"Perhaps it would be easier for Eleyna," said Beatriz quietly, "if Mama and Papa allowed me to attend her at Chasseriallo. Then she would have a companion."

"You are an unmarried girl," said Cabral.

"I have an infant son in the crechetta."

"That is true, and I think it an excellent idea, Beatriz. Don Edoard is not, alas, the most stimulating companion unless one likes horses and hounds to the exclusion of all else. However, you are not a suitable duennia."

"Davo's wife Mara, then," said Beatriz instantly. As if she had already considered the question. "She can act as duennia. I can act as companion."

"Why not?" said Eleyna recklessly, turning back from the window. "I would be glad of your company, Beatriz. I always am. Perhaps it won't be so bad after all." But her voice stumbled over the words.

"Then you agree?" asked Cabral.

She refused to bow her head. If she chose this path, then she would do so with her eyes open.

"I do. I give my word. If I may be allowed to paint-"

"Between fittings, mennina meya," said Cabral. "You will have to have gowns and walking dresses and riding clothes, that sort of thing. You will entertain, go to balls-"

Court life! It was too awful to contemplate. But contemplate it she must.

"I can stand in for you, at fittings," said Beatriz quickly, as if to forestall an explosion. For Beatriz's sake, Eleyna held her tongue.

Cabral rose and gave them each a kiss. "May I let the Casteyan steward know you have no objection to Count Maldonno buying the painting?" As a parting shot, it was effective. Her painting to hang in the do'Casteya collection! She could only nod dumbly. Cabral bundled up the painting and left. Matra Dolcha! It had all happened so quickly. And imagine, Beatriz protecting her! Eleyna laughed suddenly. "You can't be fitted in my place, though it's kind of you to offer."

"Do you want to stand for hours for all the fittings?"

"Of course not. You know I hate-"

"Then hush. We're close enough in size that it won't matter. Trust me, Eleyna. Say nothing.

All will be well."

With that assurance Eleyna had to be content.

SIXTY-ONE.

Sario Grijalva stood beside one of the great arched windows that let sunlight pour into the Atelierro. The sun was warm and bright; it was another cloudless day in an uncomfortably dry winter. The other Viehos Fratos stood at the end of the long Atelierro, beside the stove, watching young Agustin Grijalva bite his lower lip just before he took a lancet and pricked his forefinger.

All these changes! Instead of each Limner being granted his own atelierro, as was traditional, they had ten years ago expanded the Atelierro where the unGifted limners worked. How it irritated him to have to profess approval when an old custom was tossed aside like a marred canvas, but too often his solitary voice raised in protest was ignored or-worse-marked as suspicious. Annoyed, Sario watched with his newly-young and gratifyingly sharp Limner eyes as red welled up from Agustin's pale skin and was dripped into a tiny glass vial for storage.

The other men-only seven of them, one stooped with bone-fever though he was only thirty- eight-murmured appreciatively. Giaberto went so far as to pat young Agustin on the shoulder. It was a momentous occurrence when the Viehos Fratos acknowledged a new apprentice-even one who had not gone through the usual Confirmattio. Still, there would be years of apprenticeship before the boy painted his Peintraddo Chieva.

Too slight, thought Sario. He won't live long. He's fragile, too sensitive, too compliant.

Damn these sour pedants anyway! They had ruined the flower of Grijalva blood. The horrible stiff classicism he had deplored ten years ago as Arriano Grijalva had not, miraculously, vanished in the intervening period. As the new Sario, he had chosen the life of an Itinerrario so his years abroad would act as the excuse for the new more vital style of painting he intended to "bring back" with him-the painting that would revitalize and change what they now called the "Academy" style.

But he had returned to find the "Academy" style draped like an antique robe over everything else, smothering it in the stark detail of its rigid folds.

There were so few Gifted Limners left after the Summer Fever, itself so disastrously reminiscent of the Nerro Lingua that had nearly destroyed the Grijalvas-that was, perhaps, paradoxically, responsible for the Gift. Which was now stretched too thin. Once, admittance to the inner circle-to the rank of Aguo, Semmino, or Sanguo-was an honor reserved for the finest and most influential Grijalva Limners. No longer. They called Giaberto Premio Frato, but now the title meant only that Giaberto was Andreo's likely successor. Already there was talk of allowing Agustin to attend meetings of the Viehos Fratos-before he had painted his Peintraddo Chieva. And influence was measured purely by relation within the family. Vieho Frato Sario might be, but the others refused to acknowledge his genius. This Sario's mother had died in the intervening years, Grazzo do'Matra, and his remaining relatives had proven weak. Cabral and Leilias's faction ruled the Conselhos now, though Leilias-and her dangerous knowledge of a long-ago night-was dead.

He had no supporters, no adherents. The only painter for whom he had the slightest respect was a young woman who was now, he had just learned, being carted off to provide bedplay for the young Heir. They actually thought she was more useful to them as a Mistress than as a painter just because as a woman she could not be Gifted!

Chieva do'Orro! What had the Grijalva bloodline come to? Had they forgotten everything about painting; had they forgotten the secrets of the Tza'ab he had worked so hard to procure, of the Golden Key itself, in their pursuit of wealth and power? Had the Gift become more important than the art?

I will not let this happen. I cannot let this happen.

Sario was twenty-six now. Yet he would gladly cast off this body and take on a new host, one with more influential relatives, except there were no suitable candidates. At least ten promising boys-one of them known to be Gifted-had died in the great Fever two years ago. Those who survived had proven unGifted, except for this boy, Agustin, who claimed good family connections but poor health. He was of no use. And taking an older man was too dangerous an option.

Sario was tired of waiting.

"Eiha, Sario. The boy has talent, no?" Nicollo Grijalva sidled over to him.

"The sister is the better painter."

Nicollo smiled patronizingly. "You're only twenty-six. You have the luxury of these new romantic notions. Acceptable for the streets, perhaps, but not for court art."

"The Grand Dukes have always dictated fashion, of course." He allowed himself a sneer. "Do they dictate what is true and beautiful in art, now, as well?"

"It has always been so," said Nicollo with a mocking bow. Eiha! Nicollo had treated Arriano with respect, when he had met him briefly eleven years ago, when Arriano was a respected and powerful Embajadorro and Nicollo merely a young Limner struggling for position. But Nicollo was the sort of man who, once given power, used it as a height from which to look down on the less fortunate.

"It has not always been so!" retorted Sario, then stopped. What was the point of arguing with these imbeciles? They knew nothing. Copyists!

Nicollo raised an eyebrow, a trick he used to cow his students. Sario fumed.

The others of the gathered Limners drifted away, leaving Agustin with his uncle in front of a full-length mirror. Giving Nicollo a curt nod, Sario walked over to watch the boy attempt his first tutored spell.

"I've done this before," said the boy with a stab at bravaddio.

"Is that so?" asked Giaberto calmly. "In your rooms? Privately, I hope." "No. I did it under Eleyna's supervision. I used colored chalks on a piece of silk, using a bit of my saliva and a touch of pine oil. I drew roses, and we put the silk under Beatriz's pillow, to see what she would dream of."

Shocked, Sario waited for Giaberto's reaction. How had the young woman found out such secrets? But Giaberto remained calm. "Did she dream of roses?"

"No. She dreamed about pigs. She always dreams about pigs. But she said they were rose- colored pigs." Agustin giggled. Sario, attuned to the nuances of facial expression after long, long experience, saw that Giaberto was furious but hiding it.

"What really happened?" Sario asked suddenly.

Startled, Agustin played nervously with the pencil in his hand, rolling it over and over again through his fingers. "I did try the dream silk, roses one night, pigs another, Grandmother Leilias the third time, and a bell the fourth. Every morning Beatriz had dreamed of the things I painted on the silk."

"And?" Sario asked.

Agustin fidgeted.

"Is there more?" Giaberto asked abruptly. Agustin began to bite at his nails. His uncle slapped his hand down. "Never do that, mennino! Your hands are your life!"

"Eleyna doesn't know, but I painted a silk that showed her painting and put it under my mother's pillow. I even took a little of my blood and mixed it with watercolors. I ... I heard blood makes a spell more potent. I drew some things-keys-interlaced along the border. I thought Mother might dream about Eleyna painting instead of-"

"Matra ei Filho, you imbecile!" swore Giaberto.

Agustin visibly wilted.

"It's a clever idea," interposed Sario, liking the boy's audacity. "But you must learn the secrets of magic before you employ them. You do have a great deal to learn."

"I thought it would work. But it didn't."

Giaberto's dour face cracked slightly. "Eiha! It's true. I remember the first time I realized what power I held in my hands. I thought I could do anything!"

And you could have, if only you'd the skills and the ambition. But like the rest of your colleagues, you've grown small-minded.

"Then you'll still teach me?" Agustin asked in a small voice.

"Of course," said his uncle quickly. "A Gifted son of the Grijalvas is never abandoned by his fellow Limners, not as long as he abides by the Golden Key. Adezo! I have given thought to what you might try this afternoon. Go to the window. Davo always sweeps at this hour. When he comes to the fourth tier of the sidewalk, farthest from the portico, he stops to sit on the bench, there. You must draw him, in light charcoal, on the glass, using a bit of your saliva. Fix in your mind the idea that one of us here upstairs wants him. Needs him. Make him come to us. This is what is known as a suggestion spell. This is the most basic spell, and the safest for you, since saliva can be rubbed out with no effect on you. It is the spell you must first master before you can move on to others. Go on."

Looking half-dubious and half-thrilled, the boy walked over to the windows and craned his neck to look out.

"That was well seen of you," said Giaberto, "knowing that to praise the boy's curiosity would allow you to warn him about the dangers of our magic."

Well seen! Sario eyed the other Limner with misgiving. Had Giaberto not had similar thoughts himself as a boy? Had he not experimented? There were always some sorry boys who did only what they were told. Giaberto had not struck him as that kind.

Giaberto Grijalva was about thirty-eight. He might live under the thumb of his twin sister, the elder by one hour, but it wouldn't do to underestimate him; he and Dionisa clearly shared the same ambitions. No doubt being born twinned with a Gifted brother made Dionisa more likely to give birth in her turn to Gifted sons. With two more boys in the nursery and four living daughters, she was a force to be reckoned with.

"For my part I have seen that you have talent," continued Giaberto unctuously. Sario recognized the tactic: By such means did aspirants for Lord Limner woo possible allies. "You could go far-but not if you antagonize Andreo and Nicollo."

"They no longer understand art!"

"There, you see? I do not myself care for this new, emotional style you are championing. It doesn't have dignity, nor suitable exactitude. But I am not blind to my niece Eleyna's talent, which is considerable, even while the others ignore it. I can see that you, too, have a strong, original style. But your mother is dead and you have been outside the Viehos Fratos for eight years. You didn't endure the Fever that decimated our family. You are still accounted an outsider.

Defer to your elders until you have formed more influential ties."

If you only knew, you would never dare speak to me like this! You would he on your knees, begging me to teach you even one tenth of the knowledge I have hoarded away over the centuries- "Sario!"

The sound of his name-his real name-still had the power to startle him. As he turned, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He froze. Who was that ordinary-looking man who stared back at him? That wasn't Sario!

Of course it wasn't. It was merely flesh. He regretted, again, not choosing the other boy-what had his name been? Alerrio, yes, that was it. At least he had been a handsome youth, and Sario was tired of the bland face of his current host; at best it served to make his companions believe he was innocuous. But Alerrio was one of the many Grijalvas who had succumbed to the Summer Fever.

"Sario, I am pleased to have a chance to talk with you at last." Andreo stopped and nodded briskly at Giaberto, who immediately excused himself and went off to supervise Agustin's work.

"I will come to the point. Grand Duke Renayo finds your style undisciplined. He does not want you to paint the Treaty with Merse. However-" "But no one can do as well with that Treaty as I can. I have visited the court! I have conversed with Queen Agwyn-a difficult woman to paint. The rest of you would have to work from my sketches-"

"Sario! I have not done speaking!"

Once, as Riobaro, he would have spoken in the same way to an overly-eager young Limner.

The irony did not escape him.

"The sketches you did of the young noblewomen did please His Grace," Andreo continued.

"He wants you to do a new set of them, unadorned, painted. He intends to make a choice within these six months for a bride for Don Edoard and then open negotiations. He favors Princess Alazais de Ghillas, so you may be asked to add a suggestion to her portrait, suggestion that could act subtly on Edoard. If you comport yourself circumspectly and paint as befits a Grijalva, you may be allowed to do work on the Betrothal and to do some of the composition for the Marriage."

"If I refuse?"

"If you cannot work within the confines of Court life?" Andreo shrugged. "Your work as an Itinerarrio was excellent, your communications invaluable. I am only sorry you left Ghillas before the troubles there erupted. Then we would have had your witness to the events. As it is, the Grand Duke's agents bring home a different story every day. We have had a second report that King Ivo was killed by the mob. What has the world come to?" He made a clucking sound, rather like a hen.

A hen, indeed. More like a bantam cock, in these ridiculous new fashions that could not decide whether they wanted to be as plain as a common bricklayer's working clothes or as tarted up as a whore's, square cuts with cheap bright colors! But Sario forced himself to speak calmly. "I am not permitted to do Treaties or any paintings destined for the Galerria, then?"

"Some Itinerarrios are not fit for Court work. It is up to you to prove yourself, Sario, and to please the Grand Duke. There are other men waiting their turn, whose skills are superior to yours and who have labored hard here with the family to increase our fortunes."

Whose skills were superior! It was all Sario could do not to spit in Lord Limner Andreo's smug face. It was clear, abundantly clear, that he had done well to prepare a second line of defense. Oh, he had been sure they would welcome him home, give him the position due him, shower him with praise, accept his superior claims . . . but he had learned to leave a bolt-hole, to hold secrets in reserve.

"Perhaps I would prefer to return to Itinerarrio service. It might be well to gain exact information of the troubles that have racked Ghillas and Taglis and Niapali. What do the learned doctors call it? A plague of restlessness. What of the rest of the royal family of Ghillas, for instance?"

Andreo shrugged. "Reports are mixed. They only agree on King Ivo's death, and that the palace was stormed."

"That does not speak well for the fate of Queen Iriene and the daughter, Alazais. A pretty girl." Sario watched Andreo's face closely, but the mention of Alazais made no impact.

"You may be assured that Grand Duke Renayo is concerned about the fate of Princess Alazais. You are aware, of course, that the late King Enrei named his nephew Renayo as his heir."

Aware of it! As Dioniso he brought it about by making sure Enrei would sire no children. "But the Ghillassian noblemen had other ideas." That was the trouble with noblemen: there were always too many of them and they always wanted their own way. They had thrown their weight behind then-Prince Ivo, whom they rightly judged would be a weak king. But Ivo's weakness had led to his downfall at the hands of the mob.

Andreo gestured dismissively. "Pluvio en laggo. Now, however, the situation has changed.

Don Edoard's claim is doubly strong, through Grand Duchess Mairie, blessed be her memory. If Edoard marries Alazais . . . well, should you bring news of the princess, I am sure Grand Duke Renayo would look more favorably upon your painting."

"Let me consider for a day," said Sario. "I might prefer to return to Itinerarrio service.

Regretto- If you will excuse me."

He gave Andreo a curt nod and left, walking down the length of the Atelierro. Here, now, all of the Limners congregated and did most of their paintings; it was considered uncivil and indeed rather odd for a Limner to paint in the privacy of his own personal atelierro. At least the space itself was well-lit and comfortable. It was a huge chamber, filled with light from windows ranged along both sides, one set looking out over the street, the other over the courtyard. Oak beams bridged the ceiling, and great timber supports made an aisle down the center of the hall. These supports were so massive they were used as the portrait gallery of the masters. On each of the four sides of the huge pillars of wood hung one of the self-portraits of the Gifted Grijalva painters, a Galerria of the family line. The portraits of the living Limners resided in the Crechetta, of course. But once a painter died, his portrait was either consigned to the storage attic-if he had contributed no greater gift than service to the family-or displayed here, in the Atelierro.

Down the centuries Sario walked, looking up into eyes that were familiar to him, men he had known, liked, hated, battled. Men who had been himself.

He stared back at himself, in almost a dozen fine portraits: Arriano, Dioniso, Ettoro (his brilliant career cut short by acute bone-fever), Oaquino. Thank the Mother that Renzio had been put into the attic. He did not want to look into that homely face again. Even Domaos had been left in the Galerria, as an object lesson for Grijalva boys who grew too attached to women beyond their touch. And there, Riobaro, his great masterpiece of a life, that magnificent candlelit self- portrait surrounded by the gold frame marking him as Lord Limner. Timirrin, generous Matteyo, even Guilbarro who had lived so short a time but painted so brilliantly. Verreio, Martain, Zandor-and the first, Ignaddio.

And there, almost next to the door, he stopped and looked at his own face. He had almost forgotten how brightly he shone, how intense. No wonder Saavedra loved him.

If only that damned Alejandro hadn't gotten in the way. . . . He shook himself free of the old anger. No matter. Saavedra was safe. She would always be safe; she was waiting for him. It just wasn't time yet. He had work to do.

As he went out the door and started down the steps, he passed Davo, who was climbing to the Atelierro with a confused expression on his seamed old face.

Out on the street Sario walked slowly, musing. That was the advantage of age. He understood the necessity of planning, of being prepared, of having options. He had learned better than to think that his influence would be equal in every life. Often he had to start from scratch. Even with careful planning, there were bound to be mistakes. He ought to have chosen Alerrio, for instance, not succumbed to the urge to take his own name back again. Then Alerrio would not have been in Meya Suerta when the Fever struck, would not have died; Alerrio's family had been grooming him for the position of Lord Limner.

He should never, as Domaos, have taken up with Benecitta do'Verrada, heartless creature that she was. He should not have chosen Renzio, that graceless oaf. And Rafeyo! That had been a disaster barely recovered from. That was the risk with every life, that something lay in wait he could not predict. That the bloodlines would not be stable. That an accident might happen, unforeseen. That the Viehos Fratos would not give him his due.

That he would be, again and always, alone.