Free The Golden Key by Kate Elliott, Melanie Rawn, Jennifer Roberson

after all, condemned in the eyes of the Mother and Her Son.” He shook his head. “Do you really believe Tira Virte would accept a Grijalva as Duke?”
    The exasperated protest did not even slow her. “It is fortunate for you Verro Grijalva
did
die, Baltran. You do not know what he might have planned had he survived.”
    Patiently he said, “It was in Alesso’s name our people fought, and then in Renayo’s when we consolidated the duchy. Never in Verro Grijalva’s.” More pointedly, he added, “And never in the name of any Serrano.”
    She had the grace to color. “No,” she murmured, “we inspire nothing, we Serranos—”
    “Except do’Verrada lust.” He smiled, forgiving her. “Viva meya, I thank you for your concern, but you would do better to trust in me than in your ambitious family.”
    “If we are ambitious, it is to retain our place—not to throw down the do’Verradas from theirs and fill it with Grijalvas.”
    “Matra Dolcha, Gitanna, I cry you let it be done, this argument. Bassda! I weary of it.”
    Though naked, she was clad in certainty. “Let none of them come to Court, Baltran. Ever.”
    He sighed deeply, not troubling to hide exasperation. “As long as I live, your brother is Lord Limner. Other than art, the Grijalvas have no avenue by which to join the Court. And when I die, it shall be my son’s decree who succeeds to the position.”
    “He is a boy, Baltran.”
    “Just so, Gitanna … and unless I expire of overindulgence in your bed—far better that way, I think, than of a poisoned Tza’ab dart as Verro Grijalva did!—Alejandro will not be making any appointments until well after his majority.” He tugged at the crimson-embroidered cuffs of his shirt beneath stiff doublet sleeves. “And now it is time I paid my respects to the Duchess. Today we formally name our daughter before the Ecclesia.” He bent slightly, planted a kiss on her brow, and was gone.

    Saavedra, much exercised and out of sorts, found Sario at last in the family galerria within Palasso Grijalva. In the ten days since they had witnessed Chieva do’Sangua each had avoided the other, as if afraid to be reminded of what they witnessed. But now she sought him out; they had been too close for too long to remain apart, and the secret too great to keep to oneself alone. It must be shared with him—
had
to be shared with him—who knew what she had seen.
    The Galerria Grijalva was not as the Galerria Verrada. It was much smaller, less grand, and distinctly private; no one entered without permission, and permission was never granted save to Grijalvas, who had no need of it.
    “Sario—” He was a slender nonentity in the distant dimness at the far end of the chamber, standing very still before one of the older paintings in the galerria. The long whitewashed chamber was empty save for themselves—and countless paintings of long-dead people—but she lowered her voice nonetheless. The determined whisper carried straight to him. It was an innocuous question; let them hear, if there were any near enough. “Sario, why were you not in drawing class this morning?”
    He turned his head away from the painting then and looked at her. Shocked, she saw that he had lost significant weight; his face was very thin, and the shadows of the chamber, lit by its whitewash and little else, created angled contours she had never seen before. He was of the age when boys grew overnight, all awkward of limbs and voice and movements, but this was not growth. This was something far more serious.
    “Sario!” She hastened the length of the gallery to his side. “Are you ill?”
    He turned back to the painting, hitching a thin shoulder. “No!” A long pause; the set of his mouth was bitter, too bitter for a boy. “Why do we have nothing but copies here?”
    “Copies?” Full of other thoughts, the question at first meantnothing. But the answer took no effort. “The originals are in the Galerria Verrada, of course. Or in private