Grudging (10 page)

 

CHAPTER 12

R
amiro slogged forward, anxious to reach the other side. The water approached midchest in this part of the swamp, forcing him to hold his arms high to keep them dry. Besides being disgusting, it was also cold enough to numb his toes. Ahead, Bromisto was all but swimming to keep his head above water. The others followed closer to the boy, while Ramiro and Salvador lagged behind.

“Good thing the Northerners aren't here now,” Salvador said. “We'd be easy pickings.” His brother also had his arms raised high, hands empty as he'd put his sword on the back of his mount. “Or they'd die laughing at us.”

“Can you hear Mother?” Ramiro asked. “ ‘You promised to keep your feet dry,' ” he minced in imitation. “ ‘You'll catch your death of cold.' ” They shared a grin.

“ ‘No son of mine will go to his wedding stinking of swamp water,' ” Salvador imitated. “ ‘Fronilde will turn up her nose at you, and I'll never be able to show my face in public again.' ”

“Wedding?” Ramiro's feet stopped moving. He shook himself. “Fronilde? Then you've asked her finally. Congratulations!”

“Aye,” Salvador said, not stopping. “Before we left. We had the first set of banns read. Fronilde is starting the arrangements.”

Ramiro labored forward to catch his brother, creating a surge of ripples. “Mother doesn't know, does she?”

“Would
you
tell her? Fronilde suggested we wait until I get back.”

“Fronilde suggested? Yes,
I'll bet
it was all Fronilde's idea. You've picked one of the smartest and most competent women I know, not to mention the softest-­hearted. There's no way she went with that plan willingly.” Ramiro raised his eyebrows. “Keeping that kind of secret from Mother. She'll kill you.”

“Well . . . it's not like Fronilde exactly wanted to manage Mother alone, either.”

Ramiro threw back his head and laughed. “I'm glad you have to explain this to her and not me.” His foot slipped in the ooze, and he sobered quickly to keep from slipping under. “But Mother would be right about one thing: You shouldn't be in this water with your wound. The infection could return.”

“List the priorities,” Salvador said, his face setting back into its “mentor” lines.

“Always see first to Colina Hermosa and its civilians,” Ramiro recited obediently. “Then fellow
pelotón
members, other military brothers, and lastly self.”

Salvador nodded. “The mission comes first. Remember that, little brother, and you can't go wrong. I'll survive.”

Ramiro rolled his eyes but refrained from objecting. Salvador had beaten the precepts and priorities into him since he was Bromisto's age. He couldn't go against them if he wanted to.

“I see dry land,” Gomez said, his neck craned for a better vantage.

A surge of relief went through Ramiro, and he rose to his toes but couldn't see anything except the backs of horses. Teresa lifted herself uncertainly in Valentía's stirrups. “I see it, too.”

Everyone rushed ahead, to much floundering and splashing. Ramiro fought against the water's resistance to go faster, eager to be out of this plague. Considering the only place he'd ever had a chance to swim before was in the old quarry during a particularly rainy season, he was glad now to have learned how.

Ahead, Alvito and Gomez split to go around a half-­submerged tree trunk, Gomez getting the near side closer to the unseen shore. Bromisto scrambled up the bleached-­white sycamore trunk, avoided the lethal-­pointed, dead branches, to stand head and shoulders above the horses.

“Not that way!” he called shrilly. “Hairy one! Not that way! Quicksand!”

Salvador seized Ramiro's shoulder, bringing him to a halt while the others also froze. Teresa shrank down against Valentía to grip the horse's neck.

“Where?” Salvador demanded.

Bromisto pointed ahead of Gomez. “A small patch, right against the land. We'll need to go to the right to get around. Come back this way, city man. Stay to the other side of this tree.”

As Gomez retreated and worked to persuade the horses to step away from the promise of land, Ramiro joined the boy atop the log. At first, his eyes stared greedily at the reed-­lined, firm, dry ground, but then he scanned the area where Bromisto had pointed. The same greenish water. The same offensive smell. “It all looks identical. How can you tell?

“Look at the ripples,” Bromisto advised. “See the sediment in the water.”

Ramiro followed the ripples leaving Gomez and the tree trunk until they entered the dangerous area and compared them to the undulations coming off everyone else's movements. The curved swells in the quarantined section moved slower, and the water darkened in its wake, becoming brownish. Ramiro suddenly felt very thankful Salvador had insisted on a guide.

“There's only a thin layer of water over quicksand,” Bromisto said. “Underneath.” He clutched his throat and made bubbling noise like a drowning man. “It sucks you down. Hard to judge unless you know what to look for.”

Unbothered, the boy hopped off the log and maneuvered back in the lead, but Ramiro hung back until the ripples over the quicksand died. It looked deceptively peaceful now under the veneer of the lake. No different than any other section of the swamp. Sancha, whickering her impatience as her fellow horses left her behind, broke him out of his reverie. Ramiro shivered and slid back into the muck, more eager than ever to reach dry—­or relatively dry—­ground.

Already, Bromisto and Alvito fought through the reeds to emerge from the water. Head-­high bushes grew all around the spot, creating a sort of clearing. Alvito drew his horses after him, getting farther from the water to leave room for the others. He shook like a dog, sending water spraying. Bromisto stayed among the reeds and used the edge of his hand to seemingly strip the water from his bare chest and arms.

“Saints,” Teresa breathed as Gomez led Valentía from the water. “I'm glad that's over. Ugh, quicksand. What a horrible way to go.”

Gomez clapped a huge hand on Bromisto's shoulder, staggering the boy. “A thousand thanks to our new mascot. We'll have to start calling you Eagle Eye.”

“Aye, mascot,” Teresa said, still clutching Valentía. “Thanks from me also. You saved us. I'm glad I was only a passenger because, even above the water, I'm chilled all over.”

Alvito pulled a flask from his belt. “This will warm you up.”

“Hold,” Salvador said sternly. “How close are we to the witches?”

“From what I remember, an hour's walk or less,” Bromisto said.

“No alcohol.” Salvador gestured. “Not now. Standard scout formation. Something doesn't feel right.”

Emerging from the water last, Ramiro kicked his legs to send water drops falling from his pants. He eyed the burning sun, grateful for once because it meant he'd dry quicker. By San Martin, he wished they didn't have to go back that way on their return.

When Alvito and Gomez moved upwind of Salvador, fanning out, he spread in the opposite direction. If Salvador said something wasn't right, then it was time for extra caution. Sancha nosed at the bushes, lipping the small berries. Ramiro glanced closer.
Blueberries.

He scanned deeper into the nearest bush, searching, on high alert. And although he was being vigilant, he started at a pair of eyes, as blue as the berries and filled with astonishment, focused on Sancha from the opposite side of the bushes.

A thin girl held a basket over one arm. It was half-­full of berries. She wore a skimpy dress of unbleached homespun that was inches too short over trousers of the same material. Her long, braided hair was the color of a sunbeam breaking through the clouds, just like in his mother's book.

At his noise, her eyes darted from Sancha to him, and her mouth popped open.

Sancha's reins fell from Ramiro's hand when he realized exactly what he was looking at.

A witch!

He launched himself through the bush, twigs tearing at his wet clothing. The force of his leap sent him plowing into her. Basket and berries flew upward, hitting the ground seconds after he bore her to the earth. His weight came down atop her, driving the air from both their lungs as he plastered his hand over her mouth.

She squirmed under him, thrashing like a cat, but he overbore her easily even one-­handed, pinning her to the ground. Fallen berries made a carpet around them among crushed leaves. Her mouth worked under his palm, but no magic was able to emerge. Water dripped from him to dampen her clothing. Everything went deadly quiet for the length it took to get air back in his lungs, then birdsong resumed.

Shadows fell over them as the others arrived.

“By Santiago, cousin.” Teresa chuckled astride Valentía. “We're supposed to negotiate with the witches, not embrace them.”

Ramiro felt his cheeks heat. He'd reacted without thinking again. “I feared she'd use magic against us.”

“Is it a witch?” Salvador pressed.

Bromisto backed toward the swamp, his face grayish. “It's the nit of a
sirena
.”

Salvador exchanged glances with Alvito. “And she has the magic?” his brother asked.

“Not as strongly as a full-­grown
sirena
, but yes.”

They all stared at the skinny girl, and Ramiro instinctively increased the pressure holding her secure. Her eyes had gone from astonishment and shock to pure fury. She bucked and fought uselessly against him. She might have been pretty if not for the rage marring her features.

The boy retreated farther until his feet were under the water. His eyes darted in all directions. “A
sirena
is never far from her nit. This is not for me. I take you to the house, not help you against the
sirena
herself.”

“We wouldn't ask you to,” Salvador said calmly though the tension in his body spoke his readiness. Already, he buckled his sword about his waist, Alvito and Gomez quickly imitating him. Salvador's voice lowered, his eyes already seeking. “No time for getting into our armor or tying her up. Well done, Ramiro. Keep her here and keep her quiet until we find the other, but don't hurt her.”

“Hi-­ya.” He straddled the girl's chest, using his legs to pin her shoulders and pressed both his hands across her mouth. “She's not going anywhere.”

Gomez touched his sword hilt, then the dagger at his waist.

“Wait a minute,” Teresa protested quietly, gripping her sling with her good arm. “This is why you brought me. Give diplomacy a chance. It's persuasion that will make the witches help Colina Hermosa. The Northerners are a danger to everyone, not just our city.”

Salvador nodded. “The show belongs to you, cousin. We'll back you up. And if diplomacy fails, then force will take over. Our backup plan is you convincing her
as
we take her to Colina Hermosa. Ready?” He secured the packhorse he'd been riding to the remains of the bush while Gomez did the same with the other one. The
caballos de guerra
could be trusted to stay with their owners.

“Hi-­ya,” Gomez and Alvito said.

A woman called out from a short distance away. The tension in their group increased tenfold.

“Salvador,” Ramiro whispered. “The wax from Santiago's candle. Use it. It's in my saddlebags.”

Salvador hesitated, then fished in the bags until he withdrew a handkerchief wrapped around earplug-­sized bits of tallow. Swiftly, everyone took a share, adjusting them to fit. Alvito bent over Ramiro and pushed wax into his ears.

“Hold her safe,” Alvito said in his ear, the sound a mere trickle through the wax.

The others edged away from him, leaving Bromisto at the water's edge. The men spaced themselves, with Teresa astride Valentía at the center. Blood rushed in Ramiro's ears, helping to drown any other sound. He craned his neck to keep them in view as they maneuvered through the bushes.

Then she appeared. The woman was identical to the girl he held against the ground, only older, more mature. Tall and cool, she was an icy spire atop a mountain as she watched the men surround her, Gomez at her back and Salvador in front. Her blueberry-­colored eyes focused on Teresa, seated up high.

Ramiro ducked through a different gap in the bushes to see Teresa's mouth move, but the sound was too muffled from this distance. He shifted again to determine the witch's response. She spoke fast, her face hard. An angry response or a demand. No doubt asking for her nit. Ramiro ducked lower, even knowing the witch couldn't see him behind the bush or that he restrained the girl.

Sensations under his hand told him the girl he restrained was growling and attempting to sink her teeth into him. The flat of his hand gave her nothing to bite.

When Ramiro glanced up again, Salvador and the others had their swords in hand. Teresa's face held a measure of fear and desperation. Bromisto was nowhere in sight. The chill from the swamp water had dissipated, allowing sweat to slick Ramiro's arms and back. A trickle ran down his face to drip from his nose and drop onto the girl.

Santiago, please,
he begged.
Let it work. Please let the witch listen. Let Colina Hermosa be saved.

The witch threw her head back. Cords in her neck stood out as her voice soared, pushing right through the wax protection. Her song roared forth, a melody of the dark and twisted.

“Bite.

Pain.

Everywhere.

Sting.

Agony.

Bite.”

Stabbing pain like the sting of a horsefly penetrated Ramiro's shoulder, his chest. The girl twitched and struggled, eyes watering, feeling it, too. Everyone was slapping and spinning in an effort to find the invader, but Ramiro kept his weight on the girl. Though he screamed his throat raw, he kept his hands over her mouth, holding with grim determination.