by Melanie Rawn
He smiled. So much learned in two years with the man. So much learned in eighteen years with the Grijalvas. Eighteen years together of such truths and magics as no one in the world could bear to know.
Such truths and magics as no one in the world could learn to know: he was the only one. Because it was not the arts of the Folio alone that was the true Grijalva Gift, or the arts contained in the borders that were the full Kita’ab, but what he made of them both. That pattern he wove from the parts into the whole upon the loom of his body: the crucible of the true Art and Magic, the old man had told him. He was in himself an Order. The sum of Sario’s parts were woven into a whole, from Tza’ab, Tira Virteian, and Grijalva blood and bone to the unquenchable fire, the Luza do’Orro of his talent, and the inner vision of the Al-Fansihirro. One among many potentials, Il-Adib had said, but the only one with the nature, the talent, the blood and bone, the ambition, the ruthlessness, the willingness—and the hunger to be what he must be.
No one else. Not now. Only Sario. Only Sario knew. Only Sario could be.
He touched the ancient pages of Folio, that was Kita’ab. “Mine,” he murmured softly. “All of it, only mine—”
He broke off as the latch rattled. He froze, twisting to stare hard-eyed at the atelierro door; and then laughed softly, because the latch, though unlocked, could not be opened. Not by hand, not by key, not by sheer strength applied by man or ram.
More of his doing. No one could learn it now. There were no other potentials. Il-Adib was dead, and Sario intended to share nothing of the knowledge.
The latch ceased rattling. “Sario.”
Pleasure died. He waited.
“Sario.”
He cast a glance at his work, at the open Folio, the additional pages, the bowl of blossoms.
“Nommo Chieva do’Orro, Sario.”
In anyone’s name, in anything’s name, he need not open the door. For this man, he would.
A second glance at his work. Hidden Language, hidden work, hidden knowledge and power … but he wished to share the triumph of his knowledge with another, with only one other; with this man who stood on the other side of the door. He would not share it all, but he would share enough.
Pride blossomed anew. I have done what no other has. And this man of them all would understand. Would regret his own lack of courage. This man had himself tested the limits of his family, but turned back. Sario had not. There is much to be proud of. And so he rose, went to the door, applied saliva to his fingers, smeared away the tiny words he had painstakingly painted around the latch.
The Hidden Language, hiding itself, but also the truth of the power. “Now,” he said quietly, and stepped aside as the other lifted the latch.
Raimon Grijalva did not at once enter the atelierro. He looked beyond Sario to the worktable, murmured a prayer, then spoke more loudly, if without much force. “I am alone.”
Sario smiled. “Of course, Sanguo Raimon. I would not have permitted anyone else to enter.”
The lines incised in aging flesh deepened perceptibly. “Nommo do’Matra, of course not.” Raimon walked directly to the worktable and did not glance around even as Sario shut the door. There was no time to paint the oscurra again; Sario set the bolt and locked it. “So.” Raimon stood at the worktable, shoulders stiff beneath black doublet. “Have you become a copyist, then?”
Laughter was genuine. “You believe I merely copy?”
“Don’t you?” Raimon leaned closer. “Am I to believe—” And then he broke off.
“Yes,” Sario said, grinning, “I thought you would see it, given a moment to see.” Now he will know. Now he will see it.
Silence, save for ragged, noisy breathing, and the subtle susurration of page moved atop page. “Matra Dolcha—oh, Blessed Mother—” A hand clasped the Chieva, kissed it, pressed it to his heart. “—Holy Son …”
“And Acuyib.” Sario grinned, laughed. Elation burgeoned. “But I don’t expect you are familiar with that name.”
A spasm shook Raimon. When he moved at last, it was to turn awkwardly, to steady himself with one splayed hand set atop the table. “How could this be? The Folio?”
“Not the Folio,” Sario said, then gestured. “Eiha, yes, the Folio—but more. Other. We have been ignorant of truth, Sanguo Raimon … and cloistered fools, as much as the sanctas and sanctos!”
Raimon aged as all Gifteds: approaching forty, he appeared sixty. Youth was banished, vitality diminished, the warmth of his features replaced by a spare, hard-edged beauty that was born of suffering. The restless spirit that had made him Neosso Irrado, the impatience of his talent, had been contained and nearly quenched. A man yet lived inside, a powerful, brilliant man—one of the highest among them now, elevated the year before to Sanguo—but the knowledge of duty, of sacrifice, the acknowledgment of price, aged him in spirit as well as in body.
With evident self-restraint he asked, “What does this mean, Sario?”
Sario laughed aloud. He could not contain his jubilance. See what I have done? “That Verro Grijalva, who sent us the pages that became our Folio, sent us far more than a text to improve technique in our art and how to comport ourselves. He sent us the promise of power, the key to foreign magic, though he was ignorant of it. And so we accepted it as such, what we learned of it, but the key we saw was base metal, not true gold.” Sario looked at the Chieva hanging at Raimon’s throat, then touched his own, shut it within one hand. “It’s more than Folio, Raimon. It’s also Kita’ab.”
Refutation, sharp and angry. “That can’t be.”
“It is.” Sario indicated the worktable. “Look again, Raimon. Recall that only a third of the text has been deciphered, ever … we skip those words we do not know, the sections we can’t comprehend.” He moved then, released his Chieva, moved to stand beside Raimon “Look here … this word, do you see it?” He indicated one in the bound Folio, indicated its like on one of the loose pages. “Here, and here—and here. Throughout the Folio, throughout the other pages.”
“I see,” Raimon said colorlessly.
“That word is unknown to Grijalvas; has always been unknown. Until now.” Sario permitted his finger to touch the inked letters for only an instant. “Acuyib, Raimon. That is what it says.” It was simple for him now; he knew the language and its accents intimately. “‘Acuyib. Lord of the Desert, Teacher of Man.”’
“You know these things?”
“Grazzo, I was taught these things. Yes. And now I know them.” He grinned, looking for pleasure in Il Sanguo’s expression, in his tired eyes. “I know many things.” But not all of them will even you know.
Raimon’s face bled out into a bleached whiteness stark as printed canvas. “And how will you use these things you have been taught?”
“As you wish me to use them.” Sario shrugged. “Your instructions were clear.” Where is the approval? Urgently he said, “I was to do what was necessary to see that a Grijalva—that this Grijalva—”
He broke off. Outside the chamber, outside Palasso Grijalva, but a handful of streets away from the artisan’s quarter, the great Cathedral Imagos Brilliantos began quite unexpectedly to toll its massive bells. In its wake other bells began also to toll, the bells of the Sanctias, the chimes of the shrines.
Now? Sario, as every living resident of Meya Suerta, understood perfectly the language of the bells. Shock assailed him; he knew it, knew the pattern of the bells, the dolorous tolling … he had never heard it before, never like this, never just like this, for the other dead do’Verradas had been only infants.
It will cease. But it did not. And the initial impulse, that first prayer of denial, altered. Nommo do’Matra—let it be true— Guilt. But the spasm passed. “Matra,” he murmured. Let it be true.
Raimon sank to his knees. Bowed his body. Clasped his Chieva do’Orro. “Nommo do’Matra, nommo do’Filho—” Bells continued to toll. “—Nommo Matra ei Filho—” The world was made of bells. “Oh, Sweet Mother, Blessed Mother, Holy Son and Seed …” Raimon caug
ht his key, carried it to his lips, then clasped it against his heart. “Grazzo—protect us. Protect us all.”
Sario echoed it; such was expected. But he offered up an additional message. —and grant his son even in grief the wit to see the worth of my work, so he may appoint me over another. He paused. Especially a Serrano.
He felt—brittle. Breakable. On the cusp of shattering, if another person so much as spoke his name.
Of course, they did. They must. They had no other name, no other man, to whom to turn. There had been two of them, though the other far greater; he was lesser, insignificant: a lone and quaking sapling compared to the great sturdy forest.
Alejandro, they said. Coupled with an entirely new title and honorific.
Duke. Your Grace.
No, he longed to shout. Neither of them is me.
Both of them. And more. Alejandro Baltran Edoard Alessio do’Verrada, by the Grace and Blessings of the Matra ei Filho, Duke of Tira Virte.
He would break. They would break him.
Alejandro, they said. Begged. Commanded. Consoled. In the midst of questions, answers, comments. Accusations. Tears and shock and outrage.
“Are you certain?” he asked at last, and started them all into abrupt and ragged silence. He flinched away from hard and angry stares bitter as winter fruit. “Eiha—would there be cause to do it? Sense?”
“Political expediency,” one of them answered, as if to a child. As he supposed he was, with regard to their jaded world. “Who can say for certain, save that it was done? There are factions, rivalries, enemies—even among the Pracanzans willing to listen to an embassy …” The conselhos muttered among themselves, speaking of tragedy and war. Of assassination.
“Are you certain?” He asked it again because he was utterly convinced his father would want him to be. Very, very certain. Baltran do’Verrada knew such things instinctively, from natural astuteness coupled with years of experience, but his son, his Heir— now Duke in that father’s place—was certain of nothing at all save everyone at Court wanted to go to war.
—want ME to go to war— Because of course he would have to; Tira Virte’s Dukes always led the armies into battle.
“I don’t want a war.”
Voices died out. He had shocked them again. Shocked himself as well; he had not meant to speak aloud.
“Eiha, I don’t,” he said clearly. “No man should desire to go to war.”
“Not even to avenge his slain father’s honor?”
Alejandro winced. Indeed, there had been honor in Baltran do’Verrada. But so much more. Wisdom, wit, certainty of purpose— He swallowed painfully. I am certain of nothing save I am unfit for this.
“Your Grace,” someone said; was it the Marchalo Grando, Lord Commander of the Armies? Perhaps so; Alejandro’s eyes were oddly misted and he saw very little. “Your Grace, there are courses to be plotted, options to be weighed, decisions to be made.”
Pent-up rage and fear and grief exploded from his chest. “Nommo do’Matra, will you give me time? Sweet Mother, but a son is told his father is slain, and within the hour you gather like herding dogs to drive him into war!”
In the wake of that, silence reverberated. Abruptly he could see. All. Everything. Comprehension shook him.
Painfully he said, “There is no time.”
The Marchalo—his marchalo, now—took pity on him in tone if not in words. “None, Your Grace.”
TWENTY
Sario schooled his face into obedience, into what was proper for others to see, although blind they remained. Confidence, yes; arrogance, no. Certainty of purpose, of his right to be there; but no smugness, no condescension. Pride was permitted—in moderation—because self-certainty was required; without either a painter was no more than a dauber, a copyist, a man sent to the road as an Itinerarrio—which was of itself no insult, as it was honest work and often led to greater things—but for someone who believed his gift deserved far more it was nothing less than proof of mediocrity. And it was that belief which drove Sario out of the acceptance of such a thing as mediocrity—easy, effortless, comfortable mediocrity—into the perfectionism that conflated talent, technique, and Gift in the crucible of his soul.
He had donned clothing made specifically for the occasion, and which would, he knew, cause much comment. But it was an honest statement and one no Grijalva dared disregard or dismiss. While the others wore traditional dark hues, the quiet, drab colors affected by a family wishing to draw no attention lest it prompt offense, Sario boasted the brilliant, unmistakable green of his so-called “bandit barbarian” ancestors, and the Order. He had discovered the color suited him: he was desert-dark in hair, in eyes, in skin, and rich hues flattered. He had not affected the turban, however; it was one thing to quietly remind everyone of the ancestry shared by Grijalva and Tza’ab, quite another to invite additional overt hatred. And it was not only Grijalvas who attended the exhibition but also the principal families of Meya Suerta, the most powerful of the Courtfolk, the Premio Sancto and Premia Sancta, and Duke Alejandro himself.
Whereas Sario cared not a whit for anyone else, certainly not the Premias, he needed Alejandro, a man by all accounts nearly undone by grief, by his abrupt ascension, by the need for extreme expediency in all things, most especially the recovery of his father’s body and the incipient war—and who was undoubtedly heavily influenced by the others.
Perhaps even by Saavedra … Sario looked for her in the throng. She was not a Limner and thus was not expected to attend, nor was her position as ducal mistress sanctified in such a way as to permit public dishonor to the do’Verradas—although there was now only a Dowager Duchess, no longer a wife to offend—but he had sent word inviting her. As one of the candidates displaying his work, he had the right. Everyone else of note would be there; he wanted Saavedra present. She of them all had believed in him from the beginning—and he desired her as much as anyone else to witness his glory.
His spirit soared abruptly. It would be he, of course. There could be no other.
There … Saavedra had come in the Galerria door, then stepped away into a corner as if to remove herself even while present. So self-effacing? When she was mistress of the Duke?
Sharply exhaled breath hissed between his teeth. His emotions were a complex welter of resentment, acknowledgment, jealousy, envy, acceptance, vindication, pride, and all measure of things he could not identify. But through the intricate, tight-knotted pattern ran one blood-red thread: she was and always had been his Saavedra, as he was and always had been her Sario—and now there was another who took precedence in her thoughts.
He shut his eyes. Around him swelled the noise of many, the potential conflagration of those who gathered to wait, to observe, to critique, to praise. Grijalvas, Courtfolk, members of such families as Serrano, do’Brendizia, do’Alva, do’Najerra, others.
Better for the family, he reminded himself. Better that a Grijalva share his bed, even as a Grijalva paints for him. But it took him like a barbed broadhead in his vitals, in his able but infertile loins, that Saavedra truly loved Alejandro, not that she shared his bed. She should love ME.
Saavedra saw him. Smiled. Bloomed: a desert-bred lily, fragile in appearance but immune to the searing heat of Tza’ab Rih, the miasmic humidity of the city; white-faced, black-haired, clothed in soft-carded purple-and-cream woven out of gaudiness into glorious subtlety.
She came at once to his side, to murmur praise of his appearance, to touch a hand to the rich patterned doublet of green silk, exquisitely cut, precisely laced. Beneath it the fine lawn shirt, high crimped collar embroidered and tied with real gold—he had spent extravagantly, convinced the occasion merited it—the gathered cuffs laced and embroidered equally. So as not to incite too much disapproval he had retained black as the color of his hosen, as well as for the soft-worked leather of his boots.
“You cut your hair,” she said, smiling brilliantly. “I am so accustomed to seeing it hanging into your face, or tied back haphazardly—now here is you
r expression for everyone to see, Sario. Promise me you will not scowl once, grazzo? You have a black, bitter scowl.”
He wanted very much to display it, but restrained himself. “No scowl,” he agreed, “and cut hair, yes. And infinitely proper compordotta.”
Saavedra laughed. “Impossible! Proper? Eiha—never from you!”
Sario managed a tight smile. “At need, ‘Vedra, I can be anything necessary.”
That set a flicker of doubt into her eyes, and then it cleared. She laughed again. “Today you might as well be as you wish—people excuse the excesses of the talented.” A gesture indicated the paintings on the wall before them. “For these, they will forgive you anything.”
“Kindly said, ‘Vedra—but no doubt you echo what is being told by friends and family to every candidate present here, and to those elsewhere also waiting to hear the decision.”
“‘Kindly said,”’ she agreed, “and also the truth. Matra Dolcha, Sario, you know what you are. I know what you are! So does every family candidate; don’t you see the scowls cast your way?”
“Black, bitter scowls?” He smiled. “Yes, I do … and I thank you for your faith, ‘Vedra—” Abruptly he broke off, caught both her hands, clasped them tightly. It was unplanned, unthought; in that moment he needed her very badly, so he might say what he should have said so many times before. “You have never failed me. Never. In all I have said, all I have done—even in what I am … eiha, I bless you for it, ‘Vedra.” He kissed the back of one hand, then the other. “I bless you for everything. Never doubt, Luza do’Orro, that I know what you have done; that I appreciate your friendship and support … and when I can, if I can, I shall repay you for all. Never doubt it, ‘Vedra.” He still clasped her hands tightly in his own, pressed them hard against his breast, against his golden key. “Nommo Matra ei Filho, nommo Chieva do’Orro. Never doubt it.”
Her hands were cold in his. “‘Golden Light?”’ she echoed. “Why would you call me that?”
“Because you are.” He released her hands. “Always, ‘Vedra— you have been there with me, shining as brightly as the golden light of our gift.” He smiled. “Our Giftedness.”