Grudging (26 page)

“Let it out,” he said, voice cracking.

“Sir?” the sergeant asked.

“Open the gate,” Julian directed. “Let it free to die as it wishes.”

Men scrambled to follow his orders. The great bronze gates creaked open just wide enough for the horse. Valentía turned to look at his master, then the stallion disappeared in a flash. Men slammed the gates with the thud of a tomb closing.

Julian could give no thought to how or why it had returned here. He cared not what had happened, grief consumed him. Soldiers began placing candles around the body as if they lay in state in a church. Julian sidled around his son's body to capture Beatriz in his arms. She clung, face pressed into his shoulder, as though nothing could part them. Now and forever. But one thing would—­

The first light of morning.

 

CHAPTER 28

C
laire didn't know which made her more uncomfortable: riding for a day with him behind her or when he walked ahead of her like this, leading the horse. Most of the time they rode double, his chin just above her head, and his chest pressed all too close to her back, a patch of burning heat she couldn't escape. Occasionally he demanded they rest the horse he called Sancha and got down on foot, leaving her to ride and giving her a perfect view of his short brown hair above a tanned neck, the width of his shoulders and how they tapered down to a slim waist, and long legs sheathed in knee-­high boots. The soldiers back at the village wore such boots, but the sight of them hadn't made her quivery inside like blackberry jam.

Was this the feeling of friendship? Somehow, she didn't think so. It was too tingly and scary at the same time. And it wasn't as if she felt any affinity toward him, any special closeness. She just . . . liked how he
was
. Her mother had never explained this sort of sensation. Perhaps it was due to lack of sleep. Ramiro pushed them, hardly allowing a few hours' rest. Maybe she was simply too tired to feel angry at him.

“It'll be dark soon,” he said. “Best we get this over with now before we can't see.” He barely finished speaking before dropping the reins and attacking the buckles on his side, loosening one section of his armor protection.

Her eyes widened. What was he doing? “Get what over?”

The armor dropped to the ground, and he pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. A squeak popped from her throat. The parts of him hidden by the sun were almost as brown as the rest of him. He was lean and muscled both at the same time, smooth except for the hair in the middle of his chest that ran down to his navel and into his trousers. She ripped her eyes away, focusing on her hands twisting in her dirty skirt.

“Get down. I'll need your help.”

“My help?” she said stupidly. Her mother told her that after meeting her father there was a short courtship, followed by a ceremony in a church. There was no church here in the middle of nowhere. They didn't even follow any road but some long-­abandoned trail. Was taking off your clothes courtship?

Just like with the magic, her mother should have given her more details. She had mentioned that some men took what they wanted and didn't bother with ceremonies. Was Ramiro one of those? Would she have to hurt him just when she had started to accept him?

As if he didn't see her sitting there petrified, like a dead stump, he bustled over and rummaged through his saddlebag, handing her a tiny, cunningly made glass jar and one of the waterskins. “Hurry up. Get down,” he demanded. “We're losing the light.”

The horse twitched an ear like it expected her compliance also.

Ramiro seized her around the waist and slid her down from the horse until she stood crushed between them, his chest in her face. The smell of leather and sweat and male overwhelmed her, masking the smell of horse. She tried to look away, but he caught her chin. “Are you sick?” he asked, turning her face from one side to another. “You don't look well.”

“What do you want?” she croaked out.

“Help with this.” He released her chin and twisted about to show her his broad back. An old wound and a new one broke the clean surface of his skin. “I can't reach it.”

“Oh.” Heat mounted into her face until she wondered she didn't burst into flames.

He leaned closer. “What did you think I wanted?”

Why didn't the ground swallow her up?

“N-­n-­nothing,” she stammered. “I just—­where I come from, we don't take off our clothes in front of strangers.”

“It's only my shirt.” A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “And we're hardly strangers now. We're
sangre
kin. A good thing you're not around my
pelotón
. They would give you something to blush about.” He backed up a few steps to give her room.

“Well, um . . . there . . .” She cleared her throat, feeling strangely lonely. “There aren't any men where I come from. There aren't really any ­people where I come from. Just goats.”

“So I understand.” He went and sat on a rock, turning his back to her. “You know how to clean an injury? Don't use too much water. We'll need it.”

“The goats tear themselves on branches sometimes. My mother treated them, but I watched.”

“Close enough, I suppose.” He turned his neck to look at her. “Well?”

She hurried forward and set down the little glass jar. It must contain some ointment under the cork that sealed it. There was nothing to be done for the old injury; it was well scabbed over, the skin around it clean and healed, though it would leave an interesting scar. The new appeared shallow, like the point of a sword had torn the skin only. Not much worse than one of Dolly's injuries. It had stopped bleeding some time ago.

Lifting the waterskin, she poured just enough water over it to wet it and looked around for something to rub it with. The hem of her dress was dirtier than her hands. She bit her lip, then forced herself to touch him, sluicing away the dried blood. His skin was smooth. The sensation heated her face all over again. Thank the Song, he couldn't see her this time.

She pulled the cork from the bottle and dabbed the honey-­smelling mixture across the small cut. Maybe she put more than strictly needed just to avoid having to be done and resume talking to him—­and to give her face a chance to cool down—­not because she enjoyed touching him.

“We should be near the tunnel leading to my home by first light,” he said. “Thanks to Sancha.”

The horse had its head down to nose at the sandy ground. Claire gave Ramiro another dab of ointment and looked around for something to use as a bandage. “Good.”

“How do you like the desert?”

By the Song. She had hardly noticed, too caught up in looking at him or her own thoughts about her lack of understanding of the magic. Why hadn't Mother told her more? It would have been so useful now on her own. Claire didn't like the feeling of bitterness welling up, so instead she looked around at the landscape, paying attention as she should have done before. The land was dry enough to instantly swallow up all the drops of water she'd spilled and hot enough to quickly evaporate the ones on his skin. The plants were all leafless and spiny.

“I don't see how we can travel in the dark,” she said, glad to revert to a practical matter. She corked the bottle and retrieved a clean sock from the saddlebag of the patiently waiting horse, then pressed it to the wound. The thick smear of honey captured and held it. “You're right. These extra socks are handy, but I don't think it will stay.”

“Leave it,” he said. “It'll be fine. He stood, drawing on his shirt, and she felt a pang of disappointment. “It will be slow and tricky at night. We'll have to really stick to the path, but I think we can manage. I'll have to lead Sancha, but you can ride. Wouldn't want you tripping straight into a barrel cactus.”

She frowned at the jibe and gave it up. He probably had a point. The needle spines all around her looked far from pleasant. Besides, she was eager to see his city—­any city actually—­but maybe more eager to have ­people around and no longer be alone with him. Despite nervousness about meeting others, these feelings did not belong. They were too different. He was a man, after all. Her mother had warned her over and over that feelings were weak. Not to be depended upon because men couldn't be depended on.

“Why are you going with me?” he asked, shaking her out of her thoughts. “We're an unlikely pair. Not that I mind, I mean. I mean, I'm happy you decided to come . . . home with me. I . . . my city . . . really needs you.”

She stared. He was babbling, just as uncertain as she. “I've always longed to see new things. Make a friend. A girl—­my age—­as a friend,” she added, lest he misunderstand and think she meant him.

He shrugged. “Don't get your hopes up. Witches are a story to frighten children where I'm from. They're more likely to run.”

“Teresa didn't run.”

“Teresa isn't your typical woman.” He thought for a second. “There is one I can introduce you to, though. She's solid and dependable, caring and sweet. Fronilde would be glad to meet you.” He went to stand by his horse, waiting to give her a boost to the saddle.

Dummy.
Of course he had a girl. Probably several girls. Why was she even bothering with this—­by the Song, why did she even care? He had saved her life, but he'd also been part of the reason her mother was dead. Hard-­hearted common sense, practical: those were the qualities she needed. She couldn't be a gullible rube who'd never seen or done anything. And yet she couldn't help it . . .

“Your sweetheart?” she said with a smile as if the answer meant nothing. She moved to the horse, stepping into his offered hand to be lifted with one easy swing from his arms.

“My brother's actually. She'll need a friend.”

By the time he bent to grab the reins and draw the horse into motion, she'd scolded herself back into sense. Certain men were pleasing to look at, but such thoughts indicated nothing more. “I would be glad to be her friend. Or try. Help if I can with her and the army facing your city.”

He smiled, and once more she lost all certainty as to what was happening to her.

R
amiro shook his head. With dawn an hour away, the opening to the west tunnel into Colina Hermosa gaped as a deeper darkness in the side of the hill, hidden behind a screen of tall saguaro. The darkness was to be expected to conceal the location, but not a soul was in sight. His countrymen should have greeted him by now. Something was very wrong though he felt no tingle of warning. “No guards,” he whispered to the girl, drawing his sword. “There should be a squad or more.” His father had kept a heavy contingent at each of the tunnels. Had the city fallen or something else occurred? “Wait here.”

She slid from Sancha and stroked the horse's shoulder. “No. I'm coming, too.” Suspicion tagged her voice.

“It's for your protection, not because I plan to deceive you.”

“I don't need protection.”

“Suit yourself.” There wasn't much he could do to get her to stay other than tying her up, and that idea just felt wrong. Besides: He had seen her move, and he had to admit she was even quieter than he—­maybe she could even help.

No longer foes, they weren't friends, either. Instead a wary in-­between had formed. They had agreed not to kill each other, but building trust was ongoing. He respected her now at least. It might be that newfound respect that made him worry—­he now actually
cared
if she might get hurt, especially if she could help the city.

“Sancha, stay here. Wait.”

The mare shook herself as if she understood, and he nodded. “See. She listens. Recognizes I know what's best for her.”

“She's also covered in fur and has fleas,” the girl whispered. “That puts her more like you than me.”

Ramiro turned at the entrance of the tunnel to stare at the silhouette of the girl. Sometimes, he respected her more than others. Right now, she was simply a pain in the ass. He
hmmphed
and choked back a smart answer as he remembered Salvador's advice to have patience with those who try you. It was hard, though—­Sancha had no fleas.

If anyone did, it was Claire.

Sword in hand, he cautiously walked a few yards into the tunnel. Nothing moved. No one jumped out at them, so he groped blindly for the barrel of torches that had been against the wall.

He touched the barrel with his knee. As his vision adjusted marginally, he set aside his sword long enough to select a torch and pulled out striker and flint. Soon he had a small light established.

Everything looked the same inside the tunnel, except for the lack of guards. The support beams stood solid. The torches were as before. No sign of struggle or violence. Only a fresh scree of loose pebbles and sand covered the floor. No trace the Northerners had ever been here. He led the way as the tunnel sloped down and around in a gradual curve, sword held ready.

“And this will get us into your city without encountering the enemy soldiers?” she asked.

“Right under the Northerners and into the citadel.” He frowned, lowering the flickering torch. The scree grew heavier on the floor, piling thick, where before the ground was always swept clean. The scent of dust hung thick in the air. Usually there was a slight breeze in the tunnel with air moving from one end to the other. “It feels­—­

They rounded a corner and came face-­to-­face with a wall of boulder, rock, and sand blocking the way forward. A thick, solid mass where digging would take days if not weeks, and the whole ceiling would probably come crashing down.

“—­wrong,” he finished.

“It collapsed?” Claire asked.

“No. It was done intentionally. A protective measure.”

“Why?” she asked.

He shrugged and sheathed his unneeded sword. “I haven't a clue, but the Northerners must have learned of the tunnels.” He scrubbed at his tired eyes with his free hand as disappointment rose. So close. Now stymied.

“What do we do?”

“I don't know.” He turned and retraced their steps up the tunnel. He'd counted on the tunnels for access to the city. With this one gone, the others must be closed as well. The torch hissed as he plunged it back into the sand filling the bottom of the barrel. The instant darkness pinned him in place to wait for eyes to adjust.

He covered his face and drew in a deep breath, holding it. Without the tunnels, how did they get through the Northern army? It was suicide to attempt to reach the city any other way. Suicide. Even the scouts would have trouble slipping through.

The girl caught his mood and held her distance. “You said the army is before the main gate. We make for a back gate?”