by Melanie Rawn
“’Vedra,” he began. He must only convince her. Once she understood what they could accomplish together—
“Take him from my sight,” she said coldly. “My Sario is dead to me. Dead; as is Alejandro, and Raimon and Ignaddio and all the others I knew. What stands here is only the remains of Sario.”
Dead. Not that. Never that, spiritless meat and bone.
“I am Sario,” he cried. “You know is it I, Saavedra. You know I am here, though I wear another man’s body. The body is nothing, only flesh so that I might live another life, so that I may perfect—” He broke off.
They looked, oddly enough, horrified, as if something he had said had caused them all revulsion. They looked as Eleyna had looked, at the Palasso, staring at him as if he were a monster.
But tears glittered in Saavedra’s eyes. She did understand, then.
“Is there no chamber where you may confine him safely?” she asked of the others. “There is much to do if we are to be prepared for the assembly two days hence.”
“’Vedra, don’t abandon me now. I need you.”
“En verro,” she said. “As you always needed me.”
At that instant he felt a burning along his skin, in his eyes and on his tongue. He had lived far too many years not to know his body’s reactions intimately, not to know what each presaged.
“My paintings!” he cried, horrified. “Someone is destroying my paintings.” Soaking them. Ruining them! “You must stop this, ‘Vedra!”
She came forward, but only to bend and brush water on the patterns painted onto the floor at his feet, to dissolve the oscurra. Her oscurra—the Gifted woman. So she had finally admitted it, accepted it—and used it against him!
She stood, stared at him, seemed to study him, seeking what he could not know. Only that she, of them all, would surely understand him. And forgive him. She always had.
“’Vedra—” he whispered.
She turned her back on him.
The others led him away. There were too many, and he had never learned how to fight in any obvious brute physical fashion. Not in any of his lives. His hands were too important.
But none of that mattered. What mattered was that Saavedra had returned to him. She had returned, only to forsake him once and for all time.
When they shoved him into a small whitewashed chamber, empty of furniture or any adornment, and locked the door, he stood in the center of the room and wept.
NINETY
Rohario entered the Cathedral Imagos Brilliantos by the side door through which he had left it in such haste six months before. That day, when Sancto Leo died in his arms, had changed his life forever. It had set him, and perhaps all of Tira Virte, on a new course whose direction could not now be altered.
He found his father waiting in the Premio Sancto’s private rooms beyond the side chapel of the great cathedral nave. Renayo sat in a gilt chair, clearly tired. Il Cofforro’s portrait of Premio Sancto Gregorrio IV gazed with vague fondness down on the Grand Duke. Rohario eyed the portrait with a new misgiving. He had learned so much from Cabral Grijalva. My grandfather.
Had Oaquino Grijalva spent his own blood and saliva in that painting? Had he spelled it so that the gentle solicitude that Rohario imagined beaming from Gregorrio’s seamed face was not a true reflection of the man’s kindly personality but only a magic set there by the painter’s hand?
He dreaded looking on the great altarpiece, on the serene aspect of the Matra, for surely She, too, was a magicked rendering whose serenity enveloped Her worshipers not through their devotion but through a spell created by a mortal man’s bloody hands.
And yet, if the altarpiece granted peace for a measure of time to those who gazed on it, where was the harm?
“Don Rohario.” Renayo addressed him abruptly, and Rohario started and, bowing, came forward. “I have agreed to meet with you, as you requested.”
“You look tired, Your Grace.”
“Your concern is charming, I’m sure. What do you want?”
Grand Duke Renayo did look tired, almost worn away, although surely these last two months trapped in Palasso Verrada with the imminent threat of riot hanging over the city would have been enough to exhaust the strongest man.
“I thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Your Grace. I know we did not part on good terms—”
“I said I never wanted to see you again and I am not sure I have changed my mind,” snapped Renayo. “Get on with it!”
This flash of spirit encouraged Rohario, who had begun to wonder if his father, so subdued, was under some kind of spell. “I have said so many unlikely things to you, Your Grace, that I am hesitant to speak now, for fear you will not believe the strange and awkward tidings I bring.” He had rehearsed this speech a hundred times. It sounded stiff.
Renayo sighed ostentatiously. “You are to be Premio Oratorrio of the Corteis, I suppose? It is the only position due your consequence.”
“No.” The suggestion threw him off his planned speech. A few of the wealthier landlords and merchants had indeed proposed electing Rohario as Premio Oratorrio, First Speaker of the Corteis; Rohario counted himself lucky that the proposal had been shouted down before he could himself refuse, in case the Provisional Assembly actually approved such a course and then interpreted his refusal as arrogance. “I will stand for election from Collara Asaddo and if elected will serve in the same capacity as any other representative.”
“If you believe that, then you are a moronno. But I suppose you do not believe it and only say such things because they are expected of you. The farmers and artisans of your own estate will not refuse to elect you, I assume.”
“I assume the same thing, Your Grace. All of the men standing for election have rank or property. You do not suppose we are allowing any sort of unpropertied ruffian to enter the Corteis? Respectable men have the wisdom to govern.”
Renayo snorted, shifting impatiently-in his chair. “Surely this is not all you have to say? To try once again to convince me to embrace this new enthusiasm? If I must accept it, I must, but only to spare Meya Suerta and our beautiful green earth the horrible conflicts that have wracked Ghillas and Taglis. And because I yet have hopes for Ghillas.”
Rohario paced to the portrait, frowned at it, the beadwork of the headdress so cunningly portrayed that each bright bead reflected an unseen light, and walked back to stand before his father. “We are alone, Your Grace?”
“The Premio Sancto has assured me there is no one to overhear us. I must trust him, as we must all trust the Ecclesia and its representatives.”
“Then what I say now I must assure you I say most reluctantly, and only because events force me to it.” His father’s wan face scared him. “You are tired, Your Grace. Might I get you wine?”
“I have been ill,” said Renayo softly.
And so he looked, thin and wasted. Nevertheless, it was time to forge ahead. “Forgive me for speaking plainly, Patro. Leono do’Brendizia, who is cousin to the current Baron, intends to stand up in the assembly and accuse you of being a bastard who has not one drop of do’Verrada blood in him.”
“I see.”
“You see? Is that all you have to say? Matra Dolcha, Patro, you do not even look surprised. Do you mean to tell me you have known all along?”
Now Renayo rose. “Perhaps I always suspected. We rarely saw Arrigo when I was a child, although we were sent to stay with him for part of the year.” He poured himself wine from a crystal pitcher set on a side table. “Certainly Cabral treated all of us as if we were his own children. Matra Dolcha, but we were all very happy at Corasson. The servants did not quite speak of it openly, for they were the most loyal staff I have ever encountered. As we all did, they, too, could not fail but to love my mother. But when I became old enough and went out into the world, I saw other households and drew my own conclusions.”
“And you said nothing of these conclusions?”
Renayo laughed harshly. “What was I to say? That I thought I was a bastard? I had n
o reason to believe I would ever sit on the throne of Tira Virte. And when the crown of Ghillas passed to Ivo and not to me, and then Alessio died unexpectedly, what was I to do? Arrigo had acknowledged me as his son. Was I to shame my mother publicly by refusing to take the throne because of ill-timed scruples? I think not. I did my duty to Tira Virte, and I continue to do so to this day.”
Rohario swayed and, groping for a chair, sat down. “You never told me.”
“Why should I have told you? You were vain and useless, your brother has as much common sense as a loon, and as for Benetto and Timarra—eiha! That was my bitterest disappointment, to see none of the great do’Verrada virtues reflected in my children.”
“Certainly I have always been aware that we disappointed you and Mother,” said Rohario peevishly, unable to help himself. “Did she know?”
Renayo took a draught of water. “She knew nothing but what it pleased her to know, blessed woman. Her single-mindedness was her greatest virtue. Mairie knew what she wanted and how to get it. I was not about to tell her that her handsome and rich do’Verrada husband was more likely a Grijalva bastard!”
“What do you mean to do?”
Renayo took his time, replacing the glass next to the pitcher, adjusting the black-lacquered tray so that its sides squared off against the table’s edge, before he sat down again. “It is a dangerous thing, to accuse the Grand Duke of being chi’patro. Edoard must marry quickly and to our advantage. You I would have married to the Ghillasian girl, but … eiha, there is something strange about her. She wanders back and forth in her suite looking for Sario Grijalva. Eleyna says she fears there is a Limner spell—” Here he stopped short.
Eleyna! But this was not the moment to broach the subject of marriage.
Renayo sighed. “I have not revealed to you yet the secrets of the—”
“—Grijalva Limners? Zio Cabral has told me that and more, Patro. That is why I am here now.”
“Cabral admitted he is my father? Matra Dolcha!” Color glowed in his cheeks and his brusque resolve came back to him; he jumped up and paced, back and forth, in the small chamber. “It is true, then! Eiha! Just as well Mairie died before she could hear such bitter tidings. She would have hated knowing that her husband was one of their bastards!”
“You do not hate knowing it?” This man, this Renayo, was a stranger to him.
“Cabral is the kindest man I know. Arrigo did his duty by me, but he never showed me a moment’s affection. Matra ei Filho, ninio, you must know that the Grand Dukes of Tira Virte are what we are today because of Grijalvas and their magic.”
The words came out unbidden and unplanned. “I mean to marry Eleyna, Patro. What do you think of that?”
Renayo laughed sharply. “You are certainly my son, although I don’t know where you got this bull-headed streak. I can’t even fault you for loving a Grijalva, since it seems to run in the blood. Eiha! Throw yourself away on her, although a prince born of the Ghillasian bloodline could do better! She’s a taking thing, and brave enough, and a fine painter. Do you know that she copied the portrait of The First Mistress and hung it in place of the original, and no one noticed? Poor Andreo. Gift he may have had, but I don’t think he was half the painter she is.”
“These are changed words for you, Patro.”
“Changed words for changed times, as you yourself have said to me many times in the past months. Eleyna also told me that Sario Grijalva held me in his thrall for two months. I do not at this moment look kindly on the Gifted Limners who have served and enriched my predecessors by performing such spells on other unsuspecting souls. Decisions have already been made, and plans laid. Drastic measures for drastic times. We agreed it is the only way.”
“We?” Rohario demanded. “What do you mean to do?”
“What must be done. What perhaps should have been done many generations ago, before we and they painted ourselves into such a corner.” Then he laughed, almost wildly. “Painted into a corner! An apposite saying, don’t you think? Bassda! Who is it? Who are you there?”
For an instant Rohario thought his father had gone quite mad, but then he heard the plaintive voice.
“Your Grace, where are you?”
Renayo grimaced. “Eiha! The heifer has wandered out of her handler’s keeping. Why did I ever marry her? All that tempting gold and those trade assurances. Though she’s pleasing enough in bed, I suppose, and relieves me of the necessity of taking a mistress.”
Shocked, Rohario gaped at his father, but a moment later a door opened and Grand Duchess Johannah, a vision of white softness, entered the chamber with several of her ladies-in-waiting at her heels. “I’m so frightened, Your Grace,” she said in her tiny voice, “all those rough men waiting out in the Cathedral. Might I wait here with you? I feel so much safer here.” Her gaze fluttered over Rohario; she blinked, staring, then fastened herself onto her husband, clinging to his arm.
“Come, amora meya.” With a sigh, he led her from the room.
Drastic measures for drastic times. Rohario did not follow his father but went out the way he had come and circled around to enter the Cathedral by the great front doors. There were indeed a great many rough men waiting, if one defined rough men as any man who was not born into the nobility. But they waited, to Rohario’s eyes, with remarkable patience and restraint. These men were respectable in their own circles, guilds and merchant houses, banks and landlord’s associations. They had as much to lose as did the Grand Duke if Tira Virte dissolved into the chaos that had torn apart Ghillas. Yet they choose to risk their lives and families and property in the name of Libera. Freedom. They chose to risk it for the sake of this Constitussion.
Like Eleyna, who had thrown away her chance at wealth and influence as the Heir’s Mistress because she wanted, because she needed, to painf.
Certainly there were restless young men aplenty, huddled in groups but overseen by elders who kept a strict eye on these potential rabblerousers. Rohario admired the calmness with which the assembly waited. After two months of spirited and often angry meetings they had agreed on a Constitussion, and now they meant to present it to their Grand Duke and institute a new method of governance in Tira Virte, one that acknowledged the position of the Grand Duke, that acknowledged his importance and his time-honored privilege, but that granted privilege and power to the men of substance in the land as well.
Rohario walked forward quickly. The mason’s journeyman, Ruis, called out a cheerful greeting; he had, in the end, become protective toward His Lordship, as he liked to call Rohario, and had defended him against the slurs of newcomers.
In one of the side boxes toward the front, near the altar, the shipbuilder Velasco gestured toward a free seat. Rohario slid in beside him. Velasco was seated here with other dignitaries, wealthy merchants, and a few noble landowners who had joined the Libertista cause.
“You see,” said Velasco proudly, gesturing expansively to the crowd, “that we are civilized men here, who can bring about change without resorting to riot and mayhem. This will be our finest accomplishment.”
“Do you think the Grand Duke means to sign the agreement?”
Velasco looked surprised. “Indeed, Don Rohario! You did not know? I was summoned last night to the Palasso, where I met with His Grace. He has already assured me that he will sign the document and agree to all of our terms.”
Too amazed to reply, Rohario was grateful for the entrance of the Premio Sancto and the Premia Sancta. The assembly, buzzing before, quieted swiftly. As soon as the church elders had taken their seats on either side of lamp and altar, a captain of the Shagarra Regiment entered, leading the Grand Duke’s retinue. Trumpets and banners were noticeably absent.
But Velasco stood, calling out in a loud voice: “All rise for the Grand Duke, Renayo, and for Grand Duchess Johannah and Don Edoard do’Verrada.”
Rohario rose, as did every other soul in the vast nave of the Cathedral. The effect was stunning. Every man there rose to grant respect to the man whose authorit
y they meant to erode. In an odd way, it was reassuring.
Renayo entered, looking stern and dignified. Edoard looked bewildered, but then, he never truly felt at home anywhere except in the out of doors. The Grand Duke paid his respects to the Premio Sancto and the Premia Sancta and then took his seat in the ducal box to the left of the altar, his chair placed to the forefront.
Velasco, as presiding Premio Oratorrio of the Provisional Assembly, rose and walked forward with deliberate slowness, holding the precious parchment in his hands. He knelt before the Grand Duke—Rohario admired the careful way in which Velasco and the other senior men went out of their way to show their respect for the dignity of the ducal office—and handed the parchment not to Renayo but to one of his conselhos. The conselho cleared his throat and read the entire document aloud.
The men assembled in the pews listened with intent silence. Renayo’s expression remained grave. To Rohario’s relief, they got through the entire document without anyone disturbing the peace. The bench on which he sat grew harder and harder, and despite himself he realized he was growing restless. Waiting. Anticipating.
It came as soon as the conselho, finishing, handed the document to Renayo.
“I will be heard!” There, on the opposite side of the nave in another aisle box, stood Azéma. “By the right given by the Ecclesia to any man to challenge falsehood, I challenge the right of Renayo Mirisso Edoard Verro do’Verrada to sign this Constitussion. He is not the son of Arrigo. He has no right to the ducal throne. His signature does not constitute a legal binding mark.”
So much for peace.
Rohario hunched down, covered his ears with his hands to shut out the roar of many voices shouting all at once, then thought better of the gesture. Better to face the trouble square on. In the great sanctuary the noise echoed doubly loud, so loud that he wondered if it could shatter the huge glass windows or the fine glass vessels that held the holy wine blessed by Matra ei Filho.
Strangely, if he could indeed discern any order in the madness, at least half of the shouting and cursing and wild uproar was directed against Azéma. There was hope, then. Renayo had adherents, even among those who sought to limit his power.