“I will.” She smiled and clapped a hand on his shoulder, realizing her friend had changed in their time apart. Gone was the constant questioning of his judgment and the emotional reactions. He’d grown into the beard he now wore so well.
By the time they reached the main gate, the sun had climbed higher in the fresh, new sky, sparkling among the ruins of Colina Hermosa, and Teresa drew in a deep lungful of air, despite the taint of smoke that lingered. Even in death, there was a painful beauty to be found here still. Gaping towers and charred upright posts lit by the first rays had an eerie elegance as she picked her way through the rubble. In places, only ash and a timber or two remained, while other structures had escaped the full force of the fire and lay in a toppled sprawl. Somewhere a desert wren called, the sound haunting in its solitude. It resonated and echoed the emptiness she’d been feeling all night.
She was the only member of their small group to see the destruction for the first time. All the others had been there when the city burned. When they’d arrived, the night had stolen the scene from her. Now, escape from the truth proved impossible. And it seemed that one reality hitting her in the face invited others upon her in an inescapable tide.
The loss of a home and the only family to sustain her over the last years since the passing of her parents had left a giant hole. She missed the pace and flow of the university with an ache that never truly left her. And since the role of motherhood had been thrust upon her in the form of a hundred refugee children, she had discovered exactly what else she was missing. Their childish hugs and needs had satisfied something inside she’d never expected existed. Then that too had been taken as she’d set the children aside to be of more use in stopping the Northerners. Even now, she wasn’t sure which way her regret swung heaviest, but seeing the charred remains spread out around her brought loss to the forefront of her thoughts.
“Do you think it could be rebuilt?” slipped from her mouth before she could stop the wistful words.
“All things can be accomplished with God’s grace,” was her companion’s predictable reply.
She let her lip curl, but at herself and not the priest. Hadn’t she witnessed two possible miracles the other day? And yet she still felt doubt. Not even being in the midst of the rarest and most prized phenomena of her civilization—returned from history—could make her put aside her skepticism. She found herself humming a nursery rhyme, the words playing in her head.
Saints above,
Saints below.
God’s hand spiritual,
God’s rule made flesh.
Covet not the miracle,
It brings death.
Common sense warned those blessed with miracles didn’t savor God’s favor long. Like Alvito, her soldier friend who made a miraculous return to health only to die within the fortnight while saving a group of refugees—including Teresa. Wielding such powers led to martyrdom and worse—a warning she intended to heed.
A toppled wall of loose brick and stucco blocked the path forward, covering the whole avenue. She sighed. Wisdom said to turn back. Instead, Teresa crouched on all fours to crawl over the obstacle. Despite the destruction, she recognized that they’d passed the shops that lined the street nearer to the front gate and had entered the affluent neighborhood outside the walls of her former home. Just a little farther and surely she could see the first building of the university, though the towers should have been visible long ago. She couldn’t stop now.
“Be careful. Don’t cut yourself.” With that warning to avoid shedding blood, Father Telo gamely staggered up the hill of shattered stone after her, despite his handicap, arms spread wide for balance as debris shifted under him. “But perhaps what you should really do is ask yourself about the wisdom of holding on to the past and what you expect to find when we arrive, child.”
Teresa froze, wiping a soot-stained hand across her brow. Her already worn and dirty poncho and trousers had added numerous dabs of ash and cinders to their collection of dirt and dried sweat.
The priest saw right through her. She couldn’t deny that a tiny part of her whispered that another miracle could have spared the university—that the buildings would be whole, the community of people intact and waiting for her. No matter how much louder the rest of her shouted that it wasn’t possible, the tiny voice remained. What was this mad quest across a burnt and dangerous city, but a last-ditch attempt to prove the hope correct?
She sat on the pile of whitewashed stucco, now shattered into a million pieces—too much like her soul. “You’re right, Father. It’s a waste of time better spent in other ways—and dangerous as well.”
The priest caught up to her. “That’s not what I meant, child. I suggest you examine your soul on whether seeing will put your ghosts to rest. I didn’t mean to imply the journey unnecessary.” He glanced at the stub of his arm. “I’m the last person to say closure is worthless. I took you on a feckless quest to kill Ordoño, only to lack the heart at the last minute.”
The weight of the sky pressed down. What clouds had gathered during the cool of the evening had disbursed without a drop of rain, leaving an empty blue to the horizon. The air hung stale and still around them, promising more heat. The bird no longer sang. Teresa reached the top of the pile, getting a view of more destruction, stretching as far as she could see and surely encompassing what remained of the university. A larger section of rubble topped across the space must have been the astronomy tower. There lay the twisted iron of the ornamental scrollwork gate. A tear gathered in her eye and then another as all came crashing down around her in the space of a heartbeat, and with the tangle of emotions, indecision bloomed. She caught at the words tumbling from her gut.
“Father, can we sit for a minute? I’m not quite ready to go back.”
“Of course.” He sank to a lumpy seat beside her to the clink of stone rearranging.
The tiny voice of hope choked and died within her, while the man waited beside her, his presence as restful and patient as though he sat at a deathbed.
Which it was in a way, she chided herself.
The sun beat upon her uncovered head and she cared not. Finally, Father Telo shifted.
“A long pilgrimage for silence, my child.” But his eyes crinkled in amusement to show he was teasing and not rebuking. “I find from experience that it helps to speak about it. Loss comes to us all.” He held up his arm that ended above the wrist. “Sharing with a fellow human or even talking to our Lord or the saints—”
“No . . . I don’t know . . . maybe.” She had not confessed to a priest in years. Not since the last had bid her repent or burn. First Wife Beatriz had confessed shortly after she arrived at the monastery, and Teresa believed Alcalde Julian—or former Alcalde, she corrected—had, not long after his cure. But she had never felt the need—had always kept her life private out of necessity, lest she be judged. Had spent her life hiding and not only from priests, but everyone around so they wouldn’t spy out her secret. The part of her no one would accept.
The tiny voice sprang into action again, accusing her in a whisper that secrecy had only ever gotten her loneliness.
The loss of hope slapped her in the face with other deficiencies. Her life at the university that she thought held so much contentment seemed as empty as the sky at this moment. What she had believed to be her friends and family were reduced to their true sphere of business acquaintances—people to share a drink with and speak about their day, but with neither side really listening to the other. Drawn together because of their shared location and experiences, but with feeble connections. Had she given much thought to any of them since learning the city burned? Worried over any of their fates? Their names had become as faded and empty of meaning as if she’d been separate from them for years instead of weeks. She saw the flimsiness of her relationships clearly for the first time.
“I have no family, Father. Parents dead. No siblings. With an exception or two, no one in the whole wide world to care whether I live or die.” An unexpected s
ob caught at her throat and she ducked her head.
“Ramiro is your cousin, surely he—”
“A joke, Father. From our first meeting. No real kinship exists. My parents died eight—no eleven years ago. I’ve fooled myself since then. There is no one. Spending time with the children made me see the truth.” She found it less and less easy to laugh as the days wore past and the bad news grew. Gone her normally cheerful attitude, replaced with a troubled heart and a frown.
“The refugee children you mentioned?” He took her hand with a gentle smile on his face. “Yes, the young have the ability to bring truth before us. The Lord sayeth, ‘Suffer the little children.’”
Bitterness stabbed Teresa from a thousand directions at his words. Long ago, she’d convinced herself she wanted nothing to do with having children or a family life—that work could be enough to plug a void that shouldn’t exist. Now that twisted like a knife, for her choices had left her with no one.
Self-loathing renewed for being born different from everyone around her.
A truth she’d only confessed once before and been shamed for it. A lesson in never putting trust in anyone, even those supposed to be supportive.
Yet, Father Telo’s strong face showed only concern as he waited for her to speak. He’d had compassion for even the worst of the Northern murderers, refusing to kill Ordoño or condemn Santabe. Here was a good man.
And what had hiding ever gotten her besides loneliness?
“I can never have children of my own—a family.”
His answer came quickly with the ease of long practice in quelling doubt. “I don’t know any who haven’t spoken so at some point. You are young. You mustn’t fret about these things. Love will come to you in time—once these dangerous threats have passed. Unless you mean, your health. Has a healer given you cause to doubt?”
“No, you don’t understand.” She hesitated, wanting to grasp at the escape he provided. Her differences could remain hidden if she drew back and let him believe his first instinct.
Somewhere stone fell against stone. Once again she forced herself to really see the collapse around her. To rebuild was possible but the city would not resemble what it had been in her lifetime. Dwelling on false hopes and dreams only kept her from achieving her true objective of being herself and not pretending.
“It’s not that, Father. I . . . I don’t see men in that way . . . for marriage. I . . . see women.”
“Ah.” His face cleared. “A difficult road, indeed, as a specialist in studying cultures must know.” His hand squeezed hers. “I thank you for sharing your heart with me. Even when two blind men stumble down the street, it helps if they lean upon each other. I am not sure I can help, but I’m here for you to lean against.”
She tightened her hold on his fingers, and his shoulder brushed hers. He spoke first, “Always I’ve felt that a child, whether born in the slums or a palace, is loved the same by our Lord. That a man with a crippled limb is looked on as kindly as one with straight. That women are favored with the same gifts and talents and intelligence as men. For nothing happens without intention from our Lord. Nothing. Do not feel shame for being what the Lord made you, though not all in the church agree with me on that. Another reason why I swore my oath to our Father and not the church. I don’t know why they see so often with the eyes of intolerance.”
He shook his head.
“But,” Telo continued, “I do know that what the heart desires steadfastly and with humility to our Lord, He provides. If you wish for family with all your might, it will be found. And I think you do Ramiro a disservice, being so quick to deny his kinship. I’m sure he would claim you are sangre kin at the least—a sister to his heart, more likely. If nothing else, this unworthy priest counts you as family. You may always speak to me.”
“Thank you.” Teresa nodded, feeling like the newest novice at a debate, struck dumb from an overflow of emotion, and they sunk into companionable silence. This time the quiet brought repose instead of self-incrimination. She looked out over the loss of her home and former life and slowly let it go to embrace the new.
May it bring me better things.
She sniffled and rubbed at her nose with her sleeve. “I don’t know what came over me, Father. I apologize for losing control.”
To her shock, he pinched her cheek, beaming at her. “That is what family is for. We are all bruised in spirit, like fruit dropped by the tree, but all the sweeter for our bad spots. We make one juicy pie.”
She laughed. “I will speak to Ramiro. You are right that I did him a disservice.”
Father Telo shivered, eyes cast toward the sky. “I feel we will need all the kinship we can pull upon.”
“Amen.”
The air smelled of rot. Not the first time on their outing when buried bodies must be hiding in the ruins. But then the light dimmed as though a shadow sailed over them.
Teresa glanced up, but saw no clouds or obstructions. The sunlight had simply . . . become less.
“What?” Her question sounded thin, like a child’s toy whistle in the street. Her shoulders hunched, knees curling to her chest. Instinctively, she knew the failing light meant Dal. Somewhere he struck. Her heart pounded and her body locked rigid as if she were a rabbit with a dog sniffing nearby.
Father Telo froze at her side, neither of them daring to breathe. Thrice she counted to twenty, her mind incapable of any other effort, then a breeze ruffled her hair and the sunlight expanded back to normal, beating upon her exposed skin once again.
She gasped, but the priest was already scrambling to his feet. “Hurry,” he said. “We must check on our companions. I pray that was not aimed at them.” He turned to totter down the pile of stone and she hurried after him.
Chapter 9
Ramiro gripped the rope as he watched Teresa and Father Telo leave on their exploration of the city. He hauled the bucket out of the well with too much vehemence, so that water slapped over the rim, wetting his feet. He cursed, though it was really his friends’ going without him that had him worried. Then a dry nose on the back of his neck swung him around to find Sancha, emerged from the storage room.
“Sorry, girl.” He set the full bucket on the well casing, then stroked her dapple-gray neck in apology that his mood had reached out to the mare. “I didn’t mean to take you away from your breakfast.”
Sancha’s ears pricked forward, and she stamped a hoof.
“I don’t think they should go, but I don’t have any right to order civilians around.” Or any right to order anyone while he waited to receive judgement from Captain Gonzalo. As a deserter, he was less than qualified to be an example, let alone to force his choices on a friend. And he couldn’t refute that Teresa had been right that his parents required protection as well. Somebody needed to stay. That didn’t keep him from feeling torn in two. “I’m sure they’ll be all right.”
He turned to check the narrow pathway along the wall, but Teresa was already out of sight. Logic said they couldn’t hide inside all the time. They’d already voted to brave the sunlight and leave on their separate tasks after eating and packing up. Time pressed and some risks had to be accepted—that didn’t mean he liked seeing his friends’ and family’s lives in danger. Claire, Teresa, his parents—he couldn’t be with all of them. Soon enough his parents would be on their own; staying with them now was the least he could do. It all came back to letting those he loved make their own choices. He had enough wisdom now to know all of them had to decide for themselves—eventually.
Sancha blew at him, as his thoughts turned to someone else he’d left unwillingly. “I’m sure Claire’s fine, too.” Claire risked the sunlight as well. The swamp was treacherous enough by day, she couldn’t always travel by night. He could no longer protect her either. It seemed that all their choices had shrunk until only the most dangerous remained.
Like going to a Northern encampment to find and kidnap an unwilling—and incredibly powerful—priestess.
He set his jaw. He’d managed
the same sort of task with taking Claire from the swamp and it had turned out for the best. He pictured her wheat-colored hair shining in the sunlight and a challenging light in her blue eyes . . .
More than the best.
“Claire has to be all right,” he told Sancha. He didn’t think he could get through the rest of his life without her. Knowing she waited for him was about all that held him together, and no six-foot priestess was going to slow him down, no matter how many people she’d murdered in the past. After that, he’d find a way to prove to Captain Gonzalo that his desertion was warranted. His mother might think he had a death wish, but that was far from the truth.
He put his hands to the task, filling a water skin, and allowed his mind to concentrate on their strategy. Though he hadn’t fully voiced his doubts, he didn’t find going after Santabe a solid plan. How were they to get inside an occupied city, find one priestess, and spirit her away without the entire Northern army chasing? And all of that would be the easiest part of the job. He didn’t have the slightest idea how to get Santabe to tell them how to stop a god she worshipped with blind intensity.
Their whole plan hinged on her knowing something and sharing that knowledge.
Impossible.
And yet, he wasn’t sure there was a better option open to them.
That thought, perhaps more than anything, bothered him. Because while Ramiro wasn’t beyond helping himself when the need called, the fact was, the figure from his dream promised him help. So why had that dried up? A hint would have been timely. Yet, he remembered no dreams from the night before, just a mix of nightmares that left his teeth on edge.
But maybe this lack of help was entirely the point: He was being left to make his own decision without guidance so that he could learn . . . well, something.
Julian came out of the other storage room, stretching his back and yawning. “An early start for you, my son.”
“A late one for you,” Ramiro teased. “The benefits of no longer being alcalde? But then Mother isn’t up either, and she hasn’t that excuse.”
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