Grudging (9 page)

A cloudless, blue sky stretched overhead, allowing the fierce sun full reign. The hum of the army and the crowd on the walls behind him drowned out the swell of insects, but the scent of foliage bleached and baked by the sun was everywhere. Julian lifted his chin as a small party, also on foot, broke from the main mass of Northern soldiers. At their head was a woman in white robes. The priestess, Santabe.

He steeled himself.
Now it comes.

The small party crossed the distance without haste, taking another petty revenge by making him wait. Soon Julian determined their five consisted of the priestess, one beardless servant in plain linen clothing, and three extremely short figures covered from head to toe in brown robes, like pilgrims. Their hooded heads were turned down to stare at their feet. One of the
pelotón
guards behind Julian grunted, no doubt struck by the lack of weaponry—­unless weapons were concealed under the robes. Even the small gold dagger at Santabe's hip was gone though she carried a slender white rod as long as a forearm in its place. Other than the missing knife, the priestess looked the same in every detail, right down to the large, sun-­shaped earring pulling down her lobe. Dread filled Julian at her expression.

“By Dal, you have come,” Santabe said in her halting accent. The Northern party stopped at the edge of the road. She gave a quick glance as of victory to the servant figure waiting behind. “From such a wily fox, one would expect more . . . how does one say . . . subterfuge.”

“Subterfuge can take place equally well in full sight,” Julian said.

Her large earring swaying, she chuckled—­an unpleasant sound, like a sharp echo in a hollow room. “Here are your terms. Written fair—­so they cannot be changed by a misspoken word.” She gestured with the rod, and the servant stepped forward, producing a rolled scroll from his sleeve but keeping it out of reach. “Do your ­people accept this
woman
as an ambassador?” she asked. “Or have you another excuse to delay?”

“We have voted to accept the unusual situation, but we would prefer to negotiate with the ruler of your ­people.”

“Then Dal grants your wish.” She stepped back and bowed her head, and the servant stepped forward. “Make of it what you can. Here is Lord Ordoño.”

“You . . .” Julian stuttered. “You are the hand of this army?”

The beardless man inclined his head, but no humility marked his face—­and that was the least of the surprises about his looks. His coloring and features were not Northern. Rather, his appearance would fit well on the streets of Colina Hermosa. Ordinary in every respect, the man was neither tall nor short, neither handsome nor plain. In the clothes of a servant or dressed as a prince, he would go unnoticed in any drawing room. Until one saw his eyes.

Eyes of hard brown stone, layered in determination and fitted with intelligence, but cold like the ice they say formed in the north. The eyes of a man who had killed much and didn't let it trouble his soul.

The short, robed figures shifted, and the clink of metal sounded. Chains. Black-­iron chains bound the three together.

“You are not Northern,” Julian said. “The name Ordoño is from the
ciudades-­estado
.”

“Brilliantly deduced,” the man scoffed without the slightest accent. “It took much trouble and might to get the Children of Dal to accept me. Many of their more inflexible priests had to disappear. And it took more effort to turn the might of their army against my former homeland.”

“No one would be exiled from the
ciudades-­estado
, except criminals.”

Lord Ordoño flung his arms wide like a bad actor in a troupe. “Who is to say I was exiled? Perhaps I chose to leave an unfair system that discriminates against those they call peasants. But you have it on the first call. I will not argue over semantics. See how my new land loved me, providing me learning. I'm fit to bandy words with the
Alcalde
of one of the biggest cities. And you call yourselves civilized and us the barbarians.” He wagged a finger. “Do not deny it. I know you do.”

Julian held his ground. “Revenge. That is the cause of your war, then.”

“Revenge. Gain. Loot. Conquest. It is many things, but I will not argue with you there either.” He held out the rolled scroll until Julian took it. “Here are the dictated terms. Open your gates by the seventh day and give us one in ten of your men, one in ten of your women, and one in thirty of your children.” He let that sink in before smiling—­an expression that didn't touch those troublesome eyes. “See, we do not discriminate as some would. A woman can be just as deadly as a man. Is that not so, Santabe?”

The priestess didn't react.

“And what will you do with them?” Julian asked.

“Sacrifice them on the altar of civil obedience,” Lord Ordoño said with no trace of emotion. “But it will be quick, unlike if you defy us.” He pointed to the scroll. “Read the terms. It is all there. You have a sevenday. That gives your city plenty of time to decide their fate. Fail to open your gate, and we kill all.

“Now, to other business.” Lord Ordoño walked unhurried until he stood behind the robed figures. “
Alcalde
Julian, we treated you truthfully and honestly, and you gave us deceit, like the fox you are.” He yanked back a hood to reveal the face of a boy, perhaps ten summers old. “What, I ask, is this I found traveling on a mule toward the swamp? Trying to send ­people to safety. You're cheating.” He pulled back the other hoods to reveal young girls, barely more than toddlers. One of them was the girl who held her grandfather and the rag doll, both now lost. Tears leaked from their eyes as they looked to him in silent appeal.

Julian's grip on the scroll constricted until the tight roll gave and warped. He recognized the other girl by an intricate braiding of her dark hair. She'd boasted to him that her grandmother had done it. She'd also been in the first group of evacuees. Did that mean other groups had successfully made their escape? The
pelotón
guard behind him fanned out around him, hands on their sword hilts. Julian tensed as well—­if miracles were real, now would be the time.

“How many of these children have you dispatched from your city?” Ordoño asked.

Julian kept his mouth shut. He would not surrender the number and give this animal a target to hunt.

As if expecting his reticence, Santabe moved in a graceful blur of white skirts—­one second she was paces away, the next pressed against the nearest guard. The other three drew their swords, but the man she held only managed to extract his halfway before she brought up the white rod to touch his throat.

He shuddered, arms and legs flailing in spasms like a seizure. Eyes staring in blind panic. Bearded chin pointed at the sky. Then he went rigid and collapsed in her arms, limp as a fish. Her feet already in motion, she let the body drop to the ground, moving not toward Julian but to the children. A satisfied smirk split her beautiful face as she stood behind the boy, holding the rod to his neck.

Julian hissed in outrage.

“Such is the power of Dal,” she said. “Do you doubt now?”

Yells came from the wall. Julian didn't have to look to know arrows had been notched all along the stone edifice despite being out of range. He shared their rage and helplessness.

“How many groups of brats,
Alcalde
?” Lord Ordoño asked again. The children sobbed, their eyes darting in frantic glances from the body to the safety of their city, just out of reach.

Disaster.
Julian held up a hand to stop his remaining guards from rushing forward or any arrows from being loosed. How had she done that? What kind of magic existed in that strange weapon? The woman pressed the rod closer to almost touch the boy's tanned skin.

“Two groups. One per day,” he lied, desperate to conceal the true number. Two sounded more believable than trying to convince there had only been one. Five had escaped thus far. Or so he'd hoped.

“I will find those as well.” Ordoño nodded. “Do not do so again. Any more attempts to cheat will cancel the grace period granted and bring destruction and fire upon your city. Santabe.”

The priestess began dragging the children back toward the army of Northerners. The rag-­doll girl fell limp, but Santabe yanked her upright by her hair and shook her.

Hands clenched into impotent fists, Julian stepped forward hurriedly. “Give me those three as a sign of good faith. No doubt you have other hostages.”

“No deal, old fox. These we will keep for your good conduct, along with the others who survived,” Ordoño said. The way he said the last word, it seemed clear to Julian that very few still lived. “Do not test me again. And we will find your tunnels.”

Julian flinched.

“Did you think children wouldn't give up your secrets? Such lack of foresight. Children break so easily that we didn't even have to torture your surviving soldiers.” He grinned once more, a feral look. “That we did for the gratification and the glory of Dal. We
will
find your tunnels. And any small advantage you believe yourself lucky enough to have will be gone. Surrender while you can.”

 

CHAPTER 11

“H
ere we are,” Bromisto sang out. The boy stood with his feet ankle deep in a stagnant lake, which stretched as far as the eye could see. A green scum, consisting of tiny, floating plants and some kind of slime, covered the surface.

“The witch's house?” Ramiro asked doubtfully with a glance at his brother. The horses stood in a row on the shore. He waved uselessly at the cloud of gnats that had swarmed above his head for the last hour or so. Willows and sycamores rose out of the deep water, along with the tops of scraggly bushes. A thick mat of reeds lined the shore. It was the strangest vista imaginable. So much ground covered in water. Somehow it made him feel unclean.

“City men.” Bromisto put a world of scorn into the short phrase. “Do you see any houses? This is where we get wet.”

Alvito and Teresa laughed. Not a single member of their group was dry below the waist, and even Bromisto had been dunked all the way to his neck when a platform of grass proved to be unable to bear his weight. Only the height of their horses kept them from being soaked through and through. Ramiro couldn't count how often branches had dripped moisture on his head and neck from the moss that clung to everything.

“Isn't there a way around it?” Salvador asked. “There's always been a way around.”

“Not this time,” Bromisto said. “I kept you out as long as I could, but the only way to the
sirenas
is across the lake.” He pointed left. “That way is full of quicksand, and the double-­bite spider likes the other end of this bog. This is the shallowest and safest place to cross. You are very lucky I know about it.”

“Oh yes, very lucky,” Alvito said. “Thank the saints for our new mascot, who can lead us to such wonderful new places.”

“Double-­bite spider?” Ramiro asked. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“It bites you twice to make sure the venom kills you.” Bromisto grinned. “That way it only hurts for an instant, then you swell like a stuffed toad and never wake up. Very fun.”

Gomez sighed. “And they only live over there?”

Bromisto shook his head. “No. There are just more of them that way. They're everywhere. Black and red, and you'll be dead,” he chanted. “But they usually don't bite unless you crowd them.”

Salvador dismounted the packhorse and began undoing the strap that held his breastplate in place. “Armor on the horses. We'll have to walk. Teresa, wait where you are, and one of us will lead Valentía.”

“I won't argue.” Teresa gripped her sling with her good arm and shuddered at the green water.

Ramiro dismounted from Sancha. They'd walked in a few places already. There were plenty of spots where it wouldn't be safe for the horses to carry extra weight because the ground was so unreliable. No one wanted their mount to step in a hole and break a leg.

He looked at his new boots—­a gift from his mother upon entering the
pelotón—­
and sighed. They'd managed to repel the water so far, but no amount of waterproofing could survive this lake.

“It's not so bad.” Bromisto stood knee deep in the water. “I told you, you were lucky. I've seen it much deeper, especially in the early spring.” He bounced in place. “Hardly any ooze. I'm barely sinking at all.”

Ramiro pulled off a boot. Barefoot it was, then. He quickly arrayed his armor and footwear in a neat pile atop Sancha, tied the pieces down with leather straps, and stepped close to the disgusting water. Sancha rolled her eyes, pulling back on the reins. Ramiro couldn't agree more. Could this day get any worse?

“Stay out of the shade,” Bromisto advised. “That's where the leeches hide.”

“Wonderful,” Alvito said. “Dive right in, I always say.” His face set, he strode forward, dragging his reluctant
caballo de guerra
and a packhorse behind. Gomez followed more slowly with Valentía and Teresa besides his own horse. Gomez whispered encouragement to the animals to get them to move.

Ramiro gave a last look at Salvador, and the two of them stepped in. Mud slithered up between his toes and tugged at his heels, resisting his efforts to pull free just enough to be noticeable. He gritted his teeth and took a few steps. What was he afraid of? A little nasty water? Nothing more harmful than a sharp stick could lurk beneath, right? His brother didn't look bothered. Why was Ramiro letting his imagination get to him? He was a man of the
pelotón
, not a frightened child to be jumping at shadows.

A green-­and-­brown-­mottled snake longer than Sancha emerged from the reeds where the ripples of their passing had disturbed it. Ramiro shrieked like a girl as its flat head turned in his direction, skimming the top of the water with sinuous movements. He splashed at it, but the snake kept coming. The mud pulled, making it difficult to retreat, especially with Sancha surging forward. She whickered at the serpent, showing her teeth. Ramiro cringed and shouted.

Salvador's sword blade descended and guided the snake around their position, pushing it until it disappeared into another clump of reeds. All the air went out of Ramiro in a gust.

“You should see your face,” Bromisto crowed, slapping his sides in helpless laughter. “It's not the big ones you have to worry about. Those are harmless.”

“
Caramba.
” Ramiro scrubbed at his eyes with a forearm. Why hadn't he thought to use his sword? Again, he had lost his head and forgotten to think. He might have earned his beard, but he had a long way to go to match his brother.

T
he half-­full berry basket pulled at Claire's arm. They would have enough berries to make gallons of jam, but her mother seemed content to remain to gather more. A good thing as it had taken two afternoons of berry picking for Claire to work up the nerve to bring up this subject. “Were you scared?”

Her mother looked up from the nearby blueberry bush. “Of what?” she asked. The gentle breeze wasn't strong enough to lift sweaty hair away from equally sweaty foreheads.

“When you left home and went to that village to create a daughter . . . me, were you scared? You went all alone. It must have been scary.”

A faraway look entered her mother's eyes. She remained quiet long enough for Claire to add another handful of fruit to her basket. The only sound in the swamp came from the harsh cry of a jay and the drone of insects. Claire held her breath, afraid to say anything that would cause her mother to close off.

“Of leaving home, yes,” her mother finally said. “Of the village, no.” She pulled loose a berry. “I was only a little older than you are now.” A few more berries went into the basket before she sighed. “I suppose you should know—­I'd been to villages many times by then.”

Claire's hand froze in the middle of reaching toward a high branch. “
Many
times?” Her brown scrunched. “You were allowed to go many times?”

“My mother . . . my mother wanted me to become the Thorn Among Roses. It's considered an honor—­to some at least. When Women of the Song reach their sixteen year, they are sent for training—­”

Claire interrupted, anger blooming. “But I'm past that age. Why have I never heard of this?”

“Obviously because I didn't tell you,” her mother said. Instead of seeming upset, she set her full basket on a rock to keep it off the damp ground. “It's a tradition I choose to ignore. Girls of sixteen are sent to a secret location at the heart of the swamp to hone their skills with the Song. It's one of the few times our ­people ever come together. Girls train, and news is spread, women catch up with one another. The best among the girls each year is named the Thorn Among Roses. Your grandmother wanted that title for me as she had won it herself in her time.

“She didn't believe in waiting on training, though. She made the villages my training ground well before I was old enough to know better.”

Again her mother became lost in the past, her eyes seeing something beyond. “Your grandmother sent me to the villages to learn to sense or sniff out men's fears, to find their weakness, the better to manipulate them with the Song. It wasn't enough to use the traditional Songs handed down through generations. Your grandmother wanted me to learn how to create Songs to fit the moment, to innovate and design my own. I learned to instill terror and drive minds mad. At her urging, I used the Song on men, women, and even children. She never had me kill . . . but I believe she would have worked up to that if I hadn't left.”

Pain rippled across her mother's face. Claire took her hand.

“By the time I'd gone for my training,” her mother continued, “a sickness grew inside of me. I began to enjoy controlling others. Not only could I fool the villagers who didn't suspect, but also the girls of my own kind who should have been harder to trick.”

“But how?” Claire asked. “How did the villagers not see you and know you for a Woman of the Song?” Claire held out her wheat-­colored braid. “We sort of stand out.”

“The Song can do many things for those who explore its depths. It makes ­people see what isn't there. It can even disguise my features.

“By the time of the competition among the girls my age, I'd had enough.” For the first time, her mother met Claire's eyes. “I took my belongings and I left your grandmother's house. I told your grandmother I was done with her and the Song, and I didn't look back. Just as I want for you, I had to learn to sing my own tune and not dance to my mother's.”

Claire struggled to think, to even decide how she felt about this revelation. She knew her mother's rejection of the Song didn't match what her ­people considered normal. She knew her mother's training had been rough. But for her mother to turn her back on everything about the Women of the Song? Claire sighed. Not everything. Her mother had had a daughter to carry on the line when she could have remained alone.

“I'm sorry, Mother.” She caught her mother in a hug, crushing her basket between them. “That must have been horrible. You did the right thing by leaving. I'm sorry you weren't given a choice. But . . .” Claire gathered herself and took the plunge. “I haven't really been given a choice either: a chance to try the things you taught me. I feel like you don't trust me to make the right decision.” And that revelation stung, knowing her mother had kept opportunities from her. That her mother didn't believe in her. Why else keep her here unless it was because Claire wasn't good enough with the Song?

Claire didn't want to deceive ­people, she just wanted to experience for herself, to make up her own mind. Was the Song evil or only a tool or was the truth somewhere in between?

“It hurts that you don't have faith in me.”

Her mother stroked Claire's hair. “So I've been thinking for the last few days. You are a woman grown. The Thorn Among Roses competition takes place at the end of fall as work settles down for winter. We will be there.”

Claire stepped back. “We will?” Her feet did a happy, little dance. “We're going?”

Her mother did not smile. “It's time to trust you. We're going.” She turned back to the bushes and dropped more berries in a basket already weighty, closing the conversation.

Feeling like she was lost in a dream, Claire forged ahead among the bushes. She needed time alone to absorb the change of her fortunes. There could be no doubt of her wishes. Claire swung her basket as excitement sang in her veins.

She'd get to meet other Women of the Song, maybe even find friends among them. She'd get to make up her own mind about the magic, and even learn more about the Song that she so desired to sing.

A nagging tugged at her heart. Her mother's lesson ran too deep. She mustn't let the freedom go to her head. There were dangers to using the Song. Risks to relying on magic, especially for someone without much practice. Peril to being among other ­people. Mother had shared many stories about men and their deceitful ways. Even Women of the Song might not have Claire's best interests, as they would have their own agendas.

That drew her up short. Danger waited around every corner in the swamp. One must always guard against quicksand and other threats. It was the same for the whole of life.

But then Claire glanced back and felt relieved. With her mother at her side, she could get through anything.