Irrado, Tomaz … just like you.” And then an irrational comprehension crashed into his mind and bounded unchecked onto his tongue like an untrained, ill-mannered hound. “But
wiser
than you …” He hiccuped with brief laughter. “… because me they will never catch!”
“Filho do’canna—who
is
that?”
Fascination overrode shocked horror now. They had denied him so much, the moualimos who saw youth in place of talent; who recognized the talent and tried to contain it, to turn it, to make him distrust it in the name of their traditions, their control. What crouched before him now, begging help for blinded eyes and ruined hands, was the fault of his teachers, of the Master Limners, of the Viehos Fratos who ruled without imagination, without the wit to acknowledge his gifts.
They are afraid of me
…
they will do to me what they have done to Tomaz.
Fear. Why else was there justification to destroy another’s talent? Tomaz’s Luza do’Orro remained in his brilliant if undisciplined mind, but the means to share it with the world was forever denied.
Discipline of the damned. Profanation incarnate of what theGrijalvas worshiped, a far more exacting deity than the Blessed Mother and Her Son.
The Gift. The Golden Key—Chieva do’Orro. And its use.
Sario drew in a careful breath. A cruel, unrelenting focus replaced shock with an unnamed lust far more powerful than that of his youthfully pretentious loins. “How was it done, Tomaz? Yes, I saw them do it—I saw them paint the afflictions into the
Peintraddo Chieva
, and thus they were visited upon you!—but
how
was it made to affect you? How was the magic worked?”
The body collapsed upon itself. “Filho do’canna,” Tomaz sobbed brokenly. “They have sent you to bait me!”
“Oh, no …” Sario closed and latched the door behind him. “En verro—it is truth, I promise: no one has sent me. I came to learn a thing, and I have learned more.” The candle flame guttered, but Tomaz did not, could not, mark it. “I am Gifted, Tomaz, as are—
were
—you, but I want to know how such things are done. I
need
to know—they will claim me too young, a mennino moronno, but I have a hunger in me!” Matra Dolcha, the hunger! “I need to know
now
, so I may be prepared.”
So what has happened to you will not happen to me.
Silence. Then Tomaz blurted, “Do’nado. I can tell you nothing.”
No,
not
nothing,
not
denial—not from one who knew the secrets, the truths. “Why not? Do you bear them loyalty, after what the Viehos Fratos have done to you?”
Tomaz’s unsteady breathing was loud in the staircase. “You are not to know until you have achieved Confirmattio.”
“It begins with the
Peintraddo Chieva
,” Sario said intently. “Doesn’t it? A self-portrait, perfect in every way … and it was
their
Gifts which brought these afflictions upon you, Tomaz! What loyalty is owed?”
Silence, save for breathing. And then, hollowly, “They will not grant me release. Much as I have no wish to live as this, they will not release me.”
“Neosso Irrado,” Sario said very softly, “share with me your truths.”
Tomaz laughed wildly. “You see what truths can gain you!”
Sario chewed his lip, then revealed his personal truth that only Saavedra knew. “I have read in the
Folio.
”
“So? We all read in the
Folio!
”
“I have read
ahead.
”
“How?” Tomaz accused now. “It isn’t permitted.”
“What you did was not permitted. You did it anyway. That’s why you’re here.”
It startled Tomaz into a nearly coherent shout. “When they come, I will tell them you were here!”
Sario wished to hiss him into silence as he had with Saavedra. Instead, he relied on a truth even Tomaz could not deny. “We live so short a time, we Grijalvas … our days are as weeks to others. Yesterday, you had fifteen or twenty years left before the bone-fever twisted your hands, before the milk-blindness robbed you of vision … but now you have none. No
wiser
than you …” He hiccuped with brief laughter. “… because me they will never catch!”
“Filho do’canna—who
is
that?”
Fascination overrode shocked horror now. They had denied him so much, the moualimos who saw youth in place of talent; who recognized the talent and tried to contain it, to turn it, to make him distrust it in the name of their traditions, their control. What crouched before him now, begging help for blinded eyes and ruined hands, was the fault of his teachers, of the Master Limners, of the Viehos Fratos who ruled without imagination, without the wit to acknowledge his gifts.
They are afraid of me
…
they will do to me what they have done to Tomaz.
Fear. Why else was there justification to destroy another’s talent? Tomaz’s Luza do’Orro remained in his brilliant if undisciplined mind, but the means to share it with the world was forever denied.
Discipline of the damned. Profanation incarnate of what theGrijalvas worshiped, a far more exacting deity than the Blessed Mother and Her Son.
The Gift. The Golden Key—Chieva do’Orro. And its use.
Sario drew in a careful breath. A cruel, unrelenting focus replaced shock with an unnamed lust far more powerful than that of his youthfully pretentious loins. “How was it done, Tomaz? Yes, I saw them do it—I saw them paint the afflictions into the
Peintraddo Chieva
, and thus they were visited upon you!—but
how
was it made to affect you? How was the magic worked?”
The body collapsed upon itself. “Filho do’canna,” Tomaz sobbed brokenly. “They have sent you to bait me!”
“Oh, no …” Sario closed and latched the door behind him. “En verro—it is truth, I promise: no one has sent me. I came to learn a thing, and I have learned more.” The candle flame guttered, but Tomaz did not, could not, mark it. “I am Gifted, Tomaz, as are—
were
—you, but I want to know how such things are done. I
need
to know—they will claim me too young, a mennino moronno, but I have a hunger in me!” Matra Dolcha, the hunger! “I need to know
now
, so I may be prepared.”
So what has happened to you will not happen to me.
Silence. Then Tomaz blurted, “Do’nado. I can tell you nothing.”
No,
not
nothing,
not
denial—not from one who knew the secrets, the truths. “Why not? Do you bear them loyalty, after what the Viehos Fratos have done to you?”
Tomaz’s unsteady breathing was loud in the staircase. “You are not to know until you have achieved Confirmattio.”
“It begins with the
Peintraddo Chieva
,” Sario said intently. “Doesn’t it? A self-portrait, perfect in every way … and it was
their
Gifts which brought these afflictions upon you, Tomaz! What loyalty is owed?”
Silence, save for breathing. And then, hollowly, “They will not grant me release. Much as I have no wish to live as this, they will not release me.”
“Neosso Irrado,” Sario said very softly, “share with me your truths.”
Tomaz laughed wildly. “You see what truths can gain you!”
Sario chewed his lip, then revealed his personal truth that only Saavedra knew. “I have read in the
Folio.
”
“So? We all read in the
Folio!
”
“I have read
ahead.
”
“How?” Tomaz accused now. “It isn’t permitted.”
“What you did was not permitted. You did it anyway. That’s why you’re here.”
It startled Tomaz into a nearly coherent shout. “When they come, I will tell them you were here!”
Sario wished to hiss him into silence as he had with Saavedra. Instead, he relied on a truth even Tomaz could not deny. “We live so short a time, we Grijalvas … our days are as weeks to others. Yesterday, you had fifteen or twenty years left before the bone-fever twisted your hands, before the milk-blindness robbed you of vision … but now you have none. No
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