Over the gray scrub uplands of La Mancha, stretched out to the bottom of the somber, clouded sky, trotted a line of twenty horses, fourteen of them with riders, the rest bearing baggage.
Ah, they were a fine sight! Blisters and aches were healing, even Josep rarely fell off these days, and the pilgrims believed in themselves. Watching them come in the low light of evening, Toby could relish a niggle of pride that he knew would appall Father Guillem. They were traveling in far better style now than they had when they first met Toby Longdirk, and he had a shameful inclination to give himself some credit for that, even if he would never mention it to anyone else. Admittedly, his success had been bought at the price of some three dozen lives, but if kings and generals could be praised for victories and booty, then why shouldn't he? The landsknechte had gained their wealth by looting, so he had merely returned some of it to Spanish ownership. Father Guillem did not approve of such views, but most of the others did.
They had passed Tortosa in the night and carried on up the valley of the Ebro. The interior had not suffered from the war as badly as the coast had. Already houses were being rebuilt and there was traffic on the byways, the life of the land thrusting out shoots as men plowed and pruned and herded. Having ample provisions, the pilgrims had ridden by the scattered settlements without stopping, and in four days no one had contested their passage, no pursuers had come howling for their blood. Now they could truly believe they had escaped. Even if the massacre had been discovered, the delay should block any efforts by the governor, the landsknechte, or even the Inquisition to learn who had been seen traveling when, to where, on what road. The future could become interesting again. Horses made a huge difference, eating up the leagues.
The weather had broken, bringing cold and squalls. He pulled his cloak tighter around him as he waited for the others to arrive, cursing a bitter wind he would have welcomed with rapture only days ago, grateful for the clothes he had looted. His doublet was indigo with scarlet lining showing through the slashes, and his hose were a shocking mismatch in yellow and blue. The grandiose landsknechte costume was distinctive, but both Josep and Doña Francisca assured him that stylish Spanish gentlemen had begun to adopt the mercenaries' custom of a heavily padded doublet worn without a jerkin. So as long as he kept the cloak around him and did not flaunt a plumed cap, he could pass as a civilian with more money than taste.
He had ridden ahead on Smeòrach to locate a campsite. Smeòrach was a fine young gelding, strong and eager, named after the thrush because of his speckled coat. Even after a long day of carrying his oversized new owner, he fretted at being made to stand. He wanted to stretch out and run.
The don arrived, still wearing his motley armor and carrying his lance but mounted now on the landsknechte captain's showy black stallion, which he had chosen because it had a vicious temper and thus presented an interesting challenge. Doña Francisca was following some ways behind on her piebald mare, both Petals and Atropos having been released to fend for themselves in honorable retirement.
Smeòrach whinnied a welcome. Toby saluted and gestured apologetically at the dusty gully behind him, which offered nothing but a puddle of rainwater and some shelter from the eternal wind.
"This is the best I can find, senor."
The don regarded the prospect without enthusiasm. "It must suffice. We may do better tomorrow, when we reach the valley of the Segre. We shall follow it to Lerida, but once we turn east, the country is more settled." Although his mother confirmed that he had never visited these parts before, he had not been wrong yet.
"Senor, I am worried about the friar. He has never ridden in his life before, and he is very old. He cannot endure this pace for long."
"You'll think of something, Campeador." The don had no patience for unwelcome realities. "By the way, just before that honorable exchange with the foreigners, you promised to tell me your story. You have not yet done so." He frowned as if this were rank mutiny, but in fact Toby had just not had a free minute. He had not even contrived any private chats with Brother Bernat, who still had much to tell him.
"I shall be honored to do so this evening, senor, to both you and Senor Francisco, if he wishes to attend. After supper, if that will be convenient?"
"Yes. And why don't you and Sergeant Jaume dine with us in our pavilion, hmm?"
Toby thanked him solemnly, although the entire company now ate together around a communal fire. Nor did the expedition have even one tent, although that had begun to seem like a foolish oversight.
The don went off to choose a sleeping place. His mother rode by with a tired smile, followed by the other women, all chattering like starlings at sunset. Gracia and Senora Collel had insisted on retaining their previous mounts and the awkward silla sidesaddles. Eulalia and the two Elinors managed surprisingly well, although none of them would ever be described as a stylish rider. Pepita thought riding was tremendous fun. Toby had expected her to double up with one of the adults, but she had selected a high-stepping gelding, calmed him with a touch, and ridden him from then on as if she had been weaned on mares' milk.
Rafael and Miguel actually smiled at Toby as they passed — oh, what a change that was! Of course they were rich men now, by their standards. They and their wives had scavenged through the landsknechte camp like jackdaws, gathering all the valuables. As far as Toby knew, no one else had collected as much as one gold link.
Hamish was next, leading the pack train and garbed even more garishly than Toby was, in purple and gold and lime green. He bowed graciously in the saddle as he went by.
Finally came Josep and Father Guillem, the worst riders. The monk had fallen off several times and Josep been thrown twice, although neither had broken any bones. They were leading Brother Bernat's horse.
"What happened? Where is he?"
"He is coming," Father Guillem said with the disapproving scowl he wore anywhere close to Toby. "He prefers to walk."
Toby gave Smeòrach a kick and had his head jerked back as the gelding took off like a crossbow quarrel. This, in his horse's opinion, was more like it! After about a mile, just when he was working up a good sweat, the irritating man on his back annoyed him thoroughly by reining him in again.
The gray-robed friar was trudging along at his usual pace, apparently not in distress. Toby dismounted and fell into step on the windward side, leading Smeòrach. "Are you all right, Brother?"
Obviously Bernat was not all right. He could walk any of them off their feet, but he had looked drawn and exhausted ever since they first put him on a horse. At the moment he had his hood up, so his face was not clearly visible; yet he seemed better than he had at noon, and he greeted the question with a dry, tolerant chuckle.
"There is nothing wrong with me that you can help, not unless you can somehow lift sixty years or so from me, and I doubt even your hob can manage that."
"We should not have come so far today. I am sorry."
The old man shook his head. "You have good reason, many good reasons. I will not hold you up. I am better with my feet on Mother Earth, that is all. You must not worry about me."
"But—" Toby realized he was in danger of clucking and remembered how he hated to be mothered by Hamish. "I will worry, but I will try not to nag." He busied himself loosening Smeòrach's girths as they walked.
"There is one thing you may do for me, Tobias. Keep your eyes open for some pleasant little town that has not been ravaged too badly. I have a need to find a shrine in the near future, a small sanctuary."
Toby tried to catch a better view of the old man's face. How urgent was this need? "The don says we'll reach Lerida tomorrow."
"No, I want a smaller place."
"I am sure the Lerida tutelary will be skilled at healing, Brother."
"Healing is not what I need," Brother Bernat explained patiently.
"Oh! Then why…? But most of the lesser shrines are empty. The spirits were raped away by the Fiend's hexers."
"Yes, I know that."
Completely fuddled now, Toby gave up trying to understand. "The don says we will soon be in country more populated than this."
"That will do. I have a few days yet. How is your meditating going?"
"I keep trying. Every night on my watch. And even when I'm riding."
The friar laughed faintly. "I had no idea that it was possible to meditate and ride at the same time."
"I'm not sure it is," Toby admitted. "But I do try whenever I have time."
"It will come. There is a right way and a wrong way to put a horse in a stall, isn't there?"
"Huh? Well, they like to have their eating end next the manger."
"And lying on their backs with their feet in the air would count as a wrong way?"
"I've seen them try it." Where was this conversation leading?
"Then I picked a poor analogy. What I mean to say, Tobias, is that there is more than one way to put a spirit inside a person. A hexer has a special way of inserting a demon into a husk to make a creature. A free demon will possess a man in another way."
"And the hob?"
"Seems to have found a third position. From what you have told me of your experiences, it may have tried several times before it got comfortable. Father Guillem thinks that is why the Inquisition failed to conjure it, although he is guessing. There is yet another—"
"Is that why you say it cannot be exorcized?"
"No." The old man walked on for a moment with his head down, his face hidden by his hood. "I must tell you this now, Tobias, although I would have preferred to keep it for later. The reason you cannot ever be rid of the hob is that it is too late."
"I guessed that. It's put down roots, hasn't it?"
"You have grown together, and you will continue to grow together. To remove the hob now would leave very little of you. That is how you bring back such useful memories from the future. Warnings, you called them, and you said the hob wasn't smart enough to be so selective, but you certainly are. It used your intelligence to choose the warnings, manipulating you. And manipulation seems to work both ways — doesn't it, Tobias?"
Toby squirmed like a worm on a hook. "Well, maybe a little. Maybe once…"
"Which of you destroyed the landsknechte and the Inquisition?"
Murderer! "I did, Brother. I told the hob where to strike. It was the storm that roused it, and I've been wondering if that was what was different from the time before, when it jerked me back to start over — this time the storm came. The storm was just luck, but once the hob began rampaging, I found I could direct some of the thunderbolts. I've never felt anything like that before, and I had trouble directing it at the end. Whatever power I had didn't last long."
The friar sighed but did not comment.
"Doesn't a man have the right to defend himself, Brother? They were going to torture me to death!"
"Because they thought you had a demon. They weren't so far wrong were they? No, I don't really blame you for fighting back. I believe you would have chosen another way to escape if there had been one. But you and the hob are growing together, and eventually there will be no difference between you. Which of you is going to be master? I warn you, if it can ever gain control of you, then it will. It will take you over completely."
"And I will go crazy?"
"You will be its creature, my son. The hob may not be as malicious as a demon, but it has no conscience, not yet. You know what happened at Mezquiriz."
Toby shivered, for his worst fears were being confirmed. "Is this inevitable, Brother? Because if it is, then I must try to kill myself now."
"No, it is not inevitable. You still have a chance. You were not a child when it happened, but you were not fully adult, either, so there is hope. Time will work on your side. Through you the hob must learn what it is to be mortal, what is right, what is wrong, what suffering means. We teach the spirits these things, my son. It takes centuries to train an elemental to be a tutelary, and you do not have centuries."
"Is there no quicker way?" Toby asked.
Apparently the old man did not hear that impertinent question. "Keep practicing your meditation, for that keeps the hob quiescent and you in control. The two of you will gradually merge into one, but it will take many years, and you must emerge as the dominant partner. Rush the process, as you were doing the other night, and the hob will be the survivor."
They were almost at the campsite.
"That's all I can do — breathe funny, think about swans, mumble 'Lochan na Bi' over and over?"
"That is quite enough to keep you busy!" Brother Bernat said sharply. "The safest thing would be to enter a monastery, for there you would have no distractions. I just cannot see you ever becoming a monk, though. I think you would go out of your mind with boredom, and then you would be no better off. But do try and stay away from battles and women, from strong drink and hair-raising escapades."
"And if I do? If I am the survivor, what will I be then?"
The friar walked on for a long while before he answered. "Whatever you deserve to be."
"What does that mean?"
"Ah. You promised not to ask questions until I had finished, Tobias. I have not finished yet. Not quite."
The men unloaded and groomed the horses, watered them and set them free to graze, hobbling a couple so that they could be caught in the morning and used to round up the rest. The women gathered firewood, ground grain, made biscuits of dough to bake under the ashes. Those persons who chose to do so washed themselves. By the time the meal was ready, darkness had fallen, and the company gathered around the fire in no especial order to eat and share stories.
Some nights now they had singing after their meal, for Don Ramon had liberated a vihuela from the landsknechte camp. He had not only a gentleman's skill at playing it but also a fine tenor voice — there seemed to be nothing he was not good at, except facing reality. He could pick up the melody when the Catalans sang their songs, and even manage to accompany Hamish in Scottish ballads, although Hamish's memory for lyrics was much better than his ability to stay in key. Father Guillem had a powerful bass and a repertoire of monastic chants from many lands.
After that evening's meal, though, Toby took Hamish aside and asked him to organize a second campfire some distance from the first, where he and the don could have a private chat.
Hamish disapproved, naturally. "How can you possibly trust him? He's as batty as a bell tower! His head's full of eels."
"And I have foreseen his death. It may not happen, but I owe him a warning, at least." For some reason he could not identify, Toby felt he ought to trust the don, that it might be important.
Hamish went off muttering but did what he had been asked, as usual.
Toby invited Doña Francisca to attend also and then decided to include Josep, who had supported him steadfastly and deserved recognition for it. The inquisitive Senora Collel tried to gatecrash, bringing Gracia with her, and the don peremptorily ordered them away, insisting that women could not attend a council of war.
The five huddled around the little flames that danced on their nest of twigs and streamed ribbons of smoke into the night wind. Pale light flickered on intent faces.
"This is a strange tale," Toby began, "perhaps the strangest you will have ever heard, but Brother Bernat believes it, and I suspect no lie would ever deceive him. I must warn you that it involves truths that are dangerous to know. The Fiend has decreed that anyone who learns these things must die, so you may prefer not to listen. Whether that will reduce your peril, I cannot say. Just by associating with you, I have put you all at risk."
"A dramatic preamble!" proclaimed the don. "Let us hope that the gravamen is worthy of it."
No one departed. So there, in the cool night breezes, Toby told his whole improbable story once again. Hamish just scowled in silence at the starlit hills, for he knew it all. Josep and Doña Francisca grew more and more worried as it progressed, but Don Ramon seemed to find it dull. Perhaps his internal fantasies were too vivid for him to appreciate anyone else's adventures, no matter how bizarre. He yawned frequently, although he beamed approval when Toby described how calmly he had laid his head on the block to have it chopped off. His mother wailed in horror.
"That's all," Toby concluded. "Have I left out anything, Jaume?"
Hamish blinked himself back to the present. "What? Sorry. Wasn't listening."
Toby chuckled. "You weren't even here! You left us at Glen Shira and Loch Fyne."
Hamish smiled, half abashed, half wistful. "I was thinking about girls."
"This Baron Oreste," asked Doña Francisca, "did he not lead the army that sacked Zaragoza? Then he is a monster!"
Toby nodded. "Most true, Senor Francisco. He is one of the Fiend's bosom friends."
"Does a demon have friends?" asked Hamish. "Or a bosom?"
Ignore that. "General, courtier, advisor, potent hexer. A monster for all seasons."
"And you say he is viceroy in Barcelona?" the old lady persisted.
"That was what my vision told me."
"And what the landsknechte told me," said the don, "when I demanded to see their authority." He smiled and twirled up his mustache. He had lost his air of boredom. In fact the firelight sparkled in his blue eyes with a strange excitement.
"So he is after you and this amethyst?" asked Josep, appalled.
"Mostly the amethyst. I am of no real interest to him, except that I have tweaked his pride too often."
"Then you must not go near Barcelona! Surely so great a hexer will track you down at once."
"Honored Senor Brusi," Hamish said, "were you to write that advice on my friend's forehead with a stonemason's mallet and chisel, he would still not notice. I have been telling him the same thing every chime of the clock for weeks."
"I suppose I shouldn't," Toby conceded.
"Spirits preserve us! The earth moves!"
"Conditions have changed," Toby said, a little nettled. His main reason for going to Barcelona had been to see Hamish aboard ship and homeward bound, but Josep could arrange that much better than he could and would certainly be willing to do so. "I was hoping that the baron would rid me of the hob, but it was never a very plausible plan, and Brother Bernat fears that it would cripple me. I'll decide what to do when we reach Montserrat. I may go on to France."
"Or Florence?" said Josep. "Or Majorca, or Salerno? I have… my house has branches in all those places, and my offer of employment still stands." He chuckled, detecting Toby's astonishment. "Barcelona is a great trading city, Senor. Not so very long ago it ruled half the Mediterranean. It is still cosmopolitan, a center of the arts, a—"
"Yucch!" snarled the don. "Trade? You insult the man. You insult all of us by even mentioning it. A true man's ambition is the accomplishment of great deeds of valor. Still, I suppose he is only a peasant and would not understand that. Perhaps trade is all he is good for, after all." He turned to the peasant in question. "Is Baron Oreste a creature like his master?"
"No, he is human," Toby said. "Although he is a hexer, he himself is bound to absolute obedience. I was told once that the demon that controls him is immured in a beryl set in one of the many rings he wears. He cannot remove the ring and so escape beyond the demon's reach."
"He is mortal, then." Don Ramon twirled up the points of his mustache with apparent satisfaction. "I ask merely out of curiosity, you understand. I shall be paying my respects to the noble lord when we reach Barcelona."
"What?" shrieked Doña Francisca.
They were all staring at the don. Had he taken leave of his senses? Well, yes. Some time ago. But where was his confused mind wandering now?
"I warned you, senor," Toby protested, "that by associating with you I have put you in peril. You know of Rhym, and that is a capital offense. The baron can find any number of executioners apart from me."
The caballero shrugged with superb disdain. "My estates lie in lands ceded to Aragon under the treaty, so my rightful liege is now the… King Nevil himself. It is fitting that I call upon his deputy when I arrive in Barcelona." His mad eyes scanned them all, daring them to argue.
"No!" His mother had both hands to her mouth and looked ghastly in the firelight.
He dismissed her protest with a sneer. "Campeador? Francisco is well past his best. I need a younger squire. If you are seeking employment, I can offer you a career with prospects greater than anything your haberdasher friend there may dream of. Of course you will require training, but you seem to have some capacity beyond brute brawn."
Did the don really think he could kill Oreste, a hexer protected by innumerable demons? For a moment Toby was tempted to say that he would rather apply his brute brawn in Josep's warehouse or even Senora Collel's bedroom — but discretion prevailed.
"You honor me greatly, senor. I beg you to let me have time to weigh your splendid offer against certain other obligations I am not at liberty to reveal."
"As you will. I am confident we shall reach Barcelona within the week, if we continue at our present pace."
But the present pace was liable to kill Brother Bernat. There lay Toby's other obligation.
Oddly enough, the rain didn't help at all. The countryside had become greener and gentler, little rolling hills that a man could almost imagine were somewhere in the Scottish Lowlands, and that just made the ache worse. Some people are never satisfied. Hamish was astride Liath near the head of the line, right behind the don and his squire, and it was his turn to lead the pack train again. At least that kept his mind occupied, so he had less time for brooding.
Not that he couldn't work in a bit of brooding if he wanted to. They would be in Barcelona in a few more days. Toby wanted to send him home. He wanted to go. Josep said he could arrange it for him quite easily, although winter sailing was erratic, so he might have to lay over for a few months in Seville or Lisbon. But he didn't want to desert Toby. Not that the big man needed him, except for friendship, but going home was going to feel a lot like running away. There could be no second thoughts — once they parted, Toby would vanish into a war-torn continent and they could never hope to meet again. Life back in the glen would seem dull as mud after the last three years' adventuring. There were a lot of interesting places he hadn't seen yet. What to do?
Rain was running down his neck. That really made him homesick!
There was Toby now, coming back on that big spotted gelding of his. Ever since they passed Lerida he'd been zigging and zagging all over the landscape, investigating every little hilltop village they passed — looking for somewhere for Brother Bernat to lay up and rest, he said, although he was probably hoping to find a spirit willing to heal whatever was wrong with the old man. If his problem was just old age, not even a spirit could do much about that. Many tutelaries refused to heal strangers anyway.
Somewhere back along the line, Eulalia laughed. She was a problem much worse than homesickness! One night they'd gone off into the bushes together, and she hadn't protested when he kissed her — she'd started unlacing his hose. She had shown him what to do next when he wasn't sure, and in no time at all he'd achieved what he'd been wanting to do for years. He'd thought of it as a great victory. But it wasn't. It had turned out to be a terrible defeat, because now he kept wanting to do it again.
He did not like Eulalia, and she did not like him, and they had told each other so several times. But they both enjoyed what they did with each other. Not that she admitted it. If he did not ask her, she would not ask him. No, she would just tease him until she had him begging and promising anything she wanted. She was very good at that. He knew he was taking a terrible risk of getting her with child, if he hadn't already. Or she would say he had whether he had or not, and when they arrived in Barcelona Senora Collel would throw her out in the gutter. Then Hamish Campbell would find himself having to marry a woman he didn't want. Every morning he swore he would not succumb again, and at sunset she would melt all the lumps out of him with one glance from her sultry Spanish eyes. Why was he so weak? Why did women have this awful power over men?
Why couldn't he be like Toby and not need women?
A shout from the rear turned his head. Something was wrong. The don wheeled his horse and went charging back to see, followed slowly by Francisco. Everyone else was stopping. Hamish directed Liath around a patch of bushes, watching to make sure the train followed without any stupid quadruped trying to take a shortcut, and then led the way back. By the time he arrived at the group he could guess that the problem was Brother Bernat.
He dismounted. "What happened?"
Josep said, "The Franciscan. He reined in and said he felt faint. We helped him down…"
Hauled back almost on his haunches, Smeòrach skidded to a halt in a shower of mud. Toby flung himself from the saddle and plunged into the group, hurling Manuel and Rafael and others aside. Hamish sighed to himself and waited. Toby was fond of the old man and grateful for that strange healing he had gained from him. He was going to be upset if this was the end.
"How bad?"
Josep shrugged. He said, "Can't tell," but his face said very bad.
Hamish surveyed the countryside. The village Toby had just visited was only a mile or so off, on a low hill, but even from here it was obvious that the roofs had fallen in and the walls were blackened. The tower of the sanctuary was a stump, so there would be no spirit there and probably no people either. The town was just one more casualty of the terrible war, and he wondered why Toby had even bothered going to investigate it.
Then Toby's head rose above the others again. The watchers parted for him, and he emerged with Brother Bernat cradled in his arms. The old man's face, the color of skim milk, nestled against Toby's shoulder. His lips were blue, and his eyes not merely closed but sunk back into his skull. Toby went past Hamish without a word and set off along the road with huge strides. If he was looking for a place to dig a grave, why so much hurry?
Father Guillem and Pepita scurried after, running to try and catch him. Apparently they were heading for the village, but Toby's sword was hung on Smeòrach's saddle, so they had gone unarmed. Hamish detached his own blade from Liath, slung the baldric over his head, and thrust the reins at Josep.
"Look after them."
Josep's protests that he couldn't handle the train faded away as Hamish went racing after the others.
Toby was running up the hill, setting a fearful pace in spite of his burden. The monk flapped along behind him like a giant bat, holding Pepita's hand. Glancing back, Hamish saw that the others were following, but at a leisurely pace. The don would probably make them wait outside the gates, because the horses might break legs in the ruins, even if there were no thieves lurking there.
He caught up with Father Guillem, whose face was as red as a furnace door. Pepita would obviously be weeping if she had any breath to do so. What was all the burning hurry?
"There can't possibly be a spirit up here!" Hamish panted.
The monk said, "No," and kept right on going.
Hamish ran past them, slipped on a patch of mud, caught his scabbard between his legs, and fell flat on his face. Cursing in a mixture of Gaelic and Catalan, he scrambled to his feet and discovered he had wrenched an ankle. He switched to Breton and Castilian and began to run again in a wild, painful hobble.
He went by the child and Father Guillem a second time. Toby had almost reached the shattered town gate, and a couple of men had appeared, watching his approach. Hamish drove himself even faster, steadying his sword with one hand so he didn't make a fool of himself again. Why were they doing this? Did the old man just want to die in a shrine, even if it had no tutelary? Was this some Franciscan custom?
Toby slowed to a fast walk and went through the gateway with the two men following and Hamish at their heels. They glanced around and then ignored Hamish, following a few paces behind Toby. They were making no move to molest him and did not seem to be armed, but Hamish decided to stay at their backs and keep an eye on them.
The road was narrow and dim in the rain, but it was not obstructed by debris and gruesome bodies as the streets of Onda had been. Although most of the buildings were unroofed and stank of burned timber, the village was inhabited, and the residents had made a start on cleaning up and rebuilding. People began emerging from alleys and doorways, men and women both, even a few ragged children. Toby seemed to know where he was leading this procession, crossing a couple of tiny plazas without hesitation and apparently heading for the stump of a tower that marked the sanctuary.
When he reached it he ran up the steps and turned around. His face was red with effort and his chest heaved. The old man in his arms was showing no signs of life, but Toby nodded approval and went into the sanctuary. There couldn't be a spirit in there, or the hob would have stopped him, so what was he doing?
Hamish followed with the crowd at his heels. The building was open to the sky, a burned shell, but the floor had been swept clear. Most of the tracery had gone from the windows, the little that remained still holding a few pathetic fragments of stained glass. Throne, candles, images, pictures had all gone. Only the carved altar on the dais at the far end survived, its cracked and blackened stonework showing traces of gilt and paint.
Toby advanced almost to the altar steps and halted, still holding Brother Bernat in his arms. The spectators gathered in silence behind him, watching intently. Hamish wished he knew what was going on, because everybody else seemed to. He went forward to see if he could help. He could hear the old man breathing in a faint rattle that made him want to cough.
Toby knelt. Hamish took off his wet cloak and spread it on the flagstones so he could lay the old man down. One of the villagers spread another cloak over him. Then they all just waited in the rain, Toby on his knees, everyone else standing. If the spirit was still present, it was ignoring them. There must be many more comfortable places to die.
More people were drifting in. Father Guillem arrived, pushing forward to the front with Pepita in tow. The child knelt and took the dying man's hand, sobbing, not saying anything. For a moment he seemed to rouse. His eyelids flickered but did not open.
"Brother," Toby said. "We are here. It is a good place." His voice cracked. "It will be all right now, Brother."
Pepita bent close and whispered urgently. The slack mouth twitched as if he were trying to speak, or even smile. He gasped a few harsh, rattling breaths… stopped… a couple more… then a long silence. His eyelids opened slightly, showing only whites. Toby reached down and closed them. They stayed closed. The watchers sighed.
Toby stood up and looked around — at the monk, at Hamish. He nodded and pulled a wry face. There was more than rain wetting his cheeks.
"Well done, my son." Father Guillem patted his shoulder. Surprisingly, Toby did not react angrily to this patronizing.
"Pepita?" The monk raised her and tried to scoop her up in his arms. She struggled free and went to Toby instead. He lifted her and held her. She sobbed on his shoulder.
There must be fifty people there now, but what were they all waiting for? Even Toby seemed to be expecting something.
A boy stepped forward from the crowd and walked past Hamish, moving in an oddly stiff gait and wafting a strong odor of goat. He was no more than twelve or thirteen, dirty, clad in rags, thin as canes. He climbed the steps and turned to look over the assembly with a strangely unfocused stare. There was a faint glow around him! So there was a spirit after all, and it was responding at last, too late to help.
Everyone was kneeling now.
"You will be our children," the boy said loudly. Some of the women cried out in joy. "If we may have your love, we will cherish you in return. The man's name was Bernat. Bury him where he lies now and honor his memory. He taught us well and carried us long."
The childish treble rang out again. "Tobias and Guillem and Jaume, we thank you for your help and give you our blessing. Pepita, dear child, weep no more. We told you, we warned you, and we love you still. Why should you weep now that your friend's task is ended? He has completed what he gave his life to. He is with us and will always be with us."
Pepita pulled loose from Toby's embrace and knelt down beside him, choking with her efforts not to sob. The big man put an arm around her.
"Some of you still doubt," the boy said. "We will give you a sign to comfort you. Eduardo, what happened to your eyes?"
"I was hit by a sword, holiness," responded a voice from the crowd.
"Domènech, help Eduardo come forward."
The crowd seemed to rustle. A tall young man with a bandage over his face rose up in their midst and then helped an older, white-haired man to his feet. People cleared a path for them as they shuffled to the front, the old man leading the younger by the hand.
"You may remove the wrapping, Eduardo," the boy said. "Can you see now?"
"Yes! Yes!" The young man threw away the cloth and fell to his knees. "Praise to the spirit! Praise to Saint Bernat!"
Voices picked up the refrain. Hamish, like everyone else, lowered his face to the floor in acknowledgment of the miracle.
"Joaquim has some good years left in him," the tutelary said with a dry chuckle so like Brother Bernat's that it brought a lump to Hamish's throat. "Fetch Joaquim here. We will cure his legs and he will be keeper of our sanctuary. You may have Sancho back now, Joanna. Give him our thanks for lending us his voice."
Hamish looked up just in time to see the glow fade from the boy and his blank expression change to one of horror as he realized where he was. He sprinted down from the dais, red-faced and bewildered, only to be grabbed in a fierce hug by a short, fat woman, probably his mother. The building buzzed with excited chatter.
The town had a tutelary again, it would live. And even Toby had been expecting this! How had he known? Why had he not discussed it? Could it be that Hamish had been so tied up in his problems with Eulalia that he had not been paying attention to what was going on?
"Our work here is done," Father Guillem said, rising. "Are you consoled now, Pepita? That is not Brother Bernat lying there, so you need say no more farewells."
He put an arm around her to lead her away, but at once the strangers were mobbed by the excited, grateful villagers offering food, shelter, hospitality — anything. Toby and the monk declined as graciously as possible, explaining that they were on a pilgrimage and must rejoin their friends.
A little later, as they were leaving the town, Hamish said: "I don't understand. I never read anything about this!"
Toby smiled, although his eyes were still rimmed with red. "You can't find everything in books. It is called alumbradismo." He was amused at being able to lecture Hamish for a change, curse him! "There is more than one way to put a spirit into a person. Or into a town, apparently."
"But… not a hob?"
Shadows darkened Toby's face. "No, just an elemental, and a lifetime of example. I expect Pepita will explain it to you, if you ask her nicely."
He was not going to, obviously.