by Jen Greyson
Such conflict.
I lift my hand and feather my fingers through the short hair at his temple. “Whatever you want.”
He watches me with that intense gaze, and I match him. The muscle in his jaw twitches, and his cheek shifts ever so slightly closer to my palm. The moment our skin touches, his eyes slip closed and his hands clench at his sides.
I can’t keep the smile hidden. He’s spicy with a side of dangerous, and I like it even though I know I shouldn’t. A merciless flirt, because it gets me what I want, I can’t help pushing him a little further, punishing him for calling me a sorceress and a spy. My hands lace through his curls and around the back of his neck.
“Be still,” he says, his voice gruff.
“You started it.”
“Please.”
His plea is a whisper against my palm. So he can be polite. I don’t imagine it’s a word he uses often, and I’m willing to relent. For the moment.
I drop my hand and he turns me with two fingers on each shoulder, as if I’m contagious. “You will walk in front of me until we get to Penya’s house. Far in front of me.”
“Then what?”
He ignores the question and stalks toward the door.
I smile and follow.
At the door, he steps aside, drapes a vest over my shoulders, and fingers my braid before tucking it under my collar. He plucks a short blanket from beneath a bench and wraps it around my hips, careful not to touch me. His face changes into the mask he wore in the road, and I silently vow to behave myself. Constantine may be big and lethal, but I don’t know what lurks outside this room.
He follows behind me as we leave, and I stop in the road to wait while he gives orders to the men stationed at the door. I hear only snatches of the conversation. They are to stay here until we return, but the men don’t feel comfortable leaving him alone with me.
The one who glared at me when we came in is still at it, staring daggers at me over Constantine’s shoulder while they argue.
I cross my arms and move away. I don’t need to listen to their nonsense about my barbaric attire. I’m not a threat. Not that they know of, anyway—they haven’t seen my lightning.
I turn and start walking. I don’t need an escort, and Constantine obviously knows where to find Penya.
He yells after me, but I keep walking. His sandals scuff the ground behind me, and he reaches me in a few strides. “There are dangers here you know nothing of.”
I point back to the soldiers. “I didn’t deserve that. You could have explained to them—”
“What would you have me tell them?”
“I don’t know, but what’s with all the sorceress stuff?”
He quirks an eyebrow.
We’re like magnets push-pulling against each other by forces we can’t see, can’t explain, and can’t seem to resist. We need to get to Penya so I can be on my merry way and Constantine can get back to whatever pillaging and plundering was on his agenda before I showed up.
He reaches for my elbow, but I bend away from his hand and start walking again.
We climb the small hill in silence, his earlier foolish statement about me walking far in front of him forgotten now that we’re outside. If he really has been looking for me these last five years, I can’t imagine he’d let me get farther than a short sword thrust away from his protection.
The village has grown. Roman influence is apparent in the new lines of buildings and statues scattered around. If I’m going to keep coming back, I may have to do some research on my little home-away-from-home.
At the top of the hill, I turn left, heading back the way I came when I was here last.
Constantine stops and clears his throat. I glance over my shoulder, and he tips his head to the right. “You think nothing has changed while you’ve been gone?”
I correct my course, my chin in the air.
“You never told me where you’ve been.”
“Weaving my spell around other men. It takes a while.”
“That does nothing to change my opinion of you.”
I ignore him. Like he wants to change his opinion, anyway. We crest the hill and a light breeze ruffles my hair. I take a deep breath of the salt air, so different from the crisp, dry mountain clime at home. On this far side of the crest, the green hills are plentiful, free of houses and soldier encampments. Though I know one day the glory of this wilderness will be overrun with people and disfigured by buildings, I revel in the simple beauty.
I keep glancing over my shoulder to use Constantine’s face to judge if I’m headed in the right direction. After the third time, I grumble. “This would be a lot easier if you’d just lead.”
“You’ll find her at the top of the next hill.”
We follow the road down a dip between hills, and then I see he was right—things have changed. Before me, the entire wide valley is dotted with tents, horses, and men. The encampment is trampled grass and mud, the flowers are long gone, the trees stripped for firewood or building materials. I can’t believe this devastation.
Constantine steps behind me and grabs my wrist. His words are harsh and low. “You will not speak. You will do exactly as I say. Disobey me and they will kill you.”
I nod and try to shrink. “Why is Penya here?”
He shushes me. I bite my lip. I’m not very good at quiet.
The four guards beside the gate turn toward us. They greet Constantine but cast wary glances over me until we pass through the gate. The attention makes me uneasy, and I scoot closer to Constantine. I don’t see any other women around, but surely I’m not the only one. Maybe the guards are wary because they know Constantine’s been searching for me. I’d ask, but I don’t take well to shushing.
Weapons clatter all around me. Mock battles rage on in every direction. Some men are on horseback and some are on foot, but they all are armed and vicious looking. If I could get any closer to Constantine, I would. He ushers us through the center of the training grounds and around a stomping pair of horses. A few men glance up as we pass, then resume their fighting.
Fear and astonishment have stolen all my words. The stench of food, both cooked and rotting, is barely stronger than the smell of the living.
Constantine speeds us toward the buildings at the back of the wide field. As we near the walls, a soldier barrels into us, swept off his feet by his opponent. Constantine tightens his grip on me and twists us out of the fray, pushing the soldier back into the fight in one swift motion.
I keep my head down and my mouth shut, but riding a bike blindfolded would be easier.
Finally in the safety of a building, Constantine drops my hand. I rub the sore spot, and he gives me an apologetic grimace, though he stays quiet. Pressing on the small of my back, he guides me down a long hallway. The air smells less pungent here, and I peek around as we pass open meeting rooms and wide spaces filled with strategy tables and come to a stop at a block of rooms at the end of the hall.
“It’s the only way I know to keep her safe.”
He raises his knuckles to the door and raps twice. Slow footsteps shuffle on the other side, and the short señora I remember opens the door. She scowls. Clearly she’s been expecting me.
Constantine pushes me through the door and toward a small bench along the far wall. Though the room is stark and small, she’s managed to make it feel homey with brightly colored blankets on the bed and a woven pillow on a bench.
Penya frees my braid and tsk-tsks over the vest before turning her scowl on Constantine.
He shrugs. “How else was I supposed to get her here, dressed like that?”
“Enough,” I say. “No more talking about me.” I yank my braid from Penya’s hands. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Penya sits on a low bench and motions for Constantine to do the same. He looks around uncomfortably and settles for leaning against the door, his ankles and arms crossed.
“Did you read the scroll?”
I dig it from my pants and hand it to her. “Yes, but i
t’s a little vague.”
She cackles. I’m coming to hate that sound.
“Vague? A donkey knows more than you.”
I don’t rise to her like I do Constantine. Instead, I shrug and drop to the bench.
She watches me for a moment and, when I don’t respond, she works her way upright and stands in front of me.
“It’s you, niña.” She curls her crooked fingers tightly around my shoulders and leans close, our faces almost touching. “The legendary woman of the scroll is you.”
Chapter 11
Penya hands the scroll back to me, and I hesitate before taking it, too aware Constantine is watching me, his face an unreadable mask. My voice breaks as I read the first line. “ ‘One will come on the eve of great turmoil.’ ”
“Viriato’s unrelenting conflict,” Penya explains.
“ ‘Within her resides a storm to match the danger facing her people.’ ” A tendril of lightning snakes up my arm in answer. “ ‘Born of fire from the sky, she will arrive at the time of greatest need.’ ”
“The mission will not succeed without you. Spain’s entire future depends on you.”
“ ‘Many will endeavor to teach her, but no one can guide her path.’ ” Penya wisely abstains from weighing in on that one. My eyes skip ahead, and my throat constricts before I can choke out the next part.
“ ‘She is the maker of paths.’ ” The tightness spreads to my chest. I don’t bother with the rest.
Constantine hasn’t budged, and I avoid meeting his penetrating stare. No wonder he’s been calling me sorceress. What other name fits a woman guided by bolts from heaven?
“I hoped this was about someone else . . . some legend from a long time ago.”
Penya watches me closely. “No. I’ve waited my whole life to witness your journey. When I was a young girl, I hoped only to watch, but as the years passed, I knew my part in this mission was to provide guidance. I’ve studied you from the moment you arrived in Spain. I am not mistaken in this, niña. There’s never been a female rider before—I would have known. The Romans have already reshaped much—Viriato’s fall is the final piece. Their attempts and failures over the last year prove your vitality to this mission. Certain factors can only be achieved with a rider’s ability. Our attempts failed to teach Constantine to travel. They’ve been waiting for you.”
“So, I’m some quasi-superhero who kills people?”
“You must look beyond your perception of death and right and wrong. Your gift is to see the alteration through to completion—sometimes that means saving people, sometimes that means eliminating one for the good of many.”
I whip my head back and forth. “No way. First, you haven’t even told me who Viriato is or how I’m supposed to kill him or why Constantine can’t do it without me. I’m sure he’s killed all kinds of people this week.”
“I told you,” Constantine says, “Viriato is a plague against Rome.”
“So? He’s not a plague against me. I can just go home. Problem solved.”
“No,” Penya says. “Your entire future—the one you left to come here—depends on it. If you do not perform this alteration, if Constantine and his men fail, your future will no longer exist.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.” I fly off the bench. “I need some air.”
Constantine pushes away from the wall and blocks my escape. “No. Not here. And we have much to discuss.”
My hands flail. I try to argue, but my brain can’t process anything.
Penya returns to her seat. “The future you left ceased to exist the moment you first rode the lightning. By accepting the ride, you accepted the responsibility of what must occur before you can finish this alteration. Everything depends on Viriato’s death and Spain’s subsequent fall to Rome. You must aid Constantine. You are the only one who can. This is your alteration, niña. It would have found you anywhere.”
“I’ve been home twice, and it looked the same.”
“Only for small slices of time. It’s impossible to see the changes in a few hours.”
“But . . . I picked Spain.”
“No, niña,” she says. “Spain picked you. Think all the way back to your very first arc. I met you here, far in your future. I showed you what happens if you fail. Just because you arc back and forth does not mean you are no longer part of the alteration. Constantine and I have determined your training. I will leave the strategy discussions to Constantine, but you must trust him with your life and do as he says. And you must not fail.”
Must, must, must. I suck my lips between my teeth, overwhelmed by the enormity of what she’s telling me. I didn’t sign up for this. I can barely plan what I’m doing tomorrow because it’s too much of a commitment. Agreeing to alter the future? No thanks. I want to cry and scream and kick and yell.
“I’m not that girl.”
“You are.” Penya settles back onto her seat. “Life does not ask our permission. It gives us gifts and expects us to dig past the indecision and find the courage. Most cannot. They live lives of cowardice, foolishly believing they were never meant to make a difference, forsaking greatness for the comfort of family or home or possessions.” She leans forward. “Others forge ahead into the unknown, accepting that it is only by giving up the comfort of what they know that something better can come into their lives.”
She pierces me with her hard stare. “What will you choose, niña? Comfort or courage?”
I glance at Constantine. With his arms crossed and his legs spread, he’s every inch a warrior who’s never known fear, who conquers with a glance, a sweep of steel, a command. It must annoy him to know he can’t succeed without me. His expression is unreadable, and I know he’s waiting for me to come to my senses, quit being such a girl, and own my warriorness.
I stare beyond Penya. She wants me to believe I’m the answer to a prophecy, and if I don’t ensure the death of Viriato, my future will cease to exist. If I fail, that war-torn hell of my vision becomes everyone’s future.
I squeeze my eyes shut. It wasn’t a vision, it was an actual place. Not just somewhere, but here. Bile rises in my throat at the remembered stench of dead bodies and filth. I swallow hard. Dead babies. Men with no futures. Walking death sentences, all of them. I rub my eyes and open them.
“You have a choice,” Constantine says. “I do not take warriors who do not choose to fight with me. A fearful warrior puts not only himself in danger but everyone else.”
“But—”
He takes a step closer but keeps his arms crossed and puffs up larger. “No. There is no middle on the battlefield.” He leans closer, scowling. “I will find a way. I chose my path long ago, and I will succeed with or without you.” Penya makes a noise, but he sweeps his hand to shush her, knocking my arm as he does. “I will not allow you to continue unless you are by my side in this wholeheartedly. You choose, right now. Either you are with me because you want to be, or you will leave.”
I can’t look away from the intensity in his eyes as he challenges me. I’ve never backed down from a challenge before. I still have questions, but I also understand they won’t give me any more answers until they have my commitment. And I believe him. If I go with him, we will win. He doesn’t know how to fail.
“Fine.”
He lets out a breath, and his shoulders sag. Then he shudders, closes his eyes, and leans his forehead against mine. I wonder what he would have done if I’d have walked away.
His hands move to my hips, and his fingers dig into my flesh, like I’m the only thing holding him upright. He has something else riding on this that he’s not telling me.
Penya claps her hands. “It’s settled. You must get her dressed and begin training. Viriato will be injured in the upcoming battle. There will be an opportunity to finish him, but it won’t be long. You must be ready.”
Constantine gives my hips a quick squeeze and straightens, his movements wooden. I inhale and force my attention to Penya. “How do you know he’s going to be injured? What upcom
ing battle? Why can’t I arc to a spot when he’s unarmed or vulnerable? For that matter, why can’t we just go back to when he was a baby?”
Penya crosses her arms and manages to scold me with her expression. “Youth, everything is so simple . . . it’s been tried before with other alterations, but nature finds a way. If we eliminate him as a baby, another person will rise up to take his place in history. You arced to now, which means this is the perfect intersection of his life and yours.”
“Viriato is never vulnerable,” Constantine says. “If he were, I wouldn’t need you.”
“Great, so I’m tasked with killing someone trained warriors can’t take out? That makes sense.”
Viriato. I make a mental note of the name to research at home when I have a second.
Constantine steps away, and before I can figure out the secret he’s keeping from me, his mask of indifference slides back in place.
“There is one last thing,” Penya says.
I break our visual standoff.
“You must not let Ilif know any of this. I don’t yet know what he’s up to, but you must stop antagonizing him. We don’t want him curious about what you’re doing when you arc. And whatever you do, never give him reason to think you are betraying him.” She shivers. “Ever.”
I cock my head. “Is my father in danger?”
With a vehement shake of her head, she says, “Ilif will protect him with his life. He is a rider. And a man. To Ilif, there is no one more important. Not now, anyway.” She pats my arm. “We’ll talk later about Ilif. For now, know that he will keep your father safe and will do his best to teach him.”
“He’s made it clear he doesn’t want to teach me. Can’t you teach me?”
“I don’t travel like Ilif does. And my experience with riders has been . . . different. My role in this alteration is to support you. I will give you what I can, when I can, but there are other things I must attend to while Ilif is distracted. For now, we must hurry, before he discovers what this alteration will mean to the future he intends. And please, get rid of that metal top he gave you.”