The Golden Key (32 page)

From one of the leather tubes he drew a parchment, a page of holy text extravagantly illuminated by a hand of great skill equally devout in service to Acuyib. So many brilliant colors, so many infinitely
perfect mergings, the precise lines of black, the filigree of gold and silver, the bloom of Art, and Magic. The patterns of his world, that was becoming the boy’s as well.

Il-Adib smiled.
Not a boy. No more.
But no less Acuyib’s servant, now that he knew.

The old man unrolled and spread the page, weighted it gently with carved gold figurines representative of his Order. So many colors: the rich green sheen of the silk, the sacred color of Al-Fansihirro; the ornate and brilliant haze of transcendent illumination set in a border around the text which, in and of itself, barely breathed the truth of Power, of Acuyib’s might. Magic lay in lingua oscurra, the patterns of the borders, not in the common text itself.

So much to teach the boy who was not a boy, but who would become something infinitely greater than even Sario believed.

So much he has learned, but so much yet to learn.
Il-Adib took in the sacred scents, read familiar cipher in complex illumination, hidden in plain sight from those without the vision; gazed upon the assembled pattern of magic and knew he had succeeded.

New pigments had been tempered out of new materials. Tza’ab blood crossed with that of Tira Virte, with that of the plague-racked Grijalvas, with the inner vision of the Al-Fansihirro, created a wholly new power.

“For You,” he said quietly in his true-tongue, the language of Al-Fansihirro, lingua oscurra. “In Your Name, Great Acuyib, so You might live again in the heart of the Desert, in the souls of her people. I have shaped You another Diviner. May he heed Your Voice; may he heed the needs of his people; may he prove the most powerful of Al-Fansihirro.”

Scent drifted. He closed tear-filled, aged eyes, then opened them as something, an insect, bit his chest. Frowning, he unfastened and pulled aside his robes, baring a chest thin but lapped with sagging flesh.

There was no insect, yet a pinprick of blood had appeared beside his concave breastbone.

The aged Tza’ab caught his breath. “Not
yet
—”

Blood welled, spilled, splashed. The brittle rib cage caved in and shattered beneath the blow of the knife that did not in any wise exist in Il-Adib’s tent, but elsewhere entirely.

The ancient Al-Fansihirro released his final breath. “—too soon …”

And too late.

Saavedra, when summoned to the entry courtyard, was astonished and appalled by her visitor. “What are
you
doing here?”

Alejandro blinked at her in surprise. He had been given entry through the massive wrought-iron gate. One ornate filigreed gate-leaf yet stood ajar beneath the clay-daubed brick archway, as if he thought to flee. On either side of him torches blustered in early evening breeze; it cast light and shadow upon him, limned contours and angles, set gold laces and gemstones to sparking.

Saavedra was disgusted by the blurted question with which she had greeted him.
Holy Mother
— “I mean, why have you come?” She modulated her tone as best she could, still flustered. “I mean …” And then, lamely, giving up on all but the truth, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“
I
wasn’t expecting me.” He grinned shamefacedly, fingering the high embroidered lawn collar extending above the doublet. “I mean, I hadn’t planned to come. I just—came.”

Saavedra was acutely aware of the silent Grijalva cousin who waited behind her, politely distancing himself without deserting her entirely. It was most unusual for anyone to come to Palasso Grijalva at night, and utterly impossible that it might be the Duke’s son.

Except he was here.

Courtesy reasserted itself; there were rituals upon which she might depend, if not her own initiative. “Would you have refreshment? Will you come into the solar?”

He hitched a broad shoulder briefly, a curiously defensive motion. Belatedly he pulled off the feather-spiked, blue velvet hat that adorned thick dark hair. “I thought perhaps you would walk out with me.”

“Walk out … with you? Now?” She was completely flustered.
Matra Dolcha, what is the matter with you? Do you believe he wishes to propose
? Furious with herself, Saavedra managed a tight smile. “I had planned to go to bed …” And then wished she’d said nothing of that, because bed was not a place she should—or wished—to speak of before this man. “Cabessa bisila,” she muttered.

Alejandro, who heard it, grinned. “Me as well,” he said. “I am delighted to see you as uncertain of this as I.”

She doubted he was uncertain. Alejandro was never uncertain. “Then why are you here?” And could not help herself: “Is it woman trouble again?”

The deep flush was slow, but unmistakable.

Holy Mother, would she never learn? “Eiha, forgive me, grazzo.”

“No,” he said with some difficulty. “I mean, yes, it’s woman trouble, but not that kind. And perhaps I should not be here at all … perhaps I am merely a fool; I hired you to
paint
me after all, not listen to my troubles, or—or …” He flushed again, deeply, crushed the velvet hat in powerful hands. “I should have stayed at the tavern.” He scrubbed a forearm against unruly hair. “Sweet Mother, this is not coming out right.” He offered a sickly grin. “Will your watchdog permit me to explain myself in privacy, or am I to be embarrassed before
two
Grijalvas?”

“My watchdog—” And then she swung sharply. “Benedizo, surely you don’t believe harm will come to me from Don Alejandro!”

Benedizo smiled faintly. “Perhaps not,” he murmured, and went inside.

Saavedra turned back. “There. Banished. No need for embarrassment.”

Alejandro sighed. “That depends on your perspective.”

“What perspective do you mean?”

“Yours,” he said, “or mine, depending on yours. But I can’t wait any longer. I’ve waited too long.”

“Too long for what?” Her spirit quailed. “To tell me you don’t like my work after all?”
Oh Mother, of course he doesn’t.
She gulped and ventured it. “That you don’t wish the painting?” And it so nearly completed.

He was astounded. “Eiha! No! Your work is superb. The
painting
is superb; you have made me far too handsome for a crooked-toothed cabessa bisila!” The infamous grin flashed, displayed notorious tooth, then hid itself behind self-mocking bemusement. “This has to do with your work only in that the subject of it wishes you to grant him a favor.”

Relieved, disarmed, Saavedra smiled. “You know I would do anything for you.”

Hazel eyes took fire. “Nommo do’Matra ei Filho,” he blurted, “I hoped you would say that.” And bent to embrace, to fit body to body, to kiss the breath from her lungs.

Saavedra discovered embarrassment had nothing whatsoever to do with the moment. Only shock for an instant. And then merely honesty.

Deep in Palasso Grijalva, tucked away in the closet above the Crechetta where the business of the family was conducted, Sario conducted his own. One lamp, one lamp only, placed upon the step
as once Seminno Raimon had placed a lamp, so that it set the world afire. Sario then took from beneath his arm a small framed portrait swathed in burlap, swathed again in fine silk—rich, brilliant green silk—and dropped both lengths of fabric to the floor. He smelled poppy, grass, cypress issuing from the cloth.

He knelt, set the portrait against the wall, studied the work.

Infinitely lifelike. An exquisite rendering. No one looking on it who had seen the subject would not know his name.

Sario spoke that name, then smiled faintly. “I was given leave to do as I must,” he explained, “by a man I trust. You, I dare not trust; we share a different vision.”

Quietly he lifted into the light the thin-bladed knife. It sparked briefly. Coldly.

“I am not what you would have me be. But there is much use in what you have told me, great power in what you have taught me, and in me they will live on. Your ending is my beginning.”

Blood had been the most difficult to obtain. But he had contrived to fall into the old man, scratching him with a fingernail left uncut—the residue caught beneath the nail had been enough.

Sario set one hand onto the frame to steady the portrait; the other carried the knife to the canvas. It had taken time and ingenuity to gather all the necessary fluids, but it had been done. He was prepared.

It began now, the second portion of his life. The first, a mere eighteen years, had been as nothing to someone as old as Il-Adib of the Al-Fansihirro, the sole surviving member of the most holy caste of warrior magicians. All of them killed in the wars with Tira Virte, stolen from Acuyib’s Great Tent, until Il-Adib, the youngest of the god’s servants, exiled from those so badly defeated, set out to discover what remained of the
Kita’ab
, to found the rebirth of his Order. Both he sought in the heart of the enemy, for it was there, the old man said, Acuyib sent him. To find another with the inner vision.

Sario smiled. Inner vision. Luza do’Orro. He was doubly blessed.

And Raimon had given him leave to do what he must.

Sario hesitated. His mouth was unaccountably dry.
With this all is changed.
All he had ever known.

But vision existed to be served, and light made it possible for a man to see his way.

Sario wet his lips, chanted several fluent phrases in the tongue of Al-Fansihirro, in the lingua oscurra, then pierced the painted heart that lay beneath painted robes.

“I am not your Diviner.” He drove the blade through canvas to the hilt. “I am only and always Grijalva. And I
shall
be Lord Limner.”

Scents lingered: poppy, for Sleep; grass, for Submission; cypress for Death.

  EIGHTEEN  

The
chamber was in disarray. It was not the Duke’s task to be there for the arrangements—he had a multiplicity of servants to select his clothing, to pack them, to be certain of his dignity in every stage of his apparel while out of the duchy—but Baltran do’Verrada was never predictable. In the midst of the maelstrom he shed garments soiled from hunting even as clean ones were packed, snapped out orders to his personal secretary.