Grudging (23 page)

“What is considered blasphemy?”

Ordoño twiddled his toothpick. “Quicker to ask what isn't.”

The soldiers resheathed their swords and bore the body parts away, leaving a dark stain on the sand. The slim priestess set the chalice of blood on the table. She picked up several of their strange white weapons and laid them in the bowl.

So far Telo had only noticed priests carrying the weapons. What if they intended to arm the soldiers with them, too? Give them a power that could kill with just a touch. How many of these things did they have?

Telo tried to show no reaction. For Ordoño to arrive at just this time made this either a warning or a test to gauge him in some way. Likely it was both. “A strange ceremony. What is the significance of the items they put into . . . the blood?”

“The Diviners?” Ordoño held him with his dark eyes. Did Telo imagine amusement there? “It is how they recharge their weapons in some way.”

Telo forced himself to resume his seat on the steps. “I assume these Diviners are no secret as they are worn quite publicly. I cannot get over servants of a higher power carrying weapons, and I've never seen weapons of that kind. They are too smooth for bone. They almost look like gigantic teeth.”

“A good guess. They come from the horn of a sea beast. Quite a mundane, lazy animal actually, though rare. As you can see, the priests of Dal are not like the priests of the cities.” Ordoño turned from studying the priestess chanting over the chalice. “A strange interest for one such as yourself—­to inquire of weapons.”

“A strange time for you to arrive to speak with me, my son,” Telo said, mimicking the false concern in the man's tone. “Would you rather I inquired on the readiness of the guilty man's soul to meet his God?”

Ordoño shrugged. “What makes you think Dal is interested in what happens to his followers? These ­people are nothing like your own. Not their values and not their beliefs.”

“All the more reason to understand them—­to see what we have in common. Through understanding comes reconciliation.”

“One doesn't understand them. One survives them—­though the numbers who do are few.”

Telo met the man's smile with a nod. The scene had been a boast of sorts, along with a test and a warning. Ordoño meant him to appreciate the power he must wield to rise to the top of these Northerners and lead them. “Wouldn't you say the Lord has guided you? You seem to understand them, my son.”

“The Children of Dal were directionless before me, like a child or a flooded river, if you'll allow the clichés, Father.”

Telo stared at his strong hands resting on his knees. His host might have given motivation to the Northerners, but whatever hold he had over them could be broken. Would the Northerners fall apart without a leader? Wouldn't the removal of Ordoño be a blessing?

The man stood within his reach, unarmed. Telo was the bigger, the stronger. A grab and a squeeze, and Colina Hermosa would be safe.

Telo shivered and touched heart, mind, liver, and spleen for forgiveness at that sinful idea. He was a humble priest, not an assassin. Where was his faith? The Lord would see them through without delving into sin. “I'll pray for all our souls.”

 

CHAPTER 25

A
soft, misting drizzle started to fall. Ramiro held aside a branch to let the witch girl go ahead. She turned her head in his direction as she passed, as if insisting on keeping him in sight. He felt the same on that.

He removed his helmet to wipe sweat from his brow but was stymied by the armor on his hands. Instead, he bent at the waist and propped hands on his knees to catch his breath. Fighting in armor was no picnic. A small burn across the back of his left shoulder told him one of the Northerners had gotten under his plate. The wound would need to be cleaned and soon. “I imagine we put enough distance between us and the Northerners.”

The girl stood just out of reach, waiting on him. “I think so, too. The only racket of ­people crashing through the swamp is you.” He caught a flash of a smile at his expense before she swiftly hid it, worry returning. “Where's your friend Teresa?”

“I sent her where she'd be safe with some of the other woman and children to the . . . heart of the swamp.” He'd been about to say to where their kin killed each other, but that didn't seem a good reminder at the moment.

“You are going back to the village to find the ­people you rescued?” She fiddled with her braid, trying to give the impression she didn't care about his answer. He wondered why she did. She'd proved more than adequate at making a fool of him—­twice. No doubt she could use her voice to slip away, and he wouldn't even notice. Why stay with him?

“No need.” he said. “Someone else is taking care of that for me.” Suero had discovered by now that Ramiro wasn't dead but had left a trail of incapacitated enemies behind him. That should put the fear of the Lord into their bargain. Suero wouldn't dare go back on his word unless he wanted to find a sword at his throat. Anger burned. A clean death was too good for that dishonorable snake. He deserved a trial and a—­

“Then . . .” The girl pushed her braid over her shoulder, her face solemn. “Do you have any water? Anything to eat?”

He straightened. Her questions were a painful reminder of his thirst and hunger. The girl's lips were chapped and raw-­looking. The day would soon be a scorcher. They'd need water. They'd also need a plan, but making any decisions right now was beyond him. Should he go after Teresa? Should he try to persuade the girl to return home with him? By the saints, he feared he didn't have a chance in hell at that.

How many days had it been since leaving home? It was hard to keep track. He couldn't delay if he wanted to get back to Colina Hermosa before the Northern attack. Panic surged but was quickly dulled by exhaustion.

He tucked his helmet under his arm and pretended to turn out nonexistent pockets. “ 'Fraid I left my supplies in a pile by the village, along with my bow. I was out of food, but I do have water. Just not with me. I guess it's to the village after all.”

He looked around to establish a direction, and she turned and pointed. “That way.”

“Aye. I was just going to say that.”

Her small grin returned, barely affecting her strange blue eyes. She led the way, alternating between keeping her eyes ahead and directed at him. “Can you make less noise? Do you think those soldiers are still there?”

“No and yes. We'll have to be very careful at the village. You ask a lot of questions.” He found his gaze drawn with fascination to the way her braid swayed across her back. No adult woman would wear her hair down in that way, and no girl her age would want to be considered still a girl.

The witch girl was silent so long that he decided she was offended again. Teresa would no doubt laugh at him for being an idiot at tact. Saints, but he wished she were here to manage the girl for them. He hadn't the skill for this.

“Thank you,” he blurted out, “for saving my life back there.”

“We're even.” Her eyes latched on him for a moment, then away. “You put yourself between them and me. Why? For this city of yours?”

“Because I won't let them kill anyone else,” he said truthfully though he didn't expect her to believe him. “My turn for a question. Why did you wake me up? From your magic, I mean. Why not slip away?”

“Perhaps I didn't want them to kill anyone else either.” She stopped, putting a slender birch tree between them. “That was your brother who died at the lake. What happened there? I don't remember.”

“You mean after I choked you?” Ramiro rubbed the back of his neck, the metal of his gauntlet scraping skin painfully. “We saw enemies everywhere. I thought you were one of them.”

“And your friends—­your brother—­turned on each other,” she said. “That was my mother's doing.”

“I don't know how, but I came out of it. I realized what was happening.” Ramiro braced himself for her anger. He'd tell her the truth, even if it caused her to lash out at him. “I brought Salvador back to his senses, and he killed your mother to shut off the magic. Too late, of course. He was dead. Your mother was dead. My friends . . . It wasn't what we wanted to happen.”

She wiped at her eyes, leaning against the tree. “I believe it was a mistake, but I can't forgive you.”

“Fair enough,” he said slowly. The priests would lecture, but forgiveness wasn't in his heart, either. The older witch would have attacked no matter what they had done. He was no longer so certain this girl would have done the same. “Does our truce hold?”

“It holds. For now.”

She intended to run as soon as he got her food and water, he guessed. He had until then to change her mind. “If we're going to be civil, can I have your name? What should I call you?”

Instead of answering, she turned back and began walking again. “Stay on the animal trail. I see quicksand. Following the animal trails is the safest way in the swamp.” She shot him a glance over her shoulder. “Especially for one as noisy as you.”

“Was that a joke?” Ramiro shook rainwater from his eyes and tested the ground before committing his feet. It looked no different here than any other section of swamp, leaf debris covered everything. Could that patch of wet ground be less solid than the rest? “You try hiking around in armor and see how easy it is.”

Her head cocked to the side. “Could I?”

He tripped over his feet. “You want to try my armor?”

To his surprise, red crept up her neck. “I . . . um . . . I'm interested in . . . new things.

“Claire.”

“What?”

“My name. It's Claire.”

“Claire,” he repeated, trying out the strange word. “It suits you.”

Her neck got two shades redder. Ramiro smiled and swung his helmet by its strap. Maybe he didn't need Teresa after all. Teresa had never pulled a name from the witch girl.

A short time later, she stopped again. “The village.”

He stood beside her and could just make out the mud shacks through the foliage. Smoke rose from a few of the homes, but no flames flickered. Either the drizzle had put them out or the fires had been defeated by the mud walls. Except for bodies, there was no one in sight. The village might as well have been a churchyard for all the life it had. He didn't trust it.

“Are they gone?” she whispered.

Ramiro shook his head, unable to say for sure. “Better safe than sorry. We stay as quiet as we can.”

She rolled her eyes at him.

“I'll stay as quiet as I can,” he amended in a whisper. “I left my supplies on the other side. Where I set the ambush.”

They skirted the edge of the village, making their way around. He took her to the bush where he'd left his belongings and drew up short. His bag had been opened, the contents strewn everywhere, slashed and broken. His razor was bent as if purposely bowed over a rock or tree trunk. His bow and quiver was gone as well as anything of value.

The girl rushed to his water bag and held it up with a cry, revealing slits. A few drops leaked onto her palm. “The enemy soldiers? They did this?”

“No,” he said, keeping his voice down. The burn of anger returned to his gut. Suero. The razor had been left in plain sight as a taunt—­a jab at his youth. It hadn't been enough to turn their back on Ramiro during the ambush. They'd tried to ensure his survival would be difficult. “The Northerners didn't have the time or the manpower.”

He set his helmet down, then stooped and seized his blanket roll—­it was slashed as if with a large knife, the kind of knife used for hunting and skinning—­but underneath waited his second water bag where he'd left it. It looked intact, and its weight meant it had gone unnoticed. He held it out to Claire. “Here.”

She stared at him as if expecting a trick.

“It's fine. Do you think it poisoned?”

“No. I just didn't think a man would have any manners toward a guest.” She took the bag and drank greedily, head tilted back to ensure no drops escaped.

He held back a curse. Being around her made him feel like he was walking on eggshells. Sharp ones. How was he to convince her to help Colina Hermosa? Was he sure he even wanted her there? “I'll go down to the village and see if I can find anything to eat,” he said quietly as he waited. He'd need at least to find a flint. With his own gone, he couldn't boil more water.

The bag came down. “I'll come, too,” she said, wiping rainwater from her face.

“No, you won't. I don't know what's down there.”

She took another pull at the water bag and handed it back, then she put her hands on her hips. “I'm not eating raw cattail root again. I'm going with you. I can take care of myself. I got away from you, didn't I. Fooled you twice.”

He shrugged as he drank deeply. Maybe she could take care of herself—­as long as someone watched her to ensure she didn't overreact. Then again, who was he to speak? His record on keeping his head was no better. “Do you still have the knife you stole from me?”

A smug little smile crossed her face. “I do.” Claire patted her waist.

“Then keep it there. You don't know what the hell to do with it.”

The smile slid from her face, replaced with a frown. He put the water bag back under the blanket, retrieved his helmet, and started toward the village before she could argue some more. She hustled close to his elbow and glared at him. “You enjoyed that, didn't you?”

“Did you enjoy fooling me—­twice?”

Red crept up her cheeks. “Maybe.” She darted glances all around as they stepped from the cover of the trees. “Will there be soldiers in the village?”

He put on his helmet and checked his sword hilt. “Maybe.”

She rolled her eyes. “My mother was right: Men are annoying.”

“Then we're even on that, too. Now be quiet.”

Nothing moved in the village as they approached. Everything was quiet as the grave, which he supposed it was. The rain lightly pattered down. Perhaps Suero had gathered all his ­people and evacuated to the swamp. Hopefully he had taken care of any remaining Northerners. But a roll in Ramiro's gut said that wasn't the case.

Everything smelled of smoke and mud and death. The girl turned her face away from the first body—­one of the soldiers he'd hit with an arrow. She already looked green, and they hadn't gotten to the center of the village yet. Ramiro gave the line of dead mules a wide berth, keeping his eyes searching for movement. No sense in getting as sick as the girl. The dead couldn't hurt them; no need to focus on them.

Ramiro passed by the first line of homes to stand in the roadway between the two rows of buildings. The girl breathed heavily at his shoulder, hands clasped under her chin and eyes too large. Before he entered a house, he wanted to be sure no one was here. It would be bad to be caught in one of the huts with no room to maneuver. He sensed . . . something. Almost like a presence waited.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

“Anyone here,” he called, making the girl jump.

“I guess the place is empty after all—­”

A man wearing what looked like a bedsheet made into a robe rushed from one of the huts. An older man with more gray than brown in his hair, he shouted a string of gibberish at them, waving his white stick. Ramiro recognized the Northern man who'd ordered around the soldiers. The madman charged them.

Ramiro relaxed and drew his sword almost casually. The man was not even armed, except for his stick, and that was barely the width of two thumbs. Maybe this one could be captured for Teresa to study. Ramiro stood his ground, waiting on the man—­or tried to.

The girl grabbed him by the edge of his backplate and dragged at him. “Don't let him touch you!” she hissed.

“What?” A flutter of panic swelled in Ramiro's breast as if she'd transferred it to him. He seized the girl around the waist with one arm and dodged as the madman went rushing past. The Northerner swung the white stick at their heads, but missed by inches.

The man spun and shouted another string of foreign language at them. Ramiro picked out what sounded like ‘dah' several times. “What's going on?” he demanded of the girl, looking from the furious madman to her.

“His stick,” she said. “Don't let it touch you.”

Ramiro frowned. What was she talking about? The Northerner rushed them again, and this time the madman adjusted as they attempted to evade him. The girl went one way, and Ramiro found himself pressed against a hut, using his sword to keep the man at a distance. He parried a blow from the stick, and a pulse tingled down the length of his sword into his hands, making them sting. His grip on the hilt loosened as his fingers locked in a spasm. What sort of magic was this?

His sword dropped from numb hands.

Angry shouts came from behind the row of huts. “There he is! That's the one! Kill him.”

Ramiro took his eye off the madman long enough to see Suero and two of his cronies bearing down on them. They had murder in their eyes, and it wasn't directed at him. Suero held Salvador's sword. The madman paused in the middle of a swipe at Ramiro to turn and confront the new threat.