The Golden Key (133 page)

They were all of them struck dumb with astonishment. As the Grand Duke recovered, as Don Edoard stepped forward to take Princess Alazais’ delicate hand in his own, Sario was already planning.

There were spells to paint. Portraits to prepare. He did not have the time or energy to persuade them with words. What else had the Matra given him this great Gift for, if not to use as he knew was right?

  SEVENTY-SIX  

Eleyna
fled the ball early and found refuge in the quiet of the empty Galerria. Lanterns burned in silent glory beside the doors, white with gold trim, that led into the Galerria. She lifted a lamp down and let herself in to the long wing that housed the painting collection of the do’Verradas. On pedestals at long intervals lamps stood, burning low, their light only enough to delineate walls and windows. The paintings themselves lined the walls like images caught in memory.

How strange to stand here in such stillness. She had only come here before as part of a group escorted from Palasso Grijalva, students brought to copy and learn from the old masters. Always the Galerria had been bright with sunlight, filled with the expectant hush of visitors staring at the great masterworks, of tutors declaiming in muted voices about this
Treaty
or that
Marriage
, this
Birth
or that
Death
, all displayed on walls that were themselves testament to the proud history of the do’Verrada lineage.

Linked for all these years with the Grijalvas, who had aided the ducal family every step of the way. With forbidden magic.

Far away, winding down through distant corridors, she heard like an echo the music from the ball. She walked farther into the gloom. Light shifted around her, a living thing, as she walked, lifting her lamp to illuminate first one, then another painting.

There: Riobaro Grijalva’s famous
Treaty of Diettro Mareia
, which cleverly foreshadowed the upcoming marriage of Benetto I to the heiress Rosira della Marei, which marriage marked as well Benetto’s assumption of the title Grand Duke, the first of the do’Verradas to so style himself.

Tazioni Grijalva’s
Summer Marriage
of a do’Verrada daughter whose name Eleyna did not remember; in any case, Tazioni had clearly been more interested in the breathtakingly lush garden of his setting than in the sour-faced bride and her befuddled bridegroom.

Zevierin Grijalva’s beautiful
Mirraflores Moon
in which he had immortalized his beloved wife, Eleyna’s grandmother Leilias, as a girl passing into womanhood, her hands cupped to overflowing with red bloodflower petals.

The ghosts of her ancestors, the lineage of the Grijalvas, seemed to stand at her shoulder and whisper in her ear:

See how Bennidito touches his painting with colors so finely blended that they seem as fresh as the day they were ground
?

Look! Aldaberto has gathered that shawl so perfectly on the edge of the chair, carelessly thrown there by the girl who has just run to the window to see if that is her beloved, come to serenade her on Sperranssia morning, that you must stretch out your hand in order to catch it before it falls.

Study these, the flowers Dioniso has rendered so carefully, for flowers are one of the languages we Grijalvas speak in our paintings; see how the composition of this
Treaty
is enhanced by their placement and made more binding thereby.

And the
Treaty
made more binding by the blood Dioniso, who had been alive in Grandmother Leilias’ time, had painted into it. Which of these Limners had borne the true Gift? Which of these paintings performed merely the spell of great art and which were truly
spells
?

Did the brides won by the do’Verrada heirs have any choice in their marriages? Were all of these marriages—even Andreo’s
Marriage of Renayo II and Johannah of Friesemark
—spelled into being, given life and power by the blood and spittle of Grijalva Limners? The paintings crowding the dim Galerria seemed to take on a more ominous cast, so many painted over so many years. So had Tira Virte prospered. So had many a Grijalva boy grown to manhood and died untimely.

And yet, how many children died untimely in any case? How many young women and men of any family married in any wise but to please or enrich their families? Love was all very well for the poor, but it was not practical for the nobility. Too much honor and prestige rested on such matches, the careful disposition, of wealth, of heirs, of alliances for the future that could be shaped but never known or guaranteed.

How could Grand Duke Renayo ever have supposed that sedition would creep into his prosperous, peaceful country? All the whispers at the ball had been talk of the Libertistas, of this plague of unrest, of taking a long siesta at a country estate until the riots were quelled.

Where was Rohario? Had his father truly disowned him, as was also whispered? Rohario still had friends at the Palasso. It had not been Edoard who had requested she attend the ball. Rohario had gotten a message to Beatriz, and Beatriz had sent a message to Cabral, and together they had freed Eleyna from Palasso Grijalva.
How Giaberto had found her at the Wheat Sheaf and Sickle not even Cabral knew. Had Azéma betrayed her? Who else had known who she was? Who else would have cared?

By degrees, walking slowly, musing in this way, she came to the end of the Galerria where
The First Mistress
was displayed. Eleyna lifted her lamp. By its light for the longest time she stared at Saavedra Grijalva. It was a huge oak panel, life size, and magnificent in execution, as of course it would be. But it had more than fine execution. It had
life.

Sario Grijalva had evidently taken more care with the paints he used in Saavedra’s figure. The rest of the painting showed its age—tiny cracks, a subtle darkening of pigments—but Saavedra herself showed no such signs of age. Eleyna could believe that she was actually looking at the long-dead Saavedra, the woman who had, according to legend, profoundly influenced the two most powerful men of her time and yet mysteriously vanished.

Who are you, who have come to stare at me? Do I see some kinship in your features, in your eyes? Do you know who I am and why I am here? I am Saavedra Grijalva, and I am here because my cousin Sario imprisoned me here.

Eleyna shook herself free of this musing. All around her the ghosts of her ancestors waited and watched. By this medium her ancestors spoke to her, as if, through their hands, they left a trace of their voices. As if, through their eyes and what their eyes had seen and recorded, the past could speak.

“It is a beautiful painting, is it not?”

She jumped. A drop of hot oil from the lamp spilled on her hand, and she bit off a yelp of pain.

At once the stranger took the lamp out of her hands. She blew on her hand, cooling the little burn just above her thumb.

“I hope you are not badly burned. I beg your pardon.”

“Do’nado.” Lifting her head, she saw his face clearly in the light of the lamp. “Have we met?”

He had a gentle smile, deceptive, perhaps, because his gaze was intense. “Not formally. I am Sario Grijalva.”

She laughed. “Of course I know of you. An appropriate place to meet, is it not? Here before the first Sario’s finest masterwork.”

“It
is
a masterwork.” He held the lamp up so its light illuminated the portrait.

“Indeed. No one now can paint like this.”

“You might,” he said.

It was an odd comment, thrilling but strangely disturbing. She glanced at him, but he studied only the painting, holding the lamp
nearer to Saavedra, who stood with one hand on the door latch. He had a frown on his face.

“I would hope to paint as well as I am able,” she said cautiously, “but not in this style.”

A sharp glance. “You do not wish to emulate Sario Grijalva?”

“Emulate him? If by that you mean to equal his skill, why yes, then I am so ambitious. If you mean only to imitate him, then no, I have no such desire.”

“You think there is nothing for you to learn from his painting?”

This young rebellious Grijalva almost sounded irritated that she was criticizing the man he had been named for! “Eiha! There is much to learn from his painting. Look how beautifully her hands are rendered, where they rest, one on the latch, one ready to push the door open.”

“On the latch,” he murmured, eyes narrowing as he stared at Saavedra’s hands. “Corasson meya, are you trying to escape?”

“Regretto?” He was more than a little strange, this Sario.

He jerked back, becoming aware of her again. “I mean, do you think she is trying to escape?”

“I suppose she is about to open the door to receive her lover, Duke Alejandro. But I can’t know what Sario Grijalva intended, or if he intended anything at all, except to capture her here.”

“Indeed, I would suppose your guess to be correct.”

“I have always wondered,” she added hesitantly, “why she holds a golden key.”

His intent interest in the painting vanished abruptly and he turned away. She had a choice: to follow him, since he now had the lamp, or to be left alone in the gloom. She chose to follow, wondering if she had offended him with her mention of the golden key. His, burnished with much handling, dangled halfway down his chest. After twenty steps, he stopped and regarded her.

“Yes, Eleyna Grijalva,” he said. “You may study with me.”

“I … I may?” She was by now bewildered. He was not more than six years older than she was; he was already an outcast from the Viehos Fratos. But he
was
a Gifted Limner, and a better painter than she was, en verro, with all the secrets and training granted to Grijalva boys at his fingertips. “You have come back to Meya Suerta to stay? I thought you had gone back to Itinerarrio service.”

His expression altered. Eleyna could not guess his thoughts. His peculiar demeanor troubled her, and yet, what he offered … if he truly meant it….

“You were to be the Mistress.”

“We … ah … we did not suit.”

“Yes. Now it is your sister. Yet you are not at Palasso Grijalva.”

“Neither are you, Sario Grijalva. You chose to leave rather than abide by Lord Limner Andreo’s rules, I believe. Why should I do otherwise?”

He placed two fingers on his chin and observed her. He had a plain face made interesting by its intensity of expression. How to capture the inner spirit on that unexceptional canvas?

Then she had it. “I know where I’ve seen you before! In the zocalo at the Iluminarres Procession.” She forgot he was Limner and she a mere painter. “I thought you were some brash young artist importuning me for a position in the Grijalva Atelierro!” But he had praised her drawings. That praise still burned warm in her.

“You will study with me,” he said curtly. He turned and began to walk. “Come now. I have much to do.”

“Much to do?”

“You were not in the ballroom? Of course not. You were in the Galerria, where you belong. I have brought Princess Alazais. I will remain here as her adviser. You will be my assistant.”

“Only Lord Limners are granted rooms in Palasso Verrada.”

“It is already arranged.”

“What has Andreo to say about that?” Eleyna demanded, half amused at Sario’s blithe arrogance.

He gave her the ghost of a smile. “You are not convinced, estuda meya. Do not doubt me. Princess Alazais is under my protection. She is heiress to Ghillas. Such a small request as my continued attendance upon her is a trifle. Renayo has already granted it. In any case, a crowd has gathered in the zocalo below. It isn’t safe for any of us to leave.” They came to the end of the Galerria. Sario opened the door, gesturing her through before him, then bowed and handed her the lamp. “I must leave,” he said. “Tomorrow we begin. You will attend me as soon as you have broken your fast.”

“’Cordo,” she agreed, dazzled by his assurance, by his swift assumption of prerogative. “You will not need a light, to get back to your rooms?”

“Nazha. I know this Palasso very well. It has not changed so much over the years.” He nodded absently at her and left down a side corridor.

Definitely a strange man, for one so young. But in the morning she would begin a true apprenticeship to a Master Limner, a man who wore the Chieva do’Orro. They had denied her this for so long. Now she could truly begin to learn.