Grudging, p.10
Grudging, page 10
“You should see your face,” Bromisto crowed, slapping his sides in helpless laughter. “It’s not the big ones you have to worry about. Those are harmless.”
“Caramba.” Ramiro scrubbed at his eyes with a forearm. Why hadn’t he thought to use his sword? Again, he had lost his head and forgotten to think. He might have earned his beard, but he had a long way to go to match his brother.
The half-full berry basket pulled at Claire’s arm. They would have enough berries to make gallons of jam, but her mother seemed content to remain to gather more. A good thing as it had taken two afternoons of berry picking for Claire to work up the nerve to bring up this subject. “Were you scared?”
Her mother looked up from the nearby blueberry bush. “Of what?” she asked. The gentle breeze wasn’t strong enough to lift sweaty hair away from equally sweaty foreheads.
“When you left home and went to that village to create a daughter . . . me, were you scared? You went all alone. It must have been scary.”
A faraway look entered her mother’s eyes. She remained quiet long enough for Claire to add another handful of fruit to her basket. The only sound in the swamp came from the harsh cry of a jay and the drone of insects. Claire held her breath, afraid to say anything that would cause her mother to close off.
“Of leaving home, yes,” her mother finally said. “Of the village, no.” She pulled loose a berry. “I was only a little older than you are now.” A few more berries went into the basket before she sighed. “I suppose you should know—I’d been to villages many times by then.”
Claire’s hand froze in the middle of reaching toward a high branch. “Many times?” Her brown scrunched. “You were allowed to go many times?”
“My mother . . . my mother wanted me to become the Thorn Among Roses. It’s considered an honor—to some at least. When Women of the Song reach their sixteen year, they are sent for training—”
Claire interrupted, anger blooming. “But I’m past that age. Why have I never heard of this?”
“Obviously because I didn’t tell you,” her mother said. Instead of seeming upset, she set her full basket on a rock to keep it off the damp ground. “It’s a tradition I choose to ignore. Girls of sixteen are sent to a secret location at the heart of the swamp to hone their skills with the Song. It’s one of the few times our people ever come together. Girls train, and news is spread, women catch up with one another. The best among the girls each year is named the Thorn Among Roses. Your grandmother wanted that title for me as she had won it herself in her time.
“She didn’t believe in waiting on training, though. She made the villages my training ground well before I was old enough to know better.”
Again her mother became lost in the past, her eyes seeing something beyond. “Your grandmother sent me to the villages to learn to sense or sniff out men’s fears, to find their weakness, the better to manipulate them with the Song. It wasn’t enough to use the traditional Songs handed down through generations. Your grandmother wanted me to learn how to create Songs to fit the moment, to innovate and design my own. I learned to instill terror and drive minds mad. At her urging, I used the Song on men, women, and even children. She never had me kill . . . but I believe she would have worked up to that if I hadn’t left.”
Pain rippled across her mother’s face. Claire took her hand.
“By the time I’d gone for my training,” her mother continued, “a sickness grew inside of me. I began to enjoy controlling others. Not only could I fool the villagers who didn’t suspect, but also the girls of my own kind who should have been harder to trick.”
“But how?” Claire asked. “How did the villagers not see you and know you for a Woman of the Song?” Claire held out her wheat-colored braid. “We sort of stand out.”
“The Song can do many things for those who explore its depths. It makes people see what isn’t there. It can even disguise my features.
“By the time of the competition among the girls my age, I’d had enough.” For the first time, her mother met Claire’s eyes. “I took my belongings and I left your grandmother’s house. I told your grandmother I was done with her and the Song, and I didn’t look back. Just as I want for you, I had to learn to sing my own tune and not dance to my mother’s.”
Claire struggled to think, to even decide how she felt about this revelation. She knew her mother’s rejection of the Song didn’t match what her people considered normal. She knew her mother’s training had been rough. But for her mother to turn her back on everything about the Women of the Song? Claire sighed. Not everything. Her mother had had a daughter to carry on the line when she could have remained alone.
“I’m sorry, Mother.” She caught her mother in a hug, crushing her basket between them. “That must have been horrible. You did the right thing by leaving. I’m sorry you weren’t given a choice. But . . .” Claire gathered herself and took the plunge. “I haven’t really been given a choice either: a chance to try the things you taught me. I feel like you don’t trust me to make the right decision.” And that revelation stung, knowing her mother had kept opportunities from her. That her mother didn’t believe in her. Why else keep her here unless it was because Claire wasn’t good enough with the Song?
Claire didn’t want to deceive people, she just wanted to experience for herself, to make up her own mind. Was the Song evil or only a tool or was the truth somewhere in between?
“It hurts that you don’t have faith in me.”
Her mother stroked Claire’s hair. “So I’ve been thinking for the last few days. You are a woman grown. The Thorn Among Roses competition takes place at the end of fall as work settles down for winter. We will be there.”
Claire stepped back. “We will?” Her feet did a happy, little dance. “We’re going?”
Her mother did not smile. “It’s time to trust you. We’re going.” She turned back to the bushes and dropped more berries in a basket already weighty, closing the conversation.
Feeling like she was lost in a dream, Claire forged ahead among the bushes. She needed time alone to absorb the change of her fortunes. There could be no doubt of her wishes. Claire swung her basket as excitement sang in her veins.
She’d get to meet other Women of the Song, maybe even find friends among them. She’d get to make up her own mind about the magic, and even learn more about the Song that she so desired to sing.
A nagging tugged at her heart. Her mother’s lesson ran too deep. She mustn’t let the freedom go to her head. There were dangers to using the Song. Risks to relying on magic, especially for someone without much practice. Peril to being among other people. Mother had shared many stories about men and their deceitful ways. Even Women of the Song might not have Claire’s best interests, as they would have their own agendas.
That drew her up short. Danger waited around every corner in the swamp. One must always guard against quicksand and other threats. It was the same for the whole of life.
But then Claire glanced back and felt relieved. With her mother at her side, she could get through anything.
CHAPTER 12
Ramiro slogged forward, anxious to reach the other side. The water approached midchest in this part of the swamp, forcing him to hold his arms high to keep them dry. Besides being disgusting, it was also cold enough to numb his toes. Ahead, Bromisto was all but swimming to keep his head above water. The others followed closer to the boy, while Ramiro and Salvador lagged behind.
“Good thing the Northerners aren’t here now,” Salvador said. “We’d be easy pickings.” His brother also had his arms raised high, hands empty as he’d put his sword on the back of his mount. “Or they’d die laughing at us.”
“Can you hear Mother?” Ramiro asked. “ ‘You promised to keep your feet dry,’ ” he minced in imitation. “ ‘You’ll catch your death of cold.’ ” They shared a grin.
“ ‘No son of mine will go to his wedding stinking of swamp water,’ ” Salvador imitated. “ ‘Fronilde will turn up her nose at you, and I’ll never be able to show my face in public again.’ ”
“Wedding?” Ramiro’s feet stopped moving. He shook himself. “Fronilde? Then you’ve asked her finally. Congratulations!”
“Aye,” Salvador said, not stopping. “Before we left. We had the first set of banns read. Fronilde is starting the arrangements.”
Ramiro labored forward to catch his brother, creating a surge of ripples. “Mother doesn’t know, does she?”
“Would you tell her? Fronilde suggested we wait until I get back.”
“Fronilde suggested? Yes, I’ll bet it was all Fronilde’s idea. You’ve picked one of the smartest and most competent women I know, not to mention the softest-hearted. There’s no way she went with that plan willingly.” Ramiro raised his eyebrows. “Keeping that kind of secret from Mother. She’ll kill you.”
“Well . . . it’s not like Fronilde exactly wanted to manage Mother alone, either.”
Ramiro threw back his head and laughed. “I’m glad you have to explain this to her and not me.” His foot slipped in the ooze, and he sobered quickly to keep from slipping under. “But Mother would be right about one thing: You shouldn’t be in this water with your wound. The infection could return.”
“List the priorities,” Salvador said, his face setting back into its “mentor” lines.
“Always see first to Colina Hermosa and its civilians,” Ramiro recited obediently. “Then fellow pelotón members, other military brothers, and lastly self.”
Salvador nodded. “The mission comes first. Remember that, little brother, and you can’t go wrong. I’ll survive.”
Ramiro rolled his eyes but refrained from objecting. Salvador had beaten the precepts and priorities into him since he was Bromisto’s age. He couldn’t go against them if he wanted to.
“I see dry land,” Gomez said, his neck craned for a better vantage.
A surge of relief went through Ramiro, and he rose to his toes but couldn’t see anything except the backs of horses. Teresa lifted herself uncertainly in Valentía’s stirrups. “I see it, too.”
Everyone rushed ahead, to much floundering and splashing. Ramiro fought against the water’s resistance to go faster, eager to be out of this plague. Considering the only place he’d ever had a chance to swim before was in the old quarry during a particularly rainy season, he was glad now to have learned how.
Ahead, Alvito and Gomez split to go around a half-submerged tree trunk, Gomez getting the near side closer to the unseen shore. Bromisto scrambled up the bleached-white sycamore trunk, avoided the lethal-pointed, dead branches, to stand head and shoulders above the horses.
“Not that way!” he called shrilly. “Hairy one! Not that way! Quicksand!”
Salvador seized Ramiro’s shoulder, bringing him to a halt while the others also froze. Teresa shrank down against Valentía to grip the horse’s neck.
“Where?” Salvador demanded.
Bromisto pointed ahead of Gomez. “A small patch, right against the land. We’ll need to go to the right to get around. Come back this way, city man. Stay to the other side of this tree.”
As Gomez retreated and worked to persuade the horses to step away from the promise of land, Ramiro joined the boy atop the log. At first, his eyes stared greedily at the reed-lined, firm, dry ground, but then he scanned the area where Bromisto had pointed. The same greenish water. The same offensive smell. “It all looks identical. How can you tell?
“Look at the ripples,” Bromisto advised. “See the sediment in the water.”
Ramiro followed the ripples leaving Gomez and the tree trunk until they entered the dangerous area and compared them to the undulations coming off everyone else’s movements. The curved swells in the quarantined section moved slower, and the water darkened in its wake, becoming brownish. Ramiro suddenly felt very thankful Salvador had insisted on a guide.
“There’s only a thin layer of water over quicksand,” Bromisto said. “Underneath.” He clutched his throat and made bubbling noise like a drowning man. “It sucks you down. Hard to judge unless you know what to look for.”
Unbothered, the boy hopped off the log and maneuvered back in the lead, but Ramiro hung back until the ripples over the quicksand died. It looked deceptively peaceful now under the veneer of the lake. No different than any other section of the swamp. Sancha, whickering her impatience as her fellow horses left her behind, broke him out of his reverie. Ramiro shivered and slid back into the muck, more eager than ever to reach dry—or relatively dry—ground.
Already, Bromisto and Alvito fought through the reeds to emerge from the water. Head-high bushes grew all around the spot, creating a sort of clearing. Alvito drew his horses after him, getting farther from the water to leave room for the others. He shook like a dog, sending water spraying. Bromisto stayed among the reeds and used the edge of his hand to seemingly strip the water from his bare chest and arms.
“Saints,” Teresa breathed as Gomez led Valentía from the water. “I’m glad that’s over. Ugh, quicksand. What a horrible way to go.”
Gomez clapped a huge hand on Bromisto’s shoulder, staggering the boy. “A thousand thanks to our new mascot. We’ll have to start calling you Eagle Eye.”
“Aye, mascot,” Teresa said, still clutching Valentía. “Thanks from me also. You saved us. I’m glad I was only a passenger because, even above the water, I’m chilled all over.”
Alvito pulled a flask from his belt. “This will warm you up.”
“Hold,” Salvador said sternly. “How close are we to the witches?”
“From what I remember, an hour’s walk or less,” Bromisto said.
“No alcohol.” Salvador gestured. “Not now. Standard scout formation. Something doesn’t feel right.”
Emerging from the water last, Ramiro kicked his legs to send water drops falling from his pants. He eyed the burning sun, grateful for once because it meant he’d dry quicker. By San Martin, he wished they didn’t have to go back that way on their return.
When Alvito and Gomez moved upwind of Salvador, fanning out, he spread in the opposite direction. If Salvador said something wasn’t right, then it was time for extra caution. Sancha nosed at the bushes, lipping the small berries. Ramiro glanced closer. Blueberries.
He scanned deeper into the nearest bush, searching, on high alert. And although he was being vigilant, he started at a pair of eyes, as blue as the berries and filled with astonishment, focused on Sancha from the opposite side of the bushes.
A thin girl held a basket over one arm. It was half-full of berries. She wore a skimpy dress of unbleached homespun that was inches too short over trousers of the same material. Her long, braided hair was the color of a sunbeam breaking through the clouds, just like in his mother’s book.
At his noise, her eyes darted from Sancha to him, and her mouth popped open.
Sancha’s reins fell from Ramiro’s hand when he realized exactly what he was looking at.
A witch!
He launched himself through the bush, twigs tearing at his wet clothing. The force of his leap sent him plowing into her. Basket and berries flew upward, hitting the ground seconds after he bore her to the earth. His weight came down atop her, driving the air from both their lungs as he plastered his hand over her mouth.
She squirmed under him, thrashing like a cat, but he overbore her easily even one-handed, pinning her to the ground. Fallen berries made a carpet around them among crushed leaves. Her mouth worked under his palm, but no magic was able to emerge. Water dripped from him to dampen her clothing. Everything went deadly quiet for the length it took to get air back in his lungs, then birdsong resumed.
Shadows fell over them as the others arrived.
“By Santiago, cousin.” Teresa chuckled astride Valentía. “We’re supposed to negotiate with the witches, not embrace them.”
Ramiro felt his cheeks heat. He’d reacted without thinking again. “I feared she’d use magic against us.”
“Is it a witch?” Salvador pressed.
Bromisto backed toward the swamp, his face grayish. “It’s the nit of a sirena.”
Salvador exchanged glances with Alvito. “And she has the magic?” his brother asked.
“Not as strongly as a full-grown sirena, but yes.”
They all stared at the skinny girl, and Ramiro instinctively increased the pressure holding her secure. Her eyes had gone from astonishment and shock to pure fury. She bucked and fought uselessly against him. She might have been pretty if not for the rage marring her features.
The boy retreated farther until his feet were under the water. His eyes darted in all directions. “A sirena is never far from her nit. This is not for me. I take you to the house, not help you against the sirena herself.”
“We wouldn’t ask you to,” Salvador said calmly though the tension in his body spoke his readiness. Already, he buckled his sword about his waist, Alvito and Gomez quickly imitating him. Salvador’s voice lowered, his eyes already seeking. “No time for getting into our armor or tying her up. Well done, Ramiro. Keep her here and keep her quiet until we find the other, but don’t hurt her.”
“Hi-ya.” He straddled the girl’s chest, using his legs to pin her shoulders and pressed both his hands across her mouth. “She’s not going anywhere.”
Gomez touched his sword hilt, then the dagger at his waist.
“Wait a minute,” Teresa protested quietly, gripping her sling with her good arm. “This is why you brought me. Give diplomacy a chance. It’s persuasion that will make the witches help Colina Hermosa. The Northerners are a danger to everyone, not just our city.”
Salvador nodded. “The show belongs to you, cousin. We’ll back you up. And if diplomacy fails, then force will take over. Our backup plan is you convincing her as we take her to Colina Hermosa. Ready?” He secured the packhorse he’d been riding to the remains of the bush while Gomez did the same with the other one. The caballos de guerra could be trusted to stay with their owners.
