Silver on the Road

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “They tried to cross in winter? Idiots,” Gabriel said, barely under his breath. Isobel couldn’t disagree. It had snowed only a few days before in the lower hills, and the Mother’s Blade was much higher and doubtless colder. She kept her silence, however, and after a moment, Manuel went on.

  “We had already lost too much time. Fray Bernardo told us the viceroy, de Marquina, he summoned los hechiceros, warlocks. We were told they made a working in the King’s name . . . to undermine the devil’s hold and weaken this land to Spain’s influence.”

  He was overwrought at that point, the horror of what he was telling unmanning him in a way that facing the terrors of the Territory had not.

  “It’s not a bad plan, as idiocy goes,” Gabriel said thoughtfully, then shrugged when Isobel and Manuel both glared at him. “From a purely tactical point of view, I mean.” He looked at Manuel. “And the Church disapproves of this why? You’ve been dying to get your claws across the mountains for decades.”

  “It endangers the soul of all who allowed it,” Manuel said, offended. “And the King, in whose name it was done.”

  Isobel wasn’t sure how the actions of one person endangered the souls of others, nor did she care.

  “It is God’s will that you recant your ways and come to the light. But this . . . this black magic is not the way. One may not bring salva­tion through darkness.” Manuel glanced at where his companions lay, still oblivious to the world, and sighed. “We were meant to stop it. And now we have failed.”

  “You never thought to ask for help?” Isobel found herself incensed at both the news and the resignation in his voice. “Never thought to tell us what was happening, ask our assistance?”

  Manuel blinked at her, as though she’d suggested he ask their horses for help, or the birds overhead.

  “Iz.” Gabriel’s voice was quiet but firm, his hand outstretched to bring her away from the fire. She stared at the friar, then shook her head and turned away, following Gabriel to a distance where they could not be overheard.

  “The storm you saw. It was a spell. A dark spell, sent to—”

  “To burrow itself into the Territory,” she finished for him. “The things I saw, the illnesses, the bad dreams and unease, the missing people . . . all from that?” It seemed impossible. Medicine was a thing that healed, or sent dreams, visions, not this. “How?”

  “I think . . . they didn’t know what they were doing.” Gabriel cast his gaze up at the stars slowly crossing the sky above, as though it were easier to speak when he was looking away from her. “Here, it’s a thing we rarely think of: the devil is, demon and magicians are. You know what a medicine bundle is and how to use silver to clear your way, or you learn, or you leave. Out there . . . it’s different.

  “When I was across the River, I encountered witches. They knew I was from the Territory and were curious.” He sighed and looked back down at her. “They were mostly no more than herbalists and true-dreamers, gifted in some small way, but there’s not . . . The winds blow differently out there, Isobel. The wind doesn’t speak, the bones lay silent. You can’t feel a true road; it’s inert, silent.

  “I couldn’t find water there, Isobel.” He shuddered and swallowed. “I don’t know why. But only here are there demon and dust-dancers. Only here are there magicians. Only here, of any place I’ve been.”

  She tried to imagine that, but it was like a city: too much for her to understand. “Then how could someone—someone from outside—do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know. I would have sworn it wasn’t possible.” He rubbed his chin, the soft scratch of bristles an oddly comforting noise. “The monk is useless; all he knows is what he’s been told, and damn little of that, I’d bet. Farron could likely tell us if he hadn’t flitted, but it’s doubtful he would.”

  She felt overwhelmed again, too much being forced onto her and no way to sort it into tidy understanding.

  “You ask the wrong person, little rider. The rider refuses to let himself understand.”

  “I thought you’d gone,” Gabriel said, his eyes narrowing as he turned to greet the magician.

  “I went to deal with the demon,” Farron said, flicking a speck of dust off his sleeve. “It bothered me to leave threads untied in that manner.”

  Isobel sniffed, picking up the faint scent of cold dust and dry mud surrounding Farron. “You killed it?”

  “Please.” Even in the starlight, she could see the look of disdain on his face. “Killing them would do nothing useful. I claimed their essence so I might make better use of it.”

  That was worse. She swallowed, not sure why she felt sudden sympathy for the demon. “You drained them all. Like you would a crossroads.”

  “Effectively, yes. Don’t look so shocked, little rider. This is our nature: they would do the same to me if they had won. And I will be of far more use to you than they would.”

  The doings of magicians were none of her care, and not wise to meddle with. Isobel took the warning and returned to his earlier words. “What did you mean, that Gabriel won’t let himself understand? Understand what?”

  “This is not the time or place,” Gabriel said, lowering his voice again and glaring at the magician, who glared right back.

  “And you say you do not trust me?” Farron’s expression actually looked hurt, but a heartbeat later, it had rearranged itself to the usual mocking grin, and she knew whatever it was, he would not tell her. “We needs deal with the immediate disaster first, little rider, and toss recriminations and revilement later. For now, it shall be enough to say that this little game has greater reach than those fool Spaniards could imagine.

  “Seeing them, seeing the shape they make in the wind, I understand better. It was a thing shaped of ill intent, if no great power, but once here . . . The Territory has its own ways with dealing with intruders, little rider, and not all of them are healthy for we who live here.

  “You need to find their medicine, find its shape in the wind, and dig it out before it spreads further. You, none other, Devil’s Hand.”

  Isobel felt panic press on her, her heartbeat too fast, her skin prickling with cold sweat. The magician had his own secrets, appearing and disappearing, and everything Gabriel had warned about him was true. He had his own reasons for being here, his own reasons for helping them. Magicians thought only of themselves, their own power. She could not trust what he implied about Gabriel . . . but Gabriel wasn’t denying it.

  “Easy,” Gabriel said, his hand a calming touch on her shoulder. “Easy, Iz.” He was gentling her the way he might a horse, but she couldn’t bring herself to protest, not when that voice and touch eased the cold, calmed her pulse. Gabriel was here. He had made a bargain with the boss to guide her. He was keeping secrets, but none that would harm her, none that would prevent her from doing her job.

  And this was hers. Her responsibility. Her obligation. Isobel pressed her right thumb into her left hand, pressing the mark there. The words the boss had said came to her again: maleh mishpat. The words had been strange to her, were still strange to her, another language she did not know, but the meaning had rested within her from the moment he had said the words, although it had taken her longer to reach it. The depth of it could not be translated, could not be explained, could not be described, only understood.

  Isobel was beginning to understand.

  “I am the cold eye and the final word,” she said, and when she turned back to the fire and the waiting friar, she knew that whatever differences they might have, whatever secrets they kept, the two men were at her back.

  When they returned to the fire, Isobel had merely told them to get some sleep, that they would discuss things further in the morning when the sun was up. When she could see their faces, he thought she’d meant.

  For now, Gabriel sat by the fire and watched the soft rise and fall of Isobel’s side as she slept beside him. Farther away, close to
his companions, Manuel had wrapped himself in a blanket and had his eyes closed, although Gabriel was close to certain the friar was not actually asleep. He couldn’t blame him, and he didn’t particularly care. His only concern was that Isobel be well rested. Or as well rested as they could manage, anyway.

  The magician didn’t seem to need sleep at all, spending the past few hours walking around the camp, occasionally disappearing but always, regrettably, returning. He did a slow circuit of the friars still on the ground, then came to stand by Gabriel. “They’re waking up.”

  “Good,” Gabriel said, not looking up. “Hauling them around would have been difficult, unless you could conjure up a wagon.”

  “We could have just—” Farron stopped when that drew Gabriel’s glare. “You would have objected?” He laughed softly, the sound not carrying, and sat down beside Gabriel, watching the coalstone cool down as the sky slowly lightened. “You think she should not have blood on her hands?”

  “I think she’ll have enough blood there soon enough. I’ve no desire she spill it sooner.”

  “What, you think that they will simply fall in with us? That our pet friar will not revert back the moment his leader awakens and deem us all fire-worthy scum? And don’t think you’ll escape his wrath, legacy. You’re as tainted as the rest of us. Mayhaps even more so.”

  The magician wasn’t wrong. For all that people had looked at him oddly in the States when they learned where he came from, for the most part it had been curiosity and some fascination that ruled, not fear or hatred. The people of the States saw the Territory as land to be taken, not cleansed, and any white man was considered a potential ally, not a threat.

  “I don’t suppose you can wipe their memories clean, send them on their way home?”

  The magician pursed his lips as though considering the thought. “No.”

  “Good,” Gabriel said. He didn’t trust the man already, even less so were he able to do that.

  “Of course, if I were, would I tell you? Or mayhaps I’ve already told you and asked you to forget?”

  “You’re not fool enough to tangle with someone who rides with the devil’s Hand.”

  “No. No, you’re quite right about that. I do not fear the devil but I’m not fool enough to tangle with him needlessly. And she’s passing fond of you and would be most displeased with me. Assuming she remembered, of course.”

  Gabriel hadn’t survived nearly four decades without knowing when he was being teased, maliciously or otherwise. But he was too tired to play the game just then. “Harm her, and I will shove a silver blade so far into where your heart should be it will come out the other side, and stake you in the middle of a river.” It might not kill the magician, but the combination of silver and running water would certainly make it unpleasant until he worked himself free.

  “You’re vicious when you’re tired,” Farron said. “And you do not trust my oath.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  They sat together in silence as the sun rose and the rest of the camp began to wake.

  Isobel knew she was dreaming. She walked slowly through a meadow of water, grassheads swaying lazily in the ripples, making the small creatures swimming at her feet flicker and turn. Voices whispered past her, high and low, dry and soft. The sky was pale grey overhead, the cry of Reaper hawks and eagles distant, unseen. On the banks, something stood, moved, was gone.

  She was alone, utterly alone. The winds did not speak to her, the sun did not warm her; her flesh felt loose on her bones, and her bones felt soft, crumbling under every step until she was not sure where she ended and the water began. She was not afraid. She was not curious. She was not . . . anything.

  “What am I?”

  Her voice stilled the water, silenced the birds, hushed the winds.

  “Boss, what have I become?”

  No familiar voice answered her. She was alone.

  Following impulse, she sank to her knees, letting the water rush over her, small forms bumping softly against her knees and elbows, until the water reached her shoulders, only her chin and face exposed. Her hair ran loose, strands floating on the current, weighing the back of her head down until her back arched, feeling the stretch from her calves to her neck, and yet somehow she was as comfortable as she’d ever been sleeping in her own bed, down feathers and worn, familiar quilt.

  The water chilled her skin, then warmed it again, the grey sky soothing when she opened her eyes. All sense of self disappeared, and she was the water, rushing over herself, taking bits away and replacing them with others.

  Knowing this was a dream, she knew she should be afraid. Instead, she let the water fill her. Running water, to interrupt any conjure, disrupt any spell, even as it cast its own on her, washing her away until there was nothing left, no Izzy, no Isobel, no née Lacoyo Távora, no Hand, only water rushing over bone.

  She woke to the smell of coffee and the low murmur of men’s voices.

  Isobel opened her eyes, and the sky was pale blue, sparked by gold where the sun stretched its rays. No clouds this morning; another dry day. She sat up slowly, feeling every muscle in her body protest as though she had ridden hard all night, her bones oddly numb.

  She remembered her dream and clenched her fingers against her palm as though to enclose the mark there. She did not know what it meant, did not know what she was to take from it, and she wished fiercely for the boss’s soothing voice and unchanging eyes, or Marie’s warm touch and stern tones to set her right.

  But she had only herself.

  “Here.” She took the mug that was offered her, only realizing after the fact that it was not Gabriel but Farron who offered it. She took a sip, feeling the hot bitterness pull her back to flesh, and smiled her thanks.

  The magician did not smile back. There were shadows under his eyes, his thin mouth flattened. “Our sleepers have awakened,” he said. “You’ll need to deal with them.”

  Panic fluttered briefly under her breastbone. “How?”

  He smiled then, but it didn’t reach the rest of his face, nor did it mock. “I have no idea, little rider. Your man wouldn’t let me kill them, so”—he shrugged—“they are your problem now.”

  He turned away, leaving her with the coffee and the problem of getting dressed with strangers only a few yards away. She raised her chin at the one man who was looking at her, waiting until he ducked his head and turned away, then reached for her clothing, refusing to be hurried or shamed.

  She held their fate in her hand. She would not allow them to make her discomforted.

  Clothing properly adjusted, her hair finger-combed and rebraided, the feathers smoothed and reknotted into her braid, she knocked a spider from one boot and pulled them on, then joined the men by the fire.

  “Good morning,” she said, as civil as though they’d met in proper surroundings like proper folk. She tilted her mug in Gabriel’s direction, and he refilled it from the pot. The Spaniards had their own brew, she noted, not coffee but a tisane that made her nose twitch with its astringent smell. “You will be traveling with us for a while,” she informed the leader, turning to him even as she spoke. His expression was one of surprise and anger, quickly hidden.

  “You may not—”

  “I may,” she said firmly. “Your companion has convinced me that your intent was . . . not intentionally harmful. But I do not trust you on these roads, and I cannot trust you to return home. So, you will come with us, as we seem to have a shared interest in tracking down the root of this malice and digging it out.”

  “We are—”

  Gabriel stood up, drawing the man’s attention away from her. His hand rested on his belt, not on his blade, but the threat was clear. “You are intruders here. Strangers. And at risk from things you cannot, will not understand. We would have slit your throats while you slept. Only her presence has kept you alive. Be gracious if you remember how.”

&nb
sp; She had never thought he could look so cold, his eyes narrowed, dark curls slicked back with water, weeks of exhaustion honing his face to stone. In the friar’s place, she too would have backed down.

  “My name is Isobel,” she said, once the friars’ leader—Bernardo, she remembered—finished spluttering. “Will you give me your parole, or need we chain you?”

  His color still high, Bernardo nodded once in acknowledgment, then said in precisely spoken English, “You have my parole, for myself and my brothers.”

  They would not attempt to escape, nor to harm the three of them. More than that, she would not trust. The preachermen she’d encountered in Flood had all sworn obedience to their god before any other oath, and she didn’t think these would be any different.

  “You were heading east with purpose—do you have a way to track the spell?”

  When Bernardo looked away, shifty-eyed, Isobel’s temper broke, her words hard and precise as his own. “You will answer me when I ask a question, Churchman.”

  His gaze flickered down first. “We were given a way,” he said, and reached into his pocket inside his robe, pulling out a brass-and-wood object the length of his hand.

  “A Rittenhouse compass?” Gabriel huffed a laugh. “I would not have taken you for a surveyor, Brother.”

  “It is bespelled,” Farron said, eyeing it the way a child might a mouse found unexpectedly on the table, torn between brushing it away or luring it closer.

  “It brings us to the strongest point of disturbance,” Bernardo said, his grip tightening on the object as though he could feel the magician’s interest.

  “Disturbance, hey?” Farron leaned back against the air, now looking decidedly unimpressed. “And what were you to do once you found that disturbance? Pray at it?”

  “Farron,” Isobel said gently, just his name, but it was enough to haul him back.

  He crossed his arms and looked unimpressed at her. “They’re fools, young rider. You know what happens to fools here.”