It couldn’t stop the Song from going everywhere, but if the target had ears, it could make the magic a sharp spear instead of a net.
Already Claire could see how to adapt this to her Death Song. Eulalie’s family had used this method to attack only men in a given situation, but with practice Claire could make her focus even more restrictive, to mark Northerners. And luckily for her, they had days of walking ahead of them in which to master the skills shown today.
Her feet throbbed just thinking about it.
Each demonstration of another unique magic brought applause, praise, and grateful thanks for sharing. And as the last woman finished, Claire pulled at her braid. They had all displayed something, given up their secrets, except for her. The Elders had already seen her add emotion to Songs—she’d done it again tonight with her Speak on the Wind. She had nothing else to offer.
Or maybe she did.
“Wait,” she said as the group began to break up. “Just a minute. I have something else for you to see.” She hastened back to the fire and grabbed one of her saddlebags, rescued from inside their cabin before they burnt the small structure. Claire had been reluctant to take anything out of that place of death, but the more practical Jorga had insisted they recover their belongings despite the blood spatters on them. Claire had taken her bag and layered it inside another and never opened it since.
Inside lay the white Diviner. The weapon taken from a Northern priest in the swamp village by Ramiro and that had turned from bone-white to a bloody red color after the massacre of the Northern soldiers by Dal. The Diviner had turned white once again when Errol had directed Claire to use the staff as Jorga lay dead. The red had drained out of the Northern object as life reentered Jorga.
Claire’s fingers faltered in opening the bag.
Errol would never be there again to direct her with his uncanny glimpses of the future.
“What is it?” Eulalie demanded in a suspicious voice. “A root? An herb? Or something of men?”
Claire pulled herself together and dumped the bag upside down, shaking it to dislodge items. “No. Something of the Northerners—used for killing.” Ramiro’s shirt holding the Diviner lay wedged in the bottom. She extracted the bundle with some difficulty and more care, not trusting the weapon within.
The Elders of the Women of the Song gathered over her in an anxious circle to see what she would produce as she set the shirt on the ground and peeled back the fabric.
A staff a little longer than her forearm and much thinner than her wrist lay inside. Claire gasped. The moonlight didn’t reveal bone white but the eerie crimson of fresh blood.
Chapter 22
Ramiro dismounted Sancha outside the crypt where Telo and Teresa waited for him. He debated removing the mare’s tack and saddle to make her more comfortable, or leaving it in anticipation of a quick departure, finally deciding to just remove the saddle. He let the reins dangle and Sancha responded with the horse equivalent of a human yawn by turning her head away from him.
“I know. You’d rather be doing something, going places. We can take care of that soon enough, right?” She looked about as convinced as he felt. The desire to settle his fate for his desertion pulled at him, making him pace. He could easily give Teresa and the priest a quick good-bye and be on his way to Suseph. Let them interview Santabe and try and draw information from the Northerner. That was their mission—not so much his now that they’d captured her. Or better yet, they could follow their earlier plan, take Santabe along, and all go to Suseph. Turn her over to his parents and let the authorities handle her. He could meet with Captain Gonzalo and find out his fate as far as the military was concerned.
He lost himself in a daydream of what he would say to them in his defense. Would a court martial punish him or exonerate him? Or some combination? With a shiver, he jerked himself from what-ifs. Time to deal with the here and now, not possible futures.
Would he leave alone or with his friends? Either way, he should be leaving soon.
That had been the original plan.
He had a feeling Teresa and Father Telo’s version of the plan had changed. He wasn’t sure he blamed them, either. Getting Santabe out the gate of Aveston was going to be a problem. They risked getting caught with her, captured, and learning nothing if they left before interrogating her. Added to that, Teresa and Telo would want to be here, among the Northerners, in case they got any information they could act upon. They would not be in a hurry to go. With his part largely over, he didn’t have to wait on them to head to Suseph. Yet, he certainly didn’t like the thought of leaving them.
They were adults. They certainly didn’t need him, right? He had equally important tasks to accomplish that couldn’t be done in Aveston.
He tugged the reins idly, thoughts conflicted. Sancha turned back to him, nosing at his chest. “Go or stay?” he asked her.
She winked one liquid eye at him and jerked the reins out of his fingers.
“That’s what I feared you’d say.” Sancha might be chaffing for action—like he was—but she had her own opinions, and on rare occasions she’d expressed a different view from his. Twice before she had refused to heed his orders. Once on the first day of their bond, just to show she could—that she was the bigger and stronger of their pairing and had a will of her own. The second time when he’d drunk too much, taken a bet, and been about to break his neck jumping a canyon much too wide to handle. Both times, he’d been young. Not old enough to grow a beard, let alone earn one.
Restlessness rose in his chest, confirming that wasn’t the answer from her that he secretly desired. He’d hoped Sancha would reinforce his decision, so he could share the blame when he told Teresa.
“Who is the master here?”
She turned away again, giving him her answer. Sancha might not like standing idle here, but she’d decided this is where they should be.
“That’s not what I wanted to hear.” He huffed and walked off a few yards, then swore in a shout that made the rats outside the abandoned buildings nearby scatter with dry rustles. He did something he’d never done before: attempted to force his caballo de guerra by seizing her bridle and pulling her forward.
Sancha casually moved two steps against him, dragging him along as easily as a dog knocks over a kitten. Her lip lifted from her upper teeth, and then she butted him in his chest with her head, hard enough to make him gasp, but not with enough force to crack a rib, clearly letting him know he was the fool.
“Saints. What am I doing?” Was he that desperate to clear his name . . . or go to his death? He released the bridle.
Before he could recover, like the touch of a butterfly across his flesh, his name carried on the wind. Sadness. Hurt. A longing for comfort that was there and gone as fast as a rock newt.
“Claire?”
Something was wrong. She needed him.
Sancha blew horse slobber across his face and gave a true yawn, a sure sign of stress. He scrubbed the slobber off angrily, then subsided against her warm bulk. He’d upset Sancha needlessly and his horse had sensed Claire’s call before him because he’d been lost in anger. All because of his fired-up hurry to get to Suseph. And for what—pride?
Pride in doing the right thing and appearing to have more integrity than anyone else.
All his desire to fulfill his duty and turn himself in imploded, leaving only the yearning to get to Claire. How could he be focused on his duty to a military brotherhood that didn’t exist anymore at the expense of other responsibilities? Claire. That was the true importance. But he didn’t know where she was. How far away . . .
Ah saints.
He’d lost her—for now at least.
The burn in his chest turned to regret, his noble purpose of carrying a warning to his people and then handing himself over more like a fool’s errand. If only he’d stayed with Claire in the first place, but he couldn’t regret coming to warn his people about Dal.
He’d thought that speed would save him. The sooner he admitted his dese
rtion and pled for mercy, the more likely it would be granted to him. That they’d be more open to take him back into the military fold if he came to it quickly. Then he could get leave to go to Claire and everything would have a happy ending.
Stupid.
Much had happened since he’d first made that decision. Namely, a god that killed without mercy.
Church bells rang in the distance. The mournful sound reminded him of Father Ansuro and the dreams. That priest had given his entire life to the service of Her Beauty, cleaning and swabbing and worrying about a building. The priest had given back in that way. His service seemed trite, but it was no less important than the bishop’s work. And when the moment came, Ansuro had sacrificed his life for theirs.
Ramiro thought of all the people who had given them help in the last days. The Northern soldier who’d let them through the gate. The people of Aveston who’d put them up in their homes. And longer ago, Jorga and her willingness to abandon her home to support Claire. Father Telo and Teresa who had left everything they’d known. His father giving up his place as alcalde to do what was best. His mother who took on an additional burden of being alcalde so soon after her child died. People large and small who all served in their own way.
And here he was trying to hold on to what he cared about—his pride, his honor, a belief in a system rapidly disappearing—when all others had given up what they loved—even their lives.
He wanted to rush and solve his own problems, forgetting about what might be best for all. Patience and self-deprecation had always been difficult for him. He should be practicing them now and not being so selfish.
Ramiro scrubbed a hand over his face, then touched his sword hilt. Everything revolved back into focus with a snap. He was a man, and yet he allowed himself to act like a bisoño throwing a tantrum. He had to see past insecurities. Past his desires.
He had to look forward, not back.
Focus on what you can do—what you should be doing.
If he couldn’t get to Claire, then stopping Dal mattered most. Other friends needed him as well. Friends he did know how to find. Who he shouldn’t be abandoning. The choice was clear.
“To hell with it. I can’t fight what’s right.” He buried his face in Sancha’s mane. “I’m sorry, girl. I was being stupid—and selfish. I thought old dreams of military honor and what I owed to them mattered more. Life has changed. I’ve got to let that go. I’m sorry.”
In reply, Sancha nibbled on his hair, proving all was forgiven. Some of the burden lifted from his chest.
“Wait for me, girl. I’ve got to sort something out. I’ll be back soon. Then we can find a better hiding place.”
Sancha sniffed, and he walked inside.
Ramiro entered the underground chamber and shot a quick glance at Santabe, reassured to find her still sleeping. He threw a lump of blankets and several leather straps he’d grabbed from their bags on the nearest sarcophagus. The inside of the hiding place Father Telo had found them was as bad as the outside—he needed no gloomy reminders that everyone died, as mortality pressed on him hard enough. In addition, their presence among the dead felt like an invasion of privacy. And on top of all that, the spot was cramped and uncomfortable. The sooner they found a new location to hide, the better.
“I’ve some news,” Ramiro called as Father Telo and Teresa came to meet him, looking ghostly in the gloomy light so that he half expected them to go through the tombs instead of turning their bodies sideways to slide between them. “The wells have started to run dry. Aveston is swirling with it. It happened so fast they are calling it another sign of the end of days.” The wells had only been a little low a few days ago. He could dimly remember a drought had caused such a panic in his sixth year when the summer rains failed. The adults had gone around with pinched looks of worry for several sevendays, until the rains came two moons late. The rains were at least that late now. He’d always associated thirst with a touch of fear since.
Teresa clicked her tongue at his news, and the priest said a short prayer. Ramiro had no prayers left to say. Either the saints had heard him already and knew what needed to be done, or their hands were tied like the figure from his dreams. He hadn’t time to spend on seeking their influence. No heart for it either.
He ran one of the leather straps through his hands, checking for worn spots.
“We have news as well,” Teresa said. “We got a little information out of our prisoner before she went to sleep again.”
Father Telo looked away. “It appears I overdosed our prisoner. She woke up once, got sick, and passed out again. I must have applied too much of the drug in my haste. She’ll be fine—eventually.”
“Then it’s a good time to do this.” Ramiro had scant sympathy for Santabe. He slid between two tombs and started tying Santabe’s limp hands. “What did she say? How long do you think she’ll be out before we can question her again?”
He reached for the other strap to bind her feet, but Teresa drew it away, eyeing him worriedly. “You are content to stay here, cousin? I’d thought you’d be the one clamoring to leave, and we’d have to try and convince you.”
“That transparent, was I?” Ramiro grinned sheepishly. “I did want to go to Suseph. I still do, actually. But Sancha helped convince me otherwise. She reminded me that what needs doing is here. Though I do want to find a better place to hide—Sancha is too exposed.”
Teresa handed him back the strap to secure their prisoner’s feet, and Telo said, “I think I know a better place. We can try it. As for our news, while you were gone, Santabe let slip her people tried hiding underground and it didn’t work. I believe her on that. Hopefully, we can keep learning more. The effects of the drug shouldn’t linger much longer, and we’ll be able to get back to interrogating her soon. I have an idea where to start.” Telo clasped Ramiro’s shoulder. “I understand your hurry to reach Suseph, my child. We’ll do our best to get you there as soon as possible.”
Teresa smiled. “I much prefer you stay and help us, then go to Suseph and languish in a prison, awaiting a trial that shouldn’t be happening, but are you sure? We were going to insist that you go ahead of us. As your friend, I wanted to put you first. I wanted to do what would make you happiest. Sending you to Suseph seemed the right course.”
He tried to speak, frowning to keep from betraying how her words touched him. She took his arm, and the warmth of her eyes felt good in this cold tomb. “Can you blame me, cousin? You didn’t shun me when I revealed my secret. Whatever your decision, I support you.
“It’s what friends do.”
Speaking his heart had never come easy, and for a moment his throat was too swollen to talk without shaming himself. The strength he felt from Teresa added to his own, and he finally said, “I feel torn into a thousand directions. Claire is pulling on me . . . and you. My parents. My duty to Gonzalo and the peloton. And I’m realizing the last should be the least of my duties. But Claire . . .” His voice broke. “I guess I just have to hope she stays safe or finds her way to me, because I would stay with you instead, to do what needs to be done. I think that’s what she’d want of me.”
Relief washed over Teresa’s face, rounding her cheeks, too plain to be denied. “Perhaps if we get some information from Santabe and they don’t need us anymore, Father Telo can take the message and I can go with you to look for Claire. But I’m glad you’re staying with us, where I can know you’re safe—if hiding in a tomb with our enemy’s high priestess is safe.” She laughed. The sound a peal of pure light in the gloom.
“All is well then,” Father Telo boomed in his powerful voice. “I tried to tell you forcing him to go to Suseph without us was foolish. We can be done with this talk of splitting up. We are a team again. As the Lord sayeth, ‘Work well for thy God and I shall work through you.’” He clasped Ramiro in a brief embrace.
Ramiro cleared his throat, wanting to be done with this touchy-feely conservation. “You said Santabe spoke already. What else did you learn from her?”
“This, my child. Come and see. I think we have a clue.” Father Telo drew him to a corner, where their possessions lay. He pointed to the two Diviners on a sarcophagus far enough away from Santabe to be out of reach. “When she woke, she ignored the white weapon in my hand, closest to her, and searched for its twin: the red. Why? Is it the two together, or does the red do something more? We need to know. Unfortunately, she passed out before we could question her further.”
“Likely it will burn us all to cinders.” Ramiro rubbed at his chin, feeling the scratch of whiskers dragging on his fingers. His instinct said he needed to be the voice of dissent in their discussions. That Father Telo and Teresa would be too likely to rush into risk without seeing all sides. “A weapon like the other.”
“I agree,” Telo said with a grudging smile. “The Northerners are capricious in some ways, but knowing the Northerners, a means to kill is the safe explanation. But what if it’s something more? Why else have separate colors? The Northern priests stand before the front gate with these red Diviners, when before, we always encountered them wielding the white ones. Why? Santabe’s first glance around was to search for it. It must be significant.”
Teresa’s good humor had faded, her eyes filled with dread again. “I feel anything significant is likely to be on Santabe’s list of things not to discuss with us. If she speaks at all it could be to mislead. She says her people weren’t safe underground and could find no way to stop Dal—it seemed candid, but it might not be the whole reality. We need to press her a bit harder.”
“Yes—and find out what the red Diviners do,” Telo repeated.
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