Claire left the log and hurried to him, her feet rustling the leaves. “That’s not it at all,” she said, reaching for his hand.
He pulled back. “It sure feels like it to me.”
“Grandmo—Jorga is trying to teach me my first lesson, to Speak on the Wind. She said I’d progress faster if I was anxious, so we left the trail. It’s not really a true Song, but supposed to allow me to communicate over distances. Did you hear my voice calling you back? I’d been trying for hours, and Jorga said it would work if we gave me extra incentive. It could be a very useful skill. Did you hear it?”
“I thought I felt something,” he said reluctantly, hating to disappoint her. Common sense begrudged it would be a useful skill. But common sense and pride rarely coexist, and his insides remained bound in angry knots.
Her face brightened. “Then it did work. I swear I only let her convince me because it sounded reasonable. I wasn’t trying to lose you. I left the branches for you to find. You do believe me, right?” She peered into his face.
He let her catch his hand. “I suppose I do. But I don’t like being the fool.” He glared over her shoulder at Jorga. “How does it work? Could you send messages to troops on a battlefield? All the way to Colina Hermosa to speak to my parents?”
Claire bit her lip. “It’s not quite that effective. More like it lets you send emotions, and if you’re really good, a word or two. It only reaches as far as my magic—so not far. Like I told you before, the wet air does give me a longer reach.” Her voice rose hopefully on the last, as if waiting his reaction. “It’s not really good for fighting, but it’s the first magic I’ve worked successfully with . . . Jorga. And it was because of you.”
A little more of his irritation drained, leaving him not sure what to feel, but she appeared somewhere between proud and nervous. It reminded him of how hard he’d sought Salvador’s approval. “That was good work. It was your effort, to your credit, not mine,” he said gruffly, all too aware of their third wheel. He lifted his eyes to find Jorga at his side, looking like she’d bitten a rotten olive. She’d done this purposely to put a wedge between them. He wasn’t about to let her win. “And you—”
Leaves rustled outside the clearing, and Ramiro jerked that way. The level of their voices should have frozen any small animals within hearing as it had the silenced the birds. Even larger predators would probably be intimidated by a group of humans. And water droplets off the trees couldn’t make that amount of noise. So his mind went to the one threat he could think of.
Northerners.
He drew his sword even as his body took action, dropping the reins and running for the trees. A flood of rustling erupted ahead at his approach. Ramiro dived behind a tree and instinctively seized a figure much too small to be a Northern soldier. “Bromisto?”
The boy gave him a wave and a weak grin. “Surprise?”
Ramiro released the boy and stepped back, still holding his unneeded sword. “You followed us,” he accused.
Bromisto took it as praise, beaming wider. “Pretty good, eh? You didn’t notice me at all.”
“Great,” Ramiro muttered even as Claire pushed him aside.
“Look. He’s back,” she said. “Isn’t he cute?”
Jorga appeared in the creepy way she had of seeming to spring somewhere without motion or noise, back straight, face expressionless. “No more males. One is too much. He’s spying on us. I’ll get rid of it.” Exactly how she’d get rid of the boy was clear in her tone.
“He’s a child!” Ramiro roared, moving between them. “You’ll do no such thing.” Even for ten winters, Bromisto was scrawny and underfed. All his ribs showed in the way of active boys without a shirt to cover them. He didn’t reach Claire’s shoulder. A wave of protectiveness shot through Ramiro. No witch was worth this—even for Claire he couldn’t let a child be harmed. But he was sure she wouldn’t want this either.
“I allowed one city man,” Jorga said. “No more.”
Ramiro swung the tip of his sword under her chin, touching skin. “By the saints you will. Make one move and I’ll remove your head.”
“Would everyone just stop,” Claire said, wringing her hands. She stood in front of Bromisto. “You’re both driving me crazy. No one is getting rid of anyone or chopping off any heads. Can we all just stop! Why does it have to be this way? Just don’t!” She burst into tears, but when Ramiro reached for her, she swung on him, shoving him away. “Just don’t! We’ve been together one day, and all there’s been is hate.” She ran off to bury her face in her horse’s mane.
Jorga regarded him without a flicker of emotion, never even glancing at Claire. “You’ve made my granddaughter cry. Can we dispense with this?” She touched the end of his sword.
“Can you dispense with . . . being you?” Ramiro shook his head and removed the blade with a sigh. “Let me handle the boy. You just . . . go.”
Inscrutable eyes watched him. “I don’t think you want that. I’ll train no more with spying eyes around.”
“I said I’d handle it,” Ramiro said as Jorga glided away without a backward glance. “I hate that woman,” he whispered.
Bromisto stood in a crouch as if prepared to run. Ramiro couldn’t blame him. And honestly, that’s exactly what he wanted the boy to do, anyway. But he needed to make sure Bromisto understood so he wouldn’t follow once he recovered his nerve. “It’s all right. There won’t be any magic.” He clasped the boy’s shoulder, man to man. “But it isn’t safe for you here. I need you to go home, Bromisto.”
“But I want to help. That sirena is loca. You need another man.”
“You’ve got that right,” Ramiro muttered.
“Are you building an army of sirenas to match the army of pale soldiers?”
“Something like that,” Ramiro said doubtfully. He pulled the boy toward the trees. “I have to ask a favor: Could you go home? I know it’s not the way a brave man like you should be treated, but you saw how touchy they are. Even with your skill and cunning, she’s likely to lose her temper. The way you can help is keeping an eye out at home for what the pale soldiers are up to. Letting me know when I come back. You understand. This is sort of a one-man mission at the moment.”
Bromisto nodded and tapped at his chin thoughtfully. “Aye. I can see that. That sirena has more touchy feelings than an older sister.”
“Exactly. They have so much touchy feelings there’s not room for four.” Ramiro wondered if there would be room for three much longer. His whole plan looked more and more insane. His head ached. He’d left everything for this . . . Plus, he could feel time ticking away. The Northerners wouldn’t wait while Claire trained. Their army could be up to anything. It could already be too late. He put on a confident face, though. He’d rolled the dice, now he had to live with it. “Can you do this for me?”
“Hi-ya.” The boy drew himself up an extra inch. “I can watch for more signs of the pale soldiers. I saw one of their trails not fifteen minutes ago.”
Ramiro blinked at him, feeling suddenly dizzy. “What are you talking about? Why didn’t you tell me that first?”
“You didn’t let me.” Bromisto pointed. “The trail is off that way. I saw three or four of them since I followed you. Maybe the same men. Maybe different. I just saw the trails they made, crisscrossing, like hunters.”
Ramiro put a hand on his sword and looked back to check on the women. Jorga had Claire sitting on the dead tree as they sipped from water skins taken from his saddle. Claire gave him a limp smile and a nod when she saw him looking. Moisture sparkled in her fair hair, the drops like gems.
“Mierda.” News like this, he’d have to tell them. “Show me.”
Chapter 22
Ramiro knelt over the trail Bromisto had found. Vegetation had been hacked and cut for the width of two feet, leaving a clear path through this woodsy section of ground. Every bush, every sapling, every overhanging branch to a height of seven feet—or a man’s arm’s length when holding a sword or machete. Everything thinn
er than three inches had been cut down. The handiwork ran straight and true for yards and yards, with only the occasional large tree for obstruction, before being lost to view.
Ramiro touched a clear boot print in the soft ground. It was larger than his own. How had he missed this? This sort of total destruction must have made plenty of noise. And why go to this trouble of clearing everything? Even more worrisome, they’d practically walked right past it. This trail was only minutes from the one they’d been following. They could have blundered into Northerners unprepared.
“How long ago?” he asked Bromisto, who knelt on his right to keep as much distance from the two women as possible. None of his skills had taught Ramiro how to read signs in this sort of terrain. In the desert he knew everything about tracking. Here, he could only guess.
Bromisto nudged a leaf on a sliced branch. “It’s not wilted. Less than five days.”
Ramiro grunted. That left a wide margin for when the Northerners had been here and where they might be now—or how many units of them there might be. “I’d say five men. Do you figure the same?”
Bromisto nodded.
“You don’t know it was your enemy soldiers,” Jorga said stiffly.
Ramiro just stared at the women—no one could be that stubborn to what was right in front of them. Only this . . . witch. He’d wanted to leave her behind when they went hunting Bromisto’s trails, but having her out of his sight was a worse idea.
Bromisto laughed. “No hunter would do this. It frightens the animals.”
“No man from a ciudades-estado would waste the energy,” Ramiro agreed. “Or want to leave such a clear sign they’ve been here. We tiptoe around witches.” He gave the word deliberate emphasis. “The Northerners don’t fear you enough yet. Respect, maybe. And I’ve seen their work before. They did this same sort of stripping around Colina Hermosa for their camp. Cut down every cacti. Hopefully, whoever is here now is just some soldiers and not one of their priests.”
“Why are they here?” she asked. “I assume you have something to do with this.”
Ramiro tossed a fragment of bark in Claire’s direction where she stood on the other side of Jorga. Instead of looking worried or fidgeting, she met his gaze, eyes troubled. They should have foreseen this coming. “They’re here for your granddaughter.” Guilt did a number on his conscience. Claire would never have met the Northerners if not for him. She’d have stayed safe in her swamp if he hadn’t been on the mission. Of course, then he’d never have gotten to know her or admire how she faced the world on her feet.
Focusing on the now, Ramiro ticked the reasons off on his fingers as he spoke. “They had spies in our camp. They know she scattered their army. They know her name and where she went. Their leader is from one of the ciudades-estado. He knows of witches and what the legends say you can do. He wants to make sure she doesn’t come back. And if one witch is a danger, imagine how they’ll feel about a whole group of them.”
Stubborn disbelief shone in Jorga’s eyes and her chin thrust forward. She’d hate him even more for bringing, not just Claire, but now all the witches into this. But if one Woman of the Song could disrupt the army, a collection of them was a bigger threat and even Jorga was smart enough to see that.
“If I was him,” Ramiro said, “and had two armies to finish off—Colina Hermosa and Aveston—I’d see to them first. But I’d send my crack units to look for the burr in my side. Once the cities are finished, with their numbers, I’d bring my whole army here and root out every witch, burn down every acre to make it so. That’s what I’d do, and I’m no general. That’s what my father would do. That’s what any good leader would do. They’ll come for you. And they won’t care that you want to be left alone.”
“I know they’re here for me.” Claire said. “If I left now—”
“It wouldn’t matter,” he said. “You’ve proven yourself a threat. That makes all Women of the Song threats, whether they cooperate with us or not.”
“How many will they send?” Jorga asked.
Ramiro shrugged. “We’ve no way of knowing. He could have sent half his best units or all of them. No telling how many he has . . . Or how big of a threat he assigns to Claire. Time shortens. Don’t you see how important it is we have your help? They’re coming for you next, if they aren’t already.”
“And if we defend ourselves, we make ourselves bigger targets.” Jorga glared and snapped her shawl across her shoulders. “By the Song, you made sure we don’t have any choice in this.”
“Not on purpose.” Ramiro said, feeling his face heat at the admission. There was no way he could have anticipated it. “I didn’t think ahead.”
“Men never do!”
“Smoke,” Bromisto said, pointing.
Ramiro stood to see over the trees better. A lazy stream of gray broke the blue, rising from deeper in the woods—in the exact direction they’d come from that morning. It was too large to be a campfire. With the moisture still dripping it was no forest fire. No, something large and dry was being burned. “Looks like they found your house.”
He moved to Claire, taking her arm, and she leaned on him as if the strength had gone out of her legs. Her lip trembled. Ramiro’s fingers tightened on her arm. Again their lives mirrored each other. First losing pieces of their family, and now both their homes. Her loss was his own.
By the saints, he very much feared he would cost her life next.
“I will ride your horses,” Jorga said, startling him out of staring with worry at Claire. Urgency lifted her voice into something almost human, though her spine remained as straight as ever, and her eyes as cold. “No more training for now. We go to my home fast.”
“Have you got a fortress?” Ramiro asked. “Twenty-foot walls? That’s the only thing that will protect us. Hurrying to your house isn’t going to help. In fact, we have to travel with more caution now.”
“How well did your walls protect you?” Her chin held that stubborn cant again. “We’re not in the desert, city boy. No—we hurry. My son is there. Alone.”
Ramiro noticed Claire gaped just as much as he did. “I have an uncle?” she gasped.
“It happened after your mother left. You wouldn’t know as I told no one.”
“Well, that sounds like you.” Ramiro gave Claire a last squeeze and moved to the horses. “I agree, though—we hurry. But I’ll need a scout. I’ve already missed too much. Bromisto comes with us.” He hated to involve the boy, but the kid was here and his people were at risk, too. Bromisto’s skills might make all the difference in keeping everyone safe. Besides, he wasn’t sure the boy wouldn’t just follow them anyway. Ramiro scrubbed a hand over his face, rubbing his beard. Life had certainly been easier before he’d grown it.
Bromisto practically danced with excitement. Jorga didn’t lose the sour look, but she nodded, showing even the perpetually dim could exhibit a little sense. “Done. You have your scout. Get me home.”
It was two very different things to expect to be hunted and to actually know that you were. From her place riding double with Ramiro, Claire tried hard to let go of the worry and tension, but she still jumped every time the undergrowth rustled or metal on the horses clinked. Much as she wanted to be relaxed like Ramiro—riding with hands resting easily on his thighs, reins dangling from his fingers as if he didn’t need them—she couldn’t seem to focus on anything else. A Woman of the Song shouldn’t be such a coward. Look how well her grandmother bore it, riding ahead on the second horse, eyes on the trail, without a word in hours. That’s how Claire should be.
Instead her hands shook, clammy with sweat, and her eyes darted. She wanted to babble with panic and hide in a hole—not be riding across an open stretch of swampland. The cover of the trees had vanished, replaced with marshy ground and stagnant pools. Usually she could find the beauty in any type of view—not today. The thick mass of cloud cover didn’t help, rendering everything gray and dismal.
She leaned against Ramiro’s broad back in front of her, shut her eye
s, and let herself scream silently in her head until she had to breathe. Somehow, letting the fear out, if only in her head, helped.
After a few seconds, she sat up and poked Ramiro in the shoulder. “Socks still dry?”
“The ones in my saddlebag.” He gave the leather satchel a nudge with his knee. “You?”
She held out a foot to show water leaking in slow drips. “Squishy.” The boots Beatriz had given her worked wonders, but even they had their limits. She felt grateful she’d been able to change into some of her own clothing and take a few things from her home before . . . She made herself finish the thought—before it was all burned. The only memories of her mother now existed in her head and, more tangibly, her baggage.
“So,” Ramiro said, “you have an uncle.”
She made a grunting sound of agreement. “I wonder if he’s older or younger. My mother was gone a few years before she had me. He could be older.”
“Or the same age.”
Claire considered, but that didn’t make it seem real either. She supposed she should be pleased to have another relative.
“I thought Women of the Song didn’t have boys,” Ramiro said.
“Mother said it was rare.”
“After seeing your grandmother, I’d think they’d drown them at birth. I wonder if the Women of the Song are all like her. She doesn’t care for me.”
“You’re an acquired taste.” Claire gave him a push to show she was teasing and smiled. A ray of sun escaped the thick mask of clouds to dapple the ground on the trail ahead of her grandmother. Claire’s eyes drank in the color and life of it. Somewhere out there, the little Bromisto scouted, under strict orders to run if he saw any Northerners. She and Ramiro made up the “rear guard”—as he called it—of their tiny party. He’d told her being relaxed was part of being ready for anything—an idea that only confused her.
He made a click of encouragement to Sancha, then said, “I almost feel sorry for any Northerners who run into your grandmother.”
“I think she feels the swamp is her own personal property and any trespassers will answer to her. Being around her makes me feel two years old.”
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