Liberating Fight

by Melissa McShane

  “Don Fernándo told me you do not consider yourself Spanish,” Valencia said. His lips twisted in a wry smile. “He was very vocal about your betrayal, as he put it, of your heritage. Do you consider yourself English, then? I know Ernesto married an Englishwoman.”

  “Did you know my father?”

  Valencia shook his head. “Only his reputation. Don Fernándo speaks of him often, always angrily, in the way men do when their hearts have been wounded and they wish others not to know this.”

  A brief sympathy for Fernándo touched Amaya’s heart. “I am of Tawantinsuyu—Inca. They saved my life and accepted me among them for thirteen years.”

  Valencia leaned back again. “Don Fernándo also tells me you are not a doctor. Why is that?”

  Guilt surged within her, unexpected thanks to Valencia’s swift change of subject. Seeing Valencia ignite fire so casually made her feel as if in refusing to learn medicine, she truly was denying her destiny. “I—it is not the same among my people. We believe our talents, a Shaper’s talents, I mean, are to be used in the service of the Sapa Inca. It is no different for an Extraordinary than for an ordinary Shaper.”

  “But you are not among the Incas any longer,” Valencia said. “If you cannot serve your Sapa Inca, what purpose does your talent serve? That is a question you must ask yourself, because you no longer have the luxury of having it decided for you.”

  His words angered her even as they chilled her. No one had ever challenged her so directly. “Then you believe I am wrong.”

  “I am in no position to make that determination.” Valencia ignited fire again and shaped it into a palm-sized sphere that he rolled from one hand to the next. “But I believe it is a mistake to make decisions solely out of a desire not to do what is expected of one. You chose to turn your talent to the service of the Sapa Inca because you believed in the traditions of the Incas, so why do you now reject the traditions of the people you live among?”

  “You are impertinent, sir,” Amaya said, resorting to coldness to conceal the uncertainty his words cast her into.

  “I do not believe in mincing words,” Valencia said. “And I do you the courtesy of speaking frankly because I believe you are the sort of woman who values action and honesty. I will not tell you you are wrong not to become a doctor. That is your own business. But I will express my opinion in the hope it might benefit you: whatever you choose, do so because it is what you wish to be, not because you intend to spite society.”

  “Why do you care?” Amaya exclaimed.

  Valencia smiled again. “You interest me,” he said. “You are a warrior, and that is rare among women indeed. I believe from what Don Fernándo said, and from what I observe, that you chafe at the restrictions of this culture and long for some way to use your talent as you were trained to do.”

  His frankness left Amaya speechless, caught between denying his assessment and the deep-down feeling that he had described her perfectly. “There is no way,” she said. “The war with Napoleon is over, and I could not be a soldier even if I wished to. And Europeans do not fight as I do, in any case.”

  “That is only their lack of imagination,” Valencia said. “Guerrillas fight from the shadows in any way necessary. You would be welcome among us.”

  “Welcome? I do not understand.”

  Valencia’s blue eyes fixed on her again, intent and searching. “I would be honored,” he said, “if you would join my people. Fight for Spain.”

  “But I am not—”

  “You are Spanish if you choose to be. And I believe you have a passion for justice that goes to waste while you pretend to be nothing but a society maiden.” Valencia gripped her hand. His was warm and rough, the hand of a laborer. “Consider my offer. We ride out tomorrow morning. If you choose to travel with us, you will be welcome.”

  “That is sudden.”

  Valencia nodded. “You might consider longer—I will return from Aranjuez in just over a week. If you are still here…” He let go her hand and sat back again.

  Amaya absently rubbed her hand where he had touched her. “I believed the French to have left Spain,” she said. “Whom do you fight?”

  “There are many who supported France and who continue to work against Spain. My people and I, we convince them this is a poor choice.” Valencia’s smile became wicked, his eyes lit with fierce pleasure.

  His smile woke Amaya from the daze his invitation had sent her into. Those who supported France? He meant the afrancesados, who might or might not be evil, but who were certainly still Spaniards. “You fight to kill?” she asked.

  “If needs must, then yes.”

  Amaya shook her head. “I cannot judge you, because I do not know your cause,” she said. “But it seems to me that you are likely to harm innocents in your quest, and I cannot be a part of that.”

  Valencia’s smile did not waver. “It is your choice,” he said. “I will not give up on persuading you, because I believe I offer you an opportunity that will make you happy.”

  “I…” Amaya’s words trailed off. She could not think of a good reply to that. She did not wish to insult El Encendedor, because she truly did not know enough about his work and his cause. “You will stay today?” she asked instead, then had to control a blush because her words had sounded more personal than she intended.

  “I will,” Valencia said, the admiring expression she remembered from the previous night returning to his face. “I would have regardless, but when a lovely lady asks so nicely, well…” He spread his hands in a gesture suggesting helplessness in the face of fate.

  Amaya rose quickly. “Then we may speak again later,” she said, cursing herself for once more sounding missish. She was not one of England’s simpering maidens; she was a jaguar warrior, and one who did not allow an attractive face to sway her. “Please excuse me.”

  Valencia stood, more slowly, and bowed. “It was my pleasure, Miss Salazar.”

  Well away from the library and its unsettling occupant, Amaya slowed her steps and turned toward the garden door. She had no intention of doing as Valencia asked, and yet he had been correct in his assertion that she regretted not being able to use her talents as she had been taught by the Incas. She had no solution for this problem, short of returning to Peru and searching for her lost home.

  Perhaps this was not such a strange idea. She might find a Seer willing to Dream the Incas’ new location, might pay to be Bounded back to Peru. But the idea did not fill her with hope the way it might have two months ago. Now that she had encountered the wider world, she found she was not ready to leave it behind.

  She slammed the garden door open with unnecessary force, feeling angry with herself and wishing she might take out that anger on something. The rich green smell of the garden failed to calm her. She strode to the half-hidden gazebo and pushed vines aside until she could see its interior. There were two bench seats painted the same peeling, flaking white as the rest of the gazebo. One of the seats had collapsed and lay broken on the floor, which itself looked in danger of going the same way. Amaya decided not to risk it.

  She stood in the doorway, holding fistfuls of greenery, and breathed in the damp scent. Somewhere nearby grew flowers that gave off a delicate smell, but they were not visible. Irritated, she tugged on the vines in her hands, then gave a sharp pull. With a crackling, tearing sound, the vines came free of the tangle, sending more of the damp green scent into the air. Amaya flung the vines aside and tore at more of them, using her claws on the recalcitrant ones, until the gazebo was clear of foliage and lay bare amid piles of shredded greenery.

  Breathing heavily from anger rather than exertion, Amaya rubbed green stains from her fingers onto the grass, remembering in time that she did not wish to ruin her gown. The gazebo looked naked in the noon sunlight, its white frame the skeleton of some bizarre creature. Amaya kicked some of the vines aside and stepped back to examine her work. She felt a little better, less embarrassed about her conversation with Valencia and how it had ended.


  “Well,” Edmund said from behind her, making her jump. “I did not realize the vines had mortally offended you. Should I take shelter, or will you confine your violence to the trees and bushes?”

  She turned around. “I cannot understand how you are able to sneak up on me.”

  “I am by nature a stealthy man,” Edmund said, pretending to great seriousness. “Are you well? Something seems to have disturbed you.”

  Amaya found she did not wish to share the details of her conversation with El Encendedor with Edmund. He already believed the worst of Valencia, and Amaya did not know what she thought of the man, except that he intrigued her. “Mr. Valencia wishes me to join his army,” she said, “or whatever it is one calls a group of guerrillas.”

  Edmund’s smile vanished, and his brow furrowed. “Why would he ask such a thing of a total stranger?”

  “He knows I am a warrior—is that so strange, that he might ask me to fight with him?”

  “And destroy innocents? Amaya, tell me you are not considering his proposal!”

  Irritation surged within her once more, this time at Edmund. “I would not harm innocents, you know that. I told him I was not interested. And I cannot believe you imagined I would do anything else.”

  Edmund’s lips tightened. “I did not believe it, but, Amaya, I know how you regret losing your place as Uturunku. It would not surprise me if you wished for an opportunity to be a warrior once more.”

  Amaya glared at him. “But not at that price. Mr. Valencia’s cause is not mine.”

  “I—” Edmund lowered his head and muttered a curse under his breath Amaya was sure he did not intend her to hear. “You are correct,” he said, looking at her once more. “I apologize for thinking so poorly of you.”

  His apology left her feeling drained, not only of her anger but of her emotional upheaval at how Valencia had looked at her. “No, I apologize, I was rude. And you are correct that I have regrets. I admit that were Valencia a general, leading an army against the French, I might have taken him up on his offer.”

  Edmund shook his head. “I am glad we are friends, to forgive one another our rudenesses. Will you join me for a meal? There are meats and cheeses and the like laid out in the dining room.”

  Amaya discovered she was hungry despite the breakfast she had eaten. “I have not seen Don Fernándo this morning. I wonder where he is? He wished to speak to me.” She took Edmund’s arm and strolled with him in the direction of the house.

  “I heard he felt ill, and chose to rest,” Edmund said. “Miss Graciela was forthcoming with this information. I cannot understand her. She seems completely worn down by life, and then she will look at me with a directness that makes me uncomfortable.”

  “I agree. I wish to know more of her, if I can find her at a time when she is not occupied. Where, by the way, is Mrs. Paget? I have not seen her all morning.”

  Edmund nudged a loose stone out of the path with the toe of his boot. “Mrs. Paget is not well, either, as Miss Graciela also informed me. I believe it is nothing more than a sour stomach, similar to what she suffered the night after we left Madrid.”

  He opened the door, and stopped. “I beg your pardon,” he said to the young man who had been about to open the door himself.

  Amaya immediately recognized him as the curly-haired youth who had pretended not to be interested in her the previous evening. His eyes, a peculiar greyish-blue, fixed on her briefly, then looked away; he studied the floor as if it were infinitely fascinating. “Please excuse us,” she told him, “we are in your way.”

  The young man shrugged and pushed past them without a word. Amaya half-turned to watch him go. “I believe he finds me attractive, and that makes him silent,” she said.

  Edmund chuckled. “That would be unexpected,” he said, “as she is a woman.”

  Amaya gasped and turned around entirely, but the young man—young woman?—was already out of sight. “You must be mistaken.”

  “I am quite familiar with women, if I may say so without seeming indelicate.” Edmund offered Amaya his arm again. “It is a good disguise, and she is built in such a way that bolsters that disguise, but I assure you she is female, whatever visage she shows to the world.”

  “Now I am intrigued,” Amaya said. “Do you suppose Mr. Valencia knows?”

  “I have no idea,” Edmund said, “but we should not give her away, as that might prove dangerous to her if her comrades do not know her true sex.”

  “That had not occurred to me.” Amaya let the door shut behind her. “Don Fernándo certainly has the most interesting acquaintances.”

  Chapter 11

  In which a conversation ends rather dramatically

  Graciela appeared in the dining room when Amaya and Edmund had nearly finished their meal. “My father wishes to speak with you,” she told Amaya in her diffident voice. “He asks that you join him in the drawing room.”

  Amaya laid down her knife. “Then he is well again?”

  Graciela tilted her head to one side, considering. “He is very old,” she said, “with all that suggests. He refuses to have an Extraordinary Shaper attend on him, though his heart sometimes does not beat regularly and his digestion is not what it once was. Some mornings are more difficult than others.”

  “I will join him—you do not mind, Edmund?”

  Edmund pushed his seat back from the table. “Not at all. I will see how Mrs. Paget is feeling, and then I believe I will visit the stables and beg the indulgence of riding one of those magnificent horses. You should join me after your talk.”

  Amaya did not think they were all that magnificent, but she knew little of horseflesh. “I suppose,” she said, making Edmund laugh at her lack of enthusiasm.

  The fire in the drawing room burned hotter than before, and Fernándo sat, not on the sofa, but on an armchair drawn up close to the fireplace. Another, matching armchair faced his, and Fernándo gestured to Amaya to sit. “Has Graciela seen to your needs?” he asked. His voice sounded less forceful than it had the previous day, but his expression was as stern as ever. His hand gripping the head of the walking stick shook slightly.

  “Aunt Graciela has been very accommodating,” Amaya said. “But I do not understand why she acts as a servant instead of the lady of the house.”

  Fernándo scowled, deepening the lines beside his mouth and across his forehead. “Graciela knows her duty. Do you suggest I treat her poorly?”

  This was exactly what Amaya wanted to suggest, but she did not feel comfortable accusing her grandfather of exploiting Graciela when she had only observed the household for a few hours. “I do not know what is acceptable behavior. I know only that were I a stranger to this place, I would assume Aunt Graciela was a servant and not a daughter of the house.”

  “It is none of your business,” Fernándo said, raising his voice. “And we have other matters to discuss.”

  The emphasis he put on “other matters” filled Amaya with trepidation. “And those are?”

  Fernándo shifted his weight, using his stick to push himself up enough to sit forward. “You are my heir, and should understand what that means. The Salazar family has possessed this land for centuries, through the rise and fall of kings. I will not see it lost to us.”

  “Then what would you have done had I not returned?” Amaya said.

  “That is irrelevant, because you are here now.” Fernándo’s brows contracted and came together, furrowing his forehead more deeply. “We have much rich farmland, more than our neighbors. It supports this household well. You have seen our horses; they, too, are of the highest quality.”

  “And yet you sold the books,” Amaya said.

  Fernándo jerked back, the least controlled movement she had yet seen him make. “Who told you this?”

  “Mr. Valencia.”

  “Ah. Yes.” Mention of Valencia seemed to calm the old man. “You spoke with him this morning?”

  “I did.” Possibly the answer was too curt for politeness, but Amaya did not wish to dis
cuss her conversation with El Encendedor with Fernándo.

  “He is a great man. He wishes the best for Spain. You would do well to heed his words, as he has been a faithful friend these many years.” Fernándo moistened his lips with his tongue and looked around the room. “Graciela!”

  “If you are in need, I will fetch—”

  “That is beneath you, to fetch and carry. Graciela!” The woman appeared in the doorway. “Bring water for both of us.”

  “I do not,” Amaya began, then gave up. She was not likely to convince Fernándo to suddenly begin treating his daughter like a daughter.

  “Alejandro Valencia is like a son to me,” Fernándo continued. “And he understands the respect due a Salazar. You must learn this as well.”

  “But—what of Mateo?” Amaya blurted out.

  “What of him?” Graciela returned with a tray, and Fernándo took a glass without acknowledging her.

  “Was he not to be your heir?” Amaya had intended not to drink, as a gesture of defiance, but realized she was too thirsty for such gestures. The water was cool and sweet, and she drained half the glass in one gulp.

  Fernándo waved her words away. “He knew the truth. If his hopes are dashed, that is his fault for building them high. And he is young and impetuous, not the sort of man one wishes for an heir. Ernesto—” He stopped abruptly and took another drink of water. “You are not like your father. You will care for this land.”

  His utter certainty that he was right, and that Amaya would obey his command, angered her. “You know little of me,” she said, “and your assumptions are premature. I have obligations that will not wait, and I am not certain I wish to be your heir.”

  She expected this to throw him into a fury, but he only set his glass down with a faint tick of glass against the wood of the tray. “Alejandro told me as much,” he said. “You cannot decide because you are yet ignorant of your destiny.”

  His casual certainty deepened her anger. “Mr. Valencia asked me to join his army. Suppose I agree?”