The Golden Key (145 page)

He knew so much.

She crept two steps closer. He worked on, pretending not to notice her. How did he shade the flower petals
just so
, to suggest their rich crimson color?

Matra ei Filho, was she not also a monster? For she knew at that instant she could not resist him, and she hated herself for it. But she asked for pencil and paper.

He spent the rest of that day with her. Evidently he had Renayo so deeply in his control that he no longer needed to monitor his activities every hour of the day. A servant brought luncheon. Sario left at dusk. He locked away all the tools and paint and left her without a lamp. But it was not quite dark.

She explored the room. On one easel her portrait still stood, oscurra twined into the brush her image held, twined into her black hair and the iris of her eyes. The simple beauty of the painting brought tears to her eyes, and more yet when she saw that he had woven cunningly into the border framing the
Peintraddo
a pattern of golden keys, each wrapped into the next. Monsters, both of them. She must not forget what he was! She forced herself to look away.

On the other easel rested the portrait of Renayo. Sketches of nobles and servants littered the floor in one corner, tossed there like refuse, and yet each was a testament to Sario’s genius. She listened at the keyhole but heard nothing. Then she examined the canvasses
that leaned against the wall. Here, a half-finished portrait of Edoard. There, the portrait of Beatriz, mostly done but evidently abandoned. Some landscapes, a study of an old country house which Eleyna did not recognize, and one delicate and touching study in pale watercolors of the fountain of bells in a rain-washed courtyard.

In the most shadowed corner stood three larger canvasses, their faces hidden against the wall. Carefully she tipped them out.

Matra Dolcha! The first was a fine study of Andreo Grijalva. She recognized the oscurra hidden in every part of the portrait, though she could not read it. Sario had not yet taught her. But she could guess the intent.

Cypresses, for Death.

Behind Andreo was a portrait of Nicollo Grijalva. His was not as elaborately detailed with the scratchings of the hidden language, but there was a strange blood-red spot on his chest, as a pinprick, stuck in skin, would leave blood.

The last panel was the largest. Eleyna set the others to one side and moved this one away from the wall. It was almost dark. At first she could not quite decipher the shapes, because there was an odd blotch in the center of the painting.

It was a room, stark and poor, perhaps an attic since it had a steep ceiling and a bare plank floor. A few nondescript pieces of furniture, including a cot much like the one here, furnished it. The blotch was not a blotch at all but bare gray ground, shaped in a human form.

She leaned closer. The panel smelled oddly of myrtle.
Speak With the Dead.
Shaped in a woman’s form.

Heart racing, she stepped back hastily. Was this how he captured people and imprisoned them in paintings? By painting a room and leaving space to paint the body into the room? Is this where he intended to imprison her?

Moronna. The painting of Saavedra was over three hundred years old. This Sario could not have painted it. Like blue roses, it was impossible. And yet … two Sario Grijalvas had become Lord Limner,
that one
and this one. She had seen the self-portrait of the first Sario—handsome, dark-eyed, with Tza’ab brown skin. He looked nothing like
this
Sario, who was a typical if rather plain Grijalva, the chi’patro blood worn thin.

And yet … if
this
Sario had discovered that such a spell could be accomplished, why not try it for himself?

If only she had a lamp! She peered closer, and closer still. Was that a strand of gold caught along the hairline? Here was another. A
woman with blonde hair. There were only two women with blonde hair in this entire palasso: Princess Alazais and her Ghillasian servant.

Ridiculous.

But she carefully replaced the paintings so Sario would not know for certain if she had moved them.

The next day, when he came for her lesson, she said nothing to him, asked him no questions except the expected ones. “How do you know so much, Master Sario?”

He smiled gently. “I have lived a long time.”

The soft words made her shiver, although the rainy season had all but ended and the courtyard outside was flooded with sunlight. Princesses brought to life from paintings. Young men who had lived for centuries. These fantasies seemed absurd in the fine light of a brilliant day.

But not even the sun could erase the chill in her heart.

Like Saavedra, she was a prisoner. The days passed uneventfully. Sario spent hours of every day with her. Matra Dolcha, but he was a fine painter. He knew so much.

He is a murderer, and I, because I did not turn him away, I am no better. Agustin, forgive me.

As Agustin would. So did she weep for him, and pray that he lived.

Mirraflores Eve dawned bright and with a sudden outpouring of flowers. Shrubs bloomed in splashes of foam and wine and sky. The bloodflower beds broke into a breathtaking array of crimson. Servant girls in perfectly groomed livery tossed petals onto the walkways, and Timarra do’Verrada spent the morning with Princess Alazais picking up the petals and mixing them with spices and ground-up leaves to make scented sachets.

Sario arrived just after the midday bell rang.

“Interesting news,” he said cheerfully, as if he were a gentleman calling to bring the latest gossip. “This provisional assembly of the Corteis has approved a
Constitussion
, which they will present to Grand Duke Renayo in two or three days as a kind of flowering of their assembly, I presume, together with a notice that they intend to call elections for the Corteis.”

He had sketch paper tucked under one arm.

She pulled it free and smoothed it out on the table. “What is this?”

“Rohario do’Verrada. I finally got a look at him. He is now an influential member of the Corteis. If they indeed call elections to be
held next month, he is likely to run for and win a seat.” He laughed. “A do’Verrada sitting in council with commoners!”

“What do you mean to do with him?” she demanded. Then, unable to help herself, she grabbed the pencil out of his hand and added a line to the sketch. “This isn’t right. This way, you see? He has a strength in him that you haven’t captured.”

There was a sudden silence. She looked up and was abruptly aware that
she
had corrected
him.

He jerked the pencil out of her hand, leaned over the drawing … and did nothing. He studied the sketch.

Finally, he straightened. “I see.” His expression was unreadable. “Matra Dolcha,” he swore, speaking as if to himself, as if he had forgotten she was there, “that I should find the one and he be a woman, and unGifted! You would find this amusing, I think, corasson.”

She flushed to hear the endearment, realized an instant later that it was not addressed to her. To whom, then? Where had she heard that tone of his before?

“
It is not yet time to free you, corasson.
” Corasson … Saavedra.

Of course.

Sario glanced up, listened, then abruptly left the room but not so quickly that he forgot to lock the door behind him. Eleyna spent the rest of the day alone, a long day, troubled as she was by these thoughts of a woman trapped, alive, in a painting.

As twilight spread over the courtyard below, painting the chamber with shadows, she heard the faint sound of singing, the sweet light voices of sanctas raised in the Hymn of Flowering, sung for girls celebrating their first blood.

Like the blood of the Limners.
Matra Dolcha, have mercy on Agustin. As every girl comes into her womanhood, so grant him a man’s life.
… Such as it was, for a Limner who could never sire children and whose Gift would be cut short by early death.

The key turned in the lock. The door cracked open.

“No!” shouted Sario. “No! I forbid it!”

Fainter, Grand Duke Renayo’s voice. “I… I think you ought to listen to Lord Limner Sario. Really I do. But in truth, Sario, you must admit… tradition … it’s normal for young women to go out … how can we refuse the pleadings of these venerable sanctas?”

A determined push sent the door flying open. Of course! Grijalvas had no power over the Ecclesia. There stood Beatriz, armed with three wimpled sanctas who smelled of rosewater. Behind them stood Sario, livid, and the Grand Duke, confused and weak and pale. Guards accompanied them, but no one dared
raise a hand against the three old sanctas, whose hands and faces were as wrinkled as their white robes were starched and clean.

“Come, ninia,” said one. Another took her by the arm and led her out as if she were a half-wit. Eleyna, too stunned to react, barely managed to set one foot in front of the other. Sario was swearing. Beatriz was smiling prettily. So they led her through the suite, singing the hymn “The Mother’s Blood Gives Us Life” in voices still strong and true. A cart and horse and driver waited in the kitchen’s courtyard. Beatriz helped the sanctas up into the back.

“The portrait—” cried Eleyna, coming to life as she realized she might actually escape.

“It is here.”

“Not the
copy
—”

“What you want is here. Eleyna!
Get in!
We must go
now.
”

Eleyna got in, but she could not get her bearings. They rattled out through an arched tunnel that led to a back gate. The Sanctas’ presence gave them passage through the Palasso gate, gave them safety running the gauntlet of barricades that had turned Meya Suerta’s streets into a maze of obstacles. Yet the mood tonight was wild and sweet, celebratory.

“A new flowering for you, blessed sancta!” called a cluster of girls to the women in the cart as it passed. The sanctas signed a benediction. The cart trundled on. From every inn and most houses came the sound of singing and laughter.

“Why are they all so happy?” asked Eleyna. Her freedom made her dizzy. She could only remember the whitewashed walls of Sario’s chamber, the endless portraits hung in the Galerria.

“The Corteis will meet again,” said the eldest sancta. “They are happy for this sign of the Matra’s blessing upon them.”

“Do you think it a blessing?” asked Beatriz curiously. “It is a great change.”

“So says the Matra: that every thing Her hand touches flowers with Her grace.”

“Even Sario Grijalva?” Eleyna murmured under her breath.

Beatriz leaned close against her, whispering into her ear. “Were you lovers?”

She shuddered. Were they not bound in a way more intimate than that of mere flesh? But she could not speak of this even to Beatriz. It was too shameful. “How came these sanctas to help us?” she asked instead. “They have always disliked the
Grijalvas, and you—the Mistress!—are everything they speak against.”

“I simply asked. Whatever they may think of me, Eleyna, they are compassionate.”

They came at last to the torch-lit doors that opened into Palasso Grijalva. Servants ran out and at Beatriz’s direction took the huge portrait, bundled in cloth, and carried it inside. Beatriz thanked the sanctas sweetly and with evident sincerity. They blessed her and, still in the cart, rolled off into the night.

Eleyna and Beatriz hurried down the tunnel and emerged into the central courtyard. Torches flowered here, a haze of light and smoke driving away darkness. A woman stood in the entrance of the great hall. She started and walked quickly forward.

“Beatriz! Thank the Matra that you have come!” It was their mother. Eleyna braced herself. “Eleyna! Matra ei Filho, our prayers are answered. My poor darling has been asking after you.” Dionisa took Eleyna by the hand and led her forward. Dionisa looked wan and exhausted. Eleyna went meekly, shocked by the change in her mother’s disposition. Beatriz followed.

Dionisa took them to a side room off the great hall. The ghastly smell of infected flesh permeated the little chamber. Without a word Dionisa handed handkerchiefs to her daughters. Eleyna covered her nose with the cloth. Beatriz did not bother to use hers; instead, she hurried forward to the bed.

To Agustin.

A sancta knelt at the bedside, praying. Eleyna needed only one look at him, at his blistered face and hands, his burned eyes closed in a fitful sleep, needed only one deep breath of the air of this sickroom, to hope that Agustin would die soon. Her handkerchief was already damp with tears.

The sancta looked up as Beatriz knelt beside her. She nodded, then looked toward Eleyna. “You are the elder sister? He has asked for you, but I have just given him a sleeping draught. He will not wake for many hours, I pray.”

“Is there any hope?” asked Eleyna in a hoarse voice.

“Nazha. I am sorry.”

“I will stay,” said Beatriz. “You know where you must go, Eleynita.”

“Yes.” Numb, Eleyna left the room.

Her mother followed her. “Is it true Sario murdered Andreo?” Dionisa asked the question tentatively, as if afraid to know.

“Yes. I must go to the Viehos Fratos now.”

To her horror, her mother acquiesced without a fight. She just let Eleyna go and returned to Agustin’s bedside.

Eleyna climbed the stairs to the Atelierro.
Monster. Monster. Monster.
Each word echoed with the fall of a foot on a stair.
I no less than him for letting him teach me even after I knew what he had done.

At her uncle’s order, Damiano reluctantly let her in. The Limners stood around the portrait of Saavedra, staring, pointing, arguing. There were so few of them. They looked so weak, especially compared to Sario’s strength and his great skill. No wonder he despised them. No wonder he wanted only to restore the Grijalva family to its former glory.

Eiha, moronna! Soon you will be murdering them at his behest!

“You have seen the oscurra,” she said. They grumbled but did not stop her from approaching. “Here, the pattern begins. … Where is Cabral?”

“He is not Gifted,” said Giaberto gravely.

“
I
am not Gifted. He is eldest here. It was
his
memory of this portrait that made us all admit the truth, was it not?”