Steadfast

by Michelle Hauck

  “She passed the first test, Eulalie,” another Elder said. “That deserves some consideration.” This woman looked a score of years younger, her hair dark and worn loose. She had brown eyes and brown skin, and her eyes twinkled with concealed amusement. When she smiled, as she seemed to do often, a dimple stood out in her cheek.

  “I know that, Muriel. That’s as may be.” Claire found herself fascinated by Eulalie’s waggling chins. “We put the girl through the Thorn trial and see if she passes. Rachael, do you agree?”

  “I think you all misunderstand,” Claire said, gripping the edge of the stool. “I don’t care about your trials. I came to give you a warning, and also to get your help. You’re in danger. We all are.”

  “We know what we face,” Eulalie said. “We don’t need any untested girl’s help with that. My Amos gave us plenty of warning.”

  The Women of the Song all glanced at the only man in the room. As large and neckless as Eulalie, he stood by the door, staring down at the tips of his boots. Of all things, he wore a plain canvas apron over his clothing. Like Errol, he refused to meet anyone’s eyes and he had the same soft, vacant expression. Unlike Errol, Amos was a man grown into middle age, in need of a shave, his hair curling and months past due for a trim. Somehow, despite their differences in age, both sons managed to give an appearance of waiting. They lacked the edge and alertness carried by Ramiro and it made them seem half alive.

  “Destroyer,” he said in a surprisingly deep voice.

  The last two Elders traded looks as they waited silently for Amos to say more. Claire found nothing distinctive about the other two Elders with the exception that the one called Rachael was missing a bottom tooth and the other had the sort of tanned skin she saw frequently on the desert people. When no more proved forthcoming from Amos, they all turned to Claire. She suppressed a shiver, unused to so much attention since leaving Ramiro’s people.

  “I’m known for speaking my mind,” Rachael was saying, “and I think we need to get to the bottom of this. Perhaps the Thorn trial can wait.”

  Claire jumped on the opportunity. “You might know about the Northerners hunting Women of the Song in the swamp, but were you warned about their god? That’s twice as dangerous—”

  “Malarkey,” Eulalie interrupted. “Stuff and foolishness. The Great Goddess is the only real god. This is Rosemund’s daughter, and we all know how flighty Rosemund turned out. She defied her own mother and the Elders.” Her emphasis made plain which was the bigger affront. “Thought the magic should be shirked and avoided. Remember her final trial?”

  All four Elders huffed, eyes narrowing.

  “What about it?” Claire squeaked. Unlike the Rose Among Thorns trial for young girls, the final test of a woman’s magic came well into adulthood, when a Woman of the Song was considered for entering the path to be an Elder. It usually involved women of high talent with the Song.

  “Just stood there, my dear,” Muriel admitted. “Wouldn’t use any magic.”

  “A disgrace, that’s what it was,” Eulalie cut in, muttering under her breath. “We can’t trust a girl from that sort of mother to put our best interests first. I’m surprised she followed the law enough to have a daughter. Perhaps this one doesn’t belong to Rosemund at all.”

  “I do so,” Claire sputtered. The nerve of these women. “My mother can’t defend herself. How dare you talk about her that way?” She stood, but Elder Rachael pushed her down with a firm hand.

  “Look at the girl,” the fourth Elder said. “She’s the very image of Rosemund. I don’t call her birth into question. Her motivation, however. Why, look at how she hangs around with . . . men.”

  “Bromisto is ten,” Claire said once again, but her heart wasn’t in it. “And the men I hang around with have treated me a sight better than I got here.” At least Ramiro believed in her. She couldn’t let him down. That alone was enough to keep her from saying more and spoiling her chances further. Jorga had advised her to be respectful and that was how she’d been raised as well.

  It was just so hard with these . . . women.

  “It’s true we can’t know her loyalty,” the milder Muriel said, her smile slipping into a worried expression.

  Claire’s attempt to say “but I am loyal” was talked right over as all the Elders began speaking at once, each one coming out with yet another discrediting story about her mother. Against orders, Jorga jumped in, though Claire couldn’t tell if she argued for or against. The noise rose in volume as the women disputed until Claire hunched her shoulders.

  “Destroyer,” the deep voice said again, and this time, if any tone could hold disapproval and still sound neutral, this one did. The Elders fell silent.

  “There’s that,” Muriel said in her musical voice.

  Claire wanted to ask if they knew what it meant, but stayed silent. Speaking now would rile them up again, and the answer couldn’t be anything good. Whatever it meant, the warning hadn’t gotten her thrown out. She’d hope for the best and investigate later.

  Rachael picked at the buttons on her sleeve. “I’ll vote for the Thorn trial—assuming we move it up and hold it right away.”

  “But to jump over the other girls,” the fourth Elder said. “It isn’t fair.”

  “Fair be hanged.” Eulalie jerked her head. “Muriel?” The woman gave a nod. “So voted. Her trial is tonight at sundown.”

  “The trial,” Claire said. “I told you I’m not interested in your trial. Unless, you’ll hear what I have to say now that it is decided?” Perhaps she could say her piece and leave before their test.

  “Initiates are given an opportunity to thank the Elders,” Jorga said from her corner, “right before.”

  Claire took the hint. If pretending to undergo a test of magic was the condition of getting to explain the seriousness of her warning, she’d have to take that option. “Yes, thank you very much for agreeing to speed up my trial. I—as well as all of you—will need to be as strong as possible considering what we face. Because I still don’t think you understand the significance of what’s happening. The Northern god will kill the Women of the Song just as he does the desert people. Maybe the Women of the Song can think of a way to stop him. If we all worked—”

  “Demon,” Amos interjected, causing them all to jump.

  Eulalie shook her head, her expression stony. “We’ve heard about this demon and we are taking it seriously. We have a plan all prepared. And we don’t need a snit of a girl, daughter of a failure, to tell us how to run our business. Give us your opinion when we ask for it.”

  Spots of warmth bloomed in Claire’s cheeks. “If you took this seriously, then we wouldn’t be sitting around besmirching my mother’s name. You wouldn’t be worrying about a silly test, rather than preparing for a fight that is surely coming. The thing is, I don’t think you do take it seriously because, well, you haven’t seen the slaughter. If you did, you’d be wetting yourselves. This god kills and kills. That’s all it does. You haven’t felt it. You think the soldiers are the threat, but they are a splinter in your finger compared to the true danger. We can’t protect against it. The god’s power wiped a squad of soldiers out in the blink of an eye. This is not a joke. We need to be marching out of our swamp to help stop more killing. Even a ‘snit of a girl’ can see that. But unfortunately, that girl is talking to a bunch of old hens, clucking around instead of acting! Stupid and worthless! If we all die, it will be your fault!” In her passion, Claire found herself on her feet with her hands clasped against her chest. She looked around defiantly, and sour expressions and set jaws glared back at her.

  “I think you’ve said enough,” Muriel said. The sparkle had gone from her eyes, replaced with disappointment. “I was a friend of your mother. She might have disagreed, but she was usually smart enough to remember to respect the Elders. And she saved her disrespect until she was grown. You must learn that lesson, too.”

  “By the Great Goddess, she said more than enough.” Rachael’s face had gone red in a match
for Eulalie, who looked like she was having a stroke. “Stop excusing her, Muriel.”

  “Out,” Eulalie choked through tight lips. “Get out.”

  “Gladly.” Claire walked from the shack with as much dignity as she could muster, shutting the makeshift door of strapped-together branches silently. Once outside, though, it dawned on her she might have made a serious mistake. She had let their petty words about her mother overcome her good sense, and her tongue had gotten the better of her—that wasn’t like her. Even when Beatriz provoked her with comments about witches, she’d managed to stay calm. Though there was a difference: Those remarks had been directed at herself, not at someone she loved.

  It didn’t change the fact that she needed the Women of the Song’s help, and that chance might be long gone.

  Happy with yourself, Claire? You’ve ruined everything.

  The Elders would never listen to her now. They had enough prejudice against leaving the swamp and helping in the first place—what with their religion and the Great Goddess preaching noninterference and their distrust of men—and now she’d made her task that much harder.

  She should go back and apologize—grovel a little. If she sucked up to their status and claimed ignorance, they would forgive. Maybe not forget, but hopefully enough that she could start over. Maybe they could see things her way if she aced their trial.

  The meeting shack stood separate from the rest of the camp, surrounded by scraggly clumps of evergreens. She stopped next to a pine, her eyes seeing yet not taking in the trail of sap running down the rough trunk. Her back stiffened.

  Grovel to those condescending women? They dismissed her because of her age, believing only gray hair gave you wisdom. The dismissed her because of her mother, believing wisdom only came from compliance.

  That wasn’t wisdom. That was servitude. And even though they eschewed men from their society for that very reason, their own hypocrisy probably didn’t dawn on them.

  Couldn’t they see that their petty concerns about precedence and their overconfidence doomed them all? Dal certainly wouldn’t wait for the Women of the Song to make up their minds. How silly to let four Elders control the fate of an entire people—and not just her people, but perhaps all people. Annoying old busybodies . . .

  Her eyes opened wide.

  Or at least the Elders thought they controlled everything. Claire didn’t have to let them.

  She swung around, heading past the meeting shack and toward the clearing where the Women of the Song gathered to eat and sleep and gossip. Her walk turned into a purposeful march, her heels beating the ground, each step ratcheting up her resolve to show them what’s what.

  People looked up in mild interest as she crossed the clearing to Errol, pulling the boy to his feet. Leaving Bromisto, she took Errol with her to the center.

  “Have the Elders told you?” she asked in a loud voice. More heads came up. The majority of these women were girls, young women, or mothers, instead of grandmothers. “Maybe they told you about the soldiers entering our home and hunting us like animals, burning our houses, killing Women of the Song, but have they told you the rest—the worst?”

  “Demon,” Errol said right on cue.

  “Exactly, Errol. There’s a vicious evil loose on the world. One we can’t even see. The Northern god can kill without warning. Blood attracts it. Dozens die from a force no one can stop. It’s only growing and it won’t halt until all life is dead.” Heads dropped as girls resumed their tasks. A group walked right past her, swinging buckets on their way to the stream.

  “That’s the desert people’s problem,” said a woman bouncing a toddler on her knee.

  “We’re safe in the swamp,” came from another.

  “Let it kill them,” said a third with a laugh. “Suits them right.”

  Claire frowned. “But . . . it will kill us, too.” Her voice faded as the last of the women turned away. “They didn’t listen to me,” she said to herself.

  “Demon?” Errol said.

  Bromisto tugged at her sleeve. “Now what, sirena? They won’t help. These sirenas are very full of themselves. While you . . . you are like Osoro.”

  “Who?” Claire asked absently.

  “Osoro. The low man in my father’s hunting group. Nobody listens to him either.”

  Claire blinked stupidly at him for a second, then her jaw firmed as truth seeped in. Nobody here knew her or trusted her. She had nothing to recommend her words. Well, her mother was stubborn and she’d show the old hens she could be twice as obstinate. “Then I’ll just have to prove that I’m no Osoro.”

  Chapter 13

  Ramiro leaned against the wall of a tight alley to get his breath, wheezing from more than their close shave with the Northerners at the gate. The alley smelled of shit, and not the mellower stink of barnyard animals fed on grass and grains, but the riper smell of human animals. Even the roof-high piles of straw grouped around a sort of lean-to shed that had been a chicken coop couldn’t cut down on the smell. It would be easy enough for the inhabitants to have spread the straw around to clear the air—for their own benefit, if not for his—but no one had. He covered his nose with his sleeve and cursed.

  Sancha showed her distaste by raising her upper lip. “Easy, girl,” he soothed, feeling unrestored himself.

  Not a good sign if even the small conventions of society had gone out the window—literally in this case, judging by the casements above them.

  Yet, his small group had lived past the gate. Society’s collapse didn’t necessarily prove they would fail. In any case, he’d never expected to get this far—hoped—but not expected. The stress of their situation weakened his body, making his head ache. Hope and despair had struggled in his breast in an excruciatingly painful war for too many days, wearing him down. With all he’d been through, he couldn’t blame the remaining people in Aveston for letting niceties slide, knowing full well finding the courage to believe in a positive outcome was the harder choice.

  If asked, he’d never be able to explain it: how hope could be such a drain upon the spirit. Every wild dream of what might be, like seeing Claire again, become a taunting stab to his soul as another part of him mocked what would likely never be. Giving up and feeling nothing would be so much easier.

  Teresa gripped his sleeve, standing shoulder to shoulder with him against the rough stucco, and pulled ever so slightly. “I’ve been meaning to thank you, cousin.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Whatever for?”

  “For being you . . . and my friend.” Her face twisted as if she would cry. “For making me a cousin in truth, even after I pushed you away.”

  He squeezed her hand. “I don’t recall any such thing. It is I who should be thanking you. I would have never held myself together in the swamp if not for you.” When they’d first met Claire, his heart had been consumed with anger for his brother’s death. Only Teresa had made the difference, reminding him of his soul—reminding him to give people a chance. He bumped her shoulder. “When this is over, we’ll see the university rebuilt.”

  “When this is over, I’ll settle for a long talk. I’ve much to tell you—personal information that I hid from you—and I hope you’ll think the same of me afterward.”

  He leaned heavier on the wall. “Let me save you the trouble right now. Nothing could change my kinship for you—I see who you are—but I look forward to a chance to talk.”

  “You see? You know?” Her grip on him became more insistent.

  Amusement tinged his concern. “You are not so hard to read. You didn’t fall prey to Alvito’s charms. Or my brother or Gomez. Or my own lesser ones for that matter, but I’ve seen your eyes follow a pretty woman—Bromisto’s sister—remember her?”

  She dropped her gaze, her face heating. “You knew.”

  He shrugged. “You didn’t seem to want to talk about it. I figured if you needed to, you would.”

  She shook him by his cloak, but a deep smile covered her face. “You are a trying man, Ramiro Alvarado.
You and the rest of male-kind, but surprisingly wonderful.”

  “If you wish to see wonderful and kind, you have only to look in the mirror, my cousin. You make the world a better place by being here.”

  She wiped at her cheeks and his eyes were not so clear either. “So what happened back there?” she asked, turning the subject. “They let us get away.”

  “I was there, and I have no idea,” Ramiro said, ready enough to follow her lead, and looked to the priest as Father Telo caught up, bringing with him the other two horses. Father Telo stepped carefully to avoid the filth as he joined them in the middle of the alley. As soon as the commander at the gate told them to go, they had wasted no time, hastily putting distance between themselves and the gate, turning around corners, and twisting and hurrying through a den of alleyways. Unwilling to chance that the Northerners might change their minds and come after them.

  “‘Let each man manifest God’s will to benefit all,’” Father Telo quoted, “‘and the saints most of all, but the least man as likely as the first.’ Or woman,” he amended quickly. “No disrespect intended.”

  “None taken, Father,” Teresa said. She released Ramiro to stand on her own two feet again.

  “‘The spirit of goodness lives in all of us, for deep down, we are all the same,’” Telo finished.

  Ramiro grimaced. “I never noticed any goodness in a Northerner before. They never had second thoughts about taking off my head.”

  “Did you ever give them the opportunity to show a better side before?”

  Ramiro shoved off from the wall, mind recreating a day in the swamp. “Actually . . . there was a time they had me surrounded. Could have taken me down in a rush . . . or used their bows to end it quick. Maybe you’re right, Father.” He could still taste the metallic tang of fear on his tongue as he’d stood over Errol, outnumbered and about to die, but unable to leave the boy. Faced by a handful of soldiers, but only one had stepped forward, while the rest stayed back. An honor among enemies. Chills chased up his spine as he remembered calling all Northerners barbarians. Had he been any better—judging without understanding? “Their ways are so different from ours . . .”