Faithful

by Michelle Hauck

  “Peace be upon you this fine morning, my friends,” Telo called out heartily. He really should have learned their true names—Farmer-face for his lined, weathered appearance and a face that looked tough enough to pound nails, and Taps for a resemblance to a cheerful Father at his first monastery who brewed such good beer.

  “And to you, Father.” Taps’s plump face beamed. “So glad to see you recovered from . . . the unfortunate incident. We owe you thanks, I believe.” For all of looking like a friendly tavern keeper, both these men were at the top of their profession, lethal, and able to survive many missions into enemy territory by their wits.

  Telo waved that off with his good hand. “Doing as the Lord moves me, as should we all.”

  Farmer-face rolled his eyes, but Taps clapped him on the shoulder. “Indeed, Father. What can we do for you?”

  “A visit to the prisoner. Some spiritual consolation.”

  “No one allowed inside,” Farmer-face snapped, crossing his arms.

  “She’s been violent, Father,” Taps said more mildly. “Refuses to speak our language, though we all know she can.”

  “You coddle her too much,” Farmer-face accused his companion. “She doesn’t need blankets or chamber pots. She should be chained to the bare ground, like she did with our children. I don’t see why we even have to have a trial.”

  “And wouldn’t that make us as bad as her kind,” Taps said. “She is a woman, after all.”

  “A devil is more like.”

  Telo had to agree with Farmer-face. He’d seen Santabe’s work up close. It didn’t surprise him that they received no cooperation from the priestess. But he didn’t need her to talk. He’d come to say his piece and leave. “No one allowed inside, is it? What about opening the door to give her some fresh air?” With the wagon so small, they could converse just fine with him outside.

  Farmer-face shrugged, and Taps pulled out a key. “We had to install a lock in addition to the bolt to keep her inside. She frightens the passersby.” Knife in one hand and key in the other, he climbed the three steps, unlocked the door, then quickly stepped back before turning the knob. He leapt from the small platform to the ground. Farmer-face had his sword out and held ready.

  “I’ve seen less caution from men approaching deadly snakes,” Telo said, elbowing Farmer-face.

  Farmer-face grunted. “Deadly snakes only bite.”

  “The weak-willed priest. Come to let me finish the job of killing you?” Santabe poked her head around the doorframe. Red glinted in the strange light coloring of her hair. It hung uneven as if hacked off jaggedly by the handful. The usual pristine white of her robe was stained with blood and dirt. The Northern priestess stood as tall as Telo, but thinner, her bare arms corded with wiry muscle. An earring in the shape of the sun dangled from one earlobe.

  “You still don’t find kindness is a virtue, though it’s the only thing keeping you alive.” Telo shook his head. Always first with the clever tongue and forgetting to think before he spoke. He shouldn’t be engaging the woman—she thrived on it.

  “You’ve caught her in a good mood,” Taps said. “That’s the first time she’s spoken so we can understand. Her first day here she chewed off her own hair and ripped up the clean clothing the Alcalde sent.”

  Santabe left the doorway, and a chain clinked on her ankle fastening her to the inside of the wagon. Telo knew from experience it only reached to the small porch and the steps. He’d worn it over a sevenday.

  Her eyes burned with a light that made Telo want to step back. She glanced toward Colina Hermosa’s walls. “We’ve razed your filthy den and soon we’ll cleanse the rest of the animals. Weak. You’re all weak. Only fitting as sacrifice for Dal. Lord Ordoño will be back and then you all die.”

  Before anyone could react, she twisted, kicking out with her unchained leg and catching Farmer-face in the chest, punching him back. One arm caught Taps and pulled him into the wagon. They crashed to the floor, and she wrapped the chain around his neck, then yanked.

  As Telo sprang up the steps, Santabe took the knife from beside Taps and slashed the guard’s throat. Blood sprayed in Telo’s eyes, but he seized her hand before she finished the stroke. Farmer-face appeared, seizing her other side. Too late, sadly. Much too late as life fled from Taps.

  Santabe grinned with red teeth. “Such is what happens to the weak, fools. Dal takes his blood.”

  “Hello!” Claire called and echoes bounced back to greet her. She smiled and then ducked her head. Probably not the wisest thing, to be shouting all alone like this, but the temptation had proven too strong. She’d always wanted to hear an echo and this seemed the place to create one.

  “Think we’ll be there soon?” she asked her horse in a brave whisper. They’d found three of the four horses wandering in the olive grove, including this one carrying her baggage. Beatriz had led her to this trail and then they’d split up, the First Wife going back to camp to seek help in retrieving their guard’s bodies. Help was also too late for the Northern deserter—the man had died from the injuries they’d inflicted. Claire’s guilt had grown as the shadows lengthened and so did another worry.

  Claire had walked the narrow trail Beatriz pointed out to her, guiding her horse behind. With her limited skill at riding, being on the ground seemed wisest. The First Wife said the trail would take her straight to the tunnel where she was to wait for Ramiro. Beatriz hadn’t mentioned it being so rugged or rocky. Nor did Claire know how long the journey might take, or even the length. Twin hills rose fifteen feet or maybe twenty feet on either side of the trail, their sides sheer, leaving her in a deep gully. The air was quite a bit cooler than when she’d been on the flat desert. Not much grew at the bottom but the tiny cacti about the height of her foot and lichen. How Beatriz even knew about this trail was startling in itself.

  Despite the First Wife’s mule-headedness and obvious enjoyment for giving orders, Claire found herself missing the woman and hoped she’d make it back to camp without further misfortune.

  Claire clicked her tongue at the horse for some noise—the return to silence after the echoes died made her skin crawl more than the echoes had. And to think, she used to look forward to being alone. Well, she had the horse, so she wasn’t completely on her own, but near enough.

  The horse flicked an ear and looked at her with uncaring eyes. Claire sighed. Ramiro’s horse had always seemed to understand what he was saying. Apparently, her horse was just a normal one.

  “Maybe Ramiro will beat us there and be waiting.” If horses could yawn, this one would. Even with a horse she felt inadequate.

  “I hope it doesn’t rain.” She had no doubt where all the water would go if it did.

  Up ahead, the narrow split between the steep walls changed, climbing upward. Claire increased her pace and saw that it widened. She stumbled over loose rock and stopped. The gully ended, leaving her on level ground, but the trail split in two directions, heading toward different hills.

  “Oh.”

  She looked at the horse for inspiration, but it hadn’t the decency to look back. “Maybe they both go to the same place?” Perhaps one was the easy way and the other the hard way. Wishful thinking and not at all likely. Why hadn’t Beatriz mentioned this?

  “Let’s see.” The tunnel entrance had been west of the city, directly on the path from her home in the swamp. They’d gone south and west in the morning—possibly? She hadn’t paid much attention. If she picked the one most to the west, would that be a good notion? The sun would give her direction. She cringed, feeling sure it was a bad idea, but pulled the horse toward the trail that angled toward the sun. As good a reason as any, she supposed.

  “If we don’t arrive by dark, we’ll turn around and come back.” The horse didn’t disagree and she took that for a good sign.

  The trail wound for hours through cacti of all kinds: fat ones, tall ones, flat ones, and the extra spiny variety, before dumping her out in front of the tunnel entrance.

  “There it is. Impre
ssed now?” she asked the horse to no reaction. “You know, goats have more personality than you. I guess it would serve you right if I name you Horse.” The insult flew right over Horse’s head, and the idea made her giggle until she remembered she was stuck in the middle of nowhere with only Horse. Ramiro had not beaten her here, and she soon found the light didn’t penetrate farther than a few feet inside the tunnel. Anything could be hiding in the darkness.

  “So we wait out here.”

  She looked helplessly at Horse. From watching Ramiro, she knew she should do certain things to make Horse comfortable, but she didn’t have food or water for it, and taking off the saddle meant trying to put it back on later. It looked heavy. She settled for tying the reins tightly around one of the tall cacti—while avoiding thorns—and sitting on a rock in the shade. She munched on the trails rations from her bag, hoping the wait wouldn’t be long.

  What could be the reason for sending her here, and why hadn’t Ramiro brought her himself?

  Several answers occurred to her, but as they all involved danger, she tried not to dwell on them. Instead one thought kept intruding: When they’d defeated the Northern army the peril was supposed to be over. She’d be accepted by Ramiro’s people and make a new home. Everything would be roses.

  Naïve, that’s what she was.

  Loneliness swept over her, making her think of the people back at the camp.

  Fronilde would make a wonderful friend—when the young woman wasn’t quite so sad. Claire would have liked to be her shoulder to lean on, but she didn’t know if that would happen now. It saddened her that things hadn’t worked out as she hoped. So many things. Because it wasn’t just losing the chance to become friends with Fronilde. She also had to leave just when Ramiro’s mother had started to like her.

  Nothing she could do about that now. With no one around, this was the perfect time to practice the Song. Immediately that lump in her throat that seemed to appear every time she thought of magic formed along with a cold shiver.

  Later would be a good time, too.

  Claire squinted up at the first brightening of stars. High overhead hung the Half Note. And there, just peeking over the hill above the tunnel, the Staff glowed. The familiar sight reassured her that some things stayed the same. And inside, she was the same Claire no matter what around her changed. That’s what her mother would say anyway.

  What would her mother think of her situation now?

  She’d tell her not to trust men or the magic, that’s what.

  Claire considered. The sky might seem flat to some, like the plank she’d used on the Northerner, but it wasn’t. She’d seen stars move in it. Her mother’s advice took humans—especially men—for flat, that everyone behaved the same, had no variation. Like the sky, people were more complex. Some couldn’t be trusted and others always proved their worth.

  Metal scraped on stone, and Claire sat up. A dark shape moved on the trail. The fading light showed the figure waving to her, and she smiled in relief. Ramiro. She’d seen many shapes and sizes of people now, but his always seemed the best to her. Slim hips, but wide shoulders, as if he could carry a heavy load.

  “You made it. You are well?” he asked before he even got close enough to see his features.

  She fingered the lumps of bee stings on her neck, some felt less swollen. “Well enough. And Beatriz? She is well?” She stood to better hear the answer.

  “Home already and facing Father’s wrath. She told us of the skirmish and your part in it. Also that you escaped afterward. There are search parties everywhere hunting.”

  “Hunting me?” she squeaked.

  “Aye,” he said as he dismounted from Sancha. “Hunting you. I’m part of the patrol, looking for you, too.”

  “And here I am.”

  “And here you are.”

  Claire stepped closer and touched his arm. He wore his breastplate, but his helmet and the other armor hung strapped to Sancha. The smile lingered on his face, though his eyes held uncertainty. He didn’t appear eager to bring up why they were here, and suddenly neither was she.

  “The bees got you worse than Mother.” His warm fingers touched her face, turning it up to the remaining light, and somehow making her shiver. “It must hurt. I’ve got a salve.” He dropped his touch to turn to Sancha.

  She took the plunge. “Why did you send me here?”

  “The scouts reported the other army around Aveston is intact. They didn’t break.” He handed her a small glass jar. “Mother sent this.”

  “Thanks.” She held tight to the jar. “What does that mean for me?”

  “The concejales want to send you as our answer—let you scare the Northerners again. They’ve bullied my father into insisting as much to you.” His face expressed concern, sympathy. “Father warned me they plan on holding you until you agree.”

  The jar of salve fell from her fingers. This morning, she hadn’t time for fear, the attack had come too swiftly, and all she could do was react. Now, terror settled over her like a second skin, sinking deep and turning her insides to jelly.

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  He helped her back to the rock where she’d been sitting earlier, kneeling beside her. “I explained to Father you didn’t know about the magic. That the first time was more accidental than planned. Of course, no one will believe that. Look, I wish this wasn’t so, but—”

  “This is a smaller army, right? Can’t you fight them instead?”

  “If we send all our forces, we’d be a match for them in size. Perhaps with the element of surprise . . . but that means leaving the people undefended, you understand.” Bitterness entered his voice. “None of the other ciudades-estado will help us. Worse, Father expects the first army is regrouping. We’re on the plain . . . exposed—with nowhere to go.”

  She looked at him with wide eyes, disappointment filling her heart. “You want me to do it.”

  “No.” He stood and walked toward the tunnel, showing her his back. “Maybe. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter-—it’s your choice. I want you to decide. It’s just that there doesn’t seem to be any other option.”

  The betrayal sank deep into her heart, tears forming. “It was wrong. Using the magic like that went to a place no one should touch. And you said it wouldn’t work again, wouldn’t catch them unaware.”

  “I know,” he all but shouted, then calmed as he paced. “I know what I said. And I meant it—at the time. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “I can’t,” she said, and it cost her more than she’d expected. They needed her help, would probably die without it. She let Ramiro down. Let herself down. Not only did she fear to do as asked, the thought of using the magic again stung more than the bees. It hadn’t worked today. Moreover, she hadn’t the will to use it. There were so many variables. The subject had to be receptive to the thought she put in their head—and the conditions had to be favorable. What if she got there and the magic failed like it had at the bee house? And that was with only one Northerner. What if showing them their god had only worked that time because the sun was rising? What if it stuck in her throat again?

  “I just can’t.”

  She couldn’t see Ramiro’s back stiffen in the dark, but she felt it.

  “That’s no way to treat a horse.” He strode over to Horse and began working on the strap under its belly.

  She gave in to his avoidance, feeling limp and washed out. “I wasn’t sure what to do and didn’t have supplies for it. It’s not like I knew I was going for a journey.”

  “I brought some.” He swung the saddle to the ground, then he leaned against Horse, still not facing her. “Look, I understand. That’s why I sent you out here—to give you a choice. Just . . . just think on it overnight. I’ll come back in the morning. Don’t leave until then. Promise me.”

  She smiled through the tears. Without him to saddle Horse she really couldn’t go anyway, except on foot. She remembered Ramiro’s stubbornness in finding her before when she’d run off in the swamp. She w
anted some of that stubbornness now, only used to stand up for her. “I promise.” She believed he’d be true and wouldn’t force her to use the magic. “Think on something for me: other options. Maybe . . .” She grasp at reeds in quicksand. “Maybe my people would help, Women of the Song. We could try.”

  “You said you didn’t know any.”

  “Well . . . I don’t. But my grandmother is there. I think. I’d hope that she would listen to me at least. She is kin. It’s a possibility.” She’d considered it yesterday when she decided to leave, going to her grandmother for a home. As she said it aloud now, it felt even more like the right option. “She knows more about the magic. Maybe she’d teach me. Then I’d know what I did wrong last time.” The lump rose in her throat again.

  “That would take weeks. My duty is with my people.”

  “Yes,” she said sadly, feeling hopeless. Though she said “we,” she hadn’t supposed he’d go with her. Duty and his responsibility as a soldier meant too much to him. More than she ever would.

  He finished with Horse and came back to take her hands. “We’ll both think about it and meet in the morning.” All too soon he released her. “There are torches inside the tunnel. And there should be a cot for the guards who used to be stationed there. We can make you comfortable, too, before I head back.”

  “Sure,” she whispered, thinking that neither one of them would sleep much tonight.

  Chapter 10

  Alone at the council table, Julian listened to Lugo’s voice coming through the tent, as he announced to the crowd the results of the no-confidence vote and the special election coming in eight days. That was quickly followed by his intention to assume the post of alcalde, if the people would have him. The “if” rang with false humility to Julian. Scattered shouts came from the crowd, but most received the news with indecipherable mutterings.

  The loss of Claire made the no-confidence unanimous among the concejales. Not even Antonio, stubborn friend as he was, had stood against it. The fact that the girl was with Beatriz when the escape happened had proven the last gust of wind to begin the sandstorm. There was no stopping it now. Though the hour was late, guards had to hold mobs of people back from showing their displeasure to Julian firsthand. They may have hated and feared the witch, but she was their salvation at the same time. Even without opinion being against him, Julian had already made up his mind to seek no votes—to let the office go without a struggle.