The Golden Key (139 page)

Eleyna rose, hands curled tight on the inventory. Numbly she lifted the lamp by its painted ceramic base and walked—slowly, not truly wanting to get there quickly—to the other end of the Galerria. It was as quiet as a graveyard.

The First Mistress
hung in her appointed place. She had a beauty that haunted the eye, for it was so immediately and compellingly sad. Lost forever, as all things are lost. Except Saavedra Grijalva would never be forgotten because of Sario Grijalva’s genius.

But Saavedra’s face and eyes did not compel Eleyna’s attention for more than an instant. With a kind of sick horror, Eleyna examined the rest of the painting as if for the first time.

Saavedra did not stand
behind
the table. It was not
night
in the chamber. It was, by the lack of shadow in the room and the quality of the light beyond the arched windows, about midday. The lamp was snuffed. The candle, fat and honeycombed, sat cold on the sill. A book rested on the table, but it was closed, its spine facing away from her, as if the last page had just been read and the book shut.

And Saavedra stood by the iron-studded, iron-bound door, her left hand resting on the latch, her head turned to look into the mirror. Either there was a mistake in the description in the old inventory or someone had made an inaccurate copy of the painting.

Far away, a door opened. She jumped. Without thinking she blew out the lantern and hid in the drapes that blanketed the farthest darkest corner. The darkness, the measured tread of several pairs of feet approaching her hiding place, the hush of fresh nightfall, all combined to rub her nerves raw. Even the twisted light given off by the few shuttered lanterns seemed ominous.

“You must act, Your Grace,” said Sario, his voice heard softly but clearly down the echoing long hall. So smooth. So assured! So full of power. “You know the do’Verradas are crippled without a Lord Limner at their side.”

The footsteps came closer. Her heart pounded. They must know she was here. But they stopped before the portrait of Saavedra Grijalva, positioned so she could see by the light of the lamp Sario held their shadows thrown by that light up against the wall and the painting, his shadow looming large over Saavedra’s painted figure.

“This news of Andreo … so shocking! You are sure it is true?”

“Alas, it is true.”

“But you are so young. You say your election will be confirmed by the others?”

“You are the one to make the decision, Your Grace. If you present me to the Viehos Fratos as your new Lord Limner—”

Eleyna bit off a gasp. She dared not stir.

“I do not know you—” This was not the man who had thrown out Rohario. He sounded so unsure. But Grand Duke Renayo
never
doubted himself.

“Of course you can trust me, Your Grace. If I break our code of honor, my brothers have the means to remove me.”

“Eiha! Of course. A little gruesome to think on….”

“But necessary, when the power the Matra ei Filho blessed us with could be abused by a man with neither honor nor conscience.”

“Of course. It is as you say. You will attend me in the morning, then, Lord Limner Sario?”

“I am honored, Your Grace. I will serve you as faithfully as my namesake served Alejandro do’Verrada.” His shadow bowed toward his Duke, dipping over Saavedra’s body.

Renayo’s shadow made an odd gesture with one hand, but she could not interpret it. Then he left. His footsteps retreated down the Galerria.

Her nose tickled horribly and she wanted very badly to sneeze. Sario did not move. She could not stand this much longer.

He shifted forward into her line of sight, lifting the lamp and walking right up to the painting of Saavedra. He placed a kiss on his fingers and, reaching up, touched his hand to her lips. It was a long stretch.

“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.