The Golden Key (49 page)

Saavedra laughed, clamping a hand on one of his knees to prevent him from excavating further. “A loving and dutiful son should go see his mother, no? Lest she make her displeasure known!”

“Eiha, yes, I suppose there is that.” He caught the hand, clasped it, lifted it to his mouth, kissed it gently. “Forgive me, carrida … I beg you, forgive me—but I must go to my mother to discuss an impending betrothal.”

It stabbed only distantly, as if she had formed calluses in preparation for this moment. “Yours.”

“Mine.”

When she could manage it without clamping down hard enough to score his flesh with nails, she squeezed his hand. “Eiha, we knew this would come. He went there for this purpose, your poor father.” Courtesy forbade her adding that he had also taken her painting of his son, which now resided in the court of Pracanza’s king.

“But not so soon!”

“Not so soon,” she echoed. “No. But it has come now, and we must make the best of it.” And then false courage evaporated, along with the brisk tone. “Bassda! I am no conselho trained to diplomacy and evasion. Let me say what I feel, Alejandro … that I am angry and frightened and jealous and hurt and confused and bitter and posessive and I want to cry, all at once!” She drew in a painful breath. “But that gains me nothing beyond a splotched face, red eyes, and a swollen nose—and then you would never wish to look at me again and you would look only at your Pracanzan beauty—” She broke off. “
Is
she beautiful?”

Clearly disconcerted, he made no answer immediately.

“Merditto,” she muttered. “She would be. Matra Dolcha, what else? The daughter of a king, a dowry rich beyond imagining, trade potential that can only aid Tira Virte, fertility, I am certain—likely she will be fecund as a rabbit!—your mother will undoubtedly adore her,
and
she is beautiful!” She looked at him through a glaze of tears. “And now I am crying anyway because I can’t help myself, and you’ll go away the sooner!”

“Meya dolcha ‘Vedra …” And he did as she both wanted and expected: embraced her, held her close, comforted her fears as only he could, with warmth and nearness and words that made no sense nor needed to, so long as he said them.

“Regretto,” she said into his shoulder when she could speak again. “I meant never to do this. I
despise
women who do this.”

“But I love this one, and she may spoil as many of my doublets as she wishes.”

“It’s weak.”

“It’s many things, all of them painful and none of them weak. And I also am all of the things you claimed to be in that lengthy, uncompromising, and unceasing string of words you consider epithets so vile I flinch to hear them.”

She managed a choked laugh. “Do
you
want to cry?”

“At this moment you are crying enough for two. I’ll wait.”

This time the laughter was easier. “Until when?”

“When my mother adjusts the fit of my meticulously tailored clothing, smooths back freshly-brushed hair that is already in place, cups my jaw and tells me what a fine mennino I have turned out to be after all—en verro, the very
image
of my father!”

“You are. Both of those things.”

“I am the image of Alejandro do’Verrada, whomever he may be. One day I may even know myself.”

She smiled, but it died. “When shall you go?”

Alejandro sighed. His heel sought the flag again and began to dig. “This afternoon. A rider was sent out. Caza Varra isn’t far, and she expects me tonight.”

Saavedra sat up. “Then you had best go.” Without success she tried to smooth the tear-stained, creased velurro of his doublet. “And change before you leave, or she will know some woman has been crying into your fine clothing.”

“I expect she may do it herself, once she knows I mean to marry.”

“Then suggest to her—stop digging, Alejandro, or you’ll have
all
the stones up!—suggest to her she use your other shoulder. I am an arrtia, no?—symmetry is important.”

He embraced her again, laughing softly into her curls as he gathered her close. “Meya dolcha amora, don’t fear I will forget you, or cast you off—if for no other reason than you tend your stonelayer’s work so well! I promised you the Marria do’Fantome, and you shall have it. When I am back, I will take the proper steps.”

“When you are back from announcing to your mother you mean to marry the Pracanzan girl? Don’t be a moronno, Alejandro, there is no time for that now.” She made a placating gesture. “Later, perhaps.”

It did not suit. “But it must be done before she arrives! Merditto, ‘Vedra—can you imagine the outrage if I entered into a shadow marriage after I married her in the Ecclesia?”

“Before is better?” She shook her head. “Alejandro, I know you meant it when you said it, and I bless and honor you for it … but perhaps you should reconsider, in view of what has happened.
Then
no one imagined your father would die … you are Duke now, and things are complicated.”

“I meant what I said, ‘Vedra.”

“I release you from it.”

Something that wasn’t humor glittered briefly in his eyes. “I will make the arrangements today before I leave for Caza Varra.”

“You
can’t!
”

“No? I am Duke. I can do what I wish precisely
when
I wish to do it.” He rose then, kissed her soundly, turned to depart.

“Alejandro?”

She heard the scrape of gritty tile beneath his boots as he swung back. “Yes?”

In bewildered curiosity, “What are you going to do?”

“Take the first steps toward having the Marria do’Fantome legitimized.”

“How?”

“By having it painted by the Lord Limner.”

She surged to her feet. “Alejandro—
no!
” But as he registered baffled surprise at her vehemence, she realized she could not explain. What existed between her and Sario was so intangible as to be impossible to define. Not love, not true and passionate love such as she and Alejandro shared, of the heart and soul and body, but of the spirit, of that which shaped their talent, their gifts.
No man who does not share it can ever understand.
And so she shook her head. “Do’nado,” she said. “Go and do as you will.”

It was enough. He inclined his head, kissed fingertips, touched
them briefly to his heart, then opened and extended his hand to indicate the blessing included her as well.

“Matra,” she murmured as he went from her, crunching across gravel. “Matra Dolcha, let me be wrong … but I can see nothing of this but an ending. No man, newly married, should cleave to his mistress.”

And no mistress, loving that man, could give him up freely.

  TWENTY-NINE  

Alejandro
pounded up the stairs after gesturing away the young man who appeared to direct him; he thought by now all of them should realize he at least knew his way to Saavedra’s quarters, if little else within the sprawling Palasso Grijalva. At the top of the stairs he went straight to the door that opened into the sitting room, passed through it to the atelierro, and found Sario Grijalva standing at an unshuttered window staring out into the courtyard.

The Limner turned even as Alejandro stopped short at the easel, examining the uncompleted painting. His focused determination bled away into awe as he gazed at the painting. “Matra Dolcha! I was not expecting
this.
”

“No?” Grijalva’s expressive face was pinched and pale; the flat line of his mouth was severe, as if he feared to speak lest he spit. “Well, I am not satisfied with it. I shall begin again.”

“Again! But why? This is glorious!”

“It is a mere daub. It does not please me.” Grijalva left the window and moved to the easel, sweeping a cloth over the image. “I shall begin again.”

The swift appraisal and dismissive declaration set Alejandro back. “But surely if
I
am pleased—”

“Grazzo, Your Grace, but this is what I have trained for all my life, no? Permit me the chance to admit it is not my best work … I would never interfere with the ordering of your duchy.”

All his intentions came back redoubled. “But I
want
you to,” Alejandro said on a rush. “Is it possible?”

Grijalva blinked, clearly astonished. It was the first time Alejandro had ever seen him so. “You
want
me to—interfere?”

“Can you do that?”

The mixture of expressions crossing Grijalva’s face followed one after another so instantaneously that Alejandro could not begin to name them all. And then he settled on one: sublime self-confidence. “Have they set you to this, Your Grace? Out of fear for you, for Tira Virte?”

“Has
who
set me to this?”

“The conselhos. Perhaps Marchalo do’Najerra, Conselho
Serrano, Conselho do’Saenza …” Dark eyes were limpid. “They have made common cause, no? To mistrust and undermine me?”

The laugh was startled out of Alejandro in a quick, choked blurt. “But this is your opportunity to undermine
them.
”

White-faced, Grijalva turned away abruptly, returned to the unshuttered window, and stared out again. The line of his shoulders was rigidly set, his neck unbending, every minute inflection of his posture cried out his need for careful voyaging, for a discernment of what truths lay beneath the too-obvious surface.

This is none of it going as I expected
… Sighing, Alejandro went to the chair behind the table and hooked it close with one booted foot, then dropped into it backward, spread thighs embracing the chairback. He folded his forearms across the rim where velurro was brass-tacked to wood and rested his chin upon them. Choosing his words with care, and their inflection, he said merely, “You will serve me in this.”

Grijalva’s brittle posture grew more inflexible yet.

“You will,” Alejandro said, finding it easier now to be as firm of spirit as tone. “I wish to find a way to make certain no man among the conselhos may undo what I desire done, and that is to make certain Saavedra Grijalva remains my mistress for as long as we wish it ourselves.” He paused, studying the soiled folds of shirt that hung from the stiff line of Grijalva’s shoulders. “I am to marry the Princess of Pracanza, and I would honor Saavedra and her family as much as I am able.”

At last Grijalva moved. He swung around as if he held a sword, as if he expected attack. His eyes were alive in his face, burning with an intensity Alejandro found disturbing. “You would
honor
us?”

That annoyed. “I have said so.”

“Then make certain no one in all of Tira Virte may harm us!”

Annoyance diffused into puzzlement. Alejandro frowned. “You have the Ducal Protection.”

“And it is worthless, Your Grace.” Grijalva’s smile now was neither pleasant nor sublime, even if he did recall the required honorific. “You know the Premia Sancta poisons the Ecclesia. One never knows when she may convince the Premio Sancto to join her.”

Alejandro gestured sharply, dismissively. “That is over now. I declared it so.”

“For that you are honored and blessed, Your Grace—” Perfunctory courtesy, no more. “—but do you see how it is with us? At this moment we Grijalvas have reclaimed two of the primary
positions any of us may hold, by your will and grace, but there remain others who would see us thrown down from there; would, given leave, have us broken entirely.”

Offended by the blithe dismissal of the power of his word, Alejandro sat stiffly upright in the chair. “That will not happen.”

“Your Grace …” The expressive face with its blade-straight Tza’ab nose now was troubled. “Your Grace, there are ways men have of making certain they get their desire even if ordered not to.”

“Then aid me in this, Grijalva! I have no intention of seeing you thrown down from your position, or Saavedra sent from me; nor do I wish to see your family broken. Find me a way in which no man may cause this to happen, be he Edoard do’Najerra, Rivvas Serrano, or Estevan do’Saenza.” He paused reflectively. “Though, en verro, neither of the latter two are of such stature that they might accomplish it. The Marchalo
might
, but he is content enough at the moment to let you die in twenty years—it is a detached way of defeating the enemy.” He sighed, chewed briefly at a cracked thumbnail. “Though I cannot promise it might
remain
that way.”