Ramiro gripped the rope as he watched Teresa and Father Telo leave on their exploration of the city. He hauled the bucket out of the well with too much vehemence, so that water slapped over the rim, wetting his feet. He cursed, though it was really his friends’ going without him that had him worried. Then a dry nose on the back of his neck swung him around to find Sancha, emerged from the storage room.
“Sorry, girl.” He set the full bucket on the well casing, then stroked her dapple-gray neck in apology that his mood had reached out to the mare. “I didn’t mean to take you away from your breakfast.”
Sancha’s ears pricked forward, and she stamped a hoof.
“I don’t think they should go, but I don’t have any right to order civilians around.” Or any right to order anyone while he waited to receive judgement from Captain Gonzalo. As a deserter, he was less than qualified to be an example, let alone to force his choices on a friend. And he couldn’t refute that Teresa had been right that his parents required protection as well. Somebody needed to stay. That didn’t keep him from feeling torn in two. “I’m sure they’ll be all right.”
He turned to check the narrow pathway along the wall, but Teresa was already out of sight. Logic said they couldn’t hide inside all the time. They’d already voted to brave the sunlight and leave on their separate tasks after eating and packing up. Time pressed and some risks had to be accepted—that didn’t mean he liked seeing his friends’ and family’s lives in danger. Claire, Teresa, his parents—he couldn’t be with all of them. Soon enough his parents would be on their own; staying with them now was the least he could do. It all came back to letting those he loved make their own choices. He had enough wisdom now to know all of them had to decide for themselves—eventually.
Sancha blew at him, as his thoughts turned to someone else he’d left unwillingly. “I’m sure Claire’s fine, too.” Claire risked the sunlight as well. The swamp was treacherous enough by day, she couldn’t always travel by night. He could no longer protect her either. It seemed that all their choices had shrunk until only the most dangerous remained.
Like going to a Northern encampment to find and kidnap an unwilling—and incredibly powerful—priestess.
He set his jaw. He’d managed the same sort of task with taking Claire from the swamp and it had turned out for the best. He pictured her wheat-colored hair shining in the sunlight and a challenging light in her blue eyes . . .
More than the best.
“Claire has to be all right,” he told Sancha. He didn’t think he could get through the rest of his life without her. Knowing she waited for him was about all that held him together, and no six-foot priestess was going to slow him down, no matter how many people she’d murdered in the past. After that, he’d find a way to prove to Captain Gonzalo that his desertion was warranted. His mother might think he had a death wish, but that was far from the truth.
He put his hands to the task, filling a water skin, and allowed his mind to concentrate on their strategy. Though he hadn’t fully voiced his doubts, he didn’t find going after Santabe a solid plan. How were they to get inside an occupied city, find one priestess, and spirit her away without the entire Northern army chasing? And all of that would be the easiest part of the job. He didn’t have the slightest idea how to get Santabe to tell them how to stop a god she worshipped with blind intensity.
Their whole plan hinged on her knowing something and sharing that knowledge.
Impossible.
And yet, he wasn’t sure there was a better option open to them.
That thought, perhaps more than anything, bothered him. Because while Ramiro wasn’t beyond helping himself when the need called, the fact was, the figure from his dream promised him help. So why had that dried up? A hint would have been timely. Yet, he remembered no dreams from the night before, just a mix of nightmares that left his teeth on edge.
But maybe this lack of help was entirely the point: He was being left to make his own decision without guidance so that he could learn . . . well, something.
Julian came out of the other storage room, stretching his back and yawning. “An early start for you, my son.”
“A late one for you,” Ramiro teased. “The benefits of no longer being alcalde? But then Mother isn’t up either, and she hasn’t that excuse.”
“Oh, your mother is up.” His father scratched Sancha under the chin by way of greeting the mare. “Awake enough to give me an earful this morning about my idea for us to separate. I do believe if I hadn’t just returned from the dead, she’d have rejected the notion. As it is, I was spared the worst.”
Ramiro frowned. “Then she’s saving the worst for me.”
“‘Prevenido vale por dos,’” Julian quoted.
“I don’t think any forewarning is enough preparation to overcome Mother.”
Julian clapped him on the back. “Welcome to adulthood, my son, welcome to being a man. Keep repeating yourself and she’ll wind down—that works forty percent of the time.”
“Or I could remind her it was all your idea.”
His father gave a mock shiver. “Never that. Blaming others riles her up more. I tried that over the silk-dress misunderstanding in the fourth year of our marriage and it backfired. I do believe if she hadn’t been pregnant with your brother, she would have moved to your grandfather’s house.”
Ramiro had heard the story enough to know the wisdom of his father’s advice.
“I don’t think she’ll go into our separation in front of others.” Julian looked around. “But where is the priest and our ambassador? Not left us, I hope.”
“In the city, settling some ghosts.”
Julian touched mind, heart, liver, and spleen, the motion awkward and unpracticed. “We all do what we must. Speaking of which, do you want to talk about Gonzalo? I’ve known him some years, I could advise you.” Julian scratched his beard. “Your mother can pardon you, by the way—it is an alcalde’s prerogative. In truth, the difficulty might be in stopping her.”
“I keep forgetting Mother is alcalde now. So strange.”
“Your mother will do very well as alcalde—when her family can stop stealing her away from the job. What about her offer?”
The offer tempted, but what sort of man let his parents solve his difficulties the whole of his life? The decision to dodge his military duties had been no one else’s. “I’ll stand on my own two feet. I’d not have her first act be showing favoritism to me.”
“So like your brother. I told her your answer wasn’t going to change, but I also promised to ask you anyway. That’s why she’s sulking—never let her hear I said that.” Julian clapped him on the shoulder and strode over to the fire. “Put me to work. What can I do to get us moving faster?”
“You can divide the food remaining between those five saddlebags.” Julian nodded, and they worked in silence some moments. Ramiro finished filling the water skins and added them to the growing piles of readied supplies, then refilled the bucket for the horses to drink. By the time he returned from tending the animals, Julian had dealt decisively with the food and brought the blankets from the storage room. His father sat by the fire, eating dried figs.
As Ramiro joined him, Julian said, “All set?”
“Hi-ya.” The question wasn’t directed at the completed work surrounding them but the task before them. A sudden influx of nerves, striking now that Ramiro’s hands were no longer busy, threatened to trip him up, making fewer words easier to manage for both of them. In a flash he realized such must have been Salvador’s feeling before his brother led them on a hunt for a witch that had resulted in Salvador’s death and finding Claire. Ramiro had learned then that leadership had its price. The grim reminder shut off any other desire for conversation.
“God go with you, my son.” Julian ate his figs and that would have been the end, except Beatriz came bustling out of the storage room. Every button done, her hair gleamed smooth and perfectly arranged without the benefit of a mirror, though Beatriz had set aside her mantilla for a simple black veil hanging limp around her face.
“Enough of this manly attitude. I will have a proper parting. Hug your mother.”
He complied, squeezing her hard enough to force the air from her lungs. She gave him a swat. “Are you ready? Do you have enough—”
“I’ve plenty of socks, Mother. Every time I tried to throw some away, Claire put them back in my bags.”
Beatriz smiled like a cat with cream. “I quite like that girl. I didn’t think I would, but then I saw her use a plank. She put down that Northern deserter with spirit to spare. And she speaks her mind. Fronilde and her quiet ways suited your brother. He needed a traditional wife. You, always with holes in your clothes, never settling still, could never be satisfied with such tameness. You take after your father in that. A wife who rolls bandages and sits at home won’t do. You need someone more outspoken and adventurous, like me. I told your father so.”
“I don’t remember any such—” Julian started.
Beatriz held up a finger. “Don’t start with me or I’ll remember who decided we needed to split up. Who is alcalde here and should be making the decisions?” Julian’s mouth closed, and Beatriz rolled onward. “I didn’t know about a witch at first, but I’ve changed my mind. And when she brings the other witches, they’ll find we welcome a woman in charge also.”
Ramiro had a sudden vision of his mother as the most determined and single-minded leader ever elected from Colina Hermosa. His people didn’t know what they’d gotten themselves into with their vote. It might be the saving of them. But Beatriz wasn’t finished. She gripped Ramiro’s chin. “Have you settled things properly with Claire?”
“Well, I . . . we . . . she knows how I feel.”
“And?” Beatriz prompted. “It’s war time. There’s no sense in taking our time. You let her know you love her. How did she answer?”
Ramiro found he couldn’t meet his mother’s eyes. He sensed the disappointment coming already. He pulled his chin from her relentless grip. “She felt the same . . . but”—his mother’s expression sharpened—“I never asked her as such. It didn’t seem like the right time with treason hanging over me.”
“Nonsense! She feels the same. You’re sure.” Beatriz gave a sharp nod. “Then Father Telo will say the first banns and he can do the second from inside Aveston tomorrow. This is no time for half measures. I let one son put off a wedding, and I’ll not let that happen with another.”
Ramiro opened his mouth to insist that he’d never spoken to Claire and hadn’t an answer on whether she would marry him and leave her kind, then let it go. Claire would never know banns had been read unless he told her—likely she wouldn’t care about an antiquated religious tradition—but the empty ritual would mean much to his mother. It cost nothing to let her be happy in this.
“A very good idea, Mother.”
“Father Telo. Where is the man?”
“Gone for a walk,” Julian said smoothly.
“A walk?” Beatriz huffed. “When we are ready to leave? What was the man thinking?”
“Most inconsideration of him, I know,” Julian teased. “He should anticipate his alcalde’s every want. Mi amor.”
Beatriz’s hands flew to her hips, but then she laughed. “Now and forever.”
Ramiro sensed an old joke between his parents being revisited and escaped to saddle Sancha. The other horses were already done. Beatriz followed him to the well. “Horse, you will watch over my son”—her voice broke and recovered—“and see he comes to no harm.”
Sancha whinnied and scraped a hoof across the pavers, and Ramiro left off adjusting straps and buckles to embrace Beatriz again. “It will be fine, Mother—Lady Alcalde.”
She hid it well, but how could she not be suffering? Last time they parted like this, she’d sent out two sons—just one had returned. Now the world was trying to end. The brave face she put on was a thin mask.
Ramiro squeezed harder as it was all he could do. Promises could come to nothing. He knew that well enough.
A stink of rotting bodies filled the air. The sunlight dimmed.
Before he could get a solid look at the sky, a force of despair and worthlessness buckled their knees and sent all of them cringing in the dirt. Hatred. Disdain for life. Desire to wipe creation away. All slammed into Ramiro. The horses within the storage room screamed in panic. Sancha’s ears lay flat, her front knees folded on the ground and her neck stretched out. Beatriz trembled beside him on the ground, her eyes leaking tears.
The edge of Dal’s power hit them, not his direct malice. Ramiro quickly realized the difference, but could do nothing—even the periphery was enough to show the god’s strength. Not a muscle twitched, not even to crawl toward his mother to drag her to the safety of the dark storage room. His body shook and his thoughts tumbled. The fear of drawing Dal’s direct gaze so terrified him that he could not so much as lift his head.
Their will was nothing to the merest brush of Dal’s intent.
Worthless. Powerless.
They had no more chance of stopping this demon than an ant had of lifting a boulder. Not with a thousand ants. Not with a million.
All would perish.
Like Salvador. Like all his companions in uniform. Soldiers. Women. Children. Humanity would end. Darkness would swallow the light, to rule forever.
Dust clogged his nostrils. Stones gritted under his hands. Oh, to be as lowly as the earth so as not to draw Dal’s attention. Lower than a blind worm, crawling undetected and so spared.
Worthless. Unimportant.
Ramiro spat out a mouthful of dirt. Why was he doing the work of the dark god for him? Dipping his head, abasing himself without a struggle. For what? To earn a few more moments of life?
Pure stubborn determination bloomed, instilled in him by two proud parents, followed quickly by shame.
Not this soul. He was no worm. A tiny unafraid part of Ramiro refused to bow down and cower to evil. He braced his arms against the ground and shoved upward. Then his knees locked, putting him on his feet. His back slowly straightened, every inch gained a strain by locked and uncooperative muscles. Tears of terror still flowed, but he stood upright, chin raised. If his throat was to be cut, let it be as a man, not a worm.
He stood alone, teeth bared to the wind.
The sunlight flared to full strength. The demon vanished, and left him panting as if he’d fought for his life. Sancha shook her entire body like she’d rolled in dust, and scrambled to her feet. Ramiro turned to help his mother up as Julian stood more slowly. Somewhere, people had died, torn apart by the wrath of an insane god—he prayed the malice was turned on no one he loved—but his family had survived this day. Somehow, they’d survive the next and the next, and put an end to this. Help or no help, he’d find a way, even if he had to do so with his bare hands.