The Golden Key (48 page)

“That is not
my
fault,” Raimon said. “Blessed Mother, but Duke Baltran’s death was an accident. It might have happened two years ago, or ten years from now—”

“In either case,” Ferico said, “we would have had time to properly prepare a candidate for his Heir, or Alejandro’s Heir, or
that
Heir’s son. It is all a matter of time, Raimon, as it has always been—butyour support placed Sario in a position such that only he could be fairly considered, with no time left to us at all.” He glanced at the others briefly, then looked back at Raimon. “I think we are all in agreement that had you not proved so eloquent a supporter, in all likelihood he would have been subject to Chieva do’Sangua well before Baltran do’Verrada ever departed upon his journey to Pracanza.”

“You can’t punish a man for his talent! For his Gift!”

“No,” Ferico agreed. “Only for compordotta we believe dangerous to the family.”

“Then why am I called here?” Raimon asked.

“Because it reaches farther than that,” Davo explained quietly. “You enabled him.”

“Then it is
my
compordotta we’re discussing!”

Ferico’s gaze was steady. “You are a clever, insightful man, Raimon. Explanation would be redundant.”

Only his grip upon the finials kept him from falling to his knees.
He clung tightly, disregarding the pain, and tried to compose himself.
Until the words are said
—

“Nommo Matra ei Filho. Nommo Chieva do’Orro.” As one, save for himself. And Sario.

Always Sario.

  TWENTY-EIGHT  

Sario
was immensely pleased: the painting went well. After multitudinous complaints about his stringent posing requirements, Saavedra had at last grown silent and simply let him work. Therefore it was with more than mild annoyance that he looked up to scowl at her as she made some small sound.

“What is it?” he asked crossly, and then, “Matra meya, what’s happened to your color?”
She gripped the chairback. “How can I know?” she asked, scowling. “My eyes are in
my
head, not in yours.”

“This won’t do,” he said. Then, sharply, “No, no—’Vedra! Don’t move
now!
”

“I am going to sit down.” And she did, seating herself with some care on the chair he employed as part of the composition.

Exasperated, Sario set down his brush. “Do you mean me to be an alla prima painter?” he asked. “I had thought fa presto, at
least;
I would prefer to take my time rather than be forced to complete this from start to finish in a single session! After all, you required Alejandro’s presence for
weeks.
”

Saavedra smiled thinly. “But you have never said I might be an alla prima painter myself, have you?”

“You
could
be—if you allowed yourself to believe it, and others to confirm it. Then they would permit you to paint as you wished. Alla prima, fa presto, or in sections requiring weeks, as you will.”

She put the back of her hand against her brow briefly, then stroked hair out of her eyes. “Sario, why is it you are so opposed to children?”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You have no kind words for them, ever.”

“Children are an impediment. You yourself have said Ignaddio’s constant interest interrupts your own work, and he is not even
yours.
”

“There is no question that children may interrupt, and even perhaps impede—but there is hostility in your tone.”

“For you,” he said plainly. “For your sake, ‘Vedra, and the sake of your talent, your
need
to paint. You know I believe you are
Gifted, and yet your reasoning behind not permitting me to test you is that you could not possibly
be
Gifted.”

“I can’t be—and you know why, Sario.”

“It is
because
you are a woman that I know, ‘Vedra. You are— different. I can see it in you. How many times have I said the Light recognizes itself?” He spread his hands illustratively. “You see? You are a Grijalva, a woman, and therefore must bear children … forsaking altogether—and willingly, from the sound of it!—your Luza do’Orro.” He scowled. “Do you know how many men would sacrifice anything for your potential?”

“I
have
no potential beyond what I already am!”

“Because you have been taught since birth there is nothing for women. Eiha, but this infuriates me! You supported me in all things when I transgressed, and yet you will not permit me the same service. I know what you are, I know what you can
be
—if you would only let me test you, to confirm that you, too, lay claim to the Gift and all it entails!” He glared, moved nearly to tears. “Why, when I wish to do something for you instead of
to
you, do you resist me?”

“Sario—”

“We have shared so very much from the beginning, ‘Vedra—and you want to take it all away from me. All of it.” He sat stiffly on his stool and stared fixedly at the unfinished painting. “You are all I have ever had.”

She stared hard at her hands a long moment, then finally said very quietly, “Things change, Sario.”

“Indeed. So do people.”

Her features were pale and pinched. Shadowed circles beset her eyes. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“With the truth, such as you discern it?” His smile was bitter, wintry. “I know what I am, Saavedra … and I know how hard I worked to become it. You would be a liar to suggest someone else deserved the appointment, with or without your—aid.”

She didn’t smile. “En verro.”

“So.” His chest was tight, knotted up; with effort he relaxed. “You remain determined to throw away your talent in the name of children.”

“I
want
children, Sario.”

“They wish you to want children, and so you do.”

“That isn’t it at all.”

“Of course it is. They put this in your head so you
think
you want children, so you will never consider your talent.”

“And my Gift?” She smiled briefly, then shook her head. “Sario—is it that you cannot sire any?”

“Thank the Mother in Her wisdom for that!” He kissed his fingertips, pressed them against his heart. “I want nothing to do with children. I want only to
paint
, not to train up an infant!”

She examined him a long moment, weighing his words, his tone, his expression. “Eiha, that is probably as well,” she said eventually. “You would not be a good father.”

It astounded him that she could make such an all-encompassing judgment. “How do you know? Why do you say that?”

“Men who detest children rarely make good fathers—unless, of course, they truly do want and like them, and merely lie about it.”

It was ludicrous, all of it. “Bassda, ‘Vedra! I have come to paint you, not discuss procreation.” He took up his brush again, gestured incisively. “Assume the pose, grazzo.”

“I’m tired,” she declared; indeed, she
looked
tired. “I want to sit here and rest—paint something else, Sario. The lantern. The decanter. The
fruit.
None of them is tired, nor will they complain that you make them stand too long.” She cocked an eye at the fruit. “Of course, none of them is
standing
…”

“Bassda,” he muttered. “Matra, but you try my patience.”

“Then be an alla prima artist,” she suggested sweetly. “Surely you have both vision and ability to paint all at once, from beginning to end, and will be as content with it after one session as you would be with weeks of work.”

He growled deep in his throat, intending to say something more, but he had lost her. Her attention clearly was fixed on someone else; and then he heard the footstep in the door.

Ignaddio. Of course. Proving his contention that children impeded work.

“’Vedra?” Ignaddio piped. “’Vedra, you are to go out.”

“Go out? Go out where?” Sario asked sharply. “No, you will
stay.
I cannot have the work disrupted yet again!”

Ignaddio dipped his head. “Regretto, Lord Limner, but it’s the Duke. He’s waiting in the courtyard, by the fountain.”

“Matra Dolcha!” Saavedra leaped up from the chair in a flurry of rose-colored skirts and black ringlets.

“Merditto,” Sario muttered as she ran out the door. He scowled at Ignaddio, scowled at his brush, scowled at the work. “How can he expect to receive his commission if he keeps stealing the subject?”

“May I see?” Ignaddio asked.

“No, you may not see. I permit no one to see a work in progress.”

“But you said once the preliminary sketch was done—”

“Bassda! You try me, ninio.” He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Go.
Go.
Find Diega for me—look in the laundry, grazzo—and send her to me. We have business, she and I.”

Ignaddio’s eyes widened. “But—I thought you couldn’t—”

“Couldn’t what, ninio? And what concern is it of yours what I can or cannot do, or what I may or may not
wish
to do?”

“Do’nado,” Ignaddio whispered.

“Indeed, do’nado. Adezo, go. Send Diega to me. Then take yourself elsewhere, or I shall never even once examine your portfolio.”

And as he had never even once suggested he ever would, the implied threat had the desired effect. Ignaddio departed.

Saavedra stepped beneath the arched, vine-draped entrance leading from a small walled garden into the central courtyard and stopped short. Alejandro stood but yards beyond her, gazing fixedly into the fountain and wholly oblivious to her approach, the sound of her footsteps obscured by the gargle and spray of cascading water. His was a pure, clean profile of such striking clarity she realized all at once she must paint him again, and very soon. Too often portraiture was of a full-face pose, or perhaps three-quarters profile—she wanted the profile itself, as if it bedecked a coin: the high brow partially obscured by unruly hair, still wavy in adulthood; the clean bridge of the nose, as yet unblemished by weapons practice or a misplaced wrestler’s hold; the chiseled hollow between nostrils and upper lip; and a mouth she knew intimately enough that she blushed to think of it. The chin beneath was pronounced enough to establish a hint of stubbornness, but also of character; and it was far better to have more chin, she thought, than less.

She moved toward him. Her shoes crunched now on gravel and he turned, banishing the profile entirely, but Saavedra did not care. There were esthetics she appreciated in any of his postures, in the lifting of a brow, the quirking of his mouth, the quick snapping gesture of a thick wrist and broad hand in dismissal of a point of argument he found abruptly insignificant, even if it be his own.

Not in the least inhibited by the notoriously flawed grin, he bestowed it upon her freely, then caught both of her hands as she joined him at the fountain. Spray bathed his face, now hers; it mingled as they kissed. But within moments his expression altered
from tender to serious, and she knew he had not come out of simple desire for her company.

Saavedra tugged him down beside her as she perched upon the curving bench surrounding the lowest basin, disregarding wind-drifted spray. “Tell me.”

He made no attempt to prevaricate. “Caza Varra,” he said simply. “I must go there.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know it.”

He scraped a bootheel against a stone flag, digging at an edge as if he would pry it up. “It’s one of the country estates. My father took us there during summers when he could get away.” He sighed, plainly ill at ease, digging more vigorously. “My mother is there now. She has retired from Court, from all public life.”