Her fingers curled, gripping helplessly. She’d rather have had the test last night and gotten it over with, but another applicant had been promised that time for her own test, and so Claire’s had been put off. Her sleep had been pitiful. She’d even gotten up in the middle of the night and spoken Ramiro’s name on the wind, for all the good such a childish action did. He might not be able to hear her, but her venture had given her enough comfort that she could ignore the startled faces of nearby sleepers and go back to her bed for a little rest.
But now she was lying here with nothing to do but think, which only made the worry worse.
With a sigh, she pushed upright from her blankets, only to jump as she found Errol staring directly at her. “Demon,” he said, then pointed a twig at her. “Destroyer.”
His eyes dropped, and he resumed poking at the heel of his boot with the stick.
She slapped a hand over her mouth and dashed out of the little shelter to heave the contents of her shriveled stomach into a buttonbush. Did he have to bring that up when she felt at her weakest?
Three empty heaves later, she passed a shaky hand over her face. The anger quickly turned toward herself. It did no good to be upset at someone who for all purposes might as well have been an infant.
When she returned to the shelter, Errol sat poking at his boot, paying her no mind. He’d been doing the same before she went to sleep and every time she woke up during the night. Jorga had already taken a small knife away that he’d been using to try and cut apart his boot, but he seemed as satisfied to use the more ineffective stick to worry at the leather. Bromisto still lay curled in his blankets in the corner, able to sleep through almost anything.
“Good, you’re up,” Jorga said by way of greeting. “We should practice. We have a few minutes and a warm-up might do you good.”
Claire’s face tightened into a scowl. “No more practice. What else haven’t you told me?” If Jorga kept the ambush by the Elders a secret, there was no telling what else she held back. Claire still felt enough resentment at the trickery that she’d kept the Diviner they carried in her belongs instead of handing it over to the Elders as she’d planned.
“I’ve told you everything that I’m allowed to share.” Jorga’s face looked as sour as Claire’s stomach contents had tasted. “If you spent a little more time practicing and a little less time worrying, you wouldn’t be afraid of failing.”
“I’m not afraid of failing. I’m afraid this is a waste of time.
“Spending time with your own kind is never a waste of time.”
Claire rolled her eyes—internally, of course. It always seemed to come back to that with her grandmother. They were both up, though, so she asked instead, “What happens to girls who fail?”
“Never you mind about that. It’s not going to happen. Not to my kin.”
“How do you know? Maybe I’ll be the first.”
Jorga merely shook her head and didn’t respond. Claire eyed the older woman suspiciously. Since when had Jorga passed up a chance to shoot down her hopes? Jorga seemed to enjoy taking her down a peg at every opportunity.
“Why are you so sure I’ll pass?”
Her grandmother looked away, and for a moment, her face slid to pure mulishness, then her expression relaxed. “Your magic is too strong. It’s a rare ability to Sing a Death Song at your age—or any age.”
Claire’s curiosity grew. “How rare?”
Jorga shrugged. “Rare. One in twenty, if that. I doubt your mother could have Sung such a Song at seventeen.”
Clare’s eyes widened. “One in twenty. Why . . . that would mean only two in the camp.”
“Myself and Muriel,” Jorga said with a smug twist of her mouth. “Until now. Eulalie never did live that down. Mind you, more gain the strength by middle age; few have it in their youth. So that sets you apart even more.”
Claire found she had nothing to say and so dusted off her clothing as best she could. Jorga had reported the girls spent months creating a new outfit for their testing, sewing each stitch by hand. The only thing she had to wear were the clothes on her back. She lifted her chin. That’s as may be, but she’d rather go to her test smelly and dirty than beg and borrow clean clothes.
She was nearly two years over the normal age for this trial. That should have given her some reassurance she was better prepared, but it only made her fret more. Standing out, whether among her own kin or in the desert, never got any easier.
“Where do I go for my test?”
Jorga got laboriously to her feet. “I’ll show you. As an Elder, I must witness.” They paused a moment for the older woman to wake Bromisto and give the boy strict instructions to keep Errol inside, and then they were on their way.
Walking seemed to help as their destination turned out to be a good way from the gathering, no doubt for safety reasons. Sixteen-year-old girls using new magics and forcing their talent to the highest edge of their ability—what could possibly go wrong? Despite the sarcastic thought, Claire’s nerves slowly settled with the exercise of simply moving. She would do well or she wouldn’t and no amount of fretting would make the outcome positive.
They were the first to reach the clearing where Jorga said the test was held. Nothing marked it as of any importance except a small pile of rocks with a baked clay figure atop it, which could have been a woman sitting on folded legs . . . or just a lump of sun-dried clay, as time and weather had so worn the statue as to make it nearly featureless. Still, Claire sent a quick appeal to the Great Goddess for a favorable outcome, or at least to be spared making a fool of herself.
Soon other women joined them, silent in the mist of early morning as if reluctant to speak. The clearing held that sort of sacred stillness that only occurred when few people were yet stirring. Claire recognized Rachael and then Muriel, and stood alone as Jorga went to join them. Muriel had lost the dimple from her cheek and Rachael kept pulling her scarf closer about her throat, their faces awash in such seriousness that Claire’s stomach complained to her again.
The rising sun had begun to break up the mist before Eulalie arrived, carrying of all things a live chicken by its feet, and causing the other six or seven women to look up expectantly. Apparently, Eulalie felt quite happy to keep everyone waiting because she wore a pleased smirk in her piggy eyes. The Elders rotated the top responsibilities, with each taking turns being the leader for a term of three years, and Claire had just missed being under Muriel’s milder governance.
“Well, let’s get this trial over with,” was Eulalie’s inauspicious opening. “I expect it will be a right hash with Rosemund training her. You may guide this trial, Muriel.”
To Claire’s consternation, Jorga refused to stand up for her and she had to bite her tongue to keep from more hot words. She’d already resolved not to rise to their bait, but Eulalie’s decision to stand as judge instead of officiant burned. She suspected Eulalie would vote for her failure no matter what.
“I think we all heard her Speak on the Wind last night. It was quite impressive, despite being sent to a man”—Muriel’s dimple appeared for an instant—“so we can skip starting with that. Show us your Share Memory, Claire.”
Claire drew herself up tall, clasping her hands before her. She’d practiced that enough to be fairly confident and felt thankful to Muriel for starting off with something easy. She quickly Sang her memory of Ramiro’s city burning, remembering to add the sparks that flew upward and the height of the flames. With a few short words, she added the emotion of the heat beating against her face and driving her back, and the great sadness she’d felt, mixed with awe for the power of the fire.
More than one Elder gasped as she shared the emotion along with the vision, and Claire hid her own pleased smirk as Eulalie’s faded to annoyance at the proof of her innovation.
“Fancy feathers don’t necessarily make a swan,” Eulalie huffed in a false whisper and many of the Elders nodded their heads.
And sheep don’t necessarily make great leaders, Claire t
hought, but kept to herself.
Next, at Muriel’s suggestion, Claire Sang an illusion by making them see her as a deer, and demonstrated the strength of her Hornet Tune. Their dismissal of her made it easy to harden her determination and summon a magic that sank deeply into their minds. Two of the Elders actually bumped heads while flailing at the air, one of them stifling a bloody nose with her sleeve. Eulalie had to grab at her squawking chicken at the last minute as it almost worked itself free from her fingers when she swatted at nonexistent bees.
Jorga gave her a nod of approval, and Claire’s spirits soared.
“She seems very well prepared,” Muriel said, her dimple again in evidence.
Rachael cleared her throat, brushing at a strand of hair that had worked loose during the Hornet Tune. “I’m not one who can’t admit when I’m wrong, and this girl is better trained than I expected. I give the credit to her grandmother. Jorga always had a fine hand for training.”
“Strength runs in families, I’ll admit that,” Eulalie said with narrowed eyes. “But so does flightiness and foolishness. Jorga boasts the girl can manage a Death Song. I say we move straight to that.” She gave the chicken a shake to stun the poor thing and dropped the bird, stepping away from it. “Prove you can manage a Death Song. Kill it.”
Claire stared at the bird wide-eyed as her mother’s warnings about relying on the magic reared in her head. Death magic was meant for defensive purposes—to save her life, to protect others—not for a whim.
She looked down. A plain old brown hen, it lay unmoving among the tangled grasses. No doubt intended for the stewpot anyway, like dozens of others she’d killed with her own hands and eaten. The magic would give the poor thing a quick and more painless death than a hatchet or wringing its neck. If she used the magic for killing just this once it didn’t form a pattern or make her any less principled. After all, they weren’t asking her to take a human life.
Silly. It’s just a hen.
Completing the Rose Among Thorns trial would give her standing and make her a peer. Her words would be heeded. But why couldn’t Jorga testify that she’d accomplished this magic? Why must she prove it?
They looked at her expectantly. “Go ahead, dear,” Muriel said, but her dimple had vanished.
The animal would die for their food supply anyway. Cold washed over her, but she gave a nod to show she would play along. The decision might have been made, but she had to work past a lump in her throat to get out the first words, adjusting the Song to fit the much more unsophisticated victim.
“Icy shakes.
Strength flees.
Suffering.
Will dies.
Loss, Emptiness.
Heart fails.
Let go.
Go in peace.
Inevitable.
Nothingness.”
This time as she invoked the magic—unlike with the Northern soldiers when she’d been scared out of her mind—she could feel the life fade from the bird as its heart slowed. Her determination focused the magic upon the chicken, stifling its breathing, the flow of blood. The beats becoming fainter, slower.
The hen already smelled dead. A malice pushed against her skull. Hatred. Evil.
She jerked as something split the hen into two chunks of flesh. A slicing cut ran across Claire’s thigh. She cried out. Another stinging pain hit her back.
All around her the Elders shrieked as the attack fell upon them, parting their flesh.
Dal.
“The demon!” Rachael shouted.
Claire gasped. They’d shed no blood. What had brought the god?
“Our plan. Time to bring out our strategy.” Eulalie gestured, and the other Elders hurried to line up, arm in arm with her. Jorga took her place at the end of the line. “Together.”
Plan? What strategy?
The Elders blended their voices in a Song that Claire recognized. The same Song Jorga had used to try and induce Ramiro to kill himself. That Song had been powerful enough to force him to put a knife through his own eye, only Claire’s desperate refusal to allow him to die had stopped the nightmare, awakening Ramiro from her grandmother’s magic.
Taken together, the combined Song lay Claire out on the ground with her hands clamped over her ears. No matter how much she knew the Song wasn’t aimed at her, she had to grasp her hands together to keep them from tearing at her face, her heart, and attempting to injure herself.
This was the Elders’ response to Dal.
Despite the force of the Song, Dal’s malice didn’t falter. The hatred and malevolence beat upon Claire as hard as ever. Another incision opened down her forearm. She watched in shock as blood slowly welled to the surface of her skin in a precise line as long as her hand. Jorga cried out, losing the thread to the tune but groping her way back to the Song, only to fail again. One by one, the other Elders fumbled and lost their concentration as wounds grew. In desperation, they switched to another Song that Claire had never heard before. Muriel dropped to the ground, clutching her belly.
It wasn’t working.
A god wasn’t a chicken or a human. Its mind must be too alien to comprehend or influence. Did it even have a heart to stop or breath to still?
Illusion.
If Dal couldn’t be stopped, perhaps it could be fooled.
Words tumbled from Claire’s mouth, growing into a new Song. A Song not to defeat or weaken but to hide. With words and melody, she built a picture that washed away herself and the Elders. Frantically, she fought against a force that shouldn’t exist, to blot out evidence of their existence—to let the god see an empty clearing. Her will fought to strengthen the Song and send the illusion out farther and farther to cover as much ground as possible.
The hatred against life wavered as if puzzled. Dirt near Claire’s ear poofed into the air as a strike went wide. A form appeared in the sky about ten feet above their heads, bulky and elongated like a grossly swollen caterpillar—if a caterpillar could be the size of a goat. There and gone before she could get a sense of details. Then Dal’s presence receded to become more distant—still there, but focused elsewhere.
For an eternity, Claire lay where she had fallen, not daring to move, continuing her Song of illusion until it became a hoarse whisper. Her lips cracked and her throat ached, and still she Sang. She clung to the words as to a lifeline until her voice gave out and all that persisted was another woman’s whimpering cries.
Claire clutched her bleeding arm to her chest and sat up, wondering if the death blow was about to come. After a few tense seconds, it was clear Dal had gone. Worked his evil and moved on. Instead of relaxing, her heart pounded. What had it done? A killer must . . .
“Amos,” Eulalie said weakly.
A breeze rippled the feathers on what remained of the chicken. Claire climbed stiffly to her feet, wounds protesting. When she attempted to assist Jorga, her grandmother slapped her hands away.
“Errol. Go find Errol. Hurry.”
The Elders were in no shape to rise with any speed, their age and bulk working against them. Claire stumbled away from them in the direction of the camp, gaining swiftness as she tore through the trees. Disaster met her eyes before she even entered the camp. The illusion she’d conjured had saved their lives in the clearing, but her magic hadn’t reached to the camp. Bodies of Women of the Song lay sprawled everywhere, broken and bleeding. The large shape of Amos lay near a fire pit with his throat sliced open. His arms and legs were scattered three feet away from the rest of him.
Claire retched until bile landed on her shoes, but she couldn’t unsee the sight or the others around her. Women and girls lay dead everywhere, having suffered in the most gruesome ways possible. A very few of the older women moved, and Claire wondered if they too had used illusion.
She covered her eyes, wanting to run away. But Errol and Bromisto had been inside. Perhaps they survived. Claire made herself walk to their shelter with her eyes open but mind closed to the slaughter around her. The door was shut. She pushed it open w
ith a trembling hand to find that Dal could work inside walls now.
The boys’ flesh had been torn apart, making it impossible to tell one from the other.
Rage bloomed in her heart and spread from the top of her skull to the tips of her feet. Wrath traveled through her, pushing out loss and grief, leaving no room for love or kindness.
Errol had named her Destroyer.
Destroyer is what they would get.
Chapter 18
“I understand that, ma’am,” Gonzalo repeated for the third time as the afternoon sun faded into the weakness of evening. Shadows from the saguaro cactus stretched across the road to Suseph, looking like flat men throwing their hands into the air in surrender. “But I still think a stronger-worded message with clear orders, not suggestions, is needed.”
“Alcaldes are not soldiers.” Beatriz slapped her fan against her chest, a sure sign of exasperation, though Julian watched her make decisions and receive reports as if she’d been doing so all her life—from horseback no less.
He’d agreed with her quick arrangement with Captain Gonzalo for his men to act as messengers and visit every village, small town, and city with warnings about Dal, in addition to a suggestion for their alcaldes to attend a large convocation in Suseph in five days. All of which freed the three of them from the time-consuming necessity of visiting each settlement. Although it remained doubtful if the more distant ciudades-estado like Vista Sur could make the meeting in time.
We’ll take what we can get.
The newly made messengers only waited the word to go—the letters written—as Beatriz and Gonzalo hashed through the finer points one last time. Julian prayed his wife kept her temper. Debate was a healthy opportunity for a leader to make her decisions stronger, but Beatriz was unused to viewing opposition as such. However, it was her lesson to learn, and not his to teach—at least in public. He must walk a fine line of advising without influencing.
Beatriz’s words did nothing to diminish Gonzalo. “In times such as these, exceptions must be made,” he said. “The other alcaldes do nothing. They must be ordered by those with more vision.”
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