The Golden Key

by Melanie Rawn

  “Not useful to us, true. But she is an exiled Ghillasian like yourself, Alazais. That should provoke some sympathy in you.”

  “Should it?” she asked without irony.

  “Yes, it should. It is your duty to be sympathetic. To be kind. The people will love you for it. Your relative, the Grand Duchess Mechella, was a master at using a kind heart, a gentle manner, and a sympathetic ear to gain the loyalty of the people. You would do well to emulate her.”

  “Then you should spare Maessa Louissa’s life.”

  “That is what you must choose. I must choose to spare her life because to kill her would raise more suspicions than simply to have her decline into ill health. Now it is time to sleep. At dawn, we leave for Arguena, where we will meet up with your loyal retainers.”

  She slept.

  In the morning, he opened his chest one last time before locking the atelierro and his Peintraddo Memorrio away. He wrapped his skull in velvet and placed it inside, then removed the heavy gold ring affixed with the seal of the Ghillasian royal house, the Swan, and gave it to Alazais. “This is yours. Your father had this made for you when you turned fourteen and celebrated your first Mirraflores Moon. It is the symbol of your right to bear the name Alazais de Ghillas, heir to the throne held by your father.”

  She nodded gravely and slipped the ring on her right ring finger. It fit perfectly.

  Then Sario locked the room and led her out, swathed in a cloak, her lace shawl draped over her hair and face. The unwieldy portrait—of attic and floor and ghostly ground in the shape of a woman—he wrapped in blankets and carried out to the cart himself. They traveled north all of Dia Sola. It was appropriate, was it not, that they two travel alone on the day of solitude?

  They reached Arguena as the midday bell rang on Dia Memorrio, and there found great rejoicing when Princess Alazais was reunited with her Ghillasian maidservant—who flung herself weeping at the Princess’ feet—and the two soldiers. So, thought Sario wryly, are the dead reunited with the living.

  Sario related to the waiting servants the awful story of Alazais’ narrow escape, of her horrific ordeal at the hands of her enemies, an ordeal which had robbed her of her wits. Of how he had discovered that she lived, had bargained with her captors, had rescued her and brought her here, now, and intended to bring her safely to the court of the do’Verradas.

  “There is no time to lose,” he said solemnly. “Is it not appropriate that Princess Alazais be brought to safety at a time of year when we remember the dead?”

  “Can we trust the do’Verradas?” asked the older brother, still suspicious.

  “Eiha, amico, you must remember Grand Duke Renayo’s own mother was a Ghillasian princess. He and his sons have a claim to the Ghillasian throne. Princess Alazais must have a husband. Is it not better she have a sympathetic one?”

  “I do not know what to think,” murmured the older brother, glancing at Sario’s golden key, but he was wavering.

  “Let me be blunt, amico.” Not too blunt; to give away the whole of his plan would be premature. “I have much sympathy for the girl, it is true. Any man would. But especially I do not like the chaos, these ruffians, these barbaricos, who have destroyed the Pallaiso Millia Luminnai in Aute-Ghillas. They have burned Grijalva paintings. Mine!” From previous lives, it was true, so the blood no longer affected him. Still! “You cannot imagine what an insult that is to a man like myself! We Grijalvas cannot flourish where there is anarchy. I wish for a return to peace and order. The crown of Ghillas lies in the gutter. Shall we leave it there? Or shall we aid those who wish to return it to its rightful place?”

  They left Arguena the next morning in a hired carriage, heading south for Meya Suerta. It was the day of Herva ei Ferro, when apparitions were paraded through the streets. No one else, en verro, could have planned it so perfectly.

  No one but Sario Grijalva.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  At first, returning to Gaspar’s inn weary from a day of writing and composing letters, Rohario thought nothing of the clot of guardsmen who stood in the street outside the sign of the Wheat Sheaf and Sickle. The curfew bells had not yet rung, but in this twilit hour after businesses closed and people hurried home, more and more small “incidents” took place. The Grand Duke now sent his regiments out in force to keep the peace.

  Rohario smiled, thinking of the furor that had erupted in the zocalo yesterday at dawn when Eleyna’s mural was discovered. It had taken a dozen guardsmen half the morning to scrub the stone clean of chalk. And while they worked a crowd had gathered to watch, to sing, to taunt. Some few rash young men had gotten their heads knocked about by equally rash young guardsmen. A skirmish had been averted by the timely appearance of the frail Premia Sancta, at whose appearance every soul there knelt respectfully.

  Rohario ducked his head down as he passed the loitering guards and walked down the tunnel that led into the courtyard of the inn. No need to risk them recognizing him. Ahead, he heard raised voices: Gaspar arguing with a customer again.

  Rohario blinked as he came into the courtyard. Torches flared everywhere, drenching the quadrangle in smoke. Guardsmen in the green tunics and gold baldrics of the Shagarra Regiment filled half the courtyard. His heart caught in his throat when he saw clearly the tall, lean man who argued with Gaspar. Dressed richly but simply, this man wore a sigil at his throat: a golden key.

  Rohario started forward just as the double doors to the inn slammed open and three men—not guardsmen but servants dressed in Grijalva livery—dragged a struggling Eleyna Grijalva out into the courtyard.

  She was furious. Her gaze fastened on the man wearing the golden key. “Zio Giaberto! How can you stomach being party to this abduction? I will not go back!” She kicked one of her captors in the shins. Cursing, he let go of her.

  “Eleyna!” Her uncle looked no less angry. “If we have to lock you in a room, you will return to Palasso Grijalva and do as your elders bid you!”

  “I am not your servant! I am of age, and a widow. I am free to do with my life what I wish.”

  By this time, inching closer, Rohario had come within a body’s length of Eleyna’s uncle, close enough to hear him reply more softly: “No Grijalva is free to do as he wishes. Not you, not any of us. Esteban, Gonsalvo, carry her if you must. I will hire a cart if necessary. I need not remind you what the penalty is if she does not reach the Palasso safely.”

  The two Grijalva servants jerked Eleyna backward. Rohario lunged, pushing forward between two startled guardsmen. He went not for Giaberto Grijalva’s head or chest, but for his hands. Grabbing Giaberto’s right hand, Rohario bent the middle and ring fingers back until they strained.

  Giaberto froze. “Stop!” he said in a hoarse voice to the guardsmen who surrounded them.

  “Let her go,” said Rohario. “You have no right to take her away if she does not want to go.”

  “We have every right. She is a Grijalva.” Giaberto’s face had gone white. “These guardsmen are here under your father’s authority, Don Rohario. Will you go against his wishes?”

  “I will!”

  “No. Rohario.” Eleyna spoke quickly, out of breath. “We cannot win against so many. There are other ways….”

  The urgency of her words worked on him so powerfully that his grip slackened. At once Giaberto yanked his hand free. Guardsmen broke between them, slamming Rohario up against a wall. Through the pain he thought for an instant he saw the face of the swaggering apprentice who had attacked him at the Iluminarres Procession. But no, these were the same Shagarrans sworn to protect him.

  “Eleyna!” They dragged her away. He could not break free. “At least do not forbid her to paint!” he cried out after them. Her uncle jerked once at the sound of Rohario’s voice and then turned resolutely away.

  Across the courtyard he caught a last glimpse of Eleyna’s pale face. She stared toward him. The force of her gaze was so strong he strained forward. She was trying to tell him something. The guards shoved him back; his head cracked on st
one, and for a few moments he saw nothing but gray.

  Then he was free. The guards surged down the tunnel, out to the street. Eleyna was gone.

  He slumped down to the ground, rubbing his head, cradling his other hand against his chest. Damp oozed through his fine trousers: he was sitting in a patch of mud churned up by the morning’s rain, but he could not care enough to move.

  “Maesso Rohario! Are you hurt? Can you stand up?” Gaspar helped him to his feet, although Rohario scarcely cared whether he was sitting or standing. “Chiros! They charge onto my property! Drag away an innocent woman! Who will be next?” People crowded out from the inn to gape. Rohario registered Eleyna’s mural through the dining room windows, a brilliant splash of color stained plain white only in one last unfinished corner. “Which of us will they drag away next? Do we not even have the freedom to live in our own houses? To hire a painter to paint a mural on a wall?”

  Slowly Gaspar’s words penetrated Rohario’s aching head and heart. He lifted his head, though it throbbed horribly.

  “Is that not what the Corteis is meant to do?” Rohario asked, his voice gaining strength as he spoke. “Is it not a body of citizens who may safeguard the people of Meya Suerta against the Grand Duke’s excesses? Any powerful noble family may call on the Grand Duke for assistance. But what of you, Maesso? Can you go to Renayo and ask his assistance if there has been some injustice in your business? If taxes are raised? Who will help us, when the guardsmen come? Who will help you? Eiha!” Pain stabbed through his temples, and he had to hide his tears with a hand.

  “Come, amico,” said Gaspar. “You must lie down.”

  But in the dim chamber, on his soft bed, Rohario could not rest. “Send a message to Maesso Azéma,” he said to Gaspar. “I must speak to him.”

  Gaspar hesitated, then spoke. “You are not a commoner, are you, my lord? I heard the chi’patro limner call you Don Rohario.”

  “Does it matter who I am? Matra ei Filho! Let us not suspect our allies lest they become our enemies.”

  “Of course it matters,” said Gaspar softly. “If it is true you are the Grand Duke’s son, then you can become the leader of the Libertistas.”

  It was too much to consider. His skull ached horribly. “Figurehead, en verro. That is what they would want of me.”

  “That would depend, I suppose, on your own strength.” Gaspar smiled with genuine sympathy. “Rest now, amico. There will be time to speak later.”

  That night someone set fire to the Palasso Justissia on the Zocalo Grando. Rohario saw the smear of ugly hot light through the windows every time he woke from his restless sleep. The fire faded toward dawn, but smoke and low clouds shrouded Meya Suerta all day, a sullen mirror to the unease that hung over the inn, the streets, the city itself.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  At dawn she paced out her prison, measuring it, noting the couch covered in the finest blue Zhinna silk, the Niapalese chair and table, and the single painting, a remarkable study of the Grand Duchess Mechella as a young woman presiding over the festival of Astraventa, one hand resting on the tousled head of her younger son, Renayo, the other holding a mirror that reflected a star. And yet Cabral’s fine portrait was doomed to languish in this side room because of the prohibition made centuries before by the Ecclesia that art should depict no mother and son together except the Matra ei Filho. Yet if Cabral had been Gifted, she thought, the Grijalvas would have championed his beautiful painting, not hidden it away like this.

  Without question, he was the best Grijalva painter alive today. She paced. Perhaps not better than the young Itinerarrio, Sario, who had come and gone before she had been able to meet him. She recalled him vaguely from classes in the ducal Galerria, ten years ago: He had shown no particular spark then, but it was not unknown for a boy’s Gift to mature late. The sketches Sario had produced during his Itinerrario service had been fascinating. This was someone, she was sure, who understood what she wanted to do.

  Alas, Sario Grijalva had left to resume Itinerarrio service. Andreo had been too stupid to keep him here. Moronnos! They could not see quality when it sat in front of their noses!

  Eiha! Pointless to think about it.

  She paced, measuring the room. Fourteen paces by nine paces, a room on the third floor, hidden away in the warren that was the oldest part of the compound. A couch, a chair and table, a bed and washstand; all furniture of the finest workmanship but a prison’s furniture nevertheless. At least she had Cabral’s painting to study. Grazzo do’Matra that there were windows in this chamber. There would be light enough to paint during the day. If they gave her paper and paints.

  What did they mean to do with her?

  Felippo.

  What if they meant to paint her into submission again? There were other men who needed brides, families grown rich on Tira Virte’s bounty who would count it a fine accomplishment to feather their nests with a Grijalva bride, even a barren one. Especially if that bride’s sister was the Heir’s Mistress.

  Horrified, she searched, hands shaking, in the pocket sewn into her inner skirt. Let out a gasp of relief, finding paper and chalk and a pencil there. When Giaberto had arrived at the inn she had not thought to grab anything. She smoothed the paper out on the table and wrote, hastily, glancing time and again at the door. Every creak and distant footfall startled her. Soon they would come.

  I am Eleyna Grijalva. I am a painter. I am writing these words down now so I might remind myself, whatever they do to me, who I really am. I am Eleyna Grijalva. I am a painter. I will paint. It is the gift the Matra granted me at my birth. It is my life. Trust Agustin and Beatriz and Grandzio Cabral, but no others. Trust Rohario do ‘Verrada.

  Staring at these last words, she flushed. Unaccountably the room became warm, although the brazier was not lit. Biting her lip, she added another sentence in tiny letters.

  I think I love Rohario do ‘Verrada.

  She set down the chalk and covered her face with her hands. These feelings were as sudden and unexpected as if they had been painted onto her. All those weeks together at the inn—Matra ei Filho, but she had simply been happy. Yet she had not felt this until now. What had triggered it? In her mind’s eye she saw his face, half lost in the smoky glare of the torches. She heard his last words: “At least do not forbid her to paint.”

  Footsteps, coming down the hall. A key set into the lock. She folded the paper quickly, thrust it into her pocket just as the door opened to admit Giaberto and her mother.

  “What use do you have for me now?” Eleyna demanded.

  “You! That my firstborn should turn into a viper striking her own mother’s breast!” Dionisa strode energetically to the window and back, unable to be still. She wore a gown of do’Verrada blue today, as befit the mother of the Heir’s Mistress. “You have brought disgrace down onto Palasso Grijalva. Living as a common mistress with a man, in a public inn! Have you no shame?”

  Eleyna saw no point in replying.

  “The Grand Duke is furious. Furious! He blames you for seducing his son away from Chasseriallo. Why could you not have done as you were told and become Edoard’s mistress? Moronna! You would have had wealth, anything you wanted, but you must throw it all away only to spite your family! Now your sister is ruined forever—”

  “Surely you overstate the case, Mama. As I remember, Grandzia Tazia married very well after Arrigo married.”

  “You will not mention her name to me again. Venomma ninia!”

  “Dionisa!” Giaberto had remained silent throughout this diatribe, his only movement to massage his right hand. “The child is not poisonous, only strong-willed.”

  “Bassda, ‘Berto! The Grand Duke is furious. Andreo thinks Revirdin and I have made the Grijalvas look foolish, and he is sure to take out his petty irritation against us in one way or another. Beatriz is ruined for a good marriage. Agustin has fallen ill—”

  Eleyna gasped. “What has happened to Agustin?”

  “You can be sure I will not let you corrupt him further, El
eyna. Here in this room you will stay until we have decided what to do about you. Come, ‘Berto.”

  Dionisa swept out. Giaberto followed more slowly, looking as if he wanted to say something but dared not. The door shut firmly, and the key turned in the lock. Eleyna went at once to the window, but through the bars she could only see the servants’ garden and a line of old oak barrels set out to catch rainwater. Twisting her hands on the cold iron, she considered, her mind in turmoil.

  A perfect rendering. A portrait, painted with the blood or tears or saliva or seed from a Limner’s body. Did she have any defense at all against Limner magic? She would shift all the furniture in her room, each day, twice a day, perhaps. Turn the coverlet over. Sleep with her head at the other end of the bed. Sleep on the couch. But from what she had put together of Agustin’s hints and Leilias’ murmured secrets, it seemed to Eleyna that suggestion magic was less taxing. What if there was no defense against the subtle insinuation of a new thought, a new preference? No defense except the conscience of the Limners? It was not a reassuring thought.

  Oh, Agustin would never do such a thing. Leilias’ beloved Zevierin would never have done so, nor Leilias’ two Gifted sons, both dead now. Nor would Cabral, had he been granted the Gift. But the others—eiha! She already knew what they were willing to countenance.

  A pall of smoke hung over the city, dissipating in an evening wind that soughed up from the distant marsh. A servant brought her food at the midday bell and again at evening. She passed the day pacing, thumbing through the Holy Verses that had been left on the table and drawing increasingly elaborate, impossibly tiny portraits of Rohario in and around the letters of the note she had written to herself. The evening bell rang. As its reverberations trembled into silence, she heard the scrape of a shoe and the snick of the key in the lock. Then she caught the scent of manzanilla tea and of freshly baked bread, and she relaxed. It was only a servant bringing the evening supper.

  But it was not only a servant.