Steadfast

by Michelle Hauck

  “I can’t speak to that,” Teresa said, “but I do suspect that the Northerners know how to at least contain it. My guess is they kept it from the rest of the world for centuries, perhaps eons.”

  Priest and university-trained expert locked gazes. “Santabe,” Telo said. “With Ordoño dead, she’s the only one who reliably speaks our language. If we could interrogate her . . .”

  “The murderer?” Julian asked. “That wild thing? She’d as soon bite out her own tongue as offer us information. You think to speak to her?”

  “Without Ordoño, it’s doubtful we can get near her,” Telo added. “She’d kill us on sight. But she is of their highest clergy. She would know their deepest secrets. If we could capture her and if we could get her to speak . . .”

  “Or maybe there is another way to find out more about it,” Teresa said.

  All eyes turned to Ramiro. His shoulders lifted defensively. “I don’t think the figure from my dreams will help much. Not with stopping this dark god, anyway, or feeding us information. His hands are tied. He showed me what will happen and said I’d have assistance—but not from him.”

  “Then I agree that Santabe sounds like our best place to start,” Julian said slowly. Though he didn’t voice his doubts, worry for Ramiro grew in his breast. The lad wasn’t acting in his normal fashion. “Santabe has met all of us, but one of us has spent much less time with her—enough that she might not readily see them as a threat. Only you, my son, might get close and be unknown to her.”

  Ramiro held up his hands. “I clunked her on the head with a rock. I think she might remember me.”

  “True, but it was in a battle, and barely light, and you were dressed as a soldier. You scarcely had a beard then . . . and you are not a Northerner. To her, you could just be one of many dark-skinned folk, and she might not be able to pick you out of a crowd. And remember she is a strong woman, tall and well made—only you have the necessary strength to match hers. We will help as best we can, but we need you to capture the woman so we can question her.”

  Julian expected a reluctant nod from his son, such had always been his influence before. Instead came a shake of the head. “My warning is too late for our troops or Aveston, but the other ciudades-estado must be told how to shelter from Da—it. Such I feel is the calling from the dreams. Then I must turn myself in to Captain Gonzalo as a deserter and take my fate.”

  “Nonsense,” Beatriz said swiftly. “I am alcalde. I pardon you.”

  As Julian watched, Ramiro set his jaw. For the first time, Julian noticed how firmly his son stood, shoulders square, head up. His beard had filled in thick and full, though kept short. The set of his face was that of a man now. Gone was the indecision of youth.

  “I thank you, Mother, but the decision isn’t yours or mine. It belongs to Captain Gonzalo as the last capitán. It is to him I must go once I’ve given my warning to the other alcaldes. You’ll need to find another to capture your priestess.”

  “Gonzalo is a stickler for the law,” Teresa said. “I’ve met him. You’ll find no favoritism or excuses given for honor won there. The penalty for desertion is hanging.”

  Ramiro didn’t flinch. “Then so be it. Though . . . I would leave you a letter to deliver to Claire for me—in case I cannot.”

  Julian stepped into the breach of horrified silence before Beatriz could start wailing. As he’d feared, their son was troubled—perhaps wrongfully. Yet telling him so would only make his son dig in his heels—the boy could be as stubborn as his mother. “Yes, we could find another to go, Ramiro, but can I trust their commitment? And doing so quickly might be difficult. You’ve fought this Santabe before and won. Certainly in a time such as this—” Julian began, but his son cut him off.

  “By San Martin, honor is all the more important in a time such as this. I shirked my duty and must pay for it.”

  Even before Ramiro finished, Beatriz wore a look of pure obstinacy. “Nonsense,” she said. “I won’t have it.”

  Julian rubbed a hand over his face as the others continued to argue. He would find the whole thing ridiculous if his son didn’t obviously feel so strongly. Had he truly instilled such an unbendable sense of honor into his sons—or had it been their mother’s doing? A combination of both, Julian quickly decided. Together, they had given Ramiro a double lesson on integrity, and he sensed there would be no change of heart here—no matter the persuasion used.

  Then let there be a compromise.

  “Hold,” he said, breaking into a scripture quote from Father Telo on duty to elders. “Beatriz and I will take the warning to the other alcaldes. We are more likely to be believed in any case. We can go to Crueses and Vista Sur and the other ciudades-estado and meet you at Suseph. Help Father Telo and my ambassador capture this Santabe and bring her to Suseph for us. You can then surrender to Gonzalo there. Find and secure Santabe swiftly and you might be there sooner than if you rode with the warning to all the ciudades-estado.”

  Beatriz cleared her throat loudly and resettled her shawl across her shoulders. “Aren’t you forgetting something? Who is alcalde now? Who makes the decisions?”

  “I . . . I . . .” Julian stammered. He had indeed forgotten, too used to being the one in charge. “I am in the wrong. What do you think, mi amor?”

  “I don’t like this. It’s too dangerous.”

  Julian didn’t disagree, and a fear lingered in his breast for his youngest child. A father’s protectiveness never ended. Yet for Ramiro to carry so much guilt wasn’t healthy either. It was only reasonable for Julian as a parent to want to reach Suseph first and speak to Gonzalo, to use his influence on the man. He only prayed the saints helped them all live long enough to see the city.

  To his mixture of relief and regret, Beatriz wasn’t finished. “It’s too dangerous,” she repeated. “But I don’t think we have a choice. I have to agree with Julian that this is the best option at the moment. As your alcalde, I have decided this is the path we must take.”

  Their son gave a nod and turned to his horse. Their journey together would last just a day. But that Julian could accept, because their next journey was more important.

  Tomorrow morning, they began the task to defeat a god.

  Chapter 7

  Claire brushed at damp hair clinging against her cheek. Rain fell in little patters against the leaves. A calming sound that made it easy to curl up for a nap, if they weren’t walking through a wet woods and if the wet wasn’t starting to soak through her cloak. But she couldn’t complain as they made much better time than she expected. Bromisto’s scouting and ability to lead the way, while providing them with the occasional rabbit dinner, allowed her time with Jorga. The younger boy also managed to entertain Errol and keep him busy. They walked ahead, with Bromisto teaching Errol how to weave a leather cord into a snare.

  “Again,” Jorga demanded. Her lips pinched thin in a tart expression. Her higher position up on the horse gave her additional authority—not that her grandmother needed the help. “Keep going.”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “What do you think I’m doing?”

  “Not Singing. Again.”

  “I can barely remember the words. I only heard them five minutes ago. It’s hard to fix on a memory.”

  “Excuses, excuses. Are you a Woman of the Song or not?”

  Claire huffed, but still drew her body up straight in her Singing posture. In order to get the Share Memory to work, she had to focus on a particular memory while Singing the words to the Song, all while holding strong to her will and intent. Not nearly as easy as Jorga made it sound, but her grandmother said this method was a shortcut that let a woman share images from her mind without having to create a fresh Song each time.

  In fact, this magic and creating illusions, as when Claire had made herself and Ramiro appear to be deer to some Northerners, were very much related. Both times you shared what you wanted the target to “see.” However, in Share Memory, the image had been real at one time—and thus should supposedly be easier to
recreate—and wasn’t meant to deceive.

  Claire still felt like she juggled four balls while balanced on one foot.

  She built a picture in her mind of one of her earliest memories: being among the branches of an apple tree and looking down at her mother’s upturned face. She still remembered her infant feeling of triumph at being above and separate from her mother.

  “Thus do you see,”

  “That which has been.”

  “Given freely.”

  “Memory shared is pain . . .”

  The next word faltered on the edge of her tongue. As she struggled for it, the image fractured, intent collapsing. The magic crashed around her with a snap of recoil like a physical slap. Claire flinched.

  “. . . lightened.”

  Claire rubbed at her cheek, though the sensation of being struck covered her whole body, not just her face. “What was that?”

  “The punishment for failure,” Jorga said. “Magic takes energy, power. When it can’t go to the intended purpose, it has to go somewhere. Now focus. I got a little something that time. A tree? Again. Sing.”

  “I—”

  “No excuses. Sing.”

  Claire bristled. If these were her grandmother’s methods, no wonder her mother ran away. “I’m not a child. Stop treating me like one.”

  “Do you want to learn or not? You won’t learn anything complaining and arguing.”

  No longer did she want to share a pleasant memory with Jorga. Instead, she latched on to another recollection, discarding the bland Song whose words she could only half remember and seizing on the feelings associated with this memory.

  “Terror. Foes. Death.”

  “Sweat so cold.”

  “Heart stopping.”

  She formed the memory, quivering with the terror of standing weaponless and surrounded by the entire Northern army, knowing she was going to die, and flung it at Jorga. Then she enlarged the sensation as she switched to the moment her Song had first brought Dal to bear down upon her. Claire lost herself in reliving the passions that had been projected onto her, sending them at Jorga.

  “Evil. Hate. Contempt.”

  “An ant squished under a heel.”

  “All life to be wiped away.”

  “Darkness within light.”

  “Destruction.”

  “Kill—”

  “Stop!” Jorga had cringed down into a ball on the horse, hands over her head. “Stop! That’s not possible.”

  Claire closed her mouth, shutting off the Song. Before she could apologize for her thoughtless use of the magic, Bromisto and Errol came running with questions, but Jorga already struggled upright again. She waved the boys away.

  “What did you do?” Jorga demanded. “That wasn’t the image of a memory. I didn’t see anything.”

  Claire bit her lip. “I think I sent the emotions from a memory. I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. That might be an entirely new use of the magic.” Jorga gave a nod. “You are of my blood, after all. Hmm.” Her eyes turned inward. “If we could merge the two, you’d have a powerful tool to impress those old brood hens at the Rose Among Thorn gathering. It will be triple the work and preparation, but if we practice it every chance we get, you should have it perfected before we arrive.”

  Claire stifled a groan. Triple the work. Triple the difficulty, Jorga meant. Claire didn’t mind the work of using magic, but the balancing act was another story. She already felt drained from one attempt at sharing the emotions, wrung out and tired. Handling that much pure feeling daily was not going to be fun.

  And yet, a smile of pride pulled at her lips for having done something new.

  It wasn’t such a surprise, after all. Women of the Song kept to themselves so much, private in the extreme, that they rarely shared their memories, let alone ever discussed feelings with each other. Claire got the sense from her grandmother that emotions were something to keep hidden, and probably considered shameful—while she had found it second nature to share her thoughts with her mother and then Ramiro. For the Women of the Song, doing so would be pure horror. Which led her onward to another worry.

  “Grandmother, why did you call them old hens? How hard is it going to be to get their help?” She already knew the Women of the Song didn’t like meddling with outsiders. If speaking to them about Dal was such a waste of time, maybe she’d rather deliver her warning and leave.

  “They’re ‘old hens’ because they tend to scratch around in circles, set in their ways and proud of it.”

  Claire closed one eye as she tactfully kept from saying that described Jorga very well.

  “But”—Jorga held up a finger—“with Errol and the few others like him to back you up and the extreme nature of this challenge to our way of life, I’d say their taking you seriously are even odds. Showing you have the power of my family line will definitely help. Now try that again, but this time, direct it at a tree instead of me.” Jorga sniffed. “Never thinks before she acts. We’ll knock some sense in that silly noggin of yours. Try it again, girl, if you can remember what you did the first time.”

  Claire glared, suddenly filled with enough prickly anger again, and drew herself up straight. Silly, am I? It looked like gathering up the required emotions wouldn’t be a problem with Jorga around to set her back up. Just from spite, Claire Sang a different tune Jorga had taught her days ago, relying on the moisture in the air to help carry the magic:

  “Hear me across the void.”

  “Distance is no bar.”

  “Heed my call.”

  The Speak on the Wind Song was short and easy enough to remember. For the last line, she inserted Ramiro’s name. The longer she held the notes on the ending, the more powerful and on-tune her Singing, the better the range of the magic, though she knew well enough her call would never reach him in the desert, no matter how perfect her voice. She put her all into Singing his name anyway, letting the notes belt from her tongue with power and holding them as long as her breath held out—all the while making sure not to make the message a cry for help. Instead, she used her earlier trick of inserting emotion, adding a touch of satisfaction and well-being. If Ramiro should happen to receive her call, she wanted him to know she was fine and in no danger—for the time being.

  Bromisto and Errol turned to watch, their eyes wide with astonishment. Bromisto whistled. Errol put his hands over his ears and hunched his head. Her uncle was deaf to magic and likely tone deaf as well. His discomfort didn’t shake her voice, but she did reluctantly let the Song die.

  Claire quickly vowed to do the same every day that separated them. It might not do anything to reassure Ramiro, but it made her feel better, closer somehow. She had a feeling she was going to need that encouragement in the future.

  “Satisfied?” Jorga snapped with a scowl. “Got that out of your system? Now, how about we get down to business? Sing.”

  Chapter 8

  Teresa found sleep visited her but fitfully during the few hours of darkness they had to rest. She lay with eyes open long before the dawn, having discovered she entirely lacked the nerves of a solider to take repose while she could. The others slept the sleep of exhaustion, while she tossed and turned, rendered too restless, anxious for morning to give her a view of Colina Hermosa.

  As light crept into the storage room and all stirred, she couldn’t stop staring at her first glimpse of the destruction, but it failed to settle her, rendering her unfit for conversation and with no appetite for breakfast. The company of others set her teeth on edge and she knew she’d be fit for nothing until she sought out the university and found her peace. She had to be sure.

  The new alcalde and old had yet to emerge from the storage room, but Father Telo fed sticks to the fire and Ramiro stood at the well, filling water skins in preparation for their departure.

  She sidled up to Ramiro. “Cousin, I would take a little walk and satisfy myself the university is truly gone.”

  He stared at her, then frowned. “I saw the t
owers fall on the night it burned.”

  “I understand that. It is just something I must do. Like you must turn yourself in.” His face folded in on itself that she would use such against him, and she rushed on: “I will walk to the gate and take the main avenue. I can’t miss the way with that route.”

  He set down the bucket he held. “Then I’ll come with you.”

  “No!” she almost shouted. “This is something I must do alone. If you come with me, who will guard your parents?” She couldn’t explain why she didn’t want his company—not even to herself. She couldn’t even explain where the determination came to go in the first place. Only that it would ease her mind that her home was truly lost and give her some task. Plus she sensed her short absence would give Ramiro time to speak alone with his family before their inevitable split.

  She gestured at her shorn hair and round figure. “What Northern is going to care about harassing me? I’ve nothing to steal. And I don’t believe looting means much to our enemy since . . . it appeared.”

  “I will go with her,” Father Telo said. “I’m not much protection, but no one should wander around alone.”

  She didn’t anticipate Father Telo’s resolve to walk with her, but she welcomed his company nonetheless. In the few days she’d spent with the priest, she found his companionship both valuable and calming, without being intruding. He often achieved the resolve she lacked, and she very much feared that going into the heart of the enemy to capture a madwoman would take all the determination she could muster.

  Hurt filled Ramiro’s eye that she preferred the friar’s company over his, but he shrugged. “If you must, then hurry. And be careful.”