by Melanie Rawn
“Carrida meya. Soon you will be restored to the life you deserve. But you must not be impatient, ‘Vedra. You must remember that I know best.” He stood there for the longest time, looking at her face, quiescent in oil.
Eleyna hardly dared swallow. The inventory burned in her hand. If she made the slightest movement, the paper’s rustle would give her away.
He shook his head as if in reply to an unspoken question. “It is not yet time to free you, corasson,” he said to the painting. Then—Grazzo do’Matra!—he left, walking softly down the long Galerria carpet. She did not move until she heard the distant click of the door.
Sario Grijalva was insane.
And Grand Duke Renayo had just appointed him Lord Limner.
Eleyna slipped out from behind the drapes and stared at The First Mistress: Saavedra Grijalva, so lifelike, so perfectly caught that it seemed she could step out of the portrait as alive as she had been the day she had posed for it, three hundred years ago.
“How much power do the Grijalva Limners have?” Eleyna whispered, catching sight of Saavedra’s gaze in the mirror. How finely Sario had captured that face, its subtleties, its anger, its passion.
Enough power to do this to me. Who are you, my sister? I have seen you before. Can you not help me? Do you not understand what has been done to me and my child?
It was impossible. It had to be impossible.
But what if it were true? What if Saavedra Grijalva had not died or fled? What if she had been imprisoned in her own portrait by her cousin Sario? But why would he have done such a terrible thing?
And how could Sario Grijalva—this Sario—know?
EIGHTY-ONE
It had not been necessary to tell the Grand Duke that the Viehos Fratos, those simpering idiots, had no control over Sario Grijalva! Not any more.
No more worrying about affairs with do’Verrada daughters. Ridiculous to have sacrificed Domaos’ talent for two years of passion with Benecitta. No more ugly Renzios. No longer would he let a boy with as much raw talent as Rafeyo burn wild with unbridled ambition and twisted hate. There had been so many disasters. Nothing, no life except Riobaro’s, had gone as he had planned.
Matra ei Filho! The entire Grijalva line was weakening. How could he welcome back Saavedra when he lived in this undistinguished body? But he had no likely successors. Weak, old, or dead. That summed up the Grijalva Limners quite neatly.
Except for his estuda. If only she had been Gifted, like Saavedra. But the Viehos Fratos would never listen to a woman, so perhaps it was better this way. He would not be tempted. He would not be trapped by the bright fire of her talent in a body whose every word, spoken by his mind through her lips, would be ignored or belittled. He would make her into the greatest artist of her time—barring himself, of course—and through her—with his guidance as Lord Limner, of course—start a new Grijalva tradition, one that would eclipse the stale brushwork of the Andonios and Andreos. When the latest crop of boys in Palasso Grijalva came of age, he would honor the likeliest candidate among them with his presence. Then he could think about releasing Saavedra. When all was just as it should be.
Who must he paint next? Who would stand in his way? Edoard had been spending a great deal of time with Alazais. Would it serve his cause better to have Edoard marry the girl, or to give her to the brother? What was his name? Cossimio? Alessio? Matteyo? No, those were other brothers, other times.
Eiha! How could he do a portrait of the rebellious brother, whom he had never seen? With all of them trapped in the Palasso by the rabble outside, he might as well concentrate his efforts on Edoard. It didn’t matter which boy went to Ghillas: Edoard could unite both countries under his rule for all he cared.
Sario realized all at once that it was dark outside. How long had he been standing here in front of his portrait of Renayo? He had completely lost track of time.
A rap sounded on the door. “Master Sario?”
“Come in, Eleyna.” So much to do, but he would have years now to perform his most important task: to teach Eleyna Grijalva, to renew art in Tira Virte, and to prepare a new boy for himself. Political considerations were minor compared to his duty to art. He glanced once around the room: his Death painting of Andreo and the painting of Alazais were shrouded, safe from prying eyes. Then, remembering that he had locked the door, he let her in.
“Master Sario, I beg pardon for disturbing you.”
“Do’nado. Come in, estuda.”
She saw the portrait of Renayo at once. He read her horror in her face.
“You know the language we paint into our portraits, I see,” he said quietly.
Her color changed as she struggled to control herself.
“Tell me,” he demanded. “If you know, then tell me what it says.”
She paled, but she obeyed. “Grass for Submission, flax for Fate. Peach blossoms, which say ‘I Am Your Captive.”’
How easily the symbology rolled off her tongue. “Leilias taught you well. I am not surprised. I never liked her, but I learned to respect her.”
“You knew Grandmother? She never mentioned you.”
“Of course she knew me!” He stopped himself, almost reeling from the sudden wrench. He was no longer Dioniso. This Sario had only known Leilias Grijalva as an old woman who, with her brother Cabral, exercised an unseemly amount of influence as Conselhos. Just because they had backed Mechella, whose adherents had won the day away from the shamed and reviled Tazia. “She knew us all.”
He stalked to the window and glared down into the courtyard. Alazais walked there by torchlight, escorted by some of the ladies of the court. By Arrigo’s sister, Lizia. No, no, that was Lizia’s granddaughter down there, a handsome young woman with the same forthright manner as her grandmother. How fortunate for him that they bore the same name. He turned back to her from the window. “There is so much to do. Surely you can understand that.”
“Why not just paint yourself Grand Duke, then?” she demanded.
He laughed, as much at her indignant expression as at the absurdity of the suggestion. Why did they all accuse him of the one thing he had never wanted? “Why should I want to be Grand Duke? The do’Verradas have their place, and we Grijalvas have ours. Do you truly think the nobility of Tira Virte would accept a chi’patro Grijalva as their Duke? They would rebel in a moment, and even I cannot paint every single man in this country into submission. I don’t have enough blood. Matra ei Filho, mennina! Just think! What would any painter want in being Grand Duke? I am a painter, not a ruler. No Grand Duke would ever have time enough away from his duties to be anything but a gifted amateur, painting pretty pictures for the ladies. I mean to restore the art of the Grijalvas to its former eminence, to the stature it once had, and if I must be Lord Limner to do so, then so it will be.”
For a long time, as if she had not heard him, she stared at Renayo’s portrait. Suddenly she spoke softly. “How could you have known Andreo would die—?” She clipped the last word short, aghast, and shot a glance at him, her cheeks pale.
She suspected, that much was obvious.
“I, too, am distressed by the untimely death of Andreo.” Lying came easily to him after all these years. “But one cannot hesitate out of a misplaced pity brought on by the misfortune of others.” After all these years, he had learned to read other people very well. He saw she now doubted her own conclusion. That she wanted to doubt. “Sit down, Eleyna. I must do some studies of you.”
She did not sit down. Her eyes flashed. Really, they were her finest feature. “Never! How can you believe I will submit to be painted into your willing slave? It was done to me before, and I swore then—”
“Done to you before!”
“Surely you know I refused to marry Felippo Grijalva, but Giaberto, with my mother’s connivance, painted me into accepting him.” Tears stood in her eyes, glittering in the lantern light.
Few things had the ability to disgust him anymore. This did. “Eiha! Felippo Grijalva! He had the self-control of a dog!”
Tears rolled down her face as she struggled to contain herself. He admired her strength.
“I was abroad, I hope you will recall,” he said quietly. “I would never have countenanced such a thing. Never. Eleyna.” Now she was vulnerable. He had what she wanted—the knowledge of painting—and she would do what he asked in order to get it. “You know the Viehos Fratos are dying! Stagnant! Eiha! It gives me some sympathy for these idiot Libertistas.” She stared at him, searching—but for what? He could see the questions in her eyes, in her stance; he just could not read her mind. “Do you wish to learn what I have to teach?” He knew what she would answer.
“Of course!”
“Then obey me!” Why must the talented ones always be the most difficult? “Sit for a portrait.”
“To become your captive?” she retorted. “If I am to be your estuda, I will only be your mirror if you rob me of my will.”
Impossible creature. “Moronna! It is my duty to protect you from the others. That is why I must paint a portrait of you, one that will leave you untouched by mine or any hand.” That struck her to silence. It should not have. Surely she should have understood all along that he intended to protect her, just as he had Saavedra. “Do not be pig-headed! Have you not yourself criticized the Viehos Fratos?”
“I have,” she said in a small voice.
“Do you not agree the Academy style is worthless? That the Grijalvas have become pointlessly self-absorbed? That the course they have taken will lead to ruin?”
“I do agree.”
“Then let me protect you so you can learn from me without their interference! Eiha! I am right. You know it. So let us have done with this argument and do what needs to be done. So many things! An inventory of Grijalva paintings in the Palasso. A complete restructuring of the tutorials for the young Grijalva estudos. A new style of painting that will reinvigorate our line; indeed, art in Tira Virte altogether.” He let out a great sigh and waited for her acquiescence.
“The inventory,” she said hesitantly. “I found an inventory made in the time of Arrigo the Second.”
So many lives ago. He could only recall now that he had taken advantage of Arrigo IPs coronation to rid himself of Renzio. He extended a hand. “May I see it?”
Her hesitation annoyed him. “I … didn’t bring it.”
This was not about the inventory. Like Alejandro, she needed him. He did not need magic to persuade her, only the rights words uttered with the right emotion. “Eleyna, you must trust me. I want—I need—a student who will bring credit to my name, one whose brilliance will shine because of what I teach him. Teach her. If I wanted a copyist, I would not be rebelling against what the Viehos Fratos have become, would I?” He spoke gently now, because she was still skittish. And no wonder, after what had been done to her. Forcing her to marry Felippo, that disgusting chiros. What a repulsive thing to do to a girl! What an appalling thing to do to a child with the Luza do’Orro! He must convince her, so it could never happen again. “Let me paint this portrait. I will use white chrysanthemums for Truth, white oak for Independence, water willow for Freedom, and juniper for Protection and Purification. You will help me prepare the paints. You will watch each brushstroke I lay down. You will take the painting with you when I am not working on it. Let me protect you in this way. It is a selfish wish, I know, to have you as my pupil. To want you always to be free to paint, as you are meant to, with me or without me. Grant me this wish, Eleyna.”
She struggled against her fears, but he knew what she would do. She had no choice, just as he had no choice. She was, as he had always been, in thrall to the Luza do’Orro, the Golden Light. Of all of them, she was the one most like him.
“I will trust you,” she said in a low voice, but as if the admission hurt her. She sat down.
Satisfied, he got out a fresh piece of paper.
EIGHTY-TWO
Eleyna rose before dawn and adjusted herself precisely in the chair that faced her writing table. She shifted Agustin’s drawing a final time, then waited.
In what madness had she agreed last night to allow Sario to do a portrait of her? She wanted to turn and look at the two sketches Sario had done by candlelight, but she dared not move. Why had she followed Sario back to his chamber? What if he had killed Andreo?
Eiha! What if he truly could paint her a Peintraddo that would protect her forever from Grijalva magic?
The fire crackled behind her. The servant girl came in before dawn to rake the coals and add new wood. This morning Eleyna had risen and locked the door as soon as the girl left. Now she stared at the parchment that lay flat, squared off, on the table’s surface. Suddenly she heard the whisper of distant words.
“Eleyna, it’s Agustin. Do you think she can hear me, Zio?”
Though it had not changed, the drawing of one corner of the Grijalva studio now looked uncannily lifelike. She expected Agustin to walk into her line of sight at any moment. But of course he did not. Yet that was his voice, like a voice heard through a keyhole. Miraculo!
“Agustin. I can hear you.” Her voice trembled.
“Matra Dolcha!” swore Giaberto, sounding more appalled than pleased.
“I told you it would work!” Agustin sounded smug. “Giaberto and Cabral are here with me, Eleyna. Cabral wants you to get the Grand Duke to stand with you, tomorrow, out of the line of sight of the drawing, so that he can listen—”
“Impossible!” Giaberto again. “Can you imagine the scandal if the Grand Duke was found in her bedchamber at dawn?”
“But we must consult with him on the matter of a new Lord Limner,” said Cabral.
“Let me speak, grazzo,” said Eleyna, desperate to break in. “The Grand Duke named a new Lord Limner. Sario.”
“Sario—!”
“That chi’patro chiros—!”
“Forgive me, Zio.” She had to find out the truth, yet still she hesitated. She felt she was betraying him. “How … how did Andreo die?”
Cabral’s voice was cool, cataloging the symptoms. “A sudden illness. Hemmoraging.”
“Is it possible—” She forced out the words. “—for one Limner to kill another?”
“You are suggesting that Sario murdered Andreo?” How could Cabral be so calm?
“Eleyna.” Giaberto was not calm, yet he spoke with authority. “Tell no one of these suspicions. If you can, go today and see if Andreo’s Lord Limner portrait still hangs in the Grand Duke’s study, and if it remains untouched. There are powerful protections painted into that portrait, and it ought to be impossible for a Limner to harm another unless through that portrait.”
“I will do as you ask, Zio.” She found that her hands were trembling and that her back hurt horribly, but she could not shift her position lest she break the spell that linked her to Agustin. “Is it possible for a Limner to paint a person into a painting?”
Agustin’s gasp she recognized. The other two made incomprehensible sounds.
“That I should be talking about such matters in front of an unGifted limner and a woman!” exclaimed Giaberto. “I have read nothing in the Folio that suggests Grijalvas have ever known of or attempted such a horrific deed.”
“Then is it possible there was once a copy made of The First Mistress?”
“The portrait of Saavedra Grijalva?” asked Cabral. “I never heard of any copy being made, but I suppose such a copy might have been done before my birth. But I can assure you that the portrait hanging in the Galerria is the original.”
It was wild stab in the dark, but she had to ask. He was almost eighty years old. “Wasn’t that portrait in storage?”
She almost heard Cabral’s smile. “Yes. Grand Duchess Mechella and I found it. That’s why I know it is the same one.”
“Do you remember where Saavedra stood?”
His reply took so long she thought she heard dust settling on the table. “Behind the table, I think. She was reading a book. Mennina, I haven’t thought of that day in so many years.” He gave a sharp laugh, bitte
rsweet. “Women notice such peculiar things. The Grand Duchess thought Saavedra was pregnant. Isn’t that an odd thing to recall after all these years?”
Behind the table. “Zio,” she whispered. At last she found her voice. “If a person could not be captured within a painting, explain to me then how Saavedra now stands before the door? Why, if there is no other copy, does an inventory I found dating from 1216 describe her, as you say, standing behind the table, at night?”
“At night!” So eerie, to hear Cabral’s shock in only his voice and never to see his face. “It was dawn. I remember that clearly enough. The candle had just been snuffed. Mechella commented on the artistry…” His voice trailed off only to return with a kind of horrified astonishment. “I had forgotten this.”
“Sario believes Saavedra is alive in that painting.”
“Matra Dolcha!” swore Giaberto again.
“I have not been in the Galerria since ‘Chella became too ill to walk with me there,” whispered Cabral. ’Chella? Since when did a common limner speak so familiarly of a Grand Duchess?
“Merditto!” swore Giaberto. “Eleyna, we must get that painting to the Atelierro so the Viehos Fratos can examine it.”
“How can she get a painting of that size through the barricades?” asked Agustin.
“We must see what Don Rohario can accomplish,” said Cabral. “Giaberto is right. We must have that painting here.”
Their blithe words alarmed her. “Sario would notice at once! You don’t understand, he controls everyone here now.”
Giaberto snorted. “We can take care of Sario Grijalva. Just get the painting to us, however it must be arranged. That is an order, Eleyna. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” They were the ones who did not understand. They were blind to Sario’s power and skill.
“That is enough for today, Agustin. You may talk with Eleyna tomorrow.”
“Yes, but—” Agustin wanted reassurance.
She gave it. “Beatriz is well. As am I. You are well?”
“Yes, but—”