Steadfast

by Michelle Hauck

  “I didn’t do that much, sir. You said the Leviathan killed itself. It wasn’t me. Whatever I did, if anything, I had lots of help.”

  “Such is true of all called saints. I myself choose to stay here, but my fight was not won. I knew I could do more from here to win it, and our people did eventually become stable and fixed in our ciudades-estado—no longer nomads. Thus, they grew in numbers and were ready for the larger fight to come: your fight. A piece of the Leviathan is destroyed, but not all. There will be others in time. Let it be many years from now and a task for our people’s descendants, though even such as we cannot see all. But the battle is won for now.” He peered at Ramiro thoughtfully, smiling just a touch. “I think you’ve made your choice.”

  A longing built in Ramiro’s chest. “Claire.”

  San Martin smiled more broadly. “I understand. All is as it should be. My brothers and sisters and I will see you again someday, dreamer. One last gift will I give.” The big man touched his forehead. “Heal and be well. Wake to your world. Farewell. Your dreams are over for now.

  “Do one last task for me, dreamer, when you wake. Put my armor back for the next time it’s needed. Remember that command, though naught else.”

  Ramiro sank back to the ground, suddenly exhausted. His eyes drifted closed even as he tried to hold them open. He had so many more questions. The world of fog flickered, going, and vanished as he slid into oblivion.

  “Ramiro!”

  He sat up to a throbbing headache and Claire calling his name. His head spun with questions. San Martin? Fog? Words about saints? A kitchen tray? Answers lingered on the tip of his tongue. It all vanished as Claire threw her arms around him and kissed him.

  Tensed muscles relaxed as he drew her closer, just happy to be alive and here with Claire.

  Chapter 43

  Two Weeks Later

  Julian made another circuit around the meeting tent and the stifling air caught inside it to enjoy the desert transformed into a paradise. Though requested to be at the meeting, he had left early. Beatriz did not need him to prop her up any longer. She would still want his advice on occasion, but not today. Today he was free to breathe the air.

  The rains over the last sevendays had done their magic and created a lush scene of color. Pinks, reds, yellows, and blues bathed the once arid desert. Wildflowers had used the moisture to thrust up between flowering prickly pear, and the other cacti put on their yearly display. Only the scar where the Northerners had cut down the foliage marred the scene and those acres would soon regenerate.

  The sound of hammers and chisels came from the old quarry as people once again mined stone, for the rebuilding of Colina Hermosa. Metal on stone rang out like a music to Julian’s ears. The rebuilding had begun already. The citizens reclaimed what was theirs and cleared away debris. And with the treaty of allies signed with the Women of the Song, there would be wood for building this time, harvested selectively from their swamp. The hulk of Colina Hermosa not far from this tent would rise again—full of white stucco buildings gleaming in the sun—better than before.

  The meeting tent had been spaced a distance from the rest of the camp for privacy. Over there, children ran through the camp, getting underfoot in their play and stealing food from everyone. No one snapped at them or scolded.

  Every day more of their people came from Suseph, eager to remake their homes and reclaim their ciudad-estado. The elderly, the ill, and the orphaned among them went about their tasks with a brightness of pride in their eyes. They had faced down the monster. Had put themselves in its path as a sacrifice to save others and survived. Not only survived but prevailed. They had discovered they were of use from that day two sevendays ago, not inoperable castoffs, and they would bear that with them for the rest of their lives.

  Julian drew in a deep breath and felt no tightness in his chest as had bothered him for sevenday after sevenday. Though watching the destruction of Dal with his own eyes hadn’t brought him ease. Only when it became clear the Northerners had no intention of further pursuing the war had Julian found true respite.

  “A new day,” he said to the guards outside the tent even though it was late afternoon.

  “Yes, sir,” they said promptly.

  “A busy day,” Diego said as he exited the tent behind Julian with the other concejales. “Much to do.” Julian offered his hand, but his old friend laughed and clapped him in a hug.

  Julian knew that for an understatement as he hugged back. Much didn’t begin to cover the number of tasks that would weigh on everyone’s shoulders to rebuild Colina Hermosa, but the councilmen wore smiles to match his own. Faces full of wrinkles and topped by gray hair beamed like children. Everyone willingly shouldered the labor after their unexpected victory. Willing hands made light work, as Beatriz had said inside the tent before he exited.

  The concejales said their good-byes hurriedly, eager to be about some important organizing before the wedding, and scurried off with promises to talk at the reception that night.

  Teresa and Fronilde emerged next from the tent with Teresa’s head down over pages of writing. “These are very good notes,” Teresa told Fronilde. “You have the eye of a historian.”

  Fronilde’s cheeks pinked at the praise. “I was just wanted to be useful and thought someone should record something. It’s nothing.”

  “Have you considered university? I think you would enjoy it there, and I’m on the committee to rebuild.” Teresa held up the papers. “I would put in a good word for your admittance.”

  Fronilde’s head dropped. “I always planned to be a wife.”

  “Can’t a woman do both?” Teresa snapped with spirit. “Look at the Lady Alcalde.” She handed back the papers. “Alcalde Beatriz has put much on me. I go first to the swamp villages to speak to the people and return Suero’s body, and then to the Women of the Song as ambassador, plus I’m on several committees. The Lady Alcalde supplied me with soldiers for protection, but what I really need is an assistant. Someone who can keep fair notes, manage my schedule, and allow me to bounce ideas off them. What do you say? I would appreciate the help, and I think I can manage a fair salary.”

  “Me?” Fronilde stuttered in surprised. “Let me think about it and speak to my parents.”

  “Congratulations, Madame Ambassador,” Julian said as their conversation ended. “I’m happy for your promotion.” Beatriz had named Teresa as the first head of a newly created diplomatic corps for Colina Hermosa. The first such office the city had ever had. And about time, too.

  It had solved another thorny problem. Beatriz had named Ramiro in charge of the soldiers assigned to protect their new diplomats. Captain Gonzalo no longer had to decide whether rules could be bent to allow Ramiro back in a pelotón. Julian’s son would still be a soldier, just assigned to another task.

  “I thank you, sir,” Teresa said, her cheeks rounding. Her eyes gleamed. “I look forward to it. I can’t wait to learn more about the Women of the Song and the Children of Dal as well as other cultures out there. It’s so exciting.”

  “You’ll be a great success, I’m sure of that. I will see you at the wedding.”

  “We wouldn’t miss it.”

  The two moved off, but Julian saw Fronilde’s decision was already made by the spark of interest in the girl’s eye. The most life he’d seen from his almost-daughter since the death of Salvador. A smaller worry lifted off Julian’s back. Whether Beatriz had arranged that or it had been all Teresa’s idea, he couldn’t have been happier.

  Father Telo moved over to join him as the ladies departed. “Shall I call you Father or Ambassador?” Julian asked. Father Telo had been the second member added to their diplomatic core.

  “Father, please, my son. I’m first and foremost a priest, though a simple one.”

  “Rather more than that,” Julian said. “Half of the people in that tent lean on you.”

  “Then I’m happy. To support others is all our Lord could ask of me, and all I want in return. I’m glad just to be nor
mal. One doesn’t need to be a saint to do good.” Father Telo hastily turned the subject. They had all become skittish of the words saint or miracles, having seen too many things that couldn’t be explained. Julian was happy enough to leave them unexplained. He didn’t want to delve into what had happened, and even Teresa and Father Telo only spoke of the subject with hesitation, almost as if speaking about the miraculous healings or the sudden arrival of the freak windstorm that drove off the rain just in time for the magic to work would tarnish their memories of the events. Some questions were better left unanswered.

  “And of course to officiate at this wedding.” Father Telo winked. “I believe that, in the Lady Beatriz’s eye, that is my most important task.”

  “Beyond doubt. Beatriz has put her heart into the planning. She would have no one but you. Nor would Ramiro.”

  “I’m happy to be in such demand. Then afterward it’s off to Aveston for me.”

  “Much luck to you. God be with you.” Julian had no worries on that score. The priest was more than equal to coordinating with the alcalde of Aveston, and his more secret mission of scoring rebuilding supplies for Colina Hermosa. Julian would miss the man’s company while he was gone. He and Father Telo had become surprisingly close friends in a short time, even good-naturedly arguing theology. They’d squeezed in a few games of acorraloar and found themselves evenly matched. But Julian would have plenty to keep him busy until the good friar returned.

  Beatriz and the gaggle of Elders of the Women of the Song exited the tent last, all deep in talk about the wedding as Beatriz explained some of the traditions one more time. For a people who didn’t engage in marriage, they had a deep interest in the subject.

  Beatriz, in her deep black clothing of lace and flutters, made an odd contrast to the circle of Elders in their simple homespun, but the ladies had undeniably hit it off. Women of personality and force recognized the like in others and an instant respect had been born.

  “Julian.” Beatriz gave a curtsey to Eulalie and Jorga, then skipped up to him as carefree as the girl of his memories. “We are off to examine the chapel. It must be just right for tonight. Can you . . .” She waved her hand vaguely.

  Beatriz had decreed Claire and Ramiro must be married within Colina Hermosa and no one dared to stand against her demand, so a space had been cleared just inside the gate and decorated with flowers and candles. She had named the space a chapel and a chapel it was. Those who had lost loved ones made daily visits and found solace there. The bishop could be found napping there day or night with a flock of other priests. Julian had stood and contemplated the bittersweet beauty of the spot juxtaposed against the burned-out hulk often. Renewal after destruction had become a theme in his life.

  “See to Rasdid and the army?” he suggested with a raised eyebrow. Officially witnessing the departure of the Northern army was the reason the meeting had broken up. Unofficially, everyone knew the real motive was the wedding.

  “Yes, please. Would you give their general my apologies?”

  For answer he kissed her cheek, and received a firm squeeze from one of her cold hands. “Hi-ya, my capitán.”

  Beatriz slapped his chest with her fan. “Very funny. You know I only trust you to do it right.”

  He knew. He also knew that Beatriz didn’t enjoy having anything to do with the Northerners. Otherwise, she’d not had delegated this task to him. She’d still call them barbarians if it didn’t set a poor example. In her heart of hearts, she held them responsible for their son’s death. He wasn’t sure he felt all that differently. Salvador would never have died at the hands of the witch if the Northern army hadn’t come.

  Still, nothing could replace the people killed or the cities burned, but old men knew it was better to be talking to your enemy than fighting them.

  Beatriz knew it, too—deep in her heart. She’d sign a treaty gladly, when it came time. But first the Northerners needed to put their house in order, or so Rasdid claimed. He lacked the authority to sign anything for his people, so a treaty would wait.

  The Northerners had spent the last two sevendays ordering their supply lines and withdrawing from Aveston. Julian believed that time had also involved bringing their priests to heel. Secretly, Rasdid had been more than happy to aid in the fruitless search for Santabe—the woman had vanished without a trace.

  With the death of Dal, much had changed, including the desire of the majority of the army. Now their wishes involved returning home to check on their families, instead of subjugating the ciudades-estado.

  And the death of Dal had also taken the magic from the Diviners, rendering the formidable weapons nothing more than ordinary sticks of horn or bone. Whether for those reasons or some other, a change of command had taken place, with the priests now under Rasdid and the army. The military gave the orders—for the time being, that is.

  It was enough, and the first order was a return to their country. Rasdid had signed a paper on the cessation of hostilities and promised to send representatives within a year to talk of treaties. Julian found it hard to believe a treaty would actually happen. Once the Northerners got back to their homeland, who knew who would be in charge? They were still the Children of Dal after all—raised on killing like mother’s milk.

  But that was a worry for another day. For now he only had to see them off. Then he, too, could turn his thoughts to the wedding.

  Yet . . . his family could not all be here.

  Salvador.

  The ache that could not be banished made itself known to him. For his son and all the people lost in this senseless war. Scores had died in the last battle, when Dal had torn itself apart. With so much death—so much death that had come with seemingly no effort—he still couldn’t believe the evil was over. The jelly-like body of the monster had decayed and vanished in less than a day, leaving no evidence it had ever been. And worrying Julian that somehow he’d been mistaken in their success.

  Beatriz must have seen the shadow cross his face, for she leaned against his shoulder, holding tight to his hand, reminding him to live for those who were gone—as she would. Tears swam in her eyes.

  “Now and forever,” he said. Live they would. Live fully today, and look with hope to the future. But they would also remember the past. Everything changed, whether for good or ill. Today, however, was about going forward. He squeezed Beatriz’s hand in return, remembering their own wedding morning and the jitters he’d felt. How his parents and friends had helped steady him then.

  He frowned. “Where is Ramiro?”

  “He’ll be here. He had some business to attend, he said.” Beatriz’s brow darkened. “If he’s not here soon, I will find a switch. Beard or no, I’m still his mother.”

  A short ride away in Aveston, Ramiro led Claire down the steps into the larger room of the crypt, one hand in hers and the other holding a lantern. “Watch your head,” he said as they reached the threshold. Claire looked up at the ceiling a good foot above his head and narrowed her eyes at him.

  “Watch your step?” he tried again.

  She dropped his hand.

  Great job, dummy. Not even inside and she already knew how nervous he felt. He plucked at his new uniform, unused to the bolder color of navy blue and gray for the diplomatic corps. His mother considered his change a promotion. He knew it for what it was: a compromise. Captain Gonzalo couldn’t take him back in a pelotón, so they had given him charge of watching over Teresa and Father Telo in the diplomatic service, another branch of the military just invented. Not what he’d hoped, but not what he’d feared either. It was a change he could accept.

  He looked forward to new adventures with Teresa.

  He straightened his shoulders. He’d make the diplomatic corps such a success that people would beg to become a part of it. Elite. After what else he’d been through, that should be easy.

  “This is the catacomb where you’ve been spending so much time?” Claire spun slowly to see every aspect, from the tombs pushed against the dank walls to the small pil
e of possessions they’d left, and the pulley system he’d attached to the ceiling. “Which pillar?”

  “That one over there.” He pointed under the pulleys. “It hasn’t been that much time, and a lot happened to me here. I wanted you to see it.” It had taken nearly a sevenday to repair and re-raise the pillar with the armor replaced inside. Most of the work had been done with his own hands, but he’d hired a few street boys to help and then bribed them further with places as squires in his corps so they wouldn’t come back and tear the pillar down to sell the armor. He still couldn’t say exactly why he felt such a need to do the work, only that restoring things as they were gave him peace of mind.

  For a moment a feeling of danger slid over his skin, elusive, like the whine of a mosquito in his ear. Leviathan. Something tried to claw its way into his mind.

  He shrugged as the feeling vanished. Dal was gone. He’d had no dreams since its destruction. The Northern army had stepped down. There was nothing to fear—almost.

  There had been a shadow over Claire since the destruction of Dal, something she tried to hide, but even in his preoccupation with replacing the armor he had seen it, though she’d concealed it from her grandmother and the other Elders. He could think of only one thing that could be causing the slight dim in her enthusiasm—the wedding. He’d brought her here to discover if his guess was right.

  “My brother is in a tomb such as this—newer of course—put there right before Colina Hermosa fell. It will give my mother great happiness when she can see it again. Do you know what I mean?” There, he’d laid the heart of the matter before her, holding his breath to see if she understood. He had to make sure his uniform wouldn’t be the only successful compromise. Two sevendays of trying to bring up the subject as the wedding preparations progressed while she’d grown more silent and he’d never found the right words. This was as close as he’d come to speaking about what might be troubling her—too afraid to hear her response.