She flung morality out the window and took Father Telo’s good hand. “How can I help?”
They had two days to discuss it along with what had happened with the scene outside the wagon, as no one came near them except to bring them food and water. They weren’t taken out for necessity trips either, left instead with an embarrassingly, not-private chamber pot. A fact that would have had Teresa in fits, if she weren’t so petrified. She fretted more with each passing hour as they drew steadily nearer to Aveston, stopping each night to camp. None of the soldiers spoke their language and wouldn’t have answered questions if they did understand them, making it impossible to receive new information.
And the old was disturbing enough.
Teresa couldn’t make heads or tails of the story Father Telo told her of the Diviner turning red or Dal manifesting. Her opinion held that none of the religious happenings mattered. It would neither slow nor stop the army, so it shouldn’t be a worry, while Telo argued that understanding it might be important. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings by saying she found all religions more myth than fact—ancient history that had little to do with the world today, except in the political pull that religious leaders and the churches exerted. But he clearly saw that she didn’t buy into his theories, and so they agreed to disagree and let the subject drop—mostly. Every now and then one of them would prod at it like a sore tooth.
If anything, it broke up the monotony of terror.
The wide chinks in the wagon planking allowed them a view of the camp, causing Telo to remark that he didn’t remember so much activity when here before. It also revealed that no guards watched their wagon. What would be the point? The flimsy construction would allow them to break free at any time, but with the plan incomplete, they had no reason to go and every reason to stay.
Teresa paced or tried to. They’d piled most of the supply sacks into the corners to give them more space, but the tight quarters restricted her to a few steps. “What if we made a racket? They’d notice us then.”
Father Telo just stared at her, a half-finished turnip in his hand. “They’ll come in their time, my child. The Lord didn’t send me here to let me lack for opportunities.”
“What if we have to make our opportunity?” She sighed and peered out a crack. The army had stopped to camp and it wasn’t dark yet. Why weren’t they more in a hurry? It worried her, just as everything did lately.
A door rattle gave them all the warning they got before four guards entered, making the living quarters unbearably tight. One seized her under the arm, pulling her along. His gesture to follow was more comprehensible than his words.
They were bustled through the camp with Teresa unable to catch more than snatches of it. A noise buzzed in her ears and everything faded to a blur as they passed, terror rising steadily in her breast and blotting all else out. She wasn’t ready to die. Yet, for some reason, her brain could find no other reason for their abrupt removal.
The guards stopped them at the end of a long line of her countrymen—or fellow citizens, rather—Teresa saw men, women, and children in the queue of about twenty.
“Father, help us.” The woman next to them sobbed, grabbing Father Telo’s sleeve. She dropped to her knees in a posture of begging. “Save us.”
That’s when Teresa saw the front of the line.
A thick carpet, the dimension of a large room, had been unrolled upon the sand. A single table and chair rested in the middle of it. A priest in a white robe stood at the edge, holding a Diviner. He wore no earrings of rank. This was a Northerner she’d never seen before. As Teresa watched, he touched the Diviner to an elderly man with skin burnt almost black from too much time in the sun—most likely a farmer. The man seized, muscles tight, then dropped into the waiting arms of two guards, who dragged his corpse away. The guards behind pushed forward the next person.
A line of execution.
Teresa’s heart tried to start out of her chest. She gasped, eyesight closing in to a foot around her, as if by doing so it could shut out the truth. Dimly, she heard Telo speaking, trying to move to the front of the line, and guards pushing him back none too gently, forcing him to keep his place at the back.
The people around her clung to Father Telo, those farther ahead, called out to him. The line shuffled ahead, more and more innocent people going under the Diviner and carried off like empty sacks. Father Telo spoke the words for the dying, his voice rising above the weeping and wailing around them:
Oh Lord, be gracious to me;
Oh Lord, have mercy on me;
Forgive my sins;
Santiago, do not abandon me;
Oh Lord, into thy hands I commend my spirit.
Santiago, I entrust my soul to thou, do thou save it for me.
Teresa fastened on the numbers between her and the Diviner. Fifteen. Fourteen. Her legs didn’t want to bear her up. Oh Saints. It couldn’t end like this.
Salvador and Gomez. Alvito. All taken. Now her turn. She couldn’t bear to watch anymore.
Someone cleared their throat. The sound so simple and calm in the midst of panic. Teresa turned. Ordoño stood, polishing an apple against his brown coat.
“Stop this. Stop this now.” Father Telo’s face was clenched in anger.
“I could if given a reason.” Ordoño held the apple up to the bright sunlight.
“It is the right thing to do,” Telo snapped. “For once in your life, do what is right.”
“That’s not a good enough reason. I only send them to their precious afterlife a bit sooner. They should thank me.”
The guards had to restrain Telo as he lunged at the Northern leader. “Stop this sideshow! You’ve proven you hold our lives in your hands!”
Teresa glanced ahead. Thirteen. A young girl of less than twenty winters was next. This was getting them nowhere. “The army,” she stammered. “An army like this succeeds partly from instilling fear, forcing surrender. Let them go so they can help with that. Let the last of these people go and they’ll take their terror with them. Spread it to their homes.”
“Hmm,” Ordoño mused, chewing. “Possibly.” The young girl died.
Twelve.
“Do you want cities under your power or burnt out husks like Zapata and Colina Hermosa?” Teresa sobbed. “Fewer of your soldiers would have to die in battle. Let them go!” The words sickened her even as she spoke them. Here she was, giving him clues to make his army more efficient, just to save her skin.
Ordoño snapped his fingers and guards sprang to his side. He handed the nearest his half-eaten apple and waved to the priest up front. The Diviner in the priest’s hand went back to his belt. “A decent reason,” Ordoño said. “One I gave to Santabe when she ordered this yesterday. I’ve told my men to release the hostages after we arrive at Aveston and not before. We wouldn’t want them carrying news.”
At the mention of Santabe, Telo seemed to shrink, drawing inward and closing off. Teresa scrubbed at her face, brushing off tears of relief. She’d saved some of these people. This time at least. “And us?”
“Give me a reason not to let Santabe have you.”
“Easy enough,” Telo growled. “Acorraloar. You brought us here to see this as a lesson. You’re selfish enough to save our lives just to have opponents for your game.”
“A lesson, tsh—do you take me for a teacher? Though it is interesting to view a person so convinced his way is best. It’s like pinning an ant down by one leg and watching it struggle. But even that gets tiresome after a while.” Ordoño sighed. “I did leave the pieces as they lay when we were so rudely interrupted. I suppose I could send for you the next time I’m bored.”
Teresa watched her countrymen being led off by the guards—some had to be carried due to emotional collapse. “Bored? Is that what this was?”
“You want a lesson?” Ordoño said to them, his eyes cold. He pointed at the prisoners. “Listen and learn. Money can buy only so many spies. Clemency can buy so many more. To the ones who bring me useful information,
it can spare their family. I’ve given them the incentive to help me. Santabe is right: Love makes you all weak.”
The wind went out of Teresa. She hadn’t saved these people—it had been his plan to let some live all the time.
“And speaking of weak,” Ordoño continued. “Your alcalde plans to take out the men I left at Aveston. I guessed his next move and left them there on purpose to draw him in. Sadly, your numbers are no match for my full army.” He studied the sky. “Thus our early stop today. It wouldn’t do to march my army there too soon. I wouldn’t want to spoil the old fox’s surprise at our appearance.”
Teresa had the bad feeling Ordoño was, not three, but a half dozen steps ahead of them.
“We have scouts, too,” Telo said. “They will see you coming.”
“Ah yes. We caught two of those this morning.” Ordoño nodded to where posts were being erected. One already contained a gristly dismembered head—the beard hacked from the cheeks. “They may see us, but they won’t live to report us. No. Your ability to pull off a shocking victory is over. I think no witches will come to save you this time.”
Father Telo touched heart, forehead, liver, and spleen.
Teresa gagged, as much from the sight as the roiling in her stomach. She had come to study the Northerners and their leader and learn to predict their next move—outthink the enemy. In Ordoño, she had met a master at studying human reaction. He anticipated everything, which meant he must know their reason for being at the camp. She bit back a whimper.
Chapter 32
Bromisto jumped lightly from one hillock of grass to another with Errol following more shakily. It appeared to be some kind of game to see who would get wet first. Ramiro could do very well without any more wet. Beyond his soaked feet, the air was already so saturated that wherever the sun reached through the forest canopy, vapor rose through the air like patches of cloud brought to earth. It created an eerie cast to the swamp. Sun and cloud made strange bedfellows—like soldiers and witches.
Errol wobbled dangerously on his latest landing, and Bromisto smothered a laugh behind his hand, keeping up a running commentary of instruction that left Ramiro glad the other boy had to hear it all. They made as interesting a contrast as the sun and clouds: one tall and fair and the other skinny and dark. Head and shoulder shorter, Bromisto had to look up to give Errol orders, the elder boy hardly able to meet the smaller in the eye. Their five years age difference reminded Ramiro much of him and Salvador, except he couldn’t remember Salvador ever letting him play the leader.
Ramiro winced as Errol made another leap and ended on his butt in one of the many puddles of swamp water around them. From ahead where she walked guiding Sancha and the second mare, Claire turned to look at him and share the fun. Her light eyes danced with mirth. It lifted his own heart, and he laughed with her.
Or tried until Jorga heaved another sigh. The old woman rode on the makeshift litter they’d built for her—one end pulled by Sancha while the other dragged on the ground. Ramiro walked beside her to guide it around obstructions and over bumps, trying to spare her as much as possible—most of the time. To be honest, he’d let it hit a few of the smaller bumps purely from exasperation with her waspish tongue.
“When will you switch places?” Jorga demanded with another sigh. She’d crossed her hands across her breast, like she expected to pass at any minute. “I need to spend what time I have left with my granddaughter.”
Claire insisted on taking her turn guiding the litter and not always be at the easier job of going ahead to lead the horses. Jorga agreed but would have Claire always at her side ever since their second day when Jorga began insisting she would die soon and needed to impart as much wisdom to Claire as she could before the end.
Ramiro didn’t see any sign of Jorga dying, though he acknowledged the trip must be hard on her. But the old woman was too stubborn to die of something like an arrow. In fact, he didn’t believe death wanted Jorga either. “I’d rather be walking with your granddaughter, too,” he quipped just to shock a reaction from her. She gave over her plaintive whine-face long enough to scowl.
“Impertinent, city man. She’s not for you. Women of the Song—”
“Belong to themselves,” he finished. “Yes, I know. You’ve only said it once an hour for two days. If she belongs to herself then perhaps Claire should decide for herself.” He had her there, and they both knew it. Interfering between him and Claire meant giving over her principles. Principles won.
That didn’t mean she couldn’t lecture.
Jorga started to shake her finger at him but grabbed for her leg instead as Ramiro pushed the travois from catching on a stump. They’d wrapped the arrow and all their wounds in many layers of bandage, doing all they could to keep any blood from showing through. Ramiro didn’t understand exactly what drew Dal, and Errol would say no more on the subject, but they weren’t taking any chances. There was too much they didn’t understand. Ramiro couldn’t wait to lay this burden on wiser shoulders. His father was better suited to figuring out what was happening and would have the resources. Ramiro ached to set a faster pace, knowing he couldn’t until they managed to escort Jorga to the healers.
The thought drew his eyes to Claire again to watch the sway of her braid across her back. He did long to walk beside her, though he didn’t know how to say he planned to leave her and go home. It got harder and harder to keep her at a distance between them. His heart just wasn’t cooperating.
The whispered laughter of the boys rose as one of them almost fell again. The sound wouldn’t carry far—they tried to keep it quiet—and he hadn’t the heart to shush them completely, though he should.
“Take care of her for me,” Ramiro whispered, but Jorga’s sharp ears heard.
“What’s that? Leaving are you?” Her features brightened. “Maybe I could live after all.”
It was Ramiro’s turn to scowl. “Don’t say anything to her. I want to tell her.” He waited for her reluctant nod before asking, “Have you decided the witches need to be part of this?” He didn’t see how she could deny it any longer—not after the Northern soldiers had been cut into tiny cubes like meat for the stew. The comparison made him sick, but it was too close to the truth.
“Women of the Song,” she corrected. “Perhaps.”
“You know we could use your help.” Much as it hurt to admit it. “And . . . we will offer you our help in return. I came here with Claire only thinking about what we could gain from you, when I should have been thinking how we could help each other.” All along his desires had been nothing but selfish. “We do need to warn everyone we can reach, all the Women of the Song, the people of my cities, Bromisto’s clan, even the other cities. I apologize for thinking otherwise. We need a true partnership more than ever. I’d like to be able to give my father some numbers. How many of you are there?”
Jorga’s face wrinkled like she’d bitten a tart apple, but she surprised him by answering, “Near on to fifty, spread over a hundred miles and more.”
“Hard to pass the word out to so few, so far apart.”
She grunted, the closest she would come to agreement. “The Rose Among Thorns happens soon. Most of them will be there. It’s the best chance to reach the largest number.”
“Your yearly meeting. Where?”
“A clearing, near the center of the swamp. A spot we’ve used for centuries. I suppose I could go there, if I live long enough.” She not-quite touched the arrow standing up from her thigh and cried out as the ends of the poles dropped into a pothole hidden by a puddle of scummy water. “On the other hand, the warning requires a haste I can’t accomplish. I will give the directions to my granddaughter. She may be a stranger to them, but they’ll believe Errol about the massacre. The problem may lie in my sisters considering the deaths a fluke.”
“Then flukes repeat because I encountered what was left of one. Another massacre in the desert by Colina Hermosa. Errol doesn’t seem to think it a fluke.” Much as he’d like to dismiss what happen
ed to them, Ramiro had the feeling it would grow worse, not better.
“No.” He thought Jorga would let the subject drop and had to strain to hear her. “I fear it’s just starting. A partnership, then, for both our survival.”
Claire dragged herself into Suero’s camp as the sun dropped far behind the trees and the shadows lengthened. Every muscle in her body ached from shoving at and correcting the stretcher for two days. She couldn’t even complain about it as Ramiro had offered to spare her the task and she’d been the one to demand her turn. She stood in a half daze as Bromisto came running to meet them with his sister, Elo, and the motherly looking healer woman.
The healer took one look at the arrow and said, “Take her to my shelter.”
Claire stood as stationary as one of those odd desert cacti as Ramiro unharnessed the stretcher and pulled it after the healer, leaving Bromisto to take the horses. Silently, Errol tugged at her arm, drawing her to stumble along in their wake, wanting to be with her grandmother, but finding it too hard to think or react, stupefied by exhaustion coupled with worry. She could sleep for a week.
After.
After Jorga was resting comfortably, that is. She held on to positive outcomes, refusing to consider other conclusions, and thought of her time with her grandmother.
Jorga had lectured her on the Song for the whole trip, trying to pack everything into Claire’s head in hours instead of months. Most of it Claire couldn’t hold on to and the rest got flushed away by concern when her grandmother became unconscious a few hours ago. Despite their efforts to stop the blood loss, they could only do so much with the arrow still intact. She knew they’d moved as fast as they could. Claire clasped her hands together, pleading it was enough.
She heard Ramiro warning the healers about the dangers of blood and the healer saying something in return, but she couldn’t focus.
When she tried to duck into the little mud shelter after Jorga, Elo took her arms and stopped her. “Wait out here. Too many people block the light.” Then she was gone.
Faithful Page 29
