The Golden Key (36 page)

“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 your 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 Gift
edness.
”

“I am not—”

He overrode her. “I have told you: the fire in one recognizes the
flame in another.” Sario looked beyond her, reasserted self-control. “And now at last he comes, our new Duke, for the Grijalva portion of his Paraddia Galerria—shall we watch as he examines the paintings, and try to predict his thoughts?”

Saavedra seemed almost to flinch. And then she smiled, though it lacked the unforced brilliance of her others. “As if there is any question!”

“Eiha, well—there is always a chance. Ettorio is not unskilled, and there is Domaos, Ivo, Ybarro …” Five Grijalvas, of them all. “And those of other families, even the Serranos; even, dare I say it,
Zaragosa
—” He smiled as he said it, knowing what he knew—
except the work is wasted, now!
“—and Alejandro may well reappoint his father’s Lord Limner.” He gestured qualification. “It’s never been done, but it
could
be—”

“None of them, Sario. You.”

It was declaration. It was expected. She never failed him.

Sario smiled, then stepped away from the wall upon which a select few of his paintings were displayed, so that Duke Alejandro, when he arrived, might view them without obstruction.

The scent of beeswax and cedar pervaded. Raimon Grijalva, bowed down before the exquisitely-painted icon—in Palasso Grijalva it could hardly be otherwise than exquisite!—with knees pressed into worn flagstones unsoftened by rug, heard the scrape of a footstep, the rattle of a latch. He murmured a hasty final devotion, kissed his Chieva, pressed it to his heart, then rose, turned, halted. “Davo!”

The older man’s smile was ironic. “Did you expect someone else?”

He did. “Sario,” he admitted, “come to tell me the result.”

“It is as you expected. But did you doubt it?”

“No.” Raimon released his self-steadying grip upon the velurro-draped table on which the icon was displayed. “Indeed, I expected it. Didn’t you?”

Candlelight was unflattering to Davo’s face. At forty-five he began to fail; clearly he would not see the fifty-one years of Arturro’s lifespan, or the forty-nine of Otavio’s, dead the year before. It was Ferico now who was Premio Frato—but they all of them aged, and Ferico, too, would fail before much longer.

Leaving Davo—or another
…
perhaps even me
—

“I expected it,” Davo admitted. “To me, there was no other choice. But—I am a Grijalva, and some would say I am biased.”