“I understand that, ma’am,” Gonzalo repeated for the third time as the afternoon sun faded into the weakness of evening. Shadows from the saguaro cactus stretched across the road to Suseph, looking like flat men throwing their hands into the air in surrender. “But I still think a stronger-worded message with clear orders, not suggestions, is needed.”
“Alcaldes are not soldiers.” Beatriz slapped her fan against her chest, a sure sign of exasperation, though Julian watched her make decisions and receive reports as if she’d been doing so all her life—from horseback no less.
He’d agreed with her quick arrangement with Captain Gonzalo for his men to act as messengers and visit every village, small town, and city with warnings about Dal, in addition to a suggestion for their alcaldes to attend a large convocation in Suseph in five days. All of which freed the three of them from the time-consuming necessity of visiting each settlement. Although it remained doubtful if the more distant ciudades-estado like Vista Sur could make the meeting in time.
We’ll take what we can get.
The newly made messengers only waited the word to go—the letters written—as Beatriz and Gonzalo hashed through the finer points one last time. Julian prayed his wife kept her temper. Debate was a healthy opportunity for a leader to make her decisions stronger, but Beatriz was unused to viewing opposition as such. However, it was her lesson to learn, and not his to teach—at least in public. He must walk a fine line of advising without influencing.
Beatriz’s words did nothing to diminish Gonzalo. “In times such as these, exceptions must be made,” he said. “The other alcaldes do nothing. They must be ordered by those with more vision.”
Her fan flew, disarranging her hair, then gradually slowed to create a more gentle flow in the still air. “I thank you for your words, Captain,” she said. “I continue to disagree. You can’t treat alcaldes as hirelings. You cannot command politicians to keep their people sequestered inside, nor can I demand they appear at a convocación.” Julian bit his tongue to force himself to stay out of it until invited. Beatriz went on without a glance his way. “It must be their choice. We must persuade, not order.”
“But there is no law as such against doing so,” Gonzalo said.
“Julian, tell him what you told me.”
“Actual there is at least one,” Julian said, happy to go for the surest argument against the straitlaced captain. “Our law states a convocation can be invitation only, unless a quorum of alcaldes has declared support. In normal times, it would take a dozen sevendays to organize enough support to send invitations alone and still some would stay home to show their strength. Now—with no gentle feelers ahead of time—possibly half will come. The rest will send surrogates or no one at all. I have to agree with Beatriz that ordering will only put their backs up. I’m afraid, in the case of politics, unwritten rules are as important as those on the books.”
Julian knew Beatriz had to stand on her feet as alcalde without any help from her spouse. Yet even he had taken counsel daily from the concejales of Colina Hermosa—often learning and benefiting from their experience and wisdom. With those men absent, he’d do his best to fill the void of experience and give good advice when asked.
With a half smile, he chided himself that from what he’d witnessed, Beatriz needed very little help from himself or any other. She’d managed a citadel with hundreds of servants and run the rumor mills of Colina Hermosa for long enough years to be perfectly capable of making excellent decisions as alcalde with minimal advice from him. Yet, he knew the difficulties she’d have would come from others’ reaction to her leadership. A woman in charge would be second-guessed. If hearing the same words from his mouth would make people accept her directions, then he’d gladly back her up. Soon enough they would see her good sense, as he did.
A glowing pride in Beatriz’s commanding presence easily overshadow the tiny part of him that missed being the one to make the hard choices.
“Hi-ya,” Gonzalo said reluctantly, finally giving over. The man meant well, but he’d never acted as advisor in this capacity before. The news of the death of all the other pelotón captains had the remaining captain champing at the bit like a horse eager for action—even if no one had any idea what—any action would do. Still, Julian was the one to encourage Gonzalo to speak his mind and act as an advisor—at least until they reached Suseph, by tomorrow morning. The man was straightforward, experienced in his own field, and used to leading men; his thoughts in other areas besides political maneuverings would be invaluable to Beatriz.
Julian rubbed at tired eyes and stifled a yawn, amused in a strange way that being raised from the dead didn’t make one less subject to exhaustion or free a person from the ravages of increasing age. The gentle sway of his horse acted like a lullaby to send him to sleep. Despite Captain Gonzalo dancing attendance on them, Julian looked forward to a real bed.
Selfish.
How many citizens would never enjoy a bed again? His own son was out there entering the den of the jackals to find a madwoman who might or might not tell them of a way to defeat Dal. There might be no such information to find—no way to stop the killing. They were truly hanging from a spider web—their hopes as flimsy as a thread.
Gonzalo showed no such signs of being weary or discouraged, making yet another protest. Thank the saints for military men and their sense of duty. “Then I would urge caution on the last part of your message. Telling the common people the truth about this god not only goes against the precedent, but will lead to chaos in the streets. Law and order will break down. Looting. Thievery. Even murder will result.”
“Then you have less faith in our people than I,” Beatriz said with force. “People will find their faith. The truth will bring them together. They deserve to know, to have that chance to make their peace with their families and their god, and protect themselves in the meantime.”
“I have some experience with controlling a civilian population in dangerous times. It doesn’t always work out as one would hope.” Gonzalo’s spine snapped straighter, if that was possible. Julian could see his knuckles whiten on his reins.
“I agree with you both,” Julian said hastily. He thought Gonzalo likely right about the chaos, but the side of honor leaned toward Beatriz. “If I might, there is no right answer, as there are bound to be some who react badly to the news—possibly a majority. Society could destruct further. Precedent is against revealing too much. But precedent has never put us under such deadly conditions. Like Beatriz, I want to believe that this test will bring out the best in our people.”
“God works through us all,” Beatriz said simply. “I might be overly optimistic, but the more people who know what we face, the greater the chance that someone rises who can stop it. If we miscarry, perhaps someone else won’t. What would the saints do?”
Gonzalo touched mind and heart, his dark face solemn. “‘Ever do we speak truth,’” he quoted from Santiago’s famous sermon.
“‘For all to hear,’” Beatriz finished. Her mouth twisted sourly. “Besides, that is not my call, except in Suseph. Like the rest of the message, acting on my suggestions is up to the alcaldes reading the letter. Some will be wise and some will let their feet stick in the mud out of cowardice. Like you, I’d rather order, but some things cannot be forced.”
Beatriz sniffed. “The alcalde have always reminded me of small children, with their petty pride squabbles. What alcalde should lead this? Who gets right of preference? A woman would not care about such things, and yet now I have to. I can only hope that the group who actually come to the convocation will also reveal the truth publicly. The more who know, the better our chances.”
Unlike Beatriz, Julian couldn’t find faith that someone else would save the day. The task fell upon them to devise another way in case their plan with Santabe faltered. So if Dal couldn’t be destroyed, could the god be bribed or distracted or somehow made weaker?
The answer stared them all in the face. Julian gazed at the shadows crossing the road without seeing them. Nobody wanted to be the one to broach the solution because it was equally devastating. Even letting his mind skirt the words turned his blood to ice.
Coward. How can you refuse to face the truth? It must be done, and sooner rather than later.
“Blood,” he said.
“What’s that, Julian?” Beatriz asked.
“There is something else we could prepare,” Julian said, causing all riding close enough to hear to turn in his direction. “A last alternative plan. The Northerners use blood, mi amor—”
“Later,” Beatriz snapped, her face becoming closed. “We can talk about this later.”
“There is no later.” To say the words brought only sadness. To force the issue in public hurt more. “We must face the fact that we may not be able to stop the deaths. But we also know the Northerners have given us clues to their god and we must take advantage of that gift.”
“What are we talking about?” Gonzalo’s face registered suspicion. The captain stuck to Beatriz like a queen bee to its honey, refusing to leave her without protection. No doubt he saw any subterfuge as another trick for Beatriz to blunder off defenseless.
Julian, however, wanted this off his chest and out in the open as much as Beatriz preferred to deny it. “Blood summons the creature. Blood fuels their weapons. Their executions are nothing but a bath of blood in the name of their god. It is the common theme at every point. If blood is what starts it, what if only blood can stop this monstrosity and end it?”
“What are you saying?” Gonzalo looked sick and Beatriz hid behind her fan.
Julian reached across the space between them and took Beatriz’s cold hand. She’d shut her eyes as if to shut out his words. “Mi amor, you must face it. We all must. Better the choice be on our terms than that creature’s. Giving it the blood the thing desires may be the only solution.” And if the amount of blood it had taken so far hadn’t been enough—the weight of two armies—Lord save them from what they would need to do. The sacrifice would be tremendous.
Gonzalo made a horrified sound.
Slowly, Beatriz’s eyes opened. “I have thought about little else. Santa Ildaria and the bandits has been on my mind since I learned of this Northern god.”
“A minor saint?” Julian asked. “I barely remember her from catechism. What about her?”
“She saved her village by sacrificing herself, going out to face the bandits armed only with her faith. She and her followers slowed the bandits at the expense of their lives, enough that the villagers could escape to the protection of Zapata.
“At the convocation. I will present that at the convocation, but for now, I would not speak of it.” Her throat worked. Always Beatriz had cried freely when her emotion required such relief. Now, she resisted the tears. “Some things one must have space to absorb and take in before accepting. I need that space. Captain, send out the messengers. We are done discussing. I’ve decided, and we will move forward.
“Let the Saints save us.”
“Mi amor?”
“We have our fallback plan if we can’t find a weakness. In that case, we will try martyrdom.”