Faithful

by Michelle Hauck

  Beatriz shook her head and hmmphed, making light of his words. She mumbled something under her breath, of which he picked out “blind,” then shook herself. “We both remember what it is to be young and led by the heart. I suspect Ramiro is with that girl, though I have no proof. And you would have known as much if you weren’t so preoccupied. I arranged for him to meet with her, but he returned afterward. Now, however . . . But that is too late to be remedied. First things first. Tell me this plan and then we will speak more of our son.”

  Despite his shock, he did as she asked and shed the worry, putting an arm around her to draw her closer. “When a difficult problem exists in mathematics or life, a wise man cuts it into bite-size pieces. So with my idea . . .”

  Chapter 13

  Teresa swayed with the fast walk of her mule, feeling not a little proud that she finally had achieved the knack of riding and barely even wobbled anymore—not that she enjoyed it. People of her girth weren’t meant for swaying atop animals. Ahead, Alvito rode with the other two guards, chatting and trading quips. The brotherhood of soldiers apparently overcame differences of unit, rank, or temperament. Teresa quirked her head and made a mental note, but she had no interest in joining them. She preferred to consider Captain Gonzalo’s words to her about Colina Hermosa: the city on fire and the Northern army in retreat.

  Two things that didn’t fit well together, unless, improbably, the army retreated because they had destroyed everything and everyone. But it seemed fairly certain the Alcalde was not dead and was still giving orders. Surely, Gonzalo would have acted more evasively with her if he had knowledge to the contrary and wished to hide it from her. She did not believe that to be the case, so why would the Northerners retreat? Had they even done so?

  In times of uncertainty, Teresa fell back upon her university training—considering first the source of the data given her. Gonzalo had not seen these things himself; he was not an actual witness. Teresa was skeptical of anything secondhand.

  Teresa sighed. Having little actual evidence reminded her of scripture writing. But unlike thousand-year-old scriptures, and their aged recounting of miracles, at least this data was fresh. The accounts of the earliest miracles from such saints as Santiago were millennium old, and the latest miracles still three hundred years in the past.

  Sure, there was enough outside documentation to show that such a person as Santiago or San Martin had actually existed. Yet, not enough to ease the skepticism Teresa felt about religion—the doubt that marred her reaching for true belief.

  Most of the miracles performed by the later saints and quite a percentage of the earlier miracles were what most at the university termed private events. They had been performed with few witnesses, such as the healing of a family member of a follower. There were thousands of reports of the lame walking, the blind seeing, and the severely injured recovering—such as Alvito—and little proof for any of it because of the small number of people who had been involved.

  The news from Gonzalo, however, was more like a large scale event, the kind commonly found in the early miracles from the more important, major saints: Santiago calling the rains to change course and make the building of Colina Hermosa possible, the lack of decomposition of San Martin’s body, San Pedro cleaving the great rock that became Aveston’s citadel. If the Northern army had fled, then it had been seen by thousands.

  Which meant she must do exactly as she already planned and go to Colina Hermosa to see for herself. Talk to those who had actually been there. Otherwise, there just wasn’t enough information for any of this to make sense to her. It wasn’t as if she’d been sent dreams or visions where she talked with God as some of the past saints. How much easier it would be if she had, but she must rely on other means. And if there’s one thing she was good at, it was rooting out information.

  Teresa rolled her eyes, staring at the reins in her hands without seeing the leather straps. She had run far afield of her true concerns about Colina Hermosa. As if the time of miracles had anything to do with—

  A heavy force struck her and drove her off the mule. She collided with the ground with a man atop her. The air rushed out of her lungs, as much from astonishment as pain. The man was dirty and unshaven, and when breath returned it brought the unmistakable odor of someone who hadn’t washed in a long time.

  Bandits.

  Criminal outcasts from the ciudades-estado. Her heart gave a great jump, and she opened her mouth to shout. A grimy hand covered her mouth as a dagger pressed against the soft skin next to her left eye. “Not a sound, campesino,” the man hissed.

  She heard shouts and realized her companions had been set upon. They would rescue her; she had no doubt of that. Her position allowed her to see nothing, and she did not dare move in the slightest. Seconds became an eternity as she waited, focusing on the bloodshot eyes of the man atop her, but her ears grasping at any sound.

  Rescue was taking too long.

  Would she survive the quicksand in the swamp to die by the hand of thieves? Ramiro wasn’t here to pull her out this time.

  Her teeth began to chatter as fear took hold, chasing away reason.

  The man moved as if uncomfortable. His blackened teeth coming closer as he leaned nearer, bringing fetid breath. Teresa winced and rolled her head to the side.

  “Not a campesino,” he said in a fresh gust of stench. The look in his eyes shifted, becoming more calculating. “No, a campesina.”

  The hand across her mouth loosened fractionally. She tried to give a sharp twist and pull free. He rolled with her as though expecting it. His hand without the knife grabbed her shoulder, pressing her against the sand, then he slapped her across the face, hard enough to spin her head around.

  An angry whinny split the air. Teresa glanced up to see dappled-gray horseflesh rise above her. Forefeet pawed the air. The dark, expressive eye high above was set in fury. Dagger-sharp hooves came down. Teresa rolled with all her power, the bandit still clinging to her. The horse struck the legs of the bandit, stamping.

  “Valentía!” she screamed. As the bandit shrieked under the stallion’s hooves, she scrambled free on hands and knees, fighting to her feet.

  How had Salvador’s horse come here? The last she’d seen of him, Ramiro had sent it off with his master’s dead body strapped across his back.

  She caught a quick impression of bandits everywhere—twenty, thirty—too many.

  A bandit in a gray poncho came upon Valentía from his flank. A long knife swung and red droplets filled the air, carrying the horse’s blood. The stallion screamed.

  A man ran at Teresa, and she ducked under his reach, spinning past. Teresa’s hands formed into fists. She had ridden Valentía for only a few days, but they had almost died in the quicksand together. The horse had come for her out of nowhere. Felt companionship for her.

  The stallion whirled, snapping with his teeth. The knife struck at Valentía again.

  Teresa bellowed. “Noooooooooo!” She rushed forward, pummeling the bandit attacking the stallion with pathetic buffets about his head and ears, screaming with rage all the while. She scratched and clawed. Hands grabbed her, pinioning her arms. She wriggled like one berserk. A weight struck her head and she knew no more.

  Teresa woke to pain trying to separate her skull from her body. She took a few breaths and the agony localized to the back of her head, becoming nearly bearable. When she tried to open her eyes, the bright midday sun blinded like stabbing knives. Around her, she heard the wheezes and sobs of people crying. A few more attempts and she managed to hold her eyes open, though the world rotated around, spinning like a top. She retched, bringing up bile, and the people alongside her shifted from her.

  People—as in more than the three men she was with?

  What had happened? How did she get here?

  She wiped at her mouth with hands bound together with leather straps and forced her eyes to stay open. She sat—or half lay rather—on a dirty blanket, surrounded by a crowd of men and women. Outside their group wa
s empty desert. She attempted to count and retched again, having to stop, but guessed they must number fifteen to twenty souls. The bandits must have brought them all here—but why? Some looked as injured and as weak as she felt, others sobbed or huddled against their neighbors. One and all, they could have been from Colina Hermosa, though she recognized none of them. They all wore nooses of thick rope around their necks and trailing off into long leads.

  Her hands came up, touching her own neck and found a noose there, too. A hangman’s noose. Her pulse ratcheted skywards. She closed her eyes to ward off a fresh bout of dizziness but that made it worse. The woman closest to her avoided her eyes when Teresa tried to gain her attention to ask what had happened. Then she noticed one of those unconscious: Alvito.

  He slumped, huddled in a ball on the outside of their group. She struggled to see if he was breathing, but she couldn’t tell. Then she saw the bandits.

  The entire band stood between the prisoners and . . . an equal number of men dressed in black-and-yellow uniforms. The Northerners had hair the color of sand, and eyes in every shade of blue, green, and gray. There was not a black head or brown eye among them. Everyone had a sword out, and there was a noticeable separation of soldiers on one side and bandits on the other, the eyes of both were sharp and glittering with watchfulness. One bandit and one soldier met in the halfway point between, doing more gesturing than talking.

  The desert still spun dizzyingly around her, but at a slower pace now. Although a handful of the other prisoners also focused on the exchange going on, the rest looked anywhere but at their captors. The bandit leader was the one who had attacked Valentía, the one she’d attempted to beat off.

  The lead bandit held up ten fingers twice and pointed at the prisoners. The Northern soldier singled out several of the slumped prisoners, including Alvito, shook his head and held up ten fingers and then five. Their bartering went on some time, until they reached an agreement in the middle. The soldier counted out something from a little bag and handed it to the bandit. At last there were cautious smiles and nods on both sides. The bandits began backing off, never turning their backs or lowering their weapons.

  Teresa thought she’d never be as frightened as those few minutes spent sinking to her death in quicksand. How wrong she’d been. What did the Northerners want with the prisoners? Why pay money for them? The only ones able to speak her language and give her answers slowly slunk away.

  Panic struck as a bold wish hit. Oh saints! Oh saints! Her breath came too fast. Would she sit here like a coward or do it? You’re not a coward. The situation can’t get much worse. Do it, fool.

  Several of the Northerners began taking the long ropes attached to their nooses and fastening them to iron rings on the back of a wagon shaped like a little house with a canvas roof.

  Teresa got up on her knees. “Bandit! Bandit! You sold us to the Northerners. Your own countrymen—and women.” She felt like she was babbling now, but he looked her direction. “What do they want with us? Where are they taking us?” she hollered.

  “Shut up, puta,” one snapped.

  “Have compassion,” she persisted. “What do they want with us? Where are they taking us?”

  A soldier shouted at her and made a slashing motion with his hand, warning her in no uncertain terms. She kept to her knees but held her tongue.

  The bandit leader looked at her, his eyes cold as a winter morning. “Zapata. They take you to Zapata, puta.” Then the bandits faded into the desert and were gone.

  “Zapata,” the woman next to her in a silk shawl whispered, hands clenched under her chin. “The city is burned. Why take us there?”

  Teresa had no answers, but Zapata was north—toward the enemy’s homeland.

  The world made choppy circles around her, still revolving. The movement made it hard to think, and her skull continued to throb with a sickening pain. From the look of things, they were expected to walk. Maybe the wagon was for the ones too injured. Should she try her feet or go with those who couldn’t move, like Alvito? Surely, when she could think clearly again, she could find a way to escape. Or a pelotón would find and rescue them.

  Before she could make up her mind, two soldiers waded into the prisoners. There were scattered cries from those avoiding their boots and shoves as they pulled out one of the unconscious: a middle-aged man in well-tailored clothes. They dragged him out onto the sand, where they stood him up. His head lolled back, eyes closed, blood painting gristly patterns over his face and down his shirt. They released him and stepped back, and he promptly fell. This brought the limp prisoner sharp slaps and shouts in their harsh language. A second time they held him up and let him fall.

  The lead soldier, a man with eyes green like an avocado, said something with a shrug. A sword came out, and Teresa couldn’t see what happened next. There were three thunks and plenty of shrieks from the prisoners closest to the scene. Prisoners tried to shuffle farther back only to be caught up against their neighbors.

  Teresa caught her lip between her teeth, horrified, as they pulled out another man, this one elderly with a belly wound. Despite the world spinning, Teresa jostled through the crowd, fighting her way to Alvito. The rope attached to her noose trailed behind, tangling and snagging on other people. It would be easy enough to remove, even with her hands bound, but such an action would surely bring her captors down on her. They eyed her progress with hostility, leaving her alone for now, but she wasn’t going to push her luck.

  She inched forward. Alvito wasn’t going to die—not if she had anything to say about it. The other two guards from her escort didn’t seem to be here. She didn’t know what had become of them or Valentía, but by the Lord, she wasn’t going to be left alone with barbarians who bought people and killed the injured.

  She reached Alvito’s side and shook him. There didn’t appear to be any new damage, perhaps he’d just been knocked out like herself. His eyes flared open briefly. “Wake up, Cat,” she commanded in a quiet hiss. “Wake up.” She shook him again. “They’ve sold us to the Northerners and they’re killing anyone who can’t stand.” The prisoners around them edged away, unwilling to be guilty by association.

  This time his eyes stayed open.

  “You have to walk,” she urged. “Do you hear? You have to stay on your feet.”

  She didn’t know if this would work. Alvito was the only prisoner in uniform. Perhaps they’d kill him no matter what. She glanced over her shoulder. Was there time? The elderly man stood on his feet, face scrunched in determination, though hunched over his wound. The leader gave a nod, and they pulled out a woman holding her arm to her chest. Her injury didn’t look too bad, but she sobbed so hard it was difficult to tell. More ropes were attached to the wagon.

  Teresa turned back to Alvito. “They’ll be here next. Can you stand?”

  He stirred beside her and nodded, coughed, and a tiny amount of blood ran into his beard from a split lip. “Constanza. What happened to Constanza?”

  Her heart lurched as he begged for information on his horse. “I don’t know. Sorry. I didn’t see. But we’ll never find her if you don’t get up.”

  “And our companions?”

  A sob stuck in her throat at giving him the truth. “The other soldiers? Most likely dead. Not here anyway, saints preserve them.”

  Alvito’s eyes that had been slack burned with a white heat. “I’ll stand. These bastards won’t win again today.”

  She slumped in relief. No matter what happened next, at least she’d survived this far.

  If only she knew if she’d come to regret it.

  Chapter 14

  Claire frowned at the sky. Her earlier words, “It’s going to get wet,” proved an understatement. A steady rain had settled over them for the last few hours, ever since they’d reached the border of the swamp and left the empty village behind. They looked like drowned rabbits. Her mare shook, sending water into Claire’s eyes. It only added to her lingering humiliation. Ramiro had asked what direction to take to find her g
randmother, and she had to admit that south was all she had to go on. Ramiro didn’t say anything—his incredulous stare said it for him. They both thought her a dunce.

  But she didn’t mind that so much. The moisture in the air, the scents in her nose, even having trees and greenery around her made her feel like she had come home. Oh, she might not be at home, but close enough.

  Whether they were out under the open sky without a tree in sight, or tucked among tight hills, she hadn’t realize how odd that made her feel—like an itch inside her ear she couldn’t scratch—until they returned to a proper land. She had spent plenty of time in the rain before, after all; chores didn’t stop because of a shower. Claire just wished for her oiled cloak and hood. Her frown turned into a goofy grin as an idea struck.

  “We should stop at my home,” she called ahead. The trail only allowed for single riders and Ramiro insisted on taking the lead. As if trouble couldn’t sneak up on them from behind just as well. “I have supplies we could use. And I could check on the goats.”

  Ramiro turned his head to regard her with a raised brow. “I think the goats can take their chances, but Teresa would be on the way. We could check on her also—take her with us. The problem is: Your home isn’t south.”

  “Rain makes you grumpy.”

  “I just mean that we don’t have time for larks. ‘Time is a thief’—have you heard of that one?”

  “I know that,” she grumped back at him. She hadn’t heard that expression, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. “As you keep pointing out, I don’t exactly know where we’re going, so you have to trust I know best. My mother always said, ‘Don’t look for a Woman of the Song; she’ll find you.’”

  Doubt turned to outright skepticism on his face. “So we blunder around until she finds us? That doesn’t sound like a good plan.”

  “What’s wrong with that plan? Have you got a better one?”

  His face went suspiciously flat, and he turned back to the front, almost sheepishly. “Point taken.”