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Authors: Carrie Vaughn
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that this was a man willing to do what he believed must be done, whatever the cost.
She wanted to be happy, but England’s chill air remained locked in her bones.
C ONQUISTADOR DE LA N OCHE
His life was becoming a trail of blood.
Ricardo de Avila fired his crossbow at the crowd of natives. The bolt struck the chest of a Zuni warrior, a man no older than his own nineteen years. The native fell back, the dark of his blood splashing, along with dozens of others. The army’s few arquebuses fired, the sulfur stink clouding the air. The horses danced, tearing up the grass and raising walls of dust. Between keeping control of his horse and trying to breathe, Ricardo could not winch back his crossbow for another shot.
Not that he needed to fire again. The general was already calling for a cease-fire, and the few remaining Zuni, running hard and shouting in their own language, were fleeing back to their city.
City. Rather, a few baked buildings clustered on the hillside. The expedition had become a farce. Cibola did not exist—at least, not as it did in the stories the first hapless explorers had brought back. So many leagues of travel, wasted. Dead men and horses, wasted. The land itself was not even worth much. It had little water and was cut through with unforgiving mountains and canyons. The Spanish should turn around and leave it to the natives.
But the friars who traveled with Coronado were adamant. Even if they found no sign of treasure, it was their duty as Christians to save the souls of these poor heathens.
They had believed that Coronado would be a new Cortés, opening new lands and treasures for the glory of Spain. The New World was more vast than any in Europe had comprehended. Naturally they assumed the entire continent held the same great riches Spain had found in Mexico. As quickly as Spain was eating through that treasure, it would need to find more.
Coronado tried to keep up a good face for his men. His armor remained brightly polished, gleaming in the harsh sun, and he sat a tall figure on his horse. But with the lack of good food, his face had become sunken, and when he looked across the despoblado , the bleak lands they would have to cross to reach the rumored Cities of Gold, the shine in his eyes revealed despair.
This expedition should have made the fortune of Ricardo, a third son of a minor nobleman. Now, though, he was thirsty, near to starving, and had just killed a boy who had come at him with nothing but a stone club. His dark beard had grown unkempt, his hair long and ratted. Sand had marred the finish of his helmet and cuirass. No amount of wealth seemed worth the price of this journey. Rather, the price he was paying had become so steep it would have taken streets paved with gold in truth to restore the balance. What was left, then? When you had already paid too much in return for nothing?
Ricardo had sold himself for a mouthful of dust.
* * *
Ten years passed.
It was dark when Ricardo rode into the main plaza at Zacatecas. Lamps hung outside the church and governor’s buildings, and the last of the market vendors had departed. A small caravan of a dozen horses and mules from the mine was picketed, awaiting stabling. The place was hot and dusty, though a cool wind from the mountains brought some refreshment. Ricardo stopped to water his horse and stretch his legs before making his way to the fort.
At the corner of the garrison road, a man stepped from the shadows to block his path. His horse snorted and planted its feet. Ricardo’s night vision was good, but he had trouble making out the figure.
“Don Ricardo? I was told you were due to return today,” the man said.
Ricardo recognized the voice, though it had been a long time since he’d heard it. “Diego?”
“Ah, you do remember!”
He’d met Diego in Mexico City, where they’d both listened to the stories of Cibola and joined Coronado’s expedition. Side by side they’d ridden those thousands
She wanted to be happy, but England’s chill air remained locked in her bones.
C ONQUISTADOR DE LA N OCHE
His life was becoming a trail of blood.
Ricardo de Avila fired his crossbow at the crowd of natives. The bolt struck the chest of a Zuni warrior, a man no older than his own nineteen years. The native fell back, the dark of his blood splashing, along with dozens of others. The army’s few arquebuses fired, the sulfur stink clouding the air. The horses danced, tearing up the grass and raising walls of dust. Between keeping control of his horse and trying to breathe, Ricardo could not winch back his crossbow for another shot.
Not that he needed to fire again. The general was already calling for a cease-fire, and the few remaining Zuni, running hard and shouting in their own language, were fleeing back to their city.
City. Rather, a few baked buildings clustered on the hillside. The expedition had become a farce. Cibola did not exist—at least, not as it did in the stories the first hapless explorers had brought back. So many leagues of travel, wasted. Dead men and horses, wasted. The land itself was not even worth much. It had little water and was cut through with unforgiving mountains and canyons. The Spanish should turn around and leave it to the natives.
But the friars who traveled with Coronado were adamant. Even if they found no sign of treasure, it was their duty as Christians to save the souls of these poor heathens.
They had believed that Coronado would be a new Cortés, opening new lands and treasures for the glory of Spain. The New World was more vast than any in Europe had comprehended. Naturally they assumed the entire continent held the same great riches Spain had found in Mexico. As quickly as Spain was eating through that treasure, it would need to find more.
Coronado tried to keep up a good face for his men. His armor remained brightly polished, gleaming in the harsh sun, and he sat a tall figure on his horse. But with the lack of good food, his face had become sunken, and when he looked across the despoblado , the bleak lands they would have to cross to reach the rumored Cities of Gold, the shine in his eyes revealed despair.
This expedition should have made the fortune of Ricardo, a third son of a minor nobleman. Now, though, he was thirsty, near to starving, and had just killed a boy who had come at him with nothing but a stone club. His dark beard had grown unkempt, his hair long and ratted. Sand had marred the finish of his helmet and cuirass. No amount of wealth seemed worth the price of this journey. Rather, the price he was paying had become so steep it would have taken streets paved with gold in truth to restore the balance. What was left, then? When you had already paid too much in return for nothing?
Ricardo had sold himself for a mouthful of dust.
* * *
Ten years passed.
It was dark when Ricardo rode into the main plaza at Zacatecas. Lamps hung outside the church and governor’s buildings, and the last of the market vendors had departed. A small caravan of a dozen horses and mules from the mine was picketed, awaiting stabling. The place was hot and dusty, though a cool wind from the mountains brought some refreshment. Ricardo stopped to water his horse and stretch his legs before making his way to the fort.
At the corner of the garrison road, a man stepped from the shadows to block his path. His horse snorted and planted its feet. Ricardo’s night vision was good, but he had trouble making out the figure.
“Don Ricardo? I was told you were due to return today,” the man said.
Ricardo recognized the voice, though it had been a long time since he’d heard it. “Diego?”
“Ah, you do remember!”
He’d met Diego in Mexico City, where they’d both listened to the stories of Cibola and joined Coronado’s expedition. Side by side they’d ridden those thousands
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