Silver on the Road

by Laura Anne Gilman

  The moon was a thin sliver rising in the sky, and the night winds lifted an owl’s wings overhead, its call and the crackling of the fire the only sound in the night. Farron had taken cover behind another rock, his long length crouching down while he did whatever it was magicians did before . . . whatever it was he planned to do. Next to her, Gabriel’s breath warmed the side of her face, his hand on her far shoulder, his arm warm against her back.

  “Stay low,” he said, the words scarcely a whisper in her ear, and placed his other hand against the rock in front of them.

  “I have to see,” she said, equally soft. “I set this upon them. I need to see.” If this was done on her order, she could not look away.

  He didn’t approve, she could tell, but he didn’t stop her as she slipped under his arm, moving away, chest to the ground, her chin lifted just enough so that she could observe the camp without being seen in turn. Like a snake, she thought.

  Your enemiessssss are not who you think. But then, neither are your friendssssss.

  Farron, she thought. Neither friend nor enemy. Had that been who the snake was warning Gabriel about?

  Somehow, Farron had moved without her noticing, leaving the safety of his rock and circling around the camp so that he approached along the road. She wondered if he was pulling strength from it, the way he did a crossroads, or if the nature of the road kept its power to itself, vulnerable only when they crossed. Gabriel would know. If not, it was another thing to ask the boss when she got home. If she got home.

  When she got home.

  And then Farron stood, somehow broader and taller than even he’d been before, the wind lifting the edges of his hair and the tail of his coat, the pale moonlight limning him brighter than anything else.

  Midnight. A passing-time, like noon or dawn or dusk. Isobel felt her body tense, bracing itself. She wasn’t sure what she expected; the confrontations she’d seen before were silent, nearly invisible, save for the press of air and the trembling of the ground, but surely against flesh and blood, there would be more? But Farron merely stood there, waiting for the sentry to notice him.

  It only took a few heartbeats, then the man’s startled cry woke the others, scrambling to their feet, grabbing their staffs, and forming an outward-facing circle, ready to match any attack. It would have been effective, and impressive, had the attack not come from within the circle instead.

  The magician did not move save his arms bent at the elbow, his hands turned upward; his gaze fastened on the camp but otherwise still, even as his targets flailed madly at the whirlwind that grew behind them, reaching out to engulf them.

  The cries were terrifying, heartbreaking, and Isobel knew as though Farron had told her himself that each man saw not the dust and leaves of a miniature tornado but the greatest evil and heartbreak they had ever known or feared, striking not at their minds but their hearts and bowels.

  It was a terrible thing to do, a vicious thing, and one that would leave no marks, no scars, save what they inflicted upon themselves.

  And she let it happen. She had set it in motion.

  When the first Spaniard broke, it was like watching an ice dam collapse on the river, the weight of pent-up water forcing everything out in one rush. They abandoned their packs, some of them abandoned their staffs, half of them dressed only in pants and tunics, barefoot, racing for the road as though they could outrun the invisible torment that dogged them, invading their very souls. In their flight, they brushed past the magician without seeming to notice him, but his hand flashed to the side, a glitter of dark red in the darkness, and felled them as they passed, toppling face-first into the dirt, seemingly out cold or, Isobel had time to think, dead.

  Only one of the friars stood fast: a swarthy man, his dark skin making him harder to see, only the flash of metal at the tip of his staff marking him in the night.

  “Sispann ou bèt nan dyab la!”

  It sounded like gibberish to Isobel’s ears, but the man raised his arms, palms out as though to stop the whirlwind by sheer force, and shouted it again. “Sispann ou bèt nan dyab la!”

  Farron laughed, a high, mad noise that made Isobel’s skin crawl. This was not the odd, occasionally amusing man who had walked alongside them, given them advice. The wind had taken him full, filled his eyes with light and his body with power, and she remembered the very first warning again: If you ever see a magician, run. Do not pause, do not speak, by all that you value, do not catch their attention, just run.

  Too late, far too late for any of them to take that advice now. She clung to the memory of his oath, that he was no enemy to them in this time and this place, and hoped that neither time nor place had changed since then.

  “Farron!” she cried, trying to drag the magician’s attention away from his prey. “Farron, no!”

  Only a madwoman would do such a thing, but something snapped and fizzed under her skin, driving her forward, the knowledge that they needed at least one of the friars alive.

  They gave offense, the demon had said, and the road agreed—the Territory agreed. But she needed to know if these men were merely more would-be invaders, or if the storm had been their doing.

  Farron took another step closer, and the friar turned, whether warned by her call or some sense of a greater predator approaching, she did not know. He bent and snatched up his staff, a graceful move but one that gave him no real defense against the magician.

  “Farron Easterly, no!”

  Names had a certain power. She did not believe he had been foolish enough to give them a true name; she wasn’t sure he had a true name anymore. But there was enough of him within it that her call reached him, striking home and halting his hand, at least for the moment.

  “We need him alive, Farron Easterly.” She swallowed, the faint glow around him showing the savage mask of his face, mouth pulled back in an unseemly wide grin, too many teeth showing, his eyes showing too much white.

  “You promised to put the fear of the Territory into them,” she said, more quietly now, trusting him to hear her despite the wind and the distance. “You have done so, splendidly. Now let the devil do the rest.”

  His face rippled, that unnervy grin pulling tighter into a sneer that made her knees tremble before it collapsed, the wind dying with it.

  “Have at them,” he said, and disappeared—not with the dusty glitter and cold stink of the demon but the way a wind disappeared, with a soft sluffing of breath and then nothing.

  Isobel swallowed and stepped forward. The whirlwind, no longer held to its shape by the magician’s will and word, was only a soft breeze against her skin, and then it was gone. The friar stared at her. This close, she could see his chest heaving for breath, his face shining with sweat.

  “I will protect you,” she said. “So long as you answer my questions and do not seek to lie or escape.”

  His gaze went over her shoulder, doubtless to his companions motionless on the ground behind her, and all breath seemed to escape him. He rested his staff on the ground and went down on his knees. “My parole, it is yours.”

  “Wonderful,” she said, and took the staff from him. It was heavier than it seemed, and the end dipped to the ground before she was able to adjust to it.

  “They’re asleep,” Gabriel said, and she turned to find him a safe distance behind her, eyeing the staff—and then the friar—with the eye of a man who isn’t sure the battle is over. “Deep enough that I can’t wake them. So, unless we leave them here . . .”

  It was unlikely any human would come by to rob them, or cut their throats for sheer meanness, but the demon still lurked, and there were animals that were kept back by fire and voice but would consider silent, unmoving bodies a fair feast, given half a chance.

  “We will stay here,” she said, letting the heaviest tip of the staff rest on the ground, shifting her grip so that she held it like a flagstaff. “Bring the horses and our suppl
ies.”

  Hopefully, by the time he returned, she would have figured out what she was doing.

  Gabriel’s hands were shaking as he removed the hobbles and then saddled Steady, and he leaned his face against the horse’s neck, breathing in the familiar scent. The gelding turned its head, pressing him into the crook between neck and withers in a horse’s hug.

  “Yeah, you didn’t like us leaving you here either, did you?” The mare had nipped at him when he’d saddled her first, clearly asking where her rider was, and didn’t they know that there were wolves here and other things that ate innocent horses? Only the mule had seemed unperturbed, looking up from its lazy doze and flopping one ear as though to say, “Oh, you’ve returned, have you?”

  “Damn the devil, and damn her, and damn me, too,” he said. “But I’m neck-deep in it and no mistake now.”

  He’d only meant to mentor a young girl with spirit, show her the road, teach her what freedom meant. But neither of them had a lick of freedom, not really. Her for her bargain, and him . . .

  He’d tried to get away, had run as far away as he could get, and discovered it wasn’t far enough, wasn’t far at all. Three years he’d lasted back East before the Territory called him home, and only constant moving had kept him as free as he’d been, never staying still long enough for it to tangle him down.

  He should never have gone to Flood, never tempted the devil’s luck, never looked into the clear, bright eyes of a girl who needed him. . . .

  He huffed a laugh and scratched Steady under the bridle, scraping away a bit of sweat and dirt. “If wishes were wings, we wouldn’t have to ride, would we?”

  Strange storms, magicians, Spaniards . . . He didn’t like this, didn’t like any of it, not a whit, but the devil always paid his price. He just had to keep Isobel safe and bring her home intact. Admittedly, that was proving more difficult than he’d thought at the first, but what Gabriel had asked in return was dear too.

  Peace was worth whatever you paid.

  Their site packed up, the ashes covered with dirt, Gabriel gave one last look around to make sure there was nothing left behind, and frowned. The magician’s pack was gone. Admittedly, the man hadn’t carried much, but he was certain that it hadn’t been over Farron’s shoulder when he attacked the Spaniards’ camp, and while he might easily have stashed it somewhere before starting, Gabriel couldn’t remember seeing it slung over his shoulder as they followed him, either.

  “So, you abandoned us, came back, took your pack, and went on your way. Good riddance.” He gathered Steady’s reins, slid his foot into the stirrup, and swung into the saddle. He could almost imagine leaving his trouble, his worries, here in this abandoned campsite, letting Steady’s tail whisk them away as they walked, Uvnee’s lead tied to his saddle, the mule obediently falling in behind. He could imagine it . . . but he did not believe it.

  Whatever waited ahead would be no easier than what lay behind. And the fact that the magician had disappeared left him not reassured but more worried. Because after Farron Easterly had come to them—to Isobel—intentionally, after death could not hold him, after vowing to be their ally to find and defeat—or harness—the storm’s power, what could have made him leave now?

  That question kept him uneasy company all the way to the new camp, without answer.

  The fire had been rebuilt to a comforting blaze, casting a pale yellow light, and Isobel and the friar had moved the sleeping brothers out of the road and stacked them on their bedrolls, side by side. It looked uncomfortably like a battlefield morgue, and Gabriel glanced away as he picketed the horses off to the side, where they would not startle any friar who awoke without warning.

  The magician had not returned. Isobel and the sole waking Spaniard were sitting across the fire from each other, and he guessed from their vaguely adversarial positions that they had not spoken, save the few words needed to move the bodies, since he left.

  Despite himself, Gabriel smiled. What Isobel could do, what the magician was, all that was beyond him. But this—charming people into conversation—he could manage.

  “Did none of our sleepers rouse?” he asked, coming to sit next to Isobel, careful to keep enough distance between them to raise no eyebrows. The friar would doubtless be all too ready to cast aspersions of sin at Isobel; he would not add wood to that fire by implying they had any sort of carnal relationship. The other friar had not taken well to a woman with authority—would this one be more adaptable? He hoped that that was not why they stared at each other so glumly. . . .

  “None,” Isobel said. “Was Farron at the—” She shut her mouth with a snap when he shook his head. So, he hadn’t given her notice, either. Gone in the wind, and good riddance.

  “And our awake companion?”

  “This is Fra Manuel.” She pronounced it with the weight on the last half of the name, and when she spoke, he looked up from his hands, giving Gabriel a steady once-over. “He doesn’t seem to be a man of many words.”

  “I’m not entirely sure I can blame him,” Gabriel said, infusing his words with as much casual sincerity as he’d ever used in court. “After all, the only times he’s seen us, things have gone not terribly well for his group.”

  Isobel looked at him sideways, looking for his direction. Whatever she saw, it seemed to satisfy her.

  “Perhaps,” she said, looking back at the fire. “But it was not our fault that his leader insisted on disregarding our advice, to his own folly.”

  He could hear the cadences of her boss in those words and wondered briefly who he was speaking to: Isobel or Hand. Not that it mattered overmuch here, only what Fra Manuel heard.

  “Perhaps we can put that to right,” he said, still directing his words to her while putting on a show of casual concern for their auditor. “Certainly, the fact that we have cared for his brothers must show we mean them no harm, despite Farron’s rather . . . excessive showing.”

  “You dabble in witchcraft; your souls are forfeit.”

  Ah. So Fra Manuel spoke enough English to follow. That was good. He was a little snappish about souls and power, though. That was less useful. A fanatic would be useless to them. Unless . . . It was a risk on several fronts, but Isobel had said once that the devil respected a man who played his hand well.

  “He thinks his hands are unsullied, his soul clean,” Gabriel said, forcing a faint chuckle. “Do you think his master did not tell him what they did here?”

  Bless Isobel, she picked up his intent. “I suspect he was told nothing that could not be contained within his prayer book, or he would not use such harsh words on us when he himself is more due them.” And that was the magician in her words now. She was a regular mocking­bird when she chose to be. Still, from the expressions passing over the other man’s face, even in the firelight, it was working

  Raising her chin in a now-familiar gesture, Isobel studied their prisoner with a look that would have seemed perfectly at home across the devil’s nose as well. “Or he is the very worst of his kind, to lie about the purity of his own soul when it is blackened by false witness.”

  “I bear true witness,” Manuel burst out, his words impassioned, nearly pulling his body upright with the force of them. “You lie!”

  Poke a man of God in his virtue hard enough, Gabriel had learned in his time back East, and you’ll find what he’s made of. “Then why are you here, if not to spread your master’s filth?”

  “To stop it!”

  Fray Manuel’s cry was one of anguish, of despair, not defiance. Isobel pressed her palms harder against the log she’d dragged over to use as a seat, her nails digging into the soft bark, but it was barely enough to ground her, as shaken as his pain left her. She wished she dared touch the ground but was afraid to move, to do anything that might set the friar off again or cause him to stop speaking.

  Use the pain, she thought, studying him. It wounds him, and only you can offer so
lace.

  “Tell me,” she said. “Convince me.” This was easy, harkening back to all the nights spent listening to the players, learning a secret for the boss or her own curiosity, neither commanding nor demanding but inviting his confidences, the words he clearly so desperately needed to share.

  “There are factions in Madrid, en España. They are close to Carlos.”

  “Spain’s king,” Gabriel said softly.

  “Si. They whisper into his ear that the time is right to claim all of this land, before the Americans expand further. That the plata potencia, the silver of protection, is a thing Spain must control, not savages. And he . . . He sent messengers to the viceroy in Las Californias with orders to do a thing.

  “Our abbot, he disagreed, for these orders were not things that the Church could approve, and there were arguments that shook the alcázar. But the viceroy, he determined he would do this thing, to keep his position safe and please the king.” Fray Manuel seemed somewhat sympathetic to the plight of a man who answered to a mortal king rather than the almighty one.

  “What were those orders?” Isobel asked. “What was the thing the king commanded him to do?”

  “No se. I do not know.” He swallowed and looked at Isobel directly for the first time. She realized with a shock that he was not much older than she was, for all that he was broad-shouldered. She shoved that thought aside and focused on his words. “I heard this only later, what Fray Bernardo told us. He was there, at the Mission Alta San Diego. We joined him later and were blessed before we crossed the Sierra Madres.” He crossed himself, as though checking to make sure the blessing still held.

  Isobel waited, but when he didn’t go on, she prompted, “Why? Why come here, the five of you?”

  “There were twelve first. Three fell ill crossing the mountains and turned back. Two stayed in the Santa des Oro, as planned, to relay news. And two died in a storm two months ago, as we crossed the peak.” He crossed himself again and looked down at the thought of those lost companions.