The Golden Key (35 page)

The long plank worktable in the huge, arch-ceilinged atelierro was cleared of all save the
Folio
and the thornwood casket. Sario set out a small copper bowl containing three items: blossoms of goldenrod, geranium, and vervain, for Precaution, Protection, and Enchantment. He broke them beneath his thumb, inhaled the admixture, then dropped the crushed blossoms into the bowl.

Next he opened the casket and began removing and uncapping leather tubes, methodically drawing from them the sheets of parchment, some tattered, some torn, some burned ragged at edges or marred by spark-charred holes. Carefully he unrolled and spread each upon the worktable, weighting them with such things as brush handles, pigment bottles, chunks of ruddy amber.

Sario studied them. The text, so carefully hand-lettered, meant nothing in essence save to serve as a book of prescribed behavior— compordotta—and misdirection. There was something to be learned of it, some small magics such as the Grijalvas knew, some acquisition of Acuyib’s teachings and philosophies, but not what
he
had learned, what Il-Adib had taught. What he knew now, the truth of Al-Fansihirro, lay in the lingua oscurra, the shaping of the borders, the splendid illumination of each initial letter.

Next he turned to the
Folio
, the great prize of Verro Grijalva. He opened the leather cover, settled it flat upon the table, began to turn and examine each page. From
Folio
to
Kita’ab
, from
Kita’ab
to
Folio
, until he saw the pattern.

Broken, of course. There were gaps within the
Folio
, gaps with the pages retained for so long by the old man. Torn pages, half-pages,
blood- and water-stained pages, marred in some cases into indecipherability. Missing pages, missing sections, so that where one left off and another began there was no sense at all, no completeness or clarity of language.

Broken patterns. They could never be remade. Too much lost, too much destroyed. But he knew more than any how best to fit together the triad of a triptych, even multiplied.

Time. It was what all of them lacked: Grijalvas, Gifted, Lord Limners, Viehos Fratos. Ironically those who lived the longest had the least to offer the family, being unGifted and therefore secondary, essentially powerless, meant for lesser things.

He was meant for greatness. And greatness required time.

Sario, sighing, brought the candles closer, set them upon the table. It was compromise: light, yes, but at a distance so as not to threaten what could never be replaced. Still, it was enough to see by, enough to make the gold and silver filigree glisten as if yet wet. As if but newly drawn.

In the silence of the atelierro, broken only by the whisper of parchment moved here, moved there, then brought again to
here
, Sario worked. The pattern could never be healed, but he could repair portions. And learn from them.

He smiled. So much learned in two years with the man. So much learned in eighteen years with the Grijalvas. Eighteen years together of such truths and magics as no one in the world could bear to know.

Such truths and magics as no one in the world could
learn
to know: he was the only one. Because it was not the arts of the
Folio
alone that was the true Grijalva Gift, or the arts contained in the borders that were the full
Kita’ab
, but what he made of them both. That pattern he wove from the parts into the whole upon the loom of his body: the crucible of the true Art and Magic, the old man had told him. He was in himself an Order. The sum of Sario’s parts were woven into a whole, from Tza’ab, Tira Virteian, and Grijalva blood and bone to the unquenchable fire, the Luza do’Orro of his talent, and the inner vision of the Al-Fansihirro. One among many potentials, Il-Adib had said, but the only one with the nature, the talent, the blood and bone, the ambition, the ruthlessness, the willingness—and the
hunger
to be what he must be.

No one else. Not now. Only Sario. Only Sario knew. Only Sario could
be.

He touched the ancient pages of
Folio
, that was
Kita’ab.
“Mine,” he murmured softly. “All of it, only mine—”

He broke off as the latch rattled. He froze, twisting to stare hard-eyed
at the atelierro door; and then laughed softly, because the latch, though unlocked, could not be opened. Not by hand, not by key, not by sheer strength applied by man or ram.

More of his doing. No one could learn it now. There were no other potentials. Il-Adib was dead, and Sario intended to share nothing of the knowledge.

The latch ceased rattling. “Sario.”

Pleasure died. He waited.

“Sario.”

He cast a glance at his work, at the open
Folio
, the additional pages, the bowl of blossoms.

“Nommo Chieva do’Orro, Sario.”

In anyone’s name, in any
thing’s
name, he need not open the door. For this man, he would.

A second glance at his work. Hidden Language, hidden work, hidden knowledge and power … but he wished to share the
triumph
of his knowledge with another, with only one other; with this man who stood on the other side of the door. He would not share it all, but he would share enough.

Pride blossomed anew.
I have done what no other has.
And this man of them all would understand. Would regret his own lack of courage. This man had himself tested the limits of his family, but turned back. Sario had not.
There is much to be proud of.
And so he rose, went to the door, applied saliva to his fingers, smeared away the tiny words he had painstakingly painted around the latch.

The Hidden Language, hiding itself, but also the truth of the power. “Now,” he said quietly, and stepped aside as the other lifted the latch.

Raimon Grijalva did not at once enter the atelierro. He looked beyond Sario to the worktable, murmured a prayer, then spoke more loudly, if without much force. “I am alone.”

Sario smiled. “Of course, Sanguo Raimon. I would not have permitted anyone else to enter.”

The lines incised in aging flesh deepened perceptibly. “Nommo do’Matra, of course not.” Raimon walked directly to the worktable and did not glance around even as Sario shut the door. There was no time to paint the oscurra again; Sario set the bolt and locked it. “So.” Raimon stood at the worktable, shoulders stiff beneath black doublet. “Have you become a copyist, then?”

Laughter was genuine. “You believe I merely
copy
?”

“Don’t you?” Raimon leaned closer. “Am I to believe—” And then he broke off.

“Yes,” Sario said, grinning, “I thought you would see it, given a moment
to
see.”
Now he will know. Now he will see it.

Silence, save for ragged, noisy breathing, and the subtle susurration of page moved atop page. “Matra Dolcha—oh, Blessed Mother—” A hand clasped the Chieva, kissed it, pressed it to his heart. “—Holy Son …”

“And Acuyib.” Sario grinned, laughed. Elation burgeoned. “But I don’t expect you are familiar with that name.”

A spasm shook Raimon. When he moved at last, it was to turn awkwardly, to steady himself with one splayed hand set atop the table. “How could this be? The
Folio
?”

“
Not
the
Folio
,” Sario said, then gestured. “Eiha, yes, the
Folio
—but more. Other. We have been ignorant of truth, Sanguo Raimon … and cloistered fools, as much as the sanctas and sanctos!”

Raimon aged as all Gifteds: approaching forty, he appeared sixty. Youth was banished, vitality diminished, the warmth of his features replaced by a spare, hard-edged beauty that was born of suffering. The restless spirit that had made him Neosso Irrado, the impatience of his talent, had been contained and nearly quenched. A man yet lived inside, a powerful, brilliant man—one of the highest among them now, elevated the year before to Sanguo—but the knowledge of duty, of sacrifice, the acknowledgment of price, aged him in spirit as well as in body.

With evident self-restraint he asked, “What does this mean, Sario?”

Sario laughed aloud. He could not contain his jubilance.
See what I have done
? “That Verro Grijalva, who sent us the pages that became our
Folio
, sent us far more than a text to improve technique in our art and how to comport ourselves. He sent us the promise of power, the key to foreign magic, though he was ignorant of it. And so we accepted it as such, what we learned of it, but the key
we
saw was base metal, not true gold.” Sario looked at the Chieva hanging at Raimon’s throat, then touched his own, shut it within one hand. “It’s more than
Folio
, Raimon. It’s also
Kita’ab.
”

Refutation, sharp and angry. “That can’t be.”

“It is.” Sario indicated the worktable. “Look again, Raimon. Recall that only a third of the text has been deciphered, ever … we skip those words we do not know, the sections we can’t comprehend.” He moved then, released his Chieva, moved to stand beside Raimon “Look here … this word, do you see it?” He indicated one in the bound
Folio
, indicated its like on one of the loose pages.
“Here, and here—and here. Throughout the
Folio
, throughout the other pages.”

“I see,” Raimon said colorlessly.

“That word is unknown to Grijalvas; has always been unknown. Until now.” Sario permitted his finger to touch the inked letters for only an instant. “Acuyib, Raimon. That is what it says.” It was simple for him now; he knew the language and its accents intimately. “‘Acuyib. Lord of the Desert, Teacher of Man.”’

“You
know
these things?”

“Grazzo, I was
taught
these things. Yes. And now I know them.” He grinned, looking for pleasure in Il Sanguo’s expression, in his tired eyes. “I know many things.”
But not all of them will even you know.

Raimon’s face bled out into a bleached whiteness stark as printed canvas. “And how will you use these things you have been taught?”

“As you wish me to use them.” Sario shrugged. “Your instructions were clear.”
Where is the approval
? Urgently he said, “I was to do what was necessary to see that a Grijalva—that
this
Grijalva—”

He broke off. Outside the chamber, outside Palasso Grijalva, but a handful of streets away from the artisan’s quarter, the great Cathedral Imagos Brilliantos began quite unexpectedly to toll its massive bells. In its wake other bells began also to toll, the bells of the Sanctias, the chimes of the shrines.

Now
? Sario, as every living resident of Meya Suerta, understood perfectly the language of the bells. Shock assailed him; he knew it, knew the pattern of the bells, the dolorous tolling … he had never heard it before, never like this, never
just
like this, for the other dead do’Verradas had been only infants.

It will cease.
But it did not. And the initial impulse, that first prayer of denial, altered.
Nommo do’Matra—let it be true
— Guilt. But the spasm passed. “Matra,” he murmured.
Let it be true.

Raimon sank to his knees. Bowed his body. Clasped his Chieva do’Orro. “Nommo do’Matra, nommo do’Filho—” Bells continued to toll. “—Nommo Matra ei Filho—” The world was made of bells. “Oh, Sweet Mother, Blessed Mother, Holy Son and Seed …” Raimon caught his key, carried it to his lips, then clasped it against his heart. “Grazzo—protect us. Protect us all.”

Sario echoed it; such was expected. But he offered up an additional message. —
and grant his son even in grief the wit to see the worth of my work, so he may appoint me over another.
He paused.
Especially a Serrano.

He felt—brittle. Breakable. On the cusp of shattering, if another person so much as spoke his name.

Of course, they did. They must. They had no other name, no other man, to whom to turn. There had been two of them, though the other far greater; he was lesser, insignificant: a lone and quaking sapling compared to the great sturdy forest.

Alejandro
, they said. Coupled with an entirely new title and honorific.

Duke. Your Grace.

No
, he longed to shout.
Neither of them is me.

Both of them. And more. Alejandro Baltran Edoard Alessio do’Verrada, by the Grace and Blessings of the Matra ei Filho, Duke of Tira Virte.

He would break. They would break him.

Alejandro
, they said. Begged. Commanded. Consoled. In the midst of questions, answers, comments. Accusations. Tears and shock and outrage.

“Are you certain?” he asked at last, and started them all into abrupt and ragged silence. He flinched away from hard and angry stares bitter as winter fruit. “Eiha—would there be cause to do it? Sense?”

“Political expediency,” one of them answered, as if to a child. As he supposed he was, with regard to their jaded world. “Who can say for certain, save that it was done? There are factions, rivalries, enemies—even among the Pracanzans willing to listen to an embassy …” The conselhos muttered among themselves, speaking of tragedy and war. Of assassination.