9th of Iohan, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
Eulalia, Bayona—Necrem tightened Malcada’s brittle—I’m coming home today.
He rarely thought of Manosete, the city, as home. Living in the city of the man and rulers who’d destroyed his family’s happiness did build resentment for the city itself, especially with them relegated to living in its outer slums. However, Borbin was dead, those rulers, those calleroses, along with him, and having a chest under his wagon seat with enough deberes to rebuild his and his family’s life twice over made him overly anxious to reunite with them.
The army filling the roads and setting up camp several miles north of the city posed the greatest problem with that.
Drums rapped a steady beat, moving streams of soldiers in rows down the main roads. Their forests of pikes, braced on their shoulders, waved in the air. However, Necrem saw through their gaps to gaze at the city beyond by sheer, willful focus.
Maybe I can get between one of these companies, he considered. They’re just moving around. I can show them the marquesa’s writ, drive ahead of them, and get Eulalia and Bayona out before anything happens.
Of course, that was assuming a lot. He could make it a few feet before an officer yelled at him to get off the road or some calleroses forced him into a ditch. Traveling with the Lazornian army had offered him safety and treatment after the battle in Ribera’s Way, yet it saw to its needs first, even over a man they hailed a Hero a little over two weeks ago.
His knees spasmed as he knelt, hitching Malcada to the wagon. He kept calm the best he could, resisting against all within him from grimacing. The new stitches were only a few days healed, and he didn’t dare to strain one. Not today. Not when he was so close.
Still, the waiting was maddening, far worse than at Ribera’s Way.
“Sir Oso!”
Necrem winced, clenching his eyelids shut instead of moving his sore, scarred cheeks. He turned stiffly and rose to his feet. His body still ached even after two weeks of being pried out of his dented armor once the battle had been over. His fears were realized when he spotted Doctor Maranon briskly walking toward his wagon, waving his arm in the air.
“Sir Oso!” Doctor Maranon exclaimed, coming alongside the wagon, sweat dotting his forehead, with young Stefan and Oberto trailing behind him. “Sir Oso! What is this I hear of you leaving camp?”
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” Necrem replied, his words coming out in a low grumble under his new mask of red cloth. “But you’re going to have to find another wagon. I’m going home today.”
Doctor Maranon stared up at him, Stefan frowned concernedly, while poor Oberto’s face went pale.
“My good man,” the doctor said, “there’s an entire army between you and there. From what I hear, no one’s sure if there’s going to be a battle for it or not, but I highly doubt they’ll let you through the lines. There’s nothing you, or any of us, can do but wait.”
Necrem sullenly clenched his fists, popping his stiff knuckles. “I’ve waited long enough.”
The Lazornian armies had moved much slower after the battle. Necrem hardly noticed the first few days, being one of the thousands in the camps’ hospitals. His armor had taken the brunt of the blows yet had still left his body bruised. The worst, of course, was his face. For five days, he’d lived with his entire head wrapped in bandages to let the new stitches heal.
Then came the marching, following in his wagon behind one army or another. He’d bid farewell to Radon at Luente and taken on Doctor Maranon afterward, changing his wagon from carrying a camp smith to a camp doctor to keep his place in the convoy.
His writ kept his wagon from being taken, and his deeds during the battle had gained him respect, which he begrudgingly accepted with either a grunt or a nod. However, the armies’ needs came first. Mere travelers on their way home had to wait to use the roads.
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” he repeated, “but I just can’t wait anymore! Every time I turn my head, I see my home. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me”—he stuck his broad hand out—“but I need to go.”
Doctor Maranon frowned with a mixture of concern, sympathy, and sadness. He took Necrem’s hand the best he could in a firm, unshaking grip, and squeezed. “Do you know what you’ll do if they don’t let you through? That special writ of yours may not be enough.”
“I’ll manage.” Necrem squeezed his hand back, forcing the stiff joints to make a firm shake and refusing to be deterred. Then he walked around the doctor to steps up into the driver’s seat. He took hold of the seat, put a foot up on the step, and after a few starts and stops, pulled himself up, grunting repeatedly. His freezing, aching joints spiked, both stinging and relieving as he settled down before turning to the lads, who were both casting saddened frowns up at him.
“You’re a good lad, Stefan,” Necrem said. “Stay with the doctor. Learning to be a doctor is a better trade than most, especially better than being a soldier.”
Stefan’s checks wobbled, but he stood straight and put on a brave face. “Yes, sir.”
Necrem nodded then turned to Oberto. Likewise, the younger boy’s cheeks and chin were wobbling. However, instead of a brave face, small tears ran down. Radon couldn’t keep the boy and after reaching Luente, so Oberto had remained with them, being an extra hand to help pitch the hospital tents and look after Malcada. Mostly to look after Malcada.
“Do . . .?” Oberto weakly asked, sniffling. “Must you go?”
Necrem’s chest tightened, the ache of seeing a child cry. However, he had his own child who cried when he’d been forced to leave all those months ago. He needed to get home.
“Yes,” he replied. “I need to go home.”
“But . . . we need you!” Oberto wailed pleadingly.
Necrem let the boy cry, waiting patiently through the sadness’s initial onslaught. “Oberto,” he said calmly and firmly, “do you remember what we talked about the morning before the battle?”
Oberto’s crying slowed, and he nodded, wiping his runny nose with his sleeve.
“I told you I was doing all this to get back home,” Necrem explained. “Well, my home and family are just down there”—he gestured toward Manosete—“and I can’t stay away any longer. I know you only have a small memory of where your home is, but it’ll come back to you, stronger every day you think on it. Stay with the doctor, and the day your memory returns, he’ll be able to get you home better than I ever could.”
Oberto continued to softly cry. That was the gentlest way Necrem knew to tell him that he couldn’t come. It was harsh, but Necrem couldn’t take boy in, and the doctor was the best man he could leave the boy with.
“Oso,” Maranon said, grabbing hold of the wagon’s footrest, “have you thought about the fighting? The Lazornians could be marching in there today. What’s worse, people in Manosete are probably panicking right now.”
“All the more reason I need to go,” Necrem replied, gathering Malcada’s reins.
As he pulled them up, Doctor Maranon seized a hold of them. “You may have to fight again! Are you prepared for that?”
Necrem held the doctor’s worried gaze. His armor was stowed with the rest of his things in the back of his wagon, scratched, scarred, and dented in more places than he could count. He had considered giving it away after the battle, but it was still good steel. Not only that, but the plate was also his best work in years, especially the gauntlets. After so much punishment, those small, interlocking plates still held their shape.
“I have my gauntlets,” he replied, nudging them with his boot under his seat next to his deber chest. While they were the last thing he wanted his family to see him wearing, nothing was going to get between him and them today. Nothing.
A rolling, distant crackle thundered overhead. Camp workers in the fields surrounding the road stopped what they were doing, while the soldiers kept marching by.
“Storm’s moving in!” a worker shouted.
Necrem straightened in his seat. Dense, gray clouds were briskly rolling over them, coming in from the Desryol Sea, blocking the Easterly Sun, and mocking the crusty dirt with relief.
“You best be off then,” Doctor Maranon conceded, holding up the reins. “Get ahead of one storm or another. Savior walk with you, Sir Oso.”
Necrem accepted the reins with a nod. “Goodbye, Doctor.”
Doctor Maranon stepped away, and without another word, Necrem flicked the reins and Malcada slowly lumbered into motion.
Eulalia, Bayona—he set his sights on Manosete—I’m coming home.
***
Manosete, the historic capital of all Desryol. Recha was still amazed by its size after two days of observation. The city was four times larger than Zoragrin, with half of its population living outside its walls. After grasping the size, she finally understood why it had taken a couple of days longer than she preferred for her general staff, Hiraldo, and General Priet to coordinate the First and Second Armies’ approach to the city.
Her sight kept drifting up at the towering Hand of the West lording over the sky, despite her being over a mile away from the city’s walls. The obsidian structure rose into the air over a thousand feet, dividing into the five towers that branched off it three-quarters of the way up and providing the architectural illusion of a hand, as its namesake.
“That’s going to be . . . a nightmare to manage,” Cornelos commented, staring in awe at the tower while they rode into one of the city’s outlying eastern boroughs.
Recha snickered. “Already thinking about returning to duties as my secretary instead of Commandant de La Dama, are you?”
“Oh no!” Cornelos replied, jumping in his saddle with a faint blush blooming on his cheeks. “I was just thinking . . . what something of that size must take an army maintain.”
“And it may take more than two armies to capture,” Marshal Narvae grumbled. Rather, her new field marshal grumbled.
That, too, was something Recha was taking time to get accustomed to. With Baltazar now safely recuperating in Puerlato, surrendered over a week ago, she had to officially recognize Narvae with the rank. He did step into Baltazar’s shoes well enough and had yet to chaff at her keeping a closer eye on him and his actions.
Yet.
“I must warn again, La Dama,” he said, “that this is a risky move. We don’t fully know the city’s strength or if the city’s commander can be trusted. I still suggest we send General Ross a change of orders once he reaches Luente to concentrate with us here in case the enemy holdouts make a siege necessary.”
Cautious. Recha shifted in her saddle. Too cautious.
She bit the inside of her cheek to both keep the comment in and from frowning. That had been Narvae’s approach to things after learning their slow approach had cost them their chance to take advantage of Sevesco’s rumor campaign.
A few days out of Luente, outriders from the First Army had run into a force of five hundred calleroses from the city, and the ruse was up. They hounded the force yet never caught them or stopped word of their approach from reaching the city.
Now the city’s gates were closed. That left Recha with only one tactic to use before resorting to siege—talk.
“General Ross has his orders,” she said. “The Third Army is to march back to retake Crudeas and, from there, support Commandant—I mean General Leyva”—she shook her head, frustrated at keeping everyone’s changing ranks straight—“if the Fourth Army needs it. As for us, let’s see how these talks go. Then we can discuss besieging here or not.”
With any luck, they’ll see reason. If they were the bold type, they’d have led the garrison out for us to beat in the field. Instead, they send one message for my army to withdraw, and then another requesting parley. Either I’m dealing with more than one commander or an erratic one.
She glanced about her at the quiet, empty streets and alleyways. Although surrounded by her guard and two companies of calleroses escorting her, the silence was unnerving. They better not be the devious type.
The clomping of their horses’ hooves echoed off the red brick and white plaster buildings lining the highway. The closed shutters of each two-story building and drafts of swirling dust, carried on the wind, pulling in a storm from the southwest over the sea, added to the borough’s deserted atmosphere. Not a dog bark, chicken cawed, or rowdy child broke the silence.
It’s as if the town itself is holding its breath.
Creaks of leather and rattling metal came from the calleroses around her. Each of them looked this way and that, checking every shutter, peeking around every corner, and eyeing down every alleyway they trotted by. Their lances waved in the air, and her banner at their head fluttered in the breeze. Their horses randomly snorted and shook their heads, sharing their riders’ anxiety.
“Recha,” Cornelos whispered.
Recha jumped, sniffing sharply from tingling spike of ice running up her spine. “What?”
Cornelos jerked his head back, eyes wide. “You . . . just look tense,” he replied, shooting a glance at her waist and back.
Recha raised an eyebrow then followed his gaze. Her right hand had drifted to her waist. Her fingers unwittingly rested on her pistol’s stock in her dress’s hidden pocket. She cleared her throat and made a fuss over her dress’s violet skirts, straightening them with a brush of her fingers.
“It’s the quiet,” she replied. “Cities shouldn’t be this quiet.”
“This is normal,” Narvae commented. “The fate of any outlying town outside a city’s walls. The people must be willing to abandon their homes or throw themselves to the mercy of anyone who approaches. Don’t worry, La Dama; if this is a ruse, Savior be with anyone who jumps out, because we’re going run them down first and think later.”
“Thank you . . . Field Marshal”—she narrowly caught herself from addressing him wrongly—“that’s quite comforting.” She also noticed his hand rested near his sword, too.
“There shouldn’t be any need to worry of that,” Cornelos said. “General Galvez is ahead of us with the advance guard. If there is anything amiss, he would have found it by now.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken, Commandant,” Narvae said. “It’s an easy thing for outriders or scouts to check a field, look through a grove of trees, or clear a ridgeline. But in a city, every house, store, shed—anything with four walls and a roof—can hide soldiers waiting to jump out. Plenty can be amiss, and General Galvez could’ve ridden right by it.
“And, if I may add, I still hold my strong conviction against the general of one of our armies putting himself at risk in being allowed to enter an enemy city before it’s been cleared, La Dama.”
“You can”—Recha shrugged—“but there’s no point in it now. Besides, General Galvez did advance into Crudeas with his troops; I saw no reason why he couldn’t advance with them here.”
“In Crudeas, he faced an open enemy,” Narvae pointed out. “And a poorly manned garrison. We best expect Manosete to be better garrisoned and more fervently defended. Which is why I advise it is not too late to withdraw and send a message that these talks can take place outside the city’s boroughs entirely and on neutral ground.”
“Our current meeting location is neutral enough,” Recha retorted.
The street widened into an open oval, with all the buildings turned inward to face an ornamental fountain. Trickles of water ran down a pillar of polished red and white marble twisting around each other.
The town oval was bustling with activity. Recha’s soldiers, with swords and muskets, were pounding on the door of every house and building facing the town oval. Each group of soldiers had at least two calleroses mounted behind them, urging them on and watching the upper floor shutters. Those doors that didn’t open were kicked in. Those that did were generally followed with a panicked scream of a woman being turned out of the way. Although, the occasional curse did cut through the screams.
Recha pulled her horse to a stop, taking in the situation. The calleroses escorting her peeled off and formed up on the eastern side of the oval, facing westward and keeping themselves ready.
“La Dama!” Hiraldo came trotting up over, with ten calleroses on his heels. “You’re early.”
“I wanted to arrive before the storm,” Recha replied. “That way, if the talks were cancelled, they can’t say it was because I didn’t show.” She smirked. With her being her, it also meant whoever commanded Manosete’s garrison had to make an effort of showing. Otherwise, they would have given up parts of the city to her without any opposition.
“Report, General,” Narvae demanded. “Did you make contact with any enemy force?”
“None, Field Marshal,” Hiraldo replied, straightening in his saddle. “We’re securing the area but, so far, no company has reported any resistance. No barricades or street ambushes. The streets are quiet, but I believe”—he gestured over his shoulder as another woman screamed from her home’s door being kicked in—“most of the residences are hiding in their homes.”
“Don’t be too harsh on them, if you can avoid it,” Recha said. “It won’t do if whoever shows to parley sees us mistreating the residence and turning their homes upside down.”
“I’ve ordered the men to mind their manners,” Hiraldo replied. “We are, however, commandeering a few houses on this eastern side, putting a few muskets in the windows”—he pointed at the windows above and behind her, a few of the shutters were being opened by her soldiers as he spoke—“in case this parley turns into an engagement.
“However, I don’t think the men need much discipline from me to be on their best behavior.” He nodded off toward his right. “We’re being watched by a higher power.”
A chapel of the Savior dominated the south end of the oval. The three-story structure was built from the same red brick and plaster as the homes surrounding it. Yet, it’d been constructed as a miniature castle, with flanking, domed turrets on either corner and a wide, circular window of stained glass over the arching, bronze door.
A congregation stood before the door—deacons in their wide hats, lantern staffs, and dusty traveling cloaks; deaconesses in their pristine white dresses and shawls; and three madres in their official head dresses, arms folded, each watching the scene transpire in the oval with expressions ranging from frowns to scowls.
Three madres! Recha shoulders rose and fell, and her nostrils flared from her hard breathing. She’d expected the Santa Madre from the Grand Temple, but three other madres, as well, added another layer to these negotiations. The church might as well openly say they’re party in these talks instead of moderating.
A deacon had delivered the message to parley with the invitation to use this chapel as neutral ground. There was no shutting the church out with the fate of who held the city with the Grand Temple in the balance. But this amount of presence meant one thing.
I need to convince the church to accept me, as well as the city’s commander to surrender. If I can’t, they’ll galvanize the population to resist, even if the commander surrenders. Which means—she took a deep breath—the parley starts now.
“Order your men once they’ve finished their sweep of the houses to beg the peoples’ understanding outside so the madres can see them,” she ordered to Hiraldo. Then she kicked her feet out of her stirrups and skirts out of the way to dismount.
“La Dama?” Cornelos questioned, holding his hand out for her.
Recha dropped down without taking it and set to straightening her clothes. The dress was proper for both formal meetings and riding. The creamy lace around the cuffs and collar stuck to her skin because of the humidity. She took special care to ensure that the outline of her pistol didn’t show through.
“Dismount, gentlemen,” she instructed. “We’re going to chapel, and we can’t ride up and lord ourselves over three madres, no matter how bad we want to.”
That got a disgruntled frown out of Cornelos and, surprisingly, an agreeing snort from Narvae.
“Continue securing the area, General Galvez,” Narvae instructed while Cornelos and a few members of her guard dismounted. “Once you’re certain, check on your other companies and take up positions to wait for the city’s delegation.”
Recha waited for her party to gather around her then made for the chapel. She folded her hands in front of her, putting on a humble display, as any woman on her way to chapel would. Although, her heels joined the boots of the men around her, stepping in unison, the footfalls clapping on the cobblestones like a marching battalion. She led her party up the chapel’s steps and stopped, holding up her hand for them to wait as she took one step up.
“Madres of Manosete,” she announced with a modest bend of her knees and lowering her head forward, “I am La Dama Recha Mandas, Marquesa of Lazorna. I was humbled to receive the church’s offer to mediate these talks. It is my sincerest wish that they will bring this conflict to a swift close without the need for unnecessary bloodshed.” She waited, spying on the delegation through her eyelashes.
The deaconesses coldly watched her. Their judgmental stares shouted their disapproval behind their placid expressions. The deacons kept their eyes on her soldiers with white-knuckled grips around their staffs.
“Welcome to Talezah de Manosete, La Dama,” the madre in center replied. She was shorter than the others, stouter, yet not bulging in her dress. A woman of late-middling years with olive skin and dark eyes. “I am Madre Caralino. These are my sister madres of Manosete’s surrounding boroughs, and in the Santa Madre’s place, I welcome you to my chapel.”
“Thank you, Madre.” Recha perked her head up. “You said in the Santa Madre’s place; will she not be joining us?”
“The Santa Madre suffered a heat stroke a couple of weeks ago,” the elderly, homely madre to Madre Caralino’s left piped up. Her worn, leathery skin set her face into a long, drooping frown. Her folded hands, wrinkled and gnarled, were knotted, more accustomed to labor rather than speaking sermons. “We pray for the Savior’s healing in restoring her to health.”
“As do we all,” Recha agreed, putting on a soft smile the best she could.
Fabulous, she inwardly groaned. We’ve marched in on more than one power struggle.
“We’re sure you do,” the madre on Madre Caralino right, who was taller and far younger than either of her sister madres, snidely remarked. Her cheeks were rosy with only a hint of wrinkles forming around the corners of her light-gray eyes. The straightness of her poise, and the way she held her chin and small nose in the air, screamed her lineage as nobility. “As sure as you rejoice at the added chaos.”
Recha held the woman’s stare without flinching. I’m not going to like this one’s sermons.
“Madre Magdola,” Madre Caralino hissed warningly, like a disapproving aunt, “please, this is neither the time or place, nor our time and place, to make such antagonizing comments.”
“She didn’t mean any disrespect, La Dama,” the elderly madre apologized sheepishly.
“Don’t make apologies for me, Madre Gara,” Madre Magdola snapped. “None of us have anything to apologize for, especially to an invader who has brought her armies to turn our people out before our very eyes!” She gestured around at the oval, presumably at Recha’s soldiers.
“They’re not being turned out,” Recha asserted, taking another step closer to the madres. “General Galvez is a cautious officer who refuses to allow me to go anywhere without sending soldiers to ensure my safety. My Commandant de La Dama, Commandant Narvae”—she gestured behind her, pointing out Cornelos, who snapped to attention and sharply nodded a salute—“likewise does not permit I go anywhere without my guard.
“I admit, I am a marquesa with very protective officers and soldiers.” She chuckled and smiled. However, it went unreciprocated. “But, as you can see, the people haven’t been turned out. Only their houses checked to make sure of . . . honesty.”
Some of her soldiers were leaving the houses on the westerly side, offering understandings as they were ordered yet receiving glares in return, followed swiftly by slamming doors.
Best if we move this along.
“Now”—Recha took another step, coming up to Madre Caralino—“might we retire inside? I know we’re in desperate need of the rain, but I’d much rather wait for the Manosete delegation indoors before it comes. And, as we wait, we can speak of . . . pressing issues the church may have with me.”
Madre Caralino was watching her soldiers take up positions on the eastern side of the oval and leaned back when Recha stepped closer. A flicker of fear raced across her face, and then it was gone. “Yes, La Dama,” she said. “Right this way.”
The madres eagerly turned for the chapel, their flock of deaconesses crowding around them.
Two are afraid of me, and one is defiant against me, Recha thought as Cornelos came up beside her, bringing up her guard like a protective shield around her. She allowed it since they hadn’t checked the chapel for safety and walked with them after the trail of deaconesses into the chapel. I guess I can work with that.
***
“Halt!”
Necrem begrudgingly reined Malcada in. She pulled against her bit, throwing her head back and stomping on the hardpacked road. Its gentle, downward slope must have been a relief for her to leisurely haul the wagon down.
Necrem, however, was more mindful of the approaching soldiers. He had miraculously avoided his worst fears of being driven off the road after joining the soldiers marching toward the city. They’d been more concerned with getting where they were told, and so long as Necrem moved along with them, they’d been content. One after the other, companies would turn off the road, marching across thirsty, dried-out fields, encircling the city, and encamping.
He was beginning to happily believe that he would drive away without anyone saying anything to him.
I should’ve known better. He groaned and sat back, reaching into his pocket to dig out the marquesa’s writ.
“What are you about there?” the soldier, presumably the officer since he walked with his hand on his sword while the others carried pikes, demanded. He and his five soldiers walked around and surrounded Necrem’s wagon while twenty other soldiers looked on from their small cookfire on the side of the road.
The officer, a younger man likely in his late twenties, stepped up besides Necrem, warily studying him with his red, sunburned face.
“Heading on my way, sir,” Necrem replied, holding out the writ.
“On your way?” The officer cautiously took the parchment by the corners, frowning at the yellow sweat stains, and tenuously unfolded the writ. “And which way is that?”
Necrem glanced around at the surrounding soldiers. A couple placidly watched him. A few eyed the back of his wagon with curiosity.
Best not to lie. Probably best not to tell the whole truth, either.
“Home, sir.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as casually as he could. “I’ve been away too long.”
“Who hasn’t?” a soldier joked, to the snickers and soft chuckles of a few of his comrades.
Their officer, though, was reading the writ with a deepening frown. He shot several looks up at Necrem then went back to reading, as if not believing what he held. “Is this . . . actually the La Dama’s signature?”
The chuckles instantly ceased, and every soldier stood straight and regarded Necrem much more than they had moments ago.
“Yes, sir,” Necrem replied, “it is.” He passed Malcada’s reins from hand to hand, keeping them busy so as not to clench them. Now? Of all times someone questions that. Now?
“And you said you were on your way home.” The officer gestured down the road. “But, if I’m not mistaken, the only thing in that direction is . . . well, Manosete.” He peered up in a sideward glance. “Are you saying, sir, that your home is . . . in Manosete?”
A strong gust of wind blew up a cloud of dust from the surrounding dried-out fields. The soldiers stood unmoved. Their pikes rested against the ground, yet they didn’t lean on them. They fixated on him, ready to pounce.
If I just say yes, that might not be good for me. But if I lie, and they don’t believe me . . .
Necrem looked down the road longingly. The gentle fields were both dry and barren. The yellow stalks of previously picked crops, the shriveled fern petals, and brown blades of grasses all turned up to the rolling clouds above, begging for relief.
Beyond them, about ten miles away, he could make out the stockyards. There was less cattle in those yards now, but they marked the outskirts of the city. He was too far away to make out movement below, in the close packed streets and buildings, but he was sure some amount of panic must be gripping the people down there.
And Eulalia and Bayona were right in the middle of it.
“My family is down there,” he replied. “For ten years, we’ve . . . lived in that slum. Feels like it’s been twice as long since I was dragged away from them.” He squeezed Malcada’s reins and, for an instant, considered slapping them and setting the mule through the soldiers. But she was no war horse, nor had the strength to gallop, either. “I don’t care what you do to the city—take it, live in it, burn it all down, and leave it. Whatever you want to do. But today, I’m getting my family”—he turned, setting his jaw and making the sides of his mask bulge while he gave the officer a hard look—“and I’m getting them out of that Savior forsaken hole. So, if don’t mind, sir, I’d like to be on my way.”
The officer held his gaze, squinting up at him and puffing his sun-reddened cheeks up at the challenge to his authority. Any other time, Necrem would have let it go, or rather not started anything at all. This time, though, he was too close. Home was just in sight. He would be damned if he was going to be held up by some young officer who wanted to question what he obviously could read.
“Pardon, Master Sergeant,” one of the soldiers said. The others were passing uneased looks amongst themselves. “I think this man—”
“Search the wagon,” the master sergeant ordered.
“Sir?” another soldier questioned.
“You heard me!” the master sergeant snapped. “Sob story or not, don’t any of you find it suspicious that a man carrying a writ claiming to have been signed by the La Dama herself is passing right through our lines to an enemy-held city? And him, an admitted Orsembian at that! Search the wagon!”
Necrem kept perfectly still in his seat, the implication not lost to him in the slightest.
He thinks I’m an espi? Any other time, that would have been hilarious, but here . . .
Streams of sweat ran down his back at the first shake of a soldier climbing into the back of his wagon. He listened to him rummage around. His shirt clung to his back.
“Anything?” the master sergeant asked.
“Not much, sir,” the soldier replied, his voice muffled from being hunched over and facing down. “Mostly a pile of clothes and . . . armor? I’ll be . . . Sir! There’s a whole suit of plate armor back here!”
Necrem swallowed. Maybe I should have melted it down.
“A suit of armor?” The master sergeant briefly frowned then took a cautious step back, his hand resting gingerly on his sword hilt. “And what’s a person like you doing with a full suit of armor?”
Necrem’s guts tightened. Now he thinks I’m a calleros.
“I’m a blacksmith,” he replied.
“Are there any tools back there?” the master sergeant demanded to the soldier.
The soldier stomped around, kicking over things. “No, sir.”
“I thought not.” The young master sergeant smirked, as if he were clever. “That’s no smith’s wagon. You”—he pointed at Necrem—“whoever you are, get down from that wagon.
“Someone fetch the capitán! We have a—”
“Sir!” a soldier demanded, grabbing the back of the master sergeant’s arm.
“What?” The officer pulled his arm away. A furious snarl darkened his already reddened face.
The soldier winced yet leaned in close and began to cautiously whisper. The growing wind whistled over them and drowned the words out from reaching him. Necrem watched, catching the soldier gesture, look, and nod his way. The officer’s expression shifted from a grimace to a crooked frown of disbelief.
A few more soldiers from the cookfire joined the group and added their whispers to the first soldier. One gawked at Necrem as if he were looking at the Savior himself. The master sergeant began shaking his head and waving his hand.
“No, no, no,” he said over his soldiers’ growing voices.
The soldiers, though, shook their heads.
“Ask him,” one excitedly insisted. “Ask him!”
The master sergeant let out a loud, frustrated growl and pointed back at Necrem. “You! State your name!”
Necrem took in the soldiers, watching as if holding their breaths and bracing for something.
They know.
He let out a deep sigh and rolled his shoulders. “Oso,” he replied too softly then cleared his throat. “Necrem Oso.”
“It’s him!” the excited soldier yelled. “It’s him! Steel Fist!”
Necrem’s scars and cheek muscles spasmed and twitched at the name.
“He’s an Orsembian!” the master sergeant barked at the man. “Get a grip of yourself!”
“But, sir,” the first soldier intervened, “it is him! He fought in the center in Ribera’s Way.”
“I heard he fought just using his hands,” another soldier added.
“General Galvez declared him a Hero for capturing Marqués Borbin himself,” a soldier with a surprisingly deep voice said. “Did it for what the marqués did to his face. They say that’s why he’s forced to wear a mask.”
“Camp gossip.” The master sergeant waved it away. “I’m surprised at all of you. All of you know there’re thousands of crazy stories after a battle, each one naming someone a Hero or another. I bet he only wears that mask to keep the dust out.”
He turned his nose up at Necrem, and Necrem rolled his shoulders, knowing what he was going to say before the first word left his mouth. “Take off the—”
Necrem reached back and undid his mask’s knot. The salve was a few hours fresh and stuck to the mask, making sucking sound as he peeled it away.
These soldiers had been on campaign for months, seen several battles, fought in Ribera’s Way, and still several blanched at the sight of his face. Several turned away completely. Others covered and felt their own faces, imagining how stitches, holes in his cheeks, and exposed teeth and gums must feel. The master sergeant’s bluster vanished, leaving him standing in shocked silence.
Another gust of warm wind brushed against his scars and swept into the holes in his cheeks, tickling his gums.
“Not the prettiest sight, is it, sirs?” he grunted, making a few of the soldiers jump. “I ripped a few of my scars in the fighting, but nothing too serious.” He took his time tying his mask back on and fitting it in line with his cheekbones and jawline. When he was finished, he fixed the master sergeant with another hard look. “May I be on way now?”
The soldiers gave their master sergeant long, sideways looks.
The master sergeant swallowed, nervously turning this way and that. His lips pressed and rippled together. “Get down from there,” he ordered the soldier in the back of the wagon.
He stepped closer and held up the writ. “On your way then,” he said.
“Thank you.” Necrem took the writ with a nod then flicked Malcada’s reins.
***
This is . . . an odd gathering.
Recha studied the city’s delegation in silence. Each member in turn studied her from across the choir loft. The madres had assigned them both to their respective sides of the loft, with Recha, Field Marshal Narvae, Cornelos, and her guard to the left loft and the city’s five-member delegation and their assortment of calleroses arrayed behind them to the right loft.
The delegation surprised her in several ways. One, it was smaller than she’d thought. She’d figured every baron left in city would be clawing for a seat at this. The second, none of the members conversed with each other, except for the baron and baroness front and center of their delegation, who had remained arm-in-arm since walking into the chapel. The rest of the delegation members sat apart with a seat between themselves. Lastly, they all lacked a hint of arrogance.
Not one had strolled in boisterously with pomp. Not one had marched in making demands. Not one of the calleroses had strutted to challenge her soldiers. Not a single man had tried to charmingly introduce himself to her as if this were a feast. They’d all taken their seats and waited with a mixture of scowls, nervous glances, and blank stares.
I suppose Borbin took all the arrogance with him on campaign.
Seeing no reason to prolong this, she sat up and cleared her throat. “Good afternoon,” she greeted. “In case any of you were in doubt, I am La Dama Recha Mandas, Marquesa of Lazorna. Thank you all for coming to treat with me. I wish this matter can be brought to a peaceful end. Tell me, which among you speaks for Manosete?”
She passed a sliding glance down the five members in front, ultimately landing on the lone, elderly man to the left of the couple. The man sat leaning forward with his back arched. A pair of spectacles clung to bridge of his pointed nose, on the brink of slipping off, as his dark set eyes peered over them. His oval-shaped head reminded Recha of an egg, especially from being bald and having the pasty skin of a man who shunned the suns.
“We all speak for Manosete,” the man said in a soft, reserved voice. “Each in our own way while Si Don is away.”
The corners of Recha’s lips twitched, but she reined them in. Seems they haven’t heard yet.
“And, in what way do you speak for Manosete?” she asked. “Sir . . .?”
“Sir Fanjul Anes, at your service, La Dama,” the man replied, pushing his spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose. “I am Si Don’s financer, not just for his person, but also for the city and the marc.”
“I see. You’re here to offer me a sum to withdraw from the city.” She smiled and, in turn, the old money counter smiled back. “I’m afraid you’re wasting your time, Sir Anes. No amount of deberes will be enough. I’m here for the city itself.”
Their back row of calleroses broke out in grumbles and shared scowling mumbles to each other. Sir Anes deflated in his seat. His spectacles slid back down the bridge of his nose, and droplets of sweat broke out across his forehead.
“If it is a fight you want, then we will meet you in the field!” a calleros in the center of the back row announced, leaping to his feet with a few others around him. They all stood proudly in their polished breastplates, with their fists on their hips, posing together with their elbows sticking out.
“All of you look like traveling performers standing like that.” Recha snickered, and Narvae joined in, chuckling.
“Are you impugning our honor, La Dama?” the calleros in the center demanded. “We are Orsembar’s finest! Chosen to defend this city with our lives by Si Don Borbin himself. You will regret the day of your unprovoked invasion should we take the field!”
Recha let an uneasy silence draw out. With each passing second, the Manosete delegation slowly turned inward to nervously glance between the standing calleroses and her. The madres sitting off to the left between the lofts, too, watched on. Recha remained calmly sitting, letting the quiet erode those puffed-out chests while she stared placidly back.
“I think—”
Thunder rumbled outside, forcing her to pause. Although, watching several of them jump and the baroness squeak did make her grin.
“I think . . . if you were going to take the field against us, you would have done so to block our approach to the city. But if you want to settle this dispute on the field, I will gladly accept. Or rather, I would gladly accept. I promised the madres”—she gestured toward them—“to do my best to seek the least hostile method to settle this conflict. But, if you insist on making this a battle, we’ll meet you on the field. Maybe you’ll fare better than Baron Toloca did the other day.” She grabbed the railing in front of her and made to stand.
“Wait!” the baron in the center exclaimed, jumping out of his seat and reaching out to her. “Please, La Dama! We assure you we are just as committed to finding a peaceful solution to this conflict. All of us!” He shot a glare over his shoulder.
“Am I to take it then,” Recha spoke to the baron, “that you are Si Don Borbin’s marcador?”
A marcador was the temporary titleholder of anyone a marqués or marquesa left in charge of the marc’s civil duties while they were away on campaign. Esquire Valto was her marcador back in Zoragrin. It seemed Borbin hadn’t left his equal to look after Manosete.
“Uh . . .” the baron stuttered then nodded, bouncing his curly brown hair. “Yes, La Dama. I’m Baron Esqava Perti, and this is my wife, Baroness Pilar.” He gestured to his wife, who hid half her face behind her wide fan. Her gray eyes nervously shimmered up at her husband. They were both young, possibly near the same age as Recha, and maybe recently married. too. “Si Don granted me the honor of—”
Baroness Pilar pulled on his elbow beckoningly. The curling tips of her short, black hair bounced around her ears and on her shoulders. Esqava bent down, and a furious whispering campaign began.
“Instruct the calleroses to sit,” Pilar whispered. “No, ask about Baron Toloca. No! That would come off that we were frightened. Demand that she leaves. No! That would come off as insulting! Stall until Si Don arrives. No! We don’t know how long that will be . . .” On and on she went, getting out a few sentences every second and instantly reputing them.
“Dear,” poor Esqava tried in vain to interject. He remained bent over with a gawking expression and shaking head, desperately attempting to calm her. “Dear . . . Dear! I’ll try. I’ll try.”
Unsure, Recha surmised about Esqava and slid her assessment to Pilar, and indecisive. No wonder Borbin left these two. It would take them twenty years to conceive a plot to undermine him, and twenty more to convince themselves to enact it.
The others in Manosete’s delegation were likewise unimpressed. The calleroses that Esqava had snapped at scowled down at the pair. Sir Anes rubbed his wrinkly forehead and hid his face in embarrassment. The rest of the members ignored them, as if they were bored.
“Enough!” Madre Caralino demanded, putting a stop to their whispering. “Baron, Baroness, our time here is short, and the fate of this city and its inhabitants lay in the balance. We cannot wait while you bicker.”
“Forgive us, Madre,” Baron Esqava asked, lowering himself down to his seat then instantly springing back up, seeing and remembering Recha was still standing. “Oh, La Dama—”
Recha held out her hand to stop him. “Sit, Baron.” She waved. “I’m not storming out just yet.”
Esqava nervously sat.
Recha followed, smoothing her skirts under her and crossing her legs. She focused on Esqava afterward. However, the calleroses behind him reminded her they were still standing.
“Honestly, sirs,” she said with a sigh, “sit down. You’re embarrassing your fellow calleroses.”
A few looks around the room at their fellow calleroses, who hadn’t stood with them and were frowning up at them, was all the confirmation they needed to retake their seats.
“Now, Baron Esqava—”
“Yes!” Esqava jerked his head up from his wife, who had returned to whispering frantically to him behind her fan.
Recha put on the best understanding smile she could and went on. “Baron Esqava, as Si Don Borbin’s marcador, allow me to make my demands plain. To avoid the unnecessary suffering and loss of life that would result from a prolonged siege or battle on the field, I demand Manosete surrender. The city’s garrison and every armed force in the city are to stand down and lay down their arms. The city’s constabulary and other agents that keep public order are to remain and maintain that duty alone until told otherwise. The city’s gates are to be opened to me and my armies. Upon my entry into the city, you and all members of the Orsembian barony in the city and all city officials are to attend me with a written declaration surrendering Manosete to me. Afterward, I will instruct you on how this city, and this marc, are to be governed from this day hence.”
Rather longwinded, she granted. I’ve gotten too comfortable around my Companions and officers again. At least I can be straightforward with them.
However, such formality was required when addressing the barony, and a straightforward demand that they surrender the city, otherwise she would order an immediate attack or besiege the city, wouldn’t have been strategically sound, either. It would have been too strong and put them both in a corner, one she, at present, didn’t want to be stuck in. She had another strategy in mind should they not surrender.
From their expressions, it appeared most of them had heard the straightforward demand, regardless. Baron Esqava deflated in his seat, slouching back against it. Baroness Pilar dropped her fan into her lap, revealing her gawking, heart-shaped face. Sir Anes paled under a sheen of cold sweat. For the calleroses, they ranged from infuriated grimaces to hardened, jaw-clenching scowls.
“We can’t!” Baroness Pilar exclaimed then clapped her hands over her mouth.
“Si Don never left us with that authority!” Baron Esqava shouted.
“All of Orsembar’s finances will be ruined,” Sir Fanjul lamented, rubbing his forehead.
“We will never lay down our arms!” the boisterous calleros exclaimed. “We will hold this city and lay down as many lives as necessary to defend it! So long as Si Don is in the field, we’ll—”
“Emaximo Borbin is dead.” Recha’s revelation hit them like a flanking calleros charge. Just like the battlefield, a piece of information could crack the morale and resistance of the other side. If that happened, the best thing to do was to keep hammering on it until they broke. “His son, Givanzo, is also dead. Just over two weeks ago, we routed and captured over half his army and over forty standards from free companies, barony regiments, barons’ personal standards, and Borbin’s own colors. The rest of the army is still scattered.
“I reclaimed Puerlato over a week ago. I have two armies outside your city, but also another army marching up the Compuert Road, and another marching up to Crudeas. Yesterday, my Second Army, north of the city, reported on a small engagement with a force assembled by a Baron Toloca. It was paltry. Barely a hundred calleroses with less than double that of farmers plucked from the fields and forced to stand in as footmen. They were defeated in less than ten minutes.”
The demoralization spread from the baron and his wife to the calleroses behind them. A few defiant scowls remained but, one by one, heads dropped.
“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” the boisterous calleros demanded. “This could be a deception to surrender the city while, in reality—”
“I can produce the Borbins’ bodies if you desire?” she offered. “I didn’t bring them to this meeting because it would have been macabre. And a parade of the captured standards can also be arranged.” Thunder rumbled outside. “After this much needed storm, that is.
“Frankly”—she folded her hands in her lap—“I have no need for deception in this. I only want to make it perfectly clear to all of you, and whomever is waiting for your return inside Manosete, that no relief is coming to save you.”
The calleros balled his fists on his knees and gritted teeth, the grimace telling he was stubbornly refusing to believe her. However, like a battle line collapsing in front of him, he could only deny reality for so long.
“La . . . La Dama Mandas,” Baron Esqava stammered, sitting back up with his wife clutching his elbow again, “we appreciate your honesty. However . . . there are others, other elements in the city, who will want to know . . . what are your intentions for the city . . . if we . . . surrender it?”
And just like that, survival becomes what’s most important.
“I intend to merge the marcs of Lazorna and Orsembar into one,” she replied. “That includes this city. Local officials will remain the same until their duties are reviewed, and as for these others, let them know that any barony who submits to my conditions will retain their titles and lands.”
“Conditions?” Baron Esqava asked.
“The baronies will turn their focus on their lands and local authority,” Recha explained. “Those who prove themselves competent and loyal in their duties will be elevated to higher authority in managing the marc. This authority will apply to Orsembar and not to Lazorna. Likewise, they can have my assurances that their lands and titles will not be stripped from them and given to Lazornian baronies.”
Baron and Baroness Perti sat on the edge of their seats, taking in every word. This topic of discussion was clearly more of interest for them. Sir Anes listened just as intently, the color having returned to his face. The calleroses frowned displeasingly down at the baron, though.
“They will have to relinquish two privileges.” Recha held up two fingers. “All barony forces-at-arms are to be disbanded. You may keep personal household guards, but Orsembar’s armed forces are to be reformed under my army model.”
“Wait!” the boisterous calleros roared. “You mean to leave the barons with their lands but strip us calleroses of ours and our income? That is unacceptable! You will leave us homeless and destitute!”
“I said nothing of the kind!” Recha snapped at him. “Calleroses with title to lands will keep them. Your allegiances, however, will no longer be to your barons but to the marc itself. Barons will be prohibited from going to war or raising personal armies. Instead, under the army model, calleroses will be assigned to troops and companies, to be either officers or follow the orders of officers. No more being assigned duties based on your baron’s favor. No more being stuck in backwater posts based on your baron’s disfavor. You will be assigned your company and your army and perform your duties on the field as ordered!”
The calleros sat, taken aback.
Recha embraced speaking with a calleros again and returned to the directness of giving orders.
The calleros opened his mouth to speak, yet his fellow beside him took him by the arm, shaking his head with a gleam in his eyes. He and several others were already working out the advantages she had to offer.
“You said we would have to give up two privileges, La Dama,” Baron Esqava said, frowning.
“Yes,” Recha replied. “All sioneroses are to be freed. The practice itself will be abolished under my authority.”
Baron Esqava gawked. “But . . . but that’s going to be . . .”
“Impossible,” Sir Anes interjected. “It would devastate Orsembar’s finances to lose such a labor force.”
Recha folded her arms. “Some of my barons in Lazorna said the same thing. Some of them are no longer barons. Some lost their heads.” She let that comment set for a moment. “But understand, the sioneroses will be freed, and no longer will men be traded for others to avoid battle.
“Of course”—she grabbed the choir loft’s railing and pulled herself to her feet—“you can deny my proposals. You can keep your gates closed. But if you do, these events will happen. I won’t besiege you, not right away. Instead, I will take my armies here, join with my other two, and claim every other less defended city and town we find. Every field we take will mean less food will be brought to you, every force we crush will be one less to support you, and every barony who joins me will be one less ally for you.
“We’ll lay claim to everything, recruiting and swelling our numbers as we do. There are only two armies outside your walls now, but when I return, there may be four, or five. And you will be here, in the same position, only with less supplies, no allies, and utterly surrounded. As for my proposal then, I guarantee you all it will be far less . . . generous than what I offer you today.
“Make no mistake, Manosete and all Orsembar are mine to claim, and I’m claiming them. Take this back to those other elements left in the city. They can either join me, or”—she grinned, and everyone in the Manosete delegation paled—“they can join the Borbins.”
***
Malcada snorted and flicked her ears in protest of the random sprinkles landing on them. A stray drop landed here and there across Necrem’s shoulders and on his back. They were a far cry from what the land needed, soaking into whatever surface they landed upon instantly, including his shirt.
At least everyone’s not in a panic. It was the only bit of solace the empty, quiet streets gave him.
He had expected carts or wheelbarrows to be outside every home and building with men hurrying to fill them with whatever possession they could, and the women to be in a panic of what to bring and crying about what to leave behind. Instead, most doors were shut up tight; window shutters, too. Every now and then, his ears twitched from the faint slam of a door or creak of a shutter, but no voices.
Everyone’s hiding, he deduced.
Everything was familiar.
He turned Malcada off the main street after passing three blocks into the city, continued over for five more narrower streets, then turned down a sixth after going by a dead-end alley without thinking. The silence persisted, yet the memories came back stronger and stronger.
If he turned his head fast, he swore he could picture a phantom of himself walking along beside him. The plaguing memory of when he walked up and down these same streets to barter, sell, and . . . beg to anyone to buy his steel for the conscription tax.
How long ago was that? Months? He did the figuring in his head, shoulders slumping forward, refusing to believe it was that long yet so short of a time ago. Lifetimes.
He rode past Gael’s cobbler store, all boarded up.
He went on campaign! Necrem recalled.
Many of Borbin’s camp workers and followers had been caught up in the rout after the battle. Many others had been rounded up to put to work by the Lazornians. Some fled. Others perished from injuries and disease, same as soldiers.
Wherever you are, Gael, I hope the Savior leads you home, too.
As for his home, Necrem faced a choice—either go straight home or to Sanjaro’s shop. He had left Bayona with him; however, no matter the promise to look after his wife, there was nothing that could force Eulalia to leave her room. Therefore, he decided to make for home.
I’ll stop at the house first, he planned. Make sure Eulalia’s been cared for. Make sure she’s there. Once I know everything’s well, I’ll go to Sanjaro’s, pick up Bayona, and then we’ll leave this place for—
He drove Malcada around a corner and jerked her to a halt. His house stood a couple blocks down, lopsided as he remembered with only the left side having a second story while the right was only one. The gray overcast formed a shadow on the second-story’s windows, blotting them out and not letting him see through them.
A wagon sat in front of his house with Eulalia’s dresser loaded in the back. Two men sat on the steps outside the storefront, quietly talking to each other.
Necrem’s teeth ground together. A low growl came from his throat. His face went taut, and each stitch began to pull and burn.
Thieves.
And Eulalia was in there.
He slapped Malcada’s reins, making the mule whine from the hard crack to her bum. For such a small distance, he drove her twice as fast as he ever had on the road or into Manosete and reined her into a skidding stop beside the other wagon.
He spotted more than Eulalia’s dresser now that he was closer. Her nightstand and their dining table, which he and Bayona had eaten alone at together, were loaded, too, along with a few odds and ends that belonged to him.
The two men, possibly in their late twenties and could pass for laborers by their cloths, leapt to their feet at his sudden arrival. One stared blankly while the other looked at him in stunned surprise.
“What are you two doing in my home!” he bellowed, glaring at them. His eyes narrowed at the sight of his house’s front door leading into his store standing wide open, as if they were taking a break amid looting.
The men jumped, startled. One shuffled backward and tumbled over the front step of the porch. His fellow reached out to help and stopped, hunched over and arms out as Necrem leapt from his wagon’s driver’s seat.
He hit the ground flat-footed and with a grunt from the jarring spikes radiating from his knees. He growled at the pain, balling his fists, and swung his arms to limp and walk it off, marching straight for the two intruders.
“What are you two doing in my home?” he repeated, this time in a lower, graveling tone. His shoulders were pulled back, bristling. “What are you two doing with my wife’s things? What did you do to my wife?”
“What?” the young man squawked. He held his trembling hands up defensively. His mouth opened and closed rapidly, as if to speak yet nothing came out, his chin wavered up and down. He lifted his head to grovel, wide-eyed, up at Necrem.
Necrem seized the man’s left shoulder. “Did you touch my wife!”
“No!” the man cried, his shoulder buckling under Necrem’s grip. “Please!”
“Help!” the other man yelled, scuttering on his hands and knees into the house.
Necrem tossed the man he held aside and rushed after the other. “Get out of my—!”
He stopped upon the threshold. There, beside the empty store counter in front of the door that led to the leaving quarters, was Bayona. Her baby-blue eyes blinked rapidly. Her mouth hung ajar.
“Papa?” she questioned softly, uncertainly.
Necrem’s anger evaporated instantly. His bristling, his gritted teeth, his clenched fists, all of it released at once upon hearing that sweat, soft voice.
“Little Miracle?” he said out of his own surprise.
Bayona gasped, a sparkling gleam erupted in her eyes, and the corners of her lips curled while keeping her mouth agape. “Papa!” she screamed with glee.
She sprinted across the store in three bounds, the skirts of her lemon-colored dress flaring about her. Necrem swooped down, wrapped her up in both arms, and lifted her up into air. Bayona squealed with laughter, throwing her arms around is his neck, her legs kicking in the air.
“Papa!” she cried, a mixture of a laugh and a sob. She buried her face in his neck, flailing her light brown hair around as the smell of bath soap filed his nostrils. “Papa! Papa! Papa!”
Necrem squeezed her both as gently and as tightly as he could. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Her slender arms shook, quickly spreading through her entire small body, and like a contagion, he began to shake, too. His arms trembled to the point he feared they might lose their strength, so he took hold of her under her arms and lifted her up in the air, just as he had when she was younger.
Bayona’s breath caught and, after a moment of realization, threw her arms up and squealed.
“Bayona,” he said warmly, holding her in the air. He finally got a good look at her. Her hair had grown out, her color was good, and she had eaten well. There was something else, though. He blinked, taking a closer look. “Did you get bigger?”
“Huh?” She gave him a blank look then grinned proudly. “Yep! I’ve outgrown two dresses. Ms. Annette keeps threatening to stop feeding me if I outgrow another one!”
Necrem’s face softened, and the coarse edges of his scars stiffly rubbed against each other from his cheeks and lip muscles naturally flexing into smile. He lowered his knees and eased her down on her feet. He confirmed her growth after standing back up. When he’d left her, she had come up to his hip. Now she was an inch higher, proving yet again she was going to be tall when she grew up.
Just like her papa.
“Did you get bigger, too?” she asked, tilting her head up at him. “You look taller.”
“Hm?” Necrem rolled his shoulders back and stood straighter to ease his lower back. “Your papa’s done all the growing he needs to.” He chuckled, patting her head. “Not like you. My little miracle’s becoming a big miracle.”
Bayona pushed up on her tiptoes and rubbed her head against his hand. While doing so, his brow furled, realizing something.
“But what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be Sanjaro and Ms. Annette.”
“We came to get Mama,” Bayona replied, happily keeping her head pressed against his palm. “Sir Sanjaro says we have to go and take only what we need.” She pulled back, beaming up at him. “But now that you’re here, we don’t have to leave!”
A floorboard creaked. Necrem raised his head to find Sanjaro standing in the doorway to the inner house with one of the laborers crouching behind him.
“Necrem?” Sanjaro asked, his face pale. “Is . . .? Is that really you?”
Necrem stood up straighter. “It’s me, Sanjaro.”
Sanjaro’s cheeks flushed, his eyes went misty, and a wide smile blossomed on his face. “Necrem!” The butcher threw up his arms and rushed toward him.
Necrem reached his hand out, but instead of taking it, Sanjaro stormed in and embraced him, making him grunt from the force.
“You’re alive!” His friend laughed. “By the Savior’s luck, you’re alive!”
Necrem patted the man on the shoulder, unsure of what to do. After an awkward moment, Sanjaro finally released him.
“It’s good to have you back,” his friend said. “Did you . . . come with the army? Are they seeing the Lazornians off? Lazornians, Necrem! They played cowards for three years and now . . . they’re outside the city!” A dozen questions came afterward, each one more desperate and demanding for news than the other.
Necrem threw his hand up out of necessity. “I’m afraid there’s no army. The Lazornians are still outside the city. I figure they’ll be ready march in tomorrow.”
Sanjaro’s shoulders fell, his hopes of quick rescue—if one could call it that—dashed. “Then . . . it’s still good you’re back. We need to hurry and get out of here before it’s too late.”
“Too late?”
“Before the Lazornians attack!” Sanjaro raised his fists defensively.
Bayona rushed behind Necrem, grabbing his pants leg. Necrem looked down at her worried face.
“Are they really going to attack and take us all away, Papa?” she asked.
Necrem balled his fists. He had made it home, and yet the war was still right outside. While Sanjaro, and probably everyone in Manosete, worried about what they might do, he knew exactly what the Lazornians were capable of and what lengths their marquesa would go. They could attack. They could level all the boroughs outside the walls. And they could do all of that with or without moving the people out.
That’s what they could do. But . . .
“Don’t worry, Bayona,” he said calmingly, patting her on the head again. “Everything’s going to be all right.” That made her brighten a little.
“Necrem!” Sanjaro hissed.
Necrem gave him a firm look. “Everything’s going to be all right.” He locked gazes with his old friend and held it.
A wave of expressions flowed over Sanjaro’s face, from frustration to panic, and then from shock to deflated surrender.
“Everything’s going to be all right.” Necrem gave him a reassuring nod then turned down to Bayona, softening his expression. “Let’s go see Mama. Is she having a . . . good day?”
“Mama?” Bayona paled and slowly reached the point of tears. “Mama . . .”
Ice ran up Necrem’s spine. “Bayona? What’s wrong? What’s wrong with—”
“She’s not doing well,” Sanjaro added. He folded his arms, frowning. “After you . . . left, Annette and Bayona came to see her. Annette said she was good for a few days, and then . . .”
“And then what?” Necrem demanded, yet no one answered. He stepped closer, raising his voice. “And then what?”
Sanjaro threw up his hands.
“Mama’s not talking anymore!” Bayona cried. Small tears poured out of her eyes, and she desperately rubbed each one, quickly turning her face red. “She asked . . . for you . . . and . . . and . . . she stopped talking after I told her!” The tears flooded out, and she wailed just like when she was younger.
Necrem’s heart felt like in a vice. His chest tightened, and a lump formed in his throat at hearing her cry and speak.
She must think she hurt Eulalia for telling her.
He knelt on both knees, wrapped his hands around his crying girl’s head, and pulled her into another hug. “Don’t cry,” he said as soothing as he could, his voice a low grumble, and stroked her hair. “You did nothing wrong. Everything’s going to be all right now.”
Bayona cried for a few more minutes, unable to stop. Finally, the tears slowed, and she sniffed. “Really?”
“Mmhmm.” He stroked her hair a few more times then pulled away. The mask prevented him, but he did his best to convey a smile through his raised cheeks and eyes. “Let’s go see her.”
Bayona sniffed some more, rubbing both snot and tears with the sides of her hands, and nodded.
Necrem took her under her arm and picked her up as he got to his feet. He made sure she wasn’t siting too high in the crook of his arm, and then headed for the back of the house and the staircase.
“Necrem,” Sanjaro called out urgently as he walked by.
Necrem patted the man on his shoulder. “Thanks for watching after them, Sanjaro, but it’s going to be all right. I’ll come back and help with the wagons.” Nothing else to say, he gave his old friend a final pat and headed on his way.
The house was still tidy. Some of the furniture had been moved, likely from Sanjaro and the laborers. However, with Bayona living with him and Necrem away, no one had been around to mess up the lower living quarters.
The stairs creaked with his every heavy step, each one feeling heavier than the last.
Bayona kept quiet, a worried frown on her adorable face. She wrapped an arm around his head, and it grew tighter the closer they got to Eulalia’s room.
Necrem paused beside the open door. The tightness in his chest lingered and now felt as if about to burst.
What do I say? He stood there for a moment. Is there anything I can say?
Taking a deep breath, he took that final step.
There she was. Right where he had left her.
Eulalia sat in bed. The last piece of furniture was a lone island in the empty room. Her honey-brown hair spilled down her back and reached the bedsheet, needing a trim. She peered toward the window to gaze at the rolling gray clouds, facing away from the door.
Necrem swallowed. His knees weak. She was calm, yet there was no telling if this was one of her bad days.
What if it is? What if she has another fit like when I left? What if—
“Mama!” Bayona yelled. “Papa’s home, Mama! Papa’s home!”
Necrem held his breath, standing stiff and still.
Eulalia said nothing, her attention remained fixed on the window.
“Mama!” Bayona cried.
Necrem patted her on the arm and put her down. He took careful, slow steps into the bedroom, watching Eulalia closely after each one to see if she would react until he stopped at far corner of her bed. She faced the window, yet her eyes were vacant.
“Eulalia?” he called.
Nothing.
Necrem walked around to kneel beside her. “It’s me, Eulalia. Necrem. I’m home.”
Again, nothing.
His brow furled, and his scars twitched. He dug into his pocket and cautiously took her hand. Her skin was soft, her fingers light and small compared to his.
“I brought you something,” he said. He lightly opened her fingers with his thumb and laid a necklace of small steel links, polished over the weeks of travel to shine like silver, with an oval gold nugget hanging in the center, shaped like a locket in her palm. He gently closed her hand around it. “I made it to replace the one you lost. Remember, Eulalia?”
They sat in silence, broken only by the soft, sporadic taps of raindrops splattering against the window. Necrem’s hand trembled, wanting to squeeze but not wanting to hurt her. He wanted to scream, to bellow and roar until she heard him. However, that could set her off. What good was it to bring her back to only terrify her?
What can I do? He gnashed his teeth, pulling his scars. He hung his head, squeezing his eyes shut. What can I do?
Her finger twitched. Then another. Her hand pulled out of his, and a soft gasp broke the silence.
Necrem jerked his head up to find Eulalia looking down into her hand. The shiny steel chain laid over her hand, and the golden nugget hung nestled in her palm. Yet, in her eyes, he saw it. A spark. A bright crack. A glimmer like the first light of dawn after a cloud-filled, dark night.
She turned her head stiffly toward him, eyes blinking, as if just awakening. Her brow furled and unfurled. Her mouth worked, yet no sound came.
Necrem sat there, waiting.
Please, he begged. Please, Eulalia.
“Ne . . . Ne . . . Necrem?” she rasped.
Necrem’s cheeks trembled, and he licked his tattered lips under his mask. “I’m home, Eulalia.”
They held each other’s gazes, him not wanting to break the moment and unsure of what do. Her hand shook, and the chain slipped, forcing her to break eye contact and catch the necklace. She raised it up and awed at the gold nugget spinning in the air.
“I made that for you,” he said. “I know it’s . . . not exactly like your old one, but—”
“You found it,” Eulalia said.
“No, I . . .” Necrem held up a hand to explain, but she was already marveling at it with both hands, her thumbs caressing the chain and the gold nugget. “Do you like it?”
Eulalia smiled at him. Oh, how she smiled. Brighter than any Exchange, and the mere sight made his heart hammer in his chest.
“I love it,” she said, leaning forward. She slid around in her bedsheets and planted her head on his left breast.
His heart raced faster. The pounding in his chest felt ready to burst.
“Thank you, Necrem.”
A wave of fire spread from his chest where her head lay to engulf his whole body. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe. It was the warmest he had ever felt in his life, and he wanted it to last for eternity.
Gently, he reached up and cupped the back of her head with his hand.
Please, oh Savior, don’t let this ever end.
His sight slowly grew misty, and his cheeks throbbed. Something warm and wet trickled around their curves and into his mask’s cuff, dampening it.
“Papa,” Bayona said, standing beside him and looking at him with her bright eyes, “I thought you said steel-working folk didn’t cry?”
Necrem’s chin wobbled. He cupped the back of her small head and gently pulled her into his chest. He held them both close, stroking their hair with his wide, callused palms. “We do when we come home, Little Miracle,” he replied. “We do when we come home.”
And he was, finally, home.