Claire dragged her stick in a circle and then a square, thinking. The explanation made sense she supposed, but didn’t alleviate her worry. “I wanted to hurt them because they hurt you. I wanted them dead. But . . . but now I feel . . . dirty. Guilty, I guess. I wanted to use my magic to protect us, but maybe I was wrong.” She hid her face behind a hand. She’d even left the Northerners’ bodies lying at their old campsite. It had been too much work to gather wood to give them a proper burning at the time, so they’d gone to a fresh camp, and she’d left the dead for animals. Since then she couldn’t bring herself to return and repair her cruelty. That was wrong on her part.
“Humph,” Jorga said. “I think you did as you should. Those men deserved death. Attacking old women, and children—because you’re still a child, no matter your age—and I suppose those desert people who helped us didn’t deserve swords in the night either,” Jorga added reluctantly. “But there is a way.”
Claire dropped her stick and uncovered her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“A way not to kill with that Death Song you used. It won’t be easy. You have to cut it off at the right time—render the person unconscious, but don’t kill them. It’s a matter of timing and practice.”
“Practice?” Claire said so loudly that Errol sat up. “How does one practice stopping a heart? On who?”
“Then don’t practice. You’ll just have to figure out how to finesse the length of the Death Song as you use it more. Too little and you’ll make them woozy. That’s dangerous, child. Better aim to kill and if you miss, it’s accidental. Or don’t use it at all. Have them kill themselves instead. I can teach you that Song.”
“No,” Claire said quickly. Jorga and that Song had Ramiro attempting to thrust a knife in his own eye. If Claire hadn’t held on to his arm and stopped Ramiro, he’d be dead. Jorga hadn’t even been acting in self-defense. Her prejudice against men had filled her with hate. She’d strike without knowing if a man meant her harm or not. “I’ll never use that Song.”
“Be not so quick to judge me.” Jorga’s mouth pinched in a scowl. “Who called an evil god into this world to destroy?”
Claire jumped to her feet. “That was to protect lives. I had no idea it would call a real god.” She scooped up the pot—“I’ll fetch more water”—and stormed off, leaving Errol with his mouth hanging open. He worshipped Jorga too much.
Sometimes, she saw exactly why Ramiro didn’t like her grandmother.
Her head whirled with everything she’d learned and the guilt of it all. She set the pot to fill in the stream of flowing water—the reason she’d chosen this camping spot—and rested on her heels to think. She’d pledged not to be afraid to use the magic anymore. Yet, relying on Songs that only distracted the Northerners, like the Hornet Tune, was too risky. She didn’t want to die because she wouldn’t harm others. That meant sticking with the Song that caused death. She put her fingers in the stream and let the water tumble across her hands.
Perhaps, Jorga had given her a way out. She’d just have to manipulate the Death Song to stop short of killing. Then she could be safe and avoid more blood on her hands.
Of course, she’d also said that’d take time and patience. Easier said than done.
Panic squeezed in her chest.
To fight it, she built an image of Ramiro in her mind’s eye. The way he looked when he turned his head over his shoulder to tease her: one dark eyebrow lifted and a smile on his lips, head tilted, and the set of his back firm.
The world seemed better when he was with her. She hadn’t been alone, obviously, but she hadn’t felt alone with him, either. The way she still did even when speaking to Jorga or Errol.
With a start, she noted the pot overflowed. Her mother would say sulking wasted time, and she’d be right. Claire withdrew the container from the stream and moved to a group of cattails, using her short knife to dig the roots out of the mud and liberally splashing her clothing in the process. She’d get Errol to pound the roots while she took the horse to water. She could clean up while it drank.
She staggered to the camp, having underestimated the difficulties of carrying a bunch of slimy roots and the full pot of water, to find Errol crouched over the fire with Bromisto, one fair haired and one nut brown. The boys had their heads together as the smaller Bromisto sharpened a stick with a notched old knife. Two skinned and cleaned rabbits already hung over the flames and the odor of cooking meat made Claire’s mouth water.
“Let me try,” Errol demanded.
“Next time.” Bromisto gave the older and taller boy a shove with his shoulder and kept working. “You’ll cut yourself.”
“Will not.” Errol shoved back and then laughed.
“Don’t make me come over there,” Jorga said. The woman had left her blankets for the first time under her own power in three days and stood leaning against a tree. The boys whispered and snickered together, obviously making fun of the only adult. “Pay attention to what you’re doing,” Jorga snapped.
Claire dropped several roots. Bromisto was here, out of nowhere, after being sent away? Her uncle was smiling and talking? Jorga was on her feet? A pang swelled in Claire’s chest and suddenly tears welled in her eyes, without knowing why, until the answer hit her. It was all so . . . so normal . . . where nothing had been normal in a very long time. They had moved in fear for so long—even now she should be worrying about the smoke drawing down Northerners to kill them or that Bromisto would indeed cut himself and the blood would bring Dal. But she didn’t want to speak about that. Didn’t want to break this moment of ordinary, like a ray of brilliant sunshine through a thunderstorm.
It renewed her and gave her fresh strength. Her indecision and hesitation evaporated.
“Witch girl!” Bromisto called out happily. “I brought you some breakfast. Why are you standing over there? Come help. Cooking is women’s work.”
The boy didn’t flinch from her. Claire dabbed at the tears with a muddy sleeve, covering up their traces, so she could glare in mock anger at his tiny chauvinist ways. From a grown man, the words would be insulting. From him, they were only comical. “Very funny, Trickster. After we eat, we’re starting after the Women of the Song.” Time to face the task before her. They might not get far today, but they’d make as many miles as they could until Jorga got too tired to continue. “All of us. You’re welcome to come with us, Bromisto—there’s plenty of women’s work for you. Because all work is women’s work and that includes hunting and fighting. My grandmother and I will teach you manners yet—after all, I taught Ramiro.”
Bromisto grinned up at her. “You can try.” He jostled Errol again and the two laughed.
“Start this water boiling,” Claire said. “I have something to fetch before we eat and pack up.” She left the pot and the roots and darted to her blankets to snatch a concealed shirt—one of Ramiro’s that helped her sleep—then traversed the treacherous terrain to their old campsite. The smell of rotting flesh hit her before the mud and stick shelters appeared. She clamped Ramiro’s shirt over her nose and mouth to keep from gagging, drawing in the safe odor of him that lingered in the material.
Quick glances at the ground let her avoid stepping on the dead bodies as she hurried to their former lean-to. Animals had scattered parts of the dead everywhere.
Next to the bunch of bloodied blankets where Jorga had been stabbed lay a slender white rod as long as Claire’s arm. After using it to heal Jorga, she had left the weapon with the abandoned blankets as something else too foul for future use. She stared at the Diviner long and hard, mosquitoes whining in her ears.
What are you waiting for, silly head? It’s not going to bite you.
Probably.
The white Diviners killed with a single touch.
She threw Ramiro’s shirt at the evil thing and scooped both up before she could dwell on her actions, turning and scrambling in a mad run to her family. She’d give the Diviner to the Women of the Song and let them deal with how to use it. Maybe this proof of
the Northerners would even help them believe her warnings. One could hope.
Chapter 5
Beatriz threw herself across Julian. “Mi amor.”
“Let’s give them a minute alone,” Teresa said.
Ramiro nodded and followed the priest and Teresa into the corridor, closing the door to the monk cell after him. His mother’s whisper and father’s deeper rumbles were audible through the planks behind him. And like a boy caught stealing pies from the cooling shelf, their open affection still made him want to look away and be more then glad to heed Teresa and go into the hall.
Already his father had sat up in bed, talking animatedly, and would have been off the mattress and on his feet if Teresa and Beatriz hadn’t insisted he wait an hour or so to be sure of no relapse.
“Julian is alive.”
The words came from his own head and from the priest’s mouth. Father Telo crossed the hallway to put his back against the wall and slide down to the floor. In an odd contrast, his lips beamed in a wide smile, while tears ran down his dark cheeks. He grasped the stump of his arm close to his chest.
“My father is alive, cousin!” Ramiro caught Teresa in a rib-squeezing hug, catching her so off guard she barely squeezed back before he released her.
“Aye. I was there,” Teresa said, her plump cheeks almost choking her eyes with her smiles.
“The Lord sees us,” Telo said amidst the tears, a combination of delight and awe in his voice.
“I kind of thought that was your thing.” Ramiro joined the priest, sliding down the wall as well to sit in a jumble on the floor. He gripped the medallion of San Martin, patron of soldiers, hanging from his neck. Joy bubbled in his chest, and he held back a laugh that was half hysteria. “You know, to have no doubts.”
“There’s a difference between knowing and, well, knowing, cousin.” Teresa had crossed her arms across her chest. Her figure was less round than the last time Ramiro had seen her, but it was still her most prominent feature. In opposition to societal trends, she wore trousers and peasant clothing, keeping her hair mannishly short. Ramiro couldn’t have cared less—the sight of her warmed him.
“The last miracles were witnessed over three hundred and fifty years ago,” she continued. “It’s been a rather long time.”
“Aye.” Ramiro trusted a scholar from the university to have the dates correct. As a specialist in other cultures, Teresa had been part of his first mission to the witches of the swamp, the women he now knew to call the Women of the Song. He had saved Teresa’s life from quicksand and she had kept him sane when Salvador died, making them sangre kin—or kin by ties other than blood. “It was . . . incredible to see. It kind of knocks a person off their feet.”
“He is with us, my friends,” Telo said, suddenly grabbing Ramiro by the shoulder and shaking him. “He is with us!” The priest put his arms across his knees and leaned forward to bury his face in them. Sobs shook him.
Ramiro thought of the ghostly figure from his dreams who wore his brother’s face and sometimes gave him insight into what to do next—the figure he didn’t want to speculate about. “I get that impression, too.” This time the hysteria leaked free in the form of shaky chuckles.
Had they just seen a holy miracle? The priest seemed sure enough of it.
Mirth settled as dark thoughts intruded. Why had the dreams picked him as a witness? Ramiro felt more like a betrayer than a hero—deserter from his military brothers, abandoner of Claire, the one responsible for bringing Dal among them to kill thousands, perhaps millions. He should be shunned, not rewarded. He would be shunned when people found out the truth.
Ramiro touched mind and heart, his fingers glancing off his breastplate. The first time he wore his full armor, Julian had helped clothe him in the shining metal. Dead and now alive. This was a moment to celebrate; doubts could wait. “We just saw a . . . I don’t know what that was. I could use a drink.”
“There’s ale in the kitchen,” Teresa offered. “No stronger spirits, sorry. I already looked.”
“Practical as always, cousin. You’re a woman after my own heart.” The words reminded him he should act with the same sense of responsibility. “Maybe we should check on the other injured. See if they got better, too.”
“There are no other wounded here. All the other survivors of Dal’s attack went to Aveston, as it was closer. We brought Alcalde Julian to the monastery because we thought he shouldn’t fall into the hands of the Northerners. Some scouts and the grooms survived and helped us get him here, then one of them took the news to Suseph and to fetch the Lady Alcalde.”
“It was a scout that directed me to the monastery.” A scout and maybe some nudging from a higher source. Ramiro felt a little shaky at the idea that he’d been directed here to witness a marvel. He looked at his companions with fresh eyes. Which one of them had been the conduit for that power? Because it had not been him. Then something else struck him.
“Wait—what did you call my mother? Lady Alcalde?” He had heard Telo use the same words inside the cell with Julian.
“A little title I invented as there is no precedent.” Again, a wide smile crossed Teresa’s face, as if chasing away her troubles. “Your mother was elected alcalde for Colina Hermosa and Suseph.”
Ramiro shook his head. “There is no Colina Hermosa and my father is alcalde.”
“Was. He was deposed by a vote of no confidence of the councilmen and refused to seek reelection. And don’t count Colina Hermosa out yet. The spirit survives. I have the whole story from your mother. The women came out and voted in great numbers—something not seen for two hundred and eighteen years, when a concejal suggested their voting power be removed. Lady Alvarado won in a landslide. Isn’t it wonderful! It deserves to be recorded in the histories.” Teresa’s face fell. “Except all the histories are burnt with the city—and the university.”
“I’m sorry, cousin.” The reminder of Colina Hermosa’s fall canceled out some of the pride he felt in his mother, but Ramiro still felt the need to celebrate—and forget. “But why am I not surprised? That sounds like my mother’s sort of work. Good for her. Now . . . where did you say that ale was?”
“A barrel in the kitchen. Bring me a cup—and maybe one for the priest, too. I’ve never seen him like this. Left at the end of the hall and then straight on.”
Ramiro levered to his feet and found doing so took almost more energy than he had left. The events of the morning had stunned him. Joy drained almost as much as grief. His mother their new alcalde. His father dying and then somehow alive. His brother soldiers dead and likely burned in that pyre he’d seen in front of Aveston. A mix of terrible and fantastic news.
He took a right at the end of the corridor, passing into a more modernly designed and less feudal addition to the monastery, and stood blinking absently in a ruined chapel, where the Northerners had broken the stained-glass windows and overturned the stone lectern. A single square of glass remained intact in a window, showing a glowing halo in reds and golds above where the head of a saint should have been.
Ramiro realized his mistake and backtracked, finding the monks’ kitchen behind a closed door. The glass over the two windows was intact, as well as everything else in the room, including a large table in front of the great stone fireplace. Either the Northerners had missed this room or they had preserved it for some reason. A handful of scouts greeted him from the table without bothering to get up. He gave them a two-fingered salute and crossed to the keg in the corner. A few flies buzzed around him. Wooden mugs sat atop the barrel, and he didn’t bother checking if they were clean before putting one under the spout. The foam clung to his lips as he drank.
He’d put the mug under for a refill when something stung his arm. “Ow.” A reflex slap smashed a horsefly as big as a coin. Its eyes were an odd red. Shouts came from behind him, and he turned to find the scouts slapping at other flies—the insects suddenly interested in nothing but biting. The room darkened. Another huge horsefly came for his face, and Ramiro waved
his mug at the pest.
“Look at that!”
Ramiro spun. The windows were covered with thousands of crawling flies, buzzing to get into the room and blotting out the sunshine. Tiny impacts made loud by their numbers pinged against the door to the outside. Ramiro’s feet backed to a corner without a command from his brain. The scouts shuffled around him.
“Saints.” He’d never seen anything like the flies’ numbers—or determination. If the glass hadn’t been in the windows—“Saints!”
There was no glass in the windows of the room containing his parents.
He sprinted for the hall, picking up speed in the long, open space and careening through the monastery into the older section, drawing his sword as he went. Teresa and Father Telo were on their feet when he arrived. They swatted at the air as screams came through the walls. Ramiro pushed past them to throw open the door to the cell. Beatriz and Julian flailed under an assault. Flies covered every surface, descending on Ramiro in a biting cloud. He felt stings on his arms and legs, right through his clothing. They dinged off his breastplate and tore at his neck, crawling in his beard. Waving his sword might have hit a few, but thousands more moved at him.
He threw down his sword to slap at his body. Each strike killed dozens of the big insects . . . and did nothing to stop the attack. Dozens of tiny bites burned and stung already. Single, they would have done little than draw a bit of blood and create a welt. In the thousands, they ate him by inches.
He stumbled forward, brushing horseflies from his face. His heart thudded. Beatriz’s cries of pain rang in his ears. The mattress lay discarded on the floor as though attempted to be used as a shield but found to be too flimsy. Beatriz and Julian had wound sheets around their bodies but the creatures bit right through the thin material. Ramiro could barely protect himself, let alone his flailing mother. And still more flies sailed through the unblocked window.
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