“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 thetalent, to challenge and thus extend it, but he must not be loosed so long that he does not come back to the hand.”
“As I came back,” Raimon said ironically.
Arturro’s smile was sweet. “Eiha, you came back!—and were justly rewarded for it.”
“And Sario?”
The older man touched his Chieva. “He must be watched, Raimon. He must be closely watched. One can see the hunger in his eyes, the transcendence of his Light—and also a little fear.” He sighed. “There is so much at stake now … we have labored so long to restore the family, and now that we have the Gift …” Arturro’s face was troubled. “It is such a slow process, this reestablishment of the family, but we dare not hasten it. We dare not let the do’Verradas suspect what the true nature of the Gift is.”
“There are whispers already,” Raimon said quietly. “The Serranos suspect.”
“Let them. They are … ‘modestly-talented graffiti-crafters.”’ Arturro’s amused expression acknowledged Saavedra’s accuracy. “We have the protection of the do’Verradas, and that is no small thing … so long as the ducal family suspects nothing of the Gift, we shall be safe.”
“Zaragosa Serrano has the Duke’s ear.”
“And the sister, Gitanna, has more than the Duke’s
ear.
” Despite the statement’s questionable taste, it was fact; Arturro did not shirk the unmitigated baldness of his observation. “But Baltran do’Verrada values her for something other than cleverness, even if such were said of her; and Zaragosa is a fool, a witless moronno who takes more pleasure in his fundamentally tasteless addiction to lurid color than in the intricacies true art requires … no, he is no threat. I think the boy poses more threat than any Serrano.”
“And he a Grijalva,” Raimon murmured.
“But that is how it must be. Now. We are—not what we once were.” Arturro closed one hand around the Golden Key depending from his collar. “We must be very careful with Sario. Eiha, but he is a prodigy, yes?—and although we require that hunger in order to bring the Gift to life, it must be carefully controlled. As he must be.”
“‘The seed of our destruction lies within our own loins,”’ Raimon quoted.
The Premio Frato sighed. “And in our prodigious talent. Well— let it be so. We were not made to rule, we Grijalvas; too much has befallen us even if we were in a position to take Tira Virte for ourown. There is the Tza’ab ‘taint’ the Ecclesia has called damnation, the brevity of our life span, the weakness of our seed. No, it shall never be our task to take Tira Virte, to rule it, but to enlighten, to educate, to entertain … and certainly to guide the
prospects
of our country. Quietly. Subtly. Wisely.”
“Matra
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 thetalent, to challenge and thus extend it, but he must not be loosed so long that he does not come back to the hand.”
“As I came back,” Raimon said ironically.
Arturro’s smile was sweet. “Eiha, you came back!—and were justly rewarded for it.”
“And Sario?”
The older man touched his Chieva. “He must be watched, Raimon. He must be closely watched. One can see the hunger in his eyes, the transcendence of his Light—and also a little fear.” He sighed. “There is so much at stake now … we have labored so long to restore the family, and now that we have the Gift …” Arturro’s face was troubled. “It is such a slow process, this reestablishment of the family, but we dare not hasten it. We dare not let the do’Verradas suspect what the true nature of the Gift is.”
“There are whispers already,” Raimon said quietly. “The Serranos suspect.”
“Let them. They are … ‘modestly-talented graffiti-crafters.”’ Arturro’s amused expression acknowledged Saavedra’s accuracy. “We have the protection of the do’Verradas, and that is no small thing … so long as the ducal family suspects nothing of the Gift, we shall be safe.”
“Zaragosa Serrano has the Duke’s ear.”
“And the sister, Gitanna, has more than the Duke’s
ear.
” Despite the statement’s questionable taste, it was fact; Arturro did not shirk the unmitigated baldness of his observation. “But Baltran do’Verrada values her for something other than cleverness, even if such were said of her; and Zaragosa is a fool, a witless moronno who takes more pleasure in his fundamentally tasteless addiction to lurid color than in the intricacies true art requires … no, he is no threat. I think the boy poses more threat than any Serrano.”
“And he a Grijalva,” Raimon murmured.
“But that is how it must be. Now. We are—not what we once were.” Arturro closed one hand around the Golden Key depending from his collar. “We must be very careful with Sario. Eiha, but he is a prodigy, yes?—and although we require that hunger in order to bring the Gift to life, it must be carefully controlled. As he must be.”
“‘The seed of our destruction lies within our own loins,”’ Raimon quoted.
The Premio Frato sighed. “And in our prodigious talent. Well— let it be so. We were not made to rule, we Grijalvas; too much has befallen us even if we were in a position to take Tira Virte for ourown. There is the Tza’ab ‘taint’ the Ecclesia has called damnation, the brevity of our life span, the weakness of our seed. No, it shall never be our task to take Tira Virte, to rule it, but to enlighten, to educate, to entertain … and certainly to guide the
prospects
of our country. Quietly. Subtly. Wisely.”
“Matra
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