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  His father, Alcalde Julian, had made camp on the vast plain before the city, in the same spot abandoned by the Northern army. There, they remained, with hearts too fragile to move far from their destroyed home. To leave would be admitting it truly lost.

  But it was lost. And the futility of that thought fueled the slow-burning rage in his soul.

  As if feeling something similar, Lupaa touched heart, mind, liver, and spleen. “And no one has been inside?” Behind her on the second horse, her grandsons wept.

  Ramiro had no tears left. “No. Well, yes,” he corrected. “Some tried, but found it too hot. They didn’t have much success. The Alcalde posted guards at every opening to keep the citizens away. It just isn’t safe with so many fires burning to have people roaming all over. They have sent in a few teams to uncover the nearest wells, though. Water will soon be our biggest concern.” They were already rationing it, even having confiscated the supply left by the enemy army.

  “Perhaps something can be saved when it cools. Rebuilt.”

  Lupaa said what was repeated whenever two of his countrymen met, the phrase recurring so often it seemed on everyone’s tongue. Ramiro had said it himself more often than he could count. Now he grunted and let Arias answer her. Some things went too deep for words. The loss of a city. The loss of a brother.

  Sancha whickered unhappily, showing the whites of her eyes. Ramiro patted his mare’s neck. Either she caught his unease, or somehow she sensed the burnt hulk marked the destruction of her kind also. Sancha had saved his life so many times and now that opportunity to bond was lost to others for the foreseeable future. Before the Northern army began the siege around Colina Hermosa, they’d brought all of the precious caballos de guerra bloodline inside the walls to safeguard them. All the dapple-gray horseflesh that made pairing with a pelotón soldier so special, including the breeding stock: all the mares that were pregnant or in estrus, the foals—and worse—the stallions . . .

  When the fire started, no one had come to their rescue. Most guessed they died still inside their stable. Alone and in terror of a horse’s mortal foe: fire. The image twisted Ramiro’s guts to knots. The majority of caballos de guerra that survived were mares like Sancha or geldings like Arias rode. It would be years before new pelotón members would be able to form the important, unbreakable bond with their horse again—if the bloodline ever fully recovered.

  Just one more depravity to lay at the Northerners’ feet. One more failure of the other ciudades-estado for not aiding. The people of Colina Hermosa had done their part and almost succeeded. The anger threatened to overwhelm Ramiro, and he fought to remember that many still lived. To dwell on such dark thoughts would be to sit down and never get up again.

  And there was still so much to do.

  The camp sprawled out ahead of them, guardsmen nodding and calling greeting as they approached the perimeter, recognizing their own. The people of Colina Hermosa spread over three camps, with this settlement being the largest, and like Lupaa, stragglers filled the open countryside in between. A second camp was organized halfway between Crueses and here; and a third lay nearly to the swamp of the witches. He hoped Teresa had taken charge of that one, but no one had yet returned from making contact with it. Patrols like his brought in more people every day as they waited on the Alcalde and the concejales to decide where to go and what the people should do.

  Though Ramiro had only been gone a day, improvements in the camp abounded. More makeshift tents had risen, made from blankets. People filled the pathways, going about their usual tasks as best they could. With no water for washing, women strung clothing from lines and beat them with sticks or the ends of spears to knock off sand and ash. Children ran and played as if a battle hadn’t just happened here. With unspoken agreement, the site had been laid out along the same lines as the city. The tent of the Alcalde resided at the center, exactly like the citadel. It was there Ramiro aimed his steps.

  The pathways through camp mimicked the roads of Colina Hermosa, making it easy to find his way. Even without anything to sell, merchants set up their bedding on the same avenues where their shops and homes had once stood, leaving space for missing neighbors. Residential areas sprang up to correspond to their old locations. Priests marked out cathedrals and more modest mud-dab churches, laying comforting hands on the dying and speaking wisdom to the worried. Soldiers bedded down at the perimeters. It all felt very much the same, while looking vastly different. Only the large healer tents for the injured were new.

  The largest of the Northern tents had been given over to the wounded or sick—a situation Ramiro hoped would go unneeded soon. The people of Colina Hermosa had bought their peace with much sacrifice. It had to last. The thought of the Northerners returning sent a flood of cold across his skin. The unease, which had started on patrol, lingered. The sight of the slaughter continued to flash before his eyes. He walked faster, eager to finish his duty and be free to find Claire and his family.

  In silence, they reached the center of the camp and the area set aside to replicate the citadel. Ramiro bypassed the carpets stretched over spear points assembled for his parents’ sleeping quarters. It was clearly empty. The council tent next door had its flaps down, and bodyguards with crossed spears out front said Alcalde Julian held a conference inside and interlopers would not be welcome. Claire’s small tent sat halfway between, but as a person had to crawl their way inside, Ramiro doubted she spent her free time there. No, the girl would be off with Beatriz.

  Ramiro tamped down his disappointment and led the group behind his parents’ tent to where the citadel servants had used Northern wagons and planks torn from others as a makeshift kitchen area. They’d turned industriousness to inventiveness: a cutting board stood atop a flour barrel, spurs pounded in a plank became hooks for cookware.

  He helped Lupaa slide off Sancha. The head chef hurried forward with a grandson under each arm to be engulfed by her fellow cooks, grooms, butlers, and the other servants who had always kept the thousand-year-old citadel a shining masterpiece. They welcomed her in like the family they were, giving her time for only a small wave and a thank you thrown to him over her shoulder. Later, she’d have a snack for him, and while it wouldn’t include her famous honey, she would find something special.

  He smiled, happy to see her settled and safe. Relieved for even a bit of happiness.

  “I’m headed back to barracks for a drink and shuteye,” Arias said. The older man had removed his helmet and gauntlets since they’d entered camp, and tugged at the top of his breastplate to let in a breath of air. “I can report for the both of us, if you want to stay here.”

  “Hi-ya,” Ramiro acknowledge gratefully. “I owe you.”

  Arias waved it off as he turned his horse. “Nothing owed between brothers.”

  Brothers. The word cut like a sharp slap, though Arias meant it kindly. And he was right. Ramiro had not just one brother, but hundreds of them, all watching his back, all invested in his life. His military brothers didn’t replace Salvador, but they would try. Ramiro dashed at his eyes before someone could see the wetness.

  “Come on, Sancha. Where do we find Claire?”

  The mare rolled an ear and stamped, raising a puff of dust. When he pulled on the reins, she stayed stubbornly in place.

  “Here?” Ramiro asked her. “Claire’s not here. Come on. We need to find her. She could be in danger.”

  Sancha started forward, going straight to the rocky ground where the servants had staked out sleeping spots and left their few possessions. She stopped before the oiled tarp covering Ramiro’s own things and shook as if brushing off flies.

  Ramiro rolled his eyes. “It’s not time to bed down. Claire.” He remembered the people torn to bits and shuddered. That couldn’t happen to Claire. Yet rushing out to find her without a plan wasn’t likely to succeed. He stared out at the camp. It wasn’t as big as the Northern army, but large enough.

  His mother had resumed all her usual activities, and knowing her, she was probab
ly dragging Claire with her. Beatriz could be anywhere: visiting the injured, at one of the many makeshift, outdoor churches, paying calls on the other ladies, sitting with Fronilde, or having tea in a tent somewhere. While he searched one spot, she could have moved on to another or even doubled back to someplace he’d already been—if he didn’t walk right past her. He groaned. It might be faster to wait here. Besides, there would have been some outcry if something had happened to Claire, and she did have a guard.

  Sancha pawed the ground again. “You win,” he told the mare. “We’ll wait here.” His instinct didn’t shout out a warning as it had before when they’d been close to the Northerners. What he felt was more like the electric smell of the air a day before a storm arrived. Trouble hadn’t happened, but it headed in their direction. Waiting might let him reach Claire sooner than rushing around like a chicken butchered for the soup pot, but if she didn’t come soon, he might tear apart the camp to find her.

  He couldn’t say why, but he knew time was definitely a factor.

  Ramiro took off all his armor and padding and left it on the tarp to be cleaned later. He kept his sword belted on and his knives securely in place, then removed Sancha’s tack and got out his curry comb and hoof pick. He could placate his horse if nothing else.

  By the time he finished and got the mare settled, the first stars graced the sky. He stared at the lights inside the council tent, outlining the dark human shapes around an equally dark table. The meeting went long. What would become of the people of Colina Hermosa? Would they return to the nomadic life of small groups they’d lived before the arrival of Santiago and the other saints thousands of years ago to civilize them? The men inside that tent, including his father, would decide. He prayed the saints sent them wisdom.

  Claire took a seat on a flat-topped rock low to the ground. After being with people all day, she was glad to find Ramiro alone except for his horse. Or as alone as possible in this camp. Servants bustled about a few yards away, but the darkness seemed to wall them apart. The stars made a river above them, as lonely and distant as her heart.

  Not only would speaking to him alone make telling him about her decision to depart easier, she was grateful for the quiet. How did Beatriz stand doing nothing but talking all day? Of course as the First Wife, she had others to make her food, wash her clothes, and even smooth her bed. But to do no chore other than flit from place to place all day? To never have the satisfaction of producing a successful batch of soap or storing enough food for the winter?

  How did a person live without accomplishing anything?

  Ramiro hadn’t noticed her approach, facing the other direction with hands on hips. Claire remained as quiet as a pack rat. Even before they become friends, she’d enjoyed tricking him, creeping up on him, or doing the unexpected. It never got old. Unfortunately, she had a task to do and couldn’t spend time amusing herself.

  She tossed a pebble, creating the clink of stone striking stone. She bit back a snicker when Ramiro jumped and turned to discover her on a rock not a yard from him. He’d been so deep in thought he hadn’t noticed her approach, despite the light now blazing across the sands from the lamps in Beatriz’s tent not twenty yards away. Sancha whickered a greeting and went back to her grain. Claire tossed another pebble, then smiled at Ramiro.

  “When did you get here?” he asked. “I was just going to look for you.”

  “A few minutes ago.” She placed her arms around her drawn-up knees, a pleasant glow flickering inside at sneaking up on him. Shadows melded his skin into his equally brown clothing, still the width of his shoulders stood out well enough. “You didn’t even hear me.”

  He squinted one eye. “You used magic, is what you did.”

  She wiggled on the rock, uncomfortable at the reminder, not wanting to admit that she hadn’t. Her failure this morning still stung. She hadn’t protected herself, but had let Beatriz stand between her and the knife. The words and the will just hadn’t appeared, not even to save her life. Perhaps Beatriz had accomplished more than Claire gave her credit for after all. “Maybe. Your patrol went well?”

  “Well enough. We found three lost souls and brought them back. Didn’t see any living Northerners.” He paused as if he had more to say, but then said, “And you? You’re well?”

  “Well enough,” she echoed. She ducked her head down, finding it hard to tell him of the knife man. It would only make him fight her decision more.

  “Mother kept you busy?” When she didn’t answer, Ramiro frowned. “What happened?”

  She struggled for a lie, but her mother raised her too well. She couldn’t even think of a way to tone the words down to sound better, but if she didn’t tell him, someone else would. “Someone tried to kill me.”

  Ramiro had his knife out and moved to stand over her, before she drew a breath. His jumpy reaction surprising her. They were safe enough at the moment. “A Northerner? How did they sneak in?”

  “No.” Her head stayed down. She hated to disappoint him. She’d hoped he wouldn’t ask. Why did he always dig so deep? “One of your people.”

  “My people.” The knife in his hand trembled. “No. They couldn’t . . .” She watched him stop as realization that they could and had grew across his face.

  Anger tightened his features. “Of all the ungrateful—” he sputtered.

  “It’s over, and I’m not harmed. But . . . I was thinking”—this was even harder to say—“maybe I’ll go home—just for a bit.”

  “No. You told me you’d stay.” He rammed the knife back into its place.

  The decisiveness of his answer made it her turn to be surprised. “You have your soldiering and your family. You’ll be busy enough . . . and I’m not really needed anymore. The Northerners are gone.” All true, if she could just convince him.

  “Rubbish.” He took a step back, eyes narrowing. “Don’t put on that mulish face. That’s nothing but excuses. What’s really going on? Was it mother? Did she say something?”

  “No. She was . . . she supported me.”

  He swung around to stare off into the night. “They hurt your feelings. Called you witch. Well, to hell with them. You’ll stay with me from now on. I’ll make time for you.”

  She climbed to her feet. “Now who’s being mulish? When you’re on patrol? Guard duty? That won’t work. It’s best this way. I don’t fit in here, and I never will. They’re nice enough, but I make them nervous.” If she left, Ramiro could go on being the hero, and no one would look at him funny because he protected the witch anymore. They would stop whispering behind his back. If saving their people didn’t earn their gratitude, nothing would. Staying would only drive him to step away from the people he loved most in order to defend her.

  Clearly he disagreed. He turned back and caught her hand, as if he could physically keep her from going. “Give it time. They will.”

  She shook her head sadly. “It’s not just about them, you know. This isn’t my home. Maybe it’s about what I want. I wanted to learn about this place and I have. Maybe I miss the swamp. I’m ready to leave.”

  Deep down a tiny voice called her out, shouting liar at her. Wasn’t the real reason because if she went back to the swamp she could keep hiding from her magic? Stay here and Ramiro or someone else would pressure her to use it, thinking it what she wanted.

  He dropped her hand. Now she’d hurt his feelings. He’d never believe his home wasn’t the place for everyone. That their ways, possibly, weren’t best for all.

  “And if the Northerners come back?” he asked.

  “Well, you’ll know where to find me.” They’d discussed that possibility. He’d agreed never to force her to sing that Song again. The Song had removed the Northerners, but had been foul, evil. She couldn’t stand to touch on the memory of that magic—

  Or any magic.

  Her legs wobbled and she sat back on the rock before Ramiro could see. But his sharp eyes missed nothing.

  “What else is wrong?”

  She tried to say “nothi
ng,” to laugh him off, but the words tumbled out. “When the man came at me with a knife today, I froze. I couldn’t use the Song. I forgot all about it until too late. Your mother stepped in front of me. I put her in danger.” Cold swept over her, the fear from that moment returning. What if it happened again and someone died? What if instead of her, it were an innocent or a friend’s life in danger? Would she freeze again? “It was a stroke of luck that I stopped the Northerners. I don’t know anything about the magic. I’m not really any good, any use—”

  “Rubbish,” he said again. “If anyone is strong, it’s you. I see it in you every day. You wouldn’t have let my mother be hurt. Turning back the Northerners was no fluke. The only fluke was today. It won’t happen again. And you can learn about the magic. I thought that was your plan.”

  A blush spread over her features at his compliments, and she was glad he couldn’t see it. He’d always believed in her more than she did. “That’s as may be, but I’m still going.”

  “I can’t let you do that. It isn’t safe for you to leave camp or be alone.” Then he told her of what he’d seen on patrol that day—the people torn apart by some new Northern cruelty—and his anxiety that they would come after her next.

  The cold wasn’t in her imagination now. Frosty tendrils of fear spread out from her heart, snaking down each limb, and turning her fingers to ice. The Northerners killed and killed; they delighted in nothing else. Mules, children, women. What would they do to the one who had disrupted their army? The one who made assured, confident men run off a cliff? She knotted stiff fingers together as bile rose in her throat.

  “Perhaps it was some new torture of their priests’ magic,” Ramiro said.

  Claire followed his gaze into the darkness where Ramiro bedded down to sleep. Both knew what lay rolled up in his extra shirt and hidden at the bottom of his pack: a slim white rod as long as a forearm that they’d taken from a Northern priest. The rod that could kill with a touch. It had to be magic of a kind they couldn’t understand. Neither of them had the desire to bring it to the light of day, but now they might not have a choice.