then went out of the kitchens altogether.
This day had brought two births, then: his sister’s, as yet unnamed; and his understanding that power accompanied his family’s name.
His
name.
He was Alejandro Baltran Edoard Alessio do’Verrada. One day everyone in Tira Virte, possibly even the Premio Sancto and Premia Sancta, would do what he asked—or told—them to do. He would have as his responsibility, by the grace of his birth and the blessings of the Mother and Son, the shaping of the world.
Alejandro giggled. One day he could cause to have changed anything he wished—even a thing so inconsequential as the color and flavor of his favorite candy.
Which today was chocolate so dark as to be very nearly black.
Outside, Ecclesia and Sanctia bells pealed a welcome to the new little do’Verrada. Inside, the ten-year-old Heir grappled with the newfound realization that he was not and never could be like anyone else.
In the netherworld between dark and dawn, Saavedra did not sleep. She lay awake from the moment she went to bed in her tiny student’s cell, knotted of limbs and belly as she coiled upon herself in an attempt to ward her body against fear, against comprehension, against the lurid colors of what she had seen slashed like smeared paint across the paletto of her inner eye.
Tomaz.
Chieva do’Sangua.
And Sario, blissfully fascinated.
Neosso Irrado, Sario had called Tomaz. Had called himself. And it was true; she had known Tomaz as an angry young man, too old to be called boy, too young to be called master. Gifted, and thus gifted beyond many, even other Grijalvas, Tomaz was frequently given to dramatic displays of artistic temperament, to complaining unceasingly about certain traditions of the family. And to a vast andabiding impatience to share his Luza do’Orro with the world inside the Palasso Grijalva so that one day he might step outside of it into the light of Tira Virteian approbation for a talent far surpassing that of jumped-up Serranos, or of any others who called themselves painters.
Just like Sario.
Given to so much, Tomaz Grijalva. And now—given to Chieva do’Sangua.
She was at that moment—had been since witnessing the truth of rumor, the sacred discipline of the damned—sickened by what she was: Grijalva. Subject to its joys, its truths, its talents, its gifts— and its Gifteds. And now undone by the same truths, the deeper, hidden truths of what power of talent was, and the Gift.
No woman bore it. No woman was permitted certain knowledge. No woman was admitted to the private dealings of Gifted males, the Viehos Fratos. She had resented it; now she blessed it. They were blind, all the other Grijalva women, asked only to bear children. Denied the Gift, they wielded no power beyond that of the household. Claimed no magic. Knew no truth.
Innocence, she had felt prior to this day, was a quality much exaggerated, robbing women of equality. And yet now, this moment,
because
of this day, she would never be innocent again.
Saavedra twisted in summer bed linens. They were soaked beneath her, as was her nightshirt. Her eyes were gritty with exhaustion, but she could not sleep. And so she got up and went to the window overlooking one of the small starlit inner courtyards of the Palasso Grijalva, to the table before it, hosting ewer and basin. It was meant for washing; Saavedra poured water into the basin, cupped it in both hands, lifted, and drank. Then poured the remaining water over her chin and neck and down the front of her nightshirt, so that it stuck to budding breasts, the slight curve of her belly, the indentation where Matra, in the womb, had set holy lips to unborn flesh; to the tops of her thighs.
She was twelve years old. In a handful of years she would be married, bearing children. Until then, she would not sleep again without seeing what was done to Tomaz Grijalva, Neosso Irrado.
“Blessed Mother and Son,” she murmured, “let Sario be not so angry as Tomaz.”
Let him
This day had brought two births, then: his sister’s, as yet unnamed; and his understanding that power accompanied his family’s name.
His
name.
He was Alejandro Baltran Edoard Alessio do’Verrada. One day everyone in Tira Virte, possibly even the Premio Sancto and Premia Sancta, would do what he asked—or told—them to do. He would have as his responsibility, by the grace of his birth and the blessings of the Mother and Son, the shaping of the world.
Alejandro giggled. One day he could cause to have changed anything he wished—even a thing so inconsequential as the color and flavor of his favorite candy.
Which today was chocolate so dark as to be very nearly black.
Outside, Ecclesia and Sanctia bells pealed a welcome to the new little do’Verrada. Inside, the ten-year-old Heir grappled with the newfound realization that he was not and never could be like anyone else.
In the netherworld between dark and dawn, Saavedra did not sleep. She lay awake from the moment she went to bed in her tiny student’s cell, knotted of limbs and belly as she coiled upon herself in an attempt to ward her body against fear, against comprehension, against the lurid colors of what she had seen slashed like smeared paint across the paletto of her inner eye.
Tomaz.
Chieva do’Sangua.
And Sario, blissfully fascinated.
Neosso Irrado, Sario had called Tomaz. Had called himself. And it was true; she had known Tomaz as an angry young man, too old to be called boy, too young to be called master. Gifted, and thus gifted beyond many, even other Grijalvas, Tomaz was frequently given to dramatic displays of artistic temperament, to complaining unceasingly about certain traditions of the family. And to a vast andabiding impatience to share his Luza do’Orro with the world inside the Palasso Grijalva so that one day he might step outside of it into the light of Tira Virteian approbation for a talent far surpassing that of jumped-up Serranos, or of any others who called themselves painters.
Just like Sario.
Given to so much, Tomaz Grijalva. And now—given to Chieva do’Sangua.
She was at that moment—had been since witnessing the truth of rumor, the sacred discipline of the damned—sickened by what she was: Grijalva. Subject to its joys, its truths, its talents, its gifts— and its Gifteds. And now undone by the same truths, the deeper, hidden truths of what power of talent was, and the Gift.
No woman bore it. No woman was permitted certain knowledge. No woman was admitted to the private dealings of Gifted males, the Viehos Fratos. She had resented it; now she blessed it. They were blind, all the other Grijalva women, asked only to bear children. Denied the Gift, they wielded no power beyond that of the household. Claimed no magic. Knew no truth.
Innocence, she had felt prior to this day, was a quality much exaggerated, robbing women of equality. And yet now, this moment,
because
of this day, she would never be innocent again.
Saavedra twisted in summer bed linens. They were soaked beneath her, as was her nightshirt. Her eyes were gritty with exhaustion, but she could not sleep. And so she got up and went to the window overlooking one of the small starlit inner courtyards of the Palasso Grijalva, to the table before it, hosting ewer and basin. It was meant for washing; Saavedra poured water into the basin, cupped it in both hands, lifted, and drank. Then poured the remaining water over her chin and neck and down the front of her nightshirt, so that it stuck to budding breasts, the slight curve of her belly, the indentation where Matra, in the womb, had set holy lips to unborn flesh; to the tops of her thighs.
She was twelve years old. In a handful of years she would be married, bearing children. Until then, she would not sleep again without seeing what was done to Tomaz Grijalva, Neosso Irrado.
“Blessed Mother and Son,” she murmured, “let Sario be not so angry as Tomaz.”
Let him
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