The Golden Key (78 page)

He, and Saavedra.

It had been fashionable in the last century to paint a skull into the
Peintraddo Marria
, where the newly married couple stood young and proud and wealthy, all their lives before them. The memento morta, the skull, was intended as a reminder that youth was fleeting, pride was mere vanity, and wealth could not buy freedom from this inevitable fate.

He
had freed himself from it. Himself, and Saavedra.

Cradling his own skull between his hands; thinking thoughts that had once sparked within this now-barren arch of bone; gazing into the emptiness where long ago he had looked into living, terrified eyes that no longer had anything of Sario in them, but instead Martain—no,
Ignaddio;
he had been the first. He glanced up to the
Memorrio
, and for a few seconds could not identify which one Ignaddio was. Ah—there, the clothing gave it away, the style of centuries ago.

He returned his gaze to his own skull, seeing it for what it was: a memento viva, a reminder of life.

His life. Saavedra’s life.

Soon.
The twinge in his fingers, brought on by the atelierro’s chill, reminded him that there were few years left in this body. But then would come Rafeyo—strong, handsome, clever, extremely well-connected Rafeyo—and when
he
was added to the
Memorrio
, it would be with the gorgeous robes and jewels of the Lord Limner on his shoulders.

And then, perhaps, he would bring Saavedra from her painted prison, and—

—and live a life together, and then die? End as spiritless meat and bone in separate graves, all thought and feeling and brilliance and magic gone forever?

Shuddering, he set down Sario’s skull and left the atelierro.

“She’s not at all as you said,” Leilias Grijalva told her brother as they walked through what had been a prosperous market town. “Did you see her face as she read Gizella’s letter? And she didn’t even ask about Arrigo!”

“Why should she, when his silence tells her all she needs to know?”

Leilias shrugged. “You said he’s annoyed, but she’s doing him nothing but good here. They’ll rule one day. People will remember her work on their behalf.”

“
Her
work. Not his.” Cabral kicked at a stone, hands jammed into the pockets of his heavy gray woolen jacket. “He sits in his father’s place, hearing disputes about ore shipments and the price of seed corn and a hundred other useless things that could just as well be done by the senior conselhos, while
she
—” He broke off abruptly.

Leilias said nothing for ten or twelve steps. He glanced down at her and frowned. She wore the despicably superior expression she used to when they were children and she’d been listening at key-holes. Growling at her, he demanded, “Don’t you have to inventory the brushes or something?”

“Now, you know very well that’s only my excuse for coming along on this little outing. At
your
suggestion, I might add! But she
seems to be doing very well without us. I must say I’m surprised to find her competent at something other than childbearing.”

He glared. “Mallica lingua!”

“Find a more original insult, frato meyo,” Leilias said merrily. “Everyone knows I have a sarcastic tongue! What I was going to say is that it’s in Meya Suerta she’ll need our help. Especially now that Arrigo is visiting Tazia again—alone, and, he believes, in secret.”

“What?” Cabral grabbed her arm. “What have you heard?”

“I had it from someone at Palasso Grijalva, who had it from someone in Arrigo’s service, and I’m not going to tell you anything else until you calm down.” She shook herself free of his grip. “What use will you be to Mechella if you can’t keep your countenance for five minutes and go around rattling your own sister’s teeth out of her head?”

Cabral’s jaw clenched so hard that a muscle in his cheek jumped. After a moment he said, “Has Arrigo resumed with Tazia?”

“It’s only a matter of time. He won’t like it when Mechella comes home a heroine. And you know Tazia—all honey and oil to soothe his hurts.”

Cabral shook his head. “If he begins again with Tazia—Matra ei Filho, it’ll kill her,” he whispered.

“Eiha, we’ll just have to see that it doesn’t. That’s your plan, isn’t it? To protect her against Tazia and her little whelp Rafeyo?” She shrugged, righting her cloak. “Which reminds me—did we have to bring him along? He’s got talent, granted, but he makes me nervous.”

“Premio Frato Dioniso’s idea. If we’d left him at home, someone might have suspected something.”

“And so it begins,” Leilias murmured. “Suspicions, rumors, denials—what’s believed, thought, felt, guessed, known, unknown—and who’s on whose side. It will split the family, you know. Those for Mechella, those for Arrigo, and those who don’t want anything to do with the whole mess. Poor Mequel. It’s
his
health we ought to be concerned about.”

“No mention of ‘poor Dioniso’?”

“It’s anybody’s guess as to whose side
he’s
on.”

“His own.” Cabral kicked another rock.

Leilias paused before the Sanctia, razed yesterday after Lizia determined that no part of it was salvageable except the belltower. “What a ruin! Reminds me of Tavial’s
Siege of the Tza’ab Castello.
”

“Tavial didn’t paint that,” her brother replied absently. “Sario did, before the siege even took place.”

“Another clever Grijalva. Don’t you wish we were clever enough to paint these villages back into being? That would be
real
magic, not that ‘power of artistic genius’ nonsense people credit us with.”

Cabral said nothing. But if Leilias knew anyone in the world, she knew her brother. This time it was she whose hands grabbed his shoulders, her voice low and tense as she demanded, “What is it? Tell me!”

“I don’t
know
anything, really—” But he met her eyes, dark hazel like his, and she caught her breath.

“Are the rumors true? The whispers?”

He shrugged her off. “You mean the ones that stop when a woman like you or a mere limner like me comes into a room? I’m not sure, Leilias. But since I’ve lived at the Palasso—” He stopped, then with seeming irrelevance said, “Rafeyo makes me nervous, too, and not just because he’s Tazia’s son. There’s something about his eyes. …”

“He’s always been an arrogant little mennino,” she mused.

“‘Always’?” he echoed. “How do you know?”

Leilias looked him square in the face. She said nothing more. She had no need to.

“Matra Dolcha!” Cabral ground his teeth. “Last year was his Confirmattio!”

“We talked a bit, and I almost liked him for a while—in a way. It was his suggestion that I make a perfume for Mechella’s wedding gift. But now that he’s a Limner—there
is
something about his eyes, you’re right. As if he knows exactly what he wants and is only biding his time, laughing behind his hand.”

“Just like his mother.”

“I’d guess they’re after the same thing, in the end.”

“You stay away from him,” he warned suddenly.

“No need to say
that
twice! After the Confirmattio, Cansalvio blushed and stammered, and the other two at least looked sheepish if they saw me around the Palasso. Rafeyo stared me right in the eye and
winked!
”

“If he comes near you again, I’ll break every bone in his hands!”

Leilias patted his arm, a smile hovering around her mouth. “Grazzo, frato carrido, but I can take care of myself. Save your righteous wrath for Mechella. She needs protecting much more than I.”

Three mornings later a caravan of wagons arrived from Meya Suerta. Mechella was struggling with a heavy box in the back of a wagon when two large hands grasped it for her.

“Allow me, Your Grace,” said Cabral, hefting the wooden crate to the ground.

“Grazzo, Cabral—just don’t scold,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Help me with the rest?”

The supplies included food, clothing, blankets, tents on loan from the Shagarra Regiment, and six boxes labeled “From the Children of Palasso Grijalva.” These proved to contain toys, and Mechella exclaimed in delight at the dolls and games and painted wooden horses and knights. In one box was a note addressed to her and signed by Premio Frato Dioniso.

“How sweet of all your little cousins to give up some of their toys!” She held up a pair of porcelain dolls with silk-thread black braids. “These are just what I need to keep the children busy. I’m running out of stories to tell!”

While Cabral stacked boxes, she called over a few villagers to begin distributing blankets and food. Suddenly, without warning, the ground quivered underfoot. Mechella lost her balance—more from fright than the severity of the temblor—and would have fallen had Cabral not caught her up in his arms.

“It’s all right,” he said. “It’ll stop in a moment.”

She was biting both lips between her teeth. Her skin was milk-white and her blue eyes were huge and she was rigid with terror against his chest, but she did not cry out. When the shaking stopped, she bent her head to his shoulder and let out a long, shuddering sigh. She wore a scarf to protect her hair from dirt and dust, and he turned his cheek to it, wishing it gone so he could feel that wealth of sungold silk against his face.

He let her go. She gripped the side of the wagon for support. He rather felt like doing the same. She was dressed no better than a camponessa and she smelled of sweat and garlic and she was pregnant with another man’s child—and when she gulped down her
fear and smiled at him he thought he would fall on his knees at her feet.

“I—I was told this would happen,” she managed in a small voice. “But it wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Nothing compared to what destroyed this village. Are you all right, Your Grace?”

“Yes. I won’t be so silly next time, now that I know what to expect. I—”

“’Chella? Oh, here you are!” Lizia came striding up, a long sheet of paper trailing from her hand. “Eiha, you’re a real Casteyan now—you’ve been through an earthquake! Not much of one, but it still qualifies. Now, come with me. Rafeyo has an idea.”

This idea proved to be the solution of how to paint the adoptions while legalizing property rights. The boy spread out a sketch on a fallen slab of building stone and explained.

“I had some problems in composition—these will be very awkward pieces, which annoys me—but that won’t matter to these people as long as the paintings are legal. In the old days we used to do a
Will
as a series of scenes inside a connecting ivy vine for fidelity. I propose to use the same pattern. We paint the child in the middle. The old name is symbolized to his right, in this example by the two pears in his right hand for Pirroz, which puns with piros—that means ‘pear,”’ he added condescendingly to Mechella.

“Go on,” she said evenly.

“The new name goes on the left—in this case a simple pebble in his palm, for his new family have been stonemasons forever, which is why their name is Piatro. As for the section of orchard the Pirroz boy inherits from his dead father—behind on the right, as seen from the main road with all landmarks clearly visible. The village house was harder. There
is
no house anymore. But when I inspected the location from the rear, there’s a direct line-of-sight to the Sanctia. It’s the only thing in the village left standing.” He leaned back from the sketch. “So. We end with four elements: child, old name, new name, and inheritance.”

Cabral frowned. “What if you can’t find a convenient pun?”

“I’ve read through the list. They’re all pretty obvious.” He shrugged. “All componessos are named for their occupations or characteristics—Anjieras, for instance. The family came here from somewhere else and the name ‘estranjieros’ stuck.”

“You’ve solved our problem most cleverly, Rafeyo,” said Mechella. “Grazzo.”

“It wasn’t that hard—if you don’t mind clumsy painting.”

Not a hint of a
Your Grace
, still less of respect. But Mechella
only smiled, and Cabral cringed within that she wasted that glorious smile on this boy who hated her.

“I don’t agree, Rafeyo,” she said. “Look at the way you’ve sketched the boy—as if he’s cradling the pears in memory of his dead parents, and yet holds the pebble as if he’s been given a diamond. This is much more than a legal document, Rafeyo. It’s the work of a true Limner.”

Cabral inspected the sketch again. Mechella was right. Despite Rafeyo’s contempt for the commoners he was now obliged to paint—no glorious grand canvases here, he thought, remembering the boy’s ambitious words in Diettro Mareia—this work had been done with great sensitivity. Cabral felt a surge of pride in his family that could produce such instinctive artistry even with minimal efforts—and an entirely different warmth that Mechella had absorbed so much of his own teachings about that art.

Rafeyo did something unexpected then: he met Mechella’s gaze for a long, assessing moment, lowered his lashes, and murmured, “Grazzo millio, Dona Mechella.”