Grudging (15 page)

“The magic grows as a woman matures. I do not have my full power.”

“Because you're young,” Teresa prompted.

Claire nodded. “I could not work it against hundreds of ­people. Not successfully, anyway.”

“The Northerner army is tens of thousands,” the murdered said. “Not hundreds.”

Claire gaped.
Thousands.
Could there be so many ­people? She tried, but could not picture it. Why hadn't her mother warned her of their numbers? Her strength, revived somewhat by the water, wilted. So many of these horrible city dwellers. How could she hope to win free against so many? She must make them see her as useless.

“There's no way thousands could hear me. Your plan is impossible.” She knew from her mother's tantalizing hints that there were ways to stretch the magic and make it reach farther—­running water being one of them, even a thick fog—­but she'd never say as much to these city ­people. Yet, she doubted even an ocean could help her reach thousands. She hadn't that kind of strength.

Her captors exchanged glances.

“Is it a learned magic?” Teresa asked. “How does it work?”

It cost her nothing to answer such a question. Let the barbarians understand they couldn't acquire it or use her for their own ends. Maybe then they'd let her go and look for a new method to destroy this army. “It's inherited from mother to daughter.”

“So witches don't have sons?”

“Rarely,” Claire said.

“And men are born without the magic?”

Claire nodded. “I cannot stop an army. I'm useless to you.” The murderers didn't need to know she'd never used the Song against another human. Barely used it at all and knew little of how it worked. Let them retain some fear of her. Perhaps it'd inspire them to let her go sooner.

The murderer leaned close again and returned her gag. Though she tried to wiggle free of his grasp, he pinioned her head and shoulders and tightened the leather around her head. Forcing it into her mouth and restraining her tongue.

“I don't believe her,” he said. “She'll say anything to get free.”

“Perhaps.” Teresa tapped the nearly empty canteen against her leg. “But one thing is true. A single voice cannot reach thousands of men. They simply could not hear it, and it's clearly the only way her power can be released. How does that bode for your father's plan?”

“Ill.” The murderer stood. “Like we came all this way for nothing. But my duty is to fetch her. We take her back to the city anyway. My father can work out some use for her. And maybe she can lead him to others. Others like the one Salvador killed.”

Frustration hit Claire in a wave, her hands curling into fists. She wanted to strike out at them, claw the indifferent expressions off their faces. But the murderer anticipated her once more. He seized her hands and rewrapped the straps around them, though this time not so tightly.

“Mother to daughter,” Teresa mumbled as she labored to her feet. “Cousin . . . the dead witch must have been her mother.”

Claire squirmed inside, unable to escape the cold pity in their brown eyes. She didn't want their attention, and she most certainly didn't want their pity.

“So?” he asked, harshly.

“Your brother. Her mother,” Teresa said. “Ramiro, you
know
what this means. The two of you are
sangre
kin. Related by blood. Bound together with the same ties as family. Under obligation to each other.”

What?
Claire struggled to understand. She was kin to the murderer under some impossible rite of their city kind? She felt vaguely sick.

The murderer seemed to feel the same. His skin had gone a shade paler than his normal honey brown. “No,” he said through clenched lips. “We're not.” He turned and stalked toward the swamp lake.

 

CHAPTER 17

C
laire leaned against the tree, letting it steady her, and stared at the peasant woman. The gag kept back her disagreement. She was not kin to this man who treated her . . . like the way
he
deserved to be treated.

The murderer turned and stalked back to them. “The witch killed Salvador.”

Teresa laid a hand on his chest. “And your brother got his revenge and killed her. One of the very definitions of blood kin. When two ­people owe a blood debt, their kin become kin.”

“The witch attacked first,” he said, shaking his head. “It was her fault.”

Teresa sighed and went to sit by the fire. “Which makes no matter in the case of
sangre
kinship. It only matters that they fought, and in this case died. Preventing this kind of unreasonable hatred in the living relatives is the very purpose behind blood kin.”

“That doesn't make it acceptable. Does it?”

Impossibly, the murderer turned to her for confirmation, and Claire nodded. For once he made sense. Just because the murderer's brother killed her mother did not make them kin. Did not mean she owed them anything. She hadn't even promised to walk once they crossed the swamp lake, and she didn't plan to cooperate when they broke camp in the morning.

A chorus of frog calls filled the silence. Teresa stirred something hanging over the fire, something that smelled suspiciously like beef stew. The scent sent Claire's stomach rumbling with hunger. Her mother had traded their animal furs for dried beef a few times. She remembered the taste and forgot about the notion of being kin with this monster for a moment.

Did they intend to feed her or let her starve?

It was such a base thought, she felt ashamed for a moment, as if she were already forgetting the burning body on the other side of the swamp. She closed her eyes and formed an image of her mother. Tall. Strong. Independent. Exactly what Claire would need to be in the coming days. The only thing she could do for her mother now was concentrate on escaping.

She flexed her arms. The leather had more give this time. The murderer might actually have human feelings after all. He was much too thorough to have accidentally made her bindings less tight, which meant he'd done so on purpose.

Most likely because he found her too weak to be a threat. She could work with that.

The woman Teresa got up and came toward Claire carrying two bowls of the stew. Her mother had always said city women were dominated and controlled by the men. Yet Teresa clearly made her own choices. Was her mother mistaken or was the only man here too young to be so controlling? It was a puzzle, and puzzles gave her something to think about other than her sorry situation.

While the murderer sat at the fire staring at the wrapped body of his brother, Teresa sat by Claire's side, careful not to spill the full bowls. Claire's mouth watered, and she looked away before she betrayed more weakness.

Teresa ate a spoonful from one of the bowls as if to show the food was safe. “Will you promise not to use the magic if I feed you?”

Weak.
She was weak for caving in. Claire nodded anyway.

Even if she used the Song against them, what would it accomplish? She couldn't manipulate them to cut her loose when it wasn't in their subconscious. Even she knew subjects had to be willing or open to suggestion for the magic to push them. Or it had to be something they already feared. Getting them to cut her bonds was beyond Claire's ability, not when they were on the watch for it. But if she could catch them off guard . . .

Teresa lowered Claire's gag and set the first spoonful against her lips, feeding her like a baby. The stew was salty from the dried meat, and it burned her tongue with hot spices. A taste like nothing Claire had tried before but still savory.

It was the best thing she'd ever eaten, and even though she knew that was because of her hunger, she hated the fact that she appreciated any part of their treatment of her.

The woman alternated turns between feeding herself and offering more. Claire took two mouthfuls and found herself staring at her captor's shorn hair. Longer than a man's, it was still too short to tuck behind an ear. Teresa caught her glance and lifted a hand to touch her ear, then held up another spoonful.

Claire hesitated, then slurped down the cooling food. “
He
said you could feed me?”

A small grin touched Teresa's lips. “
He
is not in charge of my decisions. It was my idea.”

Claire waited for Teresa to finish her bite, emboldened at not being rebuffed. Escape meant lowering their guard. Observing the murderers and learning their patterns would help, too. Plus, she could admit she was curious, and of the two, she'd much rather interact with the woman. “You are the exception among your ­people?”

Teresa laughed. “You mean because I make up my own mind? An oddity, but I'm hardly alone in that. I'm afraid my hair and my decision to forgo dresses stand out much more than my ideas.”

“But your men . . . they control . . .”

Teresa let the spoon hang frozen in the air. “Men control the women? That's what the witches think, isn't it?” Teresa offered the full spoon, then rested it on her knee, heedless of the wet spot it left on the coarse material. “We're not slaves if that's what you've heard.”

She touched her shorn hair. “It's true my parents wanted a boy. Boys support the family in their old age. Girls care for their husband's family. But my parents understood my wish to go to the university. A girl isn't forced to marry. She can choose. I did.”

Teresa took another bite of her dinner. “And it is better than it used to be. Women have more freedom. There are more of us at the university. More merchants, more artisans are women. Women may not sit on the council, but that doesn't mean we don't rule our families. Not a perfect system, but workable. And hardly slavery.” Teresa offered another spoonful.

“More stew?”

Claire chewed slowly, trying to decide whether she believed the woman or not. Teresa seemed so tolerant, almost eager to talk. Such earnestness was hard to discount. Cautiously, she said, “It's not what I've been taught of city ­people.”

Teresa nodded. “We all have our biases. I'd love to hear about your life. About your beliefs, your customs. It's why I went to the university.”

“That's the second time you used that word. University?”

“School. A place of learning. A university is a higher-­level school for those who want to learn more.”

Claire met the woman's strange, mud-­colored eyes. “I had this wish. To learn more. My mother . . . she . . . was not so sure.”

“Then we have something in common,” Teresa said.

“That cannot be. We are enemies.”

“Are we?” Teresa scraped out the bottom of her bowl. “We're not killers. We don't wish you harm.”

Claire stiffened with a glance at the solitary figure eating by the fire. “
He
does.”

“Ramiro and his friends took me in as one of their own on this mission. They joked with me. They accepted me. They didn't care that I was a woman or even that I was an ugly woman. And here we are sitting and talking like reasonable ­people. ­People with things in common.” Teresa gathered the bowls and spoons into a neat pile. “You and
he
are both mistaken in each other.”

Claire said nothing. She could accept that Teresa believed she was acting in the right, but she could not believe that of the murderer. Her capture, her bruises were his doing. He'd tried to strangle her. Whether it was due to her mother's magic or not, it had to have been in his heart for him to act on it.

“Can I have your name?” Teresa asked, startling Claire out of her thoughts. “I mean knowing your name—­”

The murderer by the fire looked her way, a hint of contempt and condemnation in his face. Claire drew defiance around herself.

“Makes it more acceptable? Less like you're making a slave of me?” The words came out with more vehemence than she intended. That was not the way to lull their suspicions. But she could not share her name with these ­people.

“If that's how you feel . . .” Teresa pulled the gag back into place with an apologetic shrug. “Sorry for this. When you're ready, I'd be honored to hear your name. And when we trust each other more, we'll be happy to do without this.”

Claire sat perfectly still. Escape meant doing more than refusing to cooperate with her captors. Refusing to walk would not get her free. She must come up with something more.

Luckily, she had nothing to do but think.

J
ulian feared his ass would become molded to fit the chair if he did not move soon. The chairs in the council chamber were comfortable, but all comforts had their limits, and an entire night of discussion had stretched him to his.

“Let me see you closer,” he said as an excuse to move. He stood gingerly with due care to avoid falling on his numb posterior and circled the three men at the center of the room.

Father Telo looked the same from his worn sandals to his seen-­better-­days robe—­the only change being cleaner feet and hands—­the very picture of a priest, if a rather brawny one. The two men on either side appeared to match his profession from their clean-­shaven jaws to their triple-­rope belts. But these two men were scouts from the army. The best of their scouts. Julian had worked with Vimaro before, but the other man was unknown to him.

“I cannot tell the real from the fake,” Julian said. “Are you satisfied?” No doubt Vimaro and the other fake priest had enough concealed weapons under their brown robes to prove the true difference between soldiers and men of God. But that was their business.

Concejal
Lugo tilted his head, like he was inspecting cloth at one of his stores he suspected was shoddy. “Their appearance is well enough. But can they act the part? The Northern leader Ordoño was one of us. He'll be able to spot a fake.”

“Which is why Father Telo volunteered to do the talking.”

“He is merciful and will send me the right words,” Father Telo said.

“Hands,”
Concejal
Pedro said, showing his large splayed ones from working his mill. “Their hands will give them away. Too rough, like mine. They have the calluses of swordsmen.”

Father Telo held out his own hands, revealing his own set of calluses. “Toil in the cause, sayeth the Lord. Not all priests sit behind desks, occupied with books.”

“I do not like the whole—­” Lugo began.

“It is my privilege to offer myself,” Julian interrupted. “The council has no say. It is personal.” He'd enough of the arguing. It only robbed them of sleep. The council discussion had been heated. First about whether to accept the Northerner's insane terms of surrender—­which they ultimately rejected—­then on the finer points of his plan of insurgence. And the two
concejales
remaining with him were far from the worst on that score. They'd been among the first to be convinced, but politicians had debate in their blood.

Julian slapped his palm against the shining mahogany tabletop, making crumb-­covered porcelain rattle and wineglasses vibrate. “If the Northerners will take me hostage in exchange for our children, then it is my wish to go.”

Concejal
Lugo wore a scowl that made him look like a prune. “It is your choice,” he conceded, “but we need you here.”

“The plan is in motion. All that needs doing is administrating it.” The saints knew the
concejales
excelled at directing. As they wasted time here,
Concejal
Osmundo met with the
capitanes
del pelotónes
to fill in the military on their part. Diego used his skills to organize the clerks and scribes of the priests informing the ­people of the location of their children. Other
concejales
worked at other aspects of the plan near the tunnels and the city wall.

The plan was happening, and these delays had to end.

“Let us talk as we go to the gates,” Julian said. “I shall go insane if I spend another minute in this room.”

The quickly hid grin from Pedro proved he sympathized; the man was used to spending time outdoors at his mill. The group was soon welcoming the earliest rays of the new day. The sweet touch of coolness lingered in the air. A few vendors pushed carts along the roads, but otherwise the city slept as though dead. Just streets away in the main square, parents would be anxiously waiting for information on their children.

Julian's urged his cramped body to take long strides in the empty streets as he maneuvered himself by the priest and left the scouts to the
concejales
.

“Do not worry about trying to map their camp in your head, Father,” Julian said. “That's for the professionals to accomplish. They will pinpoint the strategic locations as well as try for more information about their magical weapon.” Julian still dwelt on that. It seemed unfair the Northerners had numbers
and
magic to help them. He could only hope this new plan would help turn the advantage to Colin Hermosa. Hope was for the future, though, and he had to stay in the present. “You have only to play the spokesman and make my offer,” he continued. “You're certain you want to do this?”

“He is my shepherd and walks as my companion. I shall fear no wolf.”

“Platitudes,” Julian huffed. The priest's dark skin gave no clue as to his level of courage, but his eye held no worry or indecision. Perhaps the tired words were not empty in his case.

“The Northerners sent their priests to walk among us, my son. We can only assume they will accept the same ambassadors from us.”

Julian remembered the fierce priestess Santabe and her white rod murdering his guard without leaving a mark and somehow doubted the comparison's validity. Those cold killers were no servants of the Lord.