Faithful

by Michelle Hauck

  Though it didn’t tear bodies into tiny pieces or rip off arms as Ramiro described seeing today. As far as they could tell, the rod simply caused hearts to stop—although there was nothing quite so “simple” about it. The only other thing they knew was that it had failed when it touched Ramiro wearing his entire suit of armor. Something about the metal had repelled the magic so it injured and caused pain, but failed to kill.

  Ramiro pointed at the council tent. “My father might be able to tell us more about it. He gets reports on everything.”

  “And if he can’t, I think I know someone else to ask,” Claire said. One of their visits today had been to Father Telo. The dark-skinned priest had been unusually hushed, listening more than speaking during their brief time in the healer tent. He’d suffered the loss of his hand, cut off in some Northern sacrifice. But the man had spent time as a prisoner with the enemy. He’d be the most likely to know what their magic could do—if he would speak about it.

  “My father will also know if the Northerners are regrouping,” Ramiro said. “He sent scouts after them within hours of their stampede. He’ll have ideas, so we can figure out what we’re facing.”

  Claire wanted to laugh. Wanted to say they faced nothing at all, except too much imagination. That she could walk back to her swamp alone and face nothing scarier than the animals who lived there. Yet, the feel of unseen claws sinking into her shoulders kept her silent and hunched her spine against eyes that weren’t there. They both felt it. Men were the worst sort of beasts.

  “You’ll stay until we know more, even if I have to sit on you,” Ramiro said.

  A picture rose in her mind’s eye of being alone in the swamp, milking the goats, and having dozens of Northerners creep up on her. Of her magic sticking in her throat and refusing to save her as a horde tore her apart.

  “I’ll stay, but only until we know more,” she said finally. “And don’t think it’s because you said so. I make up my own mind.” She expected him to smirk at that, but his face remained grave.

  “I’ll speak to my father as soon as he’s free.”

  They both turned to look at the council tent, filled with light and old men arguing the future of a people.

  Chapter 4

  Inside the tent, Julian let the arguing and raised voices of the concejales float past him. Since the battle he found it harder and harder to put an effort into anything he did. Where before he would have intervened and steered the concejales in the direction he preferred, now he couldn’t decide on a heading, let alone chart a course. His certainty gone, he sat lifeless, hands folded around his chin, lost in contemplation as he pretended to study the reports in front of him.

  Years and years ago, he’d begun work on what he termed his landscape of self. In his younger days, the terrain had been hard to negotiate, filled with cliffs and valleys, rough and ever-changing and driven by whim. As he aged, he’d filed down the hills of self-doubt. He’d filled in deep fissures of uncertainty with set principles and goals. He’d groomed confidence in his choices until his inner landscape became a flat plain of stone. A broad and easy road ran down the center, allowing him to make his way wherever he needed to go. Every day took him a step farther down the road, certainty making it a little smoother.

  Then the Northerners arrived.

  His inner landscape grew bumpy—boulders appeared—but he’d navigated them. They were a slowdown, not impassible obstacles to his convictions. The years of work he’d done on knowing himself allowed him to conquer difficulties.

  Then came his eldest son’s death.

  Suddenly, a chasm opened down the center of the road and grew deep and wide. When Beatriz had surpassed his expectations of her character and gone to the Northerners in his place, it had terrified his heart and resulted in his left arm having a weak grip. Hours later, the city he’d sworn to guide and protect burned, and the chasm began to grow with each minute that passed. It became a bottomless canyon, stretching to the horizon, and no longer stable—the landscape shook as if suffering a constant earthquake. His decisions that had led to the failure of his family, of his city—were the cause. On the outside, he tried to appear as before, yet inside, he teetered on the edge of the canyon. He hadn’t the ability of a younger man, such as his son Ramiro, to rebound. In this, age was not his ally.

  For two days, he’d let the people remain without direction. Oh, he’d done the smaller things: providing organization of food and water, sending out scouts, setting up protection, but at the larger issues he’d failed. It wasn’t like agreeing on the amount of an olive oil subsidy or deciding where to put the tax to pay for a new city park. The choices made here would affect his people for generations to come. How could he decide where his people should go—how they should act—when he couldn’t find his own way? After the damage he’d wrought, how could he ever trust he had the correct answers?

  What good came of learning to live in the present, if the present were unbearable?

  Words of resignation hovered on the tip of his tongue. He would tell the concejales of his determination to step aside and let one better equipped become the leader. Let him put the yoke aside in order to focus on healing himself and his family. That was enough burden.

  Julian opened his mouth to tell them, and Concejal Lugo’s hand came crashing down on the table, jarring the water in the cups by their elbows. Everything in the tent, from the water to the chairs, came from the Northerners—all except the icon of Santiago that Concejal Diego had carried next to his heart during the evacuation. In the small painting, the founding saint of Colina Hermosa held a book and his staff, and his eyes beamed at them serenely with perfect conviction. A conviction Julian could no longer find.

  “We remain here,” Lugo said. “The city will cool and then we can go back inside. Something must be salvageable. We will rebuild.”

  Julian had expected this from Lugo: all his worldly wealth was tied up in his stores, to leave them would be impossible for the grasping merchant. Julian also expected to see two other heads nodding along. The two craftsmen on the council, Osmundo the potter and Sarracino the weaver, sold their wares in Lugo’s stores, derived all their income from it, and their votes corresponded accordingly. But he hadn’t predicted agreement from landowner Diego, though it made sense. Diego would no more want to leave his acreage than Lugo his stores—burnt or not. The other landowner, Adulfo, had died in the evacuation, advanced age and his heart unable to handle the excitement. That made four votes in favor of staying and two seats at the table empty with the additional death of Pedro.

  Lugo continued, “There is no sign the Northerners intend to return—”

  “Yet,” Antonio interrupted. “The scouts have not reported.” Most of the scouts forsook horses for better stealth on their own feet. This would slow them down.

  “Yet,” Lugo allowed. “We are better off here—inside broken walls is better than no walls.”

  “Whole walls would be the wisest of all,” Antonio repeated for the third time, being as stubborn as the bulls he sometimes slaughtered in his occupation as butcher. “I say we break our people into groups and send them into the other ciudades-estado.”

  “There is no guarantee the other cities would accept our people inside their walls,” Lugo said.

  “If each group included a pelotón of soldiers I believe they would,” Antonio argued. “Every city would give much for more trained soldiers. Our people would be safe.”

  “But we would no longer be a people.” Lugo sneered. “You would have us split up. Our identity would be lost. Colina Hermosa would truly cease to exist.”

  “But our people would live. Isn’t that the point of everything we’ve done and everything we’ve lost?”

  Lugo looked away, his face set in disgust. “And if it had been done differently, would we have lost so much? If the attack on the Northerners had been held back to the agreed-upon time—at dawn—the city might not have burned. We would have had men inside the walls to fight the fires.”

&
nbsp; Julian stared at the papers before him. And so the blame started.

  “The witch girl rid us of the Northerners,” Osmundo added. “We could have stayed within the walls. It was a mistake to evacuate in the first place.”

  “That’s unfair.” Diego stroked his long beard as he did when agitated. “No one could have predicted—”

  “No, we could not,” Lugo agreed. “As we didn’t even know such an expedition had been sent to the witches in the first place. How could such a thing have been attempted without the consent of the council? It is against law—against precedence.” The potter and weaver nodded along. “It is a crime worthy of expulsion from the office of alcalde.”

  “You would not have agreed,” Julian said tiredly. “I did what had to be done.” It made no matter to defend himself—words could not undo the loss or make his guilt any less heavy. He didn’t need the concejales to bring it home. It was already burned into his bones.

  “And with the result that we’ve lost the city—after losing many of our children to your mistakes.” Lugo stabbed a finger at the table. “I say we bring it to a vote. Alcalde Alvarado moved up the attack for personal reasons—to save his wife. He cost us the city with that faulty decision.”

  Antonio shot to his feet, knocking over his stool. “That decision was made by myself and Pedro.”

  “And we know how independent your thinking is. You follow our leader like a dog.” Lugo rose from his seat, the normally mild merchant going nose to nose with the hulking butcher.

  “Caballeros,” Diego interposed, wringing his hands. “You forget yourselves.” Sarracino jumped between them, pushing them apart.

  Tempers ran high today, not a usual occurrence. The elderly men of the council seldom acted the part of young hotheads, more apt to think first than react. The last days had shortened many levels of patience, and not just among the concejales. Julian witnessed it everywhere.

  Julian sank lower in his seat, squeezing his fists, the left refusing to close fully or tighten, the strength gone from it. A reminder of all he’d done wrong. Still, there were procedures to follow and he’d stick to that. The end would come soon enough. “A vote will be held on my removal—once the two empty seats are filled. So says the law.”

  Antonio and Diego regarded him with deeper furrows on their already-lined brows, obviously concerned by his lack of defense and leadership at this meeting. And they should be—that’s why I do this.

  “So says the law,” Lugo said more bitterly. A vote now would guarantee Lugo’s wishes prevailed. Yet, his chances remained just as good once the seats were filled on the morrow, Julian knew. The candidates rumored to be the favorites were cronies of Lugo’s or likely to be swayed by him. With that knowledge, the store owner sat, drawing his chair closer to the table.

  “We may handle smaller matters while we have empty seats, day-to-day matters,” Lugo said, as a satisfied smile crossed his sour face. “I bring to this body that we should have a stiffer guard on the witch. Why is she allowed to go where she will, with the highest citizens of our people? She is dangerous and should be locked up, just like the Northern demon and other soldiers we captured. She puts us at risk.”

  Julian couldn’t repress a frown. For the first time, anger tightened in his chest. Attacking him was one thing. Now, they attempted to lower him by going after his associations, his family. Did Lugo harbor that much bitterness from competition years ago between their stores? Regardless of Lugo’s reasons, Julian wouldn’t let this stand. “We owe Claire much.” He put all the emphasis on her name he could muster. They all knew it, choosing not to use it was another insult.

  Lugo tried to wave that away with his hand, like shooing a buzzing fly. “Yet, she is a witch and unpredictable. For the people’s safety, she should be watched. And for her own safety. Some peasant did try to kill her today.”

  “There is a guard on her, and when he is not there, my son is with her.”

  “That guard is assigned to your wife, is he not?” Sarracino asked. “And your son has other duties . . . though he is the one who brought the witch here in the first place.” The weaver rarely spoke in council, had always been of a dreamy, inward-turned temperament. He’d made a success of putting those dreams into the designs of his tapestries and rugs. But he’d been sweet on Beatriz as a child and never accepted Julian winning her over. So another old rivalry uses our tragedy as opportunity. “Beyond the risk of being unattended, we also can’t have the witch leave us. What if we have need of her again and our lack of vigilance allows her to escape?”

  “I don’t believe she has any intention—”

  “You know the witch’s mind so well?” Lugo said quickly. “You are privy to her thoughts?”

  Antonio rushed to defend Julian again, and the arguing grew heated enough that the entrance of a messenger boy went unnoticed by all but Julian. He took the scroll of paper the boy held out, then watched the boy leave the tent before unrolling it. Even the curly paper they were forced to use was left behind by the Northerners, and it had their unreadable writing upon it. Julian wondered vaguely if they could persuade the captured priestess, Santabe, to read it for them. So far, she had refused to speak in their language, though they knew she spoke it. There, he agreed with the council to keep her in chains and under heavy guard both to protect her and others as she awaited trial. The woman was unpredictable in her violence, and given her angry rants in her coarse language, likely insane. She deserved execution, and would get it once a trial could be arranged, but others argued with the right persuasion they could get useful information from her.

  He wasn’t so sure, however, and what he should do with Santabe was yet another choice on his shoulders. Speed forward her trial or delay it in hopes of breaking her?

  How am I supposed to choose wisely anymore?

  Julian set the paper upon the table, placed rocks on the corners to hold it down and studied the words scrawled in the margins. The news, though not unexpected, hit like a stab in the dark, making him wish for his brandy bottle for the first time in ages. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly exhausted, with no strength to say the words aloud. He’d hoped for better things. Yet, the council must know.

  “Caballeros, our first scout report.”

  Instant silence greeted him. Those on their feet settled back to their chairs, although most sat at the edge of their seats.

  “Aveston is still besieged. The army around it has not retreated or been reduced. Those Northerners stand strong.” Julian did not need to say any more—they all knew the implications. That second army around their nearest neighboring city might be a little smaller and lack siege engines, but if it turned on them as they sat in the desert, they would be flattened. The same fear rocking his belly shone from their eyes.

  “Time runs out,” Osmundo said. “We must make decisions now.”

  “We lack a quorum,” Julian said with trepidation. He dreaded what would follow. The decision could only take one direction—a heartbreaking course. How could they not regret choices made in fear and haste? “The votes are not counted for the replacement councilors.”

  Lugo nodded. “Based on this news, we must not wait for the voting to be tabulated. Do we so agree?” Every hand rose. “Then I say we start with the witch girl,” Lugo continued. “We must be the ones to guide her. She’s a woman. She’ll do what her menfolk tell her.”

  All eyes swiveled to the merchant. “What do you know of it?” Antonio asked with a smirk. “You don’t have a wife. I guarantee no one here gets their wives to do anything.” Nervous chuckles rose, but they all knew Antonio had spoken true.

  “Lugo is right, though,” Diego said, setting aside the humorous moment to return to business, touching mind and heart. “Saints forgive me, we are spread too thin. There is no choice. It is to protect the people. We must decide her future.”

  Heads nodded and this time the eyes found him. As the closest to the girl, they would make him present their judgment to Claire.

  Julian closed his e
yes as his inner landscape shivered and fell to pieces around him. Once again the words of resignation rose to his tongue. After the way Claire had saved them, they owed her better than this—deciding her life for her as if she didn’t have a voice of her own. He knew their methods. They’d try a clumsy-handed persuasion and then use threats against her first, and with the girl’s lack of confidence that might be all it took—he recognized a person struggling with their own concept of self when he saw one. And despite the power of the girl’s magic, it was clear she didn’t really trust the strength of her own abilities enough to strike back at them. Tampering with her fragile self-image might crush her at this point and render her useless while making her hate them as much as the Northerners. Besides the fact that forcing an ally to act contrary to her convictions went against everything Julian believed in. And then there was his son. Ramiro had befriended the girl; he would take it hard as well.

  Julian grasped at the principles of honor and pride he’d tried to instill in his sons and they all seemed to slide through his fingers. Then one stuck, and he straightened in his chair, opening his eyes. One didn’t avoid responsibility simple because it had become unpleasant. To do so was to be a coward. A quitter. That was not the way of his family. Not what he wanted to show to his remaining son. In that moment, he decided not to resign and take the easy way out. Let that decision be on someone else’s head. Not that it mattered all that much—the situation would not last long. In days they would have the votes to remove him and he would be free from this torture. But until then, he would do his job, the task he swore to Santiago to perform. Yet, even as his resolve stiffened, he knew that his role must diminish. They all believed his decisions had caused their recent suffering—and there he couldn’t blame them, his own lingering thoughts tended the same way—and so his standing shrank to the lowest it had ever been. These men had been chosen by the people, too, and he would respect that if nothing else.