Claire pulled a seed ball from a dangling branch of a sycamore as she passed, yanking off a few of the large leaves with it. Home. Her own bed. Her mother’s things. The little ache in her heart grew, but it would be so good to be home, even if they couldn’t stay. She pulled the leaves off the seed ball and tossed the hard green knob of seeds into the air, catching it again, letting herself dwell on memories.
After a few minutes, she said, “I’m naming this horse Jorga after my mother’s favorite goat, since you don’t like me calling it Horse.”
“After a goat? That’s an insult to a decent horse.”
She caught the seed ball and held it. “Goats are intelligent and stubborn. They remind me a lot of you.”
“Then don’t forget wickedly handsome.”
The seed ball left her hand and hit him squarely in the middle of the back, making a ding sound on his breastplate. He turned enough so she could see he was laughing at her. She laughed right back. “I’ll allow wicked.”
“Speaking of names, what about your grandmother? If we run into some witches, what name do we ask after?”
Her laughter wilted. “I don’t know. My mother just called her ‘my grandmother’ or ‘Mother,’ when she mentioned her at all. Mother’s name is Rosemund, if that helps.” Even as she said the words, she knew they weren’t much to go upon. She dredged her brain for another memory that would help them find her grandmother and came up with little. “What else can I tell you about her? She and my mother didn’t agree. Grandmother is a real believer in using the magic and training with it. Mother . . . well, she felt different. That’s why they parted.” At this point, Claire wasn’t sure who was more accurate in their views. Knowing about the magic could have helped her in so many ways. Yet, that time when she’d scared the Northern army had felt wrong—evil. What if her mother was right?
Something inside her seized up, curling tight. She found it hard to think of the magic without feeling sick.
“They didn’t get along?” Ramiro asked tensely. “You didn’t think that was kind of important?”
“What—what do you mean?”
“I mean she could include you in this grudge thing they’ve had going. That she could strike out at you.”
She wilted even more under his unexpected ridicule, her voice dropping with her spirits. “She came to see me when I was born and she wanted my mother to use the magic. They weren’t trying to hurt each other . . . they just didn’t get along. Surely, if I come looking for a teacher . . . You think she’ll reject me?” She barely refrained from adding a “too” onto the end that would be entirely too whiny, remembering how poorly she’d been received among his people.
Ahead, Sancha halted and Claire’s horse obediently followed suit. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to further upset you. I just think that it would be something to keep in mind. We shouldn’t assume she’s going to welcome you with open arms.” He smiled gently. “Let’s just worry about finding her and figure out the rest when we do,” Ramiro said, and Sancha began moving again.
Claire bit her tongue. She never knew what might upset him or shift his emotions. Ever since he’d come back to her wearing plain browns and grays and not his uniform, he’d been so moody. Sometimes distracted and staring at nothing. Sometimes snapping at her instead of their playful sparring. She didn’t think Ramiro realized how he hurt her feelings and she didn’t think he meant to do so. Something had him preoccupied. She had a pretty good idea of the reason but wanted to hear it from him. He wasn’t telling her the truth about what had happened before he met up with her, and trying to press him on it hurt her almost as much as him. She couldn’t seem to make herself ask him outright. What if he overreacted and got truly mad at her? What if he left?
She didn’t want that to happen, and it had nothing to do with his protection. She had gotten used to his face, the way his short beard ran along his jaw. The way he cocked his head and rolled his eyes when she said something silly. The shape of his body . . .
Friends. It’s because we are friends.
Friends meant that you preferred to be with that person and that you forgave them when they stepped on your toes, especially if it was unintentional as she believed his most recent snappiness was. Friends made you feel good—most of the time—or so her mother had explained it. She hadn’t mentioned the little tingle Claire got whenever she saw Ramiro, but her mother had said that friends shared things and feelings.
Maybe if she shared, he would, too.
“I’m really looking forward to meeting my grandmother. It’s exciting.”
“Let’s hope it’s not exciting because she’s trying to kill us,” he grumbled. “Lately, everything has been trying to kill us.”
“That won’t happen.”
“Either she accepts you or she doesn’t, but how do you plan to explain me?”
She coughed and choked like she’d swallowed a bug. A flush of embarrassment shot through her at the idea of discussing the plan she’d come up with. “I’ve got that covered. You’re my protection because I can’t use the magic well enough yet.” She hoped he’d leave it at that. Women of the Song had one requirement: producing a daughter. She planned to call him her consort—the word even in the privacy of her head made her face hotter—if the question came up. Women of the Song usually lived in the villages for a year or two to meet their requirement. Perhaps, sometimes, they brought a man home with them.
“It will all work out,” she said more confidently than she felt. “I’ll vouch for you.”
“That makes me feel better,” he quipped, but smiled before turning back around.
She lifted her face to let the rain patter against her skin, glad that she didn’t feel like everything would work out. She’d rather be worried. The last time the world seemed to be going her way, her mother had died.
“I can protect myself, you know,” he said, “when we find the wit—er . . . song women. Have you thought about how you’re going to convince them to help us? That will be the tricky part.”
Claire clutched at her saddle, a sick little knot working itself deeper in her stomach. That’s where she drew a blank about the future. “It’ll come to me,” she said, this time feeling just as cynical as he looked.
Ramiro sat watching the ashes of their fire, the girl next to him, just within reach. He had set them up in the center of a large clearing that was as dry as anything got in the rainy season. They used their saddles as cushions against the wet ground, and he tried not to think about what it would do to the leather. Claire had laughed at his surprise when they couldn’t find much wood that wasn’t damp. He hadn’t expected everything to be wetter and the ponds deeper than last time. “Wait until we reach the lake,” she’d warned, smiling at the dismay on his face.
Already they let the fire die so it wouldn’t draw attention, having boiled their drinking water. The fire pit gave out small cracks and pops as the last pockets of wetness hit the heat. The horses were just out of sight in the darkness, close enough he could hear their occasional stamp. Vapor swirled upward from the pot set over the dying flames, making phantom patterns in the air in which he could lose himself.
He picked over and over at the festering wounds in his heart, unable to let it go, knowing he made for poor company.
Claire broke the preoccupied silence that had descended on their duo, showing thoughts equally as murky as his own. “Funny how when it’s dark every task seems impossible. What if Northerners find us? We avoided the main roads and all, but they could be anywhere now. Or what if the Women of the Song attack instead of talk when we find them? Worse, what if they judge me based on my magic and find me wanting? How will I ever convince them with the little I can do?”
Before he could answer, she charged off again, words tumbling out. “My Hornet Tune isn’t good enough. It’s failed already. I need more, something foolproof. What would stop you in your tracks during a fight? I mean, people who are determined enough can suffer through the hornets—or there might be bee
s there already. What else would work?”
So that’s what her moping was about. Ramiro shrugged, caught off guard by her flow of words. She’d been so quiet, apparently locked in her thoughts, and now so vehement. He said the first thing that popped into his head. “Panic worked pretty well on me before.”
She tapped at the ground with a half-burnt stick. “Yes, but you weren’t trying to kill me at the time, only catch me. And I had a specific source to use on you, too.”
“The campsite? Teresa and I talked about it. You used our fear that the Northerners would locate us through the remains of our campsite. That and my own doubt in my leadership.”
Claire nodded along as he reasoned that out. “I had time to study you. Your ways. Your worries.” He agreed that they both had plenty of anxieties and that hadn’t changed. “But most situations wouldn’t give me time for study,” she continued. “What could I use then?”
“Fear,” he said instantly. He remembered his first battle, the one atop the wall of Colina Hermosa. How fear had turned his insides to pudding. How only anxiety of acting shamefully had kept him moving. In the fight that had earned his beard, there hadn’t been time for fear. It happened so fast that he’d acted and the fear hit afterward. Good thing. If it had come earlier, he might not have survived. Fear was the most powerful motivator before, during, and after a combat.
Claire laughed. “That won’t work. Look at me.” She scrambled up and set her feet apart, hands out, and fingers curled like claws. Her braid hung around one shoulder. She was a slender vision of innocence even with the serious expression on her face. She looked like a child playing pretend, and he had to cough to cover a laugh at her idea of ferocity. That, of course, was her point.
“I’ve got no weapons,” she said. “I don’t intimidate in the slightest. Mother warned me fear would never work for us. We don’t make men fear for their life or prepare for death. They aren’t going to be ready to run at the sight of me.”
He hesitated, had never wanted to tell her this, but this might be the best opening. “That was before. There was a spy inside the camp. The Northerners know about you—about me, too. They know you broke them; they’ll suspect you can do it again. If they recognize who you are, you’ll intimidate the shit out of them. Use it.” Any Northerners hunting a witch would have been told about their unusual coloring—Claire’s hair would give her away at a glance.
She gaped at him, her face going white. “They . . . know about me? How long? You’re just telling me now? But that would mean . . .” Two steps and she was close enough to bend down and poke him in the shoulder with a stiff finger. “You’re just telling me now! They’re hunting me?”
“Maybe. There’s no way to be sure, but it seems likely.”
“Hunting me. Looking to kill us specifically. And you didn’t warn me?” She made a funny little growling sound and poked him again. “And to think I was worried about hurting your feelings when you’ve been keeping all sorts of secrets from me. What about this?” She took his sleeve and pulled. “Armor, but no uniform. Is that part of a disguise for the Northerners or is there something else? Time to come clean. No more hidden stuff between us!”
He recoiled and dropped his eyes back to the fire. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” she persisted. She crouched down to his level, scooting closer so he had to lean back on his hands to avoid bumping heads with her. “I know it’s not a disguise—like that could hide us. Out with it. I shared what was worrying me. Your turn.”
“It’s nothing that affects you. I don’t want to talk about it,” he practically shouted.
Ramiro braced for a tongue-lashing, but she dropped to the grass beside him. A pressure squeezed his hand, and he realized their fingers were laced together. Her head rested on his shoulder, her weight leaning on him.
“A friend listens,” she said. “I’m listening.”
He’d expected more anger, was prepared for that. He hadn’t fortified against this. “I”—something unclenched in the cords of tension along his neck and down his body at her touch. The pressure gripping him for two days uncurled—“I don’t have permission to be here. My father forbid me. My commanding officer doesn’t know.” Her hand tightened on his, and he pushed out the rest. “I deserted. At best they’ll bust me back down to squire. At worst . . . at worst, they’ll flog me and lock me up for life . . . if they don’t hang me.”
Saying it aloud tore at him. He wanted to crawl under a rock with the other slime. How could she ever look at him again? He was the lowest of villains: someone who deserted his brothers. Ran off without even trying to explain himself. Shame stabbed, like being beaten with cactus needles, only no squirming could hide him from his own mind. He’d abandoned responsibility, forsworn his oaths. He could never be trusted. She’d hate him now. Oh saints. He squeezed his eyes shut to conceal the moisture gathering.
She touched his face, hand curling along his jaw, fingers in his beard, and she pressed closer. “You did that for me?”
“Maybe.” His voice sounded broken like a niño. He forced it to come out more normally. “It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Worse to let you leave alone.”
“And now? If . . . if you can’t live with it—you should go back.”
This time he squeezed her hand. “I’m living with it. It’s still the right choice.”
Her hand dropped from his face to rest on his knee. He got back enough control to open his eyes. Nothing had changed, yet everything had. “I’m disappointed in myself. That’s not a strong enough word. Disgusted. Sickened.”
She pulled away, sitting up so their eyes could meet. “For doing what you thought was right?”
“For not doing it the right way. I could have stood up to my father. I could have resigned. Instead, I slunk out, like a thief in the night. I shame my family. I shame myself. I’m no leader, like Salvador was.”
“No, you’re just someone who avoids responsibility. A drone who follows orders without thought. You didn’t save a village full of people when everyone else did nothing. Didn’t make a girl believe in you enough to leave her home and face an army. Didn’t save his entire people, single-handed.” She shook her head. “Are we done feeling sorry for ourselves yet or do I have to keep going? Maybe you didn’t do it right—”
“Those were . . . accidents.”
“Then you’re the luckiest man I’ve ever met.”
“And you’ve met so many.”
She sniffed and folded her arms. “I was going to say I believe in you, but not after that.”
“You compared me to a goat.”
Her chin went up, but her eyes sparkled. “I was right about that.”
“Because you like goats.”
She got to her feet and returned to her own saddle. “I do like goats, and it’s a good thing for you. For one thing—you both have such wonderful beards. Besides, who else would put up with your misery for the last two days, except your mother?”
“That makes two extraordinary women in my life—extraordinarily odd.” Ramiro set aside the teasing. “I thank you for not . . . for putting up with me.”
“We muddled through it last time, and this will be no different,” Claire said stoutly and turned back to the dying fire as though the matter were settled. “We both need to remember that.”
He wished he had her conviction. It was good they had cleared the air and he’d told her everything, but it was only words. Nothing he said could make it right. It would only be right when he returned and surrendered, accepting his punishment. The momentary relief he felt vanished as the weight of guilt returned. Only in movement and keeping busy did it remain tolerable. Too much time to think killed him.
He stood, suffering her look of surprise. “I’m going to check on the horses.”
And with that, he walked away from the camp, the darkness swallowing him inside and out.
Chapter 15
Claire sighed as she watched Ramiro stand and leave her, witnessed whateve
r comfort she’d provided during their conversation eaten up. Maybe being with his horse would help. Sancha often seemed to make things better for him. She wished she had such a bond to improve her own mood. Though she’d mentioned some of her doubts about the magic, she hadn’t told him of her fear of using the power at all.
Everything just seemed to become worse and worse. Now, she was no longer an unknown weapon against the Northerners—not that she was much of one to start with. Did they have her description? Could they recognize her on sight? Just how much did they know? If she could even Sing, would they be ready for her magic next time?
Useless questions. She would assume they knew all and move forward. There was nothing else she could do. What was important now was creating a new Song. A Song of fear. Maybe if she had something more dependable, stronger and surer, she wouldn’t avoid the power so much. Perhaps something of that sort the soldiers couldn’t ignore.
She dug her toe into the soft ground as she worked this through. Of course this couldn’t be simple like the Hornet Tune. After all, unlike bee stings, everyone experienced fear differently and for different reasons. How did she pack that all into one Song to cover every contingency?
Common sense prodded that nothing would happen unless she tried and practiced. She gave her toe one last twist in the dirt, then put her hands in her lap, sitting up tall, feet together as her mother had taught her for Singing, and began a hum under her breath, keeping it quiet so it wouldn’t reach anyone or anything else.
In her head, she laced the magic, feeding in thoughts and feelings. Death. Loss. Failure. The end of all things. The magic ran through it all, would make it come alive in any listener’s head. To her it was only ideas and music, to any other ears it was reality. Or would be real, if she found the courage to Sing it aloud. The words came more slowly as she tried and discarded options.
Fear, panic,
Cold hands,
Icy shakes.
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