by Melanie Rawn
The father’s smile died away. The hand, stroking the importunate curls of his duchy’s Heir, stilled abruptly as he looked back at the Grijalva children still clustered in the foyer. Innocent, at this age? Or is it fed them in the womb, this dark magic Zaragosa speaks of?
In wan and ocherous sunlight—the Galerria was kept dim so as not to ruin the paintings with exposure to sun, to oil lamps, to candle flame—the ducal ring glinted dully: blood-black, and its cradle of gold in the tangle of dark hair. It was only with great effort that he resumed his affectionate display; and greater effort expended in adopting a tranquil smile. “A man rules using the tools that are given him, Alejandro. A wise man learns never to discard—or to overlook—any of them, lest there be danger in it. Now, or later.”
“But, Patro—”
“Look at this painting, Alejandro. Look, now, Neosso do’Orro, and tell me what you see.”
The boy made a great work of expressing elaborate acquiescence: thin shoulders heaved under an overdone sigh of such duration the father marveled that his son had any breath left to speak. “A painting,” the boy said, “of your marriage to Matra.”
“So simple a thing, Alejandro?”
“There is you. There is Matra. There are the Courtfolk.”
“Name them, if you would please me.”
The boy did, quickly, impatiently, slurring together all of the names of those he knew into one unbroken string: those who inhabited Court, and therefore his world. Innumerable relatives, multitudinous dignitaries, countless hangers-on who believed themselves of such import that no Lord Limner dared to leave them out of the celebratory painting.
“Now may we go, Patro? I’m hungry.”
Always hungry, this ever-empty belly— “Is there nothing else, Alejandro? Does this painting say nothing to you?”
The boy hitched his shoulders. “It says you married Matra. But everybody knows that.” The grin was quick-striking as summer lightning. “Am I not here? Is there not another baby in Matra’s belly? Of course you married Matra.”
The father sighed. His sigh was not of either the duration or the ostentatious impatience embodied by his son’s. “So you are, little gnat … but does it say anything else to you?”
The boy fidgeted. “Is it supposed to?”
Again the small unpleasantness insinuated itself into an ordinarily imperturbable calm. By a Grijalva, it might say far more than we imagine—or so Zaragosa would swear.
But the marriage portrait of Baltran Alejandro Rafeyo Riobaro do’Verrada and Lissabetta Teressa Luissa Benecitta do’Najerra had not been painted by a Grijalva; rather, by a Serrano, Zaragosa’s late father, formally installed as Lord Limner and therefore whose commission it was to document such things as treaties, betrothals, marriages, births. Anything of great or passing import to the grand folk of Tira Virte was documented, from the most mundane of a favorite court bitch whelping puppies, to a dramatic ducal death scene. But now the Serrano son acceded to the father’s place—as Alejandro himself would one day accede to his father’s place—and spoke of unpleasantries, of magics and dark power … whispered comments that had a Grijalva painted it, the Holy Mother Herself only knew what might have become of Tira Virte and her Duke.
“Patro?”
The hand closed again over the cap of dark curls. “Never mind, Alejandro. The time will come when you understand.”
It would, of course. It had to come. Alejandro was his Heir; as future Duke of Tira Virte, he would be taught the truths of his place.
And the truths, if there were such as Zaragosa Serrano claimed, of the Grijalva magics?
The Duke rejected it. No. There can be no such thing. They have served us too well, the Grijalvas. There can be no truth in it.
It nagged: But if there were?
He turned to face the foyer, to face the children squarely. He saw vivid, eager expressions, large eyes of every color, hair of every hue, and quick, agile hands clutching charcoal, chalks, and paper. Grijalva-made chalks and paper, Grijalva-made faces and hands, and the brilliance of a Grijalva gift Zaragosa Serrano was too blind, too selfish, too afraid to see. To admit.
There was none so different to set any apart from his own son: clever, quick, bright-burning Alejandro, his Gilded Youth, his Neosso do’Orro.
Baltran do’Verrada made a brief sound of impatience as he turned away again to look at the painting documenting his marriage to the Duchess Lissabetta. The Duke humbly touched his lips and his heart with fingertips, murmuring the ritual words: “Matra ei Filho protect her”—for the Duchess was recently confined for her latest lying-in.
The painting was, of itself, merely a routine masterwork, if such could be claimed of any painting created by a ducal appointee. It was, in fact, one of Guilbarro Serrano’s, the current Lord Limner’s late father, but there was more to the painting than color, form, brushwork. There was a world within the massive gilded frame: story, symbology, promises made and unmade, political refinements done and undone, even prophecy.
Lost to the undiscerning eye amidst the elaborate trellises and flowered fretwork were faint traceries of faces reflected in the long jewel-toned windows of the Audience Hall in which the marriage took place: four round, smiling, young faces, mostly transparent; future children promised to the Duke and his new Duchess.
As yet there were but three young faces in residence at Palasso Verrada—and two of them were cold marble effigies deep in the undercroft.
Matra ei Filho, I beg you, be so gracious as to permit me a second son, a brother for Alejandro; and two sweet daughters who will make worthy brides. … Prophecy, eh? So far there was nothing of two of the faces in the glazing but grief. Zaragosa would have me believe there is a Grijalva to blame for it, no doubt!
It was overwrought imagination and blatant selfishness, no more; limners were an arrogant lot, all of them, routinely convinced one’s talent might be overtaken by another. The world they inhabited was no less convoluted of politics and personal ambitions than the Court itself.
“A fool,” the Duke muttered. “Moronno. And his artistry pleases me less and less.”
“Patro?”
Do’Verrada was wrenched out of his pettish reverie. “Nothing, Alejandro. Do’nado.” He sighed again. “So, shall we tend your appetite, little gnat?”
In answer, Alejandro darted down the gallery toward the foyer, where all of the Grijalva children were made to draw back at once and permit the Duke’s Heir to pass unmolested by even so much as a breath.
Also waiting was the liveried ducal escort, a detachment of the Shagarra Regiment, which closed in about the boy immediately. Alejandro, oblivious to such things as he took for granted, turned back impatiently. “Coming, Patro?”
“Coming, filho meyo. I am old, do you see, and cannot skip so blithely as you.”
“Very old,” Alejandro agreed gravely, and then burst into laughter that was mimicked by the clustered Grijalvas, though they were hushed at once by their teacher.
“Very old,” do’Verrada echoed as he moved into the foyer to join his son. But not these children … they die so young, so many Grijalvas. He met the eyes of the man wearing the Chieva do’Orro, and saw the calm acknowledgment of time’s too-hasty departure in them; would he live to see any of his students gain a full complement of skills? Not a gift I would request, were it in me to do so— nor would Zaragosa request it either, had he the wit to consider it! The Nerro Lingua robbed them of hardihood; there is little enough time for any of them to plot such nonsense as harming anyone with nonexistent magics.
Aloud he muttered, “Mennino moronno,” and decided to request the Lord Limner to attend him upon his return to the Palasso. It was time they had this out, lest it poison the entire Court.
ONE
Saavedra followed out of habit; if Sario did not overcome her objections with his clever, twisted logic coupled with incandescent excitement—though it was rare when he couldn’t—he appealed to her sense of loyalty and a perverse desire to protect him.
If she did not see to his welfare, did not personally try to guide him when she could, surely he would be punished yet again for yet another perceived transgression when he was but merely curious. His inquisitive nature simply could not bear to be held ignorant, and—despite his always frustrating inclination toward disobediences large and small—he was, after all, her closest companion, her only true companion.
He understood her. Completely, utterly, unquestionably. They spoke the same language, an inner silent language of the limner’s art and heart; recognized identical truths and power in the ambitions of their talent, the constant yearning for more, for better, for best in every undertaking, even in crude sketches. Luza do’Orro incarnate, mutually evidenced and mutually comprehended.
No one else knows what is in me. No one else frees me to be as I wish to be. And yet … “Matra ei Filho!” she cried as he caught her hand and dragged her to a narrow coiled stairway. “We can’t, Sario. We shouldn’t be doing this!”
“Of course we shouldn’t, cabessa bisila; if we should be doing it, there wouldn’t be any risk.”
“You want risk!” It was accusation, not question. “And my brain is larger than a pea!”
He grinned slyly. “Not when you protest so much about something that interests you as much as it interests me.”
Yes, it interested her. Eiha, it interested her! Sario spoke of hidden, forbidden things, a ritual to which women were never admitted, and only those males found worthy of admission. She had no doubts Sario’s day would come—how could it not, with the burgeoning talent she knew as Gift?—but he was as yet too young for consideration. He was eleven, not thirteen; the moualimos ignored his blatant attempts to impress them, to seduce them through elaborate sketches and graceful paintings into admitting his talent, and the Viehos Fratos—eiha, she doubted they even knew he existed! Any more than they knew she did.
I know … She had always known. He burned with a concentrated flame far brighter than any she had yet seen in Palasso Grijalva, even in the sprawling nichetangled maze of the family premises, and she had met everyone. There were not so many of them now as the genealogies once boasted. The Nerro Lingua had killed so very many.
The plague had engulfed Meya Suerta, a selfish, unrelenting conflagration of infection that presented itself as high fever and swollen, blackened tongue. It killed nobility and commoners alike throughout the city, then cruelly invaded the rest of the duchy. All in Tira Virte lost loved ones, providers, servants, masters. But no family suffered as much as the Grijalvas.
We still suffer. And so they did. In addition to killing nearly two-thirds of the family, the Nerro Lingua had also rendered much of the male seed infertile. Even now, sixty years later, the Grijalva family suffered depredations of the loins as well as of ducal favor; far too many males died before age fifty, and they had not placed one of their own at Court since the Nerro Lingua. The last Grijalva Lord Limner died in the plague, as so many Grijalvas died, and was replaced by, of all things, a Serrano.
The Grijalvas quite naturally expected it to be an interim appointment only—had they not sent a limner to Court for the thirty-five years prior?—but such confidence proved misplaced. Except for their successful production of materials used by limners, they were overlooked. Too many of them had died, too many important, talented, established Grijalvas; in the aftermath of plague, as they struggled to recover, other families less stricken overtook their places.
The rival Serranos, of course, jealous of their recovered ducal favor, argued that the Protection issued by Alessio I was wholly enough, better, in fact, than Grijalvas deserved. In return Sario called them such epithets as she would not herself speak, and was quite rightly beaten for it; such blatant criticism, precociously clever-tongued or no, was not permitted on the family premises. But Saavedra knew it was true, what Sario said; Zaragosa Serrano, Duke Baltran’s Lord Limner, was naught but a passable hand, a man with neither heart nor inspiration.
A graffiti-crafter, no more! … and why the Duke had seen fit to appoint Zaragosa in his late father’s place was beyond Saavedra’s comprehension. They all of them, every Grijalva, knew he was worthy merely of the common art of the road. Either copyist or Itinerarrio, certainly no better, and yet his was the vital task, through his paintings, to document in detail the business of the duchy.
“Here—’Vedra, here!” Sario snatched at her hand again and dragged her into a tiny closet large enough for only a chamber pot, or perhaps a cluster of brooms; but there was a heavy canvas curtain—exquisitely painted, of course—instead of a wall, and even as she framed a question, Sario jerked fabric aside. “Through here—beware the steps.”
Indeed, there were steps. He was not large enough to truly drag her, but his weight tugged unceasingly at her shoulder. He was as intensely passionate about secrets as about his art; eiha, but she did not blame him. He was Gifted, she was convinced, and such true artists as Sario, so talented, so brilliant in their burning, countenanced no interference by any individual, even a moualimo.
Surely they see it in him. Surely they know what he is. …
Surely they did. And perhaps it was why they were so harsh with him, to cap the naphtha flame that would not burn out, but could, in its power, consume even its source.
I have nothing of that gift. No, of course not; she was a woman, and the Gifted were only male. But she was gifted to some degree, surely. Sario even said so. When he knew she doubted her talent.
So much between them, so many bindings on them. Even now. Even this.
“’Vedra, here—” He darted around a corner, down another set of shallow steps, loosed her hand long enough to unlatch and pulled open a narrow, lath-and-plaster door, then nodded at her. “Go up! Go up quickly, and I’ll latch the door from inside!”
She reluctantly moved into the opening. “Sario, there is no candle!”
“Fourteen steps, twice over. Count, ‘Vedra. Or you will have me believing you are a cabessa bisila!”
She counted. Her steps lagged, but she counted. He came up behind her, as promised; she could hear his eager breathing in the confines of the narrow staircase. “Where are we going?”
He hissed her into silence. “Bassda! They’ll hear!” Up and up, fourteen steps twice, and a low-roofed storage chamber. Hastily Sario ducked in the darkness, then flattened himself against the door. “Down here.”
She could sense the wall before them. Carefully she felt about, located the stone brickwork, then knelt. “I can’t see any—”
He caught and yanked on her hand, whispering frantically. “Down here, moronna! Bassda!”
Saavedra flattened on her belly, even as he did on his own. It was a supremely undignified posture in such a small, crowded space, and the stone beneath her body was cool through the thin weave of her linen tunic and baggy trousers. Summer sandals scraped toe-leather into brickwork. “Sario,” this time very softly, “what do you—”
“Here.” He clasped her hand, carried it against the wall, to a separation between it and stone floor. A seam, a crack between wall and flooring. It ran nearly the width of the tiny closet. “Come close, ‘Vedra—you can see into the Crechetta.”
For the moment she cared less about the chamber below than the one they inhabited. She could think of no good use for a storage niche so difficult to reach, coiled away like a serpent in the belly of Palasso Grijalva. “Why is this chamber here?”
“Ask questions later, ‘Vedra. For now—” his voice tightened, “look upon the Chieva do’Sangua.”
Zaragosa Serrano waited in perfect silence until he had the attention of his Duke. “You know it is true, Your Grace. Have I not said it was true?”
Baltran do’Verrada lingered at the window. The thick glazing was wavy and warped, distorting the view beyond: the meticulously-groomed courtyard and gardens outside the ducal apartments of the Palasso Verrada. In high summer the grass was verdant, the lush vegetation in full bloom, the citrus trees weighted with rich, succulent bounty that graced his table each mo
rning; but his spirits were not so moved as to be seduced away from a more serious concern.
Matra ei Filho, grant that the child be born safely, and my Duchess recover swiftly. Fingertips to mouth, to heart. It was good he had summoned Zaragosa; he needed the distraction.
The Duke swallowed wine from the gem-studded silver cup— chilled by snow brought down from the Montes Astrappas, the mountain border between beloved Tira Virte and naughty Ghillas—and turned slightly to admit the slender limner into his awareness. A quiet glance over a shoulder earned him the full panoply: riotous color of every fabric and texture, and—Matra Dolcha!—a thing perched on young Serrano’s head.
He did not look directly at Zaragosa Serrano—he would not favor him so highly, not immediately—lest the man gain even more arrogance. “Is that a new hat?”
Thus reminded of his neglect, Serrano snatched the feather-bedecked scrap of crimson velvet from his head. “Your Grace, a trifle, no more.”
Do’Verrada grunted. “An expensive trifle, no?” And ostentatious, as always. He sipped more wine: pale spring-hued vinho bianco, Lacta do’Matra, of course; his favorite summer vintage, and the most favored of all Tira Virteian wine exports. I must have the Master Vintner in to see how the season fares.
“Your Grace, I am honored by your generous reception of my talent. And, Your Grace, speaking of talent—”
Do’Verrada cut across the circuitous circumnavigation of the topic; he spent entirely too many hours of his life listening to the like from Courtfolk. “You believe I should revoke the Ducal Protection of the Grijalva family.”
Serrano spoke with an impassioned zeal that betrayed his insecurity. “Oh, Your Grace, I do believe it justified, Your Grace! … in view of what they are.”
“Mere copyists? You would not give them the benefit of true artistic talent, I know, but they have served Tira Virte and her Dukes very well for many years, Zaragosa, which is precisely why my great-grandfather issued the Protection. And even the Serranos should be grateful; without the Grijalva paper, canvas, and materials such as paints, where would your folk be? Still scrawling graffiti frescoes on new walls wet with peasant urine?” He permitted himself a smile as Zaragosa went white as the Matra’s Blessed Milk; the current Lord Limner’s talent had indeed first been discovered in the back alleys of Meya Suerta. “They have served art equally as well as the duchy, Zaragosa. They have—and know— their place.”