Knees buckle,
Strength flees.
The grave waits, darkness.
Loss, Emptiness, Defeat.
Foe’s too strong.
Strength fails.
Heart stills.
Pain, Agony, Suffering,
Luck fails and failure comes.
Death reaches.
Unmade.
Nothingness.
Inevitability.
Claire repeated it several times, tweaking and refining, making sure it locked into her memory to be pulled up at need. Once it was settled firmly in her mind, she relaxed a bit. Granted, it was only sounds and syllables tied together. Logically it could harm no one. From anyone else’s throat it wouldn’t. Yet, from her mouth, it might be deadly.
Or simply the last random words before a knife plunged into her heart.
It wouldn’t stop a rampaging bear for example. Bears might feel fear, but they wouldn’t experience it in the same way as a human. Who knew if animals worried about death? If they dreaded failure? An animal would most likely hit her Song and keep coming, unaffected. The Song had to suit the listener, that’s why her mother always said Women of the Song had to be quick on their feet—always thinking.
Claire’s eyes widened.
Why hadn’t she thought of it before? The Hornet Tune. All along she’d assumed magic didn’t work on the Northern priests. The Hornet Tune had done nothing to slow them—the magic apparently a failure. She’d considered the silly notion that the Northern priests had grown up living in a swarm of bees, and almost smiled before her thoughts turned somber once more. She didn’t even know if her Song that sent the enemy army stampeding had affected them either, or only the regular soldiers. What if instead the priests’ minds worked differently than most humans? Maybe magic did work on them, but she’d used the wrong Song. Maybe it wasn’t the Song that failed; it was her choice that had or the level of her determination and will.
A rush of energy jumped through her, excitement and joy. Her magic’s failure had deadened her spirits more than she realized, making her feel hopeless, as well as helpless, as if a familiar tool had let her down. She’d felt much the same when she’d thought Ramiro wanted her to use that Song again. But he hadn’t, and what if she was mistaken about the magic’s potency as well!
Claire thought back to tea with Father Telo and Beatriz. Beatriz had quizzed the city priest all about the Northerners, and she’d taken in every word, fascinated. The enemy priests in their white robes didn’t believe in kindness, something about this world being a test from their god to make sure they were good enough. Would that mean they shrugged off personal injury and pain? Could go right through her Hornet Tune and not care?
She tugged her braid, trying to think deeper. “If they don’t care for themselves, what sort of Song will work on them?” she asked the dying fire. Ideas darted in and out of her head, but none impressed her as likely to work. She slumped. Here’s where her mother’s experience would have helped immensely. She just didn’t have the knowledge or skill to figure out the answer on her own.
In theory, her grandmother would know even more than her mother—if they could only find her . . . and if her grandmother would speak to her or want to help. She’d made assumptions about the Northern priests, she didn’t want to do the same about her nearest relation. Her only choice was to find out.
Claire glanced around for Ramiro, to tell him her ideas about the priests and ask his opinion. Nothing moved around her but the little beetles that came out since the rain had stopped to flash the lights in their tails. While she waited, she slipped into a daydream of showing her grandmother her latest Song, of working together to make it stronger. Grandmother would hug her and give her a piece of cake because that’s what grandmothers did—or so her mother had reported when she’d begged to hear about village life.
The daydream shattered.
Maybe that’s what other grandmothers did in the villages, but Claire couldn’t believe that would be true even in a fantasy. Somehow, the idea of her grandmother baking just didn’t seem realistic. The woman from her very vague childhood memory was all sharp edges.
Beatriz, however, would pat her on the head and give her cake—cake someone else had baked, naturally. That she could imagine. A new daydream formed of Beatriz liking her and feeding her all sorts of sweets. Claire sat contentedly in a rosy daze as the last of the firelight went out and the sliver of moon rose higher.
Finally growing cold and giving up on Ramiro, she slid into her bedroll. Ramiro could hear about her Song in the morning. With luck, she’d reach home tomorrow, could maybe spend the next night in her own bed before they moved on. She heard Ramiro’s low voice talking to his horse and felt warm and cozy. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her. In her head, she ran through the words from the Goodnight Song she’d been Singing to herself as long as she could remember to help fall asleep.
Rest
Close your eyes
All is well
All is safe
Loved
Wake to a new day
Wake to . . .
For the better part of the night Father Telo had wandered the camp, giving support where he could, watching the people pack their few belongings. Despite much grumbling and vocal resistance, this morning, the majority had departed for Crueses with the First Wife as their unofficial figurehead. No one wanted to be left behind as the military pulled out on Julian’s orders and a majority of the council had voted with the idea to leave. Alcalde Julian had left hours earlier to ensure their safe passage into the ciudad-estado and to enact whatever other plan he had in his head. The man was incapable of setting aside responsibility, even when the responsibility would soon no longer be his.
Again, Telo missed not being in the thick of things—he’d enjoyed his time being counselor to kings perhaps too much—but he had his own destiny to follow. Pray God they both had an equally successful conclusion.
If you cannot do great things, do small things in a great way.
What was left of the camp had the empty ring to it that spoke of loneliness, the sort of feeling one got the first day inside the walls of the seminary when you missed the fullness of life. He walked past the blackened rings of campfires littered with the occasional trash or ripped and cast-aside blankets. With the women, children, and warriors gone, all that remained were various soldiers doing clean up and making sure nothing of importance was left behind.
The sort of nothing such as a single, lowly friar and a dangerous prisoner.
Telo walked toward the wagon holding Santabe. He’d chosen the time carefully, well aware that most of her guards took a break for their meal at noon. Santabe was to move out last, staying well separated from the civilians, and bring up the very rear of the long train of refugees.
Telo fingered the weapon inside his robe and hoped he followed the Lord’s will in this. The council, forced to wait for a trial and having trouble finding anyone to defend their prisoner, had failed to act. His people seemed content to keep Santabe chained up and put aside the decision of executing her for another day, more concerned with their own survival. Telo thought their priorities skewed, but honored their reluctance to kill in haste and outside of true justice.
He’d debated again and again over this choice, afraid of the lengths it would take him—the sin he would commit. Thoughts of it kept him awake at night, made food taste like dust in his mouth. Yet, the murder of Taps and Concejal Lugo, the audacity of Ordoño in infiltrating the camp in broad daylight, urged him to this point, made his duty, if not clear, then apparent.
He’d been thinking the wrong way after the loss of his hand—the loss of his city. His loss wasn’t a message from the Lord about forgiveness, but the opposite. Instead of passive, he needed to be aggressive. He’d failed to act when Ordoño was right in front of him.
Fear the sword: For wrath brings punishment to evil, that they may know there is a judgment.
By the Lord, there was no one else. Deal
ing with Ordoño rested on him alone, even if it took his life—or worse, pushed him into grave sin.
The situation at this moment called for his affable face to be shown to the lone man leaning against the wagon and looking bored. Telo had spoken with him before in his tour of the camp. He had taken pains to become familiar to all the guards. Compared to the hard-as-nails Farmer-face and Taps, this one with his unlined features could have been a child. No doubt he was the one all the others bullied around, as he had been picked to miss his dinner.
“Greetings,” Telo called, “a hot day, is it not?” He wiped his forehead and pulled out his flask, almost putting it to his lips, before seeming to recollect himself. “You first, my son.”
“Thanks, Father,” the guard said eagerly. “From you, this is truly holy water.” The guard winked, and Telo had the grace to feel ashamed. Telo reminded himself the lad wouldn’t be hurt. He’d only take a nice nap and be embarrassed at his gullibility when he woke.
“Santiago blessed the wine and Santa Teresa used it for her sacred healing, but I like to think they preferred beer for their own libations.”
“Amen to that, Father.” The guard tilted up the flask for a second pull, then handed it back, and Telo tucked it away.
“How goes it with your prisoner?” Telo asked.
The lad’s face soured and he spit. “The same, Father, still rioting and too violent to approach. It is kind of you to take an interest in her, as everyone else wishes her dead. I wish the trial would start and get it over.”
“‘All belong to me,’ sayeth the Lord, ‘from the small to the great.’ My interest is the least I can do after the unfortunate incident I caused earlier.” Telo hung his head. The death of Taps had indeed been his fault. He would see that corrected, come what may. Justice may belong to the Lord, but the saints didn’t hesitate to make it their cause. A nudge to balance the scales from a lowly friar wouldn’t be the end of the world—probably—though it might damn him.
The guard gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Had nothing to do with you, Father. She was waiting her chance, and that’s for tr—” He brows drew down in surprise and then his face went slack. Telo caught the lad as he slid to the ground. The little herb he’d added to the flask worked fast once it took effect.
Telo arranged the guard in a more dignified position, then, one-handed, he rifled through the lad’s clothes and found a set of keys. Telo let out a breath. He’d hoped the other guards followed procedure and left the keys with this poor fellow, but he wasn’t sure they would. Without the keys, he’d planned to turn back from this course. “Thanks for showing me the way,” he said to the clear sky, unsure whether to be relieved or downcast. He mounted the stairs to the wagon.
One key on the ring opened the door, the smaller intended for another lock. Santabe must have heard the rattles for she stood waiting when he entered.
“Come to offer yourself for the next sacrifice?” she said without preamble. The tall priestess looked much the same as before, dirty and disheveled, her hair hacked raggedly short, but now her earlobe hung torn and bloodied, the sun-shaped earring gone and actually in his pocket. Dark bruises covered her face, and Telo saw more peeking out above her shirt at her collarbone—someone had taken a toll for Taps’s death—and they’d managed to get fresh clothing on her, a bright yellow shirt of the type peasant women preferred and an equally bright-colored skirt of pink. It hung several inches too short, revealing her ankles. The chain attached to her waist and the far wall of the wagon had been shortened considerably, giving her less range. On the wooden wall where the chain was bolted were splinters and gashes as though torn at by fingernails in a mad frenzy. This one would fight every step to her hanging.
She rushed him. Telo had expected it and set his feet. He hiked his robe and kicked her squarely in the midsection. She tumbled back, all the air gone from her lungs, and collapsed atop her pallet.
“The Lord has many faces,” he said cheerfully. No remorse hit him for striking a woman. Her orders to kill children, her viciousness with Taps, proved she was more devil than human. Some souls couldn’t be redeemed, no matter what scripture said. “Just as I wasn’t always a priest. Before I found the Lord and left the slums to take orders, I used to earn coin in the brawl pits, wrestling or boxing for others to wager on. Even spent a few seasons with bandits.” Telo flexed his brawny arm. The woman may have been tall and fit, but he was the taller and outweighed her easily. He had little concern for who would come out on top in an honest fight—if it wasn’t for the loss of his hand.
And then, it was up to the Lord.
She sat up, holding her chest, unable to do more than send him a glare that turned his blood cold. He went to the chain in the wall, making sure not to turn his back upon her, and found the key to unlock it.
“Come for your revenge?” she hissed. “That doesn’t follow your pathetic beliefs of charity and kindness.”
“As I said, our Lord has many faces. Some of the saints came to show us of the Lord’s love and tolerance, others to prove his thirst for justice and righteousness. San Martin led an army against those who opposed him. Santiago smote the unbelievers. I’m not yet sure which He wants to see from me.” Telo held her chain securely and showed her his nub. “I’m no saint, but I take this as a hint that I wasn’t going about things correctly. Our Lord believes in second chances. Whether I am to save or execute you will be revealed in His good time. For now, you come with me.”
“Why?”
“Because in polite company when one goes calling, one takes a gift. You are that gift.” He locked her chain to a corresponding one he now wore beneath his triple-rope belt and put away the keys, then pulled on the links until she had been dragged to her feet. She snarled and growled under her breath, and he wondered if she would bite. He didn’t intend to let her close enough to try.
Out of his robe, and the hidden pocket one of his healers had obligingly sewed for him, he produced a slim white rod. He thought this better than putting a sharp object within her reach. Telo had discovered the weapons were harmless when held by a single person, only when they touched a second did the magic kill. Her eyes widened upon seeing the magic weapon. “Several of these Diviners were found scattered on the battlefield. Dropped by your priests, I think. Our Alcalde ordered them secured until he could decide what to do with them, but they just might come in handy. I know how this works. You will cooperate or I’ll test it on you. ‘Justice is mine,’ sayeth the Lord, and you are long overdue. I won’t hesitate. As Lord Ordoño didn’t take you when he was here, he shouldn’t mind too much.”
“You take me to Ordoño?” He read the repeat of surprise on her face and felt the relaxing in her posture. As expected, she would go back to her kind willingly enough. “Then you are a bigger fool than I took you for, priest. Dal will finish you.”
That threat sent a chill down his back, but he showed none of it. Weakness was invitation with this one. “Or the Lord will be my shepherd. Either way, I’ll find out. Whether you do depends on your behavior.” He gestured with the rod. “You first. Walk.”
As before, no one was around but the sleeping guard. Telo set a fast pace and kept a tight grip on the Diviner, hoping not to use it and to escape the camp before her absence was discovered. They quickly left the wagon behind, heading out into the desert. Telo had studied the maps and knew where to reach the road going north. An overheard scout report informed him the Northern army camped near the ruins of Zapata. Ordoño would be there now, Telo hoped. He certainly wasn’t here—two days searching the camp assured Telo the Northern leader had left. It’s true he could have gone to his second army at Aveston, but Telo didn’t think so. The man would return to take charge of the larger army. He only hoped Santabe could get him close again.
It was a risk bringing her. He might be able to approach Ordoño without her. But she spoke the language; she would open doors he might not be able to manage. Plus, her presence would be either a boon to Ordoño or an alternate target against
which to expend a first reaction of rage. Telo found Ordoño a thoughtful man, considering before striking out, but if he judged wrong perhaps Santabe would be the enemy leader’s object and not his humble self.
Either way, he needed to get close.
In the brawler pits, they said life is a gamble. Telo had missed an opportunity to fulfill his destiny and stop the army. He had every chance to clasp his fingers around Ordoño’s throat and keep the wildcat of his army from running again. The idea made him sick, but he intended to rectify that mistake, even if it led him to the gravest sin a man could commit. For a second the world wavered. To do this thing . . .
Everything inside him screamed at him it was evil.
He looked at the priestess, and resolved himself. That was the face of evil.
Telo kept his steps firm, his hand on the Diviner unshaken, no matter his inner turmoil. The Lord gave him a second chance and he’d make it count—even at the cost of his immortal soul.
Chapter 16
Julian stared at the feast spread before him: bread, fowl, beef, and other meats, a variety of cheeses, two types of wine plus ale, vegetables marinated in rich sauces giving off a heady aroma, bowls of olives. He had not seen this much food in one place since before the Northerners split their army and set their siege around Colina Hermosa. The rationing he’d ordered had been citywide. But his ride through Crueses and glimpses of the markets said the excess wasn’t confined to the palace. Everywhere plenty of food was on display, nor did prices seem elevated. It was as if they weren’t worried at all. Yet, their military seemed alert enough.
An escort had reached him and his attendants while still two miles out—the message of his approach apparently having reached them. Upon arriving at the city, the soldiers had refused admittance to the majority of his guards, leaving him with two, both of which had been restricted from this room and kept in the vestibule of the palace. Surprisingly, they hadn’t insisted on searching his person, not that they would have found any weapon—he carried none.
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