"But-"

"Bassda!" It burst from him abruptly, astonishing him as well as her. "I am aware of the magnitude of my failure," he declared, "and its repercussions. Matra ei Filho-I was foolish, Saavedra, but not estupedio. Nor deaf. Nor blind."

Tears suddenly welled, were dashed away. "Neither was I," she said in a raw, bleak tone.

"Neither am I, but I did no more than you. I did less than you!"

"Eiha, neither of us is to blame."

"No? But I am. I said nothing of the old man, the old Tza'ab, who taught him things." "And I said nothing of the pages of the Kita'ab, and the truth of our Folio" He saw her startlement. "Do you see? Assigning blame, assuming guilt, accomplishes nothing. Unless we care to share it, and thus dilute its focus."

Her exquisite face was devoid of color, stark as bone beneath soft-worked vellum. "I came to you so the Viehos Fratos would understand what he is. So they could stop him."

"How?"

"Peintraddo Chieva," she murmured wretchedly.

"Would you have us kill him? Cripple him?"

"No! Sweet Mother, no-"

"Then what, Saavedra? Invoking the Lesser Discipline did nothing to dissuade him."

"No," she said. "Ah, no, not that, not either . . ." And then she went whiter still.

"Saavedra?"

"His Peintraddo-"

"We have it. With the others. It remains in the collection of the Viehos Fratos."

She shook her head rigidly. "No . . . no, Il Sanguo-you have a copy."

"A copy-"

"I have the original." Her face was wasted. "He gave it into my keeping."

Breath gusted out of his lungs. "This abrogates all oaths . . . Nommo Chieva do'Orro, this is not possible!"

"It is. It was done. I have it. I have his Peintraddo." Wind stripped the coil out of a ringlet beside her ear, gave it back fecklessly. "Would a threat to it be enough?"

Bones ached in the fragile envelope of flesh. "For Sario? What do you believe?"

"I believe ... I believe ..." She shivered as gusting wind snapped her skirts away from her body, but he knew it was not that which caused the response. "I believe he would do what he thinks is necessary. That he would be what is necessary . . ." Tears bloomed, died. "He told me so."

" 'Vedra." He used the diminutive; saw it register. " 'Vedra, why did you come to me?"

She swallowed heavily. "Because I am afraid. For him. Of him. And because I love him." She gestured hastily, forestalling him. "Eiha, no-not the way I love Alejandro . . . not the way women love men whom they wish to marry, to whom they desire to bear children-it was never that way between us-" She checked minutely and he wondered if Sario could so freely admit the same. "-but in a different way, a way I don't understand, not truly, save to know it exists. Here."

She pressed a hand against her heart. "I understand him, Il Sanguo ... I see his light, his flame, I answer it-and he sees mine. Believes in mine." Bleakly, she said, "Sario always told me we shared the same soul." Raimon could not offer what she required-Alejandro's embrace, his warmth, his love-but he offered what he could: hands clasped upon her shoulders, and such truths as he could muster.

"Your soul is your own," he promised. "I see no blight in it, no disease that destroys its strength."

He turned her toward the vineyards, the orchards. "You are not as the vines are, as the olives and the oranges, vulnerable to wind, to frost, to depredations of the insects . . . you are Saavedra Grijalva, gifted with talent beyond so very many, beloved of a Duke-and possessed of a soul no one else may share. That no one else, even Sario, may destroy in his own designs." He squeezed her shoulders briefly, suppressing a wince as pain bloomed in his fingers, then turned her back so he might look into her face. "I asked you before why you came to me. Is this fear of what he will do?-or fear for what he has done?"

"Both," she said as wind buffeted. And told him about the portrait of a maimed Zaragosa Serrano.

When she was done, when she justified her fear far beyond overwrought imaginings, he turned sharply from her. He saw nothing, no terraced vineyards and orchards, no fieldstone walls, no marshlands beyond a bright blurred haze of tears.

"Sanguo Raimon?"

So much I have done.

"Il Sanguo?"

So much as this, bred out of my own desire, out of my own design.

"Sanguo Raimon . . ." She paused. "I could not bear to see such talent extinguished."

He said nothing.

"And there is always Alejandro." He had given her comfort, Raimon realized. By sharing her fear, she took encouragement from him, from no longer being alone. "I could speak with Alejandro."

She could. More so than he could.

"Perhaps you could speak with Sario."

Why not? He had shaped him. Had shaped this woman as well, and her fear; he had done far more than ever he intended.

I wrought too well.

Davo had said it. A flawed tool, breaking, may injure another. Others.

Time, he realized. All of it for time, because we claim so little. Had I waited-had I sought another boy- There was no other. There could be no other in Raimon's lifetime, who contained within one flesh so much that was required.

Mine to do, he realized. Mine to undo.

'' Sanguo Raimon-'' He turned. Smiled brilliantly. Kissed his fingers and pressed them against his heart. "Nommo Matra ei Filho," he said, repeating the motion with his key. "Nommo Chieva do'Orro. It shall be seen to."

Hope kindled, as did color. Wind tore hair from her face and bared it, bared the magnitude of her relief. She murmured gratitude to Mother and Son, said it more forcefully to him, then smiled against the wind and turned to make her way back.

Raimon watched her go. That much, I have done that deserved to be done. Wrought peace within her soul.

If at the cost of his own.

TWENTY-THREE.

Ignaddio had done exactly as directed: stacked paintings, panels, wood for stretchers and frames against the walls of Saavedra's new atelierro; piled jammed portfolios and sketchbooks, sheaves of unused paper in one corner; set out baskets and bottles and boxes into an ill-defined puzzle upon the floor, the worktable, even upon the lone chair. Saavedra herself, mired in the midst of sorting everything out of unfamiliar clutter into the equally cluttered arrangement she found comfortable and useful, did not at first mark the visitor's arrival; it required a pointed clearing of the throat before she heard, turned to see-and then she very nearly dropped the dented pewter tankard serving as brush holder.

"Alejandro!" -Eiha, but he is glorious!

Alejandro Baltran Edoard Alessio do'Verrada grinned his renowned grin, unselfconsciously displaying the crooked tooth that was in adolescence considered a flaw, yet now was called charming. "I prefer you like this, I think, rather than Court-clad; it reminds me of the day we met."

She remembered it as well as he. She had reeked of oil and solvents set into grimy linen, bore paint and chalk dust beneath her nails-while tangled, unbound ringlets were soaked with fountain water. Aside from the water, her present appearance in the midst of dust-laden industry nearly echoed that day.

She clutched the mashed tankard. "But I'm filthy! You might as well send me off to the middens, or to the dyers, even the tannery-"

He took one long stride, appropriated the tankard and bent to set it down, then, disdaining dust and perspiration, swept her all of a piece into his arms. "Filthy, mussed, with paint upon your face-" He touched a smudge on her cheek. "-and the pungent perfume of spilled oil... eiha, I am besmirched. And inconsolably desoladio." He kissed her. Hard.

Response was instantaneous. She had never known it quite so powerful before, an abrupt and unassailable awareness that nothing else in the world mattered in this moment but this moment, and what they could make of it.

"Door-" she murmured against his mouth.

"Closed," he answered, into hers. "There is a bed in the other-"

"No," he said. "Here."

Amidst a tangle of unprimed canvas; the rattling of stoppered bottles; a basket of chalk tipped over to spill its contents in a rainbow across the rug; the tankard mashed yet again; his crushed and now-featherless hat-here it was.

Sario had caused to be made a massive upright chest with drawers and locks built into it: shallow, wide drawers that stored and warded finished and incomplete works. There were other chests, caskets, baskets, so many containers for the storing away of his needs. It took time to sort through, to sort out, to put away into an arrangement he found most appropriate and useful the tools of his talent, the tangible requirements of his Gift. Pots, bottles, vials, all sealed with wax, or cork, or leather; sealed also with lingua oscurra. Rims of tiny, indecipherable runes warded that which was vital, so that he need not find himself naked of the makings of power at any given moment.

Grijalvas learned many crafts as they grew and were taught; the family had survived the years after the Nerro Lingua not only by copying, by occasional commissions, but by serving the needs of artists and others. He as much as any of them knew how to mix, to make, to bind together the necessary ingredients for various crafts and recipes. He could make paper, bind leather . . . and so he bound the loose pages of Il-Adib's unintended bequest and made himself a Kita'ab. An infinitely brief, unfinished, private-and wholly personal-Kita'ab, that was also as much as it could be Grijalva Folio.

It took much time to sort out the past life of Palasso Grijalva he brought with him to the future life of the Palasso Verrada. He was given a wing all to himself so that he might tend his own requirements in such a way as to serve the needs of his Duke and thus the needs of the duchy.

There were servants, of course, though he dismissed most of them; two he kept for convenience, because when lost within the work he often forgot to eat, to drink-and why not send another to fetch a tray to him rather than break his concentration?

Concentration was so vital, especially with the oscurra and borders that demanded his best, lest the magic harm him ... it infuriated Sario sometimes that he needed to urinate. That too interrupted. But such things he would tend himself; he did not believe paying a servant to pee would relieve his own bladder. Although there were times he wished it were possible.

At present he did not require the nightpot; kneeling upon the rune-worked Tza'ab rug brought from Il-Adib's tent, Sario sorted papers. Papers upon papers: maps of Tira Virte, maps of Pracanza, maps of Ghillas, of Taglis, Merse, Diettro Mareia, even of Vethia, so far to the north of the world ... he did not believe he could bear to look at another map, and yet he must. He was now Lord Limner; his task was to acquaint himself with treaties, wars, alliances, with family needs and family habits, with the interests of other Dukes and kings and princes, with their innumerable wives and children, even with their pets-because if he were to help shape diplomacy, to assist his Duke in creating history, he had to know everything.

"Matra," he murmured. "I cannot believe Zaragosa Serrano was capable of this-capable of anything beyond clothing himself in scarlet!"

A step scraped at the door. He had not shut it of a purpose; what he did was never undertaken without invoking proper protections-and he needed just now to convince everyone in the Palasso Verrada there was nothing for them to suspect of their new Grijalva Limner. Let them look upon him. "And so Zaragosa clothes himself in it forever, no?" the other asked evenly. "The scarlet of shame, the reddening of fever-racked hands, the crimson of his blood as the leeches bleed him in hopes of healing an unanticipated and debilitating illness very like that which commonly afflicts Grijalvas."

Sario did not turn. He knew the voice, recognized displeasure bordering on contempt. "His talent was dead. His body might as well be."

"When the Matra decrees it so." Raimon Grijalva came further into the chamber. "Have you usurped Her place?"

Sario, who yet knelt with his back to the man, grinned, tended maps. "No doubt the Serranos would argue so!"

"And have they the right of it?"

So, it comes . . . Sario stacked one map atop the other: Ghillas conquered Diettro Mareia. Now for the genealogies, the complex lattices and laceworks of marriages, births, deaths, the endless inventories of paintings recording events ... "I do what I must. I am, after all, of the Viehos Fratos."

"And?"

"And?" He shrugged, smiling, examined the multiple marriages of Baltassar of Ghillas written out so meticulously; how could a man bear to marry so many women? And how had so many managed to die? "Am I supposed to be other?"

"More, perhaps," Raimon said. "You have resources others do not, even those who are of the Viehos Fratos."

Oddly, he felt anticipation, not regret; and a stirring nearly as powerful as lust. "Does it trouble you, Raimon?" He set aside the Ghillasian genealogies, the inventories, turned instead to trade agreements between Taglis and Tira Virte. "Do you fear I will misuse what I know?"

Silence.

Sario smiled more widely. There is pleasure in this-there is POWER in this. Quietly he put aside the papers and rose, dusting knees. Turned: chain and Chieva glittered in candleglow. With schooled self-possession he confronted the only man he had ever and always respected. "You made me," he said clearly. "Grazzo, be precise in this-of what do you believe I am capable?"

Raimon's face was stark. "Anything."

Sario paused a moment-he had not expected the bald truth quite so soon-and then nodded.

"Permit me to rephrase, grazzo-what do you believe I will do?"

"Whatever you choose to do."

Truth, again. From this man he expected nothing less, or more; events had moved more quickly than any anticipated, even he. Zaragosa had been meant to die, or to be dismissed because of illness, but Baltran's freakish death had put all into motion too swiftly. And, clearly, Sanguo Raimon had accepted what others couldn't or wouldn't imagine. Not yet.

Then he shall have truth as well. "Nommo Chieva do'Orro, Raimon, I swear this: I don't want to rule. Is that what you fear?"

The older man shook his head. "Even you comprehend that contesting for Tira Virte would throw the duchy into a civil war so disastrous it would destroy everything-and leave you with nothing worth ruling. Unless . . ." Raimon's expression was at once bitter as winter, sere as summer. "Unless it is that you serve Tza'ab Rih now."

Sario laughed aloud. "Eiha, they might wish it! They might even expect it-it was what the old man wanted-but that is not my goal."

"Then what is your goal, Sario?" Raimon paused, examined expression, posture, then continued. "Have you any that avoids usurping the Mother's Throne?"

So much pleasure now, so much anticipation. "Heresy-or humor! Which is it, Raimon?"

Laughing, he spread hands wide. "To be what I am. That is my goal. To be Lord Limner to the Duke of Tira Virte."

"Why?"

"Because I was shaped to be so by men such as you."

Raimon took a single step, checked. "It was not I who began this-"

"No? Of course it was. Otavio and Ferico would surely have done more than burned three tiny holes along my collarbone-" Sario touched his doublet. "-in fact, I believe they might have suggested I be treated as Tomaz was treated, thereby forever quenching a fire they could not control." He shrugged easily. "I am as you see me. I might have been less, might have been more, left to my own devices-but now I am the man whom the Grijalvas-vas view as savior-"

"Savior!"

"-because it is to me the Duke shall come, must come, to plot his plots, his policies, and the campaigns of the conselhos; to conduct trade and make treaties; to arrange to marry a woman, to get heirs upon her; to marry another if that one dies in the bearing; to commemorate deaths and births and marriages and thus more births and marriages, and possibly more deaths ... to document life, Raimon! To record the history and change of a nation and her people." He paused, looking for comprehension in place of contempt in the other man's aging face. "That is what we do. That is our task. To unmask the world so others may know the truth and be bound by it."

"Your truth."

"We all of us make our own-or, in the name of coin, accept commissions to twist the truth as others will have it twisted."