The Golden Key (85 page)

Dioniso surveyed his small class of favored youths, pleased by their attentiveness even in this heat. They knew what an honor it was to be taught by him. How much more awestruck they would be, he thought with a hidden smile, if they knew who
really
taught them.

Rafeyo was fulfilling every promise. Arriano, two years younger and not quite so talented, was repaying Dioniso’s tutelage with a marked increase in confidence and a corresponding growth in perception. Gutierrin and Tiodor were clever in their way, but useful more for their family connections to high-ranking Viehos Fratos than for their artistic abilities. Dioniso could wish for another truly gifted student, someone for Rafeyo to compete with, but he worked with what he had.

This was to be a lecture, not a demonstration. After making sure
everything he needed was on the table before him, he poured himself a glass of cool lemonada and began.

“Paint in a day to last a century—this is the rule of the fresco. We begin by clothing ourselves in the compordotta of the fresco. That is, Enthusiasm, Reverence, Obedience, and Constancy.” He paused to smile. “To speak of more practical matters, wear something you don’t mind spoiling, for the first part of the process is very messy.”

He went on to describe how one soaked a wall and coated it with coarse plaster—two parts sand to one part lime. “The Serranos,” he added with a sneer instantly mimicked by his estudos, “used to hire masons to do this. The stink of the lime offended their delicate nostrils. But we are not so effete, and we do our own work from start to finish.”

The drawing for the fresco having already been done, a small needle was used to prick holes along every line. He held up the golden needle Saavedra had long ago given him for the purpose, then tucked it back into its case and held up a loosely woven bag of charcoal dust.

“Lay a coat of fine plaster on the day’s section, press the sketch against it, and strike this bag lightly over the whole. When you peel off the sketch, your design will be outlined in black dots on wet plaster. Now time is of the essence. You must paint before the plaster dries, so the pigments bond with the lime. You have about six hours.”

A groan from Arriano, who was old enough to know how quickly the hours could pass, elicited sideways glances from the younger ones who still thought themselves indefatigable, infallible, and invincible.

“For the coarser work, your brushes will be made of the bristles of a white hog. For the finer, bear or sable—although the new brushes made of seal fur from Friesemark and Vethia are becoming highly prized.” Dioniso held up examples of each, then continued, “Mineral pigments are best, things such as ocher, burned grapevines, lapis lazuli, mixed with water. Avoid white lead. A Serrano—” Again the sneer. “—once used it to paint the Mother and Son. The lime turned white to black and the Son’s swaddling clothes looked as if He’d been soiling them for a month.”

“Appropriate to a Serrano painting,” Rafeyo murmured. “They’re all shit anyway.”

Dioniso grinned as the students laughed, then rapped his knuckles on the table for their attention. “The rest of the guidelines—formulas,
pointers on technique, and so on—may be found in your books. I will see your sketches in three days for the rebuilt Sanctias in Casteya. If any of them please me, their makers may assist in this important commission, and paint their frescoes on an inconspicuous wall of an insignificant Sanctia.”

“And in later years,” Arriano said, eyeing Rafeyo sidelong, “people will make pilgrimages to his wall and say what a genius he was, even at sixteen!”

Rafeyo made a face at him—nothing more dire, for the boys were friends even if competitors—and intoned, “
No
wall graced with a Grijalva fresco could be insignificant—even an
Arriano
Grijalva wall!”

Smiling, Dioniso dismissed his little group to plan their proposed frescoes. When they were gone, he climbed the stairs to the Premio Frato’s suite, telling himself it was ridiculous to think that there seemed to be more and more steps every day. He was as spry as ever; his joints did not hurt any more than they ought to at his age; his fingers were yet straight and strong; his mind was as keen and his perceptions as shrewd as they had always been.

And yet … and yet this body was growing older every day. Every single day. He sank into a large, overstuffed armchair beside a window, letting the hot afternoon sun bake into his bones, and fought back memories of panic.

To grow old … to feel pain in every limb … to watch his hands twist and gnarl like tormented tree roots … to know his senses were losing their sharpness and his mind its quickness and his body its health and strength. …

No. Not this time. Dioniso came of good stock. Healthy. Long-lived—for Limners.

And there was Rafeyo. He was here, available, within easy reach of hands and magic and paintbrush. There would be none of the horror of being Matteyo or Domaos, exiled far from Tira Virte, without hope of a strong young Grijalva for refuge.

But he remembered. Chieva do’Orro, the pain, the terror, the solitude, the dread—! He remembered all those things with a physical anguish, as if every painting he had ever Blooded in more than three hundred years was being simultaneously pricked with needles and seared with candleflames.

Eiha, ridiculous! He roused himself with the reminder that only those few paintings Blooded as Dioniso could harm him. The others
were dead paint on dead canvas, painted by dead men. Only
this
body, this blood, had power over him.

And this reminded him of something else he must attend to very soon: the cataloging of every magical painting Rafeyo had done or would do until the day came. No stray pieces of Rafeyo’s substance, on paper or canvas or frescoed wall or even so much as a scribbling in his sketchpad, to provide a painful future surprise.

Chieva, it was so complicated, this business of living forever.

Cabral stood back from his easel, scowling. Mechella, singing softly to Alessio to keep him from fussing, glanced up. Seeing the limner’s expression, she made a comical grimace to imitate it and began to laugh.

“What a dreadful face! Smile at once, you’ll scare the baby!”

“I’m not good enough,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t be painting this, I haven’t the skill. You should’ve asked Dioniso or Zevierin, a real Limner—”

“I don’t want Dioniso or Zevierin to paint this portrait, I want you.” A breath of a breeze quivered the trellised roses above her head, scattering a few more petals onto her thin lacy gown. “Now, stop being so silly and paint!”

“I tell you I’m not good enough!”

“Nonsense. Mequel did the official version. I want one for myself, and you painted my copy of Teressa’s
Birth
, so it’s only logical that you should paint Alessio, too.”

“But this isn’t a copy!” he exclaimed, flinging his brush onto the grass. “If you’d only let me work from Mequel’s portrait—”

“If I did, the picture wouldn’t be
yours
, the way
you
see my son. Cabral, pick up that brush and
paint!
”

“Best obey her command, Cabral,” said the last voice Mechella had expected to hear at Corasson. She turned to see Arrigo strolling toward her with a smile on his face and a huge bouquet of wild-flowers in his arms. “As I’ve learned to,” he added, bowing playfully. “You commanded my presence, Dona, and here I am.”

“Arrigo! At last!” She transferred the baby from her lap to the blanket and scrambled to her feet. She ran across the lawn to throw her arms around her husband. “I’m so glad you’ve come! There’s so much I want to show you—”

“Careful, carrida, you’re crushing the flowers!” But in the next instant he bent his head to kiss her.

Cabral moved tactfully away, calling his sister to come take the baby upstairs for his nap. As Leilias approached, Mechella drew
away from Arrigo and smiled: joyous, breathless, bright enough to outshine the summer sun. Taking the flowers into her arms as Arrigo bent to pick up their son, she said, “See how big he’s getting? And you won’t know Teressa, she’s grown at least a foot and she’s brown as a sparrow!”

Cabral busied himself packing up his paints and gathering brushes for cleaning. Arrigo, jiggling the infant in his arms, came over to look at the unfinished portrait.

“It’s excellent, and she’s right. Pick up your brush and paint, limner,” Arrigo smiled.

“I thank Your Grace, and I shall do so tomorrow.”

“Oh, no,” Mechella protested. “Tomorrow we’re going exploring. There’s so much to see, and Alessio fusses if I’m not with him the whole day long, so I’ll have to steal your subject from you, Cabral. You’ll love Corasson, Arrigo, I know you will.”

“I’m sure of it,” he replied.

Mechella laughed, perfectly happy now that he was at her side again. Corasson was complete. Leilias stepped forward to take the baby, but Arrigo shook his head.

“I’ve missed him. His nap can wait. But it’s sweltering out here, ‘Chella, let’s go inside for something cold to drink.” Together they crossed the lawn and entered the house by the garden doors.

Leilias studied her brother’s face for a long moment. “Is it worth it, Cabral?’

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.”

“What if I did?” he burst out. “Would you warn me about what’s in my eyes every time I look at her? I could grind that lying chiros into sausage meat and stuff him into his own foreskin!”

Leilias blinked; Cabral was rarely rude and never profane. But she couldn’t help a sudden giggle either, and the words, “Merditto en chosetto seddo!”

Cabral snorted at the old country saying. “Shit in a silk stocking? You flatter him!”

“Eiha, the lying chiros had at least one good idea. I think we both need something very strong poured over the last of that nice, cold, white Casteyan snow down in the coldroom.”

“I’d rather bury him in it.”

“Easier, but not as creative. I liked your first plan best.”

At summer’s end, Lizia took her two daughters home to Castello Casteya. Maldonno and the rest of the family returned to Palasso
Verrada in time for Providenssia. Arrigo met them in the inner courtyard. He had left Corasson after only six days, pleading the pressures of government. Mechella parted from him most bitterly beneath the gigantic oak on the south side of the house, and watched weeping as he rode away with his retinue. Now, seeing him smile a warm welcome home, she could not help but think of the angry words exchanged that day.

“
You’ve barely arrived and now you want to go ? All I want is for us to be happy here, and you won’t even give us a fair chance!
”

“
It’s you who’s not being fair. I was meant for this work from my birth—all
I
want is to be of use to my people.
”

“Our
people! And stop lying to me, I know why you’re so anxious to return to Meya Suerta! It’s not the power and position you want so much and don’t yet have, it’s that woman—and you’ll never really have her, don’t you see
?”

“
You are ridiculous, Mechella. Let go of my arm, they’ve brought my horse and it’s time to leave.
”

She watched Arrigo dandle Alessio in his arms as they all went inside, and could have burst into tears. Kind Gizella, attributing her looks to weariness, told her to go upstairs and rest. Escaping gratefully, Mechella locked her bedchamber door and flung herself across the vast bed. But the tears wouldn’t come, and the burning of her eyes wouldn’t go away, and she pummeled a pillow with her fists with fury at what Arrigo had done to her.

Yet—what had Lizia said about making one’s own life? And Leilias, about showing the world the woman Arrigo had seen that night at Caza Reccolto? How she wished either friend could be here with her now.

But Lizia was at Castello Casteya, Leilias at Palasso Grijalva. Otonna would listen. Still, clever as she was in the use of her wits and her relations on Mechella’s behalf, Otonna was neither a do’Verrada nor a Grijalva. Mechella needed someone intimate with power and politics. Lizia was unreachable—but not Leilias.

The Grijalvas were flattered—though some were suspicious—when Mechella announced that Leilias would join her suite as a lady-in-waiting. This singular honor, from a woman whose husband’s renewed Marria do’Fantome with another Grijalva was an open secret, renewed comparisons with Duchess Jesminia. Admired for her beauty and goodness, beloved for her care of orphaned children, with a Grijalva in her household as friend and companion just as Jesminia had befriended Larissa and Margatta
Grijalva—though Duke Renayo had remained faithful and devoted to the end of his life, which would not be said of Arrigo. …