Faithful

by Michelle Hauck

  “Horses? Is it true Northerners don’t use horses because you prefer your own feet?” The question again sent her worrying whether Valentía had survived after trying to protect her. She prayed the stallion lived. A lump in her throat reminded her that she’d lost enough friends already. There had been loss before in her life—her parents’ deaths—but then the world had gone on as before. Somehow that had helped support her. Now it felt like every beautiful thing in the world was being stolen, leaving only the ugly and cruel.

  As if in confirmation, the prisoner’s only answer was a sneer.

  “They call themselves the Children of Dal,” Telo supplied.

  Teresa tried again. “The Children of Dal avoid horses perhaps because your god shunned them? It’s amazing how many different customs have their start in a religious cause,” she said for the priest’s benefit. “Altar cloths and candles for instance. Santiago started the practice by spreading a napkin on a rock before one of his famous homilies. He used to light a candle before he prayed and others imitated him.”

  “But where did he learn it from?” Father Telo asked. “Was it his invention or was the origin still older? We can only guess.”

  “Oh, to have been alive then,” she said with a smile. “Back when great things were happening.” When the struggle to give up their nomad ways had begun. Even as she romanticized it, though, she knew it was hardly the wondrous moment she wished it to be. It had been a nasty time of civil war, with many martyrs created and ordinary people killed. Hardly safe.

  Much like now.

  “I guess we have our own great things happening right now,” she said. “No matter the outcome of the war, there will be change to the culture of the ciudades-estado.”

  Telo shook his dark head. “I very much fear so. It has begun already.”

  Santabe laughed, startling Teresa into a small jump. “You are weak. Doomed to fail. There is no mercy from Dal, only his sufferance. Stupid priest, taking me right where I want to go. You think losing your hand was painful. Wait until I am back among my people. I will make you suffer slowly, oh so slowly. What you had from me before will be as—what is that you say—a needle stick.” Even with the accent her words were clear enough. The expression on her face held something close to bliss, and Teresa shivered with revulsion.

  “Pin prick,” Telo corrected in a mild voice. “So you’ve told me many times in the past days.”

  “If you are so certain of winning, then why refuse to talk?” Teresa demanded. “What can it hurt to tell me of your culture? If it is so great and we are so wrong, then prove it.” She had little hope such a jibe would work, but the priestess raised her chin, seeming to preen under her words.

  “True enough. Your kind shall lose and perish. Dal commands we speak of Him when asked, even to infidels and blasphemers such as you. I will answer your questions, ugly woman, stupid as they are. We walk because the Children of Dal do not keep pets.” She put a world of scorn into the word. “Animals are meant for two things: meat and blood sacrifice.”

  Teresa ignored the rude comment toward herself. The attitude toward animals stung more, striking on the kinship she felt toward the missing Valentía. “Blood sacrifice appears to be an important component to your culture. You do so to appease Dal?”

  Santabe looked toward the sky, directly at the sun. “Do not speak his name unless you wish to draw his attention. His attention would be the end of you.”

  “You spoke his name plenty and never minded when I did so,” Telo objected.

  “That was before,” came the smug answer. “As you mentioned, times change.”

  “Their god is a sun god,” Telo said. “And very touchy. With, apparently, very good hearing. But I shouldn’t ridicule. Did not our Lord appear as a burning bush?”

  “I believe most take that for parable—myth, not fact,” Teresa said.

  “Once I would have agreed. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  Teresa clicked her tongue, angry at herself for letting the discussion veer off track. She hadn’t gotten an answer to the question she most wished to know. “But why the blood sacrifice?”

  Telo winced, and she knew the subject to be hurtful. To him the why probably didn’t matter. His hand was gone and not coming back. But it wasn’t just curiosity. It was such a key component of their lives, their mission, and to have insight into it—as repulsive as it was—might be useful. She pressed on. “The usual reason would be to direct their god’s anger elsewhere,” she continued. “To spare themselves from his wrath or appease it.”

  “You know nothing, ugly woman,” Santabe said. Her step never slowed, but Teresa got the feeling the priestess was pleased that Teresa had missed the mark. So she stayed silent, knowing someone who believes in the truth of themselves will want to talk about it. Soon Teresa was rewarded when Santabe said, “Blood feeds the Great Dal. Gives him power so that his influence grows and we see his actions among us again.”

  “Then he has time periods where he doesn’t show interest in your world. When he isn’t active? Would you term it sleep? What happens when he wakes?”

  “You should pray to your weak god that you never find out,” came the gloating reply.

  “Interesting,” Teresa couldn’t avoid saying. “Most gods are omnipresent and omnipotent, but yours chooses to detach himself.” She pushed aside the useless wish for pen and paper. An inquiry of Father Telo had yielded nothing. He apparently packed more necessary supplies than writing implements. She’d just have to hold everything she learned in her memory and hope it didn’t fail. “How often is your god awake compared to asleep?”

  “That is your wording, not mine,” Santabe said harshly. “To speak of such is blasphemy.”

  A cloud passed over the sun, sliding a shadow over Teresa and making her jump as if she’d dropped a book in a library. She was too jittery, skittish, and to tell the truth, downright frightened. Following this priest and his hostile prisoner was more than foolish. What did she hope to accomplish? Damn her curiosity. She should ask a few more questions and flee to the remains of Colina Hermosa as fast as her legs would carry her.

  Telo glanced back. “Perhaps inquire on something beyond the spiritual, my child. Most everything is blasphemy to the Children of Dal.”

  “Your leader is a foreigner, not of your people,” Teresa said, finding his advice wise. “I did not know you were welcoming to foreigners. Is this Lord Ordoño an exception?”

  “Lord Ordoño is always an exception.”

  “How did you meet him? Or more precisely, how did he climb your ranks?”

  “By proving he was not weak.”

  Teresa frowned for the short answers. “And how does one prove that?”

  “There is no word for it in your language, but ‘ruthlessness’ comes close.”

  “Your ability to speak our language is very impressive. How many years did you study?”

  “Six of your years.”

  “Your superiors must have been impressed.” Teresa slipped in a compliment. If done carefully enough, those often helped hostile subjects to open up.

  “My superiors were all chopped into tiny pieces. Their blood fueled many Diviners.”

  Bile rose in Teresa’s throat as an image of that formed. The woman said it so coolly, as if speaking of the weather. She couldn’t help a glance toward Father Telo’s robe where he wore one of the weapons close to his skin. “Why? Is that routine?”

  “They resisted the rule of Lord Ordoño, refused to see his wisdom, where he was taking the Children of Dal. They fought against changing their doctrine.”

  “Fascinating.” And she meant it—Teresa found it hard to believe Santabe had been open to change of any kind, let alone to doctrine. “Tell me more of this change. What did Ordoño suggest differently?”

  Teresa exchanged a look with Telo, trying to caution him not to interrupt. He looked as enthralled as herself. She held her breath, but there was no need. Santabe spoke without further prompting.

  “They continue
d to believe that we remain in our cities.” Her accent rendered the last word close to unrecognizable. “They believed as we’d always believed that we discovered Dal and he was our destiny. But his touch made us strong. Ordoño saw our strength. He taught that we didn’t need to keep the Great Dal to ourselves. That our fortitude and numbers would overcome all other people. That we would bring the Dal to the rest of the world. Now the Great Dal is your destiny also.” A wicked smile curved her lips. “The Children of Dal no longer must bear the brunt.” The woman fell silent, striding up the road as if she’d said nothing extraordinary.

  “Why continue to sacrifice your own people, when you can use ours,” Telo said, almost to himself. To Teresa, he said, “They see it as a gift to us. We now know their god. They count us as the lucky ones.”

  Teresa shook her head. “Perhaps not. They might have felt responsible. She said that they ‘discovered’ him. What if before the Northerners kept to themselves to contain their practices? Perhaps they thought they were acting as a buffer, keeping Dal in, protecting other cultures.”

  Santabe hissed. “Do not say His name, ugly woman.”

  Teresa waved her hand in acceptance. Better to go along with the priestess’s wishes, if she were to keep her talking. “I will remember.”

  “And Ordoño came, somehow his influence grew, and he changed their whole way of thinking,” Telo said. “It’s possible. Is that right, Santabe?”

  The sky exploded with clouds of birds. Flights of them, of all different species, flying low and fast. All in the same direction—headed behind them. A crow passed by Teresa’s ear, cawing in outrage. There for the briefest of moments, then vanishing.

  A deer came bounding toward them, then another. Barely changing course enough to detour around them, the animals showed no fear. Smaller animals followed: rabbits and packrats. Some dived into holes as Teresa watched. Others continued to run.

  “A fire?” she wondered aloud. She’d heard animals stampeded like this before a fire. But no smoke hung in the air. Her confusion remained . . . and then the reason became clear.

  As far as she could see in either direction ahead on the road, spread a line of Northerners with thick-bladed swords. They hacked and slashed at all the scattered vegetation, taking out anything taller than her knee. Five of them worked together to bring a saguaro down in seconds. With over ten arms, the great cactus must have stood for hundreds of years. Birds scattered out of the woodpecker holes near its top as it fell.

  A sob caught in Teresa’s throat. It was like watching an ancient grandfather being cut down. An affront against all that was good.

  A rumble like nothing she’d ever heard shook the ground, vibrating in her chest.

  “The army,” Telo said. His face had gone gray.

  “Saints,” Teresa breathed. Too late to run. They’d already been seen. Several of the soldiers clearing the way left their tasks and headed for them. Her hands clutched at her clothing in a vain attempt to find strength. Her knees felt like water. She very much prayed she didn’t shame herself and wet her britches. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Father.”

  Santabe gestured. A flood of her language snapped forth, crisp and sharp like orders. The soldiers broke into a run toward them, while one headed back toward the rumbling and the army.

  Father Telo dropped his pack in the road. He reached into the pocket of his robe and drew out something, holding it out to the approaching soldiers. He said one word in their language that Teresa couldn’t understand and then, “Ordoño.”

  Shock and surprise leached over their faces, complete and swift as if she watched a play on a stage instead of real life. Their mouths gaped and green eyes ogled.

  “What is it?” Teresa tried to make out what the priest held and could only see a wink of gold in the sunlight. Whatever it was, it had the soldiers confused and uncertain.

  Santabe spat out another flood of commands, but Telo flourished the object again and repeated the foreign word and “Ordoño.”

  They seemed to come to some decision, for two of them came to Teresa, removing the knife she wore in plain sight in her belt. A weapon she’d taken from the band of Northerners who had bought her from the bandits. Now she was a prisoner again.

  To her relief, they treated Santabe the same way, muttering, and pointing at the chain that linked the priestess to Father Telo. One kicked their pack to the other side of the roadway. They tried to question Father Telo, but the man could only shake his head, unable to understand.

  All the while, the black smudge on the horizon that was the army resolved into individual men, coming closer. The rumbling vibration grew louder, making it impossible to talk. The nearest soldier pulled her arms behind her back and pinned them there. Santabe and Telo were treated the same, pulling them together so they stood in a compact huddle.

  Teresa stared as the first units of the army reached them. In another situation it would have been a glorious sight. Men must have fanned out for a mile in either direction. Thousands upon thousands in black-and-yellow uniforms. Some carried black banners, limp with no wind to lift them, to Teresa’s disappointment. She would have loved to see what symbols they favored. You could learn much from symbols.

  They seemed to be marching grouped in squares of some kind. All had some kind of weapons: swords, spears, knives, in addition to small packs on their backs. She saw some squares with shorter pikes and one section that carried bows and quivers. A few looked her way, light eyes curious. Others walked without a sound or a shift of the eye. Some spoke together as they walked, like firm companions.

  Something united one and all, though: a hardness, a determination in their eyes. They had run from a fight they were supposed to win, had been tricked. They had something to prove.

  The first ranks went by and more and more. Teresa waited for it to end, but it didn’t. It seemed they must be more numerous than the entire population of all the ciudades-estado combined. Sometimes one of their wagon houses broke the monotony, creaking and squeaking over the dusty road. Once she saw a square formation of men and women in the white robes of their priests and held her breath until they vanished. She lost count of the white robes at around two hundred.

  How were two small people of no importance supposed to stop an army of this size? Teresa pressed her lips together. They had no chance. Even in her own mind, she didn’t pretend to be a hero. She was no warrior like Ramiro. No leader like the Alcalde. Not even full of faith like Father Telo. With the Northern numbers so overwhelming, what remained of her people would die—as would she.

  Oh saints. We need help.

  The small, detached part of her brain noted how quickly she turned to the spiritual for salvation when her world came crashing down and scoffed . . . but the rest of her prayed harder.

  Her shoulders began to ache from the strain of her arms behind her back. The pressure grew to the sort of pain she couldn’t ignore, and she lost focus on the army marching by as she concentrated on her personal misery.

  As the noise of the army faded and the last troops passed, she became aware of another group standing with them. An ordinary man in plain brown clothing with the skin and eye coloring of her people was surrounded by a small group of uniformed soldiers. Lord Ordoño at last. Teresa counted his companions at eight; of the soldiers, four of them were older men and two of them were about her age of thirty. She recognized their type, like Captain Gonzalo, these were men who made decisions. The other two in the entourage wore the white robes of priests, one man and one woman.

  She tried to twist away from her captor, only to be yanked back, the pain in her shoulders redoubling. Eyes turned to her for a moment, and she felt every tear in her clothing and snarl in her short hair tenfold. Dried bloodstains from Alvito and others still covered her clothes. She was dirty and tired and no fit representative to meet the elite members of a foreign army.

  “My old Acorraloar partner returns,” Ordoño said, looking at Father Telo. “And my lost lamb and one other.” He touched
the chain around Telo’s waist. “What is this about, Santabe?”

  “I brought her back.” Father Telo offered the object in his hand.

  It proved to be a large earring in the shape of the sun and made of gold. Some of the rays were sharpened to points and others curved. Teresa craned her neck for a better view. It matched the earrings worn by the white-robed pair with Ordoño, no doubt some symbol of their office.

  “It is mine!” Santabe shouted. She struggled in her captor’s grip, breaking free, then punching him in the throat. The soldier fell, gurgling as he struggled to breathe. She shouted the same foreign word Father Telo had used as three more soldiers jumped on her. She landed a fist on one that would insure a black eye before they subdued her again.

  “I thought you might be missing her,” Telo said, his sarcasm carrying clearly to everyone.

  “That word you spoke,” Teresa asked him, curiosity simply too strong, “the one she just said. What is it?”

  “Their favorite word,” Telo said. “Blasphemy. They have so much suspicion of each other that they even doubt the word of one of their high priestesses, especially if she happens to be missing her jewelry of office and her robes.”

  Ordoño laughed, eyes crinkling as at a good joke. “Ah, priest. You never disappoint. I don’t regret saving you, though it looks as though Santabe got a piece,” he said, referring to the missing hand. He took the earring, then said to the soldiers, “Have you searched them?”

  A fourth soldier patted down Santabe, despite her snarls. Teresa gasped in relief as the man holding her arms released her to check her clothing, running his hands down her legs and inside her boots before heading up to more embarrassing areas, but she hadn’t so much as a hairpin. She wiped sweat beading on her forehead.

  “Wait! Don’t do that!” Telo shouted. Answering cries of surprise came from Father Telo’s guards. One had a hand inside the top of the priest’s robe. The soldier locked in a spasm, then fell boneless to the sand. The senior officers from Ordoño’s entourage jumped in front of him, pushing back their leader even as the priests surged forward.