Bride of Thunder (56 page)

Mercy thought of the great mass of the
balam na,
the crosses at the Four Directions, and the grotto in the valley where the Talking Cross first heartened a desperate, starving remnant. “They've earned Chan Santa Cruz,” she said. “And I think the general of the plaza will listen to what you say about having lost the strategic moment. I'm sure Dionisio would counsel for peace.”

Riding ahead, Zane glanced back, a strange questioning in his gray eyes. “You seem to admire this
batab
.”

“I do.” Mercy spoke evenly, though her heart missed a beat. “Those crocodiles would have had me if it hadn't been for him, and even without that I'd probably have been picked up by the Cruzob long before I could have reached La Quinta.”

“I'm in his debt for that.”

“No. I kept him from being whipped to death. I'm sure Dionisio feels, as I do, that we've paid our debt to each other and owe each other only friendship and goodwill.”

Zane's jaw hardened. “He's young? Strong?”

“Of course.”

“Then he must hope for more than that.”

Faced with the issue she'd hoped to avoid, Mercy was almost glad it had been raised, that it wouldn't lurk between them as tacit deceit. Well enough for her to argue it made no difference to how she felt about Zane, that it would never have happened if Dionisio hadn't kept her in Chan Santa Cruz. It
had
happened. If Zane thought it mattered, it did. She'd no right to make that decision for him.

Mercy swallowed, straightened her shoulders. “Zane.” She had to make her voice louder, brace against the swift darkening of his eyes, the shock worse than anger. “Dionisio had more.”

Seared by Zane's gaze, Mercy bit back a flow of explantations and pleadings, though she cried wordlessly,
Oh, my love, understand! It has nothing to do with you; it was his gentleness, his sharing with me his world
.

Zane turned his back, sent Kisin faster along the trail. “We'll talk of this tonight.”

During the rest of that unending afternoon, when he spoke to her it was in a courteously detached manner, but neither had much heart for conversation. Mercy imagined the train of his thoughts.
Philip, her husband. Eric, who carried her off. Now this Dionisio, when she was supposed to be in love with me, when I'd asked her to be my wife, though she was my bond-slave and I could have had her anytime, the way others did
.…

They made it a long day, hoping to reach Chan Santa Cruz by noon tomorrow. After Mayel had shyly wished them good night, Zane and Mercy walked far enough away not to disturb her. Mercy felt as if she were bleeding inwardly, for, though when she tripped Zane quickly steadied her, he removed his hand at once—as if she were unclean, as if he couldn't bear to touch her.

“Now,” he said, pausing by a large tree, “tell me about it. Did he drug you, the way Xia did? Get you drunk?”

On his words, on sunlight, on frangipani flowers.

“No.”

“I suppose he'd be too noble!”

“Yes. He wanted me, but he wouldn't use tricks.”

Zane's laugh was bitter and short. “It would seem he didn't need to! Did he ask you to marry him?”

“There was no question of that, of anything after he brought me to La Quinta. He … he knew I loved
you
.”

Long fingers bit into her shoulders. “And you thought it was perfectly all right to share his hammock and then marry me?” She couldn't answer. He shook her fiercely. “Well?”

“I'm sorry that I've hurt you. I'm sorry if it makes you think I loved you any less.”

“Aren't you sorry you let him have you?”

Mercy listened to the center of herself, tried painfully for honesty, because whatever came of it, she and Zane must accept or reject the truth about each other. “I'm not sorry.” She spoke without defiance. “He gave me his world, his sweetness. Because we shared, I'm wiser, and I think I'm better.”

“My God! The next thing you'll say is that I should be grateful to him!”

He didn't understand: the birds of the
yuntzilob,
the mantled tree of dead babies, the young corn. But, then, how could he? She wouldn't have, either, unless she'd lived as a Maya, cut off from her own culture and people, while loved and instructed by someone who wanted her to know.

“All I can say is that he didn't take anything that was yours, and his loving left me more than I was.”

“He took your body. Wasn't that your betrothed's?”

The old question, going far, far back: to Philip's debasing use of her, his wagering of her at cards; to Eric's treatment of her as a possession; to Zane's wish to shut her in the tower. Strangely, only Dionisio had imposed no bonds. Though he'd constrained her to spend one month with him, beyond that he'd demanded nothing, and he had been willing to deliver her to Zane. Anger tinged Mercy's distress. She drew herself up proudly.

“My body's my own.”

“Then you may keep it, madam!” Zane released her so abruptly that she almost fell. “Come, we have to make an early start in the morning.”

Feeling turned to ice, Mercy went back to camp and groped into her hammock. He didn't want her now! The happy dreams she'd had of their life together would never come true. Miserably, she decided that if they survived this mission, she'd ask him to let her go back to the States, where she could find work as a housekeeper or perhaps a nurse and gradually repay him her passage and whatever price he set on her bond. It would be impossible to live at La Quinta.

She was settling into restless sleep when arms closed around her and a hard mouth closed savagely on hers, stifling her cry, which ebbed, anyway, as soon as she knew it was Zane. He carried her a distance, stumbling in the dark, laid her on the grass and took her without wooing so that it hurt, and she gnawed her lip to keep from moaning, as much from contrasting this with the ecstasy they'd had before as from the brutality.

“Why should I lie there aching when you're such a willing partner?” he asked cruelly. “It seems you're cut out to be some man's body servant. Why not mine?”

“Zane! You … you can't mean …”

“To keep you for my pleasure? Why not?” His laughter was discordant, as if something was broken and jangling in his depths. “You can live in the tower till I weary of you. Then we might see if your
batab
would trade some stands of mahogany for you.”

She slapped him, struggling to rise, but he gripped her between his knees. “Your body is mine,” he said. “I own you as I do my horse. And be sure that from now on I'll ride you with a tight rein and curb bit.”

“I won't live that way!”

“Why not?” he scoffed. “You've done it readily enough. Under all that softness, Mercy, you're tough!”

“I endured Eric because I had a hope of getting back to you. I hated him and that preserved my soul. But to be used by you like a whore, to be nothing but a body—no! I can't bear it!”

“You should have thought of that before you gave yourself to the
batab
.”

She sensed that if she wept, pleaded, soothed his male pride, said she was sorry, swore eternal faithfulness, Zane would relent. But the need for truth between them that had made her confess in the first place wouldn't let her. If Zane couldn't love her as she was, let him not love her at all, and if he didn't—she would never tamely submit to living in the tower.

“In the same time and place, I'd be Dionisio's again,” she said, “just as I'd choose to see if the river led to the sky.”

“Are you reminding me that your warning may have saved La Quinta and the frontier?”

“No. I'm saying that I've done what was according to my nature. From that I'll never change; for that I'll never ask your pardon.”

“You put yourself beyond the rules that govern other people?”

“In the months you were with Peraza, in the days after Mérida fell, was there no woman? Have you been celibate all this time?”

“Rubbish! For men it's different.”

“Yes. They make the rules, roving like tomcats while gluing foul labels on women who love more than one man.”

“By God, a man would have to gag you to get a comfortable bedmate!” Ungently, he brought her to her feet “Get to your hammock!”

Stiff and sore from his vengeful lust, Mercy followed him and found her hammock. Oddly, now that he'd insulted and forced himself on her, she felt better, much less guilty. After the way he'd acted, she'd grant him not a shred of moral superiority. She could fight him now.

It was small pleasure he'd have of her if he locked her in the tower. And she wouldn't, as she despairingly thought earlier, throw herself from the window or kill herself some other way. She'd live—and get away. If Zane wasn't able to love her in truth, she'd live husbandless! There were other ways to love; there we're children to teach, people to heal.

Zane could break her heart, but he couldn't break her life. Yet she had to bury her face in her arms to smother her mourning.

They were on their way before sunrise, Mayel, sweet and helpful, Zane as haggard as Mercy felt. Their quarrel was small beside what would be decided that day in Chan Santa Cruz, but it affected both of them at a time when they had monumental tasks before them: to discredit Xia and Eric and win over the Mayan leaders. How many disasters, Mercy asked herself, had been intensified or allowed to happen because of lovers' arguments, someone's headache, or indigestion?

It was noon when Mayel called out, pointing to the towers of the
balam na
. At almost the same moment, four men stepped into the road, rifles over their shoulders, machetes in their hands.

“We seek the
tatich
and the general of the plaza,” said Zane in Mayan. But the guards were staring past him—at Mercy.

“The woman who was given to the spirits!” one cried.

They shrank back. “The
batab
of Macanche called her Ixchel,” muttered one. “It must be so! Weights were tied to her feet and she sank to the bottom of the
cenote!
But she lives!”

“I bring a message,” Mercy said, hoping they wouldn't think it strange that Zane, a white, spoke better Mayan than one of their ancient goddesses. “I must speak with the
tatich
before he offends the Heart of Heaven.”

More escorts than guards now, two Cruzob led the way, trotting ahead of Kisin, and two followed. Zane cast Mercy a wondering glance edged with respect. “You think like them, though I have more command of the language.”

Which could get you nothing but a bullet or machete if they hadn't believed me risen from the dead!

Mercy shrugged. “I learned in Chan Santa Cruz.”

From Dionisio
. The thought hovered between them as their escorts spoke excitedly to the sentinel on duty at the boundary crossing.

The man gaped at her. “The
batab
who had this woman—this goddess—is to be executed! It may already be done!”

“Run to the plaza!” Zane cried as Mercy sat paralyzed with dread. “The
batab
is protected by this lady! There will be terrible vengeance if one blade touches him!”

“We can't ride past the boundary,” Mercy warned Zane. “Animals are forbidden.”

“Then let's run!” Zane swung her down and Mayel followed.

Their escort sprinted through the streets of the slave compound, past the church, and into the plaza. Mercy's head spun, both at Dionisio's peril and Zane's response. Dionisio stood in the center of the plaza by the huge sapodilla tree, ringed about by a score of men with raised machetes. At a little distance stood Xia, the
tatich,
his assistants, the general of the plaza, the
tata nohoch zul,
and half a dozen other officers. Towering above them was an eagle-masked, brilliantly mantled giant.

The shouting guards, the arrival of the aliens, froze the ritual. The
tatich
peered toward Mercy, then barked a command that sent the poised executioners melting back, leaving Dionisio unmenaced as Mercy ran toward Pacal.

“This is no Maya!” she called in a voice that echoed against the great bulk of the
balam na
. “He's a man of lusts! For power, wealth! He'll use your lives for his ambition, just as he used your faith to get him a woman he wanted!” She stopped, gasping to catch her breath, in a fever to say it all before she could be silenced. Putting an arm around Mayel, she plunged on. “This girl is of the blood of Jacinto Canek, a true leader. She can tell you that this
man
who calls himself Pacal is English, that he has long desired me! I am
not
Ixchel, you Cruzob! I am
not
risen from the dead! I've only escaped from this false Pacal, who brought me out of the
cenote
into a cavern and thought to keep me there while he led you into a doomed war! Tear off his mask! He has a white face, a white heart, and can only be death to you!”

“I am Pacal,” said Eric in a resonant voice. “This woman is mad, crazed by whatever way she escaped sacrifice. My mask is sacred. Whoever touches it dies.”

“I'll touch it, Kensington!” Zane asked the nearest man for a machete. “But first I must tell the
tatich
and the general of the plaza that I am Zane Falconer, of La Quinta Dirección, freshly home from Mérida. The war is over! Campeche and the capital are in secure hands, and the frontier is being alerted of this evil schemer's plan, made with the help of this false priestess Xia. Her son never died! I took him from the cross, then put that copal branch in its place! She knew this, but all these years she's been revered because of the ‘miracle.' The only wonder about her is her viciousness!”

As Zane faced the leaders, Eric sprang forward, pulling a knife from its jeweled scabbard. Zane leaped to one side. Before Eric could swing around, Dionisio felled him with a sweep of a machete that struck the head off the magnificent shoulders. As the trunk collapsed, spouting a fountain of blood, the head struck the sapodilla and the eagle mask flew off. Eric's eyes were open, fixed amazedly on the sky in the seconds before the
tatich
gave an order.