Silver on the Road

by Laura Anne Gilman

  Setting aside pride, Gabriel was right, she admitted to herself. There might be things that could kill the magician and keep him dead, but the cards seemed to be stacked in his favor. She didn’t like it, though.

  And then she was around the rockfall, her gaze searching ahead for whatever it was Farron had seen.

  Izzy had always thought of crossroads as being flat, long roads stretched out for miles in four directions, the point of contact clearly laid out. But the trail here meandered downhill, the intersecting road cutting through rock on one side, then continuing the other side downhill, almost immediately disappearing from sight.

  If you didn’t know, you might not recognize the crossroads until it was too late. Izzy wondered how many had been trapped by that over the years.

  She reined in and waited for Gabriel to catch up with her, her right leg twitching in the stirrup as though she were repressing the urge to swing down and follow the magician as he continued toward the spot where the two roads crossed.

  “He’s not taking out any silver,” she said, worried, and then almost laughed at herself. They already knew something was there, and likely all the bits and bobs of silver they had wouldn’t be enough to cleanse that ill intent.

  “Do you see anything?” Gabriel asked. He looked nervous, his gaze darting, his body that same comfortable but too-still posture she had noted in him before. He was looking for threats from without, she realized, checking every rock, every shadow for a potential ambush.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t see anything.” She might, if she went to that other place. If she slipped down into the bones. But the thought made her stomach churn. Before, she had thought that place was safe, protected. Now . . . She had spoken big words about facing whatever had ridden the storm into the Territory, about chasing it down and forcing it to show its face, but this—she didn’t even know if it was the same thing that had chased her out of Clear Rock—

  it was—

  —it was in the bones already, Farron said. Cracking the bones. But cracked bones could heal, couldn’t they?

  No whisper answered her this time, and she worried at her lip, watching another stride toward what should have been her responsibility.

  “He’s died before,” she said, trying to calm her nerves. “Nothing can really hurt him, right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The palm of her hand ached intensely, and she lifted her other hand to rub at it, thumb pressing into the flesh. The markings there were darker now, still fine-lined but clearly visible, and Izzy wasn’t sure if that was a comfort or another thing to worry over.

  Suddenly, the sense of urgency swarmed like bees in her skin, the single sting she’d gotten as a young girl intensified until her entire body seemed inflamed and fever-hot. “Farron Easterly!” she called, through a throat suddenly swollen and sore. “Stop!”

  She was too late, or he simply could not hear her, his stride carrying him that last step into the crossroads even as the ground underneath burst open, something massive rising from the swirling dust.

  “Hellfire,” Gabriel whispered in awe.

  This was not a storm. It was not a hallucination or embodied spirit. It was a solid beast, rough-skinned and filled with teeth and claw, scrambling to attack anything that moved within its sphere.

  The magician had not entered the crossroads unprepared. The first swipe of a gnarled, clawed hand the size of a horse’s head was deflected, although those long limbs of his did not move and there was no sign of any weapon, merely the magician standing, chin lifted, feet planted, like he had no plans to move again ever. Her breath caught, her body tightening as though braced for a blow herself, and beside her she heard Gabriel swearing, a low, steady stream in three different tongues.

  Fear gave way to anger, boiling like soup under her skin. This was wrong. This was her responsibility, not his; his ego would get him killed. Again. And no matter his flippancy, she could not imagine that was pleasant even for one such as he.

  Izzy looked at her left hand, saw that the silver of her ring, brightly polished a few days ago, had tarnished to a dullness, even outside the crossroads. If she’d had any doubt that the beast was natural, that dispelled it. This was some bile of magic, taken form.

  The boss had no agreements with magicians. But Farron Easterly traveled with them, by her invitation. Help me, she thought fiercely. Tell me what to do!

  She looked up again, afraid that the heartbeat she’d looked away had somehow been fatal. The crossroads was barely large enough for the both of them; the creature reared over the magician’s head, snarling and growling but unable to lay a claw on him. Farron stared up at it, protected but unable to do damage. They were at a standoff.

  Izzy took the time to study the creature more closely, although looking directly at it was difficult. It was thrice the height of the magician and whipcord thin, multiple limbs weaving as fast as the magician was still, claws glinting black under the sunlight, skin covered in dark blue scales that glistened as though covered in thick spit or snot. It was built to rend, to tear, to destroy; it had no other purpose.

  “Boss,” she whispered out loud. “How do we stop this?”

  The ache in her hand subsided, and Izzy felt herself drop her stirrups, slipping out of the saddle and landing on the ground with a jarring thud she felt all the way to her skull. The fever heat under her skin worsened, and Izzy wiped sweat out of her eyes, cursing her skirts as they dragged on the dirt. If she survived this, she would buy a pair of pants the same as Devorah and that traveling woman back in Patch Junction, and to blazes with anyone who raised an eyebrow at her. You could not fight in full-length skirts.

  “Iz?”

  She flicked her fingers backward at Gabriel, telling him to stay put, and moved slowly toward the crossroads. She’d let him call her a fool later, assuming they survived.

  Her knife remained sheathed on her saddle, but what was useful against a common predator, two-legged or four, would do nothing there. Behind her, she heard the sounds of Gabriel loading his gun, the rip of cloth and slide of metal, but Izzy thought it would be as useless as her knives, that this was not a thing that could be vanquished with weapons.

  And Farron’s own medicine could do nothing more than force a standoff.

  She clenched her left hand, fingers digging into the sigil, and waited for some arcane understanding to appear, filling her with what to do.

  Nothing happened.

  She dug deeper, panic thrumming under her chest bone. The boss had to help her. Without his gift, she was useless, just a saloon girl. She knew how to fold laundry, shuffle a deck of cards, pour drinks, and listen to those who needed to talk, not how to kill a monster.

  In the crossroads, Farron tilted his head, and this close, she could hear his voice, although she could not make out the individual words, a singsong pattern of nonsense. The creature lifted its own head and roared. The sound should have echoed against rock and sky, should have filled her ears and rattled her bones, but somehow was muffled, hushed.

  With every step closer, the air around her felt heavier, oppressive, the thick stillness of a summer storm unsure yet if it would break or swelter. The faintest twist of a breeze ran against the back of her neck, a touch both disturbing and reassuring, and was gone.

  Izzy sank to her knees, her palms on the ground in front of her, her gaze held on the scene barely a foot away, close enough to feel the heat the creature was giving off, smell the acrid fear-sweat of both man and beast.

  The moment her fingers dug into the dirt, she felt herself slip out of her own body, a sickening jolt and drop, her already fever-dizzy head swelling and then cooling abruptly, as though the fever had stayed behind.

  The dizziness she felt now was familiar: colder and sharper, as though she’d been spun too often in a game of blindman’s bluff. She felt split wide open and pressed small all at once, a thousand thi
ngs pressing on her, whispering at her, prying open her eyes and crawling into her ears.

  “Oh.” Understanding filled her, a comprehension so intense that she couldn’t remember not having it a heartbeat before. That was why she had tried to stop Farron, why—

  The creature didn’t care whatever revelation she was having. With another roar that couldn’t escape the crossroads, it reared up and swung its long neck down at the same time its clawed hands came together, closing in on either side of Farron’s head. He saw it coming the same instant Izzy did, stiffening his stance and calling something back, a string of liquid words that were gibberish but sounded right, sounded powerful. But the creature closed in on the magician, wrapping him in its taloned, scaled embrace, the power he’d summoned either too little or too late to save him.

  The blast that threw her backward, singeing her skin and hair, took her utterly by surprise.

  “Isobel. Isobel. Iz!”

  Gabriel called her name and then slapped her face lightly. Her eyes moved under closed lids, and she groaned something inaudible, one hand reaching up as though to brush a pest away. He caught that hand in his own, feeling the firm heartbeat under her skin with relief. When he’d seen her flying backward as though an invisible hand had thrown her, he’d wanted to rush to her side, but holding the horses steady had taken all his strength and focus. Even the mule had bolted, although it came creeping back, cautiously, once everything was still again.

  The magician lay in the crossroads, facedown, but Gabriel wasn’t going anywhere near him, not until he knew that Isobel was safe, and perhaps not even then.

  “Iz, come on, come on now, open your eyes, there’s a girl.” Her hand was too warm, and he uncurled it to look at the palm. The markings were thick black lines now that somehow seemed to fold into the lines of her skin, echoing the swirls of her flesh rather than being imprinted there.

  She sniffled a little, and her eyes opened, staring past him up at the sky.

  “Am I dead?”

  “Not yet. But you’re going to be sore bruised in unpleasant places for a while, I suspect.” He helped her sit up, carefully, keeping a close watch on her eyes and the color of her skin. There was a bruise under her right eye, and she looked to be favoring her side; there didn’t seem to be any obvious further damage, no blood or protruding bones, and her breath was steady, if a little shaky, so she hadn’t injured anything inside.

  “Stay here,” he told her, and when she nodded, got up and moved cautiously toward the crossroads.

  Whatever had been there before was gone; even he could feel that. But the air was still enough to leave him leery of disturbing it: when things went quiet, it meant something was about to break.

  He reached into his pocket, finding a coin. He turned it between his fingers a few times, feeling the milled edges worn down over years of handling, the square tips now soft nubs, the etched markings nearly illegible. A quick flick of his arm in a practiced manner, and the coin flipped into the air, arcing over and landing in the dust just inside the crossroads. He waited until the dust settled, then studied the coin.

  “It’s fine,” a voice said, scratchy as though it had been screaming for hours. “A little help, if you don’t mind?” And the magician rolled over onto his side, trying—and failing—to get up. “Truth, rider, some help needed here. I just fought some fire-spawned evil; the least you might do is offer me a hand.”

  Put that way, it did seem the least he could do. But there was still a tremor of unease and distrust as he stepped into the crossroads, half expecting something—beast or magician—to attack him without warning.

  The magician’s skin, unlike Isobel’s, was cool and clammy, but he was able to get to his feet, even if he wobbled once there. His clothing was torn and shredded as though someone had taken knives—or clawed hands—to them, but there didn’t seem to be any visible blood, and like Isobel, his breathing was clear and his movements easy enough to likely rule out broken ribs.

  “What happened?”

  “I was hoping that you would be able to tell me that,” Gabriel said, walking just to the side of the magician. He would catch the man if he fell but didn’t want to get any closer if he didn’t have to. “Last I saw, that thing folded in on you like a bear going for salmon.”

  “Not an inappropriate metaphor,” the magician said, reaching to where Isobel and the animals waited. He swayed a little, and then his long legs gave out on him and he folded down onto the ground like a wobbly foal, blinking a little in confusion.

  “You’re not dead,” Isobel said.

  “No. I’m not.” He sounded slightly uncertain about that, however.

  Gabriel took a step back from both of them, then went to check on the animals. Whatever had happened just then, if they weren’t sure, he certainly wasn’t going to be the one to figure it out.

  “You walk away from magicians; you don’t ask ’em to join you,” he said into Steady’s ears, checking again to make sure the animal hadn’t suffered any ill effects. The gelding seemed perfectly unfussed: horses would be the first to spook when something started them, but if it didn’t seem like to eat them, they settled down the first, too.

  Away from the others, the immediate threat gone, Gabriel shuddered. He hadn’t been able to see the beast clearly: it had moved too fast, and there had been almost a haze around it, a constant puff of dust, but it had gotten the upper hand early and never let go. The magician and Isobel both should be dead. But they were alive, and it was gone.

  He rested his hands on Steady’s warm hide and thought about the mark on Isobel’s palm. Thought about how that blast should have broken her spine or at least cracked her skull. Thought about the things he’d seen, the stories he’d heard even as a child. And then he thought about his Bargain with the devil and sighed.

  Bound. He hadn’t understood, hadn’t been told, until it was almost too late. Something in him needed to remain within the Territory, even as he wanted to be elsewhere. Every day he’d spent in the States had come at a cost, one he’d thought he was willing to pay . . . but in the end, he’d crawled back across the border, only feeling alive again once he’d crossed the Muddy’s waters and stood in the Devil’s West again.

  The Territory might own his body, but it could not have his soul. Or so he’d thought until the devil’s promise to give him peace if he would only mentor a young girl on her first ride. . . . But better to live with the fate he knew than be tangled up in this.

  Too late now. And Isobel . . . His jaw tightened. Bargain or no, magicians and monsters be damned, he would not abandon her.

  “Come on, you two,” he called back. “Soon’s you can mount up and walk, do so. It’ll be dusk soon enough, and I don’t want to make camp anywhere near here.”

  Her heart had rested in her throat while they strode through the crossroads, some part of her half expecting the beast to return, but nothing happened, and soon enough the hills were at their backs, and a wide-open grassland spread out in front of them.

  Izzy paused and took a deep breath, then urged Uvnee into a swift lope simply because they could. The mare seemed inclined to agree, and she nearly lost her hat as they raced down the road, tears forming in the corners of her eyes and her braid streaming out behind her.

  When she finally turned Uvnee around and trotted sedately back to where the others waited, she half expected to be scolded. Instead, she found that Gabriel had discovered a creek a little ways off and decided they would make camp there for the night, rather than riding on.

  It must have rained while they were in the hills; the long grass was green, seed-tips bending in a gentle breeze, and the soil under their bedrolls was soft, less dust kicked up as they moved about, setting up camp. Here, out of the mountains, where she could see the horizon and the open sky above her, Izzy felt herself relax, if only a little.

  But when they’d settled by the fire as the sun began to s
ink behind them, a lap of bridles for cleaning, that ease disappeared with the magician’s words.

  “It’s not gone, you know.”

  “I know.” She let her fingers linger on the metal of Steady’s bit, checking it by feel for any sharp edges or worn areas. She could feel the lingering taint the same way, less seen than sensed, but distant.

  “Out of the crossroads, it didn’t have enough strength to come after us.”

  Izzy nodded, but she wasn’t sure she agreed. That wasn’t what this felt like. It wasn’t gone, wasn’t dead, but for now, it had no interest in them.

  Ribbons fell from the sky, striking ground and disappearing.

  “I’d thought I needed to go back to Clear Rock, but now I’m not so sure,” she said, instead. “Not if it’s following us.”

  “You think that thing was the same as what was in Clear Rock?” Gabriel asked. “But you’d said . . .”

  “It didn’t feel the same,” she agreed. “But it is. Somehow. Maybe . . . more than one thing came in on the storm?”

  “That . . . doesn’t make me feel better,” Gabriel said. “But it makes as much sense as anything. So, what now . . . we wait for it to come back? We set a trap?”

  “What would you do?” she asked in return.

  “If I were trying to draw something out but didn’t want to show my hand? I’d stick to whatever my original plan had been. Wait and gather more evidence. So . . . continue on the route we’d set.”

  “That’s what we’ll do, then.” Her words sounded disquietingly like a question, not a statement, but neither man commented on it, merely nodded.

  Izzy went back to cleaning the bridles, and Gabriel his whetstone, when the magician asked, “So, I wonder, rider: how did you come to be such a boon and trusted companion to one such as Graciendo?”

  From anyone else, it would have been impolite, asking about a man’s past. But Izzy thought, once again, that the magician seemed beyond all common courtesy or restrictions, instead like a child asking for a bedtime story, utterly unaware of anything beyond his own desires.