Grudging (16 page)

“Get in and get out, Father. Make my offer and locate the children.”

“Understood.” The priest pinned Julian with an appraising glance. “And you? Your soul is prepared if they say yes to the exchange?”

Julian grimaced, unable to hide his worries like the priest did. Fear made a tight knot in his gut. “If they say yes, you can give me the final rites before I go. Just don't tell my wife. I would not have my last moments cause her worry and recriminations.”

“The Lord gives strength when strength is needed.”

“Amen, Father,” Julian said, willing this platitude, at least, to be true.

They walked the rest of the way in silence until Julian waved to the gate guard. “Three men to go forth.” The guard eyed them curiously but hurried to the heavy metal doors and opened the small portal set within them.

The wicket creaked, protesting its change of position. Julian clasped hands with the priest, nodding to the scouts. “Farewell.”

Father Telo touched mind, heart, liver, and spleen in a silent benediction. Vimaro and his companion copied the gesture with the fluidity of regular practitioners, looking every bit the genuine men of God. Then the gate clanged behind them, shutting them out of Colina Hermosa.

“I must return to my businesses,”
Concejal
Lugo said abruptly. He turned away without further parting.

Off to fleece more customers.
Julian caught the uncharitable thought with a wince. Lugo had supported his plan, and it'd been long years since Julian had sold his stores when it became clear his sons had no interest in them. It was hard to remember sometimes that he and Lugo were no longer rivals.

“Shall we watch from the wall?” Pedro asked. Unlike the departed
concejal
, the miller had nothing to keep him. His mill was outside the safety of the city—­if it still stood. He could only spend so much time dawdling at the more fortunately located mills of his many sons and sons-­in-­law.

“My thought exactly.” Julian followed the broad shoulders of the miller to the top of the wall, then moved down it until they stood above the gate. A press of soldiers made room for them.

The enemy army sprawled across the desert, skirting the edge of one of the old quarries where the stone for Colina Hermosa had been pried from bedrock. Julian eyed the mass of the camp. They suspected the leadership lived and worked at either the center of the enormous throng or the rear near the siege machines. But given the Northerners' oddness, Julian doubted it would be so simple.

“They'll get through, sirs,” one soldier said with a confident nod.

Julian felt less certain. Nervousness danced like electricity down his limbs as he squeezed into a space against the stone. He might have just sent all three to their deaths. Crossing the road and moving through the dry and flattened grass toward the Northerner army, Father Telo and the scouts looked surprisingly small from above. A wisdom to remember as it applied equally well to all men, including himself.

But that reminded him that Salvador and Ramiro were still out there, too. Had they met with a witch yet? Made contact with some of the evacuated children? Julian sent a quick prayer to Santiago to keep a watch over them as well as their newly created spies.

All too soon a troupe of Northerners hurried out to surround the three and enclose them. Julian held his breath as weapons were drawn and figures took tense attitudes. The group paused as if talking, then weapons were put away as they resumed an unhurried pace toward the army. He caught a glimpse of brown robes here and there among the soldier's black-­and-­yellow uniforms before tents and supplies wagons swallowed them from view.

“They've been accepted,” Pedro said. The soldiers murmured in acknowledgment and began to drift back to their posts, curiosity replaced with duty.

And so the end of Colina Hermosa begins
, Julian thought. Let it be a grand one. If the Northerners accepted his offer of a trade for the children, Julian wouldn't live to see it.

 

CHAPTER 18

R
amiro stood in Colina Hermosa, in the square outside the citadel. A drifting white fog clung and concealed. Everything seemed taller, and he realized he was the timid ten-­year-­old who followed his brother like a puppy. The white world mocked him, keeping him from those he sought. He batted it away, looking for Beatriz or Julian, even a priest, but saw no one. No one to put a comforting arm around him to scare away the demons. No one came to take the burden he fought to hide. He spun in place, yet not a soul moved in the square.

“Mama?” His voice emerged as the voice of a boy with a stubbed toe who needed his mother to kiss it and make it better. “Help!”

The fog parted. Salvador stood across the square. His brother wore all white as he never had in life. Joy filled Ramiro's heart, and the weight he'd been carrying slipped away. He was his true age again, his full size. It had been a dream. Not real. He threw back his head and laughed in anticipation of seizing his brother's hand.

Salvador looked at him and smiled. Everything was well. He lifted an arm, and Ramiro felt the danger. Swords appeared, aimed through the fog at Salvador's heart.

Ramiro screamed a warning, but a gag kept him silent. He tried to run, but quicksand held his legs fast. He couldn't get there. Couldn't stop it. The swords descended, stabbing and slashing into Salvador's unprotected flesh. The hand holding them was his own . . .

He woke with a start, covered in sweat, unable to move as memory overwhelmed him. The blame belonged to him. The promise he made to Beatriz to bring Salvador home lay broken. Now he transported a corpse. He wept silently, a blanket pressed against his face, until a troubled sleep claimed him again.

Y
ears of discipline woke Ramiro at first light despite his nightmares. He turned his eyes as he'd done countless times throughout the night to the witch. Seeing her still securely bound to her tree, and not about to murder them in their sleep—­though to be fair, he pictured her as more likely to sneak away—­he sat up and spat to rid the taste of rot from his mouth. His eyes felt thick and gritty.

The frogs had shut off their nightly chorus to be replaced by the early stirrings of insects. The air felt thicker than ever, as if he could swim through it today. He quickly tended the horses—­Sancha's tail swished in surprise at his not lingering with his usual affection—­then set about dismantling their camp. Despite his pains to keep quiet, Teresa woke and soon joined him, taking over the breakfast duties as Ramiro rolled up the bedding. While she fed the witch, keeping up a running stream of one-­way conversation with the sullen-­faced girl, he busied himself strapping on parts of his armor, not so easy by oneself.

Salvador had considered it wise to wear the armor in case they met Northerners, so Ramiro would follow his brother's example. He'd considered fitting a few pieces of Salvador's suit onto Teresa, but their body types were too dissimilar. Still, he couldn't bring himself to abandon the now-­useless metal, any more than he could leave his brother's body.

He'd expected thoughts about Salvador to keep him awake last night, or maybe worries about finding their way out of the swamp, the welfare of Alvito and Gomez, or even the fate of his city. Those had been in his head, but they were nothing compared to a new, smaller nagging trouble, the fresh torment enough to make him toss and turn. He scowled at the witch for causing his added guilt, then focused on a stubborn strap of his breastplate. Let them pack the rest of the camp, and he'd deal with the new guilt once and for all.

With most of their gear put away, Teresa awkwardly helped him settle Salvador across Valentía, then she picked up Ramiro's helmet. “Mind if I borrow this?”

“Why?” Ramiro asked, catching her arm.

“Getting some water to wash out the fire.”

“What!” Ramiro plucked his helm from Teresa's hand and traded it for the iron cooking pot. Sancha nickered as if amused. His equipment was already starting to rust—­as Bromisto had predicted—­it didn't need help. “Not my helmet. Try this.”

For the first time in a day the dimple showed in Teresa's cheek. She gave him a wink. “Got ya. I knew my cousin was under all that gruff silence.” She hefted the pot. “Knew that would wake you up. Who could imagine you'd get so much stuff in those saddlebags. Cooking equipment, food, fire starter. I thought it all lost with the packhorses.”

“Survival gear. We all carry it.” Ramiro surreptitiously rearranged some packing Teresa had done. He still felt stiff, words coming with difficulty. She might be ready to admit life moved on, but one moment he couldn't accept what happened, and the next anger filled his soul though he tried to contain it. Maybe he should try to be himself again for Teresa's sake. “Stow everything just so, and it fits. But the food's all gone.”

“Then we'd best find that village today, eh cousin,” Teresa said, coming back with the water.

“Easier said than done.” The swamp all looked the same, and Ramiro had no idea if continuing to head east toward the sunrise would run them to the village or the middle of nowhere.

Teresa splashed water over the fire pit, producing a faint hiss from the dead coals.

“You're not a saint, cousin. I don't expect miracles from you. That's not a burden you have to bear. And don't think I don't see you trying. I'm not military. I'm not the lieutenant to your general.”

Ramiro managed a grin that was only partly faked. “Officer? Given yourself a promotion, have you? You're a
bisoño
and no mistake. Remember that, will you? Keep your place.”

She threw the pot at him, and he snagged it neatly out of the air before it could hit the ground at his feet. “Weak,
bisoño.
We'll have to build up that arm.”

“Listen to the man. Putting down a woman with an injury.” She rolled her shoulder. “We'll see when I'm healed. I'll wager I'll throw better than your beard manages to come in. Patchy, scruffy thing.”

“Is it that bad?” he asked, his hand going to his jaw before he could stop himself. Without time to consult a mirror, he had wondered if he would be shamed instead of proud. All he could tell was that it itched.

Teresa laughed. “Not a thin patch anywhere, cousin.” She cocked her head. “It suits you. Especially with the armor.”

His face felt hot, and he quickly ran an eye over their campsite, searching for signs of their passage. No need to give the Northerners any help locating them. If they were looking. “Bury that, would you please?” he asked, pointing to the wet, glistening cinders. “I'll get our guest ready.”

Worrying about his beard.
This wasn't time for such vanity. He was as bad as Alvito had been.
Had been? Was it so?
The thought wiped away the last of his smile.

Forcing himself to joke with Teresa could only lighten his heart so far. Too much remained to drag it back down into the “gruff silence” she disliked. One such stared him in the face right now with disturbingly sky-­colored eyes.

“Get ready to walk, witch,” he said.

The sky-­colored eyes narrowed in a look that should have included spitting, hissing, and biting—­with probably a bit of cursing for good measure.

The witch couldn't have spent a comfortable night either, forced upright. He'd seen her awake as often as sleeping, her head slumped sideways in an awkward kink. He suspected she'd spent as much of the night crying as he had. He shivered with embarrassment, hoping he hid it better. Remorse might not trouble him for her lack of sleep, but one thing did.

Ramiro put himself between the girl and Teresa so Teresa couldn't possibly overhear. Best to get it off his conscience . . . it wouldn't get easier for waiting.

“I'm sorry you lost your mother.”

To be clear, he wasn't sorry the witch was dead. That was a whole different feeling. But he was unhappy he'd offered no sympathy for someone suffering such a loss. He knew loss too well.

For a moment, surprise registered on her face and in the bizarre eyes, then contempt came back. He applied himself to undoing the rope holding her to the tree. “I don't care if that makes you feel better. I said it for my own benefit.”

She grunted, then growled something he knew by the tone was meant to tell him off.

He finished unlooping the rope off the tree and gathered it in a loose coil, the other end wrapped around the little witch's arms. Mosquito bites marred her face, neck, and arms. His own bites itched in sympathy. “Stand up, and Teresa can take you into the bushes.”

A shake of the head was her only response.

Ramiro clutched tight to his patience. “Don't make me drag you. You don't want that. I'm trying to give you a little privacy.”

She stubbornly kept her place against the tree.

He rolled his eyes, then bent to jerk her upright. The last thing he wanted was to use more force. As Teresa constantly reminded him, they needed to win the girl over. But if someone had to be the mean one, better it was—­

What
—­

He froze. “You've got a spider.” He pointed to the spot of red and black on the little witch's trouser and had the satisfaction of her eyes rounding.
Black and red, and you'll be dead.

Teresa brushed by him. “Is it that the double-­bite Bromisto told us about?”

“Judging by her reaction, I'd say that's a safe bet,” he said. “There's another.” The second spot of red and black was about the size of a coin, all hairy legs and bulbous body. It clung to the tree, close to her head. Ramiro dropped to one knee and flicked the first spider from the little witch's leg.

“Swell up like a dead toad,” he said as if to himself. “I wonder what that looks like. If you don't plan to walk, we can leave you tied here and find out.” He smirked. “This tree is probably crawling with them.”

C
laire widened her eyes and put fear into her face, playing along as if the murderer's attempt to frighten her was succeeding. Double-­bites were lazy and seldom bit unless you squished them. She'd encountered enough to know. They liked to hide under cabbage leaves in the garden. Maybe she could use this.

She tried to see the one by her head and pretended to flinch. Then she rushed forward like panic had seized her, moving on hands and knees, bumping against the murderer as she fled. Quick pats at her clothing looked like checking for more spiders, but allowed her to slip the small knife she'd filched from his boot into her waistband.

She'd have to move fast. The murderer would notice it missing soon.

“Very wise and you're welcome,” he said. The murderer had strapped sheets of curved metal across his chest, back, and shoulders over his uniform. Looser pieces of shining silver hung from his waist, covering the top of his thighs. Though his sword hung on his horse, another dagger was attached to his waist. The whole ensemble made him look bigger, somehow more impressive. Harder. That combined with his red-­rimmed eyes aged him. She wasn't the only one crying last night.

She wasn't crying now. Claire hid a smile, already moving. She was welcome to his weapon. Thank you very much. And the murderer had given her the perfect place to use it on her bonds. Dried reeds crackled under her feet and deflected off her shoulders. She sought a thick spot and hunkered down in the middle of them. As expected, Teresa stayed thoughtfully out of sight, though still close.

“Do you need help?” the woman called. “Since your hands are tied, I mean.”

Claire used the knife to slit the straps around her wrists, then pulled at the gag around her head. She drew in great lungful of damp air, unsoiled by stale leather under her nose. The only help she needed was what to sing.

She dropped the gag. Trying to blind their eyes and have them fail to notice her slipping away wouldn't work. It would go against all their conceived notions—­they were on too high an alert. She needed something that worked
with
their worries and fears—­or to remove them altogether.

The idea of using the weapon on Teresa put a small knot in Claire's stomach. The woman had been kind to her, however misguided her reasons. And trying anything with the murderer would result in her knife's being taken away and her being returned to prisoner status . . . if not worse. She had no doubt,
he
had the training, the skill, and the desire to overwhelm any attempt she made to stab him. She hadn't the courage to attempt it. No—­escape was her best choice.

Quick.
There was no time.

The city ­people had been very particular to conceal their campsite from their supposed enemies. Very careful to remove all signs. Claire began to hum without words, almost under her breath. Gradually, she added words and increased her volume, so her Song would reach Teresa. Claire hoped the thickness of the air, loaded with moisture, would act like fog and carry the magic even farther. Perhaps reaching the murderer. She filled her words with emotion and pushed them into her soul so they'd become thick with magic.

“Unfinished chore.

Thing left undone.

Carelessness.

Forgotten task.”

She let that seep on the wind for a breath and set a foot forward, trying to keep the reeds silent. Ever heedful, she crept through the concealment, her Song gaining in volume. Would it work? Could she fool them? Would they even hear her?

“Smoke from a not-­dampened fire.

Blanket left unpacked.

Unfinished.

Careless.”

“Cousin,” Teresa called. “I think I didn't get the fire out. Can you check? Cousin?” The city woman moved away, trailing the rope and heading a few feet closer to their campsite.

Claire kept the Song alive, letting the same magic fill it. She edged out of the reeds and into a clump of bushes. Mother warned the more complex an idea she put into the Song, the harder it was to maintain. Harder to fool. She needed to recross the shallow swamp lake. Home—­safety—­lay on the other side.