The Immortal Conquistador

by Carrie Vaughn

  The smart thing for Diego to do would be to drive a spear through his chest. But Ricardo thought Diego would gloat. He’d pick Ricardo up, laugh in his face one more time, before tossing him aside and stabbing him. Ricardo waited for this to happen, ready for it.

  But he’d also be ready to dodge if Diego surprised him and went for a quick kill.

  “Ricardo! You’re more than a fool. You’re an idealist,” Diego said, making his way down the hill, sauntering like a man with an annoying chore at hand.

  God, give me strength, Ricardo prayed, not knowing if God would listen to one such as him. Not caring. The prayer focused him.

  He struggled to get up, as if he were weak, powerless, starving. Let Diego think he had all the power. He flailed like a beetle trapped on his back, while Diego leaned down, twisted his hands in the fabric of his doublet, and hauled him to his feet.

  Then Ricardo took hold of the man’s wrists and dragged him toward the hole that had swallowed Octavio.

  Diego seemed not to realize what was happening at first. His eyes went wide, and he actually let go of Ricardo, which was more than Ricardo had hoped for. Using Diego’s own arms for leverage, he swung the man and let go. Diego was already at the edge of the pit, and like Octavio he made an effort to avoid the fall. But with the grace of a drifting leaf, he sank.

  Ricardo stood on the edge and watched the body, stuck on the stakes on top of Octavio, turn to a dried husk.

  He gathered up their horeses and rode back to the church, torn between wanting to move and worrying about breaking the horses down. they had alrady made this trip once, and they were mortal. He rode both as quickly and slowly as he dared, and when he reached the village, the sky had paled. He could feel the rising sun within his bones.

  Rushing, he unsaddled the horses and set them loose in the pasture. He would need resources, when he started his new life, and they were worth something, even in the dark of night.

  He had only moments left to find Juan. Striding through the chapel, he hid a spear along the length of his leg.

  “Juan! Bastard! Come show yourself!”

  The friar was waiting in the back room where Ricardo had first spoken with him, a respectable if bedraggled servant of God hunched over his desk, watching the world with a furtive gaze.

  “I felt it when you killed them,” the friar said in a husky voice. “They were my children, part of me—I felt the light of their minds go out.”

  Don’t let him speak. Ricardo’s own power recognized the force behind the words, the connection that bound them together. His power flowed from the other.

  Ricardo started to lunge, but the friar held up a hand and said, “No!” The younger man stopped, spear upraised, face in a snarl, an allegorical picture of war.

  Fray Juan smiled. “Understand, you are mine. You will serve me as my caballeros served me. You cannot stop it.” The Master had a toothy, wicked smile.

  Ricardo closed his eyes. He’d fought for nothing, all these years and nothing to show for it but a curse. He was not even master of his fate.

  Free will was part of God’s plan. What better way to damn the sinful than to let them choose sin over righteousness? But he had not chosen this. Had he? Had something in his past directed him to this moment? To this curse?

  Then couldn’t he choose to walk away from this path?

  He started to pray out loud, all the prayers he knew. Pater Noster, Ave Maria, even passages of Psalms, what he could remember.

  The friar stared back at him. His lips trembled. “You should not be able to speak those words,” Juan said. “You are a demon. One of Satan’s pawns. He is our father. The holy words should burn your tongue.”

  “Then you believe the tales of the Inquisition? I don’t think I do. Come, Juan, pray with me.” Louder now, he spoke again, and still Juan trembled at the words.

  “They’re only words, Padre! Why can’t you speak them?” Ricardo shouted, then started the prayers again.

  The hold on his body broke. He had been balanced, poised for the strike, and now he plunged forward, his spear leading, and drove it into the friar’s chest. Juan tumbled back in his chair, Ricardo standing over him, still leaning on the spear though it wouldn’t go farther. Juan didn’t make a sound.

  Juan’s skin turned gray. It didn’t simply dry into hard leather; it turned to dust, crumbling away, his cassock collapsing around him. A corpse decayed by decades or centuries.

  Ricardo backed away from the dust. He dropped the spear. His knees gave out then, and he folded to the floor, where he curled up on his side and let the sleep of daylight overcome him.

  Rumor said that the small estancia had once been a mission, but that the friar who ran it went mad and fled to the hills, never to be seen again. A young hidalgo now occupied the place, turning it into a quiet manor that bred and raised sheep for wool and mutton. The peasants who lived and worked there were quiet and seemed happy. The governor said that the place was a model from which all estancias ought to learn.

  The hidalgo himself was a strange, mysterious man, seldom seen in society. Of course, all the lords in New Spain with daughters had an interest in getting to know him, for he was not only successful but unmarried. But the man refused all such overtures.

  It was said that Don Ricardo had ridden north with Coronado. Of course, that rumor had to be false, because everyone knew Ricardo was a man in the prime of his life, and Coronado’s expedition to find Cíbola rode out fifty years ago.

  But such wild rumors will grow up around a gentleman who only leaves his house at night.

  EL HIDALGO

  DE LA NOCHE

  CHRISTMAS NIGHT, Don Ricardo de Avila leaned against the outside wall of the newly expanded San Agustín church at Zacatecas and listened to the choir. He pressed his ear to the stone as if that would allow him to better hear the voices mixed in ethereal harmonies raised to the heavens. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head and sent his own prayers up with the song. He did not know if God would listen to him, but he prayed anyway.

  The new church was magnificent, with towering walls and a great dome, but the choir was harder to hear through the stone than the clay bricks of the old. He felt farther from God than ever.

  If he could have gone inside the consecrated church to hear Mass, he would have. But he could not, so he stood here and hoped it was enough. Every Christmas when the weather was fair and there were no other obstacles, he came to hear the choir and pray to the stars. Perhaps it was a risk. Perhaps one of these years he would be caught outside at dawn, or someone in the town would discover that he was a monster and destroy him. Some years he considered not coming, even when the sky was clear and the road was easy. But then he’d decide that no, it was Christmas, he should go and hear Mass, even if only as a whisper through stone walls. Every time, when he heard the voices converging in such heartfelt praise that his eyes watered with joy and pain, he was glad he came. If he could put those voices in a bottle and carry them with him forever, the world would not seem so ill a place.

  He left before the Mass ended, before congregants streamed out of the church. He wouldn’t have to speak to anyone, to explain why he didn’t go inside like a good Christian man. He adjusted his cloak more firmly over his shoulders out of habit, not because he was cold. He was never cold anymore.

  He was halfway to the respectable inn—with shutters and substantial curtains over the windows—where he had taken a room for the day, when a prickling feeling on the back of his neck stopped him. This wasn’t cold, it wasn’t fear. It pressed against him from the outside rather than welling up from within. This wasn’t even the feeling you got while walking alone at night, wondering if a thief trailed you.

  To add to the strangeness—he had felt this before, an alien presence like a hand on his shoulder. But that had been almost a hundred years ago. Had Fray Juan and his demons returned? Impossible. Ricardo had destroyed them, turned them to dust when he drove stakes through all their hearts. They could not return. He was all that
was left of their evil, and every day he tried to atone, determined toprove that his good true nature still remained. That he still had his soul.

  His mind rather than his eyes turned toward the impossible presence he felt, and he moved to face the danger.

  A very fine gentleman stepped out of the shadows. He wore brocade slops and doublet in deep blue and gold, an intricate lace collar, and a plumed hat. He smiled through a neatly trimmed beard and mustache and rested his hand on the hilt of a rapier hanging on his belt. With his leg forward and ankle turned, his shoulders straight, he might have been a painting come to life. Ricardo had a sword under his cloak but he didn’t reach for it. It wouldn’t do much good. Now, what did this monster want?

  “Buenas noches,” the fine gentleman said.

  “Buenas noches,” Ricardo agreed, making a slight bow.

  The man’s amusement was a mask. The tension of his body, his hand on the sword, said that he was at least uncertain, if not worried. “I confess, my friend, I did not expect to find one such as you out on this fine night.”

  “Nor I you,” Ricardo said. He was not as well dressed as the man—his doublet was only wool, though fine wool, and his boots were worn. But he was home, and that gave him some advantage. He could be at ease and thereby show some little superiority. “Please pardon me, but I am very surprised to see you. I have many questions.”

  The gentleman had no heartbeat. The air around him seemed chilled, and he moved with devilish calm. One of the demons for certain.

  The demon’s uncertainty grew. “As do I. Señor, you seem gentlemanly, so do not take this the wrong way, but you—you should not be here.”

  “This has been my home for a very long time.”

  The man’s consternation grew. “I believe that isn’t possible.”

  Ricardo chuckled; he couldn’t help it. “As you see, it is. I have said something to upset you—perhaps we should go to some quiet place where we can talk? We can share our stories.”

  “I ask again, who are you?” The stranger would draw the sword in a moment.

  “I am Don Ricardo de Avila, sir.”

  “And what Master do you serve?”

  “I—I do not understand.”

  “It is a simple question. You do not appear powerful enough to be a Master yourself, you have no offspring you have made attending you. Are you saying that you are here alone?”

  Wary, Ricardo recognized the pieces of a puzzle but could not fit them together. “Yes, that is just what I’m saying.”

  The gentleman marched forward, and Ricardo used all his will to stand his ground, not to reach for his sword. That chill he felt in the back of his mind was focused now—it was a sixth sense telling what this man was. He knew not to look into the man’s eyes—his gaze held power. He knew, somehow, that the gentleman was not nearly as old as Fray Juan had been. Face to face they stood, studying one another, heedless that others now passed on the street, folk leaving the cathedral and calling greetings to one another.

  He merely studied Ricardo and did not strike. His hands relaxed. “Yes, perhaps we should go somewhere to talk. You know a place?”

  “You still have not told me who you are.”

  “I am Eduardo Montes y Contada of the House Catalina.”

  “And what is House Catalina?”

  “Do you know nothing?”

  “It would seem not.” He did not appreciate being made to feel like a child by this man. But perhaps he was a child among demons.

  “Then let us go inside to try to solve this mystery, hm?”

  Don Eduardo kept looking warily at Ricardo as if he expected some kind of trick.

  Ricardo’s inn was small—one had to be a friend, or a friend of a friend, of the proprietor to stay here. Ricardo had known the man’s grandfather. There was a small common room and hearth for guests.

  At the door, Eduardo hesitated, his thin smile more masklike than ever. “This is a tavern, you said? A public place?”

  Ricardo had already opened the door and stood on the threshold. The other man held back, eyeing the space before him warily. He was so bold in every other way, why didn’t he stride forward?

  “It’s small, not so crowded and noisy as others. I like it. Mostly, it is the innkeeper’s friends who gather.”

  “So it is his home?” He sounded unhappy.

  “It feels so sometimes, I suppose.”

  Just then the proprietor’s daughter, Marie, saw him and waved. “Ricardo! Come in, come in, and bring your friend! You are both welcome!”

  Eduardo relaxed and stepped forward as if a wall had vanished before him. His discomfort was gone, and Ricardo studied him.

  “Pardon my forwardness,” Ricardo asked carefully. “But what was wrong just then? You seemed unsure of the place.”

  Eduardo spoke softly as they made their way to a table in the corner. “Have you never tried to enter a home where you were not welcome?”

  “No, I never have,” said Ricardo.

  The other demon seemed amused. “Some places, we need an invitation to enter. Do you not know this?”

  “No,” Ricardo said wonderingly.

  “But how have you lived all this time? You know nothing!”

  Apparently, Ricardo didn’t even know how little he knew. “And that is why we are talking, yes?”

  The common room was brightly lit and merry this night. Not everyone had gone to Mass, but they still celebrated with food and drink, singing and spilling wine, throwing more fuel on the fire. Ricardo felt very much the outsider here. He could look on, he could smile and pretend to take part. He had been like this once, newly arrived to a Mexico that was wild and full of adventure.

  Marie brought over cups of the mulled wine that everyone was drinking. She’d surely think it odd when it was clear the two men hadn’t touched the drinks. But for now, they were part of the disguise. They were just two men come out of the cold.

  Eduardo gazed around him with an unmistakable hunger. Likely, he did not feel like an outsider. He looked like a hunter.

  “I see why you like this place,” Eduardo said. Ricardo didn’t think so but didn’t argue.

  “You are new to this country, yes?” Ricardo asked. “You sailed from Spain?”

  “Yes. A few years ago now. We settled in Mexico City and now I’m having a bit of a look around the rest of our new country.” He looked Ricardo up and down. “I didn’t expect to find one such as you.”

  “So you said.”

  “When did you arrive here?”

  “A hundred years ago.”

  “But . . . no one was here a hundred years ago.”

  In fact, there’d been a whole native civilization here, and a thousand villages besides. But that wasn’t what Eduardo was talking about. “I was one of Coronado’s men.”

  Eduardo was perhaps the only man in the room who would believe this tale. He gave a short, brief laugh. “Really? Hm. Mistress Catalina must meet you. You . . . are extraordinary, sir. If I may say so.”

  “Gracias—I think.”

  Eduardo leaned back in his chair, gazing haughtily around the room, no more willing to look Ricardo in the eyes than Ricardo was to look in his. Oh yes, they would not be dueling with rapiers tonight. Not when steel wouldn’t kill either one of them.

  “What is the girl’s name? Call her over.” He tipped his chin toward Marie, who was wiping down a table at the far corner.

  Rick raised his hand and caught Marie’s gaze. She was a mestiza—her father had married a native woman. Marie turned heads wherever she went, with her bright eyes and silky black hair. She came right over.

  “Yes, sirs? What do you like?”

  “Come here and sit by me for a moment,” Eduardo said, catching the young woman’s gaze. Her smile fell as the man took hold of her wrist and pulled her onto the bench beside him. Stroking the back of her hand, he murmured softly, and she sank willingly, powerlessly.

  Eduardo raised the woman’s hand to his lips, almost as if he meant to kiss h
er in some gentle romantic gesture. Instead, he turned the hand over, parted his lips, and closed his mouth over the inside of her wrist.

  Ricardo’s gut gave a jackrabbit leap, and he reached across the table for the demon’s sleeve. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  Eduardo eyed him, swallowing a mouthful of blood before licking his teeth. “This is an inn. I will have drink.”

  “Let her go,” Ricardo said.

  “What do you care about her?” He licked a stray drop of blood from the wound. Marie’s head slumped forward as if she slept. She was alive, her blood still pulsed; he hadn’t drunk very much of her.

  “She isn’t yours.”

  “Is she yours?”

  “She’s nobody’s but her own. You can’t treat her like some rabbit you’ve caught in a snare—”

  “But Don Ricardo, that’s exactly what she is to us. What all these people are.”

  “All of them? I notice that you set your gaze upon the young woman, and not upon any of the strong men here.”

  “Then what do you harvest? Where do you find your drink?”

  “I ask,” he said. He didn’t know how to explain it. When he learned he didn’t need to kill to survive—well, he didn’t. He asked. It had worked so far.

  “You ask,” Eduardo repeated. “Hmm.”

  Marie started to wake up from the trance Eduardo had put her in. He patted her hand; she might have fainted.

  “You must be very tired, señorita. You fell asleep for a moment. You should go have a drink and rest,” he said.

  “Yes. Oh, I’m very sorry.” She smiled apologetically at Ricardo, as if she were the one who ought to feel ashamed.

  “Quite all right.”

  She fled.

  Eduardo, face flush with new blood, regarded Ricardo. “You have been in this country all alone for a hundred years? You ought to be ruling it by now.”