Grudging (30 page)

“Mother, who is that?” Ramiro asked, pointing to the crumpled madwoman, lying in a heap.

“One of their false priests.”

Ramiro groaned. “
Mierda
.” So their priests were vicious killers, ordering the massacre of innocent villagers. What did that make the rest of the ­people like?

Saints.

Get off the altar and the waiting group of fanatics would tear them apart. Stay on, and they'd eventually work up the courage to cross the carpet. Either way, he and his companions were dead. The Northern soldiers had grown to over twenty and started to edge closer.

“Claire,” he called, waving her over.

“I heard,” Claire said, her face pale with strain. “The Hornet Song won't help, will it?”

He shook his head.

“You've brought a witch, Ramiro?” Beatriz asked, her face puckered.

“She's . . .” Witch seemed a nasty word. One that didn't begin to describe Claire. “She's my friend, Mother, and she's here to help.” He turned to Claire. “Have you another song? Something stronger. What about the one your mother used?”

The girl held her hands clasped together, twisting them. “I don't know what she sang. She never taught me that.” Her eyes pleaded for reassurance. “We're going to die, aren't we?”

Words stuck in his throat. Anything he said would be a lie, better to say nothing. He stood. Flames came from the hill of Colina Hermosa. His city burned. Everything seemed to fall apart. Even his rescue had been but a temporary reunion.

He tightened his grip on his sword. “The three of you get under the table.”

The priest plucked feebly at his trouser leg. “Dal. They fear. Their god.”

Ramiro knelt again. “What, Father?”

“Dal. They are. Terrified of their god.” The priest pointed toward the low-­rising sun with his whole hand. “Dal.” He gripped Ramiro again and indicated the crowd, which now surrounded the carpet. “The witch. Can she . . . ?”

“Use it,” Ramiro finished. A painful hope grew in his chest, and he turned to Claire.

“Can you make them fear their god?”

“How?”

He racked his brain. What did one fear about God? Correction. What did one fear if your god had cruel and evil priests? If your god collected gold tribute? If your god called trespass on his altar blasphemy? If your god was also cruel and evil?

The crowd had grown to over fifty and gathered a yard from the carpet. They shifted their feet, mutters rising to yells. A stone struck Ramiro's shoulder. Another came at Claire but missed. Time was up.

Beatriz began dragging the priest under the table.

What did you fear?
You feared his presence. You feared his attention on you.

“Claire.” Galvanized, Ramiro tripped over the priest's legs in his hurry to get to the girl and whispered, “Can you make them feel their god is here, come for them?” He pointed at the sun and more stones flew. Beatriz cried out as she was struck. “Dal. Tell them this Dal is here, and angry at them.”

“I'd have to make it very simple,” she said. “One wrong word, and it would all fall apart. They have to be willing to see it. I'm not sure I can.”

“If you can't, no one can. Just try.” Rocks flew faster. One dinged against his breastplate. “I don't want to pressure you, but soon.” He placed himself in front of her to block the rocks.

A glance back showed Claire stood with the sun shining on her golden hair. Instead of being able to make out words, all Ramiro heard was a humming that rose in intensity. From low and hesitant, it became a great force. The light seemed to dim. A great well of darkness rolled over him. Even knowing something was coming, his knees buckled. His mother whimpered. A blast of hate and evil surrounded him.

Northerners looked over their shoulders at the red-­orange ball of the sun. A sun that boiled with fury. Their faces went slack with terror. Weapons and rocks dropped to the ground. One, then another broke and ran. They babbled and shouted as they fled, startling more and more into flight.

“Dal! Dal!”

For once, he could understand their words.

Ramiro threw his arms over his head and sensed his mother weeping, huddled against the priest. A foul force bore down upon him like a thumb on an ant. It was only Claire's magic or so he tried to tell himself. But the angry pressure cried out for his blood—­for the blood of all humans. It craved death and destruction. The removal of everything kind and good.

Shaking, he fought the sweep of fear. This was not his god or any god. The terror lessened a trifle. It was only Claire's magic. An illusion. There was nothing to dread. With effort, he raised his head to check their surroundings.

Many of the soldiers dodged between the wagons and launched themselves off the edge of the quarry, crying with what sounded like joy as they fell. Others ran directionless, and still more escaped toward the bulk of the Northern army, shouting as they ran. One man remained near the carpet, pitched on his face in an apparent faint or fit.

To Ramiro's astonishment, men far beyond the reach of Claire's voice threw down their weapons and joined the retreat. By the dozens, then by the hundreds, they fled, leaving the fight and everything behind. Wherever Northerner priests tried to stop them, those impediments were soon trampled by the mindless mob.

Even as those fled, though, many came directly toward them. Ramiro climbed unsteadily to his feet, fumbling for a weapon, even as the force continued to bear down, but he need not have worried. They avoided the carpet and threw themselves off the edge of the quarry. Ramiro blinked and rubbed at his eyes but the scene remained the same. Claire stood beside him, no longer singing, her mouth round with astonishment.

The entire Northern army ran as if pursued by demons.

They fled into the dark embrace of their god.

 

CHAPTER 33

A
s the crushing weight of blackness lifted, gone as quickly as it had come, Ramiro spun in a circle. He held his sword loosely but saw only more of the same. The battlefield had emptied except for corpses, wounded, and his fellow countrymen. They were as frozen with bewilderment as Ramiro. He touched mind then heart to settle himself . . . and before the latter organ burst from relief at their salvation. Silently, he sent a swift prayer to Santiago for their deliverance.

“How did you do that?” he asked Claire as he moved to stand next to her. Her mouth hung open. “How did you make that wall of foulness?” he asked. “It felt . . . it felt like a god truly was angry at us.” Only now, with it gone, did the air feel breathable again or his lungs strong enough to do their work.

“I didn't. I just sang, ‘Dal is here for you. He is the sun.' Simple, like I said. I didn't put anything into it.” She tugged at her braid. “It shouldn't have affected anyone beyond the reach of my voice. They must have spread it themselves.”

“But that evil?” he persisted. “That malevolence? Did you feel it, too?”

She nodded, brow furrowed. “That wasn't me. It came when I said . . . that name. I . . . it . . . it was dangerous. It could have turned on us.” She swallowed. “Do you think it was real?”

He didn't want to consider that possibility. If that was the real Dal, he was viler than the darkest sin.

“You saved us,” he said instead, reaching out to take her hand and show his gratitude with a salute. He hesitated when she stiffened. Instead of the formal gesture, he dragged her to his arms, holding her tight against his chest. Her head fit neatly under his chin, her body trembling. His own guts felt like water. As he tightened his hold, she stood rigid, then gradually relaxed with a sigh.

“I don't ever want to do that again,” she begged in a whisper.

“It's done,” he soothed. “Over. I promise. Never again.”

Claire nodded against his throat. A loud
hmmph
sounded behind him. He swung around to find his mother, hands on broad hips and eyebrows raised.

Ramiro gave Claire one more squeeze and stepped back. His arms felt strangely empty with only his sword in hand. He barely set himself before his mother barreled into his arms.

“My son. My son,” Beatriz said tearfully, then she drew herself upright. “This may be a battlefield, but there are still standards of behavior. Or am I mistaken? A
caballero
minds his manners, whether or not his mother is present.”

The unspoken word “witch” hung heavy in the air. Ramiro wondered exactly how long it would take his mother to create a whole new list of etiquette pertaining to what one could and couldn't do around a witch.

Awkwardly, he used some time sheathing his sword to evade his mother's clutching arms, then patted her back. “Mother, meet Claire,” he said. “Claire, my mother, Beatriz.

“Yes, well.” Beatriz cleared her throat, looking oddly at a loss. “First names. We'll discuss that.” Her face wiped clean of severity, to return to tears. “Tell me what happened to your brother. I want every detail.”

He cast about for a way to deflect her. He didn't want to talk about it. There hadn't been time to invent a suitable story that wouldn't involve his family's hating Claire forever. If they had a chance to get to know her first, then possibly he could tell them the truth. Until that time, he'd go with blunt and rude. “Claire saved all our lives and risked her own. We owe her. I think we're passed formality.”

His mother stared at him in shock.

“Your city,” Claire said in the awkward silence that followed. “I'm sorry. It's burning.”

Ramiro turned to follow her gaze. The siege towers and machines had stopped in their tracks, abandoned, but they had done their work. Colina Hermosa was engulfed in a fiery rain. Timbers crashed down, taking whole roofs. With no men in the city to counter it, even the thick stucco walls couldn't rebuff the flames racing up the hill toward the citadel, infecting everything in their path—­including churches—­and casting a ruby glow over the white walls in the early sunlight. The astronomy tower of the university fell straight downward with an audible crash though miles away.

His heart dropped.

Lost. They were too slow. Too late. Everything he'd worked to save. What Salvador had died for. Gone. For naught.

He reached up to wipe away a tear before someone saw it. “The ­people?” his voice sounded hoarse. Inside, he felt stripped and hollow. His refuge from the bustle of the day was gone. His place to put cares aside—­gone. No retreating to the rooftop with a book or to the kitchens to steal a snack. The jewel of a city would soon be no more. Only char and cinder.

“Your father arranged to bring down the wall.” Beatriz said. “They got out.” She came to lean against him, her tears flowing freely.

Now he knew where the
pelotóns
went. His father would have put the best soldiers to guard the ­people. He put an arm around Beatriz, holding them both up. How much worse this must be for her who had lived her whole life there. To lose home
and
child.

He'd made his choice: mother over city. He stood by it.

“Rest in peace,” the priest said from his spot against the table, crossing himself with his uninjured arm. “As the blessed Santiago said, it is only a stone and wood and labor. It can be replaced.”

Ramiro thought of the splashing ripple of fountains and the lazy scent of jasmine on the breeze and wasn't so sure. His heart ached. Some things could never be the same again. Claire came over to stand beside him, her face full of sympathy.

The four of them watched as more and more of Colina Hermosa was consumed. At least the ­people had escaped.

Finding nothing of interest, Sancha had wandered to the edge of the carpet. Her ears pricked forward at the arrival of a troop of horses.
Alcalde
Julian and some
concejales
rode at the fore.
Concejal
Lugo's face looked as sour as the hard candy he sold in his stores.

“Take any useful supplies and burn all the rest,” his father said even as he pulled his mount to a stop and hurried from the saddle. “Ho, Father Telo!” The priest raised his good hand in a salute, which the
Alcalde
returned.

“Santabe,” Julian said, pointing to the unconscious woman. “You caught her. And their leader, Lord Ordoño? Did he get away?”

“Gone,” Father Telo gritted out, his dark face tight with pain.

Ramiro shrugged as a troop of gate guard took the priestess into their custody. The rest rode off to see to their orders, and a few healers scurried to help the priest.

“
Mi amor
,” Julian said as he ran forward to embrace his wife, pulling up short when he took in Ramiro. “Son! You're alive. Both of you.” He sobbed into their shoulders.

Ramiro clung to his sadly reduced family and let their misery wash over him. The fragile peace he'd reached with his brother's death threatened to topple.

“The disruption of the Northern army was your doing?”
Concejal
Lugo said, interrupting the reunion.

“Indeed it was,” Father Telo affirmed. “The Lord provided.”

Glad for the excuse, Ramiro pulled away and gave a quick report of losing Salvador, Alvito, and Gomez, finding Claire in the swamp, leaving Teresa behind, their trek here, and what occurred after. “Basically, the magic fooled them,” he concluded.

“Then we have the weapon to hold back the Northerners when they regroup,” Julian said.

Eyes swung to stare at Claire, filled with fear and suspicion, or downright hostility.
Witch
they all said. Her shoulders hunched under their scrutiny as she stood alone. The prickles returned to Ramiro's back, whether it was the promise given to Claire or something else. He recalled Salvador's words from a lifetime ago when they'd bluffed the unit of Northerners on the road to Aveston:

“
The Northerners are not fools. They will not give us the opportunity to trick them again. Don't count on your enemy to be stupid.
”

Ramiro put on a brave face, willing Claire to know he had her back. He had brought her here, and he would see her safe. “The same deception will not work a second time,” he said. He met her eyes and saw the same resolve. She might not be of their blood, but she had made their cause her own. “No—­not again. But we'll find a way. As the father said, the Lord will provide.” And He would have to. His ­people were homeless. Many were dead. But the Northerners would be stopped if they returned, just as they had this day.

His mother had returned to Father Telo, to fuss and boss the healers. His father was deep in discussion with
Concejal
Lugo and his other advisors. “Ramiro, come here,” Julian called. “We need to discuss rounding up the evacuees and finding safe shelter. I'll need my son's help.”

Ramiro walked toward them, drawing small puffs of dust from the dry ground. “You sent them to the swamp?”

Julian spared him a glance from the sharp debate of the advisors. “Some of them.”

“Teresa is there,” Ramiro said. “I told her to take charge. She'll see to the ­people when they arrive. Get them settled until the rest of us get there.”

His father barely gave him a nod before
Concejal
Lugo and others interrupted, all with their own version of what they should do now. He heard calls for scouts to investigate the Northern army to be sure they weren't regrouping. For men to secure the treasure on the barbarian altar to pay for their survival. For everything to be dropped and an attempt made to save the city. His father looked harried under the barrage of opinion. The advisors closed ranks in a circle, and his father's form disappeared.

Ramiro shook himself and turned to leave them to it. Let the politicos sort it out. There would be a time for remembering the dead, time for going back and finding Teresa, time for gathering survivors, but right now, he couldn't think about it. It was a day of miracles. His ­people had survived. They lived. He had earned his beard and come through the other side. It was time to set worry apart, even if it was just for an hour. They'd won, and if only for a little while, he wanted to forget that it seemed as if everything was falling apart.

Claire had wandered off to stand by the edge of the quarry. The soldiers picking through Northern belongings and loading supplies onto their back or into piles gave her a wide berth. They worked in silence, watching the girl with half an eye as if she would unleash her magic upon them for moving too fast or making too much noise.

He was the only one who would see the girl as human after this. To everyone else, she would be the witch who destroyed the Northern army single-­handed.

Ramiro caught up Sancha's reins and the mare followed with a toss of her head. A scuff of his boot sent a pebble flying over the edge of the quarry to fall and fall, then bounce off stone with an echo in the stillness. Northern bodies lay sprawled at the bottom. Their shapes twisted and broken. Claire turned to look at him.

“Maybe my mother was right, and the Song
is
terrible. I did this.” Her eyes were limpid with unshed tears.

He took Claire's hand, ignoring the shocked surprise of the nearest ­people. They had gotten past acceptance of each other; he hoped they headed toward friendship. The saints knew he needed friends, and he could tell she needed one, too.

“I felt much the same . . . when I earned my beard.” He struggled to find words that would console her. “There are times we have to do what we must . . . to save our lives . . . to save the lives of innocents.” He drew them away from the edge. “It gets easier. You only have to be strong enough to bear it. Don't let doubt break you.”

The flames dancing over Colina Hermosa caught his eye. He had found that strength, the courage to let defeat and death fall onto his shoulders and yet still manage to carry the load. Could she do the same? They all had to find peace in their own way. He gave her hand a squeeze. She looked so fragile with her pale skin, her head barely coming to his shoulder, but the smile she gave him was strong.

Sancha butted him in the back, making him stumble, letting him know in no uncertain terms she'd had enough of standing around doing nothing. Claire laughed, the sound a bright throb in the solemn battlefield of death.

Ramiro touched his breastplate for luck. “I'm a man of the
pelotón.
I'm going after the refugees to protect them as best I can.” As soon as he said the words, tension rushed from his body. Planning and organizing was his father's job. He would defend Colina Hermosa and its ­people. Soldier. It was what he was and where he belonged. Salvador would approve.

He vaulted to the saddle, holding out a hand for the girl. “Will you come with me?”

She worried at her lip. “The Song . . . it scares me. Mother didn't want me using it, didn't tell me enough about it. But . . . I
need
to know.” She studied him. “It would be easier . . . I'd feel braver with a person at my side as I explored it.”

“I could be that person,” Ramiro said gravely, keeping his hand out.

“And if that person
needs
to go . . . well, I could go with him.”

To his relief, Claire seized him and swung up behind, an arm secured around his waist. He put stirrups to Sancha and turned the mare west toward the swamp. He had his place, and for now, the girl was content to make it hers.

Let the saints take care of the rest.