Steadfast

by Michelle Hauck

  “Oh.” Claire frowned. “Wouldn’t it be better if we all—”

  “Ten minutes’ head start,” Rachael said with a wave. “Get going. Impress us.”

  Claire stood stupidly, staring. “Tick tock,” Eulalie huffed.

  “My granddaughter will not disappoint,” Jorga said. “Hear that, girl: don’t disappoint. Run.”

  Claire dumped all the baggage, turned blindly, and ran toward the smoke, irritation growing with each step. Don’t disappoint. Run. As if she were some lackey to do their every bidding. So much for her break. They were supposed to follow her directions—her lead.

  How had things taken such a turn for the worst?

  Claire ground her teeth. The Elders could manipulate a stump into doing what they wanted.

  Well and good, she decided. Let them have their victory. When they reached the desert people, she would be the one making the decisions. There, she would hold them to their word and enjoy watching them twist.

  Besides, she had wanted to be alone, even if only for ten minutes. Even if it meant running toward potential danger.

  She slowed as she neared the smoke—she could smell the woodsy flavor of it now. Feel the nearness in the sting in her eyes. As she moved from tree to tree, she let a hum build in her throat, gradually adding in whispers of words, sending the magic in growing waves that would each travel farther than the last. Anna and Susan had helped her practice erecting the Song in such a gradual way that even birds wouldn’t flee the magic before it could take effect. Now, she used illusion alone to make any human see a deer moving among the trees.

  A harmless deer. Hesitant and cautious. Nothing to fear. Nothing to attack.

  She tried to trust the Song, but the hair stood up on the back of her neck at her exposure each time she stepped into the open for an instant. Anyone strong enough of mind, like a Northern priest, could see through her illusion.

  That was before, she scolded herself. Before she’d had seven Elders sitting in judgment and training her. Now she had to believe she could match even the strongest mind.

  As the magic reached full power, she entered a small clearing. The fire had been arranged in the center of the open space with at least a half dozen green boughs laced overtop the flames to ensure plenty of smoke. A trap indeed.

  But left by whom?

  She held the Song with ease as she skirted around the clearing, seeking any signs of life. There! A shine of metal came from behind a buttonbush. She hiked her skirts in her hands to ensure their silence and prepared to creep closer . . .

  And seven Elders came thundering into the clearing with seven different Songs flaring, blowing her cover. Their abrupt entrance knocked the Song from her lips, scattering her deception. Screams sounded from behind the buttonbush as Claire darted forward. Three men rolled on the ground. One of them wore bits of rusted armor. A few more crashed around in another bush. A second look revealed a young woman among their number.

  She had seen them before.

  “Stop!” she shouted. “It’s not Northerners! Stop! I know these people!”

  The Elders’ Songs cut off, and Claire placed her hands on her hips. “That wasn’t ten minutes. Did you even give me five?”

  All of them except Eulalie looked away. “Who is it?” the largest Elder demanded.

  “Villagers.” Claire toed the one with armor with her foot. “This one is called Suero. He is their leader. I think they set this trap for the Northerners.” Suero glared at her through tearing eyes, blood coming from his ears. She had stopped the Elders just in time.

  “And it would have worked, too, if you hadn’t shown up.” The greasy little man had stopped rolling in agony with the end of the Songs and sat up. He spat even while wiping away blood from his face. “Sirenas.”

  “Men,” Eulalie said in the same tone. “You expect to kill soldiers with a few rusty swords and one rickety bow.”

  “We are hunters. We hunt from the shadows. And draw them away from our women and children. None of them will survive.”

  “We are both here because of the same enemy,” Claire said heatedly to Eulalie. “Every man in this world is not against you. Some might even help you if you gave them a chance.” Though probably not this man. Ramiro’s opinion made it clear Suero was a cheater and a thief as well as greedy. Not one to show your back. She turned to Suero. “And you traded with my mother, so you know not all sirenas are out to hurt you. The Northerners are the true enemy.”

  For her attempt at peacemaker she got more glares. “Honestly!” She stalked to the fire to pull as many of the green-leafed branches off the flames as she could, kicking dirt over the rest. No need to attract more attention.

  “I will never trust men,” Rachael said.

  “Where is my son?” Suero demanded. The bent little man clutched at a sword he retrieved from the ground. “You have stolen him.”

  Claire froze, her heart dropping. She had forgotten Suero was Bromisto’s father. They were so different. The boy hadn’t had a sneaky bone in his body . . . well, at least not in a vicious way. Bromisto had come with them willingly enough, but she had failed the boy. She could not speak of his death here, in front of so many, as if it were casual conversation.

  “Gone,” Eulalie said. “Like my son.” She gestured at Jorga. “And hers. Their daughters. Sisters. Mothers. Aunts. Cousin. Almost all our kin. Taken by the enemy.”

  The young woman with the villagers had been silent this entire time. She wore her hair up and had on a simple tunic over deerskin pants, like the other hunters. But the features of her face reminded Claire of Bromisto, especially in the friendliness of the eyes. She burst into tears at Jorga’s words, then gave a keening wail. “Ermegildo!”

  Bromisto’s true name. The sister the boy had always complained about.

  Claire’s heart clenched for her pain.

  Suero had gone white under the dirt on his face. Another villager clapped him on the shoulder.

  “My son.”

  Claire wanted to disappear. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken him with us. Our losses . . . only grow.”

  His face hardened with hate. He hefted the sword, and Claire feared she had made an implacable foe.

  “Behind you,” Suero said. He rushed forward with a battle yell, but not at her.

  Claire whirled to see ten men in black and yellow step from the trees, swords held ready. A full unit of Northerners.

  Too late. She’d put out the smoke too late. Rage sparked in her heart. Errol. Bromisto.

  “Fool!” Eulalie called at Suero.

  Rachael and Muriel tripped up the advancing villager, stopping his progress and dragging him sideways into the other women, but also foiling any of the Elders from acting.

  “Get down!” Claire yelled, though no one stood between her and the soldiers. The Death Song burst from her throat between one breath and the next. She used Eulalie’s trick to direct the magic at her targets, calling them by name.

  “Men of the North,

  Fear, panic,

  “Cold hands,

  “Icy shakes.

  “Knees buckle,

  “Strength flees.

  “The grave waits, men of the North, darkness . . .”

  Rage and determination fueled her Song. She might not be able to harm Dal with her magic, but she could damn well take down his minions. All ten men dropped before she completed a verse. Dead before their bodies hit the ground. Their hearts stopped.

  She felt the life drain from them like a blow to her soul.

  A joyous satisfaction flooded her veins, hindered only a moment by a nudge of doubt, reminding her she wasn’t a killer. Until someone reminded her she was.

  “Destroyer,” one of the Elders said in a startled voice.

  Suero ran forward to kneel beside the Northerners, touching here and there. “They’re dead.” He raised incredulous eyes to her. “Sirenas can do such things? How?”

  “With desire and practice,” Muriel said, “and a willingness to take t
he scars.”

  “Scars,” Suero said. “I see no scars upon you women.”

  “Exactly. It is the unseen ones that cause the most damage.”

  Muriel’s concern twisted in Claire’s gut. Empty eyes stared without seeing from the bodies upon the ground. Brushes of blond hair lay on foreheads still wrinkled in shock. Enemies no longer. People. People she had killed—now stacked in a heap like so much kindling.

  Brothers. Sons. Fathers. Husbands.

  Suddenly, Claire didn’t want to be in this clearing anymore. “We’ve delayed too long. We should get moving again. The road is this way.”

  Claire was walking before she finished the words, something in her chest trying to break, while she did her best to force the feelings away.

  Jorga took her elbow and guided her more to the right. “This way, granddaughter.”

  She heard the buzz of other voices speaking, but couldn’t make out any words. The pressure on her elbow increased, and Claire realized Jorga was worried for her. She gripped her grandmother’s hand in her own and held tight.

  “I didn’t think to stop the Song before they died. It didn’t occur to me. I just killed them . . . because of what they did to Errol. To Bromisto.”

  “Aye,” Jorga said for her ear alone. “The grief can do that to a person. What you must decide is, is that the sort of person you want to be?”

  “I did what had to be done.”

  “None can argue that,” Muriel said, coming up behind them. She now carried the belongings Claire had dropped. “But don’t try to live with it alone. Talk to us.”

  “Tonight. Another time. Not this moment.” Claire released Jorga’s hand. Destroyer. She couldn’t stand to dwell further on it. “Not yet.”

  The other women faded back as an argument grew between Suero and Eulalie, with Suero intent on coming with them, while at the same time insisting his hunters and his daughter, Elo, go home.

  Claire clasped her hands together, letting her nails dig into her palms, as the Elders ignored her to concentrate on Suero, granting her peace and solitude of a sort.

  It had been only a handful of Northerners. She had acted in self-defense. The Northerners had been the aggressors—as always. She had protected the others. Saved lives. As the nearest, she had been the safest choice to use the magic so none of them would die. Of course it had to be her who used the Death Song. It only made sense. They had to be stopped.

  Too, the Northerners had surprised her. If she’d had an instant to set the Song, she’d have cut it off early and tried to spare their lives. Killing had been an accident. Something that wouldn’t happen next time. One slip didn’t make her a destroyer . . . did it?

  The words ran in a loop in her brain as she walked, justifications appearing and fading, none able to push away the queasy twist in her stomach, until the plain dirt of the road appeared under her feet. The tangible line between swamp and not swamp. The first step toward the desert.

  A strange reluctance dragged at her heels.

  She had taken this road before with Ramiro, and she knew what to expect this time. She had seen the cities and met the people. The desert people wouldn’t be outright hostile toward her. She looked forward to seeing some of them again—Beatrice, Fronilde, possibly Teresa would be there, and of course Ramiro. Yet, she couldn’t deny her dampened enthusiasm—she also knew the numbers of Northerners at the other end.

  There would be no avoiding more confrontations.

  Her mouth grew dry.

  Claire halted to allow the Elders and Suero to catch up. She waited. The first step would be easier with kin at her side.

  “Claire, haven’t you been listening?” Eulalie wore her prune face again, all three chins in a bunch. Her vast expanse of a bosom heaved from her exertion or irritation or both. “I asked you three times if you vouch for this man.”

  “He wishes to join forces with us,” Rachael added. “Thinks we can kill more Northerners together. I don’t really see how he can be any help. What do you say?”

  “Women know nothing of fighting,” Suero said in defiance of the demonstration of killing Claire had just put on. “You need me to show you better tactics. Standing in the open like that. Rushing forward unprepared. Only a woman would be so stupid. It’s unnatural, but you’re unnatural. I can be of use and show you how to remember deference to a man at the same time. Make you tolerable.”

  All seven Elders snapped at the man at once, giving Claire a chance to think. She didn’t trust Suero. The short man had a way of meeting their eyes without actually looking at them. Not in the innocent, socially awkward way Errol had done, but in a way that implied he held unclean thoughts about them. It gave her the creeps.

  More than looking like a weasel, he acted the part as well. He had twisted the deal he’d made with Ramiro the second the minimum terms had been completed, leaving Ramiro to be killed. All he cared about was gain for himself. Greedy for weapons to assure his own reputation. Even with the power of their magic to fuel his dream of revenging his son, Claire couldn’t believe his word would hold from one sunset to the next. He’d betray them and do it gladly.

  Yet, it might be better to have him under their eye, then behind their back. A no from them wouldn’t keep Suero from following the same path.

  “Swear,” Claire said so abruptly every voice shut off. “Swear on the life of your family, on your soul, or whatever vow will hold you most, that you’ll stand firm to us until all the Northerners are dead. All. That you’ll not betray us to the enemy when you believe it convenient for you, or try to take our lives or harm us in any way. Swear it or go your own way.”

  “I swear on my family’s life and my good right arm, may it wither, that I’ll hold true to you. That our interests will be one—our lives one—until all the Northerners are dead. I swear by my good right arm to part from you in harmony if you help me avenge my son.”

  Claire nodded. “Accepted. Singers, watch him like a hawk anyway.” She stepped forward onto the road, moving in an even stride. She had a sevenday to find a way to put aside the doubts that haunted her. Too long. Too much time to think. Too much time to worry.

  Too much time for Dal to cause more misery. For the Northerners to kill innocents.

  Almost she was tempted to ask for a Song to practice just to occupy her mind, but couldn’t decide whether the scrutiny from the Elders or the worry were worse. “Let’s try to hurry.”

  False words. Already the Elders began complaining about their knees or their hips. They couldn’t keep up this pace.

  If only they could travel faster. Make the miles they had to traverse disappear. Might as well pray for the Great Goddess to appear and whisk them across the distance. Claire knew well enough that their deity didn’t intervene. They were on their own.

  But that didn’t keep her from wishing for more speed.

  Maybe the saints Ramiro always applied to could help. His people expected intervention and assistance. She felt too embarrassed with the idea of speaking to dead people to put the plea into words, though. Besides, the saints weren’t of her people. Why would they listen?

  One of the Elders shrieked as the bushes beside the road rattled and shook, parting to let a large form emerge. A huge dapple-gray horse paced delicately around the Elders and a gaping Suero to stop in front of her. It overtopped her by a good foot and pawed at the ground restlessly as more horses, some brown and others also dapple-gray, followed the stallion onto the road. None wore bridles or saddles.

  Claire reached out a hand to touch the stallion’s shoulder, unsure whether she saw a ghost. She thought she recognized the pattern of his coat, though . . . “Valentía?” She was certain she had seen this animal long ago, when she and Ramiro had still been enemies, right after he kidnapped her. The stallion had been carrying the dead body of its master, Ramiro’s brother. Ramiro had said something to her about setting the horse free.

  The animal turned to show her its side, where scabbed scars of frightening-looking injuries broke the
perfection of its hide. Valentía had been gouged with a sharp object and recently, but the animal seemed to feel no weakness. He held his head high and his eyes were clear and bright. Whatever had injured the horse hadn’t killed it. The stallion nodded its head at her and then at its back.

  Claire looked around at the small herd of waiting horses and a delighted laugh slipped from her lips. “Hike up your skirts, Singers. We’re riding to the desert.”

  “What?” Jorga said, her eyes wide. “On those things? With no saddles? They just came out of nowhere. We can’t trust some random animals.”

  A gleam of avarice lit Suero’s eye, but like Jorga, the other Elders held back from the horses. Claire was willing to bet none of them had ever ridden.

  “Never look a gift horse in the mouth,” Claire said. “Think how much pain they will save your feet and knees.” Though the same couldn’t be said for their rumps. Claire didn’t care how much the Elders complained—they’d find something to moan about one way or the other. So they might as well do it while moving faster. She’d get her grandmother and the others up on the horses and on their way, even if she had to shove each one up on her shoulders. This would cut their time in half.

  And possibly save many lives—if their Song could in fact reliably hide people from Dal.

  “Enough,” she said sharply, cutting off the protests. “Thank the Great Goddess, the saints, your lucky stars, or whoever, but we are going to ride these horses, and we are going to put an end to the Northerners.”

  Chapter 27

  A feeling of dread and nausea gripped at Teresa’s belly, coiling through every inch of her body and suggesting panic to come. A throbbing headache stationed right above her forehead added to her desire to sick up. It could only mean one thing:

  She had to teach the pre-breakfast history class to the first years.

  They cared nothing for the past or learning. Worse, as the children of wealthy families using the university as a stepping-stone to running their family business or marrying, they felt themselves vastly above a junior professor, especially such an ugly one and a woman to boot. She had learned fast to show them no weakness or they would tear into her like hungry wolves, working together to take down their prey.