“Let us establish one thing at a time, gentlemen,” Beatriz said. “Shall we get this out of the way? Is there a consensus on the existence or nonexistence of a Leviathan? Was it real or an invention?” Ten voices rose, all with different responses, and Beatriz used the gavel again. “The basics first, please. A show of hands, bishops. Is Leviathan a fact or a fiction? Those for its reality?” All hands rose.
“Well and good. Now, those for Leviathan”—her brow rose to quell another protest—“or a scion of Leviathan to exist today and be murdering our people?” She paused to count. “Those who have a different explanation for the Northern god?”
“I object,” Alcalde Juan said angrily. “Misleading phrasing.” The leader of Crueses would block Beatriz at every turn, still angry at her taking the election of Suseph from his kinsman, Ramón. No doubt he was thrilled they’d been sidetracked into this talk.
Beatriz sniffed, but relented. “Those who believe Leviathan or a scion of Leviathan could be murdering our people? Those who believe something else is murdering our people?”
The vote came out seven to three in favor.
“I don’t see how this helps,” the new alcalde of Aveston said. His former occupation had been as owner of a popular tavern at the heart of the city. “It’s just a substitution of names. I saw what it did to two armies. What we call it doesn’t matter. The effects are the same—death for all of us.”
Julian’s brows rose. The man with the least political experience had cut to the heart of the matter. He looked at Beatriz hopefully, but she didn’t seem to sense the trap she’d fallen into.
“Perhaps,” Beatriz allowed. “But we have experts on Leviathan who may be able to enlighten us. We have none on a Northern god.”
Murmurs broke out again. The bishop of Colina Hermosa opened his eyes and rose. Julian had found the old man often slept through meetings and had to be prodded awake at the end, but as the eldest cleric in attendance, the others gave him the respect of turning in his direction and falling silent. “Leviathan, if it lives, cannot be harmed by a mortal. Possibly by a saint, though unlikely. I have seen no evidence the time of saints has returned. In summation, a large scion of Leviathan cannot be defeated by us.” He sat. Silence followed his proclamation until the other clerics beat their hands together in rare agreement.
Julian looked at the letter still suspended between his fingers. Ramiro had written the same thoughts. Their spies in Aveston didn’t believe Dal, or Leviathan, could be killed either, though Beatriz had not mentioned that fact. In a way, this declaration could be a good thing—maybe with that established they could move on to something more productive.
As for saints returning, Julian had told no one of the miraculous events he’d witnessed, and didn’t believe Beatriz had either. Healings. An ordinary kitchen tray killing flies by the hundreds. Dreams providing truths. Myth come to life.
Julian had never been a man who believed in what he couldn’t see. He preferred facts over fancy. He hadn’t believed in the spiritual over the human until his healing.
But miracles aside, to his mind, the convocation of alcaldes should have been dominated by politics and military discussion. Instead they heard from historians and priests as the closest things to experts available so that they could talk about monsters out of legend.
He preferred they discuss something more tangible from the letter, such as Ramiro’s interrogation of the Northerner, Santabe. Weapons you could hold, like these red Diviners. To get this meeting back on track, it was there they needed to go. It seemed he was not the only one who felt that way.
“This is a waste of time,” Guter, of one of the minor ciudades-estado, said. His fiefdom had been growing for the last years, putting him on the edge of becoming a major power. With the destruction of Zapata and Colina Hermosa, his influence would grow even more, and so others listened. “I came here to discuss the army occupying Aveston. Not some mystical monster. Villages massacred. Armies destroyed. Where is the proof of this Northern god—or the deaths caused by it?”
“Yes,” another agreed. “If we are not to talk about the army, then I shall go home. I have better things to do.” A stirring sped through the tent as agreement began to build among the alcaldes of the smaller holdings. With Vista Sur absent and the burned Zapata’s spot empty, the minor alcaldes outnumbered them and might be able to take over the momentum of this meeting and force the topic on reluctant members like Juan.
“The Northern army,” another smallholder alcalde said. “Let’s talk about that.”
Beatriz employed the gavel once. “Gentlemen, we are here to share information and to try to coordinate our efforts. Already we have reports of five villages destroyed. Look at the empty seats here. Many locations have sent no representative. No word that they wouldn’t be attending. That is not normal. I fear they may have been attacked as well. I’m sharing—”
“We got your warning,” Juan sneered, taking control once again. “Keep our people inside during daylight. Avoid bloodshed. Hide or wash away any blood. You want me to tell my people that and put everyone into a panic. What nonsense. Am I right?”
Again came the murmurs, but this time with nodding heads.
“The honorable alcalde of Aveston can bear witness to the truth of the massacres,” Beatriz said. “He witnessed.” Heads turned in his direction.
Unfortunately, the new alcalde had little practice with politics or public speaking. He had shared the tale of the death of the military of Colina Hermosa, Suseph, and Aveston far and wide at the get-acquainted luncheon before the meeting started, but in such a fanciful way as to rather harm his case than reinforce it. As a tavern keeper, he was used to embellishment to create customers. His story even made Julian doubt the facts, and he’d almost died on that field.
“Yes, we’ve heard it,” Juan said in a greasy way that sent a flare of anger through Julian. Several people snickered. “I repeat, why are we talking about this nonsense? Why are we talking at all? The Northerners seem to be content with Aveston. They seem settled there. There was no reason for this convocation. This is nothing but feminine hysteria from our newest alcalde.”
Julian sprang to his feet to shout a defense of his wife, only to snap his mouth shut. That would only hurt Beatriz’s standing. On this day, even his advice must be kept to himself. With a start, he realized he’d crushed Ramiro’s letter between his fingers.
Beatriz showed none of his anger, except in maybe the set of her jaw. “Second-newest alcalde, if you please. Not the newest. Nor the most feminine.” Her eyes lingered on the curls in Juan’s hair. Rumor said his manservant spent hours each morning creating them. “I wager I have more calluses than some.” Ramón, the former alcalde of Suseph and one of Juan’s three counselors, hid his plump, pale hands of which he was usually so proud under the table.
“I have more witnesses,” Beatriz continued with a nod toward the soldier stationed at the tent flap as Julian retook his seat.
A man in a simple poncho, bag-like trousers, and sandals, holding a hat tightly with both hands, was ushered inside. The leaders in the tent remained grave as the villager shared his tale of watching his neighbors being slaughtered by an invisible force as he and others cowered inside. Villager after villager shared the same story. Finally, Beatriz signaled for the chief cook from the citadel of Colina Hermosa to stand before them.
“Lupaa was caught in what we believe was one of the first attacks just hours after the fall of Colina Hermosa. Tell them how you survived, Lupaa.” The plump woman, wearing her brightest clothing in honor of the grand occasion, studied the toes of her shoes.
“It was as the others said. A bad smell. A sense of evil pressing down.” She touched heart, mind, liver, and spleen. “So much hate. Cuts. Wounds that just appeared. Like our skin being sliced with a butcher knife. The screaming went on for hours.”
“But did you see anything?” Alcalde Juan pressed. “Did you see what was attacking you as proof this happened?”
�
�I object at the insinuation,” Captain Gonzalo said. “Military men saw the torn-apart bodies. This is no fabrication.”
“But did she see anything?” one of the lesser alcaldes prodded.
Lupaa looked troubled and slightly sick, as well she might. The memories had caused a queasy roll to Julian’s stomach, too. “No. I saw nothing. There was nothing to see, other than the wounds. I gathered my grandchildren close and told them to close their eyes. Then we prayed. We prayed so hard to Santiago, and he saved us. A peace. A love came over us. It protected us.”
“The Darkness,” the bishop of Crueses said, sounding startled. “That description fits with the Darkness. A hatred of anything living. A force that can only be opposed by its opposite. Perhaps it is Leviathan.”
More argument broke out at the bishop of Crueses’ apparent change of opinion. Julian’s heart sank at retreating to this topic again.
Juan laughed. “So we are to love this thing to death. Pray for our survival? As if it exists at all and isn’t some distraction to keep us occupied. Is that supposed to be our grand consensus from this meeting?” He stood, followed quickly by Ramón. “This convocation is over.”
“Go if you want,” Guter said with a dismissive—and insulting—wave of his hand. “We are here to talk about working together. I would that we join forces to take on this army of Northern barbarians at Aveston. Fight them. Keep them from taking any more of our cities. Steal from them these red-colored weapons that might protect us, in case these massacres are real. We kill two birds with one stone by destroying their army.”
“That is suicide,” the alcalde of Aveston said in his loud voice. “Much as I want my city back, you’ve heard their numbers. I’m no military man, but even a tavern keeper can understand numbers.” Like any good soldier, Ramiro had included estimates of the size of the Northern army in his letter. Tallies that matched closely with what scouts and spies of the other cities had reported. All had heard the particulars. “I’ve witnessed how their white weapons kill with a touch. I saw Alcalde Martin die. You did not. The Northerners have thousands of these weapons. We cannot expect to steal their magic for ourselves.”
“He is right,” Captain Gonzalo said in his deep bass. “It cannot be done anymore. We have lost the help of the witches. We cannot match the Northern numbers or their magic weapons. Not with Colina Hermosa, Aveston, and Zapata gone. Besides the fact that any battle would draw the attention of the creature we are trying to avoid. The other captains concur.”
Everyone present remained silent, and it didn’t take a genius to know their thoughts all dwelt on the same conclusion. If they had worked together sooner, they might have been a match for the Northern army. Back before Claire had Sung and saved them at the cost of waking a monster. But it couldn’t be done now. And of course, no one had been prepared to work together when they had the chance.
“A suicide mission,” Beatriz said into the silence. Her voice was low, full of sadness, which touched a chord with everyone present. “That is what I propose. Not to send our remaining armies. But something else. I believe there is a way to take down the Northern army—but not with arms.”
“Then how?” Juan sneered.
“With our blood. With our deaths.”
Silence descended around the table.
“We ask for volunteers,” Beatriz continued. “Those willing to give their lives. Those who have less to live for. The old. The sick. The orphaned. We’ll need thousands upon thousands of volunteers. Enough to go to Aveston dressed as a formidable army and lure the Northern forces from the city. There to shed our blood and draw this Dal or Leviathan to cause a massacre.”
She stood. A single figure dressed all in black, from the lace mantilla above her head to the slippers on her feet. “We draw them away from the people of Aveston and hope for a similar butchery. We do this so the children, the families may live. At the least we eliminate the Northern army. At the most maybe we give this creature enough blood to satisfy it and send it away. Perhaps its span of time here is judged by the flow of blood.”
“That is insane,” Juan said. “I want no part of this.”
“It is sacrilege. Life is sacred, given to us by God Himself,” the bishop of Cruses said. “Suicide is an evil and a sin. No one will volunteer for this madness.”
Beatriz didn’t give ground. “Is it sin if it’s to save others? Isn’t that the ultimate act of love? To sacrifice ourselves? Do none of you remember Santa Ildaria and the bandits? She stood before evil with hundreds of her voluntary followers, and they sacrificed themselves for their village. Hundreds saved thousands. The people believed. They came. I believe thousands can save a million.”
“They came for San Jorge also,” the bishop of Aveston offered. “His followers struck the dragon with rocks and distracted it enough that San Jorge could slay the beast, even though some of them died. Our people have never been afraid to give their lives to save others.”
“Let me be the first to volunteer, even if I must go alone,” Beatriz said. “We cannot kill Leviathan, and we can’t beat the Northern army—we are all agreed on that. Perhaps, though, we can placate it and satiate it and so save those we love. What say you?”
In answer, Julian found himself clapping his right hand on his heart in the salute to the brave, though the alcaldes around him shouted in alarm and revulsion at the suggestion.
Once again the frail bishop of Colina Hermosa fought to his feet. “When the saints came to lead us from the desert and our nomadic ways, they had a purpose higher than establishing cities and civilizing our people or increasing our numbers. The Lord made sure they foresaw a time when all of us would need to work together. Something we couldn’t do as small tribes of nomads. I believe that time is now. I am old and near my end. I volunteer to make this act of love.”
“And I,” Julian said.
“I would do this to save my city,” the alcalde of Aveston added. All around, clerics and military men added their voices, some offering to make the sacrifice and others speaking against it.
“All in favor of putting this before our people and taking the resulting volunteers to Aveston?” Beatriz asked, cutting in.
“I’ll not be a part of this,” Guter said. “Do as you will and throw away your own lives if you want. You won’t take my people with you.” He strode from the tent. Only two of his counselors went with him.
“Insanity,” Juan said again. He left, taking Ramón and most of the other alcaldes with him.
Julian wiped at a tear on his cheek. Life even in these days was sweet—no one wanted to leave it. But he would do so without regret if it meant Ramiro and the children, whether of Colina Hermosa or another ciudad-estado, could live.
Perhaps Beatriz replacing him as alcalde had been fated. She had handled this juxtaposition of myth over reality better than he could. She saw the need for taking this risk more clearly than he. At his advice, lives had been lost for little gain.
“Mi amor,” he said, going to Beatriz and placing his hand on her cheek. They had always guessed that the burden of this sacrifice would fall upon the people they ruled.
Beatriz cupped his hand in hers, squeezing. “Then this meeting is adjourned. We take two days to gather those willing and enough uniforms to clothe them, then we depart for Aveston.”
Let it be done.
Let lives be lost this time for the ultimate advantage.
Chapter 29
Two days had never passed so fast. Julian stared out over the gathered crowd of volunteers as the sun crested the hills around Suseph, taking a moment to find beauty in the ordinary. The sun turned the hills red and orange and cast a golden glow over the wilted sprouts of wheat in the field. Despite the buzz of conversation from dozens of wagon trains that had arrived in the last day and the weight of Beatriz standing against his arm, Julian stored the sight in his landscape of self as a precious treasure. He had collected many such prizes over the last two days, enjoying all around him to the fullest until the emptiness of h
is inner landscape was filled with beautiful memories.
When he closed his eyes, instead of trembling with doubt, he immersed himself in his treasures.
How had he ever taken such things for granted?
His two days had been heavily involved in all the organization: procuring uniforms and supplies, giving suggestions, sorting out how much foodstuff was enough without slowing them down, arranging yet more wagons. Yet he’d found time to lie late in bed with Beatriz and savor the combined feeling of safety and comfort, while having no demands upon him. He’d walked gardens and smelled the scents of rose and thyme. He had marveled at the wheaty taste of hops on his tongue from his favorite brew of beer and slowly chewed a perfectly cooked tenderloin. He’d sought out old friends to tell them he loved them. All this he’d done and more, filling every span of the period available to him with wonder. The only wish of his heart denied to him was to speak to his sons one last time. He pulled Beatriz tighter against him.
One could not have everything.
“You need not go,” Captain Gonzalo said to both of them. “You are needed here. Your skills and expertise are invaluable. You’ve taught me so much. We must have your leadership.”
Beatriz reached out to take the captain’s hand. “What kind of leader would stay? No, you’re the one needed here. For your family and your country. We are just the sort to go. Our lives have been lived.”
Julian nodded. Though their days together had been short, Gonzalo had grown close to them both. He’d been orphaned at a young age and Julian suspected he found a substitute parent in Beatriz’s keen concern for him, and hoped his own advice to the younger man on being less strict in his outlook had helped as well. Gonzalo reminded Julian so much of Salvador. If he could remember to loosen his grip on the rules when needed, he would go far. “We go to be with our son, Salvador, knowing Ramiro can stand on his own. As can you. You are a man to be proud of.”
Steadfast Page 26
