Steadfast

by Michelle Hauck

  “You must have noticed you’re not dead,” Telo said. “Nor am I interested in torture. I leave that to your kind.” Telo shook his head. How easily she goaded him into anger. He wondered if she ever dealt in any other emotion. Instead of fury, then, he embraced pity for her. The Children of Dal had been trapped by their god’s depravity for thousands of years. No wonder they were twisted.

  “But I would seek truce, my child. You’ll get no rancor from me.” He held up what remained of his left arm. “You have taken a piece of me and I have abducted you twice. Can we call it even and speak to each other with civility?”

  She moved to sit, and Telo reached for the white Diviner at his feet, her gaze tracking his movement as they regarded each other warily. Two street dogs, each waiting for the other to bite first.

  “It hurts to think. What did you do to me?” she demanded. “Why does my head feel like this?”

  In the hope honesty would bring a return, he said, “A drug. A mix of herbs that renders people unconscious—but does no lasting harm. It is used for surgeries and other procedures. The pain will clear in a few hours.” They could dose her no more without refilling their supply. He’d spilled the entire bottle down his robe or on the cloth in his haste during the fight in the cathedral. Besides, they needed Santabe awake. “Drink. That will help.”

  She eyed the water skin next to her on the tomb but made no move toward it. “It’s untainted,” he said. “My word to my god.”

  “Your god is weak.” She snapped the words with little venom and reached for the water, letting it splash over her chin as she drank.

  He didn’t want to argue with her about the various kinds of strength and the value of kindness. They had gone over that subject before and no minds had been changed. What they needed was information, not spiritual discussion—as fascinating as that would be. “And your god is strong. Strong enough to get to us underground?”

  She paused in her drinking to eye him over the water skin, then the tombs around them. “With time . . . yes. You want to know if hiding your people underground will save them. It’s been tried—and failed.”

  He nodded, hearing truth in her words for once, then waited, hoping for more.

  “That is why you took me.” Her laughter rang out stronger this time. “You scared little people want what I know of Dal. Then you shall have it: I know He will send you back to your last life to try again. Weak. Untried. You have not been tested like the Children of Dal.”

  “And if we find the way to defeat him, when you failed?”

  Her laughter cut off sharply. “There is no way.”

  “But we have a power you do not,” Teresa said, coming out of the gloom. “We have miracles.”

  “Miracles? What is this word, ugly woman? You speak in riddles.”

  Teresa frowned. “A miracle? Why a miracle is . . . well it’s . . .”

  Telo took over. “It’s a helping hand from God to bridge the impossible, for He can make the dying live and the despairing have hope.”

  Santabe snorted. “There is no such thing.” She tossed down the water skin. “Keep faith in your ‘miracle’ when Dal flays the flesh from your body.”

  “Then what would you suggest?” Teresa said. “Your people managed to survive. You have nothing if not numbers.”

  But Santabe crossed her arms over her chest, looking smug, and pressed her mouth closed like a spoiled child.

  “Finding a way to stop this killing is only to your benefit,” Teresa pressed. “Your people would live, too.” She waited to no avail, then huffed out her breath.

  Santabe’s eyes roamed the space around them, flicking from one point to another as if in search. A crease formed across her brow as if disappointed. “He’ll be here soon, if you are looking for Ramiro,” Teresa said quickly. “But there are still two of us and we have your weapon. Don’t try to escape.”

  A glare was their only answer, and Telo wondered at their prisoner’s ability to keep silent. She had always been easy to goad before. When Santabe’s head began to droop, though, he realized she was in no shape for a physical attempt at escape. As if in proof, Santabe retched up the water she’d swallowed over the side of the tomb and then lay back down. So she was not noting their numbers in order to escape.

  It also meant she hadn’t been looking for Ramiro. Why would she? She had seen Ramiro only for a brief stretch. Always before she had seen just him and Teresa. Just the two of them alone should be no surprise to Santabe.

  So who was she looking for . . . or better yet—what?

  Unless . . .

  Telo jumped from the tomb where he sat and turned sideways to sidle between two sarcophagi to their bags. He drew out the red Diviner. Even in the darkness surrounding them, it somehow seemed darker. Santabe’s eyes snapped open, latching on to the implement like a magnet.

  A painful hope grew in Telo’s chest. He’d brought the thing with them out of curiosity when Ramiro suggested they hide it with the bodies. Teresa had sided with him and they’d packed the strange Diviner away—clueless as to its uses.

  “This!” Telo exclaimed. “You were looking for this.

  “Why?”

  Chapter 21

  After the first day of walking, Claire stared into the campfire as she tried to empty her thoughts in the dancing colors and the random movement—the flames so wild and without connections or heartbreak to weigh them down. But unlike fire, she had troubles, and she and her seven companions all had heartbreak. The heat stroked against her cheek, drying her eyes, and becoming almost unbearable, but to look away was to risk making eye contact with one of the other Women of the Song. Since dusk had begun to gather and the bustle of setting camp ended, conversation had died to only necessary words and movements. What had been endurable during the light of day became, not something that brought them together, but a shared grief that drove them apart. As darkness prepared to arrive, each woman had withdrawn into themselves and closed the door on their companions to nurse their loss alone.

  Sometimes it was easier to bear a single grief than shoulder a mountain of it.

  So Claire pretended not to hear the occasional cut-off sob, because to acknowledge one would be to let her own out. And her suffering was nothing compared to the women around her who had lost their children.

  They would have sat silent and aloof until the stew finished cooking and they curled in their own blankets if not for a sudden movement. Claire blinked and looked away from picturing Errol and Bromisto in the flames as the woman Eulalie had left on guard knelt next to the Elder to whisper in her ear.

  “What is it?” Jorga asked sharply.

  “Swamp cats,” Eulalie said. “The smell of our dinner must have brought them. Muriel, we’ll need your trick.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Muriel said.

  Eulalie’s face puckered. “Now’s not the time to play coy. I know your great-aunt Milly had this skill, and she wouldn’t have passed on without teaching it to all her kin. Do you want swamp cats keeping us up all night?”

  “For the Great Goddess’ sake,” Rachael huffed. “Just do it, Muriel, or we’ll have no more peace this night.”

  Muriel stood, smoothing her dress. “Very well. Plug your ears.” The other women put fingers in their ears. Claire stared transfixed until Jorga jiggled her arm. She hastily followed their example of plugging her ears.

  Muriel drew in a deep breath to her diaphragm as if to Sing, but instead put two fingers in her mouth and produced a piercing whistle that was more like a scream. Even with her ears blocked Claire winced at the sharp sound, scrambling to her feet.

  Angry roars came from outside the camp, and Claire could picture the big cats running. The creatures were fierce but they had keen hearing. The whistle would have been twice as painful for them.

  “Thank you, Muriel,” Eulalie said with all the graciousness of a scorpion.

  “What was that?” Claire asked as Muriel settled back by the fire. “It was the Song? How did you learn to do th
at?”

  “Every family has their own tricks and innovations,” Rachael said, “passed on through the years.”

  “Every family makes certain innovations to the Song over the years,” Muriel expanded. “Like the way you added emotion to the Memory Song. We don’t ask and we don’t share. That’s how it works. Anything a family learns stays in that family.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard,” Claire said. “Look at us. Just look! Eight Women of the Song—that’s almost all there are left of us! If ever there was a time to share knowledge, it’s now.”

  “It’s not how it’s done,” Eulalie said flatly. She looked like a fat crab with her head drawn inside her shell and her pincers up.

  Claire’s indignation grew. Silly women with their feet stuck in the mud. Any grief she felt was replaced with anger. “And maybe that’s why there were only fifty of us. Now there are less. How has that attitude been productive?”

  They stared at the ground, unwilling to meet her eye.

  “Are you telling me you’re not prepared to share secrets about our magic that could save lives?” Claire insisted. “That’s insane! Who are you saving them for?” She turned to fix Rachael with her glare. “What about your family? What skills do you keep to yourself?”

  Rachael stared back at her, unsure how to respond, when Jorga answered for the other Elder. “What’s the matter, Rachael? Don’t want to talk about how you can Speak on the Wind?” Rachael glared at Jorga, but Claire wasn’t about to give her a moment of righteousness.

  “Why are you angry with Jorga? For revealing a secret that could help us? You know a trick to Speak on the Wind and you won’t share it with me? After you’ve seen me using it every day!”

  Before Rachael could speak, Claire turned her focus onto Eulalie and the women who hadn’t spoken yet. “And the rest of you? What are you hiding?”

  Muriel sat with her spine stiff. “Violet can make double-bite spiders do simple commands. Rumor says Eulalie can direct a Song at a single target in a way that should not be possible. I’m not sure what Anna and Susan can do.”

  “Muriel!” Eulalie gasped, her chins wagging.

  “What of it?” Spots of color stained Muriel’s cheeks. “If one is unmasked, we all should be unmasked. That’s the fair thing to do.”

  “I agree.” Rachael nodded, a fierce look in her eye. “If our secrets are shared in front of everyone, then everyone’s should be, that’s what. What’s good for the goose—”

  Whatever else she said next was lost in all the women speaking at once in ever-increasing volume, climbing to their feet and getting in each other’s faces.

  “Stop it,” Claire said, gesturing for them to cease. Nobody paid her the least heed except to push her out of their circle of argument. “Would you stop it!” she finally had to scream.

  Voices cut off and heads turned to stare at her in astonishment.

  “Let your elders speak, child,” Eulalie said. “This isn’t a matter of leading us. We didn’t give our internal governance over to you.”

  “No, I won’t be silent. Not when you sound like a pack of rats caught in a sack. You’re going to shut up and listen! Elders? You haven’t the sense of this rock!” She stamped her foot against a stone. Women gasped.

  “We are one force now,” Claire persisted. “With one goal. If we are to succeed in that goal, we must work together, like one body, as soldiers do. We have to train like soldiers do. Learn to work as a team. Share everything. Become an army. Become a team. Become a family. Our foe has destroyed us exactly because we keep secrets. The time for secrets is over.”

  She looked at them, unsure if she wanted to say the rest of what was on her mind. But it seemed important for them to fully understand the depth of their situation, so she continued.

  “I know how raw this wound is, but you’re arguing about secrets like you have any kin left to share those secrets with!” She ignored their gasps and said. “There’s just us!

  “Just me.”

  The air went out of her lungs. She was the biggest part of their future and she feared they’d never let her go. Even if she wanted to leave the Women of the Song for a life with Ramiro when this ended, these women wouldn’t let her go. “There’s just me,” she whispered.

  Rachael wiped at her eyes with the corner of her dress. “I’ll teach you, child. I’ll show you how I can make Speak on the Wind carry farther.” She managed a weak smile. “With sass like that, you’ll learn it in no time.”

  The others gave weak nods, eyes down.

  “An army, huh,” Eulalie said. “If it pays them back for what they did to my Amos, then I’m listening.” Her small eyes filled with determination. “My granny taught us how to narrow an attack to hit a limited number of targets. To single out the men in the crowd for the magic. Not everyone in my family could manage it, and it’ll take lots of practice, but I think this group of Singers can handle it—if the Great Goddess wills it—an army we’ll be!”

  “An army!” the others echoed, followed by a ragged cheer.

  “An army,” Claire said so quietly no one heard. They clapped her on the back, jostling her around, but not really seeing her. She would gain more power with the Song.

  Destroyer.

  The tiny fear in her heart grew just a little more sharp, but she’d do what needed doing to stop the Northerners.

  “No time like the present, I always say,” Rachael said, pointing upward. “A just-right night to get started. See all those clouds?” Half the sky was filled with great fluffy masses, outlined by the moon, moving slowly to the east. “Instead of spreading the magic all around in every direction and squandering the power, we’re going to stream it all into the clouds to be the messenger.” She grinned, showing her missing tooth, and they followed her a few steps from the campfire.

  “That sounds like the trick Eulalie has with directing the magic to limited targets,” Claire volunteered.

  Rachael blinked and all the watching women behind shifted and muttered to each other. “Maybe. Possibly. It could be related.”

  “It’s rather fickle, isn’t it?” Claire asked. “I mean you need clouds first off. And what if they’re going the wrong way?”

  “What do you expect?” Rachael snapped, grin fading. “Nothing’s perfect in this life. I said it’s a way to enhance Speak on the Wind. I didn’t say it was flawless. It carries the magic much farther than without my trick. Do you want to try it or not?”

  “Of course. I apologize. I didn’t mean to complain, just to understand.”

  “Well then,” Rachael said, sounding mollified. “Place your hands like this.” She cupped her hands on either side of her mouth, lifting her chin up toward the sky, and turning east. “It helps put your mind in the proper place. Aim your Song at a cloud. Concentrate real hard. Picture the magic going into the cloud instead of all around you. And add these words, ‘Cloud, carry my heart.’”

  Claire choked back an inadvisable reply of That’s it? and focused on her Song. What did she expect? They were simple homespun tricks, not ground-shattering revelations about the magic. Her discoveries had been made with the same small steps. She readied the Song, feeling more than a little self-conscious to be shouting Ramiro’s name at a cloud in front of a handful of watchers. But an image of him with a brow raised for worrying about what a bunch of old aunties thought soon made her forget about her audience. Suddenly, all her grief and loneliness rushed over her.

  The loss of the boys. Errol’s prediction.

  She wished so much that Ramiro was here. As she let the words free, the emotion bubbled out of her and attached itself to her Song, vanishing into the cloud.

  The women behind her clapped at her success, but Claire drooped, wrung out like wet laundry, and then slapped a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean to send him that.” She’d meant to send reassurance with his name, the sense of well-being such as she always sent. How could she have been so careless?

  “It’s gone now,” Rachael sa
id cheerfully. “There’s no getting it back.”

  “Great.”

  “Likely it’ll never reach him anyway,” Jorga said, coming up beside them. “Too far to travel. Or he could be dead already.”

  Claire’s eyes widened and she gagged unexpectedly, bringing tears to her eyes. “How . . . how could you say such a thing?”

  “He’s just a man,” Jorga retorted. “Better than most maybe. But a man. We don’t need their kind. Your place is with us, not moping over some man.”

  “Someone’s got a real dose of puppy love,” Rachael chortled.

  Muriel came up and draped an arm around Claire’s neck. “Never you mind them. Any love is a beautiful thing. I’m sure your young man is perfectly fine. We’ll be at the edge of the swamp tomorrow night, and then who knows? We may run into him sooner than you think.”

  Claire drew in Muriel’s offered comfort and the world slowly swam back into focus. They were right about one thing: Done was done. Much as it hurt to admit it, they had a point. No sense worrying about something she couldn’t fix. She had to keep believing Ramiro was safe.

  “Violet, your turn,” Eulalie called out. “Let’s see the next trick. Then Susan and Anna.”

  The next woman came forward to share her tip on controlling double-bite spiders, and Claire let them shuffle her into the center of their pack, glad to no longer be the focus of attention. Or almost. Jorga shot her a glance to make sure she was paying attention.

  Aunties was right. She’d become the center attraction simply by being alive and the only focus for their considerable attentions. If she didn’t watch out, they would nitpick her to death. Then and there, she vowed again to stand on her own two feet and not let the Women of the Song control her.

  One by one, they all shared new ways to enhance and expand the magic of the Song. Even Jorga shared the Hornet Tune. Claire did her best to memorize each twist and trick. Some required learning a Song like the one for controlling the spiders—others provided a new layer on an old Song like Rachael’s. Muriel’s whistle tune to counter predators, whether on four legs or two, would take days of practice, as Claire had never learned to whistle. Eulalie’s secret of selecting targets for the Song would take even more work, as it involved a difficult form of complex concentration and visual focusing, along with inventing new wording in each Song used to suit the intended target. As one couldn’t stop sound from traveling everywhere, a partial description of a victim had to accompany the words at the start of the Song.