The Golden Key (94 page)

“Begging Your Grace’s pardon,” said the courier, “but Her Grace said to wait for a reply.”

“Tell her—” He broke off. “Very well, I’ll read it here.”

Tazia touched her son’s arm, and together they moved away, pretending interest in self-portraits of long-dead Limners currently on display. The Galerria Picca was a project initiated thirty years ago by Gizella and Lissina. Because the Verrada was closed to commoners and the Grijalva was closed to everyone but blood kin, the two ladies felt it only fair to provide the general public with a place to view their country’s art. The exhibition changed every three months, drawing on the inexhaustible family collection and occasionally those pictures owned by the do’Verradas. The experience of being curatorrio to an exhibit was invaluable for the young Limners, some of whom would go on to advise foreign courts and private collectors on the subtleties of placement, lighting, and preservation.

Three mornings a week, schoolchildren were guided through the Picca by incredibly patient docents, who gave them paper and colored pencils to contribute their own “masterworks” to the Grijalva collection. Truly talented children were invited to take formal lessons, and sometimes even become limners. Three afternoons a week, the general public was admitted. And at least twice a month Limners gave evening lectures on particular paintings or artists. No visit to Meya Suerta by Tira Virteian native or touring estranjiero was complete without an afternoon at the Picca.

Tazia and Rafeyo were gazing at Riobaro’s
Self-Portrait at Eighteen
when Arrigo spat out a curse. Tazia turned in time to see him fling the letter to the floor and storm from the room. The courier bent to retrieve the envelope and single page.

“Give it to me,” Tazia said.

“Her Grace—”

“—will never know unless you tell her, which you won’t. Give it to me.”

“Regretto, Countess, I cannot.”

Gently, she asked, “Do you know who I am?”

Though he kept his gaze downcast, he revealed himself by a tightening of the lips as if he’d downed unsugared lemonada. “Yes, Countess. I know who you are.”

Rafeyo solved the problem by snatching the letter from his hand A bottom corner tore; it didn’t matter. There was only a brief paragraph
on the top of the page, Mechella’s childishly round signature halfway down.

“Grazzo,” Tazia said sardonically to the courier. “I’ll make sure this finds its way to Don Arrigo’s desk. You may go.”

Rafeyo added, “You might as well go all the way back to Corasson. I rather doubt there’ll be any reply.”

The man shot a swift glance of loathing at them both, and walked away.

“Impudent camponesso,” Rafeyo remarked. “Eiha, what does the chiras do’orro have to say for herself these days?”

“She begs to inform her beloved husband that the evening they shared at Fuega Vesperra—Matra, the moronno can’t spell anything but her own name!—the evening produced a happy outcome. She—”

Tazia strangled on a gasp. Rafeyo put a steadying hand on her arm. “What is it?”

“Merditto! The filthy sow
is pregnant!
” She crushed the page in her fist. “He
lied
—the filho do’canna
lied
to me! He said it wasn’t what it seemed, he never touched her except to shake the wits out of her—”

Thoroughly bewildered, Rafeyo said, “But I thought you
wanted
her to have more babies, to keep her occupied.”

“And do you think I
meant
it?” she snapped. “He is
mine
, Rafeyo—he swore he’d never touch her again—damn him! I won’t have it, I simply will not have it!”

“Mother, please—calm yourself. It’s you he loves.”

“Don’t you understand? He saw her, he wanted her, and he took her! Merditto, practically in public on the ballroom floor! Don’t you pay attention to anything but your stupid paints? He lied to me, he betrayed me—and she’s laughing at me right now, I can hear her!”

“She doesn’t want him anymore. You said she doesn’t.”

“Oh, don’t be such a
man!
Of course she doesn’t want him! She did it to humiliate
me!
She lured him off and came back looking as wanton as a Niapalese whore!” She looked around wildly. “A pen—I need a pen—”

He produced a pencil from his jacket. She snatched it and dropped to the floor and, smoothing the page on the blue rosette tiles, scrawled one scathingly obscene sentence.

“You take this to him. Do it now. Find whatever sewer he’s in and give this to him!”

“Of course, but—” He took the paper and tried to help her to her
feet. She fought him off, her face crimson and her lips pinched white. “Mama!” he cried, alarmed.

“Do it! Now! This minute!” She glared up at him, on her fists and knees on the floor, a crumple of topaz silk and mortified pride. Her breathing was ragged, her black eyes ferocious. “You’re my son. Defend me!”

Blindly, he strode from the Picca into the street. Somehow he found his way to Palasso Verrada; somehow he found words to tell a footman that he must deliver a message from the Countess do’Alva to Don Arrigo. Somehow he climbed the stairs to the private quarters without stumbling to his knees as his mother had done.

Arrigo had lied to her, betrayed her. Rafeyo saw the magnificent paintings lining the hallways and staircases, all of them done by loyal Grijalva hands for lying, betraying do’Verradas. All this beauty, all this genius, at the service of a man who could do this to Tazia.

His mother. On her knees. His mother, from whose body he had taken life, from whose body Arrigo had taken pleasure for as long as Rafeyo had been alive. Arrigo cared nothing for Tazia’s humiliation. She meant nothing more to him than one of these paintings on the walls: another magnificently beautiful Grijalva for him to possess.

And Rafeyo was compelled to serve this man. One day he would serve him as Lord Limner.

And Mechella, too. Grand Duchess of Tira Virte. She, too, he must serve.

It was her fault. Oculazurro corassonerro—the old saying, first used by Casteyan camponessos of the blond and brawny northerners who raided their lands long ago, fit Mechella perfectly. Blue eyes, black heart. If she’d never come to Tira Virte—if she’d been content to bear children and raise them and be sensible—if she’d never been born—

If she died.

He must serve Arrigo. He had no choice. Besides, it wasn’t Arrigo’s fault. He was only a man. It was Mechella’s fault this had happened. When she was away at Coras son, everything was perfect between Arrigo and Tazia. Mechella was to blame. And if she went away permanently. …

He must serve Arrigo. He had no choice. Lord Limners served Grand Dukes.

But he would never serve
her.
Never.

He gave the folded, crumpled page to Arrigo’s servant. “For His Grace’s hand only,” he managed. “From the Countess do’Alva.”

“I’ll see he receives it.”

“Unopened.”

Affronted, the man drew himself up and haughtily slammed the door in Rafeyo’s face.

He was beyond caring. As he descended the stairs two at a time, words came into his head, his lips moving on them like a sancto chanting his devotions.

Never serve her. She’s to blame. It’s her fault. Never serve her, never
—

And with the words and the soundless litany came an idea.

He was out in the street, sunshine glaring in his eyes, before it took shape—a sketch only, a swiftly drawn fa presto study for a much more elaborate piece. But he saw it, and not even all the blank spaces that were his ignorance could prevent him from laughing aloud.

Ignorance was a temporary condition. Il Aguo, Il Sanguo, Il Seminno—they would teach him. Premio Dioniso would teach him more. He would use all of it. He would start now with things he knew must be included, things he could already do, and as he learned new things, he would fill in those empty spaces. He, a true Grijalva, would create such magnificence and such beauty as had never before been seen.

But no one would see it except him: its creator and its destroyer.

  FIFTY-TWO  

The
summer of 1267 was the most wretched in all Arrigo’s life. Never in the history of Tira Virte—all four hundred and forty-eight years of it, back to the day Renayo do’Verrada had been proclaimed Duke—had an Heir been treated so.

Betrayed and rejected by the woman who had once adored him. Thrown out by the woman he adored. Rendered powerless by his father, no longer delegated even the most trivial of duties. Deplored by his mother. Castigated by his sister. Barely tolerated by his people. How had this happened to him, who had been their darling, their Neosso do’Orro?

He went to Chasseriallo and stayed there, despite the turgid heat of the riverlands in summer. He spent his days endlessly pacing his chambers and his acres, and his nights alone in his broad silken bed—wondering who had been and probably still was in Mechella’s.

As for Tazia … she was an unhealed wound that caught in his chest with every breath. He would not beg to be heard; he would not implore her to believe. Yet that summer taught him as nothing else could that he loved her, wanted her, needed her—and should have married her.

How perfect it would have been. He could have lived his own life, been of use, carved out a place for himself. With Tazia at his side openly and legally he could have worked wonders. Children wouldn’t have mattered, Lizia’s son Maldonno could have inherited.

Instead, he’d done everything he was supposed to do. He’d taken a Grijalva as his Mistress. He’d given her up. He’d taken a Princess to wife. He’d fathered a son to inherit the Grand Dukedom and a daughter to bargain away in marriage. He’d helped Cossimio to the fullest of his abilities in every manner permitted him. He’d cared for his people.

And yet
this
had happened to him.

He was thirty-six years old and his life lay in ruins.

He found escape in a long-standing invitation to return to Diettro Mareia, not as a visiting noble but as a friend of Principio Felisso. He booked passage on a merchant ship, intending to stay at
least a month. But a scant ten days into his tour of the countryside—escorted by Felisso and featuring every winery and high-class brothel in sight—a courier caught up with him, bearing a letter from Tazia.

Arrigo rode night and day to the nearest port, caught the first ship, and paced the deck all the way across the Agua Serenissa. Tazia met him on the quay of Tira Virte’s main eastern port. The Countess do’Alva was unrecognizable in the do’Verrada sapphire worn by senior servants at the Palasso; she dropped a curtsy and gestured to the waiting carriage. Therein, she pulled the curtains despite the sizzling heat and they made love for thirty minutes.

Tazia was no fool. Recognizing even through her fury that Arrigo was her only chance for power, she took him back. And she had missed him, much more than she’d thought she would. They lived the last weeks of that summer at Chasseriallo, and to the Flames with what anyone saw or heard or thought or wrote in letters to Corasson.

A few days into the new year of 1267, Mechella was delivered at Corasson of Renayo Mirisso Edoard Verro, named after the first Duke of Tira Virte, her own long-dead mother, a favorite hero of Ghillasian history, and the courageous Grijalva who had been Duke Renayo’s dearest friend. Little Renayo was said to be of average size, though surprisingly sturdy for a child born nearly six weeks too soon. But no one counted on their fingers or arched their brows, for the tale of Fuega Vesperra was well-known.

Zevierin painted the
Birth.
A copy was sent to Mechella’s brother, King Enrei. Two copies were sent to Palasso Verrada: one for Cossimio and Gizella, one for Arrigo. All were painted by Cabral.

The Grand Duke unveiled his copy of the portrait during a special celebration. All the Courtfolk were invited to exclaim and admire before dining on eight courses accompanied by wines Arrigo had brought back from Diettro Mareia. It was remarked that Tazia spent quite some time staring at the painting of Renayo. The baby was blond and fair-skinned like Mechella and little Teressa, but had dark hazel eyes. He looked nothing at all like Arrigo.

After the banquet, Tazia found occasion to pass Arrigo where he stood by a window, a large glass of brandy cradled between his palms. All she said was, “I believe you.” But later, when he slipped
from the Palasso by a back stair and met her in the secret room of her empty caza, she was more eloquent.