Quintessence Sky (42 page)

"We can help," said a voice in her ear.

It was Antonia, bobbing gently near her head.
Catherine looked up and saw thousands of the spirit lights flitting
through the air. How had they followed her? The spirits couldn't
see normal matter; they hadn't even realized they were in the
natural world. Perhaps they could see her spirit in some different
way than normal sight?

"Can you interact with matter?" Catherine
said.

"I don't think so, but I'm not sure I need
to." Antonia's light flew to one of the threads and spun, seeming
to wrap herself in it. When she came away, the thread stretched
behind her. She flew around a tree branch, dragging a taut thread
behind her in the air.

"Perfect!" Catherine said.

The lights all joined in. Catherine could
hear their tiny voices speaking to each other in a dozen languages,
translating instructions, and soon dozens of spirits were weaving
their way in and out of the trees surrounding the surviving
colonists, dragging bright strands behind them. They zigzagged in
and out, tangling the strands around the trees like a giant
spiderweb. Eventually they were surrounded by a shining wall,
thicker and more intertwined than the settlement wall had ever
been. They couldn't see the fighting anymore, and even the crack of
gunfire and the battle screams of the manticores grew muted. They
were wrapped in a glowing cocoon of protection while the war raged
on.

Many of the colonists collapsed to the
ground, out of salt and out of strength. Catherine's father
circulated among the injured, wrapping wounds, examining the
damage. In some cases, he tried to cut out the mercury from their
flesh. When he succeeded, the quintessence in their bodies took
over, healing the wounds rapidly until there was no sign they had
been any injury at all. For some, however, it was already too
late.

"What's happening out there?" Matthew said.
"We can't stay behind this barrier forever."

"It all depends on who wins, and we can't do
anything about that," Catherine said.

"We should be able to." Matthew cracked a
fist into his palm. "I hate feeling so helpless."

A imperious looking young woman with almost
no hair and exhausted-looking eyes was deep in intense conversation
with Matthew's father.

"Who's that?" Catherine said. It was odd to
see a stranger. They had been isolated on this island for over a
year; new people didn't just stop by.

"You won't believe it," Matthew said.

"Try me."

"It's the Princess Elizabeth. She was very
nearly executed in England, but she escaped with the help of a few
loyal friends, including one who had been studying the quintessence
brought back by the Spanish ship."

"That ship made it back home? How do you
know?"

Matthew ran his fingers through his hair. "A
lot has happened since you left. There's a lot to explain. Yes, the
ship made it back, with a few pearls and a shekinah, and this man
Ramos de Tavera was studying it."

Catherine felt a chill. "Tavera?"

"I know, I know." Matthew waved it away. "One
thing at a time. Blanca figured out that we could send
objects
across a quintessence thread, not just information.
When Elizabeth escaped, she and Ramos and his daughter made it
through. They traveled along a thread from England to here, in
moments. And one other man, though he died."

It was too much to take in. Catherine had so
many questions she didn't know which to ask first.

"Let me introduce you," Matthew said. He
beckoned, and a dark-haired Spaniard walked toward them, drawing a
teenage girl by the hand. "Catherine Parris, this is Ramos de
Tavera."

"Pleased to meet you," he said. The
resemblance to the Tavera who had tyrannized and tortured them was
disconcerting. Ramos smiled reassuringly. "And this is my daughter,
Antonia. She won't acknowledge you; she can't really speak, or at
least she can't hear you."

Catherine studied the girl's face, thinking
of the spirit that had been here only a moment ago. "Her name is
Antonia? Antonia de Tavera?"

Ramos opened his mouth to answer, but he was
interrupted by a tree, one of those that supported the barrier,
suddenly toppling and falling away from them onto the ground with a
crash. The barrier unraveled, suddenly revealing a battlefield
strewn with manticore dead. And a legion of armed Spanish
conquistadors, surrounding them.

A tall man with the insignia and cap of a
captain spoke rapidly in Spanish. An officer translated. "My name
is Alvaro de Torres. In the name of His Majesty, King Philip,
surrender immediately, or we will kill you all."

CHAPTER 25

RAMOS had to act fast. The colonists,
exhausted and surrounded, didn't have much energy left to fight.
They were out of salt and out of strength. They knew the presence
of the Spanish meant that their manticore allies had either been
killed or had fled. They had no will left to resist.

Ramos knew what the captain's orders were. He
would kill them all eventually, even if they did surrender. He
would torture them to be sure they told him everything, and then he
would kill them.

"Capitán-General de Torres," he called out,
speaking in Spanish. "I come from His Majesty, King Philip."

Torres looked startled. He raised a hand and
looked for the source of the voice.

Ramos stepped forward, trying to appear
confident despite his torn and filthy attire. "I am Father Ramos de
Tavera, Jesuit and chief astronomer to His Majesty and advisor on
Horizon and quintessence. I have replaced Juan Barrosa as your
liaison."

Torres's eyebrows furrowed, trying to make
sense of it. "What is this?" he said. "Witchcraft, like all the
rest?"

"On the contrary. You have received no word
from the king or Barrosa through the bell-box lately, have you?"
Ramos knew he had not, because until recently, the box had been in
his possession.

"What has happened to Barrosa?"

"Alas, my lord. He is dead."

"How could you learn such a thing, or know
the king's wishes, since you are here, and they are not?"

Ramos gave him a haughty look. "Do you think
that box is the only magic the king controls? This morning I stood
in London; today I am here."

"If the king had such a magic, why did he
send us to voyage for months on treacherous seas?"

"The passage I traveled was dangerous as
well, and only one man may pass it at a time. To benefit from this
island, we must have a shipping trade, controlled by the strength
of Spanish might. Your task is a vital one, and the king will
reward you well for success."

Torres was still suspicious. "How do I know
you aren't reading my mind?"

Ramos stepped even closer and looked into his
face. "Come, man. You've seen me at court before. You know my face.
I am brother to Diego de Tavera, who negotiated the king's marriage
contract."

He saw a glimmer of recognition, and hoped it
would be enough. He clapped Torres on the back. "Good man. The king
wishes these colonists returned to England along with the goods, so
their knowledge of quintessence and this island can be fully
extracted. They are not to be touched in the meantime; he wants
them unbroken."

Ramos held his breath, not sure that Torres
was going to buy it. If he had thought ahead and anticipated this
meeting, he might have stolen the king's seal, or prepared a letter
of some kind, to strengthen the deception, but he was making this
up as he went along.

Torres nodded slowly. "Secure the prisoners,"
he said.

Ramos let his breath out. It was going to
work.

The soldiers circulated among the colonists,
confiscating what few weapons they found and tying the colonists'
hands. "Walk with me," Torres said.

They walked away through the woods, stepping
over manticore corpses and around pools of blood. Torres grilled
Ramos, asking question after pointed question about Spain and
England and the king. Ramos had no trouble answering any of them.
After all, he really had been in London that morning, and he really
had been working with Barrosa in King Philip's service. He spun a
creative tale about the technology used to send him here, how it
was a one way trip, but had been imprecise in place and time. It
had dumped him far from the bay, he said, and he had only just
caught up with Torres and his men.

They walked a long way, with two
conquistadors flanking them like an honor guard, until the circle
of colonists were out of sight. "What happened to all the
manticores?" Ramos asked.

"The renegade manticores fled," Torres said.
"Those loyal to the crown pursued them into the mountains."

Ramos didn't quibble with his terms. He was
pretty sure he had Torres convinced, and he didn't want to ruin it.
"So may it be with all the king's enemies," he said. "When I was in
England, Philip was anxious to send armies into the field. He will
be eager to see what power you can bring home to him."

Torres raised a pistol and pointed it at his
head. "And when you were in England," he said, "was the Protestant
princess there as well?"

Ramos swallowed. He was caught. Torres had
recognized Elizabeth, and knew she must have come with him. He
wasn't convinced at all. He had just been toying with him all this
time, trying to find out who he really was and what he knew.

"She was there," Ramos managed to say.

"Then how is it that she was also here,
fighting against my men with the Protestants?"

"Oh, that girl," Ramos said. "I saw her, too.
She does look rather like the princess, in the right light."

The finger on the trigger twitched. Ramos
reacted. He wasn't terribly good at using the quintessence power in
his body, but he made his body as heavy as possible. He was hoping
this would work like the trick that the others did, making their
skin into a protective armor that could deflect bullets, but all it
did was drag him to the ground, suddenly too heavy to lift himself
or even move. Torres's bullet whined over his head, just missing
him. Ramos struggled for breath, unable to lift his
crushingly-heavy chest. If he wasn't careful, he was going to kill
himself before Torres had a chance. He reversed the effect, making
his body lighter, and ran.

Unless he had another pistol, Torres would
have to reload before he could shoot again, but that wasn't true of
the two conquistadors. "Shoot him!" Torres shouted.

A gunshot cracked behind him, followed
closely by a second. Ramos cringed, expecting to be hit in the
back, but the shots whistled by him. He weaved as he ran, trying to
create a more difficult target and putting trees between him and
his attackers. Soon he heard running feet behind him. He tried to
use quintessence to make his body light and increase his speed, but
he didn't have the knack for it. The ground was uneven and
treacherous, and he couldn't control it. He twisted an ankle
painfully, and crashed into the ground.

He was up again in a moment, afraid he had
injured his ankle, but quintessence had already healed it. He ran
on, risking a look back, and saw that the conquistadors had almost
reached him, their bayonets held out in front of them. They were
strong, young, and athletic, and he was none of those things. He
darted away again, breathing in short gasps.

Ramos had intended to run back to the circle
of colonists. He had no plan, in particular, except the vague
thought that he might distract the soldiers long enough for the
others to do something. Soon, however, it became clear that he had
no idea which direction the colonists were. He was lost.

The conquistadors raced behind him, cursing
at him in Spanish. The trees became smaller and closer together,
making them harder to avoid, and the undergrowth grew thicker. He
crashed through bushes, losing speed. There was a gap in the
treeline ahead, a place where the sun shone through. Perhaps it was
an open area, a field where he could use try quintessence again to
run faster and leave his pursuers behind.

He broke out into the clearing, and suddenly
there was nowhere else to go. It wasn't a field. He was at the top
of a rocky cliff a hundred feet high, and beyond it, the endless
ocean, as far as he could see. At the cliff bottom, enormous waves
crashed against the rocks, driving up spray. His back to the cliff,
he turned to face his attackers.

They came at him together, bayonets cutting
the air. The twelve inch blades glittered in the light, and Ramos
knew the quintessence wouldn't help him if they drove those blades
up into his heart. Their faces were grim, purposeful. One of them
thrust at his midsection, and he sidestepped, narrowly avoiding it,
but in the process, he stepped back to the very edge of the
cliff.

"Nowhere to go," the other one said. "Time to
say your prayers."