75

During the battle to liberate Gogoleth, Jorge had felt little interest in seeing the violence firsthand. He knew that some men enjoyed such spectacle, but he was not one of them. Yet while he was just as reluctant to observe the conflict in Colmo, this was his city, and it was now his people under attack. He felt that as a son of the Elhuyar family, it was his obligation to bear witness to their struggle.

He and Maria stood on a balcony several blocks from the conflict. The two groups looked like toys in the streets below. To the left were the neat, orderly rows of marching imperial soldiers. To the right, the seething mass of townspeople. It appeared to be merely a disorderly rabble of discontent peasants. But of course theater was a Raízian national pastime, and if the imperial leadership did not suspect the true nature of the mob, then they did not understand their one-time allies nearly as well as Jorge thought.

“Lucia said this should be a safe enough distance,” Maria assured him. “We might still feel the effects, but it won’t be overpowering.”

“Are you worried for her?” Jorge asked.

She gave him a weary smile. “Why do you think I brought this.”

She held up a bottle of fine, centuries-old wine, clearly taken from the Elhuyar cellars.

“Does Papa know you took that?”

She shrugged as she began to twist the corkscrew. “He said wine of this vintage should only be opened for the most important occasions. I believe that watching my beloved lead a battle for the liberation of Colmo qualifies.”

Jorge hesitated for a moment. “Do they know? About you and Lucia, I mean?”

“We certainly haven’t talked about it, if that’s what you’re asking.” She popped the cork off the bottle.

“Does it bother you that they will never acknowledge her?”

“I don’t need their acknowledgment.” She took a swig from the bottle and winced. “Probably should have let that breathe a little.”

Jorge looked with new appreciation at his sister. He might be more experienced in war and conflict, and more well traveled. But he was still such a coward when it came to the approval of his parents. He wondered if he ever saw Blaine again, could he live a similar life split between love and family? In his mind, those two things overlapped so much, it was difficult to see how he could possibly keep them separate. But perhaps…

Well, it was unlikely he would ever see Blaine again, so it was probably pointless to tie himself up in knots over it anyway.

“They’re getting close.” Maria’s face was tense as she took another swallow, her eyes on the two tiny masses of people.

She offered the bottle to Jorge, but he shook his head.

“You sure? It’ll help soften the impact.”

“Hm, I suppose you’re right.”

She grinned as she handed him the bottle. “That’s the spirit, fermano.”

He took a swallow and agreed that they should have let it breathe a little, but even so, the quality of such an old wine was undeniable.

“What does fermano mean?” he asked.

“Brother.”

“How do you know so much of the old language?”

“Viajero sing in the language of our people, so Lucia knows a lot of it,” said Maria. “She’s been teaching me.”

“To what end?” He handed the bottle back to her.

She gave him an odd look. “Because it’s our language. It’s something all Raízians should know if we hope to completely divest ourselves of the Aureumians.”

“You think, after generations of speaking the imperial tongue, we can just switch back like that?”

“It’ll probably take a few more generations, but I don’t see why not.”

Jorge gazed at his sister a moment. “You know, Papa was right. You really are a visionary.”

“You sound surprised. I guess you’ve never seen me as anything other than your bossy big sister.”

“Because you are.”

“Shut up and watch.” She pointed down to the streets.

“I rest my case,” he murmured, but did as he was told.

The two groups had at last come together in the marketplace. All the stalls had been dismantled and stored away days ago, so it was now merely a large open space. The soldiers came to a halt and prepared their vaunted shield and spear lines. The rioters stopped their advance in the face of the wall of bristling steel, but continued to shout. The archers in the back line of the imperial column drew back their bows, ready to rain arrows down on the people.

The tension hung there like that for several moments. The imperial army poised to unleash violent and bloody death, the rioters shouting and gesticulating. Perhaps the imperial officer in command was hesitant to strike the first blow in what appeared to be a crowd of unarmed townspeople. Whoever it was, that consideration, though admirable, was misplaced.

The deep, resonating sound of a gong rang out through the marketplace, followed by the steady thud of a bass drum. With that, the feigned chaos of the rioters dropped away. In breathtaking unity, the people stepped into the largest Viajero dance that had been seen in a hundred years. Their hard, almost lurching movements made it seem like they were all drunk, but each sway, each wobble, was perfectly controlled. Along with their movements, the shouts of the Viajero turned to song, deep and guttural.

“The Dance of the Five Despairs,” murmured Maria. “Lucia told me about it, but of course I’ve never seen it before.”

The imperial archers were able to let one volley fly before the performance hit them. Even more than five blocks away, Jorge felt it. The wave of passion struck him like a blow. It was blunt and coarse, like the style of the performance, and made his body feel so heavy, it was a struggle to lift his arms.

“First Movement,” Maria said in a hoarse voice, her hands grasping the balcony railing for support. “Awareness of Burden.”

It was clear the soldiers were feeling it far more intensely at close range. Some fell immediately to their knees, unable to rise. Others were able to widen their stance and stay on their feet, but holding up the heavy, iron-bound shields was too much.

That was when the mercenary snipers from Anxeles Escuros rose from the nearby rooftops and began to pick off the now-unprotected spear soldiers.

A command went out to the imperial soldiers and they began stuffing what looked like wax in their ears.

Blocking out the sound lessened the effect, but a Viajero performance was more than just music. In order to truly protect oneself from the Viajero, a person must also block out their vision. Yet being both deaf and blind in battle was a dangerous proposition.

To bolster the strength of the visual component of the dance, the air painters that had been in the back of the crowd stepped forward, wielding their massive brushes with grace and elegance. The singers and dancers shifted to something slower, almost lulling. Above that, the painters wove complex glittering patterns of periwinkle, lavender, and white in the air. The combined effect deepened the weightiness Jorge had been feeling into a slow lethargy.

“Second Movement,” Maria murmured. “Embrace of Melancholy.”

Protected from the sound at least, a number of the archers managed to shoot another volley. But their aim was off, and many of the arrows fell short or veered to the side. A few reached their targets, but it wasn’t enough to impact the performance. Meanwhile, the shield and spear lines struggled to close the gap with the performers, all the while fending off arrows from the Anxeles Escuros sniper squads on the nearby rooftops.

Seeming to sense their advantage, the Viajero’s performance quickened in tempo. The style became short and sharp, and the paint colors darkened into navy, eggplant, and slate. Jorge felt shudders of unease ripple through him that quickly turned to fear.

“Third Movement.” Maria’s voice was pinched, and her face was tense. “Succumb to Dread.”

The imperial soldiers in the front lines wavered, then finally broke formation, peeling off to either side. There they were met on the flanks by Anxeles Escuros swordsmen, who cut them down easily.

“H-how are they not affected by the song?” Jorge asked, his voice tinged with panic.

“Acclimation,” said Maria. “If you experience a performance enough times, it stops affecting you so strongly. They’ve been training since we first spoke to the Xefe.”

“Like building up an immunity to poison.”

She nodded tersely.

Although the imperial front lines had broken, the secondary lines filled in the gap, and the archers still managed to get off intermittent volleys. The Viajero were taking heavier losses as the soldiers drew closer.

But the Viajero were now lost in their performance and didn’t seem to even notice the comrades falling around them. Or perhaps they used it as inspiration. Their sounds grew more frenetic, their movements more aggressive until it almost seemed like they were attacking the air before them. Above them, the painters cast seething red and mottled orange that swirled fitfully. Jorge could feel the fear within him shifting, darkening, heating up into anger.

“Fourth Movement,” Maria said through clenched teeth. “Grip of Wrath.”

Violence burst forth among the imperial soldiers, but it was not directed toward the Viajero. Instead they turned on each other, stabbing their comrades with spears, bashing them with shields, or shooting them at close range with arrows. Those who had lost weapons attacked others with fists, or even teeth.

“God damn it, this is monstrous!” Jorge fumed. He knew the performance was making him overreact, but it truly was horrifying to see magic that could turn people against each other so quickly, and the savagery that resulted. It was as though the entire front half of the army had succumbed to sudden, frenzied madness.

Of course, it was only the front half. The back half of the army, less dramatically affected by the Viajero, had been frantically reorganizing itself.

The catapults rolled into view at the very back of the column, and he understood. If he hadn’t been so filled with anger, the sight of soldiers lighting a row of pitch-filled siege engines would have struck renewed dread in his heart.

“No!” Maria gripped the railing so hard her knuckles were white. “Those damn monsters will raze the whole city rather than lose!”

“If they can’t have it, they’d rather no one have it at all,” Jorge said grimly.

The flaming pitch sailed into the air in a strangely dignified arc before splashing down in the midst of the Viajero. The dancers came to a halt as people screamed in agony, trying to get the sticky, flaming substance off their bodies. Nearby buildings caught fire and the square filled with dense black smoke that choked the singers and obscured the bewitching colors of the painters. With a single stroke, the entire Viajero resistance had been routed.

The soldiers began to press their advantage. Both the snipers and swordsmen did their best to cover a retreat, but they were easily overwhelmed by greater numbers. Jorge clenched his fists and looked on helplessly at what could turn out to be a massacre of the greatest talent in Raíz, a loss from which his people might never recover.

A deep, booming horn was sounded and the soldiers stopped their advance. The horn came again and the soldiers actually began to retreat.

“What on earth just happened?” demanded Maria. “I—I mean, I’m grateful they didn’t just kill everyone, by why would they stop now when they could have completely crushed us?”

“The only reason I can think of,” said Jorge, “is something even worse than a Raízian uprising has just occurred.”