The Shores of Spain (45 page)

T
he morning had crawled by in a haze of annoying aches as Joaquim waited for the promised visit by Miss Prieto. He’d begun to fear she’d been found out, and had only Marcos’ dogged belief in the plan to sustain him.

He and Marcos watched the children—only the girls—play in the courtyard below with a few old women in attendance. Joaquim counted five, Liliana being the eldest. “Where are the boys?”

“They do not play. They are used to run errands, scrub floors. Because they are male, they have no value to the sirenas until they are old enough to sire children. Except Alejandro, of course.”

Joaquim recalled that Reyna had said Alejandro wasn’t acceptable breeding stock. “Why not him?”

“Because he’s also a witch. For that reason, he would never have shared my fate.”

One of the rare times when being a witch in Spain was a blessing, Joaquim supposed. “The girls look well cared for.”

“They are treated like . . . princesses,” Marcos said. “They are told all others are inferior to them because God gave them the ability
to control men, and one day they may be queen of this damned place. And after a time, they begin to believe it. My poor baby.”

Liliana had shown nothing but disdain for her mother—who, with her ruined gills, could not
call
—and Joaquim was certain she’d never been struck before the moment Piedad slapped her.

Later they watched the sirenas file into the chapel for their morning worship, the older girls among them. With the exception of Piedad, most of the sirenas were older women, dressed in matching gray suits, the uniforms of the wardens, Joaquim realized. Marcos confirmed that all the children held in the prison were children of the Portuguese sereia. The daughters of the Canaries—the sirenas—were spread throughout Spain, as wives and mistresses of influential men. The sons apparently thought themselves safe, as Marcos had.

The key rattled in the lock, and Joaquim rose. Miss Prieto slipped inside just as a bugle called outside, summoning prisoners out to lunch in the courtyard. She shut the door behind her and checked Joaquim’s injuries. The cut on his cheek—in which she’d put a handful of stitches—seemed less angry. “You do look like you’ve taken a beating,” she said, “but as long as you keep these clean, you’ll be fine. I’m sorry that I haven’t used my gift to heal these, but I’m saving my strength for afterward.”

Joaquim nodded. Fortunately. the swelling in his eyes had gone down and didn’t impinge on his vision. “So, what do I do?”

She patted his knee. “I’m going to walk you downstairs and across the courtyard to the chapel. There’s a passage that leads off to the cell where the Vilaró is kept. As long as you look like you’re supposed to be there, we should do well enough.”

“Will the priest be in the chapel?”

“The priest only comes on Sundays,” she said. “We had one residing here before, but he’s gone, thank God.”

It was a strange sentiment, until Joaquim recalled the priest who’d come from this place. “Salazar, you mean.”

Miss Prieto’s eyes lifted to meet his, her lip curling at one corner. “You know him?”

“No, but I saw him die,” Joaquim said. “And Dr. Serpa as well.”

Marcos slid closer to the edge of his bed, an eager smile touching his lips. “They’re dead?”

It’s been over six months, and they don’t know?

“Yes. That’s what started this quest.” Joaquim explained as briefly as he could about the night that Dr. Serpa and Salazar, under Iria Serpa’s guidance, had killed the prince of Northern Portugal and tried to start a war between the sereia and the Portuguese. “Someone involved in that plot also murdered my wife’s mother to prevent Iria’s exposure.”

Miss Prieto began repacking her satchel, shaking her head. “Iria had an insatiable desire for vengeance. When their whole plan began to disintegrate, she moved ahead with her part. The others were so intent on pushing Spain to invade that I don’t think they even noticed Iria had carried on with her quest until Father Salazar left with her.”

“Why was he here to begin with?” Joaquim asked.

“Experiments,” Miss Prieto said, “with Dr. Serpa. They tried to combine magic and science, claiming that they were making great advances in medicine. They didn’t care how many prisoners died in their quest. After he moved back to Portugal, Serpa returned many times, coming back to further his so-called experiments with Salazar. Salazar used his gift to keep the sirenas alive. He stole strength from other prisoners, killing most in the process. He used that strength to hold the sirenas’ illness, the
gill rot
, in check, although he couldn’t defeat it.” Miss Prieto shook her head. “Now I know why La Reyna was desperate enough to send Leandra to steal that book. She’s running out of time. The others were waiting for his return, but she must know the truth—that Salazar won’t come back. The sirenas who have tuberculosis will start dying, so Reyna needs that book to force the Portuguese sirenas to send more women here to replace them.”

“You can’t help them?” Joaquim asked.

Her chin lifted stubbornly. “No. I refuse to do what he did. Killing some so that others might live? It’s a corruption of the gift. In a way I’m glad I’m not powerful like he is . . .
was
. I prefer not to be tempted to believe I dispense God’s will.”

“Why are you here? In prison, I mean?”

“As a young woman I was given the chance to disavow my gift, but God has given me the talent, so I must use it. They brought me here, and I have been trying to serve where I am.”

A noble attitude in such a horrible situation. It explained her relative freedom within the prison. “If we are successful, where will you go? Home?”

She shook her head. “It was a long time ago. I have no one left.”

“There are healers in the Golden City, powerful ones, but they lack experience.” He hesitated to admit that one of those healers was Salazar’s natural daughter, who’d not even known she was a witch until her father tried to blackmail her into joining him in his crimes. “Someone of your experience would be helpful in teaching them how to better use their skills.”

Miss Prieto gazed at him thoughtfully, then shook her head. “We’re running short on time,” she said. “We need to go.”

Mind whirling, Joaquim pushed off the bed, went to the water closet, and then came back and pulled on his borrowed shirt. It fit passably, although he left the collar unbuttoned. Miss Prieto passed a key to Marcos, picked up her satchel with one hand, and set the other on Joaquim’s arm above his elbow. “Pretend I’m escorting you from one place to another.”

Joaquim nodded. When Miss Prieto opened the door, he accompanied her docilely along a hallway that looked more as if it were, well, a
prison
. A guard in a plain gray uniform stood at the corner of the hallway where it turned, watching them with unconcerned eyes. When they got closer, Miss Prieto bade Joaquim stay where he was and went to speak to the guard alone. Whatever she said to the man
caused a nasty smile to flicker across his face as he eyed Joaquim. She returned to Joaquim’s side and took his arm again.

“What did you tell him?” he asked once they were past the guard.

“That I was taking you to the chapel,” she said, “to see Piedad.”

Joaquim felt his temples throb in time with his footfalls. “Is that what you’re doing?”

Miss Prieto didn’t pause. “There is always the possibility that she’s there. I pray not, but I cannot promise.”

“She doesn’t strike me as being very Christian,” Joaquim observed as they walked down a stairwell at the end of that hall.

Miss Prieto drew him closer and softly said, “Her God is the God of forced conversion. She truly believes that their quest is only to bring Christianity to the Portuguese sirenas by Spanish domination. It is her passion, her reason for drawing each breath. In her eyes, what violence she commits is done for a greater cause.”

How many times throughout history had that claim been used to justify evil? “Even striking a child?”

“It got
you
to cooperate,” Miss Prieto pointed out.

Well, that was true. They came out of the stairwell and she opened a door that led to an intersection of hallways. As Marcos had said, the building went off in four directions, like a cross. Voices echoed faintly along those halls, and the smell of human filth was stronger than in the wing they’d left. Miss Prieto led him down one hall until he could see the entrance of the chapel. He had a split second of worry that Miss Prieto was indeed taking him to face Piedad again.

Another sirena in gray stood at the doorway, though, apparently on guard. The young woman had auburn hair and shadows under her dark eyes that hinted she’d not slept in days. “Miss Prieto,” she said in little more than a whisper. “Is this him?”

“Yes,” the healer answered.

How long have they been waiting for a finder to show up?

The young woman crossed herself and then reached out to take Joaquim’s hands. “Bless you,” she said in Portuguese.

She was a Christian? “You’re from Amado?”

A line appeared between her brows. “You know it?”

“My wife was raised on Amado,” he said.

The young woman leaned closer. “Does she know . . . ?”

“Safira, we need to go,” Miss Prieto insisted. “You can talk later.”

The young woman stepped back, nodding briskly, and Miss Prieto pushed open the tall door of a chapel that could hold at most forty worshippers. An altar stood at the front, its altar cloths finely embroidered, but otherwise it was a very plain house of worship, suited to a prison. While the door closed behind them, Joaquim scanned the pews and the aisles, but saw no sign of Piedad, a great relief. “Now what?”

“In the office, there’s a stairwell.” She led him along the outside aisle to a heavy door and they stepped inside. The office was small and apparently rarely used, but the rug showed a worn path between the door and a closet.

“In there?” Joaquim asked.

Miss Prieto opened the door of the closet with a lopsided smile. “Shall we?”

The inner door opened to reveal a narrow stone stairwell. There were lights in the well, a sloppily strung series of electric bulbs next to old defunct gas fixtures. Miss Prieto lifted the hem of her skirts and started down the spiral, keeping close to the outside. Joaquim followed. The steps were just wide enough for his feet and worn in spots so that they made for treacherous footing. After about two stories, they stepped out into a narrow tunnel, a rough-cut stone passageway that led on for thirty or forty feet. Joaquim followed her down that hallway, glad he didn’t have to stoop to do so.

At the end of the tunnel, he expected to find a cell door awaiting them. But there was no door on this cell. To his left the tunnel opened into a wide circular space where the walls, the ceiling, and even the floor were covered in steel, sheets bound together with heavy rivets, reminding Joaquim of a shipbuilder’s work. In the
middle of that space, lit by the last of the electric lights, stood a man, his arms spread wide, held that way by chains that extended from the ceiling. His ankles were shackled to the steel floor.

This is the man who’d made the floors ripple?

He didn’t look powerful. The Vilaró was terribly lean, but not emaciated. His age was difficult to pinpoint, but Joaquim would put him between thirty and forty-five. Joaquim couldn’t place his nationality either; European, he would guess. His skin was pale, his dark hair was unkempt but not overlong, yet his nails appeared to have been cut recently. The man wore nothing, but didn’t seem concerned by his nudity in Miss Prieto’s presence. His eyes were fixed on Joaquim instead, pale eyes that showed cool anger.

“This is the Vilaró,” Miss Prieto said.

The Vilaró regarded Joaquim steadily. “So this is our finder?” he said in a deep voice that rumbled. “Let us hope Alejandro was right about him.”

“There should be one key to all these locks,” Miss Prieto said to Joaquim. “That’s the one we’ll need to find.”

Joaquim turned to the man waiting there. “I’ve never tried this before.”

“Time is of the essence,” Miss Prieto reminded him. “We should hurry before anyone shows up in the chapel. We’d be stuck in here then.”

And she might be missed, Joaquim realized. So he crossed the metal floor to where the man waited. This close the Vilaró didn’t smell, not of anything. Not even of perspiration. The only scent that Joaquim could catch was rusting steel and the musty stone of the hallway they’d just left. The man had no stubble on his jaw, unlike Joaquim’s growth of a few days. “I’m going to handle this lock,” he warned.

“Fine,” the man rumbled.

Joaquim wrapped his hands around the padlock that secured the heavy iron cuff holding the man’s right wrist in the air. The Vilaró bared his teeth. Under that cuff his skin was nearly burned
away, far worse than the brand on Joaquim’s arm. He tried to be gentle as he set his index finger on the lock’s keyhole.

He’d found Alejandro with a borrowed item of clothing. Somehow he’d gotten enough of a feel of the boy to track him. He needed to do the same for the key.

“How long have you been here?” he asked the man.

“What year is it?” the Vilaró asked in turn. When Joaquim informed him it was 1903, the man said, “Eighty-one years, then.”

Joaquim considered the cuff again. “Have these irons been on you all the time?”

“Yes.”

This cell had to have been built for him. These irons had been against his skin, burning his flesh, for more than eight decades. Fairies were supposed to fear iron, weren’t they? “Why did they chain you here?”

The Vilaró laughed softly. “To study me.”

“He says that Salazar and Serpa are dead,” Miss Prieto interjected. “Six months ago.”

“Good,” the man said, an echo of Miss Prieto’s reaction. “Saves me the trouble of hunting them down.”

Supposedly, the writer of the book upon which Serpa and Salazar had based their experiments
had
included fairies among those he’d vivisected. The Vilaró didn’t show any scars, but given his acid tone, the doctor and healer must have experimented on him in some way. If he’d been here eighty years, he’d been here long before Serpa or Salazar arrived.