Just as my people hurt, so will I suffer through whatever decisions the council reaches, no matter how I disagree with them. He hadn’t the energy to do otherwise.
He slumped further in his chair and let the debate swirl around him.
Chapter 5
Fog encased Ramiro, shutting him in a gray world. It surrounded but didn’t touch him, leaving no cling of moisture on his skin. He turned slowly, feeling sand move under his boots, though the fog concealed even the ground. He was still in the desert, then. But how had fog gotten here, and where had the camp gone?
As he stared, fighting the unreality, the fog changed. It didn’t thin, nor did it part, but he could see through a section, enough to glimpse Colina Hermosa and its broken walls with gaps of darkness where stone had fallen. He was no longer near the gates, but at the rear of the city. A wisp of it moved to his right, and Ramiro saw a figure standing ahead of him, closer to the dead city. He’d recognize this shape anywhere.
Salvador.
His brother focused on the city, unaware of Ramiro. Salvador wore his uniform surcoat over full armor, the cloak depicting San Martin on his back. From one hand hung his official helm with the eagle feathers Salvador only wore when he wanted to stand out as an officer. The other hand stretched out toward the city in longing. Uncertainty turned to joy in Ramiro’s chest.
He tried to dash ahead, but his legs refused to cooperate. It took every ounce of energy to push them a single step. They dragged, as if his commands from his brain didn’t connect, moving so slowly as to be standing still. Hard as he fought for each stumbling step, Salvador remained as distant as ever.
He couldn’t get close to his brother.
Frustration turned to panic. His heart thudded, icy cold sliding up each limb. His knees lost all strength, buckling and declining to hold his weight. He couldn’t reach him.
“Salvador!”
His brother turned his head. Their eyes met. Ramiro was surprised that he didn’t see the eyes of a ghost, cold and dead, but of the Salvador he remembered in their brown depths. They held warmth, love—and worry. Ramiro read a weight of concern, as Salvador had shown the time Gomez had accidentally laid open Ramiro’s scalp with a wooden sword during a practice bout.
Without breaking contact, Ramiro tugged at his legs, desperate for their cooperation. He must reach Salvador. Ask his brother what was wrong. Touch him one last time. Tears of frustration pooled in his eyes, blinding more than the fog. He could get no closer.
“Wait! Speak to me!”
Salvador’s eyes narrowed, commanding Ramiro’s attention as they did before a fresh military order. Then his brother deliberately turned his back on the city. His hand holding the helmet hung raised for a heartbeat, then the helmet dropped, falling from his brother’s hand with a ringing crash of metal on rock. Salvador vanished into the fog.
Ramiro screamed his frustration—
—and woke with a gasp. His heart pounded and his breath came much too fast. Fear ran in rivers through all parts of his body. For a second, he still couldn’t move, but then sense returned and he sprang to his feet. A dream—nothing more—because he missed his brother. He wiped cold sweat from his face, feeling its chill everywhere.
He’d fallen asleep waiting for his father’s meeting to break up. Claire had gone to her tent hours ago, but he’d sat on a blanket waiting. He looked that way now and saw that only one lantern remained lit in the council tent. The guards had gone from the entrance. Behind him were lumps in the darkness where the servants had bedded down. The camp around them had gone silent, except for the occasional cough and the flickering of fires. Across the sand, the flaps of his parents’ tent were closed. Ramiro frowned—he’d missed his chance.
Or had he.
Perhaps like at home in the citadel, his father stayed awake in his study long hours after his mother had retired. They hadn’t a study now, but . . . Ramiro shook off the last effects of the dream and headed for the meeting tent. Maybe he could at least hear about the latest scout reports.
Hidden bodyguards came into view as he got closer. They recognized Ramiro and drew aside in permission for him to enter, but inside the tent, he stopped short. Julian was here all right, but so were the entire collection of pelotón captains at the camp, all in formal uniform. Ramiro snapped to attention, silencing the babble of apologies for interrupting that bubbled to his lips. A few of the captains, including his own, acknowledged him with a nod of the head. The others bowed to his father, clearly taking their leave.
The captains normally reported straight to their concejales or the current bishop, except in times of special circumstance. Clearly the present situation counted as such, and now they all came to the Alcalde.
Capitán Muño touched Ramiro’s arm on the way out. “Don’t forget to rest, kiddo. Report first thing in the morning to the meeting of capitáns to discuss Northern fighting styles. You being the closest we have to an expert, you know more than most.”
Me? They want to speak to me as an expert? Before Ramiro could shake off his astonishment, they were gone.
“Congratulations, my son.” Julian looked up from writing on the reports. His face looked worn and his hair and beard now contained more silver than brown. “I know how much that must mean to you.”
Instead of answering, Ramiro approached his father. The table had been created from a single plank—no tree that size grew in the desert—and ingeniously fashioned with hinges to collapse for traveling. Teresa would say to take note of the Northerners’ creativity; it meant they came up with solutions. Ramiro wished she were here now.
Julian waved him to a seat without lifting his eyes from the many reports. “You wished to speak with me?”
Ramiro fidgeted with the edge of the table—it wasn’t like his father not to put things aside for family, even if only for a few moments. In his worry, he found himself babbling, instead of getting to the point. “I don’t know what to tell the captains. The Northerners seem to take orders from the priests—the ones in white—sometimes. At least, that’s what I saw in the swamp village. Though I heard from Mother they had another leader.”
A scroll crinkled as Julian let it roll back up. “Ordoño. A Lord Ordoño. He was one of our people. I got some information about him from Father Telo and have hopes he can tell us more—if I can find the time. We do know Ordoño escaped us.” His father gave him a brief glance, not quite making eye contact. “The priests lead the soldiers—a good bit of information to tell the capitáns. I’m sure it will be useful. Did you have something you needed?”
“I came to ask about the scout reports.” Ramiro sat up taller in his chair at the reminder. “Any word on the Northern army? You heard what we found on patrol this afternoon?”
“Aye, the massacre. It was not the first.”
Ramiro touched liver and spleen surreptitiously as his father had never favored superstitious reactions. He couldn’t help it, though—there had been other incidents of people torn apart? Why had he not heard of such horror? And why wasn’t his father more concerned? “More massacres? Like what we found today? Some new evil of the Northerners?”
“What? No, nothing like that. Just more refugees found dead. What you saw must have been animals.” His father continued, “We have no news on the larger army from any scouts who’ve returned.”
“That’s well, then.” No signs of regrouping was hopeful, as was no other twisted killings. Maybe Ramiro overreacted and it was animals. Claire would be relieved. When Julian kept his head bent, Ramiro frowned. “But what is the matter?” Ramiro waved a hand to get his father’s attention. “You are not yourself.”
“I’m simply busy, my son.” Julian gave a weak smile. “Nothing to worry about.”
Ramiro stared, feeling like the world had shifted for the third time within a week. He’d never seen his father like this—he fumbled to put his thumb on it—so almost normal, yet something off. “If you won’t tell me, then you should tell Mother.” His parents kept nothing from ea
ch other, so it had always been in good times or bad.
Julian sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands. Ramiro rose from his chair. His father’s left hand shook with a tremor. He pointed at it. “What’s going on? Tell me. Should I fetch a healer?”
“No. And you won’t tell your mother. It’s nothing. A momentary ailment. Do you understand?”
“I won’t understand until you tell me.”
Julian sighed again. “We have only supplies for a few more days. The Northerners remain around Aveston. I do not believe the others have gone—it’s not in their character. And here we sit, undefended, with no one able to agree on our next move.”
“But you’ll find the answer.”
“And if there is no answer?” Julian shouted, banging his hand on the table, then seemed to collapse back into himself. Quieter he asked, “Or if any answer makes things worse? I’m not infallible, nor is the council. I don’t . . . But leave that for now, my son. It is not your problem. This, however, is: The concejales insist Claire be taken to use her magic on the army around Aveston. I’m to carry that message to her.”
His father’s word rushed by Ramiro in a flood, impossibly defeated, like a man given up, inspiring dread, until the last struck a raw nerve. “But that can’t happen. I promised her.”
Julian met his eyes. “I doubt the concejales care for your promise, my son.”
“You weren’t there,” Ramiro said. “You don’t know how the magic felt . . . it’s wrong.” Like everyone else who’d heard the Song, he found it hard to speak about the feelings it raised afterward. None of Claire’s other magic had ever left an impression like this, not even when used against him.
“I was close enough,” Julian said. “I felt it—as did some of the concejales. That has not dissuaded them.” If it were possible even more weariness entered his father’s voice. “They see it as the solution, but not only that, they see it as the only solution. Do you understand me? They will not let it go. I haven’t the energy, and maybe not the right, to override them anymore.”
Ramiro’s jaw tightened. “She doesn’t know what she did—how to replicate it. Or even if she can. She barely knows more about her magic than we do. Plus, she needs time to recover. She’s worried; I can tell. And besides, won’t the Northerners be expecting it this time? We won’t fool them again.” He launched into the best argument he could pursue. “Salvador said so. He said the Northerners were smart. That repeating tricks would not work.”
“Trick or not, it might be our only option. The concejales have a point there.” Julian stretched out his hand and took Ramiro’s arm, guiding him back to the chair. “I’m not saying I agree with them or that I like this directive. I just don’t see other choices.”
“The other ciudades-estado,” Ramiro said bitterly. “They should step up and do some of the work. Why is it only us fighting?”
“Because it is human nature, my son. We are in the line of fire and they are not. It is an avenue I have tried and failed—repeatedly. Their turn will come soon enough.
“I’ll delay speaking to the girl until evening—it’s the longest I can stall,” his father continued, refusing to make eye contact. “If she says no, there will be consequences. She will be compelled.”
Ramiro couldn’t wrap his head around it. How could his father approve of this? “What are you saying?”
Julian looked at the icon of Santiago on the tent wall. “God help me, I’m saying if she plans to refuse, don’t let her be here in the morning. They’ll make good their threat, putting guards on her or worse.”
“You mean torture.” Ramiro felt stunned in more ways than one. “But you wouldn’t let them.”
“It’s not their first choice, but it could come to that.” Julian shook his head. “Son, they outvoted me in this. Send her back to the swamp if you want her free. But know this: taking that option could be the death of Colina Hermosa. If she can’t defeat the Northern army, we have no choice but to go begging to the other ciudades-estado to take in our people in bits and scraps. To break us up into groups and live off others’ charity until the Northerners come for the other cities. It’s her or all of us. Do. You. Understand?”
Ramiro forced himself to breathe, as his lungs seemed to have forgotten how to do the task. No wonder his father wasn’t acting in his old way. How could one function with such a weight bearing down? And when he spoke to her that weight would be on Claire.
“I tell you this for the sake of decency. She means the most to you,” Julian said. “It’s right you know the facts. It could be she’d go to Aveston and succeed, save us all again. Or it could be the death of her and all of us. Maybe you can talk her into working with us—I’m sure the council would terrify her. I’m sorry to pass the burden to you, but better the message comes from you.”
Ramiro felt horrified on more than one level. Always see first to Colina Hermosa. As alcalde, Julian had to follow the same precepts. “Father, you’re breaking your oath of office to tell me this.” Yet, if Ramiro warned Claire—wouldn’t he be doing the same?
His father simply grunted. “As your mother says, ‘there is a time for everything.’ I don’t make this decision lightly, but some choices are too much for the soul—compelling the girl would be one of them. Tell her and let the decision be hers.”
Ramiro nodded as his father smoothed his path. As an order from the Alcalde, he would be acting for the city and not breaking the precepts. Yet, he felt little better. Still, he said, “Hi-ya. If Claire doesn’t want to help, then I’ll escort her home and return. She’ll need someone who can handle a weapon.”
“I forbid it. Your duty is here, my son. Warning her is enough, leave the rest to the witch girl.”
Ramiro drew back. His father never spoke that way, had never forbidden him or his brother anything—no matter how foolish the childhood demand. Always he believed in letting them take their lumps and find out the hard way. “But a few days. I’ll not be missed—”
“Absolutely not. There is no wiggle room on this. The concejales already accuse me of favoring family. And they’re right.” His gaze turned inward. “With your brother gone, I know for sure that family matters the most. But I won’t be able to protect you if they find out you warned her—or that I warned you. If you choose to send Claire off, make sure no one witnesses. Be at that meeting of the capitáns when she sneaks away. Don’t wait until evening.” Julian took the rocks, one by one, from the scrolls and let the paper roll up. “Likely we’ll be blamed no matter what. Saints help us all.”
“Saints help us all,” Ramiro echoed. He turned and stumbled from the tent, accepting the dismissal and having no other response to give. Once again their salvation rested on one girl’s shoulders—only this time, Ramiro didn’t think she had any more to give. The leader who had always had all the answers suddenly had none. Where before the picture had simply been bleak, now, as if firm ground had become quicksand, his world turned on its head, burying him to his eyes and leaving him fighting for his last breath.
Chapter 6
Teresa lugged another bucket of mud as she supervised the building of a fresh hut. The camp of villagers and evacuated children from Colina Hermosa spread out around her in a large clearing right against the swamp lake. Women prepared food or tended babies, and children of all sizes trotted back and forth on errands or hunted dry wood for fires. Everyone had an activity to keep them busy—even her. No one wanted to go back to the village in case the Northerners returned, so they were creating their own refuge deep in the swamp.
Teresa tuned out the pain of the blisters on her palm, rubbed by the bucket handle. What would she be doing if she were back at the university? Browsing at the library? Buying a traveler a meal in a tavern to learn more about their city? Working on her latest thesis? Without the constant din of church bells to mark the time, she couldn’t tell the hour, but no matter what time it was now, her life was very different.
Somehow this manual work felt more rewarding. The injury to her coll
arbone barely throbbed anymore, and she’d lost some of the weight she’d earned sitting at a desk all day, though her shape remained conspicuously round.
Nothing to do about that, though.
“We need a bigger branch at the back,” she called to Sebastian, the oldest of today’s helpers at ten winters. “There’s a gap.”
She eyed the hazy sky. It had a brownish tinge to the gray like she’d never seen before. Another rain might be coming and they needed to finish.
Once Bromisto had shown the other youngsters how to construct shelters, the children found it a wonderful game to make a rough form out of branches and slather a clay-like mud over it. When finished, this one would cover five more little ones from the frequent rain. Teresa discovered she had a knack for organizing the tiny army of small volunteers to do whatever she asked.
She set her bucket by a team of four small girls and watched them dive in and begin slapping the clay over the branches. Teresa smiled. Adult workers from Colina Hermosa wouldn’t have half their enthusiasm.
“Very good progress,” Alvito said.
Teresa rolled her eyes before glancing over. A huddle of young women sat and waved at the flies trying to settle on Alvito’s prone form as he reclined in the shade of a hut. For the three-hundredth time that day, Elo squatted down beside them.
“I’ll just check those bandages again,” Bromisto’s sister, Elo, said. Instead, the girl mooned at Alvito’s face, a faint pink staining her checks, and played with the thick coil of brown hair atop her head, indicating her marriageable age. Teresa knew her own cropped-off hair had mud in it—it might be unfashionable, but it kept her cool—and would draw no one’s eye. The other young women around them giggled, undeterred that Alvito could hear their brazen flirting. Teresa had been hearing them for a sevenday, ever since they’d found Alvito more dead than alive and brought him back to camp. If only she could shoo the girls like the annoying flies. Luckily, an older woman called them all, except Elo, back to tend the cook fires.
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