The Golden Key (13 page)

“You have done a great wrong, Saavedra,” he said very quietly.

“Yes—eiha,
yes
, I know—oh, Aguo, I swear I never meant for the painting to be endangered—”

“Far more than the painting was endangered, Saavedra. Far more than the painting was destroyed.”

She clamped her mouth tight on further pleas. Did he know what they knew, she and Sario? Did he know the truth of what they had intended?

“Discipline,” he said.

Her mind turned inside out, frantic with implications. Did he mean the Chieva do’Sangua? Surely not. He would not admit it to her. He would never say that her actions had also killed a man as well as his
Peintraddo Chieva.

“Discipline,” he repeated. “The erosion of which could destroy our family as the Nerro Lingua so nearly did.” His tone softened. “Rise, Saavedra. I am not Premio Sancto to hear your confession and absolve you of this. I am merely a Grijalva.”

“And Il Aguo,” she murmured.

“I have that honor, yes … Saavedra, rise. I would have you look at me.”

Trembling, she rose. She met his eyes—gray, like her own—and nearly quailed. His features were severe for his age, but his eyes were not. She saw something in them very like compassion.

“I was your age once,” he said. “I went where I was not to go, as you did. No one knew it, and thus I was not punished; but neither did I destroy a painting out of sheer clumsiness.”

“I tried to stop it,” she murmured. “I did—but I was top late.”

“Paintings burn too quickly to save, once touched by flame,” he said. “It’s one of the reasons we take such care of our work, Saavedra … you are fortunate you did not burn yourself as well.”

“That wouldn’t matter,” she said, and then blurted out a purposeful falsehood. “Tomaz may paint another, may he not? I mean—I know it won’t be the same, not exactly the same, but he is a very gifted painter, Tomaz is—could he not paint another?”

Severity and humor, so at odds with one another, were instantly banished. She saw in his eyes an acknowledgment he could not make to her: what was destroyed was far more than a painting, and could never be replaced.

“Indeed,” he said with an undertone of dryness, “it could never be the same.”

“Does he know?” she asked quickly. “Has anyone told Tomaz? Eiha, he will hate me for this …” Saavedra scrambled to summon the proper tone, to obfuscate what she knew with what she might otherwise believe. “And he has the right! It was a beautiful painting!”

“A masterwork,” Raimon Grijalva confirmed. “A self-portrait is required of all young men who would be acknowledged as Gifted.”

“Does he know yet?” she asked.

Il Aguo’s expression was stark. “I think there is no way Tomaz could
not
know,” he answered precisely. “But—you need have no fear of repercussion. There will be no punishment by Tomaz.”

“But he would have the right!”

“He would, yes. But—” He made a brief gesture. “Saavedra, it is of no consequence.”

“No consequence!” She was appalled; she had to be, did she not? She knew the truth of the
Peintraddo Chieva
, but he did not know that.
I must pretend I am thinking only of Tomaz, and what he would think of me for having destroyed his painting.
… “Of course there is consequence! Look what I have done!”

“Look what you have done,” Il Aguo said. “Indeed. And I think you know.”

It took effort to keep from blurting out the wrong thing, to concentrate so tightly on what she
should
know, not what she did. “You will punish me,” she said hollowly.

“Of course,” he answered. “You abrogated proper compordotta.” Exacting and perfect behavior, as defined by the Viehos Fratos for the family.

Her mouth was dry. “What am I to do?”

“Not what you are to do, Saavedra … what you are
not
to do.”

“Not—?”

“You are forbidden Sario’s company for one year.”

It shocked her. “A
year
?”

“One whole year.”

“But—” This was wholly unexpected, and as painful. “Aguo,” she said faintly, admitting to him what she would not admit to others, not even to Sario, who probably knew, “he is my only friend.”

“I know that. As the painting was Tomaz’s only self-portrait of any consequence.”

Even in the midst of anguish, she grasped at subterfuge. “He can paint another, Aguo!”

“No,” he said. “He cannot.”

Of course he could not. Dead men painted nothing. But she clung to dissimulation. “Not another just like it, perhaps, but another to take its place.”

“No, Saavedra. Such things are painted only once. That is what gives them consequence.”

That, and whatever magic was in them. Saavedra bit into her lip. “Then I am to be exiled in my own home?”

“You are forbidden only Sario’s company. You will see him, of course—that can hardly be avoided within Palasso Grijalva—but you will not be permitted to speak to one another, or spend time together other than in the classes you take together. And, as to that—” He smiled briefly, “—it has been brought to my attention that you have much skill for a young woman, Saavedra. And you are of an age when those of us responsible for such things begin to consider which young men and women shall be matched according to talent.”

A wave of heat coursed through her flesh. Saavedra said nothing.

“He has led you astray, our little Neosso Irrado … do you believe we are blind? You are a good girl, Saavedra, but too trusting of Sario’s intentions. You permit him to lead you into improper compordotta, when he would do better to follow
your
example. Do not think we have no understanding that it was he who led you into the Crechetta—it is not in you to do that which is forbidden.”

This left her speechless, though her mind worked frantically.

“Poor company,” Raimon Grijalva said, “may mislead even the elect.”

She no longer thought of herself, of what she had done, only of what Sario might be. “But—he’s not truly bad, Aguo! He is Gifted, I know it!”

“Your loyalty does you credit, Saavedra.”

“It’s more than that, Aguo.” She surprised herself with her certainty, but it was so powerful she could not suppress it. “He’s different, Aguo Raimon. He’s
more
than everyone else.”

His expression now was curiously blank. “How do you know this?”

“I feel it,” she answered. “I just know it, Aguo. It’s here in my heart.” Saavedra touched her breast. “He never was like anyone else, right from the beginning. And they know it. It’s why they treat
him so badly, why they taunt him, mock him, try to make him feel small … because they sense it in him, too, Aguo. He can be everything they long to be, but know in their souls they can’t be. It’s the true-talent, Aguo, but also the spirit.” She looked for understanding in the quiet eyes. “There are those of us who dream, who long to be the best ever; and those of us to whom it
isn’t
a dream, but something that will be attained. Something that must be.” Saavedra sighed a little. “They are jealous of him, Aguo. Even the moualimos, who know what he can be. You see—”

A lifted hand silenced her. “Indeed, we do know who is most likely to embody the talent we cherish. But discipline is vital, as is compordotta … a gift can only be honestly and effectively wielded for the good of the family when one understands that misuse of it can cause adverse consequences.”

Mutely, she nodded; Tomaz had certainly suffered such consequences.

“There are so few of us now, you see—we must safeguard those of us who are left. We dare not permit an angry young man to harm the ordering of the family.”

Now she shook her head.

“You will do better apart from him, Saavedra. Let your own talent blossom; rely not so much upon his Luza do’Orro when you claim your own.”

It shocked her; he knew of such things?

Raimon Grijalva smiled. “The moualimos are exacting and sometimes impossible to please, but they are also keen observers of talent, Saavedra. You have more than your share of it.”

“Not as much as
he
has.”

“Sario? Well—perhaps not … but without discipline, talent is nothing. If it cannot be controlled, of what use is it?”

They moved away from dangerous topics now and into the philosophy of art itself. She came alive beneath his gaze. “But there is honesty in wildness, Aguo—a painter must also be permitted to let himself run free, to see how far he may allow his talent to carry him.”

“Within reason, of course. But without rules, without discipline, all would be wasted.”

“But, Aguo, are we not Grijalvas? Are we not free to express ourselves as no other family may?”

“As we do.” He smiled. “Do not attempt to divert me, Saavedra … I grant you he has talent, and likely is Gifted, as we shall discover soon, but untrained talent may lead one astray from family needs and goals.”

“He wants to be Lord Limner,” she blurted. “And he
could.
He is good enough! Would you deny the Grijalvas the opportunity to replace a Serrano with one of us, merely because he is occasionally wild?”

“‘Occasionally,’ Saavedra?”

“He chafes, Aguo, as surely you must have chafed! You said you were young once, and went where you were forbidden … do you see where it has led you? You are a Grand Master, one of the most renowned limners of the family—it should have been
you
named to Guilbarro Serrano’s place instead of his modestly-talented graffiti-crafter of a son!”

He was very quiet for a long moment as she recollected who she was, and who he was. “You truly believe Sario is that talented?”

“I think he is capable of painting anything! Of
becoming
anything!”

He nodded, eyes hooded obliquely. “Yes, it may be so.” One hand clasped the Golden Key depending from its chain. “It may indeed be so. Well, we are finished, you and I—you have been given your punishment. Now go and wash and change your clothes—be certain you have not burned yourself, Saavedra—and remember that this ‘exile,’ as you call it, is to last a year. There will be no mitigation of my decision.”

“No, Aguo.”

He kissed his fingers, which contained the key, then pressed them against his heart. “In Their Blessed Names, I declare you dismissed.”

Though she wore no key, Saavedra mimicked his motion. In silence—he would tolerate no more protestations—she turned and left the solar.
I need to tell Sario
— And then she comprehended the full magnitude and exquisite appropriateness of her punishment.

“Matra Dolcha,” she murmured, full of painful tears, “if you can hasten time, I beg you do it now!”

Raimon Grijalva turned as the man entered the solar. He immediately gestured to the high-backed, cushioned chair, but the other shook his head slightly and instead moved to one of the deep-cut windows. His back was to Raimon.

“Yes,” the other said thoughtfully, “I do see it now. You were correct to have me come.”

“Premio Frato,” Raimon acknowledged.

“She could become as important to our plans as the boy himself.”
He turned then and faced Raimon. “I think there is no doubt now that it is the Tza’ab blood. There was always talent in our family, but this is different. This is—more. There have been changes in our talent, in our blood.”

“The genealogies suggest the Tza’ab blood is a factor, but nothing was noted until after the Nerro Lingua,” Raimon said.

The other gestured. “It is possible, of course, but we must also remember that the Nerro Lingua itself played havoc with our record keeping. I will not discount it, but it may simply be that the changes were not recorded in the aftermath of the plague. There was so much to do.”

“Of course.” Raimon tended the chain against his doublet. “Will you have wine, Premio Frato?”

“Perhaps later.” The older man, the First Brother among the Viehos Fratos, was craggy of feature, bold of bone. He turned again so that the light from the window painted half his face. “I have studied the girl’s portfolio. She shows astonishing promise. And you say she is thirteen?”

“Twelve, Premio Arturro.”

“Twelve. Well, we have time, but not so much that we must dawdle.” Arturro Grijalva smiled. “And as clever with her tongue as with her hands.”

Raimon’s mouth hooked briefly in an ironic slant. “As clever in her own way as the boy.”

Arturro sighed. “Our little Neosso Irrado … well, we shall have to take him in hand. Tomaz was unfortunate—particularly in what happened with the
Peintraddo Chieva!
—but Sario may well offer more trouble than even Tomaz. He is Gifted as the girl believes, as well as insatiably ambitious far beyond his age. He is not truly a boy, but a mixture of boy and man—and is therefore dangerous.”

“Why is it,” Raimon began, “that the ones with the most talent lack self-discipline?”

“As well you should ask, Raimon!” But Arturro softened it with a fond smile. “I begin to think it is a requirement, an aspect of the Gift itself … those boys who are
too
dedicated to following every rule exhibit nothing more than adequate ability. They question nothing, and therefore never challenge themselves, never challenge their talent.”

“And the Gift?”

The Premio Frato’s expression tautened. “That, too. And that is why this boy may well be dangerous. It is a fine line, Raimon, the Gift and self-control … he must be let off the lead to develop the
talent, to challenge and thus extend it, but he must not be loosed so long that he does not come back to the hand.”