The Golden Key (98 page)

It is a relief that the drawing is in our possession, not his. Still, you must dispose of it by the following means. Soak it in warm water until the paper disintegrates. Dilute the water by tripling its volume, then pour it down a drain.

Mechella gave a nervous little laugh. “I never heard anything so silly! Destroy that lovely picture?” “There’s more.”

I do not know if the drawing is Aguo, Seminno, or Sanguo. If it is, Rafeyo will feel a tingle of warmth from the water but probably not know its cause, and thus will not remark upon it. If it was not, he will sense nothing. But I beg you to take this precaution, amico ei frato, for talk here confirms his hatred of our dearest Lady and Leilias and I fear him capable of anything.

“Zevi’s run mad,” Mechella said.

Cabral took a matchbox from his pocket and set the page alight. It singed his fingertips before he dropped it to the dirt and ground the ashes with his heel. Facing her again, he spoke words both grim and bitter. “No, ‘Chella, he has not. He is in deadly earnest.”

“But how could Rafeyo possibly—”

“I said that a letter
came
from Zevi. I did not say ‘it was delivered.”’

She looked up at him blankly.

“It
came
,” Cabral said, “into the atelierro upstairs. It’s something Limners can do—accomplished ones, who know a place and can paint it with total accuracy, and into it paint a letter. We’ve communicated with our Grijalvas at foreign courts that way for years.”

“Cabral,” she breathed.

“The most spectacular example came when the Tza’ab were long ago massing for attack along the Joharran border. Duke Alejandro learned of it when a Grijalva spy sent just such a letter to Lord Limner Sario. Despite the warning, there was no possible way to get our troops there in time. So Sario consulted with all the Joharrans in Meya Suerta, and from their memories of the area painted a picture of the hills and dunes—
with an army standing on them.
”

“No—stop—Lissina was right, this is not for my hearing—”

“This army,” Cabral continued inexorably, “of two thousand men in battle armor, appeared at sunrise across the distant dunes, just as Sario had painted them on his canvas. The Tza’ab were terrified into retreat. They didn’t even approach to do battle, or send scouts to judge our strength—they simply fled. And they have never come so close to our lands again. But the Grijalva spy, inspecting these guerrieros do’fantome later that day, discovered that they were hollow. The armor was empty, the helmets—”

“No! I don’t want to hear any more!”

“Sario was thorough in his depiction of the soldiers at the front of the army. They had faces. Hands. Fingers. He painted them precisely as the Tza’ab would see them from a distance, from the Tza’ab point of vantage. But they weren’t
real.
And when the Tza’ab fled, and the spy reported this by another letter, Lord Limner Sario painted these thousands out of existence, leaving only the clean unspoiled sands in his painting—and on the Joharran border.”

She was shivering in the shade of the huge oak, and he waited for a time until his own emotions were under control—the same horror, the same sick fear of power he’d felt when Zevierin had told him the tale. No one had ever painted such a picture again and it was utterly forbidden even to try, but
it was possible to do such things, and maybe even worse.
This was knowledge reserved only for Viehos Fratos and the Grand Dukes they served, and, as Lissina
had cautioned, not for the likes of women or mere limners like himself.

At last he said softly, “I’m not a Limner—but Zevierin is, and he knows what Grijalvas can do. Sario worked that terrible painting in his own blood. When a painting is Aguo, Seminno, or Sanguo, it means that it is powerful and can be used even at a great distance. You didn’t see Zevierin mix the paints for Baroness Lissina’s
Will.
I did. Why do you think he had a bandage on his wrist for a week afterward? Mechella, he mixed those paints
with his own blood!
”

“He—he said he cut his hand on a paletto knife—”

He knelt, taking both her hands. Her fingers were cold; she believed him, though she didn’t yet know it. “Do you remember when Tessa’s little songbird died this winter, and she was heartbroken for days?”

All the soft rosy color drained from her cheeks. “Until Zevi … until he told her she might dream of her friend … and put a drawing of the bird under her pillow. …”

“And she
did
dream, and Sancto Leo told her it meant her bird was singing now for the Mother and Son. That’s the gentle magic, Mechella. The sweetness of what a Limner can do. But there are other kinds of power.” He felt her tremble, and kissed her palms.

“Wh—what could Rafeyo do to us?” she breathed.

“I don’t know.” He did, of course, and writhed at his own impotence to prevent it. “My precious love, if I had the Grijalva Gift in me, I would paint protections onto every wall of Corasson in my own blood. But I can’t. I’m not a Limner. I can’t protect you. We must trust Zevierin—a thing you know, or you wouldn’t have insisted that he and only he paint Renayo’s
Birth.
Our son is protected as long as Zevierin lives, while the blood flows in his veins.” He laughed harshly. “I always wondered about that oath, the way it was worded. ‘With true faith and in humble service I dedicate myself to my duty while the blood flows in my veins.’ All of us swear it, but to a Limner it means more.”

“And—Rafeyo?”

“Zevierin is worried, and with reason. Until Rafeyo paints his self-portrait, his
Peintraddo Chieva
, there will be no way of disciplining him. His blood will be in the paints he uses then, ‘Chella. And Zevi says that a picture painted in a Limner’s own blood—”

“Stop. No more,” she whispered. “Don’t tell me, Cabral, I don’t want to know. Lissina
was
right. These are things for Grand Dukes and Grijalvas.” With a shudder, she finished, “Do as he says with the drawing. I couldn’t look at it now without being afraid. But don’t tell me any more of this. Ever.”

“’Chella—”

“No!” She wrenched her hands free and leaped to her feet.

“Zevierin won’t live past fifty,” he said bluntly. “You’ll need another Limner one day. I can never be what you truly need—”

“I need you as a husband, a father to my children—
that’s
what you can never be, not openly, not before the world—ah, Matra, why is it we all want what we can never have?” She covered her face with her hands and fled into the house.

He stayed there on his knees for a long time, grappling with strange intensities of emotion: hate, despair, resentment, desperate longing for what he did not possess. Finally he pushed himself to his feet and trudged into the house. The drawing of Corasson was gone from its honored place in the dining room—torn off the wall, lying on the floor, the cords that had held it from the crown molding snapped. He cut a finger as he undid the frame hooks—glaring at the blood, hating it for not being Limner blood. For the rest of the afternoon he sat on a hay bale in the stable, watching in silent rage as the drawing dissolved in a huge tub of icy water. He left it cold on purpose, hoping the picture
did
have magic in it and that Rafeyo’s teeth would chatter so hard he bit out his tongue and died of blood loss.

Does Sario gaze on me in my painted prison? Does he smile, does he laugh, knowing that he alone knows the truth? And
…
Alejandro? Does he weep, or curse, or cry out? Or does he stare in silence, hating me for leaving him
?

Or does he never look on me at all
?

I could look upon myself if I liked—there is a mirror, and I could see into my own eyes—but I’m so afraid of what I’ll find in them. I am so afraid for myself, for Alejandro, for our baby—I fear Sario, what he has done, what he might yet do.
…

He has left me a copy of the
Folio—
as a torment, I am sure. Did he know it would open? Did he know the pages are written on as clearly as if he had penned each word himself? Indeed, it is his writing in the margin glosses. It must be a painted replica of his own copy. Does he wish me to know precisely how he did this to me
?

Or is it not torment but challenge to confirm his belief that I, too, am Gifted
?

Could I use this book? Could I open one of my veins and find within it blood that would infuse mere paint with Limner magic
?

Eiha, he gave me the book. But no paints. Not even a pencil to
write with. If he had, I could have written on one of these pages and someone would see my words and
—

But they should have guessed by now. Anyone seeing me within this framed prison would surely see that I have
moved
within it, that I am
alive
within it
—

Only Sario gazes upon me. Only his eyes watch me while I go mad.

No. I will
not
go mad. I must be strong of mind and will and heart. For my child.

But I am so tired … two nights I have been here, two nights without sleep or surcease from this horror. No one has seen me. No one but Sario.

Matra Dolcha, when will he set me
free?

The day of Sancterria, Tazia received Arrigo early in the afternoon at her old caza in town. He had a few hours free between his luncheon with the Silk Merchants Guild and the evening’s festivities. They went out into the tiny garden behind the house to enjoy the sunshine. Tazia leaned back comfortably against Arrigo’s chest, listening to the music of the bees. It was safe to relax here, shielded from prying eyes.

She had recently begun refurbishing her former home: taking back her own carpets and tapestries and furniture from Garlo’s caza and castello, buying replacements for things discarded when she’d married. Soon she would resume her old life here and it would be just as it had been in the years before Mechella, when Arrigo had been entirely hers.

How often in those days had they done this: lazed away a soft sunny day on the square of lawn while bees dipped into new flowers and butterflies floated on a warm, languid breeze. Arrigo sat with his back to a tree trunk, Tazia reclining between his thighs, his arms enwrapping her and her head on his shoulder. She had never been so happy, and she smiled as she told him why.

“Rafeyo says the painting is ready.”

“Mmm?”

“It only awaits your word. Whenever you please, Mechella will become as loyal and obedient as any man could wish.” She laughed. “Just like a little trained puppy!”

A chuckle vibrated against her spine. “More boring than ever.”

“But
compliant.
You must be careful not to order anything too contrary to her recent behavior for a while, Arrigo. Slide into it gradually. If there should be any sudden alteration—”

“’Cordo, Tazia. We’ve talked about this before. You must admit, though, it would be amusing to command something really interesting. As punishment. She could host your next birthday ball,” he suggested, then laughed aloud. “Better, maybe she ought to take to a Sanctia cell for a few years.”

She winced; it reminded her of Garlo’s wretched son, the cause of all her troubles with her husband. Garlo cared nothing for her renewed affair with Arrigo, but would never forgive her for the loss of Verradio to the Ecclesia. Perhaps Rafeyo could paint Garlo compliant, too. And Verradio silent forever. She wasn’t sure exactly what could and could not be done. Rafeyo had been so busy with his painting and his classes and his special tutorials with Premio Dioniso that yesterday was the first time he’d come to see her in months.

Eiha, what she knew didn’t matter. It only mattered what Rafeyo knew—and what he did with it.

Besides, she had plans of her own to pursue. Slowly, as if it had only just occurred to her, she said, “There
is
a way to punish her as she deserves.
You
could have another child.”

“Not unless it was yours.”

“It can be, in a way. I have a young cousin—”

He sat up, dislodging her from her comfortable nest in his arms. She turned to face him, putting all her yearning into her eyes.