was unable in this painting to show off his famous talent for rendering hair in exquisite lifelike perfection. Instead he had elaborated the jeweled and braided headdress to the finest detail.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” breathed Rohario. “A shame to hide it in here.”

  He looked at the sancto for confirmation, but whatever words he meant to say next died on his lips. The old man was frowning at him with … with … undoubtedly, with disgusted scorn. On the wall behind Sancto Leo hung a mirror, trimmed with gold flecking. Dimly, Rohario saw himself reflected in it. No wonder Sancto Leo was appalled! Rohario’s lace cuffs were askew, and his starched white neckcloth had crumpled under the weight of the robes. Hastily, Rohario attempted to tidy himself, aware of the old man’s gaze on him.

  “And you,” said Leo, “are supposed to be the intelligent one in the family. Matra! It is no wonder the people riot. What has the great do’Verrada bloodline come to?”

  Rohario gaped at him, cuffs forgotten.

  Into the silence came the muffled reports of musket shots from outside.

  “We must get Don Rohario to safety,” murmured one of the servitors.

  Rohario heard an odd noise. Though he had never truly heard screaming before—except the time when his brother’s horse, forced over too high a hedge, had broken its leg—he recognized it at once. The sound sent shivers through him.

  “Come,” said Sancto Leo. “We must go. We must hope Avenida Shagarra remains clear.”

  Rohario followed meekly. But when they emerged through a side door of the transept onto the avenida, they were swept at once into the riot. Rohario cowered against the towering cathedral wall. T
he rush of the crowd was like the unstoppable roar of the Rio Sanguo in flood. There was no way to cross safely. Amazingly, a group of poorly-dressed young men shoved through the panic-ridden mob, against the current, heading toward the zocalo. They held knives and broken bottles in their hands. The crowd poured past, oblivious to everything but its own panic.

  “Come, my lord.” Sancto Leo dragged him forward.

  “Is it the poor people who’ve come out? What is this?” Rohario stared at the pack of young men. Such rags they wore! No wonder they were angry.

  Sancto Leo followed his gaze. “Neosso do’Orro! Those are not poor boys, Don Rohario. They are respectable apprentices by the look of them.”

  “But the way they’re dressed—!”

  “We’d better go!” whispered one of the servitors urgently.

  A swaggering tough straggling along at the tail end of the pack of young apprentices turned and looked straight at Rohario. A strange expression passed over the young man’s face. It looked rather like the expression that had overcome his old nurse Otonna the time his little sister Timarra had asked for the fairybook love story of their grandparents, Grand Duke Arrigo and the beloved Grand Duchess Mechella, and how they were always devoted to one another.

  But this time, the expresson was directed at him.

  Sancto Leo shoved Rohario behind him. “Go!”

  Six apprentices broke free from the others and plunged through the fleeing crowd toward Rohario. Shots cracked out in bursts from the zocalo. Screams rent the air.

  Servitors dragged at Rohario’s arm. He wanted to run; he knew he ought to. He recognized the looks on their faces. When he was younger, Edoard had beaten him up many times. But he just couldn’t believe these commoners would hurt him. And anyway, he couldn’t leave the old man.

  “Merditto alba, no?” shouted the nearest young tough, the swaggering one, as he closed in.

  Although the crowd continued to flood down the street, Rohario suddenly felt that he, his scant retinue, and these half-dozen apprentices were alone in the world. Rather than reply to the insult, he stood his ground stiffly.

  The young tough shoved Sancto Leo aside and stopped right in front of Rohario, glaring at him. They were about the same height, but the apprentice’s shoulders were perhaps twice as broad. “Quello passarro, chi’patro?” he asked insolently.

  “You will not speak that way about my blessed mother!” said Rohario, anger sparking. He punched him.

  Unfortunately, the years of lessons in fencing and sparring had never paid off. Edoard hated the competition and Rohario had been happy to oblige by either always losing or avoiding practice altogether.

  He knew he was in trouble when the apprentice hit him back. A fist slammed into his head, sending him reeling. He staggered back against the wall, was pummeled by another punch and slammed up against unyielding stone. Though ringing ears, he heard Sancto Leo pleading. “That is Don Rohario. You must not hurt him!”

  Rohario heard the spat curses of the apprentices in reply. He covered his head with his arms, but they only kicked him in the stomach. Eiha! The pain washed through his gut. Why did they hate him so much? They didn’t even know him.

  He heard Leo’s anguished yelp. With a flurry born from desperation Rohario fought his way free to aid the old man. Two of the servitors were down. The other sancto had fled.

  “Stop it!” Rohario cried, flailing out wildly, head down, bulling his way through to the old man. Leo had fallen to his knees on the cobblestones. “He’s just an old man!”

  Kicked hard from behind, Rohario stumbled and went down to one knee, righted himself, jerking up. To go down under this pack would be fatal.

  Shots rang out. Sancto Leo gasped and spasmed. Blood fountained from his neck. Rohario grabbed the old man before he toppled over. He braced himself, expecting more blows, but the apprentices scattered to run with the crowd, yelling, screaming, taunting.

  A rock stung Rohario’s ear. He looked up. There, advancing like avenging angels, came a line of the Shagarra Regiment.

  “My lord! My lord!” cried the last servitor, cowering behind him. “They’re shooting everyone. We must run.”

  “I won’t leave the sancto.” He sank down, cradling the old man. Blood leaked over his hands.

  The soldiers fired. A woman stumbled and fell, mouth open in surprise and terror, and began to crawl after the others, struggling, hands clawing at the cobblestones. The crowd trampled her. Rohario ripped his gaze away and looked up at the line of soldiers. They advanced steadily, without mercy.

  He let the old man down onto the stones and rose to face the guard. He lifted a hand. To his surprise, it was not shaking. “Stop! In the name of Matra ei Filho! Help me with this holy sancto.”

  Of a miracle, it worked. Soldiers broke rank. A captain drove his horse through the mob and reined up beside him. “Matra Dolcha! Don Rohario! What are you doing here? Sarjeant Rivvas, take the Don back to the Palasso. Take ten men as escort. Now!”

  Strong arms grabbed Rohario.

  “But Sancto Leo—!” cried Rohario, protesting.

  “Your father will have my head if you’re not brought safely back,” the captain said. “Get up! Get up!”

  Rohario was dragged onto the back of a horse, forced to cling to the sarjeant as if he were a child, not a man who had achieved his twenty-second birthday.

  Ranks of mounted soldiers surrounded him. He caught a glimpse of Sancto Leo lying broken on cobblestones, but his escort swept him away. They rode swiftly through the streets. All around Rohario saw the remains of the riot, men and women lying dead, wounded, crying in pain, left to die or care for themselves. Once he saw a child—a child!—lying with arms outstretched, like a shattered Zhinna doll. How could this happen? What was going on in Meya Suerta?

  By the time they reached the Palasso he was too numb to do anything more than submit listlessly to the attentions of the Court physician, who agreed that he had a few bruises, nothing more. His steward and body servant led him to his chambers. There he sank down on his bed and stared at the wall. They left him alone, but he could hear them whispering on the other side of the door.

  After a few minutes, Rohario could stand it no more. His bedchamber stifled him, as it had never done before. It was a glorious room, fitted to his exact taste. He stared at the moldings that framed the door and the fireplace, gilded with gold leaf, at the marquetry floor, and at the paneled wall boards painted with roundels and wreaths of flowers. He stared at the painting he had commandeered from the Galerria: Guilbarro Grijalva’s masterwork, the Birth of Cossima. He had wanted the other painting, of course, but because it had been Grandmamma Mechella’s favorite, his father refused to remove it from the place of honor to which she had restored it.

  Now, staring at the baby girl whose tragically early death cast an aura of inexplicable sorrow over the room, Rohario was reminded of the child he had seen lying dead in the streets. Another thought intruded: the baby Cossima’s seat on the knee of her mother was remarkably similar to the pose of the Blessed Baby Child on the knee of the Holy Mother, in the cathedral altarpiece.

  What was the use? It was as if a curtain had been ripped away from the wall of his room, revealing the ugly streets outside. Everything had changed. He could no longer get pleasure from the incomparable genius of the long-dead Guilbarro’s magnificent painting.

  Rohario heaved himself up off the bed and limped out past his servants, brushing them away, and walked the long route through the Palasso toward the one place where he could always find peace: the Galerria. It was closed now, empty except for him and his two trailing servants, who kept their distance out of respect for his anguish.

  He hobbled to the end of the Galerria, the place of honor, where the famous portrait of Saavedra Grijalva—The First Mistress—hung in all its glory. Exhausted by the walk, he sank down on the bench. He would have gotten on his knees, to do her the obeisance that she deserved, but his servants watched. And anyway, his knees hurt, scraped raw by ston
e.

  Rohario stared up at her. In the portrait, Saavedra stood with one hand on the latch of the door, iron-studded, iron-bound, that led out of her chamber. With her head half turned, she appeared to be looking into a mirror that rested on an easel. Both in profile and—more subtly—captured in the mirror, her face, her expression, her intelligent, expressive eyes, seemed more alive to him than did most of the Courtfolk among whom he walked every day. Rohario liked to believe that she waited for the return of her lover, Duke Alejandro.

  Unlike the Holy Mother, whose aspect was serene, Saavedra radiated a passionate strength that fairly crackled from the painting. Rohario had admired her since he was a little boy. His nurse, even his parents, had told him often enough that when little he had been a whirlwind of energy that only the Galerria could calm. Here, in front of this portrait, was the only place his soul was truly at ease.

  “All is not well in Meya Suerta,” he whispered to her, wishing desperately that she could hear him, afraid that his attendants might think him mad for speaking to a painting. “I don’t understand the world anymore. An old man whose only fault was in trying to spare me was killed.”

  She did not, of course, reply. He only imagined she did.

  All is so changed. Why has it changed so?

  He tried to explain, about riots in neighboring countries like Ghillas and Taglis and Niapali, about the common people making demands as if they should have a say in the governance of the land. But it all sounded so absurd, and in any case he had paid so little attention to the world outside the Palasso that he did not truly understand it.