by Melanie Rawn
He reached into the fountain and splashed water on his hands, then slicked back his hair with the cool moisture. “Does he spy for Arrigo, then? To learn who Renayo’s father is, because of the Ghillasian possibilities?”
Leilias shrugged. “What’s done is done. Arrigo accepted the child publicly as his own. Whether he knows or not can’t matter.”
“Carrida meya, can you truly know so little about men?” He tucked his wife’s hand into the crook of his elbow and they started for the street. “It gnaws at him. He doesn’t want her, but the idea of anyone else having her—let alone getting a child on her—is more than he can stand.”
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:
It is a relief that the drawing is in our possession, not his. Still, you must dispose of it by the following means. Soak it in warm water until the paper disintegrates. Dilute the water by tripling its volume, then pour it down a drain.
Mechella gave a nervous little laugh. “I never heard anything so silly! Destroy that lovely picture?” “There’s more.”
I do not know if the drawing is Aguo, Seminno, or Sanguo. If it is, Rafeyo will feel a tingle of warmth from the water but probably not know its cause, and thus will not remark upon it. If it was not, he will sense nothing. But I beg you to take this precaution, amico ei frato, for talk here confirms his hatred of our dearest Lady and Leilias and I fear him capable of anything.
“Zevi’s run mad,” Mechella said.
Cabral took a matchbox from his pocket and set the page alight. It singed his fingertips before he dropped it to the dirt and ground the ashes with his heel. Facing her again, he spoke words both grim and bitter. “No, ‘Chella, he has not. He is in deadly earnest.”
“But how could Rafeyo possibly—”
“I said that a letter came from Zevi. I did not say ‘it was delivered.”’
She looked up at him blankly.
“It came,” Cabral said, “into the atelierro upstairs. It’s something Limners can do—accomplished ones, who know a place and can paint it with total accuracy, and into it paint a letter. We’ve communicated with our Grijalvas at foreign courts that way for years.”
“Cabral,” she breathed.
“The most spectacular example came when the Tza’ab were long ago massing for attack along the Joharran border. Duke Alejandro learned of it when a Grijalva spy sent just such a letter to Lord Limner Sario. Despite the warning, there was no possible way to get our troops there in time. So Sario consulted with all the Joharrans in Meya Suerta, and from their memories of the area painted a picture of the hills and dunes—with an army standing on them.”
“No—stop—Lissina was right, this is not for my hearing—”
“This army,” Cabral continued inexorably, “of two thousand men in battle armor, appeared at sunrise across the distant dunes, just as Sario had painted them on his canvas. The Tza’ab were terrified into retreat. They didn’t even approach to do battle, or send scouts to judge our strength—they simply fled. And they have never come so close to our lands again. But the Grijalva spy, inspecting these guerrieros do’fantome later that day, discovered that they were hollow. The armor was empty, the helmets—”
“No! I don’t want to hear any more!”
“Sario was thorough in his depiction of the soldiers at the front of the army. They had faces. Hands. Fingers. He painted them precisely as the Tza’ab would see them from a distance, from the Tza’ab point of vantage. But they weren’t real. And when the Tza’ab fled, and the spy reported this by another letter, Lord Limner Sario painted these thousands out of existence, leaving only the clean unspoiled sands in his painting—and on the Joharran border.”
She was shivering in the shade of the huge oak, and he waited for a time until his own emotions were under control—the same horror, the same sick fear of power he’d felt when Zevierin had told him the tale. No one had ever painted such a picture again and it was utterly forbidden even to try, but it was possible to do such things, and maybe even worse. This was knowledge reserved only for Viehos Fratos and the Grand Dukes they served, and, as Lissina had cautioned, not for the likes of women or mere limners like himself.
At last he said softly, “I’m not a Limner—but Zevierin is, and he knows what Grijalvas can do. Sario worked that terrible painting in his own blood. When a painting is Aguo, Seminno, or Sanguo, it means that it is powerful and can be used even at a great distance. You didn’t see Zevierin mix the paints for Baroness Lissina’s Will. I did. Why do you think he had a bandage on his wrist for a week afterward? Mechella, he mixed those paints with his own blood!”
“He—he said he cut his hand on a paletto knife—”
He knelt, taking both her hands. Her fingers were cold; she believed him, though she did
n’t yet know it. “Do you remember when Tessa’s little songbird died this winter, and she was heartbroken for days?”
All the soft rosy color drained from her cheeks. “Until Zevi … until he told her she might dream of her friend … and put a drawing of the bird under her pillow. …”
“And she did dream, and Sancto Leo told her it meant her bird was singing now for the Mother and Son. That’s the gentle magic, Mechella. The sweetness of what a Limner can do. But there are other kinds of power.” He felt her tremble, and kissed her palms.
“Wh—what could Rafeyo do to us?” she breathed.
“I don’t know.” He did, of course, and writhed at his own impotence to prevent it. “My precious love, if I had the Grijalva Gift in me, I would paint protections onto every wall of Corasson in my own blood. But I can’t. I’m not a Limner. I can’t protect you. We must trust Zevierin—a thing you know, or you wouldn’t have insisted that he and only he paint Renayo’s Birth. Our son is protected as long as Zevierin lives, while the blood flows in his veins.” He laughed harshly. “I always wondered about that oath, the way it was worded. ‘With true faith and in humble service I dedicate myself to my duty while the blood flows in my veins.’ All of us swear it, but to a Limner it means more.”
“And—Rafeyo?”
“Zevierin is worried, and with reason. Until Rafeyo paints his self-portrait, his Peintraddo Chieva, there will be no way of disciplining him. His blood will be in the paints he uses then, ‘Chella. And Zevi says that a picture painted in a Limner’s own blood—”
“Stop. No more,” she whispered. “Don’t tell me, Cabral, I don’t want to know. Lissina was right. These are things for Grand Dukes and Grijalvas.” With a shudder, she finished, “Do as he says with the drawing. I couldn’t look at it now without being afraid. But don’t tell me any more of this. Ever.”
“’Chella—”
“No!” She wrenched her hands free and leaped to her feet.
“Zevierin won’t live past fifty,” he said bluntly. “You’ll need another Limner one day. I can never be what you truly need—”