by Lori Devoti
This barb took, sank into my subconscious and ate away at it. Could Tess have taken Andres? Could she have been lying to us, deceiving us all along?
“And Cleo?”
“Cleo, the new warrior? Why would you want her?” Bored, polite, and well-mannered.
Her manner gnawed at me, worse than any direct insult.
The porch had filled with Amazons. I leaned closer to the priestess. Hissed in her ear, “Padia lied to you, Thea.”
Louder, I repeated, “She’s lied to all of you. Padia may be a member of the high council, but she isn’t the only member. She’s told you the high council is in agreement, but they aren’t. I’ve brought a council member here, to tell you the other side.” I nodded at Kale but kept my eyes focused on Thea.
I waited, expecting Kale to step forward and declare who she was, to force the deluded Amazons to listen, to out Padia and the Amazons who followed her for their worship of another goddess.
Thea’s voice rose. “Why would you come here with such stories? Are you that desperate to regain the role you lost?”
The priestess was still talking. “I told you we would accept you back as a warrior, but that isn’t good enough, is it? You failed as queen, failed the council, and thus failed the tribe. Time to face that, Zery. Time to face you will never regain the role again.”
Her voice was strong, with a shade of sympathy, but her eyes were cold, like the metal blade posed inches from her artery. You’ve cracked, Zery. Cracked.
The thought sprang from nowhere.
Startled, I glanced at Thea’s eyes. They were steady and still cold. Admit you aren’t strong. Don’t embarrass yourself and your tribe.
My hand began to shake. A pain, concentrated and sharp, like a knitting needle being thrust through my brain, cut off my breath. Sweat broke out on my upper lip. I wanted to drop the knife, to cradle my head in my hands.
What was happening?
As the pain probed deeper, the priestess’s eyes seemed to bore into me. Doubt sprang up from somewhere so deep inside me I hadn’t known it existed.
The knife in my hand wavered, down . . . sideways. At first I thought it was nerves, my indecision showing. I tightened my muscles and ordered my body to obey my will. My bicep throbbed with a new pain, one I recognized from hard workouts and long battles, but I continued my struggle to stop the knife from its erratic jumping. I stared at it, unable to comprehend what was happening. The weapon was moving, but unguided by me, despite me.
Thea smiled, a calm, sweet smile, nothing menacing at all . . . I doubled my effort, the blade stilled for a second, then jerked again.
Thea’s smile widened. Her eyes were laughing as she glanced down at the weapon. She found my predicament amusing, found me amusing. If the knife had been free, I would have pierced her through the heart without a flicker of hesitation.
There was a swirl of movement beside me. Caught up in what was happening, I’d forgotten I wasn’t alone. So, it appeared, had Thea.
Lao, the hearth-keeper who before this adventure I’d thought of as someone to fold laundry, fix a broken washer, or order weeds to be pulled in the garden, curled her hand into a fist and slugged the high priestess with a short uppercut to the chin.
Thea’s head shot up and her mouth dropped open. Her eyes wide and shocked, she fell back a step.
Feeling the release as clearly as if a rope had held me in place and been cut, I staggered.
Thea lowered her chin and opened her mouth to say . . . something. The words never came. The hearth-keeper balled up her fist and struck her again.
Blood leaked from the corner of Thea’s mouth. The passive amusement disappeared. Her face drawn and angry, she circled her arm behind her head. The earth under my feet shifted. I knew immediately what was coming.
I shoved Lao back and covered her with my body. Rocks sprang from the ground. Thea moved again, this time making a throwing motion. Stones, sticks, and dirt pummeled into the truck behind us.
Another raise of her hand and the Amazons who had remained standing on the porch, watching, rushed forward. They dove at us, hearth-keepers, warriors, and artisans. The group seemed to have doubled since we had left.
I didn’t know where they had come from or why, but it didn’t matter. Innocent or fully knowledgeable of what was happening, they were all at this moment my enemy. And there were four of them for each of us.
Victory gleamed from Thea’s eyes.
For all of five seconds.
Then arrows pierced the ground around us.
Thea whirled and cursed.
Bubbe stood in the front of the paddock, her red dress swirling and billowing. She dropped her bow and raised her arms, wind growing around her as she did.
Bern and Mel, astride horses, held bows too. Nocking new arrows, they kneed the animals forward into a gallop and leapt over the fence. They slid to the side, hung hidden behind their horse’s necks, only the tops of their legs and the length of Mel’s hair, dangling below, visible from this angle.
Jack and Mateo jumped from the roof to the ground on our side of the fence. Jack was the first to reach the Amazons, the first to strike. He jerked a knife from his belt and threw it as he ran.
A warrior, a female I didn’t know but an Amazon all the same, crumpled, struck through the heart.
For an instant my world froze . . . instinct and logic warring inside me. One of my own had fallen, been killed by a son. A lifetime of loyalty said that was wrong. I stared at the knife in my hand, not sure what to do, who to attack.
Friend or foe? Who was who? When did it stop being simple?
Another warrior jerked the knife from her fallen companion’s chest and pulled back her arm, ready to launch it back at the son. I didn’t think; I didn’t let myself.
I acted . . . my knife struck . . . two warriors down.
Thea spun and screamed, “Traitor! I thought it before, but here is the proof!” The stack of spears rose and turned . . . pointed toward us . . . me. There was death in her eyes . . . directed at me.
I ran away from Kale and Lao, praying I was right, praying the spears would follow.
They did. One by one they shot toward me like they were being flung by a catapult. I dove and leapt, not pausing from one movement to the next. I put what I’d learned with Jack into practice, let instinct guide each motion.
Beyond me, the two groups fought; knives flashed; staffs twirled. There were yells and screams. I couldn’t tell from whom or why. My attention wavered. A spear grazed my neck, then shot through the length of my hair.
I cursed and rolled again, only to see another spear hurtling toward me. My breath was ragged.
I was losing a battle I hadn’t even been allowed to fight. I cursed myself then, my own stupidity. I’d let the enemy define the conflict—a beginner’s mistake, a mistake that could kill you. I flipped into a somersault but didn’t come out, kept going toward the spears rather than away. Didn’t stop until I was in the middle of the struggle and a sword was within my reach.
I grabbed it and spun; adrenaline pumped through me. Thea stalked toward me, her lips moving, but Areto cut her off, a sword in her hand.
I smiled at my old student and wondered if her time under Thea had served her well.
She jabbed. I parried. She jabbed again. Our swords met; metal slid over metal until the crossguards met. She stared into my eyes. “The barn. Look in the barn.”
Then she stepped back, her eyes dead, her body poised to continue the fight.
The barn.
I spun and slapped her against the wrist with the flat of my blade. She dropped her sword and fell to the ground as if struck.
A horse flew toward me, with Bern on his back. I tossed her the sword. Still moving, she grabbed it midair. I ran and jumped, using both hands to propel myself into place behind her on the animal. “The barn,” I yelled. “Cleo is in the barn.”
Swinging the sword at Areto, who had recovered her own, Bern nodded, then reined the horse toward the bar
n and kneed him back into a gallop.
As we raced by Bubbe, I yelled, “Hold them off.”
The sound of air whooshing and Amazons yelling told me the old priestess was hard at work.
The barn was dark and smelled of wet hay. There were bales piled up to the rafters.
As Bern slowed the horse to a walk, I glanced back over my shoulder. Bubbe had called up a wind and was spinning it into a shield, the Amazons on one side, my allies on the other. Mel had joined her, spinning a buckler of her own, smaller than her grandmother’s but more agile. It darted around, following any Amazon who thought to work her way around Bubbe’s magic.
The others watched, tense, ready if the priestess’s magic faltered.
“We checked here. We didn’t see anyone,” Bern said, pointing with the sword.
“Areto said she was here.”
Bern’s nostrils flared. “Maybe she lied.”
I could see Bern hadn’t forgiven Areto for choosing Thea over me . . . over us, but there had been a light in Areto’s eyes, an apology. I believed her.
I slid off the horse and approached the hay. “When we were little, we made fortresses out of the hay. Did you ever do that, Bern?” It was a rhetorical question. I really couldn’t imagine Bern as anything except the warrior she was today.
I climbed onto the stack and grabbed the first bale by its twine wrapping.
I tossed it down. It landed next to the warrior. She pulled back on the reins, making the horse step back, and eyed the pile of bales.
I knew what she was thinking: that even an Amazon couldn’t survive with a ton of hay stacked on top of her.
I tossed another bale onto the ground.
Kale appeared in the open doorway. “Padia has to be here somewhere. Maybe she’s hiding inside the house, with Tess and the baby. We should search there.”
Holding a bale, I grunted. The twine dug into my fingers. Normally you wore gloves for work like this.
“How are Mel and Bubbe doing?” I asked. I’d moved four bales now and saw no sign there was anything hidden in the pile except more hay, and maybe a snake or three.
Kale frowned. She took a step toward the house, but Mel and Bubbe were blocking her path. She cursed and looked back at me.
Bern, however, answered. “Holding,” she said. “Should we attack?”
I shook my head. Two warriors had already died. Two warriors who had been misled into believing they were doing what was right, that they were saving the tribe . . . two warriors who could have been me. I wouldn’t feel guilty for their deaths, they were necessary, but I wouldn’t add to them if I could help it.
“Call everyone to the barn, everyone except Mel and Bubbe. Tess and Andres may not be here, but Cleo is.”
Bern stared at me a second. Then without a word she sprinted to the others. Kale was in the barn too now; she had given up on getting past Mel and her grandmother. She stared up at me but said nothing.
When the others arrived, they climbed onto the pile with me and started tossing hay.
Kale stayed close to the door, glancing from us to the Amazons held at bay by Bubbe and Mel. Watching.
The barn was filled with broken bales before we found the hidey-hole. A piece of plywood had been dropped over the last layer, over a space about six feet long by eighteen inches by eighteen inches—casket size. A short casket for an Amazon.
With Bern’s help, I pulled up the board. Cleo lay inside, pale and limp. I sat on the bale beside her and reached for her throat—to check for a pulse.
Above my head there was a scream.
An owl dove from the rafters and out the open barn door.
Mateo, who had been shifting bales behind us to keep them from tumbling down on top of us, froze, then ran after the bird.
There was another, louder shriek outside . . . one I recognized as the son in his bird form.
I glanced at Jack. He dropped the bale he’d been holding and ran after Mateo.
I didn’t know what was happening, could see no danger in what had happened. Owls lived in barns; we’d startled one . . .
From outside Jack yelled and an engine roared to life.
A cloud of dirt descended on the barn . . . maybe the camp . . . I couldn’t tell.
Mel’s voice, yelling, telling me to hurry, urged me to action.
I grabbed the unconscious Cleo and tossed her over my shoulder—the second warrior I’d carried this way in just a few days’ time.
I hoped it was a trend that would go no further.
The truck we’d driven into the camp screeched sideways, sliding on gravel toward the barn.
Bubbe stood where we had left her, but her shield was smaller, almost half its original size. Mel screamed at her and threw up her arms. Dust billowed behind the old priestess, rolled down toward her, toward the Amazons still on the other side of her shield of whirling air.
“Get her!” Mel yelled at Jack, who was running toward them.
The son grabbed Bubbe around the waist. Lost in her spell, her body stiff, the priestess seemed oblivious; she kept chanting. He carried . . . dragged . . . her toward the truck.
Kale and I flipped Cleo over the side into the bed, and Bern raced toward the struggling son. She grabbed Bubbe by the ankles and the two of them jogged her to the truck.
Her lips slowed; her shield fell, and every Amazon who had been waiting behind it rushed toward us.
Chapter 23
Mel was the last of us still standing her ground. Her arms raised, her body shaking, she was holding back the wave of dust she had gathered.
“Drive toward her,” I yelled at Lao, who was behind the wheel. The hearth-keeper gunned the engine.
I clung to the side of the truck, my body hanging out over the edge while I prayed we would reach my friend before she was hit by a knife or sword.
There was a war cry . . . a victory cry. Weapons smashed into the side of the truck. The Amazons thought they had us, thought they’d won. And if they got to us, managed to stop the truck—they would. We had no weapons now, and Bubbe, our strongest weapon, was in much the same state as her daughter, staring blindly and chanting.
But a new weapon had appeared—the Amazons’ own confidence. They were focused on us, focused on what they saw as an easy win and completely unaware Mel was holding back a wave of dirt and debris that would ensure our escape.
At least I hoped it would.
Lao barreled the truck toward the rush of Amazons as if they weren’t there . . . or as if she had zero qualms about mowing a line of them down. Which, after seeing her attack on Thea, I suspected was the more accurate scenario.
The Amazons were close, but we were closer. Six feet from my friend, I yelled at Bern to grab me and leaned out, far enough I would have fallen if the warrior hadn’t taken hold of my legs. She stood between my knees, her fingers wrapped around my belt. My pelvis bounced against the top of the bed; I ignored the pain and focused on Mel.
We drove by barely slowing; I looped my arms around my friend’s waist and jerked her off her feet.
Her arms fell and so did the wave. “Pull!” I screamed at Bern and in seconds the three of us—Mel, Bern and myself—tumbled into a pile on the hard truck bed.
A roar sounded behind us and we were pelted with tiny rocks, twigs, and dirt.
Coughing, I pulled myself up to peer over the side of the truck. I could see nothing but dirt, but I could hear the curses . . .
The truck roared up the drive blind, but unimpeded. In minutes we were on the highway, headed back to Jack’s neighbor’s house.
We gathered behind the house. Cleo and Bubbe had both come out of their fog, but neither was back to normal. Mel watched them through half-closed eyes as she pretended to replace handles on knives Jack had retrieved from the ashes of his home. She hadn’t said a word about Cleo’s or Bubbe’s condition, but I knew she was shaken.
I hadn’t been close to my mother and losing her had blown my worldview to smithereens. Mel, despite her differences with he
r family, loved them. And they had always been strong . . . stronger than her, in her mind . . . although not in mine.
“What happened?” I asked, running a whetstone over one of the blades.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Things seemed to be going well. Bubbe was holding them off, seemed as strong as ever . . . then something happened. She didn’t weaken. She went somewhere . . . ”
“Here.” Bubbe tapped herself on the forehead, then stood and crossed the yard between us. She wore the same red dress she had this morning, but it had lost its crispness and now hung limp and dirty from her shoulders. Her eyes, however, were sharp again as were her steps.
“I went inside myself.” She pointed at her temple. “Went where others tried to go.”
Mel glanced sideways at me. Both of us thinking the same thing—she wasn’t herself, whatever had happened back at the camp was still affecting her, might for a long time.
Bubbe sighed and grabbed the stone wolf that hung from her neck. Her eyes closed, and her lips moved.
Something shifted in the trees.
I glanced toward them, expecting Mateo, who hadn’t reappeared since shooting out of the barn.
But instead I saw a wolf, gray and rangy. His nose lifted to sniff the air. I tensed. His eyes scanned over those of us gathered in the yard, coming to rest on the old priestess, her eyes still closed, her lips still moving. He padded forward until he stood next to her, then he lifted his nose and nuzzled her hand.
With a smile, she opened her eyes.
“See, the wolf, you think he comes to the crazy?”
The creature, Mel’s family telios, turned eyes old and wise on me. I’d seen the priestess call him before but wasn’t sure then or now if he was real or just mist gathered into his shape. His eyes were knowing. They held wisdom I knew I’d never gain, and I wished more than anything I could see through his eyes to know what he knew.
Bubbe laughed. “Not for you, queen. Your telios is like our goddess . . . jealous. Best you learn about him before you cheat with another.”