“Back to the fog,” he ordered. He could just see the patch of fog waiting for them behind the columns. He gripped her shoulder. “You get out of here, and I’ll stay and finish this.” She pulled away and dropped to seize the red Diviner from the priest at their feet.
“I can’t. We need this for Telo.”
She couldn’t take anything of Dal through the fog. “Go ahead and go, cousin,” he told her before swinging his sword at the glowing Diviners. The task had to be done before the fire died. And there was the problem of letting his sword get so hot so that the metal shattered. He’d have to pause between to let it cool regularly. “Leave the red one. I’ll bring that when I’m finished here. Get clear.”
“You’ll never get out alone.” She glanced at the door to the nave. It would be the quicker route, but filled with the Northern priests. “I’m staying. We’re doing this together, remember?”
He didn’t have time to argue. She’d made her decision. He fell into a rhythm: break apart some Diviners, strike again, let the sword cool, and start over. Sweat built up on his skin. The smoke stung his lungs. His muscles ached and his movements slowed as he tired. He tried to move faster, urgency and despair beating at him. Teresa tried using the red Diviner to break up the others, but it didn’t have enough weight behind it and wasn’t sharp. She soon gave up. Only a third of the pile had been reduced and the flames were dying. The task would be harder when the Diviners cooled.
Teresa shouted. He looked up at a sword coming at him. A great curved blade of the Northerners; the weapon was wider than his hand. He flinched. The sword smashed down beside him breaking up four or five Diviners with one blow.
Rasdid smiled at him. “I will help.” He gestured at the doorway, where a dozen men stood guard. “They will watch. We will stop this killing.”
Ramiro nodded. Resistance hadn’t died after all. “Thanks.” No more words were needed as he went back to work. Help had come and they weren’t done yet.
Chapter 34
The door to the nave opened and two priests rushed in, shouting what sounded like curses. They focused on the fire, failing to see Rasdid’s men step out from either side of the door to cut them down and then hack apart their Diviners. Teresa slammed the door shut as they finished the task.
“No blood,” Ramiro shouted before remembering they couldn’t understand. It must have been a universal fear, for Rasdid was shouting as well, and the men began scraping pea gravel over the blood stains. Teresa pulled off her poncho with one hand and flung it over the first body. Several of Radid’s men added their cloaks. All the while Ramiro kept up his hacking of the Diviners. But time was running out, and there were still Diviners to be destroyed.
Rasdid shouted and gestured and three of his people hesitated, then ran over to help. With five swords breaking up the weapons, the last dozens shattered quickly. Teresa stomped among the outermost cooling ashes, using her boots to ensure they hadn’t missed any. Ramiro straightened slowly and knuckled his sore back, breathing heavy.
“Thanks,” he said again.
Rasdid leaned on his sword with sweat streaming down his neck. His odd green eyes carried a weight—a man who knew very well he’d just committed treason and signed his death warrant. “I remember you. I let you through gate. You make way to stop priests. Do you find way to stop Dal, too?”
“Not yet.”
Rasdid nodded. Disappointment there and gone in an instant on his face, replaced swiftly by the expression of a man with work to do.
“Ramiro.” Ramiro pointed to his chest.
“Rasdid.” The Northerner put his open hand on his chest against his heart. “Honored.”
Ramiro copied the gesture. “Honored as well.” He looked to the corner of the room, but the fog had gone—as he’d expected when help arrived from another source.
He looked at Teresa. “Stay behind me. We’re going out the quickest way.” She’d acquired two more of the red healing staffs and clutched them to her chest with the first. “I’ll get you as far as I’m able. Maybe we can take out more of their weapons on the way.”
“Weapons? Diviners are not weapons,” Rasdid said. “What the word? Ah—truth. Diviners are judgers of truth. Decide the worth of a man.”
Ramiro shivered and touched mind and heart. It wasn’t right.
“The Darkness doesn’t get to judge me. I deny it that right. I get to decide. My worth is decided by me and not some force of evil and destruction.” He touched his heart again and then his spleen as anger began to build. “Nobody is perfect. I’m no saint. I’ve made plenty of mistakes. But the truth of my soul is between me and the Light. No one else.”
He sheathed his sword and started for the doors to the nave, letting the righteous anger carry him and block out all else.
One of Rasdid’s soldiers threw open the door. Ramiro entered the nave surround by a cloud of smoke. It went rushing past him, allowing the light of dozens of candles to strike the armor and reflect back in a blazing glow. The Northern priests filling the sanctuary gawked. Then someone shouted and they rushed at him.
He was already striding forward to meet the first with an elbow into the man’s diaphragm, doubling him over. Ramiro took the Diviner out of the first priest’s limp hand and used it to finish off the second and third. Then too many to stop reached him. Their Diviners pinged off his armor, not even leaving the sting of a nettle slash anymore.
A fresh courage filled him. He backhanded a woman with no time for regret and punched another priest. He lobbed an elbow again and felt it crunch a throat. Adrenaline roared through his system. He threw the Diviner in his fist like a spear. It took down another. Teresa squawked at his back and he let none through to reach her. Hammering one after another.
Rasdid and his men flowed into the fight. Their swords cut into the priests. When one of their men went down to a Diviner, another stepped smoothly into his place. They gave Ramiro enough space to pick and choose, enough time to act on offense and not just react.
More priests came pouring from the sanctuary and the choir wings, leaving their bedding and seats at the pews. They focused on him with a single-minded intensity, ignoring Rasdid and his men as secondary unless engaged by them. The Northerners had training in combat, but it was a finesse sort of style. He could tell they weren’t used to real resistance, and he simply overpowered them with brute force, using the strength of his armor to bludgeon them as often as possible. A knee to the groin. An armored boot to the shin. An elbow to the back of the neck. A blow to the ear.
He swept all aside and left a trail of wounded behind him. Slowly drawing nearer to the gaping front doors and escape. They pressed against him like a wave and he parted them, thrusting them aside. Unstoppable. Until a Diviner came for his head. Reflexes took over, and he reached out and seized it in his bare hand.
Time slowed down.
The moss green eye of the Northerner filled with elation. Ramiro’s teeth set in a snarl. His muscles began to lock. Pain blazed.
“I . . . deny . . . you!”
He stood steadfast. The Darkness had no right to judge him or anyone. No right. If he died to a human, so be it. He refused to let evil decide whether he lived or died.
The pain fled.
The surprise he felt was punctuated when the Diviner burst apart in his hand. Splinters flew to tear into the Northern priests surrounding him. None touched him.
Ramiro used both hands to seize two more Diviners. They burst in a spray of white fragments. The priests shouted, drawing back. He lunged forward to grab two more. Destroying all the Diviners within his reach. Pushing ever forward toward the doors and escape.
A priest at the back of the mob turned and ran. Then another. With shouts they were all fleeing, leaving him panting and alone except for a wide-eyed Teresa at his back and eight soldiers. A trail of white splinters, mixed with a few bodies, led back toward the sanctuary.
“What are you?” Rasdid held back, trepidation on his face. “No one survives the priests.�
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“Saint,” Teresa said, touching mind, heart, spleen, and liver. “He’s a saint. We just witnessed the proof.”
Ramiro shook his head as he emerged onto the portico of Her Beauty and took a lungful of fresh air. Daylight had come while they were engaged inside. The clouds had thickened, turning black, and as he raised his face, the first raindrop hit his cheek.
“The rains,” Teresa said. “Another sign, maybe.”
He pretended not to hear. Let them believe what they wanted. He was no saint. He’d done what had to be done—took just another step on the journey. That was all. It meant nothing. Certainly not that he was favored above anyone else.
“Just a man,” he whispered.
“Covet not the miracle,” Teresa quoted. “It brings death.”
A group of boys ran by, shouting, “The army! The army has come!” They veered away from Her Beauty when Rasdid and his men joined Ramiro on the portico.
“What army?” he asked, but the children had fled. It was not just children who ran the streets. Adults hustled past Her Beauty with their heads down and bundles in their arms. Some carried infants or pulled small toddlers along in their hurry. Too many adults to count.
A gust of wind touched his face. It sprang from a new direction.
“Something’s happening.”
Chapter 35
I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.
Julian’s feet took him forward among the rest anyway. Panic oozed from his bones, like the thousands of others walking toward Aveston. It threatened to swamp him. He wanted to live. To witness grandchildren. To grow old. To see more sunrises. Instinct screamed at him to bolt. Despite the strength of that drive, the reasoning part of him prevailed. The very fact that thousands of others held together, all with like purpose, all depending on each other, kept him going forward to die.
It couldn’t ease the sick dread in his heart, though.
Every part of him from feet to brow was soaked in sweat. His heart beat like a drum. His muscles hurt from clenching them.
I don’t want to die.
That was the truth. But there was another truth:
He just wanted something else more.
Life. For others.
Julian felt the touch of the Santa Ildaria medallion against his skin and turned his face to the sky to catch the rain and add another treasure for his inner landscape. He’d missed the sound and the feel of rain over the long dry season and welcomed its return with joy. His trove of treasures he’d collected over the last days overflowed. So much to cherish.
In another good sign, it looked like the wind would take the rain toward Crueses and the thirsty crops when it finished here. Ahead, Aveston loomed in the distance, as it had that day he’d brought a real army here. This army, without a chance of winning, went forward just as freely as that other had. They’d left the wagons behind to walk the last stretch on foot. Many among them held hands. Beatriz walked at his right shoulder and Fronilde, the daughter of his heart, on his left. He smiled.
His muscles loosened. His heartbeat gradually settled to a normal rhythm.
It was a good day to die. He could do this.
The rain began to come down harder, going from dots in the dust to dampening the ground. Soon every cactus in the desert would be crowned with new life as flowers bloomed from every prickly branch, and birds and all the desert animals would start a new generation. Life would continue. He’d leave this world to ensure the prosperity of the next generation as well.
From his position at the front of the line, he could see that they’d been noticed. Tiny figures in black and gold like bees watched before Aveston’s walls. It looked as if the whole Northern army had turned out. He could even see figures in white among them—the priests. Now how to draw them away from the walls? Because all this would be for naught if they couldn’t lure the army out to die with them.
“Shouldn’t they have reacted by now?” Beatriz asked, echoing his thoughts.
Julian set his jaw. His wife was right, of course. If the Northern army was coming after them, it would have done so by now. “They have reacted. They’re hunkering down.” The Northerners feared their god—this Leviathan—even more that his people did. They would not be attacked. They’d have to go to the Northerners instead, and that would threaten the innocent people inside of Aveston.
They’d put the retired military members at the front with their weapons, hoping the sight would fool the Northerners into believing they were a real army. Now they might have to make use of their steel to prod the Northerners into attacking.
And if that didn’t work—if the Northerners still wouldn’t fight them—they might have to draw their own blood to bring the monster and give it what it desired.
Julian started as a group of horses sprinted between him and the city, heading toward the encamped army. Figures clung to the animal’s backs. Lumpy figures who rode about as gracefully as sacks of grain. Old women? He peered closer. One horse veered in his direction. The girl atop the dapple gray had long blond hair.
“Claire?” Beatriz said.
It was indeed the girl. And the stallion she rode . . . Salvador’s horse?
“Valentía?” Fronilde said. The girl’s voice was thin with shock.
“Witches!” a voice shouted from the crowd. The people around Julian began to stir with anxious muttering. They stopped moving forward. Faces pulled into worried frowns. Someone stooped to pick up a stone. A mythical foe on top of the horror they already came to meet might be too much.
“Hold! Hold!” Beatriz yelled above cries of, “Witches.” “These are friends.”
Julian’s heartbeat picked up again, but this time with sudden hope.
Claire spotted faces she recognized in the front row of the strange army of old people in colorful uniforms. Desert people from Ramiro’s home. Some carried swords. Had they come to fight? It seemed madness. Entirely improbable that they could hope to prevail against a real army of Northerners such as she saw camped outside this city that Suero called Aveston.
She scanned around eagerly, but saw no sign of Ramiro in the crowd.
She urged Valentía in their direction. She had to warn them.
This was no place for Ramiro’s parents or Fronilde. When the Elders reached the Northerner army, all hell would break loose.
Beatriz was waving to her, and Valentía obediently stopped before them. “Where is Ramiro?” Claire shouted.
“Inside the city, we believe,” Beatriz said. “Safe, I hope.” Beatriz stepped forward to touch Claire’s leg, squeezing in greeting. “He’s missed you. I’ve had the banns read. No more of this talk of delay. A wedding, for my sake. Don’t leave again until you’re my daughter, am I understood?”
Claire found herself babbling at the unexpected order. Her face grew hot as the people around listened with interest, including Ramiro’s intimidating father and Fronilde. “Yes . . . I mean—er. I’ll try. I accept. What? The answer is yes. I’ll see to it.”
Beatriz sniffed. “Good. See that you do. And you tell that boy that I love him. Both his parents do. Give him that message.”
Claire frowned, but before she could ask why Beatriz didn’t tell him herself, his father spoke, “We need the army to come out here to us. Can you and your friends arrange that?”
Claire tossed back her hair. “I think we can manage. But . . . you’ll be slaughtered. Clear out and let us handle this.”
“There are too many,” Beatriz said. “Just send the army this way and then get into the city. We have a plan. Understand? Don’t come back out here. Go, find Ramiro. Hurry. Go.”
Valentía picked up on her confusion and danced under her. “I—”
“Go,” Julian said in a voice that held too much authority. “This is our part to play.”
Claire grabbed for Valentía’s mane to keep from falling. The stallion reacted more to the voice of his former master’s father, taking off before she could put her heels into his flanks or set herself. Wi
nd blew the raindrops into her face hard enough to sting. The world blurred around them as Valentía ran, hurrying to catch up to the Elders as they approached the Northern army. Snatches of their Song came to her ears.
Claire opened her mouth and added her voice to the Song. They’d already practiced and knew just what to use. Shunning the Death Song, she Sang of illusion, projecting her desired image into the minds of the army. Instead of less than a dozen Women of the Song headed for an army thousands and thousands strong, illusion showed the men hundreds of witches riding for them.
She’d been able to decimate the Northern army before with panic and send them running, and she’d been alone then. Now, there were eight Women of the Song. With eight, they could break the Northerners for good. Split them into small groups and take them out one by one afterward with the help of the desert people. That Beatriz’s group desired the same thing and had placed themselves in their path still worried her, but there was nothing she could do to protect them now. She had to trust Beatriz also had a plan.
Soldiers began to stir, uneasily. Feet shifted. Swords came out.
A second later, Claire used her new trick to feed emotion into her Song. Ahead of her she felt the Elders do the same. Into the illusion, she pushed bone-cold fear and panic—the sort she’d felt that day so long ago when she’d first stampeded the Northern army.
The rain dampened their magic as Jorga had warned, forcing them to ride dangerously close to within a stone’s throw. They trusted in their illusion, though, and continued on. Claire followed at the rear of the other women, projecting her voice with all the power and strength she could force in it. A line of priests in white holding the red Diviners called to their people to hold firm. An arrow flew. Then others. Most hit nothing, but one caught Violet or her horse. The Elder and her mount went down headfirst, plowing into the ground in a flurry of cartwheeling legs and arms, and sending up a cloud of rain-dampened dust.
Claire’s Song faltered, but she corrected and Sang all the louder, projecting more fear, more terror, even adding in confusion here and there.
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