But there was no debt. There was no binding on him, that the devil could yank. While Gabriel might have ridden into the town of Flood thinking to test himself against the Master of the Territory, in the end he had not wanted anything the devil had to offer. His offer to mentor that young girl had been made not to the devil but Isobel herself, free of cost; that the Old Man had accepted on her behalf should not change that.
He had done as he had promised when he offered to take an uncertain, ambitious child on the Road and teach her how to survive. He owed nothing more, and nothing was owed to him.
And Isobel herself?
Something made the corner of his lip tick up, in what almost might have been a smile. The Road connected back to itself, eventually. She would rail at him when they encountered each other again, but he thought mayhap she would forgive him. Eventually.
If she survived.
That made the smile disappear, and he pressed a clenched fist against his chest, hard enough the bone underneath ached.
She lived. He knew it, once he thought to ask, rock-solid and certain. Isobel was too deeply a part of the Territory now to disappear unnoticed.
"Thank you," he whispered to whatever had brought him that news, and let his hand fall back down to his side, crouching again by the fire to feed it again, one stick at a time.
The flames took his offering with fresh crackling, smoke curling around the fuel before rising into the air and fading into the night, a faint heat-haze. He rested his hands on his knees, sitting back on his haunches. He could feel himself, heavy in his own flesh again, solid and real.
And alone.
"That's that, then. Back to my own self. Riding solo."
There was a heavy huffing noise behind him, and a warm, rough-whiskered nose bumped against the back of his head, attempting to mouth at his hair as though offended at being forgotten. He reached back to push the horse away, and chuckled. "Sorry. Solo con caballo."
He would need to check Steady's hooves in the morning, make sure he'd taken no damage in those days Gabriel could not remember. And check his saddlebags, see what supplies he had with him. The day he'd ridden out of Red Stick he'd packed out of habit, not thinking he would need anything. He hadn't thought he would be gone long... and halfway had not expected to return at all.
That admission was bitter as grass. He’d gone to face the Mudwater, knowing full-well what that meant. He’d given up.
They’d ridden into the southeastern Territory because Isobel needed to know it, needed to know Red Stick with its mass of peoples, its significance in terms of trade and defense. He'd managed to not think about the fact that it sat at the mouth of the Mudwater itself until the river began to whisper to him. Asleep, waking, it did not cajole, it did not threaten, it merely reminded him with every breath he took that it was there. That it waited for him, as it had been waiting for years.
What water cannot move, it wears down. Human flesh could be no match for it.
He had gone to Grandmother River and shouted at her. Had admitted defeat, had given up, had gone knee-deep in the muddy waters and...
What had happened after that still hid from him, wrapped in fog and smudges.
Gabriel knew he should unroll his kit, stop thinking, try to get some sleep. Instead he sat by the fire, occasionally feeding another piece of wood into the flames, and listened to the susurration of insects in the grass around him, the distant hoot of an owl still hunting, until his eyes slid shut under their own weight.
The water had lapped at his toes, brackish-brown, not the red of his walking-dreams, the familiar stink of rotting logs settling at the base of his nostrils. He felt the weight of the river reach out and up, an unrelenting roll that would take and drown him, if he let it.
It was a dream. Gabriel knew that, familiar after all these years with the varying tastes of dreams, the cool mint of being dreamwalked, the sour citrus of a spirit-animal's intrusion, the sharp pepper of an ordinary dream. This was none of those, the dank salt identifying it as memory come back in different form to haunt him.
Twenty years before, when he'd first left the Territory, had tried to leave the Territory and been driven back, forced to abandon the life he'd begun there, the future he'd planned. What the Territory claimed it did not let go. And so, he'd returned, stumbling and sick and nearly dead, to let the river have him.
Instead, he’d woken in a Hochunk camp under the care of their medicine woman. She'd pulled him from the waters, had cleared the mud from his lungs and walked with him until his legs remembered how to stand on their own.
Her people called her Old Woman Who Never Dies. She had named him Hears Two Voices and told him he could not run from himself.
She had told him many things, most of which he'd promptly ignored, burying himself under resignation and inevitability, under the knowledge that the Territory was stronger than he, would always be stronger, and that the only fight he could win would be the refusal to let it own him entirely.
He'd taken the horse they'd given him and taken to the Road, thinking that if he only kept moving, he would be all right. The Territory might claim him, but it could not have him. The medicine of the bones, the magic of the crossroads, the whispers of the water in his veins, he kept it all at bay, using only what he must, and no more.
He’d lived that way for years.
But seeing Isobel grow into her Bargain, the toll that tying herself to the Territory took but also the strength she gained from it, the sense of herself she seemed to gain, had sprouted doubt in the kernel of his stubbornness, the tentative thought that the Territory need not be adversary.
But still, he could not give in. To even think of it sent the taste of bile to his mouth, dropped a stone against his heart. He could not forgive, and he could not forget.
And then they had ridden into Red Stick, and for the first time in years, he heard not the gentle whispers of the creeks and streams, but the endless voice of Grandmother River herself. Implacable. Unending.
Heal, Old Woman had told him.
He'd tried. But in that moment, he realized that all he'd done was manage not to die.
"Have done with me!"
He had shouted the words not in anger nor fear, but with the voice of a man who had gone as far as he could, until the rope of his mortality caught him, and he could strain no more. He had stood at the banks and stared into the brackish waters, his voice breaking. "Have done with me, Grandmother River. Either let me go or drown me, once and for all."
He had tried to escape once and failed, the nightmare of that desperate journey buried deep, refusing and resisting and denying to the devil’s face that he was broken.
Gabriel Kasun. Two Voices. Rider. There was nothing he did not have that he wanted.
Except his freedom.
Twenty years and countless miles later, Gabriel gave in.
He had waited, the waters lapping at his toes, mud sucking at his heels. The sounds of insects and birds and fish slapping the water had been quieter than the silence as he waited for a response that never came, damp chill settling on his skin, seeping into his flesh.
"You called me, and finally, finally, I came. And now you shut me out? Have done!"
"Have done!"
Gabriel woke with a start, the words rising from a rubbed-sore throat, startling a pair of deer that had been grazing just beyond the fading firelight. They dashed off a few paces, then stopped, looking back at him before disappearing into the shadows.
He forced himself to breathe, inhaling deeply and then exhaling slowly until the fluttering panic subsided and he was back firmly within his own flesh again. The fire crackled warm at his front, the air was night-cool and still on his skin, and in the leaps and crackles of the flames, he thought he heard the spice-warm, mockingly affectionate voice of the Master of the Territory asking him if he'd truly thought it would be that easy. If shouting had ever solved anything.
"Damn you all, anyway," he grumbled into the night. "Graciendo had been right."
He had been born with water sense—dowsing, they called it back East. Water-child, the witch in Red Stick had called him. He could feel the flow of fresh water, be it deep under his feet or running the surface of the Territory. The Touch, folk called it. The hand of the Territory on those who were born within its borders, its medicine born deep in their bones.
Nobody had warned him, when he left to study at the Eastern universities. Nobody had told him what would happen, the blood-sick that would near kill him.
He had come back, then. He had learned to love the rolling plains and deep forests, the dry deserts and snow-capped rises again. But he had never forgiven it.
And the devil had known all that when he entered the saloon in Flood, when he sat down across the desk from him. He had promised Gabriel freedom when he was done.
But if the devil never lied, neither was he obligated to tell all the truth, and Gabriel wondered now what sort of fool he had been to think it would be that simple. The devil might protect the Territory, but he did not control it. "Master" was a title others gave the devil for the need to have someone to blame.
And yet. And yet. The devil did not lie.
Alone in the night, Gabriel's thought scrambled for scraps, flitting like a flock of butterflies in the wind, stars fluttering just past his fingertips. The devil was master in name only. And yet Territory allowed his pronouncements to stand, allowed his Hands to shape its magic, touch deeper than Gabriel had ever seen, had heard stories of. The River and the Knife lent the devil their strengths, that he might hold the borders against ill-intent.
They were connected, the devil and the Territory, guardians and their magics, in some way no mortal understood. The devil might not tell all the truth, but neither did he lie.
Gabriel was owed his freedom.
In his dream—no, in fact, in memory—he had stood at the banks and faced Grandmother River, had challenged her, and through her, the Territory itself. Had asked —demanded—that they let him be.
He... had stepped into the water, felt the mud squelch at his heels, grab at his legs. Had seen the maw of something rise from the swirling depths, a single great eye looking at him.
But he could remember no more. He could not remember if they had answered.
"All right, then," he said quietly. "All right then."
Gabriel was afraid, but he'd been afraid for years, and one more moment would not break him more. Inhaling deeply, he reached inward, gathering himself, then reached out as he'd not done since he was a child, allowing that water-sense to flow through him, giving it permission just this once more for it to rule him.
Awareness of the Territory spread out before him in hues of blue-green and white: the still water resting deep under his feet, the creeklet running through the grass north of him, the moisture hanging heavy in the sky above, and underneath it all, the faint, waiting thrum of the greater rivers, a near-silent rumble he could feel in his soul.
Gabriel pulled away, breaking the connection, wrapping himself up tightly again, near-shaking with the effort.
There was no freedom there. Nothing had changed. Whatever had happened when he confronted the Mudwater, whatever had crept within him, nothing of him had changed.
The Territory had not relinquished its claim.
Bitterness tainted his tongue and filled his nose, something ugly scrabbling with poisoned claws at his throat, the smell and feel of mud coating hands, water weighing down his clothes.
The only freedom the devil had given him was the freedom from hope he hadn’t realized he’d still had.
Gabriel ran the fingers of one hand through his hair, tugging at the ends in frustration. But why then had his memory of the confrontation been fogged? Why had he not returned to town, to Isobel, but instead ridden away?
"Did you mean to do that, or was it simply carelessness? Punishment? Did you wait all those years for me to bend a knee, only to take your revenge? Did my suffering amuse you?"
Gabriel let his words die in the air. The Mudwater could not hear him and would not respond even if it did.
There was no such thing as freedom, despite what his younger self had believed; something always tied you down, with or without your consent.
"So, what now? You've cut me loose but not let me go. What now?"
The insects sang and the fire crackled, and he rolled his eyes, although he was not sure if it was at the Territory’s silence, or his own half-expectation of a reply.
Giving up, he banked the fire properly, then unrolled his kit and lay down. The ground was uneven, the blankets cold, and his body felt unpleasantly itchy, keeping him from rest. Instead, he watched as the stars turned and faded, the full disc of the moon casting a paler light against the ground as it too began to retreat.
Off to the side, Steady made an unhappy groaning noise in his sleep, and Gabriel wondered if the horse missed his companions. Flatfoot had been with them for several years, but he had left the mule at the stable with Isobel's mare, Uvnee, along with most of their belongings. Taking to the road unprepared, without supplies or stock, was incredibly foolish—the act of a Greenie fresh out of the schoolroom—and being mind-fogged was no excuse. If Isobel had done such a thing, no matter the reason, he would have lectured her for a week. And yet... he felt no regret, no panic, not even the slightest worry about what was to come. Nor did he feel defeated or bitter, despite the regrets that dogged him.
He felt... light.
"Lightheaded, mayhap," he grumbled to himself, and pulled the blanket further over his shoulders, forcing his eyes to close until the first tendrils of sunlight finally reached over the valley, brightening the shadows.
Gabriel rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand, knowing without looking that they were red-rimmed with exhaustion. Traveling alone in such a state was foolish, but there was a feeling in his bones like striking flint, making him twitch with the need to be gone from here.
Once he reached the Road again, things would make more sense.
Sitting up, he reached for his boots, shaking them out to make sure nothing had taken refuge overnight, then pulled them on, pressing his heels into the dirt to make sure they settled properly. "At least no pack means nothing to load." It also meant nothing to cook for breakfast, but the tightness in his stomach suggested he wanted nothing to do with food just yet. By the time it unknotted, he should have come to a farm or steading where he could trade for supplies with the coin he had on him And if not... well, he had his carbine and his knife, and there were always rabbits or pheasant for the trapping. His father and grandfather would rise as haints if he shamed them by starving to death.
His shirt felt stiff with sweat and dirt, but a quick whiff of his arm told him he had another day or so before he became objectionable, and it wasn't as though Steady was likely to complain.
"We'll feel better once we've the Road under us again," he told the horse, checking each hoof for stones or cracks, then running a flat hand across his back, checking to make sure there were no burrs or lumps before tossing the saddle on and tightening the belly strap. The horse dropped its head to eye him, as though judging the veracity of his words, and then sighed, his flanks huffing against the band before accepting the inevitable.
The banked fire had mostly burnt itself out by the time he was ready to go; it was a simple matter of stomping the ash underfoot until the last faint glimmer of red died to grey, and then splashing water from his canteen—suspiciously full—over the remains. He waited to make sure it was out—he'd seen too many grassfires to ever be careless —before kicking the fire circle apart, scattering the rocks back into the grass. Odds were low there would be another traveler passing this way any time soon; there was no reason to leave it in place.
His long coat had been folded over the saddle with his usual, wide-brimm
ed hat placed neatly on top, woolen gloves stuffed into the deep pockets. He shrugged into the coat, fitting the brimmed hat securely on his head, but left the gloves where they were. Winters this far south were mild compared to what fell in the north, but the weight of the weathered sheepskin felt good in the morning chill, and he could always take it off later if need be.
A quick check of the carbine and powder, and they were both latched into place on the saddle before he swung up onto Steady's back, feeling the horse settle under his weight. Some of the scraping sensation in his bones subsided as his legs pressed against the gelding's side, feeling the slide of the leather reins through his fingers.
Gabriel turned his back pointedly on the direction he'd come from and considered his options. For the first time in nearly a year, he had nothing weighing on his choices, no place he should be and nothing and no-one waiting on his decisions.
That was as close to freedom as he'd ever known.
He closed his eyes, and breathed in, nostrils flaring as though to test the winds. The Road looped in on itself, never-ending, but the road you chose shaped the journey you took.
East beyond the River was closed to him, and to the south lay nothing but regret. All the way west was the Mother's Knife, the mountain range that kept the Spaniards from them, where living silver was pulled from the stones, and Graciendo kept his cabin. But too many memories lay there, both good and bad, waiting to drop like a rope around his neck.
North, all the way north lay the place where he had been born, and beyond that the Wilds, where a man could lose himself for a lifetime—or die within a day. But it was also deepest winter there, and the passes would be closed to any sane man or beast.
"Somewhere dry," he decided. "Somewhere empty, where the riverbeds can only whisper, and the bones lay close to the sun."
West and north, then, into the high desert plains.
3
He’d been right: once he could feel the Road again, could find himself on the living map of the territory, his mood improved, and his thoughts cleared.
Gabriel's Road Page 2