The Golden Key (59 page)

Eyes adjusting to the fierce blaze of noon, Sario crossed the Zocalo Palasso and made his way home—reminding himself that, as he settled into teaching and the occasional commission, he really must keep track of young Rafeyo.

  THIRTY-THREE  

“…
and
then—and
then
— what do you think happened?”

A dozen children bounced and wriggled on blankets flung on the lawn. “Tell, tell!” one chanted; “Did he win?” cried another; “What about the princess?” demanded a third. “Please finish the story, ‘Chella, please!”

She sat laughing in their midst, lovely as the spring morning and painted in its colors: eyes of iris-blue, sungold hair, skin pale and soft as new roses, wearing a gown the sweet green of spring leaves. As she resumed the tale, and the knight battled enchantment while the princess struggled against a wicked stepmother, the servant who watched from a doorway conducted her own war against tears. Agnetta had raised the girl practically from the cradle, and regarded her now with love aching in her bones. Mechella was so young, so beautiful, so innocent and trusting—and so soon to be the wife of a man she had adored since girlhood, a man Agnetta feared would break her heart.

Had Queen Mirisse lived, there would be someone to consult about her misgivings. But the good Queen was dead these fifteen years, leaving behind a royal husband who yet grieved for her, a little daughter whose only maternal affection had come from a maidservant, and a son deprived of such tender influences entirely. King Enrei, second of that name in Ghillas, was a fond father but overburdened by cares of state; after his wife’s death he had agreed with his ministers that the six-year-old Crown Prince be given a masculine household to educate him in his future position. The King’s sister had for fifteen years ruled these men as well as the ladies assigned to Mechella—no difficulty in recognizing the source material for the wicked stepmother of the current tale! Hatchet-faced Princess Permilla could often be heard in the children’s wing of the palace declaring that “It is a
king
we are making here!”—as if a little boy was batter to be stiffened into dough, pounded into perfection, and crammed into a baking tin marked
Enrei III.
Permilla was as rigorous with Mechella in a different way: she attempted to mold her niece in her own rigid image. Praise be that she had failed. Praise also that last year when
Mechella came of age, Permilla had been eased out of authority over the girl.

Replacing their mother’s single-hearted love with the fawnings of inferiors and the protocols of Princess Permilla was not the wisest thing the King had ever done. But both children survived, possibly due to hereditary stubbornness that pitted willful nephew and niece against mulish aunt. By her own lights, Permilla had failed with both of them and the fault was all theirs. Agnetta could have told her—had a Princess of Ghillas demeaned herself to personal conversation with a servant—that the children would have done anything to please her if only she had shown them a little of the maternal love they had lost.

Now, at twenty-one, Crown Prince Enrei was quite full of himself. He’d been tumbling chambermaids since the age of fourteen (despite dire warnings, for Ghillas had an unhappy history of royal bastards), and lived for blood sports. Liberation three years ago from Permilla had set him running wild to pursue all the delights open to a man young, handsome, rich, royal, and universally admired—at least to his face. Still, he possessed a good mind and a kind heart, and it was confidently hoped that he would settle down, do his duty, and marry. Eventually.

Mechella, on the other hand, was all eagerness to wed. She was everything a father could wish—royal or not. Only Agnetta knew how desperately unhappy she had been since her mother’s death, how she hid it, and how deeply she needed to be loved. With worried eyes Agnetta watched her Princess now, wondering if next spring her precious girl’s smile would be as bright, her laughter as easy and carefree. She had heard things about that land across the Montes Astrappas, and feared the lightning they were named for that would separate her from her darling forever. Tira Virte was a place barely civilized by Ghillasian standards, despite its airs and graces and the proud propagation of the Grijalva Limners’ art. It was the Grijalvas who worried Agnetta—but not those who were Limners.

Mechella finished the triumphal conclusion of the tale to a rousing cheer, and just in time, too: the tutor who schooled servants’ offspring finally located his wayward charges and shooed them back to class. He did not scold Mechella, of course—who in the palace ever could, ever had? (Always excepting Permilla Prune-face.) Indeed, as Mechella pleaded the beauty of the day as an excuse for stealing his students for an hour, the tutor’s stern expression softened to a smile. Seeing this, Agnetta’s worry abated slightly. Who could fail to adore this girl?

Answer came from unhappy experience in her long-ago youth: beauty and charm and innocence were useless when a man who ought to adore his bride was instead deeply enamored of his mistress.

Alone now, Mechella extended long legs to stretch, reaching her arms high overhead as if to embrace the warm spring sun. Agnetta knew there was scant time for what must be accomplished before noon—a complete change of clothing to what Mechella laughingly termed Court Finery Second Class—but despite the need to hurry, Agnetta let her be. This was the last of her girlhood; soon the adult chaos of celebrations, preparations, and farewells would begin.

She was so young. Too young.

At length the servant bowed to necessity. Approaching Mechella, calling her name, she ached anew at the ardent excitement of the lovely face turned to her.

“There’s news?”

Of her own misgivings, Agnetta was blunt. “The Grijalva has returned from Tira Virte—and your father is as happy as a pup wagging two tails.”

The next instant Agnetta was being whirled across velvety manicured lawn and Mechella was singing with laughter.

“’Chella! Stop that, I’m dizzy—”

“So am I! Isn’t it perfect? I’m to marry Arrigo do’Verrada!” She kissed Agnetta’s wrinkled cheeks, her own smooth skin flushed with joy. “We’ll marry and have a dozen children and be the happiest couple in the world!”

Matreia e Filei, I hope you are right, my darling.
Extricating herself from the jubilant dance, she caught at Mechella’s hands. “’Chella, listen to me. Is this what you want? Is
he
what you truly want?”

The Princess laughed again. “Agnetta! I’ve been in love with him since his state visit! For all these five long years I’ve dreamed of nothing else! But Papa’s been so stubborn—I told him when I turned eighteen that I was ready to marry, but he kept putting it off—” Headlong chatter ceased. Abruptly suspicious, knowing Agnetta’s every expression far too well, Mechella demanded, “What’s wrong? Tell me what you’re thinking!”

This she most certainly would not do. She knew what Mechella did not: that amenable as Arrigo’s parents had been two years ago to the alliance, Arrigo himself had balked. Not even Lord Limner Mequel’s own portrait of Mechella last year had moved him toward a betrothal. What had changed his mind? Or perhaps the right question was
had
it changed?

Eihia, to the Flames with his mind! What about his heart
?

Mechella made a face that mocked Agnetta’s sour look. “You’re thinking of that Grijalva woman, aren’t you? Don’t worry, Enrei explained it all to me.”

“He
did
?” gasped Agnetta, vowing to wallop the Crown Prince herself if he’d revealed anything that might hurt his sister.

“Eihia, yes,” Breezily now, mimicking the sophistication of her elders: “All do’Verradas take such women as their official Mistresses. It’s a traditional arrangement with the Limner family.” A little-girl giggle escaped. “Enrei likes the idea of an official Mistress!”

“I’ll just bet he does. What else did he say?”

“First of all, when the Heir is betrothed, the Mistress retires from Court with gifts of property and jewels and all that.” She dismissed the Grijalva with a negligent wave of her hand. “The do’Verradas are very generous. Second, the Mistresses are always barren, so there’s no danger of a bastard claimant to the throne. We know what trouble
that
can cause! Third—and I think Enrei will use this with Papa—it’s much better to have the Heir keep to one woman rather than cause scandals chasing noble virgins at Court, or tavern wenches who might not be very clean.” A vague frown informed Agnetta that her innocent darling had no idea that “clean” referred neither to laundry nor to bathing.

Mechella’s expression turned mischievous. “Finally, Enrei says, think how lucky the wives of the Heirs are, knowing their husbands know
everything
about pleasing them in bed!”

“’Chella!” But the admonishment was automatic, and she couldn’t help a smile. Annoying as he sometimes was, the Crown Prince actually made a good deal of sense. Still … “I’d like to be present when your brother presents this Mistress notion to the King. Birthday fireworks would be nothing to compare!”

They laughed and started for the terrace of the Pallaiso Millia Luminnai, where tonight every one of the Thousand Candles would be lighted in the grand ballroom when the news was officially announced. Mechella chattered all the way to her suite: how handsome Arrigo was, how charming, how accomplished at music and hunting and chess (which Mechella had labored to learn after his visit), how wise a ruler he would be, how much she desired to help him in his duties, how she yearned for children, how she hoped to be accepted by his people … and on and on, all with a sweet ingenuousness that wrung Agnetta’s heart.

She listened in silence, telling herself that if this marriage was what Mechella truly wanted, then all speed to the wedding. She did
not say that the kindness of a grown man to the fifteen-year-old daughter of his royal host had nothing to do with what would happen between them when they were husband and wife. Agnetta knew herself hopelessly prejudiced, but in that moment of spring with her Princess outshining the sunlight, Agnetta could believe that when it was written, this tale, too, would have the happiest of endings. Faced with such goodness and such determination to love and be loved, how could Arrigo do’Verrada do otherwise than adore her—she who was so young and beautiful, so kind and gentle, so innocent and trusting. …