The Golden Key (97 page)

She said nothing for many steps. Then, quietly: “Will it gnaw at you?”

“You forget, I’m not like other men.” Meaning that because he was a Limner who wished to raise children, he would have to stand it.

“Not like any other man in the world,” she said fervently, “and I thank the Mother on my knees for it.” And, so saying, she kissed him full on the mouth. In public.

“Leilias!” A woman’s voice, both shocked and filled with laughter, was seconded by a man’s resounding chuckle and the words, “I
do
hope that’s Zevierin!”

Zevierin blushed—absurdly—as his wife drew away and called
out, “Mama! Zevi, this is my mother, Filonna, and my father, Jonino.”

The elderly man beamed with pleasure. But as warmly sincere as Leilias was in naming Jonino her father, Zevierin knew the implication of the words was meant for
him.

  FIFTY-THREE  

Dioniso
rubbed unguent into his aching knuckles, wincing at each movement. Spring rain, summer humidity, autumn winds, winter chill—it was all the same now. It all hurt the same. Pain was an enemy, dulling the mind. Constant, unremitting, not bad enough to require serious medication (even if he’d allowed it; he recalled Guilbarro’s tragedy of addiction only too well), but too deep to ignore. A very long time ago (as Martain? Zandor? Someone he’d completely forgotten?) he had grown very old indeed for a Limner, and the pain had progressed just like this: from occasional unwelcome guest to constant and feared companion.

Two months ago at Fuega Vesperra the Grijalvas had celebrated their Premio Frato’s forty-seventh birthday. Banquet, music, messages from all the far-flung Embajadorros and Itinerarrios, letter of congratulation from Grand Duke Cossimio, gifts—a celebration en tudo paletto, for it was understood if unspoken that he might not be alive next year to honor. Dioniso’s mother, Giaberta—at sixty-three looking as if she were his slightly elder sister—had the decency to gift him with this ointment in private. A new recipe, she’d said, guaranteed to ease even the most painful aches. But hot needles still pierced the delicate bones of his fingers and the only improvement over the old medicine was that this one smelled better.

He capped the blue glass jar, damning the lid that must be twisted tight to preserve moisture, and leaned back in bed. It wasn’t fair. He had so much left to do as Dioniso. As Premio Frato he could guide the Grijalvas as none other had authority to do. It was the highest he had risen since Riobaro. And there was so much yet to be done, that his vast years of experience had prepared him to do, that only he
could
do. Weren’t they saying he was the best Premio the Fratos had ever had? Weren’t they regretting that he wasn’t just a few years younger?

Eiha, he’d done what he could. Corasson had been sold, and the money was turning a tidy profit. He’d found four possible candidates among the eight- and nine-year-old girls eligible to become Alessio’s Mistress one day, for all that the boy was scarcely out of diapers. He had reorganized the Itinerarrios, simplified the pricing system of portraits-for-hire in foreign lands. True, idiots would still
paint blurred and sloppy pictures, but at least he’d made everyone aware of the danger. Rafeyo, when Lord Limner, would build on what Dioniso had begun, enforce the rules of painting, and make the Grijalvas stronger than ever. It was necessary to the family, to the do’Verradas, to Tira Virte. Who better for the work than himself?

En verro, there was no one else who
could
do it. He was not just a Limner. He was
The
Limner.

And soon to be Lord Limner again. He allowed himself to dream a little, escaping the aches of this aging body in the anticipation of young strong bones, until reality sneered at him. Mequel showed every indication of living to be sixty. He was the same age as Dioniso, and stooped with it, but his hands were as supple as ever even if he could no longer walk without a cane. But the longer Mequel lasted, the easier it would be to put Rafeyo in his place when he died. The boy would be nineteen soon. With each passing season his reputation and influence would grow. Mequel, despite appearances, wouldn’t live forever.

“Premio Dioniso?”

Pensierro, arrivierro
, he thought wryly: to think of him is to bring him. “Come in, Rafeyo.”

The door of his private suite opened and the boy—young man now—entered. He carried a covered tray from which sublime scents issued. “I’ve brought that stew the cooks always make for Sancterria. The sauce is pretty spicy this year, but I told them to make a milder version for you.”

Another indignity of age: a contrary digestion. “Very thoughtful of you, amico meyo. Stay while I eat, and tell me how the preparations progress.”

Rafeyo served, sat, and chattered. Dioniso wielded a fork on the thick succulence of venison sausages, chunks of beefsteak, and potatoes. He’d pay for the indulgence later, but right now he was grateful to be eating food that tasted like something.

“… so everything is ready for the holiday. Premio, I have a question. Why do we celebrate so many festivals with fire?”

Dioniso chewed and swallowed a pepper before replying. “It sanctifies and purifies. It mimics the sky fire of the stars. It burns away the old to make way for the new. It destroys—and yet from the ashes new life comes, as when stubble is burned in the field. Fire is a holy thing.” He grimaced. “And at Sancterria even the food is ablaze! Did you say this was
mild
? Pour me some wine, hurry!”

When his eyes had stopped tearing, he handed back the bowl
and asked to be told what Rafeyo had recently been working on till all hours of the night.

“I should’ve known you’d find out,” Rafeyo sighed. “I’ve been practicing for the self-portrait. Just sketches so far.”

“And which Lord Limner will be your model?”

This time he gave a start. “You knew I was going to use one of them as my pattern?”

“Your ambitions,” Dioniso said dryly, “are not unknown. Nothing less than the pose of a Lord Limner will do for you. Which one?”

“That’s what’s keeping me up nights. At first I thought Riccian, but his cloak has all those draperies.”

He knew the piece; he’d watched Riccian paint it. A dramatic pose, if flashy.

“I studied the ones from the last century, but they’re awfully stiff. Except for Riobaro. Would it be all right if I used him?”

Dioniso had expected it. Not only was Riobaro’s a fine painting, but he was the most revered Lord Limner in Tira Virteian history.

“It’s a little presumptuous,” he said, “though many a lesser artist has used it. You’ll have trouble with the candlelight, however. Everyone does.”

“I wanted to ask you about that. If you feel well enough this afternoon, could you come and advise me?”

“Gladly.” He sipped the last of the wine. “I don’t suppose you’ve used any magic on your sketches?”

Once more Rafeyo’s eyes widened. “Just—just for the practice—”

“Don’t look so nervous. I won’t scold. You know something of what you’re working with now. I trust you to be cautious with it.”

“I will be, Premio. I promise.”

“Cabral!” Mechella called down from the landing. “Come see Tessa in her new gown!”

He excused himself to the farm manager and took the stairs three at a time. Halfway up he stopped, pretending to stagger back stunned at the sight of the four-year-old. Clasping one hand over his heart, he bowed several times with many flourishes. “Bela, bela! Muito bela!”

Mechella knelt to whisper in her daughter’s ear. Giggling, Teressa stuck out her gloved fingers, mimicking a great lady of the Court. Cabral advanced the last steps and bowed once more over
the little girl’s wrist. Then he hoisted her in his arms to dance her around the upper hall, singing a Joharran ballad at the top of his lungs. Three-year-old Alessio trotted determinedly behind them until Mechella swept him up and they began dancing, too.

“Matra Dolcha, what an uproar!” Otonna exclaimed. “Cabral Liranzo Verro Grijalva, you close your mouth this instant before you deafen us all!”

Teressa wriggled in his arms. “Better do it,” she advised. “I have lots of names, too. When she says them all, she means it!”

“Of a certainty I do!” said the maid. “Now, you come along and let’s take that dress off you before it gets spoiled—” Otonna cast a disgusted glance at Cabral. “—the way he’s spoiled your appreciation of music forever!”

“You call that music?” Mechella teased.

Cabral set the child lightly on the floor—then grabbed Otonna to gallop her around the hallway. She spluttered and flailed, but when he finally let her go, they were both laughing.

Teressa crowed with glee. “Mama, now you dance with Cabral!”

“Later tonight, at the festival,” Mechella promised. “Do as Otonna says, ninita. You don’t want to ruin your pretty clothes.”

“But I don’t
like
nap!”

Alessio’s jaw set mulishly. “No nap,” he announced.

“A Grand Ducal Edict,” Cabral murmured. “He’s starting early.”

Otonna shooed the children to their rooms. Mechella and Cabral followed to spend a few minutes admiring their golden-haired, hazel-eyed son, then went outside to inspect preparations for tonight’s celebration of Sancterria. She had planned everything so that the guests—all the inhabitants of the nearby villages, her own people, and a few noble guests from estates in the area—would be completely surprised. From the front drive, Corasson would look as it always did. But when everyone came around back, they would gasp in delight at seeing the gardens all ablaze with light.

“There’ll be a procession around the fields with torches,” she told Cabral, “before we climb Piatra Astrappa to light the bonfire. They’ve cleared a dancing ground—everyone who plays any instrument at all will be there to provide the music.”

“I never would have guessed,” he joked. “The tutor and his wife have only been rehearing the orchestra all week! Today I think most of them were even playing the same tune.”

“This from a man with a voice like a calf with colic!”

He tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow as they walked. “Tessa looked adorable. An exact copy of your gown, I’m told.”

“Cabral! It was supposed to be a surprise!”

He slanted a look at her as they neared the great spreading oak south of the house. “You’ve developed quite a taste for surprises, haven’t you? I tremble to think what you’ll do next.”

“Eiha, a woman ought to keep a man guessing. Prevents his getting bored.”

“Not in a million years,” he assured her. “’Chella, a letter from Zevi came today.”

“Have they found the right man yet? I wish they’d come home. I miss them.”

“They’ll be back soon. The quest goes badly.” He smiled. “En verro, my sister is a demanding woman.”

“What else does Zevi have to say?” She sat on a little stone bench beneath the oak and looked up at him. “There must be something, it’s in your face—and you never would have brought me out here to be private unless it was something important.”

Cabral cleared his throat. “Eiha … that picture of Coras son, the pencil drawing—Zevierin tells me to destroy it.”

“What? But why?”

“Because Rafeyo drew it.” Taking the letter from his pocket, he opened it and read aloud to her: