Faithful

by Michelle Hauck

  Dal was among the Northerners.

  The window in the fog closed over and another opened to Ramiro’s right, and still he walked, following Salvador, letting the tug from his brother hold him upward. This window showed Crueses and a child with a scraped knee. The father bending over the child was ripped in half in the blink of an eye. Again, the city fell. The citizens torn apart.

  Time and again, windows opened to show Ramiro a sword practice accident in Vista Sur, a healer removing a tumor in Suseph, a woman giving birth, all the small incidents of blood bringing Dal’s evil until nothing survived. Bile rose in Ramiro’s throat, yet he couldn’t look away.

  A new window to his left showed a woman with a blond braid lying across her threshold in the swamp as something cut her into tiny chunks—a Woman of the Song. The scene flashed to reveal smoke rising from another bungalow house with a wide porch to lift into a moonlit sky. Dal struck at night now and the whole world fell.

  “What am I to do?” Ramiro said. “I’m just one man. Only a soldier.”

  Salvador stopped. Slowly, he turned until Ramiro could look upon his face. He saw his brother’s features, his brother’s expression, and the eyes holding love. Love for every soul alive, every rock, every tree, and every grain of sand. Love enough to span the skies.

  “You’re not Salvador, are you?” Tears touched his eyes at that realization. He would truly never see his brother again.

  For answer, the Being touched Ramiro’s forehead. A single word reverberated through Ramiro’s soul though the figure never opened his lips. “Intellect.” A finger traced his heart. “Courage.” Moved to his liver. “Compassion.” Then dropped to his spleen. “Righteousness.”

  “I’m not the proper person to show this to,” Ramiro tried. Awe dropped him onto his knees to wallow in the fog, while desperation pulled his insides into knots. “Why me? Why bring this to me now and not before it all started and Dal began killing?”

  A new window opened, revealing a picture of Ramiro in a tent speaking to his father, a scene from his past, from before he’d left with Claire. His Past Self spoke, “Why bother to go to Crueses? They won’t help us. And they don’t deserve to share our information. Let them suffer as we have. It should be their turn for the way they let us down. If they’d been there . . .” Ramiro squirmed with shame, trying to turn away but the vision held him fast.

  “I didn’t know about Dal,” he protested.

  That window closed and another opened in its place. This time there was no sound, just a vision of his Past Self walking away from Suero and the women and children by the swamp lake, leaving them without a warning of the Northerners advancing into the swamp.

  A third window opened, revealing him standing over Errol, sword raised but hesitation on his face as he faced a handful of Northerners at Jorga’s house. Then his face firmed as his Past Self realized he couldn’t leave Errol to die. That snapped shut and opened with Jorga wounded and on her stretcher. “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,” his Past Self said. “We do need to warn everyone we can reach, all the Women of the Song, the people of my cities, Bromisto’s clan, and the other cities. I apologize for thinking otherwise.”

  The window closed and the fog covered all again. The Being turned to him and touched his heart for a second time. This time the touch brought no voice echoing in his head. Ramiro’s mind spun, trying to take in all he’d been shown. It was a dream that had first helped him decide to journey back to the swamp with Claire. A dream sent with a purpose to lead him. “You wanted me away from my people so I would see others’ suffering—to change my mind. It was a lesson? A lesson in compassion.” Ramiro struggled with the implications, gripping his medallion. He’d passed some kind of test and now graduated to a new level of interaction in the dreams. “Then I have been found worthy, as you face me now. But why me? I’m no saint.”

  Two windows snapped open of equal size, side by side, both featuring his Past Self. The first showed instance after instance of petty behavior, every snub Ramiro had ever given, every time he’d let someone down, every moment of jealousy, selfishness or greed, flipping past lies and cowardice in the blink of an eye. The second window moved equally fast, display moments of standing up for another, compassion, empathy, bravery, and on and on. Both equally disturbing in separate ways.

  Ramiro wanted to sink through the clouds that supported him—to turn away and not have to see. To disappear. Anything to make it stop. He waited for the window of good to take precedence—for the other to shrink and give way to his better qualities—for good to tip the scales of balance. Isn’t that what he was being shown? That his life had been weighed and found to lean toward the side of virtue.

  But the visions kept appearing without diminishing on either side, given equal importance. The Being waited.

  “We . . . humans . . . aren’t evil or heroic,” Ramiro stuttered, thinking it out. “We are a mix of . . . both. My parents. My friends. Claire. The Northerners. All of us. Neither one nor the other. Even the saints?” The windows snapped shut, releasing him to stare at the fog swirling around his knees. Strength returned to his heart with acceptance. He stood, getting off his knees. “But that still doesn’t explain,” Ramiro protested. “Why would you pick me?”

  The fog whirled and he got the impression of vastness, a million, million souls contained within, all working for and against one another. All connected to the Being. “I’m not the only one in which you take interest,” Ramiro breathed with absolute certainty. “Not the only one you entrust this to. I’m one of millions. But the others . . . they don’t see you.”

  A single word echoed in his brain. There and gone.

  “Dreamer.”

  I don’t understand. Can’t you stop what’s happening? Stop Dal?”

  Salvador’s figure held up his hands, and now they were bound with a wire full of barbs and vines of thorns, cutting into his flesh though no blood flowed. He opened his mouth to reveal no tongue or teeth, just a space without end, endless and vast, black as night, and still it expanded. Tiny stars twinkled inside the Being’s mouth along with entire worlds. Terror rose in Ramiro’s heart. A person could fall into that space and never touch bottom.

  “But I don’t know how to fight it!”

  Ramiro woke with a start, nearly toppling off Sancha before he clamped on with his thighs. Sweat covered his body, as if he’d run miles in full armor. Awake again, the dull ache of missing Claire snapped back into existence, while a phrase and a promise echoed through his soul. “You will have help.”

  The loss of Salvador mixed with fear, tried to turn his strength to water. Had he just seen God?

  The thought was too big for him. He needed a priest—a professor. Even his mother’s advice. Someone more learned than himself. He pushed it aside to focus elsewhere.

  Dal’s insatiable lust for blood would destroy, not just the Northerners, but the witches, the ciudades-estado and any other humans or animals across the seas and around the world. Claire’s song had somehow released it. And who had come up with the plan and urged her to sing it?

  He was responsible.

  In his selfish desire to save his home and family, he’d unleashed the beast that would ruin it all. That made him accountable to try and put it back, even if he didn’t know how.

  Somehow, he doubted the scenes shown to him had already happened. Whatever this Dal was—ghost, spirit, demon, or god—it could not yet go through walls or roam at night. What would be the point if it were too late? On the other hand, he no longer believed his father—his people—needed to be warned. His gut said they knew already. Something else drove him to return, some other burden called. They needed him for some task.

  “You will have help.”

  Though he wanted to vomit from pure fear, the words echoed, becoming something to cling against as a storm of indecision and uncertainty raged. He wouldn’t have to do it alone. Sancha nod
ded her head like she read his thoughts—in reality she was probably just shaking off flies—but the motion reassured.

  He stroked her neck, deriving comfort from the touch. “How about we run a couple of miles, girl?” Ramiro slipped from her back to pelt alongside the mare, his breastplate clinking as they ran. His wounds pulled and ached but the pain felt good. As he eased into full speed, she tossed her head and increased her pace to match his, falling into the shared stride they’d practiced endlessly. Heading back home, though, his heart called to Claire. If he got to have someone at his side through what was to come, he wanted it to be her. That would come in the Lord’s time. He would make sure of it.

  Chapter 37

  “You’ll go in the morning,” Jorga said. “Take Errol to the Rose Among Thorns. Warn them.”

  “Only if you come with me, Grandmother.” The fire crackled next to Claire, holding off the terrors of the night. Even at this late hour, the women of the village moved about on their small chores, catering to the menfolk who sat and did nothing now that the day’s hunting was over—in many ways more conservative than Ramiro’s city people in how they divided the work. Despite being left alone and separate in the camp, Claire didn’t feel isolated. Not with her grandmother at her side. “You can ride my horse. The healer says your wound is mending and shouldn’t reopen. We’ll go together.”

  “Using the magic takes strength. Strength I can’t rebuild as quickly as I used to.” Jorga tapped her bandaged thigh. “You don’t notice the drain because you’re young. I haven’t the magic to frighten a squirrel, girl.”

  “Then you’ll come to share your company with us. The Women of the Song will want to hear from you, not me.”

  Jorga glanced over at the sleeping Errol, curled in his blankets, his hair matted down with sleep sweat. “There’s another reason. He won’t speak to me, but my son is easy to read. He sees my end coming, did as soon as the arrow took me. I’d slow you down.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” Claire said, trying to speak lightly, though her heart said otherwise.

  “Lying to yourself fools no one. A seer reports what will be, not what we wish would be.” Her grandmother’s strict face softened. “’Course I’ve had fifteen years to understand the truth of his powers. Errol is new to you.” She hesitated. “That city man you’re missing will come back for you. Nothing will hold such a man back when he’s decided, and he’s decided on you. Just remember you don’t need him—or me—to be strong.”

  “I know that. That doesn’t mean I want to be apart from either of you. Even Women of the Song are stronger together. Say you’ll come with me,” Claire wheedled in the tone that always worked on her mother.

  “Very well. I’ll come with you. But I know you’ll be strong when the times comes. I’ve told you what you need to know—remember firm intent is the key to using the Song.” Jorga reached over to pinch her cheek. “Keep that in your silly brain and you won’t go wrong. Confidence grows with time, and at least age can’t take that from you.”

  Claire kept her head down and answered with a nod.

  Fingers grasped her chin and lifted her face up. Jorga’s sharp eyes bore deep. “You think I can’t see what’s happening? You refuse to practice and only want to speak about theory. I’m afraid this is your mother’s doing. She scared you too much. You need to find your belief, girl.”

  “It wasn’t mother,” Claire said hotly, pulling away. “Don’t blame her.”

  “I’m not. The blame lies in you—You are the one giving in to fear.”

  “You weren’t there. You didn’t call a monster. You didn’t feel that evil.”

  “Maybe I wasn’t there, but I’ve felt it now.” Jorga shivered. “You think hiding from the responsibility you feel will cure things?”

  Claire turned her eyes to the fire, and her grandmother barked a short laugh. “I’m glad to see you know it, too. Running from it solves nothing. Ask your city man—he knows. Are you less than him?

  “Listen to me well, girl. The magic is a tool, like a shovel or an ax. Do you blame the sword for killing, or the hand that held it?” When she received no answer, Jorga pressed, “Use it defensively only if that eases your conscience, but don’t reject a tool just because you haven’t the stomach for the results it causes. Do you hear me?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then think on it. I know the blood in your veins down to the last speck. You’re like me. You don’t want fear controlling your life. You need to shape your destiny. That means accepting who you are and making your own decisions. Pull on your strength, girl, and it will surprise you. I believe in you. Now get some sleep.”

  Claire lay back on her blankets. Her grandmother might have constructed a thick shell of self-reliance that made her prickly as a desert pear, as if she didn’t care about anything, but inside the woman was soft. Claire smiled to herself. Jorga cared much more than she wanted anyone to know.

  Claire couldn’t hold back a yawn.

  She pulled the blankets to her chin, trying to soak in a feeling of safety, but Jorga’s words had left her unsettled. Instead of letting sleep come or facing her own problems, she could only think about Errol always being right with his visions. Her uncle hadn’t said much on the trip through the swamp, but when he wasn’t with Bromisto, he’d followed her like a puppy. She’d asked him about stopping the “demon,” and had been the only one to hear his answer, given almost as if in a trance:

  “No man or woman has that power—only the Blessed.”

  Then the boy had run off and Claire had thought nothing of it—until now. If everything he predicted came true . . .

  Sleep.

  Everything seemed bleaker at night. In the morning, she’d laugh at her fears. After all Jorga was alive and well in spite of Errol’s worries. She closed her eyes, but repeating the Goodnight Song didn’t help calm her. Piece by piece, she built an image of Ramiro in her head, remembering each detail of him. Gradually tight muscles relaxed and sleep claimed her.

  She woke what felt like heartbeats later to the sound of screams and metal clanging.

  Claire jerked bolt upright.

  Swords crashed together. Fighting!

  The fire had died down to a soft glow. She searched frantically out in the camp, but could see nothing. As she tried to climb to her feet, Jorga grabbed her wrist. “Stay here.”

  Claire shook her off. “You stay here, Grandmother. One of us has to see what’s happening.”

  As she crept from the blankets, a shadow took form. A Northern soldier, then two materialized at the edge of the campfire’s glow, dressed in leather. Swords in hand, they came toward her, stepping carefully, free hands up as though trying not to startle her. “Witch,” one said.

  Claire gasped; they spoke in her language. Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth and the lump in her throat blocked her voice. She fought for words; the Hornet Tune tangling with the other Songs Jorga had taught her, leaving a jumbled mess. Fear closed her off. Instead of launching into a Song, any Song, she backed from the fire. If she could draw them from Errol and Jorga . . .

  Her grandmother lay perfectly still, feigning sleep. Once out in the center of the camp, the hunters would help. The sounds of fighting had not died down. Suero and the other village men might not like the Women of the Song, but they hated the Northerners who had killed their kin.

  As Claire took another step away, hoping to lead them off, Jorga snapped upright and seized the leg of the nearest man. He casually backhanded her off, then thrust with his sword. It passed clear through her grandmother’s body to pin her briefly to the ground.

  A scream broke from Claire’s throat.

  The Northerner twisted the blade before withdrawing it.

  All thought of escape fled. Her will hardened to iron, intent forming.

  The Song burst from her, pitched low as Jorga had taught so that it would only reach her target. She aimed not to frighten or injure. Words mattered less than the inner meaning she hurled into them.

 
; And she intended to kill.

  Fear, panic,

  Cold hands,

  Icy shakes.

  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.

  The soldiers seemed to fold inward on themselves. Swords dropped from limp hands before she finished the first few lines. As it ended, they collapsed like empty shells, eyes sightless.

  Claire stood trembling from head to toe. A child had once asked if the magic could kill men and she had laughed. Laughed at something ridiculous and ignorant.

  Now she knew the magic could kill—if she held the intent.

  She’d killed without a touch. No better than the evil god Dal. Or these Northerners. Except . . .

  She’d acted to protect and defend. Her magic was self-defense. In service of the weak and helpless. That made her different, didn’t it?

  The anger left her in a rush, replaced with horror. She hurried to her grandmother, but her body already grew cold. Errol lay over her weeping. “Momma. Momma.”

  The sight of his tears brought her own. She clutched her uncle and cried. This was her fault. She’d let the fear keep her from acting. If she’d responded immediately, Jorga would be alive. Her weakness robbed her. Fear tried to take all from her: mother, grandmother, even love.

  She brushed away tears, straightening her shoulders. Fear shouldn’t win. She didn’t care what horror Errol predicted next. Her own dread had taken enough from her life.

  Her hesitation had caused enough harm.

  Resolve grew and her grandmother’s last words returned to her. She pulled on her strength. Even if it meant killing, she’d find a way to prove a prophet could be wrong.