Grudging (18 page)

“My study,” Ordoño confirmed. He waved toward the front of the wagon. “My bedchamber is there, in a separate wagon. Dressing room beyond in another. The Children of Dal are not complete savages. Nearly, but not completely. Wagons are much more convenient than tents, wouldn't you agree?” The man took a chair and settled. “Father . . . ?”

“Father Telo.”

“Well, Father Telo. What is this offer of yours?”

“
Alcalde
Alvarado offers an exchange—­himself for the children.”

“Hmm. Unexpected for the old fox. And yet I can see no gain from this idea on your end.”

Telo asked the question that had been burning at him since before he left Colina Hermosa, “Are the children alive?”

“Look for yourself.” Ordoño turned to the side and loosed a rope that bound a canvas window closed. He pushed aside the flap to reveal a line of figures in the sand, separated by ten feet or so between them. Chains went from each small child to a stake in the ground. Clinks attested to movement, and bowls of food and water sat within reach of each. A canvas had been erected over the entire line to provide shade. As Telo began to count, Ordoño let the flap close.

“I see no reason to accept,” Ordoño said. “Let your fox of an
alcalde
stew in his guilt.”

“ ‘Truly the mighty favor charity, sayeth the Lord. Those that least need, giveth most abundantly and prove their holiness.' ”

Ordoño snorted. “Priests. Do you truly believe what you peddle? The Children of Dal make much less pretense.”

“The quicker to lop off a hand?” If such was to be his fate, let it be earned by speaking the truth to this man who used to be one of them.

“Simpler, certainly.” Ordoño tapped his knee. “Their bloodthirstiness does become wearing. Useful, but wearing. When you solve everything in such a way, there is little need for debate. Or reason.”

“And have you any? Or does your soul trouble you even now. They are children. The innocent of God. The soul of a—­”

“Stop.” The man held up a hand, but his eyes held no heat. A gentle smile crinkled the corners of them in abundant laugh lines. “Ah, priests and their ability to instill guilt. Better than one's mother, wouldn't you say? You make me nostalgic.”

“So we are taught in seminary though some do seem to learn it at their mother's breast.” Telo leaned forward. This man was not what he'd been expecting. “Which city were you born in?”

“Does it matter? Is your mission to ferret out my heart or the children?” The man's voice grew sharp, his amusement fading.

“Does not God call upon us to save all sinners?” Telo put away the touchy personal subject for firmer ground. “You have us cornered. You have all the leverage. The children are no real use to you. You and I both know it. You need to save face this badly?”

“I have no need to save anything. I have already won.” Ordoño sat easy in his chair, crossing one leg over the other at the knee and leaning back. “From the moment I crushed the spirit of a ­people and controlled their destiny. What does God think of that? Why hasn't he come to save you or sent a saint?”

“Are you so sure he hasn't?”

Ordoño chuckled, slapping his leg. “Ah, priests,” he repeated. “Master manipulators. I will make you a deal, priest. I will let the youngest children go, if . . . if you stay and annoy Santabe. I grant you full immunity from her bloodthirstiness. Minister to the savages. It is your calling, is it not?”

“And the
Alcalde
?”

The leader of the Northerners waved as though at a fly. “Keep him. What would I do with such a fox? Santabe would insist on cutting him into tiny pieces for her Dal. More mess. I'd rather be amused.”

“One does not take half the chicken when one can get the whole.”

“Half is what you get, priest. Take it before I change my mind.”

“Priests are also known for their bartering. All the children under twelve and my two fellow priests go free, alive and well, and safely escorted back and inside the walls of Colina Hermosa.” Telo chose his words carefully to leave no loopholes. This man seemed like one to exploit any mistakes you offered him. “And I stay until I feel the call to leave.”

“Let free some dozen hostages when I'll soon have a city of them, in return for endless lectures and manipulation.” Ordoño spat into his hand and held it out. “How can a man of sense refuse? Blame it on nostalgia. But I hold you until I tire of you. Deal, Father Telo?” The man's eyes gleam like he'd captured a great prize.

A sinking feeling struck Telo's heart as he took the offered hand. His common sense had just landed him in a cartload of trouble, but if it saved even one child, he had no choice. “Deal, Lord Ordoño. Let us talk about the older children now.”

“My dear Father, there's nothing to barter. I gave those to Santabe for Dal.”

 

CHAPTER 20

“S
aints!” Ramiro jerked his head away from Sancha's mottled-­gray hide as crashing sounds came from the bushes. The witch girl was gone. Instantly, he turned to get orders from Salvador and was met with the sight of the swathed bundle on Valentía's back. Fresh pain lashed him like a whip.
Dear God.
He was in charge. He'd let his city's slim hope escape. “
Mierda!
”

The rope looked cut.
How?
How had the girl—­

He felt at his waist, but his dagger was intact. A quick scan of his boot, though, revealed the little knife gone. Curse him for a fool. The witch had tricked him.

“What'll we do?” Teresa begged, practically dancing in a circle and wringing her hands. “What'll we do?'

Everyone in his city would die, and it was his fault. Strangely, though, that thought was nearly buried under the heartbreak that he'd let his father down. That he'd dishonored his brother's last mission. His heart thudded like he'd run ten miles, muscles weak, breath coming too fast. He reached for his sword strapped to Sancha and cursed himself.
Stupid.
He didn't need that to subdue the girl. Instead, he grabbed the rope from Teresa.

“Watch the horses. I'll catch her.”

“Yes. Watch the horses.” She nodded vigorously, legs still working although she went nowhere. “I can do that. Watch the horses. You find her.”

Thoughts skittered in and out of his head faster and harder to catch than mosquitoes. He couldn't concentrate, even while running from the camp. His body tried to take him in a dozen directions at once, causing him to zigzag all over the place. Vines and trailing moss caught at him, and he batted them away. How long could she have been gone? Three minutes? Ten?

He swallowed hard and tried to force away the overwhelming panic. A strange buzzing packed his ears.

“Think. Think.” But his brain felt clogged, like it was filled with Lupaa's honey. He grabbed his short hair and yanked. The small pain helped clear his mind. The swamp lake. Her mother's body lay on the other side. Bromisto had been taking them in that direction. The girl's home must be that way, too.

His feet took him to the shore of the lake, pressing right into the water until his boots splashed. No girl. He scanned the lake. It was open, no place to hide. Without a thought for snakes or quicksand, he ran for yards in either direction to get different angles, searching up and down the shoreline for a glimpse of her. Nothing.

Like Teresa, he couldn't stand still. He tromped in circles through reeds and high grass. It was impossible. She had to be here. Where else could she go?
Think,
estúpido
. What's wrong with you?

Something was wrong. Very wrong. But there wasn't time to figure it out now. He had to find the girl. He hurried through the brush, seeking her fleeing ahead of him, going one way than another. He found the spot where Teresa had taken her for privacy and tracked across every inch, spreading out in all directions.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

And yet he continued searching, getting farther and farther from camp. She had to be found for Colina Hermosa. He lost track of everything but moving and searching, always searching. He tripped over fallen logs, soaking his legs and feet in muddy water, and battled with stickers and thick brush. All the while he muttered prayers to Santiago and every saint who might intercede, knowing that he'd let her escape. Why would any saint help such a fool? They'd be more likely to help the witch.

Estúpido.
He'd found her less and less of a threat the longer they'd spent together. Seeing her bound and powerless against the tree and her feeble attempt to run from him had all contributed to underestimating the girl. By God, he'd even begun to feel sorry for her. And here she proved she had cunning and could plan. Much better than himself.

His foot sank up to the knee in muck, and he sprang back, dragging against the suction that captured his leg. The quicksand released his flesh with a slurp that sounded like regret and a promise to win next time. Ramiro panted.
Close. Too close.

Sweat covered his body, dampening his hair and pasting his shirt to metal and flesh. The normally comfortable armor dragged at him, so much deadweight. His stomach growled. Vaguely, he heard Teresa calling his name in the distance. Still blaming himself, he stood stock-­still and rested against a giant tree trunk, then glanced up.

The sun was high in the sky, dazzling him with afternoon light. How could that be? It was minutes ago the girl escaped. Wasn't it?

The weary set to his muscles and drag to his steps told a different story. The sting of welts covered his arms and back where branches had whipped against him in his headlong search. His hands were marked with scratches from brambles.

For calm, he ran a hand over his face, rough whiskers scratching his palm, then touched mind, heart, spleen, and liver in resignation. Tricked. He'd been running aimlessly for hours, like a hound without a scent. Slowly, he made sense of it. The girl must have used her magic to lead him astray—­to make him forget reason and caution. But for it to last for hours . . . no. She wouldn't have wasted her time. Would have gotten far away instead. At some point she'd stopped using the magic, and the panic had been all his. Had continued long after the magic stopped causing it. All the time the witch girl used
his
mindless distraction to get farther away. Shame filled him.

Just the latest example of his failure to use his head and think before he acted. Even if the girl used magic against him, he still
let
it continue to happen. There wasn't a word strong enough for his stupidity.

A newt scurried down the trunk to rest near his hand as if flaunting its ability to escape unscathed. Just like the girl. Ramiro lashed out to grab it, but it evaded his reflexes and shot into the leaves.
Mierda.
He couldn't manage anything. He'd ruined the mission, ruined everything.

Head bowed, he trudged in the direction of Teresa's voice. She greeted his return with silence, merely watching him drop the empty rope to the ground. As he took a seat on a rock near their cold fire pit, she handed him a waterskin. He drank, then poured the rest over his head. It brought no refreshment to wipe away his miserable failure.

“It was smart,” Teresa said, sitting across from him. “The girl, I mean. What she did to us was smart. She knew she couldn't best you physically, cousin.”

Ramiro sat up and rubbed his damp neck. “Exactly the kind of smart Colina Hermosa needed, and I lost her.”

“
We
lost her. It was me she got away from in the first place.”

“With
my
boot knife. The mission was my responsibility.”

Bad arm and all, Teresa had unloaded the horses, laying Salvador's body neatly on the ground and piling his armor and other belongings in a stack. Sancha and Valentía had water and foodstuff. He hadn't even the heart to compliment her on what must have been hard work.

Sancha wandered over and butted at his shoulder as if she sensed his pain. A flash of pink flesh showed as she widened her nostrils and blew a puff of air at his face, enough to ruffle his hair. A heartfelt gesture wasted on a useless man, who couldn't even capture a lizard.

Teresa sat opening and closing one fist as the quiet grew. “We should head back. We're out of food. You have to take Salvador home to your family. It's hopeless.” She chuckled sadly. “The university is my only home, cousin. I mean, my parents were always there for me, but they've passed on, and the university has been my life for fifteen years. Home, family, god, sanctuary, and world.” She clenched her fist, then forced it open with her other hand, twining them together. “They'll burn it, won't they? Your father won't surrender the city to them.”

His throat felt squeezed by a noose. “Yes. They'll try.”

“Try?”

“Try.” He caught her eyes and held them. Her misery lashed his soul. What was he doing giving into despair and blaming himself? That didn't solve anything. Would Salvador quit? Would his father lie down and wallow in self-­pity? His mother had more stubbornness than he. He needed to show the strength of his family. With more conviction, he said “Yes, try. Which is what we need to do. Our city won't give up easily. Neither can we. The girl will go home. She has nothing else. No food. No supplies. I checked the lake again. No sign of her though I tromped everything so thoroughly there's no way to find her tracks, but she'll be headed in that direction. Physically, I can overpower her.”

“She knows the swamp, while we don't,” Teresa said. “She might have taken a longer path around the lake to avoid us. But we don't know where we're going. We don't know where she lives. Maybe we could pick up her trail across the lake, but she's too smart for that. And it would take too much time. She'll be long gone by the time we've caught up. And we've nothing to eat. Can you hunt while we chase her?”

He stood and handed her back the waterskin. His sword hilt gleamed atop the pile of his possessions. “Not without slowing us down.”

Everything Teresa said to him was sensible. But he didn't want to be sensible right now. It was time to make up for his failure. Cunning would be met with cunning. He belted on his sword. “We have the location of a person who does know the swamp. Let's check the lake one more time, head across, and double-­check where we burned her mother's body to make sure she isn't there. It will add a few hours, but then if we can't pick up her trail, we can circle back to the village and get food. Bromisto knows where she lives. We'll find her one way or another.”

C
laire smiled as she watched the murderer and Teresa repack the camp in preparation for leaving. She'd dropped her Song of panic hours ago, afraid that using it longer would only tip them off that she remained hiding in the area, waiting for them to be gone so she could head across the lake. Besides, she couldn't hum any more—­her mouth was so dry it hurt. She'd never maintained magic for that long in her life.

It had astonished her to see the murderer continue to blunder around as if she still used the Song. Why had that happened? Years of trying to draw hints from her mother, and she still had nothing but guesses. Either the magic lingered in his system—­unlikely—­or she'd hit on an emotion so near to the surface that it was how the murderer would have reacted without her interference. At this point, it didn't matter. She just wanted them to leave and be done.

Jammed in a crack between the fallen pine tree and the sycamore, her legs pressed against her chest giving her no space to move. Sap stuck to her hands and clothing. Pine branches poked her from all directions, and she could barely take a deep breath, let alone find a more comfortable position.

Despite the aches in her body, she couldn't help the feeling of pride that warmed her. And why not, she'd beaten them. She'd managed the situation as well as any Woman of the Song could have done, even her mother would admit that. The murderer was giving up. She was safe!

She could survive another hour of torture in this tiny hiding place—­it was still better than being tied up by the murderer—­and then she could go home.
Home.
Her heart sang in her chest, despite the pain of loss that attacked her again. Her mother might be gone, but at least she could go
home
.

The murderer gave one last look around the campsite and took his horse, while Teresa held the other huge beast by the end of its reins. Claire slapped a hand across her mouth before a gasp could echo in the stillness. The murderer didn't go in the direction of the village. Her pulse began to hammer as he headed for the lake.

It can't be.
Not after everything she'd suffered.

They were going after her—­toward her home. Blocking Claire from the only direction she wished to go. She caught a last glimpse of her kidnappers before the brush and trees swallowed them up, taking them out of range.

Her position suddenly strangled her. Her legs screamed for space. The branches pressed too close. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't stand being penned in another moment. What did it matter anyway? She couldn't go home. The murderer had outsmarted her.

Or had he? She needed to make sure.

Careful not to make a sound, she inched free of her cramped hiding place, keeping close to the ground. For long seconds, she lay flat out, letting life return to aching limbs, then she tiptoed toward the lake. The murderer and the woman were already yards into the dirty water, moving toward the far shore and her home. Claire dropped to her bottom, feeling the tears come.

So it was true. The murderer had outsmarted her. He headed for her home, keeping her from it. She swallowed against a parched throat.

A drink. If only she could find some clean water and moisten her mouth and throat. Then she could sing again, have a little bit of protection. She couldn't go home, and she had no fire to boil water, but the village would have some. She feared to go there alone. Yet, what choice did she have? She couldn't go on like this much longer. But then he couldn't lay siege to her home forever, either. Eventually, the murderer would give up. Somehow, she'd get water and food at the village; and then she'd wait him out.

She took a last look at the murderer's retreating form, then she took off in the opposite direction.