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.
“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.
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