Grudging (17 page)

Moving silently, she reached the shore of the lake and looked out. It was completely open, dotted by a few dead trees and ragged stumps. Out there, she'd be in plain sight.
He'd
catch her.

Running and taking a parallel path to the water would achieve the same outcome.

Again, he'd catch her. It would be the second place he looked.

Her Song faltered.

“Forgetfulness,” she tuned, catching herself.

“Second-­guessing.”

If she couldn't run, she could hide. Her time tied to the tree had let her learn the area. She'd spotted a fallen pine tree, its numerous boughs still green. It had topped against a sycamore, creating a little cavity between them, screened by broken foliage.

Claire turned away from the swamp lake and headed toward Teresa. The woman was still shouting at the murderer. Picking each step with care and holding a steady Song, Claire skirted around Teresa and crept back toward the overnight camp. The moist ground and damp tinder helped make her passage noiseless, and when she could she stepped in puddles or on dead timber to hide her tracks. In no time, she was hunkered between the evergreen and the peeling bark of the sycamore trunk with a fringe of branches to conceal her.

Her low position gave her a partial view of the camp. The murderer walked the area, bent over hands on his knees to better examine the ground. She choked back a shocked giggle. Her first use of the magic on another human had not only worked, it had carried all the way to the camp. He was looking for traces of their passage to conceal. She nestled deeper into hiding, dropping the Song in order to catch her breath. She'd never held the magic for so long.

The murderer stood up straight and gave a little shake. She pictured him frowning for his strange behavior. She held her breath.
Now comes the test.
Would they guess at her decision to hide?

He passed out of her range of sight, and Claire counted to three until he reappeared near his horse. He leaned against the creature, putting his arms around its neck as if taking comfort. Claire snorted, then glanced around uneasily. Like the murderer needed consolation. The man had a stick up his butt and no mistake.

She racked her brain for what Song to use now. Something to screen her hiding place or something else? She didn't want to insert anything to do with concealment in their minds. Maybe . . . She hummed a tune of panic, then added words, letting the wet air carry it. Let them think less clearly. That could only help her.

A loud shriek came from the direction of the reeds, then shouting and rustling. Claire hunkered down as the murderer jumped to his feet. Teresa came crashing back into camp. The gag was clutched in her hand, and she held out the loose end of the rope.

“Tricked! She's gone!”

For the first time in the last few days, Claire felt a rush of joy.

 

CHAPTER 19

T
he bronze door had closed behind Father Telo and his companions with a clang of finality, shutting them out of Colina Hermosa. Neither of the scouts posing as priests had flinched. Hardened men, they had known how to control any signs of trepidation. Telo had searched for fear in his own soul and had found too much.

More sturdy than the great wall at his back was his trust in the Almighty. Telo had had faith in the Lord for four decades to lead him along the hallowed path. This day had been no different. If only he had remembered that.

Telo had touched head, heart, liver, and spleen. That was not to say he took the Lord's intervention for granted. One was not stupid merely because one believed. One still needed to act with common sense and not put the Lord in a position of keeping one out of trouble.

The taller scout, a man with the rough and weathered skin and face of a farmer, all hard planes and sharp angles, had gestured to the dusty road lined with scrub bushes and cacti. “After you, Father.”

Telo had inclined his head and taken the lead. Telo had offered to be their spokesman.
The Lord forgive him.
Let that offer have come from an honest desire to act as a shield for these men and not vanity for his quick wit and ready mouth. Further, let that ready mouth keep levity off his tongue for one day. He had managed to keep his mouth shut as they progressed and studied the army ahead.

Being outside with the enemy and on the same level had made the concentrated mass seem smaller. A most welcome illusion. The Northerners were sprawled on the generous plain, gathered well beyond the reach of the largest trebuchet. Not that Colina Hermosa had such a machine, the Lord forgive them for shortsightedness.

A group of nearly a dozen black-­and-­yellow-­uniformed men with the strange light-­colored hair had caught sight of their approach and advanced to meet them, keeping carefully out of arrow shot and on the bare dirt of the road. The Northerners had learned the danger of cacti thorns both from the plants and from a bow, Telo had noted with amusement.

One of the Northerners with peculiar green eyes had gestured to him and spoke in a guttural language, all hard consonants and all equally unintelligible. The squad of soldiers had surrounded them, hands resting on sword hilts. The same man had spoken in another flood of words, this time pointing to their sandals and robes.

The shorter scout, the one Telo called Taps for his resemblance to the cubby-­faced, frequently smiling cellarer at the monastery where he'd first taken orders, had given Telo a prod.

“Hello, my son,” Telo had boomed in his heartiest voice. The Northerners had jumped, and half pulled their weapons. “May the Lord shine upon you and your ability to speak in tongues.”

Farmer-­faced scout had rolled his eyes. “What if they understand you?”

Telo had put on a big smile and held out his arms as if in friendship. “Just look at them. They don't.” Indeed, the Northerners had shown all stages of confusion with frowns and puckered brows.

Their green-­eyed spokesman had tried again, showing a God-­given persistence. Telo had waved him off and walked toward the army, only to be grabbed by the spokesman. Now weapons had left scabbards, and Northerner faces had borne dark scowls.

As the scouts had sunk into defensive crouches, Telo had freed his arm to point at the army camp. “Lord Ordoño.” Logically, as envoys they had been granted protection. Even the Northerners had honored that right—­or they had thus far.

The soldiers had broken into nervous chattering as Telo had pointed back to the wall of Colina Hermosa. “
Alcalde
.” He had pointed to himself. “Envoy. Talk.”

“Tagh.” the spokesman had mimed with a shrug. “
Alcalde
,” he said clearly, proving the term was familiar. He had nodded and spat out a short stream of words, after which weapons had returned to holders. “Ordoño.” He had waved toward the army before walking in that direction.

“See, my friends,” Telo had told Farmer-­face and Taps. “The Lord provides.”

As they approached the army, though, Telo's steps faltered. The stony ground had been hacked and scraped of plant life. Everything from the tiniest pincushion cacti to the seven-­foot-­tall ocotillo with its many pole-­like branches had been removed to make way for the camp. Even the giant saguaros had been chopped at their base. Like the gravest sin, life that had taken centuries to mature was gone in moments. Telo struggled to remember he'd been sent with a higher purpose than saving plants.

The green-­eyed spokesman gestured at their feet and ankles showing under the robes and said something that drew a chorus of laughter from the other soldiers.

“They have no respect,” Farmer-­face muttered.

“Mind your spleen,” Telo said mildly as he hurried to catch up. “The Lord commands we forgive the ignorant and the simpleton. Besides, sticks and stones . . . It is other things for which they'll answer to Our Lord.”

The scouts had much time to examine the camp as their guides led them deep into the heart of it, taking several different pathways across the scarred ground. To Telo, one square foot of it looked much like another. Squads of men. Very few women. Wagons and tents and crates of supplies. No doubt it made better sense to the two scouts, but his mind ran ahead to dwell on the coming meeting.

Would they accept the
Alcalde
'
s
offer or reject it? And how was Colina Hermosa to survive if they accepted? But it was not his job to judge the
Alcalde's
decision. No, his objections had already been given.

Instead of taking them toward the rear or center of the army, their guides led them to the left, close enough to see the rim of the old quarry. Telo looked around for a large tent to indicate the housing of the leadership of this beast, but their escort halted before a red-­and-­gold-­wool carpet with no discernible pattern, easily the size of an alehouse—­alehouses being the perfect places to bring hearts and minds to the Lord while quenching one's thirst, hence Telo's familiarity with their dimensions. The rich carpet stood open to the sky. At the center were a single throne-­like chair and a rather battered table.

The wooden chair was carved and embossed with a flaring gold sunburst. Gold objects covered the table, from elaborate miniature statues of deer to expensive tea ser­vices. The largest of the statues, at the center of the table, was a depiction of the sun. Pushed to a far corner of the wooden surface were gold-­framed icons of Santiago and other saints. Their faces had been scratched out of the paintings, torn free as if only the gold mattered. Telo touched his forehead and heart as he realized they must have been looted from Zapata by the heathen devils. Had they no reverence for art?

At the far side of the carpet was a large screen that concealed whatever hid behind it. A good ten yards separated the carpet from the nearest supply wagons, which formed a sort of fence around it for privacy. More wagons made another barrier along the hundred-­foot drop of the quarry rim.

Telo met Taps and Farmer-­face's curious stares with a shrug. The Northerners must have some purpose for the outdoor display, but without a common language or culture, there was no way to discover the reasoning.

Suddenly, soldiers surrounded him, subjecting him to a quick but thorough search. They seemed disappointed when no weapons turned up. Telo was surprised when similar checks on the two scouts turned up nothing either. Maybe he'd misjudged his companions' preparedness.

The green-­eyed spokesman dropped to his knees facing the carpet and put his forehead against the sand, leaving it there while he spoke. A tall woman came out from behind the screen, and Telo tensed as he recognized the description he'd been given of the aggressive priestess, Santabe. In her hand she carried the white rod that killed so easily.

Telo felt a flare of fear. He hoped the Lord knew what He was doing.

Santabe carried a gold tray full of food, including roast mutton and mashed turnip, which she deposited on the table, drawing the throne chair closer before crossing the carpet to them. She stood on the edge as a nearly naked servant ran from one of the wagons with a folding canvas stool. He arranged the stool on the carpet without once letting his body touch an inch of its fibers, then scurried back whence he came.

Telo glanced from the empty throne chair with the heaping table to the plain stool. Was the elaborate display for Ordoño? And if so, where was the man?

Hands grabbed him from behind and forced him to his knees, pressing his head against the sandy and rocky soil. At the same time his two companions met a similar fate. Telo did not resist, but when the hands lifted, he raised his head.

“The body can be manipulated; it's not so easy to bend the heart,” he said.

“You are priests?” Santabe asked in a cool voice of unconcern. “We have studied your priests.” She sat on the stool without a single twitch to her long white skirt, her feet and hands perfectly still, and settled the white rod across her knees. “You priests are full of weakness. Putting yourselves and ­people before the needs of your god. Caring for the sick and elderly. Worrying about right and wrong. Giving away food and drink. It is weakness.”

“There are many types of weakness,” Telo said. “Kindness is not one of them.”

Santabe sniffed. “This life is where the weak are winnowed from the strong. Only the best go to the afterlife to fight and become favorites of Dal. Dal is everything. We are nothing. You priests pervert the holy and interfere with the natural order. Blood and sacrifice are the true calling of a priest—­or priestess.”

“So some believe,” he said carefully. “But our views are fundamentally different. We must agree to disagree, then, for the sake of harmony.”

“I do not seek harmony,” Santabe said harshly. “Neither does Dal. Why are you here? Do you bring the answer to our demands?”

“Not yet. We bring a different offer to Ordoño from our
Alcalde
.”

“If you don't come to answer our demands, you have nothing of interest to say.” She stood and pointed with the rod. She spoke in her harsh tongue. “I told the guards to take off your hands and let you bleed out as punishment for presumption. Don't let your foreign blood tarnish the sacred altar.”

What?
Telo had time to share one glance with Farmer-­face before hands gripped him roughly, seizing his arms and pulling them forward while others held his shoulders. Stones bit into Telo's knees. Shock held his tongue still. The green-­eyed spokesman stood over him with a drawn sword. Even as Telo made no sound, shouts came from around him. To his astonishment, Farmer-­face had kicked out, miraculously managing to connect with a stooping soldier's chin and clamber to his feet with the same movement. He joined Taps, who was already a spinning whirlwind of punching and blocking. Taps seemed to lean out of the way of a sword swing and delivered a quick thrust with his bare hands under the ribs of his opponent, stealing the man's breath and making him fold. Farmer-­face took down another with a foot to the groin and tossed a second man over his back. He tried to reach Telo, but fresh soldiers hurried to join the fray from all sides, called by the shouts.

Telo twisted unsuccessfully to get free as Green-­Eyes pushed a flat rock under his outstretched wrists, then raised his sword high. Telo's dark skin stood out starkly against the pale-­colored, yellowish stone.

Strangely, Green-­Eyes hesitated, looking not downward at his victim, but skyward where a small cloud obscured part of the sun. Another breath and the shining orb reappeared, too bright for eyes to hold. Sunlight glinted on the razor-­sharp blade. Heart thudding, Telo closed his eyes and ceased resisting. He'd failed at his mission. Failed to help his city. At least he could cease to be a burden to his companions and maybe they could win free alone.

“Father and Santiago, into your hands I offer my sins!”

“Stop,” a new voice called. “That one is really a priest.”

All sound ceased, except for the roaring in Telo's ears that must be fear. He opened his eyes and squinted, trying to detect the newcomer. A single man leaned against one of the supply wagons, his feet crossed idly at the ankles. The man pushed off from the wagon and walked toward them. Telo waited for the man to assume the throne-­like chair, but he, too, avoided the rich carpet.

“Why have you come, priest?”

“I . . . I have an offer from
Alcalde
Alvarado.” Telo was amazed his voice barely shook.

“An offer.” One dark eyebrow rose. “You intrigue me, priest. What could it be? Even if I reject it, it might be entertaining. Walk with me.”

The soldiers surrounding Telo stepped back, and Telo struggled to his feet. He spent too little time on his knees lately and now, daresay, he'd be even less inclined to adopt the pose after such a close call. His companions had been driven to the ground, overcome by numbers. “And my fellow priests?”

The man who must be Ordoño smiled slyly. “Santabe, have the goodness to keep your knives off these
priests
for the time being.”

Ordoño led the way to a supply wagon, which was covered by an undyed canvas tarp. Not a single guard or solider trailed at his heels. Nor did any stand outside the wagon. Telo gave nothing away on his face, but what kind of leader had no protection? Even the
Alcalde
had a token pair. Did he fear harm so little?

Ordoño held a wooden door aside to reveal a tiny sitting room, complete with tidy desk and comfortable-­looking chairs with pillows. Short shelves up against the side of the wagon held a selection of books. A square of carpet stood at the entrance. Ordoño climbed the few steps and wiped his boots on the rug. “Clean your feet, priest. I can't abide sand. Nasty stuff.”

Feeling he'd entered a dream, Telo complied and took the chair the supreme leader of the Northerners offered him. He plumped the pillow behind his back and leaned against it as if he were at home in a drawing room. The man facing him had the brown skin and eyes of the
ciudades-­estado
and the hawk-­like nose, looking nothing like a Northerner. “These are your living quarters?”