Faithful

by Michelle Hauck

  Beatriz nodded. “That would be like asking why you have thumbs. Why should you?”

  The First Wife’s words made her feel a little better, but she still blamed herself for her lack of curiosity. A servant set a plate of eggs in front of each of them and another poured water into tin mugs.

  Their conversation made suspicion creep up Claire’s spine. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing good,” Beatriz whispered. “Now eat your eggs and we’ll go riding. We are off to fetch some honey.”

  As if on a cue, a large, solidly built woman in a brightly colored apron emerged from the back of the tent with a bowl of strawberry jam. “This is my head chef, Lupaa,” Beatriz introduced. “She’s a wonder in the kitchen, can manage anything, but she’s especially amazing with honey.”

  Like the rest of this strange morning, Claire fumbled for words. “Nice to meet you?”

  Lupaa deposited some jam on her plate. “I so thank you, First Wife, for going to see if my bees and their honeycombs survived the Northerners.”

  Claire covered her ears as the woman shouted her reply loud enough to scare the birds off the trees—or would if there were trees here. Unless she were very deaf, this Lupaa was in on the mystery, too. Worry fought its way into Claire’s stomach. The feel of a thousand eyes watching made her skin crawl. Claire had to force herself not to hunch her shoulders.

  They stared at her, waiting for her to take up her part in this farce. Claire put a smile on her face and said brightly and loudly, “That sounds pleasant.”

  The rest of the breakfast passed swiftly with Beatriz scowling whenever Claire tried to ask a question. The First Wife’s skirts rustled stiffly as they left the tent, and Claire wondered how she would ride a horse in them until two boys brought a set of small steps and Beatriz climbed to sit nimbly sideways on her saddle. Claire used the steps to mount the brown horse with white-striped knees they brought her. Ramiro had taught her how to ride alone, but she felt far from comfortable doing so. Or maybe it was the feeling of eyes at her back that had her so nervous she dropped the reins—twice. Either way she was glad to escape camp with their two bodyguards and leave it all behind. Unlike the soldiers of earlier, these men wore neither armor nor uniform, but hard leather vests, and rode regular horses instead of the dappled-gray ones of the military.

  Somehow in the bustle of departure, a servant strapped her bags of possessions behind her on the saddle, making her more curious.

  She expected Beatriz to explain once they were alone, only to be disappointed. The woman would talk about nothing but yesterday’s election and the weather. Neither of which were favorable, apparently. According to Beatriz the summer rains should have started and helped with their water shortage, and none of the elected were allies of her husband. Bad news all around. Claire suspected the reason for this trip to be more of the same.

  As the ride lengthened, Claire wilted under the increasing heat. Though she seemed to sweat less here, no shade existed to escape the burning sun. The taller cacti produced only thin skeletons of shadow, and the few times they ended on the cool side of a hill never lasted long. Her skin reddened on arms and hands where the sun hit it. All the black clothing protected her from the burn, but also absorbed the sun and made the heat worse. Beatriz, in black from head to toe, should have felt it more, but the woman looked positively fresh.

  Finally, they entered a grove of olive trees, though the twisted trunks weren’t tall enough to make a decent shade, it did seem cooler here. One of the bodyguards stood in his stirrups and pointed ahead to a small cluster of dwellings.

  Claire sighed with relief. Surely they’d have water there. “Is that where we’re going?”

  “Aye,” Beatriz allowed. “The bee farm.”

  “Then you’ll tell me what this is all about there?” Claire hoped Ramiro’s mother wasn’t taking her out to the middle of nowhere to dispose of her. The idea had occurred to her that perhaps her blind obedience hadn’t been wise, but she wasn’t exactly defenseless and she’d rather give Beatriz the benefit of the doubt.

  “It’s about getting honey,” was all the answer she received.

  The cluster of buildings turned out to be one white stucco house, a stable, and dozens of tiny, little mud-colored domes on rickety platforms. Bees buzzed literally everywhere, making Claire hold very still to avoid angering any of them. Some of their little domes had been pulled apart and bits of honeycomb lay scattered on the ground. Claire eyed the mess with concern, hoping it was animals.

  Their two guards—whose heads turned so often they might have been on swivels and whose hands were never far from their weapons—seemed to grow even tenser here. They got stiffly down from their horses. “Wait here, First Wife, while we scout,” one said.

  Claire dismounted and warily took her horse into the shade as their guards split up to enter the barn and house. Fewer bees bothered her here, and she looked for Beatriz to follow her, but the older woman wandered among the beehives. Claire twiddled the reins between her fingers. At least she was doing something for the camp out here. Certainly, she enjoyed the exercise better than sitting in a stuffy tent and rolling bandages—but she found it difficult to believe they really came for honey. A bee investigated her braid and she tried not to flinch. As long as she didn’t move or accidently touch one of them, the bees would ignore her.

  Beatriz finally came to her side, and Claire leaned close to whisper, “Is this about a threat to my life?” She couldn’t imagine why else they’d want her out of the camp. It must be about that massacre Ramiro encountered on patrol. Claire frowned. But then wouldn’t she be safer in camp? It didn’t add up.

  “Ramiro will tell you all about it. There’s no time. Do you remember the collapsed tunnel entrance?” Beatriz pointed. “It should be that way. Can you find it?”

  “Tunnel entrance?” Claire echoed, mystified. Ramiro had taken her there in an attempt to sneak into Colina Hermosa only to find it caved in. “I remember it. But why?”

  “You’ll run from us and go there. Ramiro will meet you.” Beatriz pulled her closer and hissed low, “You’ll have to use your magic on us to escape. Make it look real. The bodyguards aren’t in on it.”

  “I figured that.” Claire shook her head as her stomach started to roil. “But I don’t understand. Why all this—”

  “Later. They’ll be back any second.”

  Claire sniffed, feeling slightly sick—and it wasn’t from the strawberry jam. It seemed to her Beatriz simply didn’t want to be the one to tell her. There had been plenty of opportunity. It must be very bad news indeed. Almost more than the reason for all this, however, she feared resorting to her magic again. What could she do that wouldn’t hurt anyone too much? Her brain was all a tumble, making it impossible to think. Her hands got cold and sweaty at the same time.

  Silly, you’re a Woman of the Song. You can manage anything.

  But it was easier to think such words than to believe her own reassurances. She leaned against the side of the house to hold her up. The stucco was cool to the touch. It was such a little house, not more than three or four rooms. Why were their guards taking so long to search?

  She was about to ask when a man, wearing yellow and black like a bee, rushed out of the house. He moved fast, reaching them between one breath and the next, and slashed at Beatriz with something silvery. The First Wife cried out in pain, and he shoved her down.

  The silvery gleam—a long knife—swiped at Claire. She screeched and twisted, and it caught the edge of her shoulder instead of her chest. Material ripped as she jerked and scrambled from the Northern soldier.

  Before she could catch a breath, the Northerner followed, slashing again. She darted to the side and managed to put one of the haystack-shaped bee houses between them. Undeterred, he seized the short table it sat upon and batted it away with such force it crashed against the house. Hive and table broke into pieces. Bees flew everywhere, their careless meandering turning into an angry buzz.

  The soldier
shouted in a harsh language she couldn’t understand. His narrowed eyes promised her death.

  By the Song, she’d gotten Beatriz killed. Was about to get herself killed. She couldn’t let the man win. Anger struggled with fear and conquered. Her mouth opened, but a lump in her throat threatened to gag her; the Song emerged as more of a wheeze,

  Sting

  Hornets

  Wasps

  Bees

  Pain

  Swarming

  Sting

  He swatted at the air, but the magic didn’t distract him from stepping toward her. She couldn’t seem to put any force into her Song. Instead, bees stung her arm, her neck. Too many bees already for the deception of the magic to work. The Hornet Tune wouldn’t sidetrack him. The magic was useless. Claire stopped singing, sought desperately for another Song, but her mind locked up, words wouldn’t come to her.

  The knife struck at her again.

  She jumped back, toppling another hive. Bees went for her face, blinding her. Their stings made tiny pricks of pain on the bare skin of her arms.

  She tried to run, but a hand seized her clothing, pulling her back.

  Claire closed her eyes, as if that could make this vanish. Where were their bodyguards?

  Something collided into her, staggering her back. Her eyes popped open. The Northern soldier clutched at her to keep himself upright, his knife pressed against her arm. He was so close she could see the individual hairs in the stubble on his face.

  Beatriz swung a plank from the broken beehive into his back, pounding the soldier with an audible whack. Beatriz had her face averted and disgust covered her expression as if she’d been shown a mouse or a particular hairy spider.

  Claire wiggled free, and he fell. The knife tumbled in the dust.

  “Run,” Beatriz shouted. Fistfuls of her hair had fallen in a scraggly mess. The comb holding her mantilla was tipped askew, lace wrapped around her face to keep off the bees. Something wet stained her dress down her side.

  “Wait. The weapon.” Claire snatched up the knife, and the man’s head came up. His hand darted out, wrestling her for possession. Knowing she was the weaker, she dropped the blade. When Beatriz just stood there, she grabbed the plank. It weighed more than expected, dragging down her arms. He kicked out, catching Beatriz in the stomach and sending her sprawling. His other leg connected with Claire’s shin, creating a fresh wave of pain. Instead of giving in to it, though, she brought the heavy plank down on his head with a sickening crunch. He went limp.

  Back protesting like an ancient grandmother, Claire managed to straighten.

  What if there were more of him? What if he got back up?

  By the Song, Beatriz was hurt. What would Ramiro think of her for letting his mother be injured? More than that, they had to flee. Where were the horses? The frantic buzz of the bees matched the frantic pace of her thoughts.

  She kept the plank raised. Her breath came in short pants. Before she could control her thoughts, Beatriz clung to her as bees stung them both. It was the bee stings that drove them into the house, forcing them to close the door.

  “Well, we handled that well enough,” Beatriz said, her voice shaky. She turned. Her eyes went roundish and she clutched at her throat. “Dear Lord.”

  Claire followed her gaze. Their guard lay by the back door with his throat slit. The surprise on his face suggested the Northerner had been hiding in the tiny pantry or had sneaked in the back door.

  Bile rose in Claire’s throat, but she fought it off. The horses. They must have bolted when she struggled with the soldier. They should go for the horses before they were too long gone to catch, but Claire couldn’t force herself to leave this sanctuary. A few bees buzzed her, but most stayed close to the oiled covers on the windows. “Do you think the other bodyguard is dead?”

  Beatriz leaned against the well pump in the corner, eyes darting. “He must be or he would have come at all the noise. So would any more of them, saints save us.” She touched forehead, heart, and stomach, then the First Wife closed her eyes. When she reopened them, she straightened her headpiece. “That man won’t be getting back up anytime soon. We’d best see to ourselves. Water, cold water for the pain and to clean the wounds. Pull out the stingers. Just as I used to do when the boys got stung.”

  The problem was, the woman just stood there, as if expecting a servant to appear and do the task for them. So Claire stumbled over and worked the pump one handed—unable to bring herself to set down the plank. Pain stung her shoulder where the knife had made a shallow cut. However, it was no worse than the numerous bee stings, which were already swelling. She felt proud her hands barely shook; maybe she was getting used to people trying to kill her. At least this one hadn’t been after her specifically.

  Water gushed over her hands into the small washbasin and she patted her face, bringing some relief. Moving aside, she let Beatriz join her. “A deserter,” Claire said. “He must have been brought here by the well and the shelter.” Rumor among the womenfolk said there were many Northerners out there, separated from their army or possibly scouting.

  “Julian is going to be so upset. He’ll lock me up and toss the key after this little stunt. And the bodyguards, the poor souls. It’s my fault.” Beatriz hissed in pain as she looked up from examining the knife cut along her ribs.

  Claire bent to look, setting the plank at her feet, but Beatriz waved her off. “Barely a nick—though it’s ruined my best steel-ribbed corset—just a lot of blood. But I’ve seen plenty of that.” She laughed ruefully and splashed water from the washbasin over herself. “It does take me back, though. I haven’t scuffled like that since I was a girl. Wrestling. Fighting over the biggest piece of pie. I used to run with all the boys, even beat Julian in races.”

  “I believe it,” Claire said with a smile. “We wouldn’t be alive if you hadn’t found that plank.”

  “It was a grand time. Then my grandmother insisted I put on skirts and act the lady.” Beatriz put her hands over her face. “Listen to me. Reminiscing like we were at tea.”

  “It’s the shock,” Claire said. She located a stinger in her neck by touch and pulled it out. “I never had anyone like that to play with, unless you count the goats.” Now with her mother dead, she had even less. Only a grandmother she hadn’t seen since infancy and couldn’t remember.

  “Goats. Certainly not.” Beatriz dropped her hands. “That’s a shame. There are always so many kin and close kin here—”

  “Sangre kin.”

  “Aye, that, too. So much kin, you can’t turn around without stumbling over them. And all your kin’s friends. Always someone to get you in trouble. I’m sorry you missed that. Still, you did pretty well out there yourself . . . and there’s always room for more kin.”

  Claire looked up from examining her arms for stingers.

  “Ramiro made me promise to let him tell you why we’re out here. Stiff-necked child. I don’t know where he gets it—must be his father. But that’s why I didn’t say anything.” Beatriz busily straightened her clothing, keeping her eyes on that task. “Don’t tell him I said so, but I think you’ll make the right choice.”

  She held out her hand, and Claire grasped it with a tinge of delight.

  “We paid a dear price today,” Beatriz said, shaking her head. “But possibly it was worth it.”

  Chapter 9

  Father Telo made his way from the healer tent rather later than he planned—he intended an early jump on an unpleasant task—but when a sufferer wished to speak to a priest, such demands came first—even if the man just complained about the taste of his food and the need for clean bedding.

  Misery didn’t make everyone more spiritual.

  Children called to him as they ran through the camp. Women put down their work to bend head and knee for a blessing, and soldiers gave him quick salutes. Even if he hadn’t been wearing his brown robes and triple-rope belt, a priest was immediately spotted by his lack of beard, conspicuous like the Lord intended.

  He h
eaded for the most logical spot for the heathen priestess to be confined—the very wagon where he’d been a prisoner. The chains that bound him still lay there after all. He set his steps toward the quarry. As he made his way through the camp, however, he could sense a shift in mood. All around were whispers and drawn faces. Something had occurred—and recently. He finally stopped a sharp-faced boy to find out what it was about. Certain children knew everything, and he had learned to spot the type. A copper from his pocket loosened the boy’s tongue.

  “Why, the witch has left, Father. Some say she escaped. Some say el jefe got rid of her. Nobody really knows.”

  Telo grunted and handed over a second copper. Tempting though it was to find out more, he was out of that now, no longer at the center of things, back to being a simple friar instead of a confidant and sometime spy of the Alcalde.

  As it should be.

  The Lord cared not for those who made themselves important. Simplicity had always been his guiding light. More reluctantly than was good for him, he turned from the center of the camp and resumed his walk toward the quarry.

  The little house on wheels sat where it had always been, though someone had removed the carpet and altar of the Northerners that had been across from it. The spot where they’d taken his hand. The place where they’d killed children. The memory made his blood boil. He tucked his nub under his other arm and straightened his spine.

  Asking forgiveness of the murderess who’d ordered that deed would take all his strength. But the Lord commanded it of him, and he would obey.

  To his surprise, Farmer-face and Taps proved to be the guards outside the house wagon, the very scouts who had gone into the Northern camp with him. If one were looking for omens—which he wasn’t—you couldn’t find a better one.