The Golden Key (69 page)

Dioniso reflected with regret that he must remember caution in drinking; Rafeyo obviously couldn’t hold his liquor worth a damn.

  THIRTY-NINE  

When
Principia Rosilan showed up for weekly worship in the gigantic Ecclesialla della Corrasson Sangua wearing a Tza’ab turban, Arrigo suspected he was in trouble. He was sure of it when Principio Felisso commented on how delightfully it suited her.

She tossed her head to set the golden tassel dancing flirtatiously. “I suppose fashions in Tira Virte have long since embraced and discarded Tza’ab follies. But it’s all new to those of us in Diettro Mareia.”

Meaning, of course, that there was a growing demand for all Tza’ab goods, and Tira Virte’s monopoly on trade in them was resented. In the Ecclesialla, the day’s Recitassion reinforced the message. A sancto with a deeply sonorous voice read the tale of the farmer who, owning the only bull in the area, charged exorbitant fees for the animal’s services. On the night of Fuega Vesperra, the spring celebration of conception, the greedy farmer dreamed of a cow weeping in despair for lack of a calf. Claiming that the gentle brown eyes were exactly those of the Mother in the village Sanctia’s icon, the chastened farmer thereafter sent his bull to service the local cows free of charge.

It was a standard Recitassion for news of an important pregnancy—the royal bull fulfilling his duty to the nation by siring the next generation—and could have been interpreted as a salute to Arrigo and Mechella. But the farmer’s monopoly on the bull and the staggering sums he charged before his change of heart were more to Felisso’s point. Arrigo sat, and listened, and fulminated.

Just in case he hadn’t understood, dinner that evening was served by all nine ugly little della Mareis, just as a Tza’ab host’s offspring served honored guests. They wore matching suits of black-and-red striped Tza’ab cloth and the long pointed toes of their Tza’ab slippers were decorated with tiny silver Tza’ab bells. Yet as unsubtle as the display was, the term “Tza’ab” was never mentioned.

Arrigo returned late to his chamber, head still clanging with all those irksome little bells, and summoned Dioniso.

“Paint the icon,” he ordered. “I don’t give a damn how it’s done. Get a lock of his hair yourself—and one from the Principia, too.
Stick pins in them to get their blood if you like! I want that icon painted
now
, Limner.”

Dioniso bowed to the Heir’s impatience. The next morning Rafeyo got “lost” near the Principio’s bathroom. That afternoon Zevierin presented a flagon of perfume (distilled by Cabral’s sister Leilias) to the Principia’s personal maid, with whom he had been purposefully dallying these several days. That evening in Dioniso’s chamber, Rafeyo produced a vial of the princely urine and Zevierin handed over twenty long strands from the princessly hairbrush.

On the fifteenth and final day of Arrigo’s visit—with goodwill blooming like roses and the words “Tza’ab” and “trade” still un-mentioned in the same sentence—Arrigo said his farewells and presented his cousins with two icons.

The first was for Rosilan, a dainty glory of soft colors and tender brushwork depicting the smiling Mother in the first days of Her pregnancy, surrounded by nine children. (There was no resemblance to any of the nine ugly little della Mareias; that would have been heretical as well as an aesthetic disaster.) In a sunny outdoor scene, set in an orchard with pines in the background, the Mother sat on spring grass with a wreath of blue-flowering rosemary crowning Her brow. In Her lap was a basket of plums, symbolizing the coming fruition of Her womb. Her smile was directed at the one little boy who held a plum in his hand, signifying that the Child to be born was male.

The icon painted for Felisso was altogether different. The youthful Son was presented as a scholar dressed in plain dark robes, seated at a desk in a candlelit Sanctia cell. His head was slightly bent over a book, but His gaze lifted to look the viewer straight in the eye. His expression clearly said, “
You are there only because I am looking at you
”—an uncanny trick of the Limner’s art. On the desk were two white vases filled with flowers, and a ripe red apple. Outside the ivy-twined window behind Him, a landscape washed in moonlight showed a line of white poplar trees and a glimpse of forbidding desert sands beyond. The contrast of golden candleglow and silvery moonlight alone made the icon a masterpiece. But there was greater significance to the painting, as Dioniso readily explained to the Principio—who nearly sucked the white off his teeth in admiration.

“Your Highness, inside the Sanctia, faithfully guarded by ivy at the window, is the steady light of civilization. Outside, the arid night of ignorance is lighted only by the inconstant moon. The poplars and the desert beyond represent time—though cruel and
inexorable outside the Sanctia, it cannot touch the Son or His Truths, as symbolized by the Apple of Knowledge.”

Dioniso did not say that these symbols had other meanings and that bound into both icons were other significances.

Felisso declared he would have the icon placed in his bedchamber, where every morning on waking he would see it and recall the duty of a civilized prince to keep time and ignorance from blighting his people. Arrigo smiled, Dioniso bowed, and the Tira Virteians took their leave—after the Principio extracted Arrigo’s promise that next time he would bring his fascinating wife.

“I wish we’d brought her this time,” Zevierin said as they were taken to the port by carriage. “All she’d have to do is wear anything that wasn’t Tza’ab, set an instant fashion, and—” He winced as their conveyance, nowhere near as well-sprung as the gilded vehicle Arrigo rode in ahead of them, jounced over a crater in the road. “—the whole problem would be solved.”

“Women do have their uses,” Rafeyo said airily, a boy’s attempt at casual sophistication that made his three companions hide smiles.

The lack of a formal treaty bothered Cabral, and he said as much while they unpacked Dioniso’s gear in the Embajadorro’s private cabin. A stiff afternoon wind was blowing, and although seas were rather high, the ship’s master was confident they would outrun the coming storm. They were less than an hour underway and already the prow dug strongly into massive waves, the pitch and roll making every movement problematical. But young muscles and total imperviousness to seasickness kept the three younger Grijalvas upright. Dioniso, however, sprawled on his bunk, eyes squeezed shut in silent misery.

“Cossimio won’t be pleased,” said Zevierin in response to Cabral’s worries. “He expects a grand
Treaty
canvas to hand in Galerria Verrada.”

Rafeyo gave a snort. “The result is the same as if there were a treaty. No more illegal trade with the Tza’ab.”

“But no painting,” Cabral reminded him. “And therefore no public record.”

“I’ll tell you another thing he won’t like,” said Zevierin, folding a few clean shirts into a drawer. “Diettro Mareia has not one but two beautiful new Grijalva icons. Cossimio’s very possessive about us, you know.”

Dioniso rolled over—not quite voluntarily—and opened his eyes. “Happily, Arrigo will have to explain it to him, not I. Go away and let me suffer in peace. Go on, out!”

Cabral grinned and placed a basin on the floor in easy reach.

An hour later, Rafeyo crept into the darkened cabin with a pitcher in one hand and a candle under glass in the other. The light pained Dioniso’s eyes.

“I brought you something hot to drink,” the boy whispered. “They say it’ll calm your stomach.”

He considered telling Rafeyo to go away. But, as he’d hoped, a bond was forming now that would serve him well in future, and here was another chance to foster it. The same was true of Arrigo; when Mequel retired or died and Rafeyo was of an age to become Lord Limner, Arrigo would remember that the Grijalva he’d liked and trusted—and who’d told him so many interesting things—had liked and trusted Rafeyo.

So he drank a cup of the minty-sweet potion while Rafeyo emptied the metal basin, and after a little while he did feel better.

“Grazzo.” Leaning back on the pillows, he cradled the warm cup between his hands. Only a twinge of the bone-fever, and only because he felt so generally dreadful. He had just turned forty-two; Dioniso’s line was strong and long-lived, for Limners; he had nothing to worry about. “Sit and talk with me. You’ve a hundred questions in your eyes.”

There was a quick flash of a smile—charming in the child’s face, it would doubtless become more so in the grown man’s. Dioniso had never met Tazia, but if her smile were anything to compare, it was no wonder Arrigo had been reluctant to marry.

“I’ve been dying of curiosity ever since I sneaked that vial out of the Principio’s night chamberpot! Disgusting!”

“The youngest always gets the worst task. But you didn’t demand an explanation, which was very wise of you in foreign surroundings. Sit, Rafeyo, and I will answer your questions.” As he had answered some, but not all, of Arrigo’s. He sipped again, sighing as steam warmed his face. “Let’s begin with Principia Rosilan’s icon. Oil on wood, neither potent in themselves, but because the work was done with brushes made of her hair the icon has certain strengths—of suggestion only, but enough to the purpose. You’ll learn relative degrees of power and how to call up your own magic later. For now, tell me about the symbols.”

Rafeyo perched on the edge of a chair, lithe young body swaying instinctively with the roll of the ship, his laced fingers clasped between bony knees. Dioniso made note of the posture for future reference as the boy answered. “The Mother sits on grass, signaling Submission. But I don’t think the Principia is the obedient type.”

“Not in the slightest, which is why I added the plums.”

A frown; a sudden grin. “Fidelity! And a whole orchard of them, not just the fruit in the basket—that’ll work even on her!”

“So we may hope. What else?”

“Rosemary for Remembrance, but what’s she supposed to remember?”

Gulping back another twinge of seasickness, he drank more tea and replied, “The Mother wears Diettro Mareian peasant dress. I wish the Principia to recall that she herself affected that style—considerably grander, of course—in her patriotic youth. Her current taste for Tza’ab costume—”

“—will go away!” Rafeyo interrupted.

“No. But her former preference will now compete. And when she decides she likes her native costume more, her happiness will have nothing to do with the icon. There’s nothing a pretty woman loves more than setting a new fashion.” He nodded thanks as Rafeyo poured another cup of tea. “Tell me about the pine trees.”

“Pine trees?”

“Eiha, perhaps you haven’t gone that far yet. Pine signifies Magical Energy—again, note that I used an entire forest! Because I had access only to a brush made of her hair, the painting itself must compensate.”

Rafeyo didn’t understand, but asked the right question anyway. “Why not use something stronger?”

“She has experience of such work. Not her personally, but a relative. It was necessary to be subtle. Now, I don’t expect you to comprehend the Principio’s icon, so I’ll explain it to you.”

“I know bluebells for Constancy, and ivy for Faith.”

“But not, ultimately, with the Son. You’re about to interrupt me again by saying dandelions signal Male Potency. Quite true. Felisso will see the power of the masculine mind and loins—and his own fathering of those nine gruesome children. Which reminds me to remind Mequel to tell Cossimio that no do’Verrada daughter must even consider betrothal to one of those hideous little apes. I won’t have the family looks ruined.”

Rafeyo laughed. “Weren’t they frightful? Can you imagine being Court Limner there, and having to paint nine
Marriages
?”

“Spare me,” he replied with a shudder. “My stomach is delicate enough as it is. But we were speaking of the humble dandelion—which also stands for Oracular Vision. Felisso is a devout man. The vision in his dreams will be of Tza’ab sands that are no part of the civilized precincts of the Sanctia.”

Black eyes huge, Rafeyo whispered, “You mean—will this icon
make him
dream
things? Why? What is there in the painting that—”

“This you’ll also learn in due course. The apple will call up a dream. The Principio will believe it a vision, and have no more to do with the Tza’ab. It’s known as the
Peintraddo Sonho
, the painting of a dream.”