by Melanie Rawn
He set his lips and would not speak.
“Place him there,” she ordered. They shoved him forward until he stood within a circle painted on the floor. Only then did they unbind his hands. They turned him so his back was to Saavedra.
Facing this way, he saw Eleyna at once. His eyes lit.
Saavedra lit a candle and set it under a painting of Matra ei Filho. She began to speak words under her breath, a melodious chant that filled the room with its soft humming noise.
“Don’t forget, Eleyna,” said Sario in a low, intent voice, staring at her so fixedly she dared not look away from him. “There is no golden key you can hold in your hand that will effortlessly give you the mastery of painting. What we Limners wear is only a symbol of what we strive for.”
Out of the corner of her eye Eleyna saw Saavedra painting, the bold, confident strokes of a master intending to paint alla prima, a finished portrait in one sitting.
“Don’t forget that your ultramarine is excellent for glazes.” He went on in that same rushed manner. “But it will soften if it is stored when already made with oil, so you must add a little wax.”
Beside her, Cabral shuffled his feet nervously back and forth as Saavedra painted and the light waned.
“Whiting is excellent to cut pigments for sketching colors, but Ghillas chalk has greater brilliance. … For your drying oils, linseed dries most thoroughly but poppy yellows less with age.”
Damiano stood and lit lamps, and their combined glow cast a strange brilliance over the chamber, as if locking them all within a single frame.
“When you use a linen canvas, which must be of the best quality, prepare it in this fashion. … In tempera, use only eggs from city chickens for your light complexions, but eggs from country chickens for your dark complexions.”
Renayo coughed. The Premio Sancto murmured the evening prayer in his sonorous voice, a counterpoint to Saavedra’s soft chanting.
“For the thinnest covering of color use your fingers. … If a passage of work is not quite right, you must be prepared to discard it and begin again.”
Eleyna smelled wax and turpentine, resins and oils and the sweat of many bodies in a confined room; other scents, multiplied, herbs and earth and wood, the years worn into the plank flooring by the steady tread of feet and settled into the walls by the weight of every word spoken and gesture made. Urine. Tears. Sweat. Saliva. Seed. Blood. With their own bodies the Grijalva Limners engendered their Gift.
“Above all, Eleyna,” he said urgently, “remember patience.”
With a flare, the lamps flamed and then in the next instant all went out, as if a gust of wind had cleansed the room of their presence.
All was silent.
A single candle illuminated the dim chamber with long streaked shadows. Sario was gone. The Premia Sancta spoke, in a low voice, the blessing for the dead.
Cabral stood and with Giaberto and Damiano relit the lanterns until the chamber blazed with light. Saavedra, head bowed, did not move.
But in the painting a man stood, his back to the viewer. Eleyna gasped and rose quickly. It was Sario’s back; she recognized it, as well the clothing he had been wearing, as well as the hint of his profile, the cut of his hair.
But it was not Sario’s face that showed in the mirror. It was a different face, the face of the first Sario, he who had been dead over three hundred years. Caught at last in a place where he would never age, never wither, never die. Looking, at the last, at his greatest masterpiece: himself.
Eleyna burst into tears and ran from the room.
NINETY-TWO
“Eleyna! Eleynita! Aren’t you ready yet?” Beatriz swept into the room and surveyed it critically. “This looks less luxurious than my Noviciata’s cell, bela. And your atelierro downstairs hasn’t been swept yet!”
“Those shapeless white robes and that stiff wimple look very fetching on you, Bellita.”
Beatriz laughed. “My garden is sprouting very nicely, I’ll have you know. The sanctas have given me a tidy plot for my little experiments. I’ve added some herbs to their herb garden as well, and ordered it much better than it was before.”
“And I have fifty students signed up,” Eleyna retorted, “although classes do not begin for a month! If this room appears spare to your eye, that is only because you think I ought to fill it up with embroidered wall hangings and black-lacquered Zhinna vases and all of that awful fashionable furniture. I finished painting the Deed to this apartamento only five days ago. You cannot expect I have had time to furnish it decently.”
Beatriz helped her button up the back of her gown. “If you are going to act in society as an important woman, sorella, you must have a ladies’ maid and all kinds of servants. There is only Davo, downstairs, and you can hardly expect him to dress you!”
“Be patient, Bellita. Once Rohario and I are married, he assures me his steward will secure the very best servants. I will let Rohario arrange all those things. He likes doing them.”
“He is back? You have the Ecclesia’s dispensation?”
Eleyna could not help but flush, so she busied herself folding her lace shawl. “The Premio Sancto himself gave his approval, although I thought I detected a twinkle in his eye when he declared that we must marry on Sancterria.”
Beatriz snorted. “As if Sancterria’s fires will cleanse your blood of all its stains.”
“Rohario returned to town for Saavedra’s wedding.”
“Of course! It seems all of Meya Suerta is in the streets, waiting for the festivities to begin. Astraventa is a propitious holiday, is it not, on which to hold a wedding? Especially when the bride has already caught a star in her mirror.”
“Beatriz!”
But she only laughed and made Eleyna stand in front of the mirror while she arranged her hair. “I never imagined that a Grijalva bearing the bastard child of a do’Verrada would be this popular. Eiha! That is the best I can do with your hair.” Distracted, Beatriz wandered over toward the window, and her eye caught on the shrouded canvas frame which Eleyna had only this morning carried to this room from its attic hideaway. “What is this? A new painting of yours?”
Eleyna spun around. “Don’t uncover that, if you please.”
“As you wish,” said Beatriz, one eyebrow raised. “A mystery, I see.” She brushed the yellowed linen shroud that draped the painting with her fingers, frowned at the dust, and then leaned to look out the open window. “Eiha! There is Sancta Louissa and her poor mother, taking a bit of air while they wait for me. Theirs is a heartbreaking story, I assure you, but I will tell it to you later because I see Sancta Juania, whom I affectionately call the Snake, peering up here with her beady eye. She is getting restless. I must go!” She kissed Eleyna on the cheek and crossed to the door.
“Wait!”
Beatriz stopped, turned, and her eyes widened. “What is this, Eleyna? You look so serious on such a festive day.”
For weeks this burden had laid heavily on her shoulders. How easy it would be to let Beatriz walk out the door and keep it for herself. So much knowledge, waiting only for her, for someone, to unravel it. She took in a deep breath, unlocked the chest that sat in a shadowed corner, and took out the book. Lifting it, she offered it to Beatriz.
“This once belonged to Sario Grijalva,” she said. The heavy book seemed to burn on her hands, but she did not waver. “It is an ancient copy of the Kita’ab—the Tza’ab book that became the Folio.”
Beatriz just gaped at her.
“I could not burn it, although I should have! I could not be the one to judge.” Impatiently she thrust it forward. “Take it! I entrust it to you, Beatriz, who are the best of us. I can trust you to choose what is right.”
Suddenly Beatriz’s eyes filled with tears. “You do not trust yourself with the knowledge it might contain?” she asked softly, compassionately. “Dolcha Eleynita, you are not truly like him, even if you loved him.”
“I have looked into my heart, Bellita. I am not so different than he was, not
truly. I will paint as no one has painted before me, I will make a name for myself: the artist Eleyna Grijalva. But what if a part of me craves more, even more, if I begin to use others, care only for myself and nothing for anyone else? No, I will not give in to it. Not as he did.” And once more she held out the book.
A shadow crossed Beatriz’s face, quickly replaced by that heart’s calm that so soothed all who knew her. She simply nodded and took the ancient book out of Eleyna’s hands.
Without another word they walked together through the sitting room and into the parlor, where they parted. The silence weighed on her, now that Beatriz was gone—and the Kita’ab with her. Slowly Eleyna felt her heart lightening, the shadow lifting.
Yes, she was like Sario; that she could not regret. But she also had the wisdom to turn away from the worst that was in her, as he had not in himself.
Behind her, a door was thrown open. A moment later, Rohario spun her around and kissed her.
“I went to Palasso Grijalva first,” he said. “I had forgotten, I confess, that you would no longer be there. This is all so new.” He surveyed the parlor with the same critical eye with which Beatriz had surveyed the bedroom. Freshly painted, it still reeked of paint, but the windows were thrown open to ventilate the chamber. “The rooms are spacious enough, and elegant, and I approve of the Friesemarkian style. Grazzo do’Matra the artisans here know how to reproduce it! The parlor downstairs will be sufficient for meetings, and I hope my comrades’ arguments will not disturb your classes overmuch. But I will insist that we retire to Collara Asaddo in the summer heat. It is a charming place, very rustic. Land management is a peculiarly interesting profession. Almost as interesting as politics. I can’t imagine why I didn’t discover these things before.”
“Because you were vain and useless, corasson meya.”
He laughed. “Eiha! True enough. Your mother was furious when she saw me. You did not leave in your family’s good graces, Eleynita.”
“I did not. You know they did not want me to leave. But I no longer fear my family.”
He preened a bit, of course. He thought that his protection had freed her from them. She saw no reason to disillusion him.
He spun slowly, examining the room. He had come up with a new way of tying his cravat. Soon, no doubt, the youngest members of the Corteis would all have adopted it. Eiha! At least the assembly would not suffer from poor taste in clothing!
Rohario stopped short when his eye fell on the portrait hanging above the mantel. “This is new! Who has painted such a fine portait of you, corasson? It is magniffico!”
“It was done by Sario Grijalva.” She braced herself for his reaction, but he showed no repulsion, only curiosity.
“I thought you destroyed all of his paintings.”
“I did. All but the one of poor Alazais.”
He cocked his head to one side and regarded her, smiling. His smile had improved immeasurably since the first time she had met him. There was nothing spoiled or facile about him now. “All but that one. And this one. Do they know you have it?”
“No.” She held her breath.
“It is a lovely picture of you, Eleynita. We will keep it always.”
Let the breath out. “Of course.”
“But. You must agree to paint a portrait of me, which we will hang beside it.”
Two portraits. But that was all there could ever be.
“What is this down-hearted look, guivaerra meya?”
“There will be no portraits of children to hang beside them.”
“We have spoken of this before, Eleyna. And we will not speak of it again.” He took her firmly by the arm and led her to the bank of windows that looked down over a private courtyard. Acacias bloomed, and lime trees stood in a tidy row bordered by a brick walkway. Masons worked on a fountain, a smaller replica of the fountain of bells. She and Rohario stood together in companionable silence until the chimes announcing the wedding began to ring.
She kissed him. “We will do very well together, Rohario.”
“I should hope so! Come. Patro will be furious if we are late. He says I am always late these days, but it is only because of the endless meetings. I didn’t realize that ten men could have twenty opinions, and all expressed so forcefully!”
But she could tell by his tone and his expression that he loved his new life. Imagine, a do’Verrada as a member of the Corteis! Truly, times had changed.
“Which reminds me,” he added, attempting to sound diffident but betraying pride. “The Corteis intends to commission you to paint the official Document of Assembly. The elections will be held next month and the first assembly will convene at Providenssia.”
“I to paint it! Rohario!” The official Document of Assembly! “I could not have expected such an honor so soon. Did you make them offer it to me?”
“You overestimate my influence. I think it was the mural at Gaspar’s inn, if you want to know the truth. They all want to be flattered as kindly as you did for him. Eiha! We really had better go.”
As she waited for him to check his cravat in the mirror—he was still a little vain, after all, and had all those young men to influence in the matter of fashion—she surveyed the parlor with great satisfaction.
A spacious room, open and airy, with lofty windows that let in light along two walls. Room enough for a couch, easels, workbench. Room enough to paint. Here she would take lessons from Cabral, as long as he was alive to teach her. And from Giaberto and the older Grijalva Limners, if they deigned to come here. Here the best of her students would come to take lessons from her. Here she would pass on the Luza do’Orro to those who desired to know.
Technique and understanding and that unnamable, unquenchable need. The secret of the Golden Key.
“I hate this color.” Rohario frowned at his waistcoat. “Why must tangerine be fashionable? It is time to make it unfashionable. Eleyna.” He caught her gaze in the mirror, and for an instant it was like looking into that other mirror, the one in the portrait that had once held Saavedra. And the one that now held Sario. “There is one thing I’ve been wondering. If it’s true—which I half doubt because it sounds so incredible—that Sario Grijalva lived so long by living other men’s lives, then who was he in those other lives? Always Sario, or someone else?”
There were some truths not meant to be shared. For in the end, he had given this last secret into her hands alone. “He never confessed,” she said calmly. “He never told anyone, not even Saavedra.”
In time, perhaps, she could bring Sario’s Peintraddo Memorrio out of storage and display it, as it deserved to be displayed. As his last and greatest monument.
The bells rang, a new beginning. She smiled and took Rohario’s arm, and together they left the room.
“—this way, Baltran … through here. Do you see? No, no, ninio! We’re not going back outside. This way. Grazzo.”
The curatorrio was halfway down the Galerria, attending to a group of bankers’ wives, their black lace shawls draped becomingly over their hair and disguising the low necklines of their fashionable gowns.
“If we are very quiet, Baltran, we might slip by without—”
“Patro!” The child grabbed his wrist and tugged him to the window. “Do you see the new cannons, Patro? Look how fine they are!”
Alejandro sighed and gave way to the inevitable. He had to endure the courtesies and graces and interminable small talk of the bankers’ wives, respectable women of good society, each one. He knew their husbands and had met them at dinners or presided over their daughter’s presentations at court. Blessed Matra, at least Teressa enjoyed such duties—human foibles never failed to amuse her.
When they had gone he waited for their voices to fade (“Such a handsome young man!”), for their figures to vanish through the Galerria doors. Baltran was now standing in front of a Marriage, hands stuck in pockets, looking monumentally bored.
“Why must we, Patro? There are nothing here but pictures!”
The child was never conte
nt. He was restless, always thinking, but what he thought about bore no resemblance to the thoughts that wore at Alejandro. This boy always thought about new things, new creations, new ideas, and he had questions, questions, questions. None of which there were answers for.
Alejandro thought about the past. “Just think, ninio, you are related to every do’Verrada hanging here on these walls.”
Baltran sighed expansively. “Patro, I don’t like painting. I want to go to the theater. There are explosions on stage for the battle scene! And fireworks afterward. Grandmama ‘Vedra says she will take me. Do let me go!”
“You will walk with me. You will be Grand Duke in time—”
“When I am Grand Duke, I am going to have all these paintings carted off somewhere else!”
Alejandro smiled. A ten-year-old might have grandiose plans. Certainly he had had such when he was ten. But there was no need to shatter the child’s illusions. Time and life would do that easily enough. Baltran would come to understand why this Galerria was important, to the do’Verradas and to Tira Virte.
“For now, you are only Heir to the Grand Duke. Since I am Grand Duke, I may order you to come with me.”
“You must have the permission of the Corteis first!”
“Not for the governance of my own son.”
Baltran laughed and ran ahead, although he knew he should not run in the Galerria. Alejandro did not have the heart to call him back.
My own son.
Bitter, that blow. Worse still the endless secret councils about what to do. ‘Grazzo do’Matra that his father had been dead by then, killed in the succession wars in Ghillas. Only that was the greatest irony of all, wasn’t it? Edoard was not his father. His true father had lived four hundred years ago. But Edoard had never minded that. Edoard had raised him as if he were truly son of his own seed. Just as Alejandro now raised Baltran.