Grudging (24 page)

“Don't!” Claire shouted in warning.

One of Suero's friends lunged at the madman with his knife. The Northerner turned sideways and brought up the rod, touching a bare spot above the villager's shirt. The villager went rigid, every muscle tensed, and he dropped as limp as the inside of a cracked egg, his eyes open and staring. The gentle rain made the only sound.

“
Mierda.
” Ramiro fumbled for the dagger at his belt as his hands regained feeling. Suero and his remaining companion backed away, fear replacing anger on their faces.

A tide of buzzing hornets surrounded Ramiro. He brushed frantically at his face, then shook his head. It wasn't real.

The girl.

Claire stood across the road, head high and shoulders back as she sang. Her damp hair was slicked to her head. Suero and his friend jumped and danced, fighting an invisible threat. Not everyone was affected, though. Ramiro froze. The madman absentmindedly touched the closest man with his stick, sending him to the ground, and walked toward the girl.

Without thinking, Ramiro surged forward. Somehow he crossed the road and got in front of Claire. Before he could bring up his knife to throw, the madman planted his white stick right in the center of Ramiro's wet breastplate. A hum filled his ears. Every nerve ending in his body tried to jump out of his skin. His muscles locked, and pain exploded through his very bones. As quick as it surged through him, though, it vanished, leaving him rubbery and weak as a newborn.

Claire sobbed behind him. He'd lost everyone he cared about; he wasn't about to lose the witch girl, too. He forced his eyes open.

“For Colina Hermosa!” Ramiro brought down his dagger, right into the madman's hand. The man shouted in astonishment, dropping his stick. Ramiro pushed, sending the Northerner to the ground. Suero swarmed forward and thrust Salvador's blade though the madman's back, pinning him to the dirt.

Ramiro forced his legs to support him; now was not the time for weakness. Tense, he held the dagger before him as Suero drew the sword free. The villager had the better weapon, but Suero was unarmored. Ramiro felt weak as a newborn kid, while Suero was uninjured. He hoped it would be a fair match.

“You left me to die, coward,” Ramiro said between gritted teeth.

“You harbor a
sirena
, city man,” Suero shouted.

“It doesn't change the fact that you
left me to die
.”

“We do what we must to survive, city man. I'm not a trained warrior like you.” His words grated on Ramiro, and yet he knew Bromisto's father would never be swayed from whatever lies he'd already convinced himself of. As he accepted that disgusting truth, the village leader pointed to the white rod. “What was that? How did he kill my men with that thing?”

Ramiro shook his head. “I don't know, but I'm taking it. Do you intend to stop me?” He wanted that awful weapon to show his father. Having it could turn the tide of the war.

Suero spat. “Take it and welcome. That makes us even. Take it, and don't come back.”

“And our bargain.”

Suero shook Salvador's sword. “This is mine. I'll keep the bargain. I'll take your city ­people to safety. Hide them for you. You look for a way to stop these beardless men?”

“Yes.”

“Then luck follow you,
ciudad
man. You'll need it.” Suero turned and strode for the swamp, leaving his dead without a second glance.

“Saints take you,” Ramiro muttered, “and protect the ­people under your care.” God knows Suero wasn't going to risk anything to protect them himself.

The girl stood clutching her braid. “You saved me,” she said. “My magic didn't work on him, and you protected me.”

Ramiro walked across the road to fetch his sword, trying not to stumble or collapse. Every muscle in his body ached. The smell of burned hair drifted out from his armor; the rain was cool on his face. “Aye,” he managed to say. “Thanks to your warning.”

“It didn't kill you,” she said.

He tapped his breastplate and bent gingerly to pick up his blade. “I think it was the metal. Don't feel too sad. It certainly was plenty painful.”

“I didn't . . . you are not what my mother said. She said men were evil.”

“Is that a compliment? Thanks?” He turned as slowly as if he'd aged twenty years, and the girl stood right in front of him. Her odd blue eyes were narrowed and ready to split rocks. Had he saved her because it was his mission?

No—­it went deeper than that now. He might not want to believe it, but his ­people's laws weren't just words on paper. They reflected the only way it made sense to live with others . . . even witches.

“Teresa said it. We're
sangre
kin,” he said. “Blood kin. Our lives are tied together.” He felt it now. A strange connection that made her fate and his joined. She was his responsibility whether she could save his city or not. “And as I said: I'll not let them kill anyone else.”

The tension in her face lessened. “I'll go with you to your city. I want to see it for myself. Decide for myself whether my mother was right or wrong.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and even that hurt. “It's a bargain.”

 

CHAPTER 26

T
he swamp's trees and brush pressed close to the edge of the road. Drizzle made the thoroughfare into one long mud hole. Ramiro's toes squelched in his socks when he stepped. His boots had succumbed to the inevitable and lost their waterproofing. It irritated him, but his mother had been right about the number of socks he would need. That, and having to leave his armor behind to make better time had him in a fine mood.

He scowled at the cloudy sky. The rainy season had to start now? As if there wasn't enough water.

Without Sancha, the walk would take more than three days—­much too long—­but it would be even longer if he doubled back for the mare. He only hoped Teresa would forgive him for leaving her behind. It wasn't really an option, no matter the promise he'd made to her. They'd need all the speed they could squeeze from tired legs, backtracking wouldn't help, and three ­people on one horse would never work. For that matter, a man in armor on foot was hardly swift. He'd kept his breastplate and helmet and discarded the rest in the village—­another unintended present for that cheat, Suero, along with both his bows.

I'll come back for all of them, he thought. Teresa
and
my things.

In the meantime, they'd helped themselves to food and water and an oiled tarp that the witch girl currently held over her head. Torn, scraped, and filthy, they looked little better than beggars. By the saints, all they lacked were alms bowls though somehow the girl managed to keep her oddly pale hands and face clean.

She hummed happily to herself as she walked, chewing on a piece of jerky. Ramiro was starting to wonder if her tune was magic directed at causing his black mood. He could have told her to save her breath. She couldn't make him feel any worse.

He had the witch for Colina Hermosa but had lost everything else, and to top it off, they wouldn't arrive in time. Sometimes your best wasn't good enough.

At the ambush, he'd used his head, making a plan instead of reacting. Things had worked out only marginally better than when he'd followed his gut. His bad judgment had sent Sancha away. Maybe Salvador's advice didn't help him because he just wasn't smart enough. Maybe he—­

“I saw a bear once,” Claire said.

He turned to stare at the girl, suddenly wondering if she was simple-­minded.

“You look grumpier.” She gave a little skip. “I'd hate to see you when you don't get your way if this is your idea of happy.”

“I have much on my mind.”

She sniffed. “What's to think about? We go as fast as we can and get there when we get there. No sense in borrowing trouble, my mother would say.”

He shook his head. “It is not your city about to be burned or your family put to death by a devastating
army
!” His voice rose until he was shouting by the last word. “We'll never make it in time. And would it matter if we did? I thought the witches could turn the tide, but what you told Teresa before was right: You can only do so much. That mad Northerner in the village wasn't even affected by your magic. And it looks like they have magic of their own. I've been on a fool's errand that cost me my brother, my friends, and now, possibly, my city.”

“But we may still help. You don't know anything is over until it's actually over,” Claire said. “And even then, there's still hope.”

“Hope.” Contempt dripped from the word.

“Yes—­hope. Like maybe we can turn their magic against them,” she said, pointing at his bag.

He looked over at it. The white stick of the madman lay at the bottom of his pack. They had thrown two blankets over the thing before he could bring himself to pick it up. His muscles still ached from whatever it had done to him.

“A frog can only jump so high. A bee can only fly so far. And a fox can only run so fast.”

He gaped at her, hands curling into fists, and had to turn away before he shook her. “That . . . what does that mean? I thought I was getting a weapon to stop the Northerners. Instead, I got a silly girl.” Mud splattered as he stomped up the road.

She tromped after him. “I'm not a silly girl! And you! My mother told me of your culture. You don't deserve a beard! You should shave it off!” She wrapped the tarp around her head like a shawl. Tears stood in her eyes. “Attacking me because you're lost. You act like a child!”

“Then why are you following me!”

“I don't know!”

To his horror, she burst into sobs. Ramiro put his hands over his eyes and dug for calm. Saints, help him. She'd only been trying to help. “You're right,” he said softly. When she didn't respond, he rubbed at his beard and straightened. “You're right,” he said louder. “I was acting like a spoiled child and not a man. I apologize. I spoke in wrath.”

Her chin trembled, but she no longer cried. The tears left her eyes bright as sapphires. She was small and depended on him, and he'd treated her ill for it. “It made
perfect
sense,” she muttered, and he realized she was talking about her silly aphorism. “You're just too dense to get it.”

The sad truth was, though, he didn't think she was wrong: He might just be too dense to understand
anything
that was going on.
It was never supposed to be me!
Salvador was supposed to lead him. He would know what to do. Teresa could have talked to the girl like a friend. Alvito could have charmed her. Gomez was the peacemaker. Salvador would have gotten them home in time.

Her saying might make perfect sense, but his world right now made none at all.

To his surprise, she nodded. “I'm lost, too.”

He scowled. “I'm not lost. I know exactly where we are.”

Claire tossed her braid back and rolled her eyes. “Deny it all you want, but it won't get better until you admit it. Maybe then you can do something about it.” She took a firmer grip on the tarp. “I'm a good runner. Probably faster than you. Shall I prove it? We'll make better time.”

“There's no sense in exhausting yourself. It's still going to take us over three days. I know what you're trying to do, but it won't help.” By his count it had been six days since he had left Colina Hermosa. Even if his father managed to stall and gain extra days, they still wouldn't make it in time on foot.

Claire took off down the road in a sprint before he finished the sentence, the tarp flapping.

He sprang after her in full pursuit regardless of his soggy feet. “I'm not letting you win just because you're a girl.”

She turned enough to stick out her tongue and hurried on. Ramiro shook his head, mud flying from his feet. Why had he ever thought the girl reserved or shy? More important:

What had he gotten himself into?

B
y late afternoon, they were back to walking. The mud and drizzle had dried up, and the sun had appeared to ramp up the heat and swallow the humidity. They'd left the swamp behind and returned to drier grassland. The meadows and wildflowers seemed to fascinate the girl. She'd stared at them for hours, plucking some for a bouquet, which she eventually discarded. Even their weight was troublesome with all the walking still to do. At this time of year, darkness would not arrive for many hours yet.

Ramiro strode along the dry road, grateful for the repeated drills Salvador had put them through. The girl, however, trailed him with drooping shoulders and heavy feet until she caught him looking, then her pace increased.

“We'll stop at nightfall for a few hours' rest,” he told her.

Claire shrugged, but already-­pale skin was white with exhaustion. “I can go as long as you,” she said. He could read the lie in her body, though.

Such dogged determination was admirable—­or stupid. She obviously couldn't stand to appear weak before him. He let her catch up, then said, “I'm not lost. I know exactly where we are. And I'm not lost in the way you mean either. I have a mission, a task from the leader of my city. It sustains me.”

“If you say so. I can see that you're not worried—­and haven't been dwelling on it for half the day. We're just walking until it's dark for the joy of it.” She hooked her thumbs in the loops of her filthy skirt that she wore over equally dirty trousers. “My mother told me when times are troubled, the values you hold in here”—­she touched her chest—­“will see you through. My mother was not one to worry.”

Ramiro smiled. “My mother does nothing but worry and fret. It's draining, but my feet will be dry tonight because of it. Extra socks, you know.”

She looked at him without understanding, and he laughed. “An inside joke,” he explained. His mirth died as he remembered Salvador wasn't here to share it with him.

“A soldier doesn't lose his place, doesn't get lost,” he told her. “A soldier has orders to follow. I was forgetting that. I merely have to get you to the
Alcalde
of Colina Hermosa as fast as I may. Protect you from the Northerners like . . .” His eye lit upon a pink coneflower. “A delicate and fragile flower.”

Her chin rose. “You have that backward. It is I who protect you and your . . .” She waved her hand. “Fragile and delicate stink.”

“You stink just—­” He froze. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as it had in the village. Again he felt the sense of someone watching his back. “We're not alone,” he whispered. “Off the road. Into the tall grass.”

She squeaked as he grabbed her and half dragged her into the giant saw grass lining the road. The tall blades swayed well over his head. It was stifling as the breeze couldn't reach down inside the thick mass, and all was still and silent, except for the girl's panting breath.

“What happened?” she asked in a whisper.

“There's . . .” How did he explain something that only existed as a nagging feeling? And since when did such feelings come to him? For all he knew, it was his imagination and nothing more. “This way.”

Ramiro edged through the saw grass; it slid from his shoulders, giving way to him. Below the level of the road, the roots thrived in a wet bog. Already his boots that had begun to dry were soaked again.

The grass concealed, but it also blinded. He could only hope his path ran parallel to the road. Claire stumbled along behind him, sometimes catching his arm for balance, muttering under her breath. He held up his hand to shush her and followed his gut.

A wearisome time later, they paused among the grass, hot and sweating. Ramiro sank to a crouch. The girl copied him. He peered through a gap in the grasses to spy on a squad of Northerners in black and yellow, blockading the road on a wide wooden bridge. Less than a full platoon, they still numbered a good fifty men, and they'd chosen an exemplary spot. A marshy slough covered the other side of the road, allowing a sight line for miles, while a stream passed under the bridge, bisecting their side of the road, dividing the growth of saw grass. They would have to detour a long way to escape the superior vantage point of the Northerners.

The beardless men worked on erecting tents, stacking dry wood, and building cook fires on both ends of the bridge. They were here to stay.

“How did you know?” Claire whispered, puzzled.

“I didn't,” he said absently, gripping the medallion of San Martin. Was it a miracle or something else? Maybe the saints interfered to save Colina Hermosa. Or maybe he'd gained a little of his mother's family Sight as he suspected Salvador had. Either way, he didn't want to discuss it with the girl. Her eyes regarded him suspiciously. “I guessed.”

None of her doubt vanished. “How did you know they'd be here and not closer to the village?”

“It was just a hunch. They've blockaded all the other roads we use. They discovered we used this one. Now, can we talk about how to get around them?” He rose from his crouch, still keeping low, and led her deeper into the grass. “Can you use your magic to get us through them?”

She shook her head, sweat glistening in the fair strands of her hair. “I can't just march us straight up the road and make them not see us. They're already watching.”

“So? You made me not see you.”

“No, I didn't. I made you
panicked
so you weren't looking in the right place.”

“And that won't work here?”

“I can make them panic, but they'll question why. The magic just doesn't work that way. It can't make ­people unsee things or forget. In your case, you were already doubting yourself—­I just played on that.” She rubbed at her chin. “Let me think.”

He nodded, trusting her assessment. If she said it couldn't be done that way, then it couldn't. The tops of the saw grass rustled softly as he waited, giving her time. She stood as still as one of the statues of a plaza fountain, hand curled in a fist against her mouth, frowning blindly at it. She looked deceptively soft. He knew now she was anything but. The girl had as much determination as he—­and more bravery. Could he set aside everything he knew to put himself in the hands of a stranger?

With a start, he realized he was doing it right this moment.

“The creek is the best choice, don't you think?” she asked. “I mean, the grass grows close to it, so if we cross, we could get right back to cover—­and the running water will help. We'd only be in the open as we wade across.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But it's wide. Ten yards at least. Can you get them looking the other way?”

“I can.” She frowned. “But that would tip them off as much as panicking them or using the hornet song. They'd end up chasing us.”

“We're too tired for that,” he agreed.

“I can try . . . I mean, I think I can make them see something else, though. Deer. I can try to make them see deer. It could work. Or not.”

“Which?” he asked. “Work or not work?”

She shrugged.

That seemed to be all the answer she had. “Why running water?” he asked. “You said that would help?”