Steadfast

by Michelle Hauck

  Her fan flew, disarranging her hair, then gradually slowed to create a more gentle flow in the still air. “I thank you for your words, Captain,” she said. “I continue to disagree. You can’t treat alcaldes as hirelings. You cannot command politicians to keep their people sequestered inside, nor can I demand they appear at a convocación.” Julian bit his tongue to force himself to stay out of it until invited. Beatriz went on without a glance his way. “It must be their choice. We must persuade, not order.”

  “But there is no law as such against doing so,” Gonzalo said.

  “Julian, tell him what you told me.”

  “Actual there is at least one,” Julian said, happy to go for the surest argument against the straitlaced captain. “Our law states a convocation can be invitation only, unless a quorum of alcaldes has declared support. In normal times, it would take a dozen sevendays to organize enough support to send invitations alone and still some would stay home to show their strength. Now—with no gentle feelers ahead of time—possibly half will come. The rest will send surrogates or no one at all. I have to agree with Beatriz that ordering will only put their backs up. I’m afraid, in the case of politics, unwritten rules are as important as those on the books.”

  Julian knew Beatriz had to stand on her feet as alcalde without any help from her spouse. Yet even he had taken counsel daily from the concejales of Colina Hermosa—often learning and benefiting from their experience and wisdom. With those men absent, he’d do his best to fill the void of experience and give good advice when asked.

  With a half smile, he chided himself that from what he’d witnessed, Beatriz needed very little help from himself or any other. She’d managed a citadel with hundreds of servants and run the rumor mills of Colina Hermosa for long enough years to be perfectly capable of making excellent decisions as alcalde with minimal advice from him. Yet, he knew the difficulties she’d have would come from others’ reaction to her leadership. A woman in charge would be second-guessed. If hearing the same words from his mouth would make people accept her directions, then he’d gladly back her up. Soon enough they would see her good sense, as he did.

  A glowing pride in Beatriz’s commanding presence easily overshadow the tiny part of him that missed being the one to make the hard choices.

  “Hi-ya,” Gonzalo said reluctantly, finally giving over. The man meant well, but he’d never acted as advisor in this capacity before. The news of the death of all the other pelotón captains had the remaining captain champing at the bit like a horse eager for action—even if no one had any idea what—any action would do. Still, Julian was the one to encourage Gonzalo to speak his mind and act as an advisor—at least until they reached Suseph, by tomorrow morning. The man was straightforward, experienced in his own field, and used to leading men; his thoughts in other areas besides political maneuverings would be invaluable to Beatriz.

  Julian rubbed at tired eyes and stifled a yawn, amused in a strange way that being raised from the dead didn’t make one less subject to exhaustion or free a person from the ravages of increasing age. The gentle sway of his horse acted like a lullaby to send him to sleep. Despite Captain Gonzalo dancing attendance on them, Julian looked forward to a real bed.

  Selfish.

  How many citizens would never enjoy a bed again? His own son was out there entering the den of the jackals to find a madwoman who might or might not tell them of a way to defeat Dal. There might be no such information to find—no way to stop the killing. They were truly hanging from a spider web—their hopes as flimsy as a thread.

  Gonzalo showed no such signs of being weary or discouraged, making yet another protest. Thank the saints for military men and their sense of duty. “Then I would urge caution on the last part of your message. Telling the common people the truth about this god not only goes against the precedent, but will lead to chaos in the streets. Law and order will break down. Looting. Thievery. Even murder will result.”

  “Then you have less faith in our people than I,” Beatriz said with force. “People will find their faith. The truth will bring them together. They deserve to know, to have that chance to make their peace with their families and their god, and protect themselves in the meantime.”

  “I have some experience with controlling a civilian population in dangerous times. It doesn’t always work out as one would hope.” Gonzalo’s spine snapped straighter, if that was possible. Julian could see his knuckles whiten on his reins.

  “I agree with you both,” Julian said hastily. He thought Gonzalo likely right about the chaos, but the side of honor leaned toward Beatriz. “If I might, there is no right answer, as there are bound to be some who react badly to the news—possibly a majority. Society could destruct further. Precedent is against revealing too much. But precedent has never put us under such deadly conditions. Like Beatriz, I want to believe that this test will bring out the best in our people.”

  “God works through us all,” Beatriz said simply. “I might be overly optimistic, but the more people who know what we face, the greater the chance that someone rises who can stop it. If we miscarry, perhaps someone else won’t. What would the saints do?”

  Gonzalo touched mind and heart, his dark face solemn. “‘Ever do we speak truth,’” he quoted from Santiago’s famous sermon.

  “‘For all to hear,’” Beatriz finished. Her mouth twisted sourly. “Besides, that is not my call, except in Suseph. Like the rest of the message, acting on my suggestions is up to the alcaldes reading the letter. Some will be wise and some will let their feet stick in the mud out of cowardice. Like you, I’d rather order, but some things cannot be forced.”

  Beatriz sniffed. “The alcalde have always reminded me of small children, with their petty pride squabbles. What alcalde should lead this? Who gets right of preference? A woman would not care about such things, and yet now I have to. I can only hope that the group who actually come to the convocation will also reveal the truth publicly. The more who know, the better our chances.”

  Unlike Beatriz, Julian couldn’t find faith that someone else would save the day. The task fell upon them to devise another way in case their plan with Santabe faltered. So if Dal couldn’t be destroyed, could the god be bribed or distracted or somehow made weaker?

  The answer stared them all in the face. Julian gazed at the shadows crossing the road without seeing them. Nobody wanted to be the one to broach the solution because it was equally devastating. Even letting his mind skirt the words turned his blood to ice.

  Coward. How can you refuse to face the truth? It must be done, and sooner rather than later.

  “Blood,” he said.

  “What’s that, Julian?” Beatriz asked.

  “There is something else we could prepare,” Julian said, causing all riding close enough to hear to turn in his direction. “A last alternative plan. The Northerners use blood, mi amor—”

  “Later,” Beatriz snapped, her face becoming closed. “We can talk about this later.”

  “There is no later.” To say the words brought only sadness. To force the issue in public hurt more. “We must face the fact that we may not be able to stop the deaths. But we also know the Northerners have given us clues to their god and we must take advantage of that gift.”

  “What are we talking about?” Gonzalo’s face registered suspicion. The captain stuck to Beatriz like a queen bee to its honey, refusing to leave her without protection. No doubt he saw any subterfuge as another trick for Beatriz to blunder off defenseless.

  Julian, however, wanted this off his chest and out in the open as much as Beatriz preferred to deny it. “Blood summons the creature. Blood fuels their weapons. Their executions are nothing but a bath of blood in the name of their god. It is the common theme at every point. If blood is what starts it, what if only blood can stop this monstrosity and end it?”

  “What are you saying?” Gonzalo looked sick and Beatriz hid behind her fan.

  Julian reached across the space between them and took Beatriz’s cold hand
. She’d shut her eyes as if to shut out his words. “Mi amor, you must face it. We all must. Better the choice be on our terms than that creature’s. Giving it the blood the thing desires may be the only solution.” And if the amount of blood it had taken so far hadn’t been enough—the weight of two armies—Lord save them from what they would need to do. The sacrifice would be tremendous.

  Gonzalo made a horrified sound.

  Slowly, Beatriz’s eyes opened. “I have thought about little else. Santa Ildaria and the bandits has been on my mind since I learned of this Northern god.”

  “A minor saint?” Julian asked. “I barely remember her from catechism. What about her?”

  “She saved her village by sacrificing herself, going out to face the bandits armed only with her faith. She and her followers slowed the bandits at the expense of their lives, enough that the villagers could escape to the protection of Zapata.

  “At the convocation. I will present that at the convocation, but for now, I would not speak of it.” Her throat worked. Always Beatriz had cried freely when her emotion required such relief. Now, she resisted the tears. “Some things one must have space to absorb and take in before accepting. I need that space. Captain, send out the messengers. We are done discussing. I’ve decided, and we will move forward.

  “Let the Saints save us.”

  “Mi amor?”

  “We have our fallback plan if we can’t find a weakness. In that case, we will try martyrdom.”

  Chapter 19

  The stench of burning human flesh was inescapable. No wind was needed to carry the reek to Claire’s nose and no amount of cloth worn around her face could shut it out, or the roiling smoke. Crusted blood covered her hands past the wrists from doing her share of placing the dead on burn piles, but every Woman of the Song had been given a dignified send-off, their spirit set free by fire to rise and mingle with their ancestors.

  Smoke and flame rose from twenty shacks. There had simply been too many dead, so they had used what was available and placed the bodies inside the log cabins and set the dried wood alight.

  Claire looked around, too tired to do more than sit on folded legs before the shelter releasing Bromisto and Errol’s remains. Heat scorched her face, but she refused to retreat or rub at stinging eyes.

  Jorga had collapsed within touching distance, yet her grandmother’s presence offered cold comfort. More than the drifting smoke filled the space between them. Self-recrimination robbed the living of speech. For Jorga and the other Elders it was the knowledge that they’d refused to speak about her warning, had created a plan of action which hadn’t worked—inside Claire burned with the sorrow of not having done enough. If she’d been faster, stronger with the magic, thought of illusion sooner . . .

  None of that could bring back their kin now.

  The flames danced and moved, consuming the wood eagerly, giving the illusion of life where there was only death.

  She saw Bromisto again—scrawny, shirtless, his face beaming with pride when he’d showed Ramiro the Northerners’ trail in the swamp, the skepticism in his dark eyes when they’d first met, and his wariness of sirenas. She remembered how that uncertainty had melted over time to the bossiness that only a child could manage. How he had been determined to act the man, though in a child’s body.

  And that brought her to Errol. Her uncle, the opposite, a child in a nearly adult body. She dwelt on the few times he’d met her eyes and she’d felt a real concern from him. His utter adoration of Jorga. The way he spit when he tried to whistle. His simple delight in even the tiniest things, such as jumping puddles. They had that in common. He, more than anyone she knew, exhibited the innocence of a child. Yet being special had not saved her uncle this time. Nor had his ability to see the future foreseen this outcome.

  Her eyes burned with more than pain from the heat and smoke. Instead of tears, though, her blood-crusted hands curled into fists. A scream ripped from her throat, expressing frustration and grief all in one and scattering the silence. The release felt so good she screamed again until her lungs ran out of air and the clearing echoed with the sound. The others turned in her direction, their faces blank—too deep in shock to issue either reprimand or consolation.

  Thirteen.

  Thirteen Women of the Song remained. Eleven of them Elders and past childbearing age. One already pregnant. And herself. Plus, a few scattered more in the swamp who had been too busy or uninterested to attend their annual gathering.

  Her people. All gone. All wiped out by Dal.

  How much more loss could she take before the beating left her broken?

  Her fists tightened until fingernails cut into skin.

  Not today.

  Not today would she let the world shatter her. She would not fall apart and let them win.

  She knew where she had to be and it wasn’t here.

  Claire rose on wobbly legs and tottered to the pile of possessions behind her, hastily shoving them into bags. Horse had vanished in the chaos of that morning. Perhaps escaping from Dal by bolting, perhaps lying dead somewhere. Gone either way. She’d have to take less baggage this time, only what she could manage to carry. It was a long walk to the desert.

  She shook dirt and leaves off her blanket, then put the few mementoes of her mother on the fabric, adding the short knife that had belonged to Bromisto and a whittled chunk of wood that vaguely looked like a face, which Errol had carried. It was all she had of them but the memories.

  The items blurred and she moved to rub hastily at betraying eyes with shaking hands before remembering the filth that covered them. Gone already was her earlier bravado of being a destroyer. Nothing but a scared girl remained. A lost soul drowning in quicksand and grasping at reeds. She had to hope Ramiro had managed better with his task.

  Seeking comfort, the words of her Goodnight Song dropped from her lips in a whisper:

  “All is well.

  “All is safe . . .”

  And died, providing no reassurance or relief because nothing was well or safe.

  No time for that.

  She hesitated only a few breaths before rolling up the blanket and thrusting it into the bottom of a saddlebag. She’d pack and then find water to wash. The possessions beside her moved as another bag was filled. Claire turned to find Jorga beside her.

  “Are we going to the desert, granddaughter?” Jorga’s voice had gone hoarse, becoming a rasp drawn across raw wood.

  “Aye. That’s where we’ll find them,” she answered, not knowing whether she meant Dal, the Northerners, or Ramiro. Or all three. Their magic may not work against Dal, but the Song could take her revenge against the Northerners and it was they who had caused all her pain. They had started events in motion and brought Dal here.

  Her packing finished, she stood to layer the bags across her shoulders. Eulalie, Muriel, Rachael, and three others hefted their own bags. When she attempted to meet their eyes, they avoided her gaze. Like Jorga they appeared flat, deflated. The blow had knocked away their confidence, leaving clay figures behind, and Claire could not resist needling their raw wounds—if they had listened instead of obstructing perhaps their kin would be alive.

  “Now you believe and will help.”

  Shame flashed across their faces, to be replaced with a stubborn outthrust on at least one jaw. Eulalie stepped forward. “Do you want our help or not?”

  To say no flashed through Claire’s heart, but that would be childish. They had all suffered. She had been as unable to stop Dal as the others and the Elders had tried—had fought and lost and yet still stood ready to go and fight again. To deny their help out of pettiness would be foolish.

  “I would take your help,” Claire said, “but I go to the desert people. I will be allying with men. Can you handle that?”

  Muriel stepped forward, brown eyes warm. “We understand that and see no choice. The Great Goddess put us here for our protection, but there is no safety anywhere anymore, is there? We choose to go so those who stay may live.”

&n
bsp; Claire nodded and looked toward Jorga. “Then there are no more Elders—you are not in charge. My voice has as much say as any other in making decisions. You will take my lead.”

  “Rather more, I’d believe,” Jorga said under her breath. Louder she said, “Singers?”

  Rachael used dirty fingers to push at a gray clump of hair that had worked loose from her bun to dangle over her eye, leaving a red streak on her skin. “I always speak my mind and I say we all do the same. But”—her eyes shifted, her mouth puckering—“I say we take this child’s lead for the time being—as long as her advice works out, anyway. I always said age was no indication of wisdom. There’s many a fool who’s an old fool.”

  Other heads nodded, though most reluctantly.

  “My Amos called her Destroyer.” Eulalie’s chins drooped on her chest with her disapproval. “Maybe she will destroy us or maybe our enemy. His word is good enough for me. I insist we follow her now. She needs further training in our ways and we can’t do that if we aren’t with her.”

  A gasp escaped Claire’s lips. They’d find a way to twist everything she said into being their idea and would seek to control her at every turn. More than that, they’d actively try to shape her in their images, down to even changing her way of thinking to theirs. For a moment, the thought infuriated her, then she shrugged. Let them try.

  “Then let’s go take down our enemies, Singers,” Claire said, taking the title from her grandmother and watching determination spring up among them. Not one Destroyer would there be, but eight. Let the Northerners make their peace with their vicious god for she was about to bring them hell.

  Five Years Ago

  Five Years Ago

  In the long years past Santabe had learned the two ways an Enforcer of Dal walked. The first and most often used was a walk of pride—assured, confident, never hesitating for a crowd to part before one of the most dreaded and feared persons among the Children of Dal. The second, lesser way of movement was one of stealth and deception, Diviner hidden, as the Enforcer hunted for a particular member of the Disgraced for punishment. That walk was reserved only for Enforcers of the top rank. Out of habit she fell into this walk now as the exhilaration of putting people in their place filled her. She threaded through the venerable trees of the park at the heart of the Great Palace of Dal with her footsteps light and her eyes darting to watch for other walkers. Her work would go better if unnoticed, and she hoped to preserve secrecy, despite how the white of her robes stood out in the darkness.