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have ever known. There is no doubt he would have been named Marchallo Grando over all the armies one day— had he not perished defending my grandfather, Duke Renayo.” More tellingly, so Zaragosa would not miss it: “Had he not died in Renayo’s arms.”
    Serrano wisely was silent.
    Do’Verrada signed. “Surely you understand I cannot have it said I would countenance revocation of the Protection without proof,Zaragosa. The Court is riddled with political dissension; only a fool would give this rumor credence without proof.”
    Grudgingly: “Indeed, Your Grace.”
    “Then provide it, Zaragosa. Show me proof that the Grijalvas have this dark power you speak of, and—if indeed there
be
sustainable proof—then I will revoke what my grandfather instituted. They will have to leave Meya Suerta and become no more than Itinerarrios, all of them, making their way as they can on the roads of the duchy. And no hope of ever rising once again in the armies, in trade, or of sending one of their own to Palasso Verrada as Lord Limner.”
    Serrano’s face was still; he spoke stiffly through a compressed mouth. “Proof, Your Grace, is often difficult to obtain.”
    “But necessary.” Do’Verrada smiled, though there was nothing of humor in it. “Eiha! But I may have a new son or daughter before the day is out, and I weary of this topic. Put on your new hat with its elegant purple feather—
so
elegant, Zaragosa!—and find me this proof. Only then shall we speak of this again.”
    “Your Grace.” White-faced, Zaragosa Serrano turned smartly and strode from the chamber. Wisely, very wisely, he did not put on his new hat with its elegant purple feather until he was out of the ducal presence.
    “Moronno,” Do’Verrada murmured. “If a Grijalva
should
replace you as Lord Limner, at the very least, half of it shall be of your own doing!”

    Saavedra’s belly clenched. This was wrong,
wrong
, to witness the Chieva do’Sangua. It was denied to all but Limners, the Gifted males, for a reason; and even though she had no doubt Sario would one day be admitted to the ranks, he was yet a boy and
not
admitted—and she only a female. If discovered, they would be severely punished.
    “What if they find us?” she whispered. “Me they will beat, but you—eiha, Sario, would they deny your Gift?”
    “They can’t do that,” he whispered back. “The Gift is too important, too powerful. They need me.”
    So secure in his talent
… but she was not. She knew no security save that which was offered any Grijalva woman: the chance to bear children, to increase their numbers again and to provide hope that any male-child born might be Gifted as Sario was.
    Saavedra shivered. The saliva dried in her mouth. Thoughcramped, she touched her lips, her heart. “Eiha, Matra ei Filho, protect us both—”
    “Bassda!” Sario whispered vehemently. “If you are such a moronna,
go.
I will not miss seeing this because of you—”
    She could leave … she
could
, but she knew she wouldn’t. He would make her suffer for it; and, for all that, a perverse curiosity, dreadful in its birth, undeniable in its growth, transfixed her to the stone.
    She put her cheek against the brick floor. Through the crack she could see the central portion of a large chamber—the Crechetta, Sario called it—though its sides were cut off by the abbreviated width of the seam. It was a completely enclosed room, a whitewashed interior chamber within Palasso Grijalva, with neither casements nor lamps to light it. Only a single fat candle on a tall twisted-iron stand set against the wall, and also an easel, a shrouded painting upon it, and a sturdy wooden chair.
    “
Peintraddo Chieva
…” Sario whispered, his head pressed against hers.
    “What? What is that?”
    “A masterwork. A self-portrait. I will be required to paint one as well, to be approved as a Limner. All Gifted are.” His breath gusted against the floor. “It
must
be a
Peintraddo Chieva
!”
    Men’s