“Oh, your mother is up.” His father scratched Sancha under the chin by way of greeting the mare. “Awake enough to give me an earful this morning about my idea for us to separate. I do believe if I hadn’t just returned from the dead, she’d have rejected the notion. As it is, I was spared the worst.”
Ramiro frowned. “Then she’s saving the worst for me.”
“‘Prevenido vale por dos,’” Julian quoted.
“I don’t think any forewarning is enough preparation to overcome Mother.”
Julian clapped him on the back. “Welcome to adulthood, my son, welcome to being a man. Keep repeating yourself and she’ll wind down—that works forty percent of the time.”
“Or I could remind her it was all your idea.”
His father gave a mock shiver. “Never that. Blaming others riles her up more. I tried that over the silk-dress misunderstanding in the fourth year of our marriage and it backfired. I do believe if she hadn’t been pregnant with your brother, she would have moved to your grandfather’s house.”
Ramiro had heard the story enough to know the wisdom of his father’s advice.
“I don’t think she’ll go into our separation in front of others.” Julian looked around. “But where is the priest and our ambassador? Not left us, I hope.”
“In the city, settling some ghosts.”
Julian touched mind, heart, liver, and spleen, the motion awkward and unpracticed. “We all do what we must. Speaking of which, do you want to talk about Gonzalo? I’ve known him some years, I could advise you.” Julian scratched his beard. “Your mother can pardon you, by the way—it is an alcalde’s prerogative. In truth, the difficulty might be in stopping her.”
“I keep forgetting Mother is alcalde now. So strange.”
“Your mother will do very well as alcalde—when her family can stop stealing her away from the job. What about her offer?”
The offer tempted, but what sort of man let his parents solve his difficulties the whole of his life? The decision to dodge his military duties had been no one else’s. “I’ll stand on my own two feet. I’d not have her first act be showing favoritism to me.”
“So like your brother. I told her your answer wasn’t going to change, but I also promised to ask you anyway. That’s why she’s sulking—never let her hear I said that.” Julian clapped him on the shoulder and strode over to the fire. “Put me to work. What can I do to get us moving faster?”
“You can divide the food remaining between those five saddlebags.” Julian nodded, and they worked in silence some moments. Ramiro finished filling the water skins and added them to the growing piles of readied supplies, then refilled the bucket for the horses to drink. By the time he returned from tending the animals, Julian had dealt decisively with the food and brought the blankets from the storage room. His father sat by the fire, eating dried figs.
As Ramiro joined him, Julian said, “All set?”
“Hi-ya.” The question wasn’t directed at the completed work surrounding them but the task before them. A sudden influx of nerves, striking now that Ramiro’s hands were no longer busy, threatened to trip him up, making fewer words easier to manage for both of them. In a flash he realized such must have been Salvador’s feeling before his brother led them on a hunt for a witch that had resulted in Salvador’s death and finding Claire. Ramiro had learned then that leadership had its price. The grim reminder shut off any other desire for conversation.
“God go with you, my son.” Julian ate his figs and that would have been the end, except Beatriz came bustling out of the storage room. Every button done, her hair gleamed smooth and perfectly arranged without the benefit of a mirror, though Beatriz had set aside her mantilla for a simple black veil hanging limp around her face.
“Enough of this manly attitude. I will have a proper parting. Hug your mother.”
He complied, squeezing her hard enough to force the air from her lungs. She gave him a swat. “Are you ready? Do you have enough—”
“I’ve plenty of socks, Mother. Every time I tried to throw some away, Claire put them back in my bags.”
Beatriz smiled like a cat with cream. “I quite like that girl. I didn’t think I would, but then I saw her use a plank. She put down that Northern deserter with spirit to spare. And she speaks her mind. Fronilde and her quiet ways suited your brother. He needed a traditional wife. You, always with holes in your clothes, never settling still, could never be satisfied with such tameness. You take after your father in that. A wife who rolls bandages and sits at home won’t do. You need someone more outspoken and adventurous, like me. I told your father so.”
“I don’t remember any such—” Julian started.
Beatriz held up a finger. “Don’t start with me or I’ll remember who decided we needed to split up. Who is alcalde here and should be making the decisions?” Julian’s mouth closed, and Beatriz rolled onward. “I didn’t know about a witch at first, but I’ve changed my mind. And when she brings the other witches, they’ll find we welcome a woman in charge also.”
Ramiro had a sudden vision of his mother as the most determined and single-minded leader ever elected from Colina Hermosa. His people didn’t know what they’d gotten themselves into with their vote. It might be the saving of them. But Beatriz wasn’t finished. She gripped Ramiro’s chin. “Have you settled things properly with Claire?”
“Well, I . . . we . . . she knows how I feel.”
“And?” Beatriz prompted. “It’s war time. There’s no sense in taking our time. You let her know you love her. How did she answer?”
Ramiro found he couldn’t meet his mother’s eyes. He sensed the disappointment coming already. He pulled his chin from her relentless grip. “She felt the same . . . but”—his mother’s expression sharpened—“I never asked her as such. It didn’t seem like the right time with treason hanging over me.”
“Nonsense! She feels the same. You’re sure.” Beatriz gave a sharp nod. “Then Father Telo will say the first banns and he can do the second from inside Aveston tomorrow. This is no time for half measures. I let one son put off a wedding, and I’ll not let that happen with another.”
Ramiro opened his mouth to insist that he’d never spoken to Claire and hadn’t an answer on whether she would marry him and leave her kind, then let it go. Claire would never know banns had been read unless he told her—likely she wouldn’t care about an antiquated religious tradition—but the empty ritual would mean much to his mother. It cost nothing to let her be happy in this.
“A very good idea, Mother.”
“Father Telo. Where is the man?”
“Gone for a walk,” Julian said smoothly.
“A walk?” Beatriz huffed. “When we are ready to leave? What was the man thinking?”
“Most inconsideration of him, I know,” Julian teased. “He should anticipate his alcalde’s every want. Mi amor.”
Beatriz’s hands flew to her hips, but then she laughed. “Now and forever.”
Ramiro sensed an old joke between his parents being revisited and escaped to saddle Sancha. The other horses were already done. Beatriz followed him to the well. “Horse, you will watch over my son”—her voice broke and recovered—“and see he comes to no harm.”
Sancha whinnied and scraped a hoof across the pavers, and Ramiro left off adjusting straps and buckles to embrace Beatriz again. “It will be fine, Mother—Lady Alcalde.”
She hid it well, but how could she not be suffering? Last time they parted like this, she’d sent out two sons—just one had returned. Now the world was trying to end. The brave face she put on was a thin mask.
Ramiro squeezed harder as it was all he could do. Promises could come to nothing. He knew that well enough.
A stink of rotting bodies filled the air. The sunlight dimmed.
Before he could get a solid look at the sky, a force of despair and worthlessness buckled their knees and sent all of them cringing in the dirt. Hatred. Disdain for life. Desire to wipe creation away. All slammed i
nto Ramiro. The horses within the storage room screamed in panic. Sancha’s ears lay flat, her front knees folded on the ground and her neck stretched out. Beatriz trembled beside him on the ground, her eyes leaking tears.
The edge of Dal’s power hit them, not his direct malice. Ramiro quickly realized the difference, but could do nothing—even the periphery was enough to show the god’s strength. Not a muscle twitched, not even to crawl toward his mother to drag her to the safety of the dark storage room. His body shook and his thoughts tumbled. The fear of drawing Dal’s direct gaze so terrified him that he could not so much as lift his head.
Their will was nothing to the merest brush of Dal’s intent.
Worthless. Powerless.
They had no more chance of stopping this demon than an ant had of lifting a boulder. Not with a thousand ants. Not with a million.
All would perish.
Like Salvador. Like all his companions in uniform. Soldiers. Women. Children. Humanity would end. Darkness would swallow the light, to rule forever.
Dust clogged his nostrils. Stones gritted under his hands. Oh, to be as lowly as the earth so as not to draw Dal’s attention. Lower than a blind worm, crawling undetected and so spared.
Worthless. Unimportant.
Ramiro spat out a mouthful of dirt. Why was he doing the work of the dark god for him? Dipping his head, abasing himself without a struggle. For what? To earn a few more moments of life?
Pure stubborn determination bloomed, instilled in him by two proud parents, followed quickly by shame.
Not this soul. He was no worm. A tiny unafraid part of Ramiro refused to bow down and cower to evil. He braced his arms against the ground and shoved upward. Then his knees locked, putting him on his feet. His back slowly straightened, every inch gained a strain by locked and uncooperative muscles. Tears of terror still flowed, but he stood upright, chin raised. If his throat was to be cut, let it be as a man, not a worm.
He stood alone, teeth bared to the wind.
The sunlight flared to full strength. The demon vanished, and left him panting as if he’d fought for his life. Sancha shook her entire body like she’d rolled in dust, and scrambled to her feet. Ramiro turned to help his mother up as Julian stood more slowly. Somewhere, people had died, torn apart by the wrath of an insane god—he prayed the malice was turned on no one he loved—but his family had survived this day. Somehow, they’d survive the next and the next, and put an end to this. Help or no help, he’d find a way, even if he had to do so with his bare hands.
Chapter 10
Father Telo looked at the massive sprawl of the Northern camp around Aveston and noticed nothing unusual, despite what Ramiro said about his last visit.
“Do you see the change?” Ramiro asked. An entire day had passed since Teresa’s confession to Telo and Dal’s forcing them to grovel in the dust, and they’d all managed to put aside the effects. Their split complete, they’d reached Aveston with good speed.
Telo checked the scene again. The tents and wagons looked to be arranged neatly, much as they had been when he’d been a captive to Ordoño. Black-and-yellow uniforms filled his vision, going about ordinary tasks. No soldiers weaved around drunkenly today. The flow of refugees exiting Aveston had slowed to a steady trickle from the flood Ramiro described—that was to be expected. The only thing new was a row of white-robed priests spaced fifty feet apart around the perimeter of the camp and the gates of Aveston, all holding red Diviners—arranged like a living wall. Telo’s eyebrows rose for that, but the thirty or forty priests simply stood there in perfect formation, doing nothing and ignoring what refugees or soldiers moved between them. In fact, they looked bored.
“Do you see it?” Ramiro asked again. They hunkered low among a jumble of boulders in the sand. He’d led them through a grove of olive trees, where they’d left their horses tied to take a quick look before they approached the ciudad-estado.
“The priests?” Teresa asked, picking out the most obvious incongruity.
“No, beyond that. I figure the priests are there to keep more troops from deserting.”
“There’s no confusion among the enemy anymore,” Telo said, chewing on that information. “They’ve recovered from Ordoño’s murder. From the emergence of Dal.”
“Exactly. Which means somebody has taken charge of the military again,” Ramiro added. “Put them in order. Making sure no more desert. And do you see anything else?”
Telo sat on his heels. “People only go out of the gates. They don’t go in the city.”
“Right again,” Ramiro said. “Which makes our job of getting inside that much harder.”
Who would willingly go into an enemy enclave? They’d stick out like a late arriving parishioner on a feast day. Telo rubbed at an itch in the healing skin of his left arm. The pains of his phantom limb had ceased days ago, except for occasional twinges, but what remained still hurt him, though the flesh had healed. “You’re sure the priests are inside the city and not the camp?”
“They came from there before. I think we start there.” Ramiro eased into the trees and stood once all three of them were under cover of the branches. “Do you still think your plan to get inside will work?”
Telo shrugged. Since the healing of Julian, he no longer worried in the same way. Gone was the doubt, replaced with a new tranquility. He felt as though he had passed some test in sparing Ordoño, and the Lord had their backs. They had witnessed unmistakable miracles for the first time in centuries. He had perfect serenity for his future. Heaven waited to receive him, and he would not fret what came before—even if that should be martyrdom. That did not mean they should take foolish chances, but he felt some risk had to be ventured. “Madmen and the simpleminded. I think I’m about to be a slice of both. My idea has the same chances as before. Will you trust me?”
“Do we have a choice?” The younger man began untying the horses. “The rest of us don’t have the glimmer of an idea on how to get inside, unless you want to fight our way in.”
Nobody bothered to answer that foolish suggestion.
“What about the priests outside the walls?” Teresa demanded. “Are they going to bother us? Maybe Santabe is among them. That would save us a whole lot of time looking for her.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Telo said. “Whatever they are up to, they all wear the single sun earring or none at all. I think we can safely assume nobody of high rank is among them. From their boredom, whatever their task, it would be given to the most junior among them. Our prey isn’t there. Saints,” he muttered, “I wish I knew what the red Diviners meant.”
Ramiro turned from the horses. His face looked grim. “I’ve seen this before in my dreams—a line of Northern priests outside a city—all with red Diviners. Only in the dream, it was one of their cities, not ours, before the town fell . . . to it. Keeping people from fleeing perhaps?”
“But the refugees,” Teresa pointed out.
“Right . . .”
Telo puffed out a breath. They had enough burden without the threat of Dal starting another massacre here. Best to take his companions’ minds off that. “‘Trust in the Lord because I’ve seen miracles,’” he quoted from the blessed Santiago. “As well have we, my children. Onward.”
Telo placed the limp circlet of flowers and greenery they’d made a few hours ago around Ramiro’s neck and then put the other around Teresa. A quick stop at the deserted monastery had supplied them with what Telo needed. “Remember, smile and hold hands. Look happy. Kiss when you hear the signal.” He put a crown of wilting saguaro blossoms and woven barley stems on Teresa’s shorn hair.
Ramiro’s armor and sword were all hidden under bags packed on Sancha. One sword was as useless as a priest at a brothel—more likely to draw only ridicule and unwanted attention than to convert any unbelievers. Even a thousand swords would be too few, so better to show none. In addition, they didn’t dare leave the horses outside the city, so Ramiro held their reins in one hand while gripping Teresa’s hand with the othe
r.
“It’ll work,” Telo insisted, as much for his benefit as the other two, as they headed for the road before Aveston. The idea had come to him in a flash when Lady Alcalde Beatriz insisted he read the banns for the witch girl, Claire, and her son. Put that together with the Northerners’ superstition and they might have a chance.
Telo gave a nod. They would do.
They looked the part. The problem was, they didn’t have an idea how the Northerners would react. None of their knowledge of the Northerners including anything about how their culture viewed weddings or even if they had such an equivalent—but, as Ramiro said, they had nothing better.
Telo wished he didn’t have the sinking feeling his companions’ trust in him had more to do with their ingrained childhood lessons in following priests blindly. Nobody questioned a priest, with the possible exception of fellow priests. A little doubt might have found flaws in his idea.
Too late now.
He whispered a quick prayer, reassuring himself that Ramiro had said Dal overlooked the insane and the simpleminded. His plan had an element of both. The ten or twelve refugees on the road blinked in surprise as the three emerged from the olive grove and headed toward the city instead of away. A group of twenty or more Northern soldiers at the gates drew to attention, hands on swords, as they approached, but Telo stopped and held out an open book of scripture with his one good hand, using his booming voice.
“Good countrymen, I publish the banns of marriage between Ramiro Juan Alvarado of Colina Hermosa and Claire of Mortífero Swamp. If any know of any just cause or impediment why these two are not to be joined in holy matrimony, you must declare it. This is the second time of asking. Let us not say that fear of the unknown put us off from following the Lord’s will.”
Telo lowered the book. Technically, banns were supposed to be read in the place where the couple lived, thus the first reading in Colina Hermosa. But with nobody there to hear the words in the burnt-out city or Mortífero Swamp, Aveston was as good a place as any for the next reading. It felt enough like a farce to have only one-half of the participants available and the other represented by proxy.
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