Grudging (3 page)

A flight of arrows whizzed past, making Ramiro duck and close his eyes.

Below, more men must be climbing the ladder. Determination burned in Ramiro. His eyes flew open. No Northerner would stand atop this section of wall. Not if he lived to stop them.

Ramiro stood, revealing himself to the enemy bowmen, and gave a mighty heave. The ladder hung upright a foot off the wall and slowly fell backward as the Northerners on the ground lost control. Ramiro scrambled for the lost archer's bow, but before he could locate it, another ladder replaced the last. Someone put a six-­foot polearm into his hands.

He quickly formed a pattern with the soldiers around him, thrusting at the ladders while others cast down stones and reduced the weight by knocking loose the Northerners. Oftentimes, a well-­placed stone could break apart the rickety, overlong ladders. Push and duck. Duck and push. No time to think. Never let them breach the wall. Ramiro dodged spears and avoided swords. Men died or bled around him and were pulled away. At other spots along the wall, especially closer to the gates, Northerners breached the defenses and climbed over the wall to engage in hand-­to-­hand combat. Here, none made it off the ladders. He fought and sweated until his mind was numb, and his body ached.

It was both lifelong dream and nightmare.

The winding sound of horns split the air.

Ramiro knuckled the small of his back.
What now? There couldn't be more of them?

“Look!” someone shouted.

He spun, and his body grew chill despite the heat. In the distance, hulking wooden structures rose. Scores of oxen teams towed other contraptions with a single long arm ending in a cupped basket. Trebuchets and siege towers.

Ramiro's heart sank. They'd hoped the Northerners wouldn't bring such weaponry. The desert certainly couldn't supply any trees to suit the purpose. They must have brought these up from the siege of another
ciudad-­estado.
How could his city resist the siege engines when they barely held their own now?

But the gate guards around him lifted their arms in triumph. The enemy arrows had ceased. Ramiro leaned over the edge and watched as the Northerners pulled back in neat ranks, dragging their dead with them. As they retreated, the remaining ladders were quickly dispatched.

“They're quitting?” Ramiro asked, his breath coming in ragged wheezes.

“Nay,
chico
.” A gray-­haired soldier clapped him on the back. “They'll come another day when they've readied their siege machines. This was just a test of our readiness.” The man must have seen his expression because he laughed. “Celebrate each day. Likely we won't have many more.”

 

CHAPTER 3

S
hortly after the combat, Ramiro made his excuses to the men at the wall and left, returning to the citadel and taking the stairs to the roof. Some
alcalde's
wife from the past had turned this spot into an outdoor garden and dining room, making it a favorite retreat for many. A peaceful place when he felt anything but.

Other ­people's blood spotted his white shirt. Had things gone differently, it could easily have been his own. He needed a bath and a rest, but his mind hummed from the conflict, leaving him unable to stop pacing. Cold chills claimed his limbs. His stomach was sourer than when alcohol had filled it. With no clear single-­combat victory, he hadn't earned his beard. The night reeked of disappointment.

How long? How long could they keep the Northerners out?

Stars spotted the night sky here, where the citadel met the top of the world. Or so it had always seemed to him as a child. Life was no longer so certain now that he was older.

He drew in the cool scent of creeping jasmine, carefully tended and watered by hand in pots across the rooftop. Colina Hermosa spread before him, a humbling sight. The city stretched away from the citadel on all sides, a jewel shining with lights. It spread down the hill, becoming wider and grander as it sprawled, with imposing avenues and white-­clad stucco buildings whose thick walls and small windows kept out the noonday heat. There was squalor and dirt as well, fits of temper, rudeness, and often impatience. But the darkness hid all that, washing the city of its faults and giving it a fresh life until it tumbled like the sea against the immovable stone walls that now held out the Northerners.

His heart swelled with love. Something worth defending. Home.

Outside the high, white walls, well beyond arrow shot, was a sight not so welcoming. There, jammed between the city and a deep, old quarry used to build the city walls, campfires burned. A red swarm of rage and death, brimstone and smoke, offering a grim contrast with the peaceful firmament. Not by the hundreds did they burn, but by the thousands, mirroring the stars in the sky. How many peasants' houses did they demolish to feed so much hungry fire? They must be down to burning cacti. How they kept it up night after night, he couldn't begin to comprehend. Salvador had talked on about supply trains and quartermasters, but Ramiro had let his imagination dwell on his first ride instead. An indulgence he regretted now.

If only each fire meant a single enemy, but that was wishful thinking. Each fire contained tens of men. Tens and thousands. And behind them, the siege machines waited their turn. A lethal combination for Colina Hermosa.

He touched the spot above his spleen, and whispered, “Santiago, don't let me give in to despair.”

A shadow moved briefly and settled against the wall. Ramiro blinked and, as vision settled, he distinguished one of the
Alcalde's
personal guards. A second later, two new shadows strolled around a grouping of flowering prickly pear and palms, heads bent in conversation. He quickly made to leave but was stopped by a wave from one of the figures.

“Here you are,” Salvador called. His brother looked as clean and fresh as if he had come from a dance instead of a bloody battle. “I knew you were near. Stay. Father has been looking for you.”

Light flared as a servant with a lantern hurried to set it on the edge of the wall before bowing himself away.
Alcalde
Julian Alvarado was an unassuming man, a head shorter than his eldest son. Gray had conquered his bristling mustache and close-­cropped beard and made inroads on his dark hair. Even in the lanternlight, deep bags were prominent beneath his eyes. And yet something about him commanded respect, and Ramiro stood a bit straighter in his presence.

“Two this morning. Your firsts, my son. And you helped defend the wall.”

Ramiro glanced at Salvador but saw only neutrality. His brother must have made inquiries to learn such detailed information. “I think two with the bow, Father.” Instead of pride, disappointment surged for failing to achieve his dream twice in one day.

Julian took him by the upper arm and squeezed. “And you are well? Your mother's convinced I need to speak to you. She would steal her baby back from the army, I suspect.” His father smiled, giving new life to his eyes. “Speak up, my son. Are you ready to return to her skirts?”

Ramiro had known his path in life since before he could toddle: wherever his brother led. “It is my duty and honor to protect Colina Hermosa from all enemies. No matter the task.”

“Just so. Just so,” Julian said. “She faced the same when this tall one went his own way. I warned her that you would follow in his footsteps. She believed that because I was never in the army, her sons would escape it likewise. She still sees the boys,” he said with a small smile, “but I see before me men.” Ramiro tried to stand even straighter.

“But that is not why I was looking for you, Ramiro. We've had several new reports from
pelotónes
sent east.” The
Alcalde
glanced toward the seating area. “Come—­let us sit and discuss this in a more relaxed way.”

Curiosity sparked as to why his father would share such news with him. His father chose the bench against the outer wall, and Salvador took the chair closest to him. Ramiro pushed aside pots of orchids to set the lantern on the table, then dragged his mother's footstool over for a seat. “What did the intelligence say?”

“Zapata has crumbled to the Northerners,” his father said. “Their council refused the terms of surrender, and three days later, the city was put to the flame. The ­people slaughtered. The siege towers came from there.”

“Saints.” Ramiro drew in a tight breath.
Zapata destroyed.
He'd never been to the small city by the sea, but he'd heard of its beauty and legendary gardens, possible because of their more plentiful rainfall. There, Santiago had performed his first miracle. The saint had lain down to sleep on the ground, hungry and unsheltered like a beggar. As he slumbered, a great olive tree rose at his back, providing fruit to satisfy and broad limbs to shade. The ­people of Zapata honored Santiago through horticulture. Through growth and life.

The Northerners could work no greater sacrilege on Zapata than to destroy its gardens.

“So some of the Northerners do speak our language,” Ramiro said. “I guess we know their intentions.”

Salvador nodded. “When they are challenged, they push back. They sent an ambassador to our gates today while we were out patrolling. To offer terms.”

“What happened?”

“Father turned him away . . . unseen.”

“What?” Ramiro asked. “Why?”

“For good reason,” Julian said. “I told them I must consult with the council before any meeting can occur. I have not heard their terms, nor accepted or rejected them. They did not give us their ultimatum or their time period until our extermination.”

“So they cannot say you have defied them,” Ramiro said.

“A technicality.” Salvador rolled his eyes. “You cannot expect our ­people to be saved by such tactics.”

“Stalled. I can expect them to be stalled,” Julian said. “A few days to arrange a meeting, more days to give our answer to their terms. It is the way of politicians, a universal language even barbarians comprehend, much like mathematics.”

“They have no honor,” Salvador said with a shake of the head. “They will not wait because you refused to hear them. Likely the attack today was because of it.”

“Such attacks we can handle. And there are many types of honor, my sons. Never forget that. If it soothes their conscience to give their victims a sevenday to decide whether to live or die, they will stick to it. Let us hope they do not try to breach the walls until they have delivered their terms.”

“But they could not get inside,” Ramiro said quickly. “We would repulse them.” The words were foolish pride; he knew it the minute they left his mouth.

And yet his father didn't rebuke him. Rather, Julian looked out over the wall at the flickering campfires, “Aye. That we would. We will be no easy meat. But it's not just walls we must worry about.”

That was what Ramiro had come to realize. Yes, they could stop the Northerners for a time from breaching the walls. But fire was a different foe. When the enemy used the siege machines or even arrows to fling fire at them long enough, they couldn't extinguish every one. Their wells were deep, but there wasn't enough water if the whole city was burning.

If only they understood the Northerners' motives, Ramiro thought, they could find some ransom to spare Colina Hermosa.

As if reading his thoughts—­and coming to the conclusion there was nothing these Northerners wanted, Julian said, “No—­we cannot wait for the Northerners to decide our fate. And while the council bickers, it is up to us. We must take action without their approval. There is an alliance we have not tried.

“In the swamps.”

Ramiro stood, his surprise flooding out in words. “You would seek out the witches? The witches are friends to no one.”

“See, Father,” Salvador said. “I told you he would disagree. Now will you give it up as impossible?”

Julian raised a hand. “Spoken from your spleen and not your mind, just as the Northerners see our small numbers and underestimate us. Yes, our ally Aveston cannot help us, and with the siege engines, our enemies do not need to breach the gate. But you both mistake the purpose of this conversation—­I am not looking for advice this night from either of my sons. The witches may or may not aid us, that is true. Sometimes risks have to be taken. Sometimes the impossible attempted. And for that, there is no one I trust more to give this task to. The two of you and three others will go.”

Shock kept Ramiro silent. Go to the witches! Why would his father pick him? He was one of the least experienced men in the
pelotón
. There were so many more likely choices. Not that it mattered, though, he thought bitterly. Stay here and fight uselessly to save the city or venture out practically alone on a suicide mission. His brother was shaking his head, obviously coming to the same conclusion.

“The witches will never agree to help us,” Salvador said. “They'd dance to see us eliminated.”

“They may hate us”—­Julian held up a finger—­“but would they rather
we
lived here or the Northerners? Will the Northerners stay out of the witches' swamp? The witches know we will ignore them. Can they say the same of a new enemy? That will be your negotiation point.”

“Why me?” Ramiro said in a whisper, then louder, “Why me? Why not someone better suited.” Pride, worry, and confusion took equal shares in his head.

“As I said, I need ones I can trust to keep this mission secret. If the ­people learn of our desperation, they will panic. And why not you, my son. Are you not fit and ready? Do you not love our home and follow duty as much as anyone?”

For that Ramiro had only one answer. And yet, it didn't seem his father was being entirely truthful about his reasoning . . . or this mission.

 

CHAPTER 4

C
laire wiggled her toes in the grass, studying the shape of her feet. Maybe a little too thin, like the rest of her, but not bad. Her dress of undyed linen showed too much leg, but it couldn't be let down any more. No hem remained. She hoped there was time to sew a new dress before winter arrived, but so many other things had to be done first. Firewood. Garden. Harvesting herbs for medicine. It was hard to manage all of it between just her and her mother.

A clear day wasn't such an uncommon event in late summer but still to be enjoyed. And she didn't really need shoes on dry land and so close to home. It wasn't as if she got to walk across the swamp to the village to trade beaver and mink skins for supplies. Sometimes, it seemed like she'd
never
be given the chance to do that. Especially with all the chores her mother piled onto her.

Beside her, the pot containing lye, lard, and water boiled merrily. Molds lay beside her, waiting to receive the hot liquid when it reached the right consistency, which wouldn't be for a while yet. Claire stayed upwind to avoid a noseful of stink. Making soap was no picnic, but she got a day alone.

She dropped the stir paddle and flopped onto a hillock of grass, letting the sun soak into her bones. With no lessons to be learned and nothing to do, she sighed and wrapped her long braid of wheat-­blond hair around her wrist until the end nearly reached her elbow. The goats' bells tinkled in the distance. “I can be as lazy as I want!” She shouted because Mother wouldn't allow it and to see if there'd be any echoes. There weren't.

There never were.

She let go of her hair and lay back in the grass to watch the clouds. Before the first batch of white puffiness drifted past, movement caught her eye. A small brown rabbit ventured from under the dangling, ball-­like flowers of a buttonbush. She sat up on an elbow.

“Should I?” Mother wasn't here to interfere. What good was magic if you never had permission to use it? She was a Woman of the Song—­or a Girl of the Song at least. How was she to decide whether the magic was useful or something to be learned but kept hidden as her mother insisted? She looked around furtively—­no one there.

The opportunity was too tempting.

Claire sat up taller and drew air from her diaphragm as she'd been taught, making sure the sound could carry far enough and the rabbit hear her. Her mother said the magic took the sound farther than a normal person's voice, but Claire had no idea of the distances involved as her mother wouldn't go into detail.

She sang, putting the intention of the words firmly into her heart and mind, letting the words match her voice and become her will.

“Come along to me.

Come along to me.

All is safe.

All is sure.

Come to me.”

She made the words simple so the rabbit could understand, but caressed them with music as Mother had shown her. For over two thousand years, Women of the Song had used such magic to defend themselves—­used it sparingly and with sound judgment, but they used it. A rabbit might not be a mighty foe, but a girl had to start somewhere. And it was better than singing to the trees or a fence post. It had a mind to be persuaded. The rabbit loped in her direction, leaving the safety of the bush behind.

“Skies are clear of hawks.

Good food to munch.

Come along to me.

Come along to me.”

Claire hardly dared to move as the small creature inched closer. “Friends to be found—­”

White hindquarters flashed as the rabbit disappeared back under the bush faster than Claire could blink.
By the Song!
She scowled at her miscalculation as the sun vanished behind a thick patch of clouds.

Silly creature.
She should have known. Rabbits didn't understand the term “friends.” The concept was completely foreign to them. That was the one basic rule her mother had explained thoroughly, when she left so much else to Claire's too-­active imagination: The Song didn't work effectively unless you matched it to the intended target.

But that's why I need to practice.

She picked up the paddle and gave the soap mixture a hard stir. Animals didn't care about friends. Neither did her mother. And neither should she if she was going to get this soap finished. A hard, little knot formed in Claire's chest. She couldn't help thinking about it.

What would it be like to have someone her age to share secrets with? Someone who would act silly and giggle with her?

She loved her mother—­no girl could have a better—­but the ache in her heart longed to be filled with something or someone else—­something new.

Friends were not allowed. Practicing the Song on anything that could hear her was not allowed. Venturing out of the swamp was not allowed. Meeting anyone was not allowed.
Fun
was not allowed. She gave the soap another halfhearted stir. It might be babyish to mope, but she wanted those things.

The sun poked out from behind the clouds, and Claire squinted, smiling. Her mother trusted her with the soap. That was progress. Maybe soon she'd get to be the one trading at the village. She put her attention back on the kettle, determined to make this the best batch ever. Let Mother see how grown-­up she could be, then maybe every “no” would turn to “yes.”