Faithful

by Michelle Hauck

  “I had breakfast, thank you very much. I have my own bags this time.”

  Ramiro refrained from reminding her that Beatriz had managed that. He finished up the breast collar on the mare and double-checked the cinch strap. Her saddle bags sat beside the rock, and he lashed them down tight.

  He’d decided on the ride over that he wouldn’t bring up the Northerners or that they knew about Claire. Why scare her more with her already reluctant to use her magic?

  Just as he wouldn’t mention his desertion.

  “Then we’re ready to go.”

  She came and took the saddle horn in her hand, then stood there. Even in the moonlight, he could see her face flooding with color. She mumbled something.

  “What?”

  Again came the mumble and finally, “I can’t reach the saddle on my own.”

  “So you need my help?”

  “Stop torturing me,” she snapped. “You know I do.”

  Instead of giving her a leg up, he grabbed the back of her breeches and tossed her up. “That’s for trying to sneak off.” She clung to the horse on her stomach and managed to inch a leg over. It struck him then that sneaking off was just what he had done, and once more a wave of misery and doubt spread over him.

  Am I doing the right thing?

  The thing was, there was no time to turn around. Right or wrong, the decision was made. So he ignored the little voice inside as best he could, keeping his face from showing his conflict just as Claire faced him.

  “Thanks for that.” She scowled in his direction.

  “Any time.” Sancha lifted her upper lip as if to join in his amusement. He sprang into the saddle with just a touch on the horn and Claire’s glower deepened.

  “Show off.”

  “Teresa is better with horses.” He flashed her a grin. “And yeah, I know, you only had goats.”

  “I hope you brought plenty of socks. It’s going to get wet.” She dished out their old joke from their previous time in the swamp with a lifted chin and a glow of pure mischief. He hadn’t the heart to take the last word from her. He feared on this trip her successes might be too few and far between. Soggy boots would soon be the least of his worries.

  Teresa had worried the mule would slow them down—that the shorter legs of her animal compared to Alvito’s tall mare would hold them back from reaching Colina Hermosa. An hour was enough to disabuse her of that notion, when Alvito asked to be tied to his saddle in case he fainted. She’d refused, insisting they stop more frequently to rest instead. While he sat white-faced and stoic, she’d become the guide, making sure they headed the right way . . . and she became the squire, too, taking care of the animals and establishing camp, doing work she’d never dreamed of in her routine life at the university. Always she’d been a small gear in a larger mill with others to give the direction; now she knew how Ramiro had felt when he’d been left with the responsibility of the hostile witch girl—terrified.

  The second day had gone smoother with Alvito regaining some of his strength and riding for longer periods. They even made it to the abandoned village late into the night and slept with a roof over their heads.

  With the sun cresting the horizon on a cloudless morning, Alvito rode without a word. The flirtatious smirk or light comment she’d come to expect from him were gone. His eyes focused on the brilliance before them, and Teresa read a sadness festering there.

  “It’s always pretty, no?” she asked him, gesturing at the sunrise. She was no healer, but it didn’t take one to know some things were healthier not held inside, and military cultures were notorious for bottling their emotions. She should know, she’d spent a whole year studying the subject. When he didn’t answer, she teased, “Or have you never noticed the sight before because you’ve never been without a woman to hold your eye instead? Or perhaps it was too many aching heads in the morning.”

  He flipped his reins toward the sunrise. “Is my shallowness that apparent?” His sudden grin faded. “It’s . . . I . . . didn’t expect to see many more of them.”

  “Ah. The fear of death can bring soberness to many a man, Cat.”

  “Yes . . . No, not that. Just, there were better men . . . Why did the saints spare me? Gomez practically raised me . . .”

  She waited, sensing silence was needed.

  “Salvador. He was thoughtful—a leader. Better. We were kin through our mothers, you know. And Ramiro’s out there alone. I owe it to Salvador to watch over him . . .” His mouth quirked with bitterness. “I didn’t expect to still be seeing sunrises after this.” He touched his chest where his wounds lay hidden.

  “I expect many of us have felt the same on this trip,” she said. “We cannot understand how the Lord works. Or why the saints underwent so many trials. But it helps to know they faced difficulties such as these, too.”

  He nodded at her trite words, keeping his eyes before him. “I don’t know how the witch made us do it. The best of friends . . .”

  “Why you attacked one another? But you know it was the magic, right?”

  “Yes, but how? How could it make us . . . I killed them—my best friends.”

  His pain brought tears to her eyes. She couldn’t speak, not to give him more empty words. But he expected something from her, needed wisdom. Finally she said, “And they nearly killed you. I think—no proof, mind you—but I think the witches delve into our deepest fears. You all feared the Northerners would find us before we could save the city. How could you not see enemies everywhere? Even mistaking them for those closest. The witches’ magic deceives—it’s what it does.”

  “But how,” he pressed. “How did that witch know?”

  Teresa frowned, shrugging in turn. She had considered this puzzle through the long days of waiting for news and for Alvito to heal. She had turned it over in her mind; after all, she made study her habit. How had the older witch known? How had she disabled them so easily? “Perhaps it’s instinct, an inborn talent of the magic in the witches. At least, so I hope. Because that would mean the young one Ramiro has could be powerful, though she denied it. Claimed she hadn’t come into her full command yet. But—”

  Alvito turned to look at her. “But?”

  Something that had been niggling at her burst to the fore of her mind, and she shuddered at the thought. Finally she answered Alvito.

  “But if it’s not instinct, how would the witches know we feared a foe appearing? That would imply the witches know more of our situation than we ever expected.”

  A few hours later, Teresa sat up tall on her mule to see forward. A long, low bridge waited ahead, spanning a wide creek and a morass of wetland. A large camp had been set up across the bridge and down either side. She saw figures out front who must be guards, but couldn’t make out details. A shiver rode down her spine, and she gripped her medallion of Santa Catalina, patron of scholars, through her pocket. It could be Northerners.

  Before she could voice her fear, Alvito spoke, “They’re ours. I see the uniform—and horses. But they have a mass of civilians with them.”

  She envied his superior eyesight, even as the specifics cleared and she made out the greens and grays of the soldiers. Twenty or more of them guarded this end of the camp, with many farther inside among what must number a few thousand civilians. A group of unsaddled, dapple-gray horses grazed nearby. The Northerners had no such animals. The sight of the unconcerned caballos de guerra reassured more than words, reminding her of Ramiro. She held on to her curiosity and urged her mule faster.

  The guards came forward to greet them with easy smiles and words of welcome, due no doubt to Alvito’s tattered and patched-together uniform and the dapple-gray color of his mount. More than ever she was glad he offered to accompany her, and not just for his companionship. Soon one was leading them deeper inside the camp, through the staring eyes of the civilians, to their commanding officer. There, she hoped to find out what all these people did in the middle of nowhere and another day and a half hard ride from Colina Hermosa.

  Alv
ito dismounted to walk by her side. “Soldiers of the third pelotón,” he whispered for her hearing alone.

  She’d recognized the stripe on their shoulder from her studies and knew them to be of Concejal Pedro Martinez’s pelotón.

  The civilians consisted of men and women, the old and the young as well as those in the prime of life. Many sat listlessly on bunched blankets, but others slept. A group of men farther back laughed easily, dog-eared cards held in their hands. There, a cluster of women with young children talked together. Some stood as they spotted her to ask, “What word? Has the Alcalde forgotten us?”

  Their guide waved them off. “You’ll know as soon as the capitán hears something.”

  Teresa glanced to the sky where the haze of smoke had once existed, but it had dissipated, leaving empty blue—almost as if she’d imagined the whole thing. She prayed that she had and their city had not burned.

  A tall man, wearing a pristine uniform, met them by one of the few tents. He wore the double brass star on each side of his collar of a captain. His armor had been set aside, but a sword hung belted to his waist, and a knife fit on the opposite side. With skin dark enough to rival the rocks called coal burned in Suseph, his beard had been sheared so short as to practically be nonexistent. A style Teresa had always found seemed to match with men who preferred a minimalistic lifestyle, the type who didn’t care for small talk, yet didn’t accept shortcuts.

  She often found the beard matched the man inside, just as Alvito’s excessive grooming bespoke him a dandy before she’d ever exchanged a word with him.

  “What news of Colina Hermosa?” she asked.

  “I would ask you the same, but see you come from the other direction,” the man said, then turned his attention to Alvito. “What does a man of your pelotón do out here? I believe your unit was recalled to the city? Let’s see your orders, alférez.”

  Alvito drew to his full height with barely a wince for his wounds. “Lost, sir. Along with both my superior officers and the rest of my mission.”

  Teresa reached into her poncho and retrieved the paper concealed in her shirt. Dirty and waterlogged, it had seen better days, but most of it remained legible. “My orders, capitán. I’m afraid they were submerged in quicksand for a short time.”

  One slim dark brow rose as he took the smudged paper and noted the intact seal of the Alcalde. He broke it open, read, and took a long look at her, eyes lingering on every detail but giving nothing away. “An official ambassador, designated two sevendays ago, to the ‘Women of Mortífero Swamp. To be afforded every resource.’” He gave a short bow. “Madam Embajador, won’t you come inside and sit, while we talk. I am Captain Gonzalo.”

  As he spoke two oldsters, several obviously pregnant women, and a man with an infant emerged from the tent. “I share my space with those less able to bear exposure to the elements,” Captain Gonzalo said with another bow.

  “I would not put them out,” Teresa protested.

  “Official reports must be heard in privacy during a time of war, Madam Embajador, so says the law. We will hurry so as to inconvenience them less. Alférez, wait here,” he told Alvito.

  Teresa followed him into the tent that held empty blankets and nothing more than a map pinned to one canvas wall. “What news of the city, Captain?” she asked again. “We saw the smoke.”

  “I have no confirmation, but the scout who came to us reported Colina Hermosa was burning when he left. How badly it fared, I do not know. We were to take our group of evacuees to the swamp for protection, while others fought a diversionary battle to break them free, but the scout brought orders to remain where we were and await further instructions.”

  “Then the city was evacuated? The people got out?”

  “Such was Alcalde Alvarado’s plan, but again, I lack confirmation. The scout said the Northern army was in full retreat, though that was news a day old, which came to me two days ago. We have waited in place as ordered ever since.”

  Retreat? “Why would the Northerners retreat? They have the numbers.” She couldn’t keep astonishment from her voice.

  Captain Gonzalo gave a short bow. “I could only speculate, ma’am.”

  Teresa wondered if the captain speculated in the privacy of his own head, but it was apparent he wasn’t going to do so with her. Obviously, he had nothing more to tell. Answers would have to wait. Which meant she needed to continue her journey to Colina Hermosa. But perhaps she could do something here for the children she had left behind first.

  “The people seemed restless.” She could well imagine the word to halt coming as they were crossing the bridge, and the Captain settling them down right upon it, exactly as they were, and remaining that way—in the full glare of the sun. Dismissing the elderly and sick so they could talk alone, he was a man to follow orders to the letter. She chose her words with care. “As you mentioned it is exposed. Less than comfortable.”

  “Comfort is not in the vocabulary of a soldier, ma’am. We lack for food is all, though not for water. And there have been several skirmishes with bands of the enemy, but we have beaten them off. The Alcalde will send instructions soon.”

  “No doubt,” she said hurriedly. “An official ambassador speaks with the voice of the Alcalde, so it says in the uniform code.”

  “Yes, ma’am. That is correct—on any matter pertaining to their official mission. Yours is with the witches.”

  She heard the hint of a question at the end. The man was not above curiosity, despite the stick up his butt. How had the miller, Pedro, dealt with this martinet? She walked to the map on the wall and found the swamp village upon it, then traced with her finger to her best guess of the hidden camp where she’d left the children.

  “My mission was partly successful. We recovered one witch.” When he gave no sign he knew anything about Ramiro or the witch girl, Teresa continued, “However, I left nearly a hundred evacuated children in this spot—alone and unprotected. It’s next to a lake with shelter and abundant resources. Food could be found there for your collection of evacuees. Protecting evacuees is your mission, is it not? I believe that would include these children, who have no one but a few reluctant village men to guard them.” Elo would try her best to be an advocate for the children, but she was no match for her father. Teresa wanted someone better equipped to be in charge of them.

  “Our orders are to stay in place.”

  “And if I ordered you to stay in place there instead of here?”

  “I would have to regretfully decline, ma’am. You would not be speaking as an ambassador, but as a woman with a soft heart. Highly commendable, but it does not countermand my current orders.”

  Teresa cursed and dropped her finger off the map. “Does sending scouts countermand your current orders, sir?”

  “No, ma’am.” He nodded, his face relaxing. “A team of scouts or even a whole unit could go that way, looking for resources to bring here. Of course any refugees we found would have to be brought back as well. My orders do say to provide for the refugees. A hunt for food in that direct would not be out of order. It will be done within the hour.”

  The breath went out of her in a rush, and she smiled. “Thank you, Captain.”

  A whisper of an answering smile met her. “Perhaps I also have a soft heart, ma’am. Can I ask your intentions now?”

  “I return home for news. Let it be good.”

  “The saints make it so. I can spare two men for escort—bands of Northerners continue to roam and your own escort seems weak.” She admired the way he avoided directly saying Alvito wasn’t fit to protect her. All true of course. He continued, “With the consideration that my men be returned when you reach your destination.”

  “Gratefully accepted, Captain. I shall send them back with news to report and all the information of my own mission.” Now his favor had been returned, and she could rest easy about the children.

  If only she could feel the same about Ramiro and Colina Hermosa.

  Chapter 12

  Julian loo
ked up as a guard poked his head inside the tent. He’d been studying maps, reassuring his memory as to distance and timing, considering whether it would be possible for him to go to Suseph and Crueses before venturing to Aveston. Less than a mile apart, the twin cities, with their more temperate climate, were the breadbasket of the ciudades-estado and the closest with the exception of Aveston. Losing them would be devastating to the rest. That’s why this foreign incursion had to stop now. With luck, he could reach them and Aveston before his time as alcalde expired.

  If it expired, he reminded himself. The vote had yet to take place, and he was no longer determined to just let Lugo wrest control of the city. It felt good to have a purpose and goal again. Ordoño’s presence had reminded him what they fought.

  “Father Telo as you requested, sir,” a guard said.

  Julian rolled up the maps and set them aside. He’d hoped for the concejales first, but they would prove more difficult to track down in their numbers and more varied habits. He admitted, too, that they were probably less inclined to heed his call, even if the office was still his. One thing at a time. “I need you to do a task for me, Father.” He noted how the priest cradled his wounded arm under the opposite armpit. And while he needed the priest, he also knew the man had paid enough. He let his face soften. “A less dangerous task this time.”

  The dark-skinned priest shrugged. “‘Look not to weariness or toil if the work be for the glory of the Lord. The Lord is thy support.’” He walked forward and plucked a shining bit of metal off the table—the hostile priestess Santabe’s earring. “May I have this?”

  Surprised, Julian waved permission. “Take it, Father. I have no use for it.”

  “Thank you, my son. What can I do to help?”

  Julian frowned. Father Telo sounded as hearty as before, yet a note of hollowness entered the words that had never been there—not as if the priest didn’t mean them, but as if they had been reduced to less. It was clear the loss of a hand would take the heart out of any man—even a priest.