Steadfast

by Michelle Hauck

  Chapter 38

  Claire let out a whoop and Valentía pricked his ears back at her. They’d done it! Sent an army scampering in full retreat without using the Death Song, calling an evil god, or killing anyone, though she had seen Suero stab a few Northerners in the back. Just the sort of fighting she expected from him, and after they warned him about bloodshed, too. The village man followed close to Eulalie, like grains of wild rice stuck together when overcooked, as if he thought physical size meant strength in the magic. Claire could have told him Muriel was perhaps the strongest among them. Modesty would keep her from mentioning her own name. Plus, she didn’t want that greasy man always at her shoulder.

  She put Suero out of her head to focus on the area around her. Danger hadn’t gone just because most of the army headed toward Beatriz and Julian. The Elders must be a lure for a real army hidden somehow. That had to be why Beatriz stood her ground in the path of the Northerners. Claire prayed whatever Beatriz planned was as successful as her part had proven.

  Her part.

  Did “Destroyer” still apply to her when they’d found a peaceful means of achieving their aims? Maybe she could finally shake that name for good.

  Meanwhile, the rain turned into a downpour, slicking her hair to her head and giving a new smell to the desert while washing away the last of the magic in the air. Ahead, the gates of the city loomed before her, shut fast. Close enough to reveal details. She wasn’t sure if the magic of the Song could penetrate and influence whoever was on the other side to open them, especially in the rain. Jorga and the others would surely know, but none were close enough to ask.

  She prepared to slide off Valentía when he stopped at the gate, but first turned her head to check for Violet, hoping to see some movement. Eulalie was arguing with Suero. Farther off, Rachael and Anna were at the spot where Violet had gone down. Rachael had her hands over her face and her shoulders heaved while the other Woman of the Song had an arm around her.

  “Oh no,” Claire said around a knot forming in her throat. The joy went out of her heart.

  Valentía curved in a sharp arch, and Claire grabbed at his mane to steady herself. Claire wiped rainwater from her eyes to make sure she was seeing right. The gates of Aveston receded behind them. “What? Wait! That’s the wrong way,” she shouted. “Ramiro!” The stallion completed his change of direction and thundered back the way they had come.

  Straight at the fleeing Northern army who had just reached the gathering of elderly desert people.

  The other horses had turned with Valentía as the leader of their herd, carrying Muriel, Jorga, Rachael, Susan, and Eulalie along with them.

  “Wrong way. Take me back!” Claire shouted again, but Valentía thundered on, racing like the wind.

  For the first time, she saw clearly what had happened to the Northerners. The soldiers had overwhelmed their priests, tearing them apart and taking the Diviners, except for one priest who still resisted. Pockets of soldiers fought before the wall and in the field around the city, struggling with each other over the red staffs. Valentía took her past one such group, where a half dozen soldiers wrestled and punched on the ground. One man on the bottom was biting and pulling hair, a leg in his mouth. Claire shifted her eyes away as the victor struggled to his feet only to be tackled by another and taken down again.

  Elsewhere a red Diviner turned white as two men grabbed it at the same time. A third stepped on their prone bodies to scramble away with the prize.

  The rest of the Northern army had gone equally berserk, driven by the emotions the Women of the Song had put in their magic. Some simply ran, pushing their fellows, hitting the gathering of the desert people, and shoving and elbowing their way through as the desert people—for some improbable reason—grabbed and tried to hold them. Others turned violent, striking at anyone in reach whether that be their own kind or the fragile elderly of the desert people. The ones in front fought back, but not for long.

  Blood splattered against Claire’s face, washed away by the pouring rain as Valentía was forced to slow his headlong pace by the press of people. Claire slid from his back, stumbling as her feet hit the ground. Hands reached out to steady her and she looked up into Beatriz and Julian’s faces. Valentía trotted off, disappearing back in the crowd.

  “What? What happened?” she sputtered.

  “It comes,” Fronilde said.

  A putrid smell hit Claire’s nose. Someone screamed. A force of will, full of malice and evil, beat down upon her. It drove people to their knees.

  “No. No. No,” Claire gasped. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now.

  She could protect people from Dal, but not in the rain. She watched in horrified fascination as a slice opened down her forearm and blood welled to the surface, not even feeling the pain in her shock. Beside her Fronilde prayed aloud, not for her own safety, but to be with Salvador again and for the protection of her parents.

  Julian held Beatriz in his arms. “Now and forever,” he said and they kissed with the rain streaming over them.

  Something cut Claire again, tearing across her hip.

  “No!” Claire shouted. It had taken ages to convince the Elders her plan would work. That they could frighten off the Northern army. She’d promised if anything went wrong they could use the magic of illusion to hide them from Dal. They and others would be safe.

  It was the desert. It wasn’t supposed to rain.

  She was supposed to see Ramiro again. More people screamed. Beatriz sobbed. Claire wouldn’t let this happen.

  She put all her force and will into the words of the illusion, pushing the Song out with fierce determination. The downpour washed away her magic the moment it left her mouth. She couldn’t even protect herself.

  Dal’s hate beat down around her and upon her, crushing her beneath it.

  Teresa wiped rain from her face and trotted at the heels of her guardian, who moved even quicker than Ramiro. Unlike Ramiro, he never turned to check that she kept pace or to make sure he didn’t lose her. In a way, she appreciated his faith in her, and yet she also wished he’d look back once. She broke into a run as his ridiculous cloak disappeared around a corner. Perhaps the shortness of the cloak was due to his profession—if he was a blacksmith. She could see why a shorter cloak would be safer around a forge, though wouldn’t the fire keep him warm? She made a mental note to investigate if this was a fad of Aveston, if she ever had the time.

  “Our destination is just onward,” he told her without turning.

  Her guide seemed to take main thoroughfares and not back alleys, and yet it was as if the city had become deserted. What was before a bustle of humanity in the streets had become dead and abandoned.

  She managed to get abreast of him to get a good glimpse of rainwater running down his dark forehead and rolling into his eyes. He gave no sign of irritation and didn’t even blink. She dropped her sprint back into a quick trot and let him pull ahead of her again. Her curiosity burned.

  Maybe just one question.

  “Do you have a name?” she asked. The man seemed perfectly friendly and she found it odd he hadn’t offered. The practice in Aveston was for a woman to only introduce herself if any male company went first. He hadn’t. For Aveston, her question would be thought bold, but he only flashed her a white grin in his dark face, looking at her for the first time since they’d left the Northern priestess.

  “Martin.”

  “Teresa. Can I ask you something else? If you have kin here, Martin, how is it that you haven’t evacuated yet?” Most of the able-bodied citizens with any wealth had gone days ago. Especially if they had families. All that were left were the very poor or the sick, and the stubborn. He could be one of the latter.

  “My fate is tied to this piece of land. I cannot leave it.”

  Teresa nodded. One of the stubborn then. She might have done the same if she’d been in Colina Hermosa during the siege—stayed at the university . . . and been burned to death when the city was consumed.

  “W
e are here,” he said and stopped.

  No gate or wall announced that they’d gotten anywhere, but the buildings fell back to leave a vast open space that dropped off gradually onto lower levels or terraces. Her eye fell on a saguaro and then more of the majestic cacti than she could count and she knew exactly where they were.

  “Parque de Recuerdos. Of course. I’ve been here. The Water Gate is here?” The remembrance park was one of the unique features of the city.

  “In the back—”

  “Along the wall,” she said at the same time. “Of course.” It made perfect sense now. She should have known it would be here. Colina Hermosa had been built on a sloping plateau; the spring and summer rains drained away naturally. Aveston, however, had been constructed in sort of a bowl. Storm sewers had to be installed at its inception or the city would flood and die. The sewers connected to the natural dry gullies in the area, like the one described to Ramiro by the friars as the Water Gate.

  Parque de Recuerdos had been a result of that early work on the city. It was the place given over for constructing the millions of bricks that made up the sewers and roads, and for carving the stones that became the buildings of Aveston—all the work needed to create a new city had been done here. And then the work had been completed and the area wasn’t needed anymore. Instead of filling it with homes or markets, someone had planted a saguaro in remembrance of a loved one and then another. A tradition was born.

  Saguaros in every stage of life spread out before her eyes: juveniles that were yet tiny stubs just beginning to grow; middle-aged versions at a hundred years old, with only an arm or two at twenty feet tall; and the towering, aged wonders of nearly fifty feet with many arms that had been alive for centuries. All stages mixed together, for when one of the towering giants lost their life and the skeleton rotted away, the spot would be dedicated to a new cactus—a new soul being remembered. Each as unique in shape as every human.

  Despite the rain, birds fluttered from one to another, and Teresa heard the rustle of rodents in the hard-packed dirt. Smaller pincushion cacti grew under their larger cousins, but no other types of plants. It was a place, not exactly holy, but with the same sanctity as a cemetery, a place for hushed reflection or grief or simply a place of fresh air. The rain had brought the smell of green, growing life. A reminder of continuance. She breathed the smell in gratefully and let it wash away all the death she’d seen lately.

  Teresa turned to thank her guide and found him already gone—as if he’d vanished.

  Don’t ask questions.

  She couldn’t blame him for not saying good-bye. With the city under so much turmoil, he had to return to his kin as quickly as he could.

  She moved forward and immediately understood why the friars had told Ramiro this was a difficult path. The cacti hadn’t been planted in any sort of order or rows. Dead saguaros or lost limbs often blocked the spaces between cacti, requiring backtracking or stepping over if she was lucky. One must avoid falling into daydreams and keep aware to avoid the spines, and the trail between them took her first one way, then another. The ground was rough and natural, easy to turn an ankle on loose stone, made more treacherous by the rain.

  The edge of the first terrace gave her a look down, showing three more levels to pass through before the city wall. In the distance a group of people had gathered. Teresa wiped the rain away to see better, her heart filling with hope. The friars. It had to be them. Here and there throughout the remembrance park other individuals and groups picked their way toward the Water Gate as well. Others looking for a way to escape and desperate enough to hope this would work.

  Teresa wound her way down and down, past the towering giants. She spotted Sancha before she reached the three dozen or so people packed in a tight circle. The head friar, with bushy black-and-gray eyebrows, came to meet her as people made way for her. Sancha greeted her with a shake of her head as she lay an anxious hand on Father Telo’s brow. His fever had grown in strength. No doubt made worse by being out in the rain.

  “He is not good, my child,” the head friar said. “We were just trying to decide whether to stay here or go back into the city. Maybe to seek the front gate.”

  He gestured and another friar swung open a narrow door in the wall, narrow enough to only allow one person to pass at a time. She heard the rush of water before she saw it. The Water Gate. Teresa guessed the men of Aveston would have kept it guarded, but the Northerners might not have found this gate or considered it important enough.

  Stone steps led down, and water swirled around the third step and away through the gully, no longer dry but now a raging torrent. Teresa had been hearing the sound, dulled by the wall, for some time and hadn’t recognized it.

  “There will be no way out here for hours, if not days,” the friar added.

  Teresa nodded dumbly. She had guessed as much, but seeing it brought its own disappointment. “First things first, Father. Can someone help me get Father Telo down?” She stowed the red Diviner in her sling with the other and tugged at the ropes holding Father Telo on Sancha. A friar took the bridle and two more appeared on either side of her. They released the ropes and eased Father Telo to the wet ground.

  “Everyone stay well back.” They looked at her with puzzled expressions but obeyed. Teresa set one Diviner on the ground and got a firm grasp on the other. The memory of Ramiro and Santabe locked together by a red Diviner and screaming in agony flashed through her vision. She bit her lip, brow tightening. She’d never been good with pain.

  She tried thinking of her actions as a scholarly pursuit she could pen a paper about for posterity, but that didn’t loosen the icy knot in her guts.

  “Oh hells. Saints be with me. You’d better be grateful for this,” she told Father Telo and then touched the other end of the Diviner to his flesh. Her eyes rolled into her head in shock as every nerve in her body exploded at once, tearing at her with a million knives.

  Too.

  Much.

  The world went black.

  She woke to terror too strong to allow her to move. If she moved, the pain would come back. Then hands did the job for her, lifting her. She blinked. The excruciating torment didn’t resume.

  “Wha . . . What—” Hands patted her back as she vomited. Yellow bile landed on her trousers. The sight snapped her back to herself. She wiped at her mouth with embarrassment. The hands left her back and she trembled and almost fell over, then the hands were there again to ensure she didn’t fall on her face. So weak. Her muscles felt ropy and pulled out like cooked pasta, unable to support her. Her head even lolled on her neck.

  Father Telo sat across from her under his own power, but not looking much stronger than she felt.

  “The fever is gone,” the head friar said. “How is that possible?”

  Teresa plucked weakly at her sling. The arm trapped inside no longer ached. “Can someone get this off?” More friars obliged, and she flexed and bent her now healed arm, clearing her throat. The power from the healing might come from the Diviner, but the energy had come from her body. At least it didn’t hurt to talk and her tongue still worked. “Magic. The Northern kind. Not pleasant.”

  “So it appears,” the friar said. A smile drew his lips upward, looking odd with his bushy eyebrows. They were made for sternness, Teresa thought idly.

  “Teresa,” Father Telo said. “Where am I? I feel weak as a kitten. What has happened?”

  Teresa tried to laugh and instead found herself crying with relief. It had worked. The hands holding her patted again, a comforting sensation. “A lot. I’ll tell you while we find Ramiro.”

  “I don’t think you are in any shape to find anyone, my child,” the friar said with sympathy. “You both must rest.”

  Teresa tried to stand, but her legs gave a twitch and refused. She had a new appreciation for how Santabe had managed to run after the experience. The woman was ten times stronger than Teresa would ever be—or ten times more desperate. Probably both. Sancha pushed forward and snuffed at her sleev
e and nudged her shoulder. “I have an idea. Get those ropes ready again. Ramiro said to send his horse to him. He didn’t say Sancha couldn’t have passengers.”

  In no time at all, the friars had her fixed to the saddle with Father Telo before her and ropes holding them both in place. Already she felt a little stronger, her head more secure on her neck and her spine able to bear her weight and keep her upright.

  Father Telo flexed his left arm, the one missing a hand. “Even the ghost echoes of pain are gone.” He laughed in his deep voice and the sound chased away the gloom, though the rain had begun to come down harder. Teresa’s hand responded when she directed it to wipe the downpour from her eyes. Better and better.

  The head friar stood at her knee. “The city is dangerous, my child. Not all who heard our message have heeded our call for peace. Law and order is gone.

  Teresa spotted a thin rectangle of fog between two saguaros, holding its shape despite the deluge. Sancha had turned to point her nose directly at it. “We won’t be in the city, Father. Not really.” At his frown, she added, “Help is there for us when we need it. Thank you for that, Father.”

  She pointed to the two Diviners on the ground, lying in a muddy puddle. “The white is a weapon. Burn it and smash it when you get a chance. The red will keep you and everyone with you protected. Keep it close.” She gave them some quick instructions on how to handle the Diviners safely.

  There, she’d made sure some good people wouldn’t perish to Dal’s wrath.

  “Find Ramiro.”

  Sancha started forward and the cool of the fog swallowed them.

  Chapter 39

  Sometimes, Ramiro decided, minutes of holding your breath could seem to stretch to hours. The mob from Aveston shifted uneasily behind them as Rasdid spoke to his people. Ramiro wondered how many of Aveston and how many of the Northerners held their breath as well. More alike in this moment than different. Surely, they didn’t want to die either.