Julian exited the council chamber and pulled the door shut. He slumped onto a bench set against the wall for petitioners, sinking into the velvet cushion. The waiting area was empty as a tomb, the guards having shuffled everyone out of the building but the officials. Concejal Adulfo suggested Julian return to his rooms while they debated, but it seemed like the coward’s way. Better he stayed and took his medicine as soon as it was spooned to him.
The council had every reason to expel him as alcalde. He had gone behind their backs with a momentous decision. And it had gone terribly wrong—children captured by the enemy. Julian stared without interest at the tapestry opposite him, one of Santiago planting his staff in the soil that would become Colina Hermosa. A crowd of people were woven in lifelike detail at the saint’s back—people who would become his countrymen.
Those men and women would hurl stones at him if they were here now.
Of course it had been a risk all along—a risk that had landed squarely on the most innocent. He was more than willing to take all the blame if that would bring one child safely home. By the saints, he wanted to turn back time.
Well, he accepted the responsibility; they could find a replacement who would not make such horrible mistakes. Julian scrubbed at his face and slowly sat upright, only to jerk in surprise at a priest in a coarse brown robe and triple-rope belt standing right in front of him, blocking out the tapestry of Santiago.
Unlike the saint in the wall hanging, this priest had skin so dark it practically shone. His hair was cropped short and, like all priests, he wore no beard. “May I join you in your rest?” he asked.
Julian pushed aside a surge of superstitious nonsense and slid farther along the bench to make room for the burly man. The bench creaked loudly as the man took his spot, dispelling Julian’s vision of ghostly apparitions sent from Heaven.
“You are spiritual advisor to one of the concejales, Father?” Julian asked.
“I am an advisor to any who need me,” the man answered vaguely. He settled square-knuckled hands in his lap atop the simple trirope belt that signified his station. Instead of boots, he wore dusty and worn sandals, a hole actually worn through in one spot.
“You’ve taken a vow of poverty?” Julian asked.
The priest patted an emerging paunch. “Of the material, but not, I fear, of the flesh. I’m too fond of my meat and drink.” He smiled, revealing not the perfect white teeth Julian expected but ones crooked and slightly yellowed.
“Indeed,” Julian said as prelude to the silence he hoped would follow. He left the priests to his wife. Beatriz had enough interest for both of them.
“In times of tumult, look to Me sayeth the Lord.”
“One can look,” Julian said drily.
The priest nodded. “Have faith in Me, and the Lord will have faith in you.”
“The Lord has many platitudes.”
Instead of taking offense, the priest chuckled. “Glory to the Lord. Turn the other cheek in a quarrel, and I shall shelter you from harm.”
Julian cleared his throat to keep hot words from escaping. “I don’t see the Lord protecting us from the Northerners, Father.” Priests and their ambition. Though no new saints had been created in—what—three hundred or so years, they never gave up hope they might be the next if faith and benevolence and fuzzy words could make it so. Better they kept their opinions to themselves until asked for. Even the most good-hearted couldn’t ignore the ultimate prize. They wouldn’t know a true miracle if it stepped on their toes.
“An eye for an eye suits you better?” the priest asked. “Do you believe that fate controls our destiny?”
“If I did, I’d spend my days hiding under my bed.”
“And faith? Can faith turn the tide?”
“That and a copper will buy you a cup of sopa de cordero.” Not that one could get mutton soup for a copper since the Northerners. Julian gave himself a mental shake. “I mean no disrespect, Father. Faith is a power I don’t have much dealing with, but a power nonetheless. My wife—”
“Faith is for women and the weak-minded, you mean to say.”
Julian shrugged, secure in his convictions. “No offense meant, Father.”
The big priest held up a callused hand. “No offense taken, my son. I’ve felt the same myself many a time.” The man grinned and winked. “On my bad days, you understand.”
“Don’t mistake me, Father. There is a place for faith.”
The man’s belly shook as he chuckled. “Spoken like a politician. Now who has the platitudes?”
Julian offered his hand. “A wise man stays out of religious argument.”
“Amen, brother.” The priest gripped Julian with a huge, callused hand. “Father Telo.”
“An honor.”
Father Telo settled his hands back on his stomach. “Better if you had kept the children here. Sending them away to keep them safe? Idiotic idealism. Better we hid under our beds, as you put it, and do nothing so the children could be culled like cattle as the Northerners pick their one in thirty after our surrender. Or suffer a violent death when our walls come down. Or burn in their homes before that. Certainly the parents won’t thank you for giving their most precious possessions a chance at life and freedom. Such selfishness. After all, we should sit on our hands and wait for the Lord our God to save us all.”
Julian stared in shock as the man continued with a perfectly disinterested face.
“It’s not like He gave us free will for a reason. Or that some of our choices are often less than perfect. We are as omnipotent as Our Lord, are we not?”
Julian scowled, but the priest continued before he could get out a word.
“And when the council deposes you, can they not find someone with experience of a lengthy siege and invasion to replace you? You, who are doing such a poor job.”
Julian made a hmmph deep in his throat. “How many times a day do you get called an ass?”
“Isn’t that what the city pays me for?”
“Remind me to cut the church’s tithe from the budget,” Julian said. A sudden suspicion struck, and he sat up straighter on the bench. “Did my wife send you, Father?”
Father Telo flashed his teeth in a crooked smile. “Is that not her prerogative, having her own share of free will from Our Lord?”
Julian shook his head. “Tell her she made a wise choice. I’ve been thoroughly dis—”
The door behind them cracked open, spilling forth the seven councilors. Such had been their haste to call this meeting that Concejal Antonio still wore the bloodstained apron of his profession as butcher, and Concejal Pedro had flour from the mill on his collar and hair. Julian rose to face it on his feet.
Tangled beard bristling, Adulfo settled a hand on Julian’s shoulder. “The council has voted to stand behind you, my friend. While better to have shared your plans with this board, we cannot see another option you could have taken to better secure our children. They were in every bit as much danger here.”
The other concejales mumbled their agreement.
A mist gathered before Julian’s eyes. Sentimental idiot. He dismissed it with a sniff. The stress was getting to him. The true test came when he faced the people and let them know what he had done. A test he would face now. The people deserved to be acquainted with his disgrace. He doubted they would be nearly as forgiving.
“Father,” the concejales said in greeting to the priest. Concejal Lugo even knelt for a blessing. But then again, the small man was known for putting a thumb on the scale in his business dealings, so no doubt he needed the extra favor.
Julian inclined his head to the priest. “If you’ll excuse me, Father. Time to come out from under the bed.”
The concejales looked at him in astonishment, but the priest nodded gravely. “May His blessing go with you.”
All seven councilmen followed Julian to the door, where two uniformed soldiers and Julian’s bodyguards kept the portal closed against concerned citizens. Usually, the great bronze doors stood open to all and sundry, even during the glaring heat of the midday sun. Today, it needed no imagination or glass set into the bronze to tell Julian what waited outside. Already, the sounds came through metal and wooden obstructions alike.
The soldiers pushed open the doors onto a mob. People strained against one another below the steps of the council house, their faces contorted in anger or worry. Women with mourning shawls covering their heads wept. A general hum of voices filled the large square, while the crowd reached to the shops opposite and spilled into the roads. The council pelotón held the entranceway against them with spears raised and crossed to bar the way.
At his appearance, someone threw a fistful of vegetables to splatter against the bronze and plop in a glancing blow against a soldier. The hum grew into a roar as bodies surged forward like a furious tide. “Where are our children? What have you done to our children? Children!” The word echoed across the square, thrown from a thousand throats.
In ten years as alcalde, Julian had never dreamed such a dark day could exist.
A cold hand touched his arm, and Beatriz stepped to his side from the protection of the soldiers where she’d been hiding. Her face was pale and strained, but determined. Julian sensed the concejales flinch at his back but stand firm. Astonishingly, the sight of so much righteous wrath washed the rest of his reservations away. He had done what had to be done. His choice had been right—no matter the consequences. Now he had to rectify what had gone wrong.
Pulling free of his wife, Julian held his arms wide for silence. In only a few breaths, he had it, the mob dwindling to mutters somewhere in the depths.
“Where is my child?” a thick male voice shouted.
“You shall all be reunited with your children or told where they are as quickly as possible,” Julian shouted so all could hear. “Most are in the citadel. Some have been sent to the swamps for their safety and some, as you saw, were captured.”
“Safety!” The roar returned, hotter. Most of the heated words drowned in the tumult.
Julian spread his arms again and waited as the shouts and mutters died for the second time. “Yes, my people, safety. Do we fool ourselves that our lives here are any more secure? Our situation is ominous, and no amount of pretending can make it otherwise. But remember: The enemy is outside the gates, not within. To tear each other apart will not help the situation.”
He continued over the talk this raised. “The Northerners expect us to close the tunnels—to hunker down and pray for salvation. They push us to give up our city, our freedoms, our souls.” He darted a glance at Father Telo, who had joined them on the portico, and inspiration struck. A plan, clear as crystal, formed in his head. “But such is not the path of Colina Hermosa. The people of Colina Hermosa make their own fate. We do not surrender to infidel invaders. Give up our homes and lives without a fight? Never.”
The mutters held a note of approval. They waited to hear what he could offer, for people desired someone to take charge—as long as that someone brought a likelihood of success. But the crowd would be just as quick to return to outrage.
Saints, allow it not to come to that.
“It’s my responsibility to see this sorted out and families reunited,” he continued. “Then the evacuations will continue. We may not be able to hold our city, but I will ensure you escape from it. I will make good on my mistakes, and we will get our children back. This I swear by Santiago himself!”
This time the angry roar held purpose behind it. Speech done, Julian now had one more task.
It was time to create a miracle.
Ramiro sliced through foul, stinking water of the swamp lake. He glanced back at the column of black smoke falling behind them along with the dry land. It had taken more time than it should to collect enough wood. Too much of it was either green or wet, and it sent a thick plume into the air for that very reason. The fire wouldn’t be hot enough to consume the body of the saint-cursed witch, though apparently the nit didn’t understand that. She walked, albeit it at the very end of her tether to be as far from him as possible.
Ramiro shivered. Saints preserve me. Burning the dead. The witches were barbarians. How could a person go to the afterlife with no body?
She walked, but her eyes focused on him and not her steps. Her white-hot scorn focused along the several yards of rope connecting them and into his soul. If looks could kill, her glare would have a knife in his back. But if looks could kill, he’d have her head under the water. No doubt Teresa had chosen to go with them for that very reason. Someone had to keep him from killing the result of their botched mission. Despite that, he wished the scholarly woman would have remained behind to tend to the others.
Ignoring the witch, Ramiro returned his attention to the treacherous waters ahead—already they lapped to his waist—and kept the western, sinking sun at his back. Everything in him screamed at him to go back, to ignore duty and orders and be with his dying friends. But . . . he’d given his word. Coward that he was, he ached at abandoning them, but hadn’t the guts to turn around. By Santiago and San Martin, he swore he’d return for them, no matter the cost. Once the burden of Colina Hermosa’s survival didn’t weigh on his shoulders.
Now that weight was all too heavy. What would Salvador think of that? Alvito would have rolled his eyes. Gomez would shake his head to see a bisoño at the helm. His brother would tell him to do what must be done. Ramiro gritted his teeth. He was not fit to be the leader.
But there was no one else.
“Do you remember the way, cousin?” Teresa asked. Atop Sancha, she would have the best chance of spotting any threats. Hopefully, she kept her eyes open.
He pushed against the muck sucking at his heels and got a tighter grip on the pair of reins, checking to see that Valentía followed. “Hi-ya.” In truth, he’d paid little attention to the trail Bromisto had taken through the swamp. He spared a fleeting thought that the boy had made it home safely. Better Teresa didn’t know his clueless lack of direction. Beyond the landmark of the fallen tree, he remembered none of it, too sure someone else would be there to be the guide.
How could he have been so stupid?
As far as he knew, they’d cut straight across. He’d keep a watch on the ripples, pray the saints kept the snakes away, forge east, and hope for the best. Welcome to wise leadership.
The Northerners were still out there. He had to keep the witch under control. He would have to tell his mother about . . . Oh God. If only he could have a second alone, a second without this burden. Already, he preferred the lesser task of quicksand and snakes.
A great heron, walking on stick-thin legs in the shallows, followed them with one beady eye. It looked like God had put it together with leftover parts, its looping neck seemingly meant to swallow snakes.
A tug on the rope around his torso demanded his attention. The nit had slipped and fallen to one knee. Instinctively, he increased the tension on the rope so she could pull against it and avoid slipping beneath the stagnant water. As soon as he caught her, he wished it undone, but she was already climbing to her feet.
He stroked his hatred. “A reflex and nothing more, witch.”
The witch gazed ahead, refusing to look at him.
Teresa rolled her eyes. “The girl did not kill your brother. Ramiro did not kill the witch. It was all a tragic accident. How many times do I have to say it?”
Ramiro turned away. “Forever. She would see us dead.” The older witch hadn’t hesitated, and the younger would be no different. That Teresa couldn’t deny.
Apparently she could. “She has as much to fear from the Northerners as us.”
“I doubt she’d see it that way,” he snapped, sending ripples rolling ahead as he moved forward, pulling his three tethers with him.
“Then she’ll hear the story from the beginning and make up her own mind.” Teresa turned and directed her words at the witch. “The Northerners appeared for the first time over a month ago. They strode into our city in several small groups, immediately standing out with their jade-colored eyes and dust-light hair, and gave no indication of being our enemies.”
Ramiro shook his head. Only the whir of the cicadas and the sluice of the water as they walked impeded the witch’s hearing, but that didn’t mean she’d listen. Teresa might as well address her words to Sancha or the stump up ahead that Ramiro would have to detour around. She carried on anyway.
“Like any other travelers, they inspected our markets, attracting no small attention with their foreign appearance. They watched our blacksmiths at work and sat in our inns, trying to pay with bits of jewels. They entered our churches and loitered near the great gates. All the time, they were sizing up our strengths and weaknesses—a pair even hiked a circuit around the outside of our walls.”
“I did not hear that,” Ramiro admitted. He splashed ahead of him to chase away a particularly dense patch of green scum to avoid walking through it. Teresa had more information from his father than he did, since no doubt an expert on other cultures would be a valuable resource to consult. Still, it bothered him that he’d been—once again—left in the dark.
“We thought nothing of their appearance,” Teresa continued. “A free and easy people, we welcome all within our city—even witches,” she said, smiling. The girl ignored her, and Teresa shrugged, once again wincing at the gesture, before carrying on. “Then a week after they left, panicked travelers brought word of an army appearing. The Northerners surrounded Zapata, and the villages of Suseph and Crueses, killing all they found outside the safety of the city walls. Our Alcalde took heed and brought people and foodstuff inside.”
“Salvador said they had settled there,” Ramiro mused reflectively. “He believed they’d be busy in the east, until the day they split their army, and Northern troops set up their siege outside our walls. Their force was powerful enough to pin down two cities at once.”
“Just before we left, we heard more news,” Teresa said, taking back the story. “The Northerners blocked the gates of Zapata and used their siege machines to shoot fire inside the walls. So much fire.
“Zapata tried a direct offensive to force an opening in the Northerners to get the civilians out. Thousands of arrows cut them apart. That and the ferocious battalion the Northerners had installed before the gates. So the people of Zapata burned. All of them. The city collapsed around them. Women, children, little babies, the old . . . the innocent and the sinful. Our scouts brought word that thousands perished.”
Frogs croaked, and insects hummed in the silence that descended. The air reeked with rot. Ramiro’s jaw tightened. His mother, father, the remaining members of his pelotón, innocents like Lupaa and her sweet honey bread waited for the Northerners to send fire over the walls of Colina Hermosa. Waiting for them to take it down as easily as they had the ancient walls of Zapata. And the only foreseeable hope rested on the shoulders of a just-bearded soldier and a slip of a girl with only hate in her heart.
“Look, cousin,” Teresa whispered. “She sympathizes with our plight.”
Ramiro turned. The girl still kept her head turned away from them, staring resolutely at the stump they’d bypassed, but tears made tracks down her cheeks and vanished into the gag.
Ramiro let the sullen lines on his face harden. “She feels for herself, cousin, not for us.”
The witch cried in front of her enemies. Did she feel no shame? Ramiro shook his head. Not if it killed him would he give in to the ache in his chest and show tears to anyone. Furthermore, a slight wind could knock the spindly thing off her feet. The girl walked head-on through the swamp instead of turning her body sideways to offer the least resistance, sending splashes of water fountaining up before her like an ungainly bear. She wallowed as badly as one, too. The horses made less noise. She didn’t even bother to wash away the mud covering her. Grief should never consume a person. Duty came first.
This weak thing was to save his city from the hordes of Northerners? What chance had magic against such numbers?
The shadows had grown long and spindly. Time got away from him. He didn’t want to be caught in the water when night arrived.
“She slows us down,” he told Teresa. “Hurry up back there!”
“It’s been a day of shock for her,” Teresa protested.
“And not for me? For you?” Ramiro growled back. He sought the shrouded bundle securely tied on Valentía’s back. Why did the witch deserve more right to mourn than he did? “I don’t let myself fall apart.”
“No,” Teresa agreed. “You fill with anger instead.”
He scowled at her, then traced a path back along the trailing rope until he reached the nit, leaving hardly a ripple with his smooth passing. “Walk faster or ride.” She didn’t increase her pace, so he reached for her shoulder. She thrashed and flailed to avoid his hand, and he settled for seizing the rope just before it wrapped around her wrists.
He half guided and half dragged her sloshing over to Sancha. “Get on. You can ride behind Teresa.”
The witch stared at him in horror, the whites of her eyes showing all the way around like Sancha when the caballo de guerra saw the snake.
“She’s a horse, not a wolf. You won’t be hurt.”
More tears leaked, but the witch turned to face Sancha though she made no move to mount. Ramiro heaved a sigh. Cursed civilians. Sancha turned her head, and he thought he read the same disgust in his horse’s eyes. He put a hand under the witch’s bottom and gave a push and a yank, practically throwing her over Sancha’s rump, where she clung, dripping foul water all over Teresa and Sancha. He removed the rope attaching him to the witch and anchored her instead to Teresa.
Ramiro hmmphed with relief at having that settled. Teresa didn’t know what she was talking about. He was not filled with anger. Frustration, maybe, but that’s because he had a mission, and it was as if the saints were conspiring to prevent him from accomplishing it. No, he was perfectly rational. The only rational one in the group, beyond the horses.
I’m not angry, he told himself.
I’m . . . not.
Scowling again, he said, “Let’s get out of this mess before we lose the light.”