Steadfast

by Michelle Hauck

  “But—”

  “You will do fine,” Beatriz said. “You’ll only be in charge until the elections are finalized. Just don’t let that winner be Ramón.” She smiled to let him know she jested—somewhat. “Tell your children to take good care of Pietro for me. Pietro will help them adjust to losing their home. There is nothing like a pet for giving comfort. I feel better knowing you’ll be here with the concejales to give advice to whoever comes after me, but this is where we belong.” All around them people in too-large uniforms greeted each other with the hugs of long-lost-though-never-met kin. Actual kin said tearful good-byes, but pride shone from all the volunteers. Pride and a sense of purpose.

  Julian prayed that purpose would be fulfilled. They couldn’t force the Northerner army to come out to meet them, though they would do their best to make it so. He and Beatriz had already decided that if the Northern army refused to leave the safety of Aveston, their army of elderly and misfits would go find them. One way or another, the threat of the Northern army would be removed.

  “You have our letters for Ramiro?” Julian asked. They might not get to see their son again, and pencil and paper gave them a poor substitute, but it would have to suffice.

  Gonzalo touched his jacket over his heart. “I do. And I will keep in mind the letter he sent to me. Be easy for your son. A trial there must be, but I will be fair and compassionate.”

  Julian forced a smile. Gonzalo had not offered to let him read that message that had come with the other letter giving the details on Leviathan, but Julian had no doubts it contained an explanation of Ramiro’s reason for desertion. Julian created a vision of the future to treasure in his inner landscape of Ramiro and Gonzalo returning the military to its full complement and former glory. It warmed his heart.

  “Light a candle for our success,” Julian said, “and our memory. We go with joy to accomplish one last victory—for Colina Hermosa. I shall see my city rise again in my mind’s eye, even if I’ll never see the actual rebuilding.”

  “For both of you.” Gonzalo held out recently minted medallions of Santa Ildaria. Many others in the crowd carried them already. Julian tucked his away with a smile of thanks, turned, and moving among the crowd, left Beatriz to say her good-byes to the captain alone.

  People had come from every hamlet, village, and ciudad-estado, easy to pick out by the color of uniform they’d brought to wear. There the orange and white of Suseph. The gray and green of Colina Hermosa mingled with reds, browns, blues and blacks, among dozens of other colors and shades. Trains of wagons filled all the available space in front of Suseph, containing thousands. Like in the time of Santa Ildaria, the people had come. Enough to match in numbers the army they had lost. One had even come from Crueses, proving Juan could not stop the truth from surfacing. All had come to save their kin and offer their lives for others.

  Julian halted to clasp hands with Concejal Diego. The elderly landowner and counselor sat in a carriage with the dozing bishop of Colina Hermosa and several other timeworn clerics as they waited to get started. By his side sat an even older woman, her back humped and teeth long gone. Julian recognized the mother of Concejal Lugo, his former political rival killed by Ordoño just after the burning of Colina Hermosa. Lugo had been her only child and he’d never had a family. She was alone in the world. Julian had known her and Diego for as long as he could remember.

  For an instant, Julian’s resolve wavered. The faces in the carriage took him back to a time in his youth when he’d just entered politics. They had already served the community for many years.

  They and others had given him the advice of their experience and made him the man he was today.

  “We must chat of old times during our journey, Julian,” Diego said. An icon of Santiago holding book and staff sat upon the old man’s knees, kept in sight as if to lift spirits and stiffen spines.

  “That we will, old friend.” And just like that, his world firmed at the prospect of another treasure to add to his inner landscape. Julian continued on with a nod to another concejal on horseback beside the carriage. Sarracino the weaver had always carried a torch for Beatriz and had never married or had a family of his own. Now he had decided to end his life with her. Well, Julian would not begrudge him the chance to speak to Beatriz. All who trod this path were heroes and they all had their own reasons for being here.

  Even as Julian stepped away, the light dimmed. The sun becoming less. The smell of rot carried through the air and a force of evil pressed down. People cried out. Julian kept his feet under him by sheer determination. The force of Dal pressed upon the crowd but lightly; the real power must have been miles distant. Julian threw a look toward Crueses—could it be there?—and said a quick prayer for the ones under the full attack of the Northern terror. Somewhere in a village or a town people died, while here no one moved or spoke, as if in compassion with their suffering. Julian tried to keep track of the time by counting, but the terror went on too long. He soon lost track as his mind wandered into fear that Dal could be at Aveston with Ramiro.

  Yet the new attack changed nothing—they would carry on as planned and do their best to put an end to this.

  When the light returned, people looked a little paler—their voices a little more hushed. Their embraces held a little tighter and longer to make up for it. No one spoke of what had just happened.

  There’s your proof, Juan.

  Julian shook himself and resumed his course. He accepted hugs and handshakes from familiar faces and strangers all the way to the front of the crowd. The wagon train of Aveston had begun to move, chosen to lead the way in honor of their sacrifice to save their own citizens. Two units of scouts would flank their progress and ride in advance to deal with any Northern spies they found. The scouts would turn around and leave them when they reached Aveston, taking the wagons and horses back to Suseph, and letting the sad army take the last steps on their own. Beatriz would have no one unwilling with them, not even beasts. Only minds that had chosen this of their own will would go forward to die.

  But for now, there could still be joy.

  A wagon from a grain mill waited with a place for him and Beatriz. Inside sat servants from the citadel where Julian had lived so long. Lupaa set a basket on the floor to make room for him on the hastily added bench seat. “Alcalde. I go to save my grandsons.” The smile on her lips did not quite touch her eyes.

  Julian squeezed her hand as he had hundreds of others. Some had been warm and confident—others cold as stones—like Lupaa’s. She, unlike all the others, had been in one of Dal’s massacres. She, more than others, knew the horror that awaited. “Bless you. You are welcome.”

  A slender girl in black sat beside the bulky Lupaa.

  “Fronilde!” Julian said in shock at seeing his son’s intended bride. The wedding had been planned and a date set, and then Salvador had died at the hands of an angry witch. “You don’t belong here.”

  She held a black handkerchief to her face, though no tears flowed. Lupaa held tight to the girl’s other hand. “Since Salvador’s death my heart won’t heal. I may breathe, but I’m not alive since he is gone.”

  “You are young. Your heart will heal and you will love again. Salvador would not want this. Go back.”

  “You are wrong,” she said and there was steel in her voice. “Time will never heal this hurt. Maybe if there had been a child, but there is not. I cannot care. Not for my parents. Not for anyone. Life is but a shadow to me. Tell me you would want to live without Beatriz.”

  Now and forever.

  He could not speak such a lie. He might live without Beatriz, but would he truly be alive? And hadn’t Salvador’s death left him in similar pain? Only duty to his people and Beatriz had kept him going. Wasn’t going to his death a type of relief from his own heartbreak at Salvador’s death?

  “Welcome, daughter.” Julian held his arms wide to take her in. She settled against his aching heart, and suddenly, Beatriz was there to join them in the embrace. Lupaa added her warmth
and the other old friends and servants grasped on also.

  Tears flowed but they were tears of healing and acceptance. They had all made their choice.

  Then the wagon lurched and they were under way. Bound to a one-way trip to save lives. The cost paid freely. The saints be with them.

  Chapter 30

  Teresa had not battled such indecision since her parents died. It had been just a few months from the completion of her first degree. Her parents had passed within a short time of one another, leaving her penniless, until a family friend had offered her room in his household. She’d known very well his kindhearted goal was to shelter her with his daughters and marry her off to some man she might learn to like but could never love. He’d had enough influence in their small sphere to even manage an arrangement for a dumpy, awkward girl like her. No one knew at that time that her inclinations ran a different direction. They all just thought her odd in her ways. Standoffish and bookish.

  She’d been violently ill each morning for months as she struggled to decide: security and comfort over being true to herself. Not only would she be expected to marry a gender that didn’t interest her, but to take the offer was to turn her back on her other love: university and a life of study. Everything she’d argued with her parents to achieve. The family friend did not believe in educating women, even his daughters. She’d have to accept a sham of a life to guarantee herself a home or face an indifferent world alone, with complete uncertainty of earning her own bread and shelter. There was no guarantee a woman could get any kind of employment, with or without a degree.

  Instead of resolving her hesitancy on her own, her time had eventually run out, forcing her to make a choice. For the second time in her life, she had taken the harder path, and both times she’d chosen the life of an academic. The kind family friend had shocked her with a tiny allowance and gradually she’d stood on her own two feet, finding teaching assistance jobs and continuing her studies. Indecision had rarely plagued her for long since.

  Until now.

  Now she couldn’t make up her mind again. It was one thing to choose between marriage and a career. But now, with lives other than her own, those first two times seemed a flip of a coin in comparison. Resolving to save the people of Aveston had been the easy part. Deciding a way to do so and actually carrying it out frightened her to death. She and Ramiro had put such worries aside for the first few days to tend Father Telo, hoping to see him recovering before they acted. It had seemed promising as Telo’s fever had broken the first night. Soon, they would have the advice of the burly priest again. But the heat in his veins returned the next morning. The fever continued to vacillate in an on-again, off-again fashion, and his improvement had stalled.

  Teresa found herself spending her days and much of her nights sitting at her friend’s side, holding his hand or bathing his forehead; but Telo did not wake, though he might open his eyes for long enough to take some nourishment or mumble a few incoherent words. While her body mended and the pains in her head dissipated, her friend got no better. Often he called for Father Ansuro and lamented over the old priest’s death in a way that crushed her heart.

  She’d prayed for another miracle, and been secretly relieved and ashamed of her feelings when it didn’t happen. They’d been close enough to miracles already. Death always followed.

  Sadly, they had to accept that God had other plans.

  Father Telo moaned a little, and she moistened his lips. “Sit up, my friend. Drink.” Whiskers had invaded his face, normally kept so meticulously clean shaven. Bristles more gray or silver than black. As if age had found him in a short time. Somehow Father Telo’s growing a beard troubled her more than the loss of his triple-rope belt, cut away by the healer, or his much worn and mended sandals standing empty with their belongings.

  Ramiro set down the piece of armor he’d been polishing and was at her side in an instant, helping her support Telo. Between them, they got some watery broth into Telo before laying him back down.

  His eyes fluttered open. “Where am I?”

  “Aveston. The tombs, Father. Remember? We have to decide on a way to save the people of Aveston from being massacred.”

  “Awh.” Telo blinked owlishly at her and she wasn’t sure if he understood, then he said, “Take . . . their incentive.” His eyes closed and he fell back into a semblance of sleep. The healer said head wounds could be tricky, taking days or even months to heal. She’d hoped days would be enough. Vain wishes. Like in her past, their time ran out and her indecision showed no sign of lifting.

  “Their incentive?” Teresa said. “The Northern incentive. The white Diviners.” Father Telo had gotten right to the heart of the matter. Destroy the incentive for the Northerners to start a massacre.

  She traded looks with Ramiro. They both knew getting back into Her Beauty and the cathedral’s stash of Diviners should be their destination. “We can’t leave him alone like this. What if we don’t make it back?”

  “You heard him,” Ramiro said. “He told us his choice.”

  “He’s too sick to make a choice.”

  Getting caught or dying while trying to stop the Northerners would leave Father Telo stranded here alone with only Santabe as a companion. The woman would never help Father Telo, even if her badly broken legs allowed it. After her sudden confession about the Diviners to Telo, Santabe refused to do more than shout mocking insults at them. Somehow, the man had read the Northerner’s soul like a book, getting her to reveal information they needed, but that advantage was gone like the man himself.

  The loss of Telo had also left Ramiro and herself floundering. His voice and positive attitude had been the prop they didn’t know was supporting them until it was gone. They couldn’t seem to make a decision without him.

  “If only . . .” she said. They both swung around to look at the pieces of the tray propped against the stone wall of the catacomb. Ramiro had wheedled some wood glue from a carpenter in the city, but the simple kitchen tray had been too splintered from their fight in Her Beauty to hold a repair. Teresa lied to herself that its power wasn’t a miracle. After all, it wasn’t a relic, just an ordinary kitchen tray. Nothing to do with the divine. Yet, she couldn’t deny it had saved their lives twice, and its loss left them with no protection against the Diviners if they left the catacombs.

  It didn’t take a degree in human nature to understand its destruction influenced their indecision, increasing their lack of motivation.

  She could almost feel time running out for Aveston while they remained safely tucked underground with a red Diviner to keep Dal away. They guessed nothing had happened yet because the Northerners would be putting their own protections in place to make sure they didn’t die in the massacre they would soon create, but those plans could only take so long. Teresa very much feared they needed to act today.

  It made Teresa almost as hot as the fever plaguing Father Telo. Yet it wasn’t enough to goad her to move. They needed a plan with an actual hope of success.

  Her skin seemed to itch. She couldn’t sit still any longer, but scrambled up and paced over to one of the pillars to inspect the pictograms carved on the stone. Her studies had touched on ancient languages, but only lightly. Most of her time had been spent on learning more about relatively modern societies—two thousand years ago or less—the ciudades-estado after their nomadic ways had ended. Her training had taught her little or nothing to peruse the carvings, but she had to do something to occupy her mind.

  This pillar, like all the others, sounded hollow. She had debated with Ramiro about pushing the rest over in a more controlled way to see if they also contained treasures, but they had decided it would be like opening a tomb—a desecration. Neither wanted to take such a step. It would be unethical and immoral to indulge their curiosity as the dead had hidden whatever lay inside for a reason. So Ramiro had been satisfied with restoring the armor they’d found, and she with uselessly looking at the carvings.

  With one arm bound to her chest in a sling, she used the
other hand to trace an uneven rectangle the size of a beetle carved on the pillar. She was drawn to the carvings despite being unable to read them. “San Martin’s cloak,” she said. She had found such a pictogram on all the pillars, including the toppled one. Her finger moved from one picture to another. “San Lucius’s book. A cup that could be Santa Teresa’s wine. It’s full of images I recognize, but I don’t know what they say.”

  Ramiro rested his chin on his arm draped across his bent knee. “Does it matter? They aren’t going to tell us what to do.”

  “I know. But I don’t like leaving anything unexplained. Perhaps they can tell us about the owner of the armor.”

  “Does that matter either? It’s here. We can use it if we have need or sell it for more medicine. You heard what Father Telo wants us to do.”

  “Leave him,” she said reluctantly. “Go try and save the city.”

  “Aye,” Ramiro said. “I don’t like it either. But we can’t put it off anymore. I’ll put on the armor and cause a distraction, draw the Northerners into the streets. You sneak into the cathedral when their backs are turned and take care of the Diviners.”

  Her stomach dropped. She knew what such a plan entailed. They’d talked around the idea enough times already. “We’d be killed, cousin. We don’t even know the Diviners would still be there. And how am I to manage with just one arm.” She sighed as frustration built. And that’s where they became stuck. Ramiro arguing for action. She expressing doubts. He realizing her doubts weren’t wrong. She knowing that action was necessary. They were stuck in this circular argument with no end in sight.

  “We’ll leave this with Telo.” Ramiro held up the red Diviner. “The priest will be safer than we will. One of us will make it back to care for him.”

  Before Teresa could tell him no, Santabe stirred across the tomb. “Bring it closer and I’ll tell you what you need to know,” she said. Teresa froze. She’d forgotten the Northerner was there. Unless the woman was cursing at them, her presence tended to fade into the background, as she often went for hours without speaking or moving. She took food from them but not much else, even preferring to sit in her own filth than have them tend her.