The Golden Key (95 page)

“I am ashamed, carrido meyo. I am so ashamed! My jealousy blinded me to the truth. You couldn’t possibly have done what she made everyone believe you’d done. I beg you to forgive me.”

“Forgiven, dolcha.” He sat beside her on the sofa and took her hand. “Forgiven the day I received your letter in Diettro Mareia. The fact that you came back to me even though you didn’t believe me at the time makes it all the sweeter.”

“You are a marvel of a man, Arrigo. I wish I was half as good a person as you are.”

“Your goodness is in loving me.”

“I do, dolcho meyo, with all my heart.” She paused, stroking his fingers. “But I doubt even you could forgive
her
for what she’s done. And to send you a painting of the child!”

“This party of my father’s, it was a nightmare,” he agreed. “All evening long, hearing people say how pretty the baby is, how much he resembles Mechella—”

“Her crime cannot go unanswered, Arrigo.”

He thought for a time, watching her eyes. “One thing repeats over and over in my mind. She told me that she had her Grijalvas, and I have mine.”

“You have me, and Rafeyo, and Dioniso—we are all of us yours, you know that.”

“Rafeyo’s learned a great deal. I know he’s the special student of Premio Dioniso. And I know a few things about what a Grijalva Limner can do.”

“Eiha?” she asked carefully.

“Would Rafeyo be willing to paint something for me? Nothing elaborate, nothing too serious. I’m not even sure what would be possible, or even appropriate.”

“I—I don’t understand. I never paid much attention to the painters.”

“Dioniso painted dreams into an icon for Principio Felisso. Maybe Rafeyo could paint a few nightmares for Mechella.”

Tazia snorted. “I’d settle for the Qal Venommo used against us in Granidia!”

“That was for the common folk. They’d never believe such things of their Dolcha ‘Chellita.” He spoke the nickname as he would a curse.

“If done correctly, they might. But Rafeyo’s genius shouldn’t be
wasted on mere scribbling on walls. And Mechella deserves worse than to be embarrassed.”

“Yes, but what? Of all the options possible, which would be the best?”

“Obedience would make a good start.” She ticked off the list on his fingers. “Loyalty, chastity, submission—and a dozen or so more of the wifely virtues she so conspicuously lacks.”

“Any change in her behavior would create suspicion—and she has
her
Grijalvas, too.”

“None of them clever enough to cancel what my son can do.”

“That’s motherly pride talking.”

“Arrigo—” She drew in a deep breath and slid even closer to him on the sofa. “Rafeyo tells me things. Dioniso has taught him far in advance of what his fellows are learning. He’ll be Lord Limner within a few years. But we don’t have to wait that long to do something about Mechella. With what he knows now, Rafeyo can bring her to heel.” She met his gaze squarely and murmured, “Amoro meyo, he has, in fact, already begun.”

Spring came early to Corasson that year of 1268, and never more beautifully. Climbing roses rewarded two years of tender care with masses of blooms that covered the house to the second-floor balconies. Every garden seemed eager to show itself equally dedicated to Mechella’s pleasure; flowers burst from green leaves in colors profuse enough to render even a Limner drunk. Even the curious little pocket gardens tucked between wings of the house showed tiny white flowers in cushioning mosses. The days were so warmly sunny that the first outdoor lunch of the year was held the morning after Astraventa.

Mechella and Cabral had celebrated the anniversary of their son’s conception with a reenactment of the circumstances. She was still rather stunned by their love; one hour she would feel as if she’d been married to him her whole life, and the next could be spent in passion so new and urgent it was as if they’d never touched each other before. Instinct told her that life with Arrigo could never have been like this—indeed, had she not escaped to Corasson and Cabral, she would have soured into a bitter and shrewish woman. She didn’t understand why, but her Grijalvas did: Mechella was a creature whose purpose in life was to love and be loved. In her children, her family, her friends, and her people,
she had found much of what she needed. But in Cabral she was wholly fulfilled.

That afternoon, with Astraventa still lingering in their smiles, they lounged with Zevierin and Leilias on blankets spread over the front lawn. The baby slept in Mechella’s lap as his father tickled his nose with a new paintbrush. Renayo woke, yawned, and grabbed for the brush with typically long and well-shaped Grijalva fingers.

Cabral laughed. “Fifty mareias that he turns out to have a talent for art.”

Zevierin sighed a vastly patient sigh. “A hundred that he won’t know one end of a brush from the other.”

“Men!” exclaimed Mechella. “Why is it, Leilias, that they look at a baby only to decide his future? Women are content to enjoy the present, helping a child grow and learn—”

“I
am!
” Cabral grinned. “I’m helping him learn about his birthright as a Grijalva.”

Leilias pulled a face. “I’m more interested in his birthright as a de Ghillas. It pays better.”

Mechella couldn’t help giggling. “Wouldn’t that be the most incredible thing? A de. Ghillas and a Grijalva, with the surname do’Verrada, on my father’s throne?”

“It’s provisional only,” Zevierin reminded her. “Failing any heirs of King Enrei’s body. And
now
who’s plotting Renayo’s future?”

Cabral was trying to tug his brush from surprisingly tenacious infant fingers. “Your brother will marry and have a dozen children of his own. Although I admit it gives me a certain amount of truly vicious pleasure to consider the matter—Arrigo had a tantrum when he heard about the decree your brother signed. If it ever comes to pass, he’ll have a seizure.”

“But Cossimio and Gizella are thrilled,” Mechella purred.

“They ought to be.” Leilias reached over to feel the baby’s diaper; still dry. “I suppose,” she enquired sweetly of her brother, “that Arrigo’s fits are your
only
reason for enjoying the notion of your son as King of Ghillas?”

Just as cloying in tone and expression, he replied, “My son and your nephew, Leilias. Be sweet to him, and he may make you a Princess one day.”

“I’ll take him over my knee if he tries!” she laughed.

Zevierin rapped his knuckles on the wine crate that served as a
picnic table. “Enough, children. Whatever the future may hold, for now Renayo’s a baby who’s getting a sunburn.”

Otonna was called over from the rose arbor where she and the farm manager—her sister Primavarra’s husband’s cousin’s son—were finishing their lunch. The maid took the baby upstairs, cooing over him all the way, while the young man trailed behind her.

“Is he imagining certain things?” Zevierin asked quizzically.

“Himself, Otonna, and
their
baby?” Mechella stretched out with her head on Cabral’s knee. “She’s not serious about him. If she were, she’d go with him to his cottage once in a while, instead of always taking him to her own bed—beneath the roof of Corasson.”

“The wicked spell still lingers,” Leilias chuckled, ignoring the men’s confused expressions. “But getting back to the subject of Renayo and the throne of Ghillas—”

“The claim is through me,” said Mechella. “Arrigo’s nothing to do with it.”

“Or him,” Cabral added, winking at her.

Leilias had more or less grown used to the freedom of their actions and speech. There was no danger of discovery, she told herself; everyone here was loyal. The lovers were circumspect when visitors came to Corasson. Not even sharp-eyed Lizia had suspected anything during her stay here. And in any case, the Serrano who had built the place had put in four hidden staircases, one of which led from Cabral’s third-floor chamber down to Mechella’s second-floor suite. There was no danger, Leilias repeated to herself. No one would ever know.

And even if they did, Zevierin could paint them into
not
knowing.

Her husband shaded his eyes against the sun, squinting down the drive. “What in the world is all that?”

“A wagon from Meya Suerta,” said Mechella, not even bothering to look. “I expected it this morning.”

“Not more furniture!” Leilias exclaimed.

“No,” she replied, smiling mysteriously.

The cargo proved to be paintings. Zevierin and Cabral uncrated them, playfully chiding Mechella for banditry.

“They were all in storage,” she said defensively. “Nobody wanted them but me. Mequel was kind enough to authorize my having them, and Cossimio agreed to let them out of the Galerria. En verro, I can’t depend on my Grijalvas to provide pictures enough for all Corasson!”

“I should hope not!” Leilias said indignantly. “I have
much
better uses for Zevi’s time!”

Shortly thereafter, the men went up to their atelierro for tools to repair a frame damaged in transit. Mechella opened another crate herself, and she and Leilias lifted out the portrait.

“Oh, Mechella! There’s been a mistake—that’s the
Saavedra
!”

“No, Leilias, there’s no mistake. I asked for her.” She stood back from the huge wood-panel portrait, sighing softly. “I used to hate this painting. But I’ve been thinking about her quite a lot recently. She and I have several things in common.”

Leilias stared. “Such as?”

Gazing at Saavedra’s beautiful gray-eyed face, she murmured, “We both wanted a man we couldn’t have. We both carried the bastard child of a man we loved—a child impossible to acknowledge for who he really is. The difference is that although we were both caught in a web we didn’t weave, I’ve broken free.” She clasped Leilias’s hand. “Something I never could have done without you and Zevi and especially Cabral. I see Saavedra and know how lucky I was to escape.”

Leilias suddenly saw
The First Mistress
with new eyes.

“Look at her face,” Mechella whispered. “She’s caught and she knows it.”

“Yes,” Leilias heard herself say. “Poor lady.”

“I’ll never be able to live openly with Cabral or reveal that Renayo is his. But that matters so little compared to the happiness they bring me! Saavedra was never happy again. Whatever happened to her after this was painted—whether she left Tira Virte and had her baby or was murdered—she never escaped. I see her, trapped forever in that painting, looking just as she did centuries ago, and I pity her.”

Only this woman, Leilias told herself, would pity the First Mistress. Only she would not blame her for beginning the tradition of Grijalva Mistresses that had been the cause of her sorrow. Only she would feel compassion, not hatred.

“Eiha,” Mechella went on, smiling, “besides, it’s a masterpiece, and nobody else wanted it, and something this lovely ought to be seen and admired. You know how I am about orphans!”

“And besides
that
,” Leilias added, “in time, it will remind Alessio and Renayo of the tragedies Saavedra caused.”

Mechella blinked in surprise. “I suppose so, although I hadn’t thought of it that way. I don’t want my sons to hurt their wives the way Arrigo hurt me. But you mustn’t hold Saavedra responsible.
She
was the tragedy.”

“And she’s right,” Leilias told her husband a few days later. They were riding south to Meya Suerta through the fullest glory of spring, just the two of them on horseback with nothing but their saddlebags. The freedom of it made Leilias recall Mechella’s words about being trapped, and as she detailed the conversation Zevierin nodded agreement.

“Saavedra wasn’t responsible, Sario was,” he said. “The Mistresses were part of how he destroyed the Serranos—financially, artistically, socially—”

“I’ve been comparing myself to Saavedra, too,” Leilias admitted. “And thanks to you,
I’ve
escaped. Have I told you yet today that I adore you?”

“Probably, but tell me again.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I’ll need to hear it rather often in the next month or two.”

“That’s nothing to do with you and me. I mean, it is, but—oh, you know what I mean.” More severely, she said, “And don’t you dare look so wistful. As far as I’m concerned, you’re already the baby’s father.”

He made big eyes. “I only meant that I’m nervous about taking my place among the Conselhos.”

“Liar.”

Zevierin had been summoned by Premio Dioniso to the spring convocation. As Corasson’s Limner, his status was just above Itinerarrio and just below Embajadorro, which entitled him to a seat on the council of the most senior Viehos Fratos. They, naturally, were determined to know everything that transpired at Corasson. Zevierin was equally determined not to tell them a damned thing.

The convocation would formally celebrate those who had become Confirmattio this spring, and then consider the lists of probable candidates for elevation to Limner at Penitenssia. All over Palasso Grijalva anxious young men would watch for any indication of their chances for this honor. Zevierin was not looking forward to having his every sneeze remarked on and his every facial twitch noted. He remembered most clearly what he and his fellow estudos had been like the last half-year of their training. Were they good enough? Had they learned everything necessary? Had the Grijalva Gift run true? And even if it had, did they possess talent enough to use it?