Silver on the Road

by Laura Anne Gilman

  She thought of the things in her pack, then thought of the pile of things she had left on her bed back in Flood, the shed skin of her previous life. There was nothing in either place that could help her now.

  The trail led up, and around, and she would have thought Bernardo was leading them into a trap were he not so determined to find the thing. But eventually, midafternoon, they came to the spring Farron had mentioned. It was half-hidden in the rocks, but a clear-trod path that led to the lip showed someone had been using it recently. The waters smelled clean, not of sulphur or rot, but there was a faint steam rising from the surface that could indicate heat. Or, Isobel thought, something living within it.

  She remembered how the creature in the crossroads had exploded from the ground, the thing at Clear Rock forming seemingly out of thin air. And now this, hiding in water. There was no part of the Territory that was safe.

  They had done this, Spaniards, and she felt the warmth within her burn more intensely, making sweat bead on her upper lip. But Marie would not let anger rule her, and neither could she.

  She studied the spring, judging the distance from where they had stopped. “How close do you need to be for your prayer-spell to work?”

  Manuel shook his head. “As close as possible. It requires the application of holy water, and I am not certain how strong Bernardo’s throw might be.”

  She glanced at him to make sure that he was not joking. He wasn’t. She took a deep breath, unclenched her fingers, and tried not to imagine how the boss or Marie would handle this. Neither of them were here; she was.

  “You’re all going to die,” she warned him.

  “We were shriven before we left Las Californias.” Manuel smiled at her, and there was humor and resignation in it. “Did you not wonder why we carried so little with us?”

  “I thought you were fools.”

  “Holy fools, perhaps. Bernardo may think to survive, perhaps also Fray Esteban, who is young. But they hide those thoughts where they think God cannot see them. We have surrendered all to preserve God’s will.”

  Isobel simply shook her head, his thinking giving her a headache. Her braid slid against her shoulders, and she thought she might pin it up for the first time in weeks, mindful of Gabriel’s warnings about long hair in a fight. “If you think it’s your God’s will, then why did your God allow your viceroy to do this?”

  “To test us, perhaps?” Manuel made a helpless gesture. “Ours is not to question God’s will, only to do as we are called.”

  “That’s an excellent way to get yourself killed,” Isobel agreed.

  “And are you that much different? You are here, facing a beast we cannot hope to match, filled with evil power, because you have been sent to do so by one you cannot hope to understand.”

  “We question the boss all the time,” she said defensively.

  “And does he give you answers?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek. “Sometimes. Sometimes he makes us figure it out on our own.”

  Manuel patted her hand gently. “Perhaps, if we live through this, we may continue our discussion. But for now, Bernardo begins to pace, and your guardia is no less tense. It is time.”

  He moved off to join his brothers, and she raised her chin and tilted her head, calling Gabriel to her side. “He needs to get close enough to douse it with holy water,” she said. “And then, I presume, time to perform whatever ritual the unspelling requires.”

  “That’s not going to end well.”

  She looked at him, and he ran both hands through sweat-sticky hair, then replaced his hat, pulling it down over his eyes even though the sun was behind them now. “All right. I’m assuming the friars will be useless, outside of praying?”

  “That seems a safe way to bet.”

  “So, we need to rouse it from its lair,” he said. “You think Farron will be willing to play bait, instead of you?”

  “No,” the magician said from behind her left ear. “But I would not have her die pointlessly, either. Might I suggest a distraction rather than a lure?”

  “We need to put a bell around your neck,” Isobel said, irritated that he’d once again managed to come up on her without a sound.

  “If we survive, little rider, you may try.”

  “You’re thinking to call it out?” Gabriel asked Farron, curious.

  “That is how such things are done,” Farron said. “Power to power. We might spend our entire lives without acknowledging one another, but when the winds blow us together, only one leaves.” His gaze flicked sideways at Isobel, and she pretended not to notice.

  “Neither of you won, last time you challenged it.”

  “And the time before that, it ate me,” the magician said. “Clearly, I’m learning.”

  It had been the same creature, that first night? But even as Isobel was forming a question, he leaned forward, speaking directly into her ear. “Little rider, this must be done, and it must be done here. I can feel it pressing against its constraints, pressing against the winds that brought it here. It has already changed, and it wishes to grow. That must not be allowed. Allow me to be your distraction. It may be enough to hold it, empty it of power.”

  “The way you did the demon?”

  “The way I would anything with power.” He smiled then, an older, grimmer smile than she’d seen on him before, the whites of his eyes so bloodshot now, they were more red than not. “Everything you’ve ever been told about us is true, little rider. Use it.”

  Before she could comprehend what he meant, he reached for her left hand, pulled her down, and pressed her palm to the ground. “Call it, then stay very still.”

  It terrified her, or it would have if she allowed it to, how swiftly the earth swallowed her up now, without hesitation or dizziness, sliding under her skin, bones grinding against bones. The cool tang of water brushed against her skin, under her skin, and she thought she heard something mouth her name before she lost all sense of self, spread into the thumpthumpthump of the road above and the long exhale of the bones.

  It was there. Waiting-not-waiting, curled at the bottom of the spring, the waters rising up around it, slow breaths exhaling and inhaling. She found it, knew it. Not-breath caught in not-body, the shock rattling the bones, cracking them, and she reached out even as it reached out, panic fear need hunger touching her, trying to consume her, fill the gaping need inside it.

  She fought back, her instinctive response not the burn of power in her palm but the smell of the blacksmith’s forge in her nostrils, the flickerthwack of cards on a felted table, the pulse of hooves against the ground, the low hum of insects, the harsh-sounding languages she didn’t understand, the feel of the rain on her skin and the mud between her toes, the smell of smoke rising from a cookstove, the feel of a coalstone in her hand, midday sun and midnight chill, the low murmur of too many voices like a lullaby.

  For half a heartbeat, they were evenly matched, a pulse-pulse-pulse of negotiation, and then something else hit it from above, taunting, teasing, calling a challenge, and it let go of her, pushing her away, and it screamed.

  Isobel was thrown back into herself, opening her eyes to realize that the magician was gone from her side and the beast had risen.

  On the other side of the spring, the friars scrambled down the rocks, and their utter clumsiness might have been amusing any other time and place, but here and now Isobel could only clench her fingers into her hands and wait, cursing the robes they insisted on wearing, even less suited to the road than skirts, tangling their limbs and slowing them too much, taking them too long to get into position.

  Tension scrabbled at her, pulling her too tight, making her skin thrum and sweat bead across her forehead and the back of her neck. Something was wrong, it told her. She’d missed something, done something wrong. . . .

  No. This was what they’d planned. Farron stood by the edge of the spring, his h
air loose and flowing round him, the south wind wrapping around him, lifting his hair and fluttering his sleeves. She could smell it, the warmer, wild scent cutting through the cooler, damp air, and she could hear his words in it, soft but clear.

  “Farron of the Eastern Wind calls you out, unnamed beast. Farron of the Eastern Wind challenges you. Take your form and come face me in fair debate.”

  She felt the wind rise, although it did not touch her nor any of the others, only wrapping itself around Farron, thick enough she could see it now, shimmering-clear and painful to gaze on too long. The winds were not stable, were too changeable, without stone and bone to ground them, and Isobel could taste Farron’s madness rising like ice on her tongue.

  Then a friar screamed, and Isobel’s gaze cut to the spring itself.

  The beast that rose to his challenge looked nothing like the multi-armed creature in the crossroads, nor the half-formed thing that chased her from Clear Rock. Sleek from the water, whiskers quivering, it flipped twice sideways in a sinuous roll, then rose erect, twice as tall as a grown man but slender, its pelt a shimmering brown, four visible paws folded neatly across its chest. It turned its head to face Farron, but tiny rounded ears twitched restlessly, clearly aware they were not alone.

  “I was not expecting that,” she heard Gabriel say softly, almost amused, but could not spare a glance at him, her attention focused on the Spaniards, who had finally reached the water’s edge. She shook her head, aware that something was wrong despite everything going to plan. What had she missed when she touched it, deep in the water? What hadn’t she understood?

  “Give me your name,” Farron said, his voice carrying to all of them. “I am stronger than you, and I will have your name.”

  The creature’s mouth opened, and a long tongue escaped, flickering and forked like a snake’s, but it did not speak. Nor did its gaze leave Farron, as though it had dismissed the others as no threat. Isobel’s palm itched with prickly heat, a thousand sewing needles jabbed into her skin all at once, and she shifted, finding Gabriel at her back, his hands on her shoulders.

  “I will have your name,” Farron repeated, no louder but more fiercely, and raised his hands, fingers spread wide. “I will have all of you, and you will have none of me.”

  She could not have said how she knew when the battle in truth began: neither moved, neither spoke, and the wind did not rise nor settle further, wrapped close around the magician’s form, but Isobel knew, and some part of her trembled under the knowledge, instinct telling her to flee, to run, to grab all that she cared for and make herself be somewhere far away.

  She held.

  “Vade et relinqo. Vade et relinqo. In nomine Dei et Domini nostri uos sub praeconem nos explicare vobis misimus ad vos ex nihilo per quem venisti.”

  Bernardo’s voice was not as clear as Farron’s, not as strong, and yet it echoed across the water, the air shuddering with the sounds of his spell. Isobel felt her skin shudder as though touched by something cold, although her palm still burned hot, and she leaned back against Gabriel instinctively.

  In the spring, the creature spat its tongue into the air again, twisting gracefully so that its body now faced the monks, now deemed the greater threat.

  Farron flicked his hands, and the clear shimmer darkened, tinged now with red, but otherwise he neither spoke nor moved, even as the creature shuddered under the joint attack, one seeking to dismiss it, the other to consume it.

  “Vade et relinqo!” Bernardo said again, and reached into his pocket, pulling something out and casting it overhand at the creature.

  The flask broke against the creature’s chest, and it ducked its head to look down, then the two paws on its right side slashed out in unison even as the creature leaned forward, claws raking through the air and tossing men aside as though they weighed nothing. The top half of one man fell forward, the lower half falling back, and two others went down intact but did not move again. Another swipe and Bernardo was on his knees, bleeding from the face, while the last standing friar lifted an arm as though pleading for aid.

  Before Isobel could react, Gabriel had stepped around her, raised the carbine, and fired, the sound ringing in her ears. The creature screamed, a mixture of pain and anger, and twisted again, searching for the source of that new attack. Something inside Isobel ached, sympathetic to that pain and anger, and she tried to shove it aside, intent on the fight below her.

  Hunger. Such hunger that it nearly swamped her, shaken with pain and confusion, it thrummed up through the bones beneath her feet, weakened her knees, made her shudder under the sheer longing and need.

  What had she missed? What had she not understood?

  Gabriel placed the carbine down and drew the smaller gun, moving as gracefully over the rocks as the friars had been clumsy, dodging and weaving as he went. The creature let out another wavering scream when the silver shot hit it, followed by a loud, sharp bark, before it launched across the spring, water splashing around it, to meet this new attack.

  On the other side of the spring, Farron now snarled and clenched his fists together, yanking them backward sharply as though he were hauling on the reins of a runaway cart horse. The creature jerked backward, twisting in midair, and growled over its sloped shoulder at the magician, even as one clawed paw reached out to grab at Gabriel, who danced back just out of reach.

  The magician shouted something, but his words were lost in the winds that rose now, dust swirling around him from his ankles, moving until it reached his chest, then circling around his arms, weaving like snakes, lifting like wings, snarling in hunger and madness. Part of Isobel knew that there was nothing to see, there was no actual dust, no sound, only the magician calling on the power he had bartered everything for, always reaching for more.

  This was the madness that lived in his eyes, the hunger that drove his laughter. Isobel felt it brush past her, sensing her but deeming her both too large and too small to be worth the effort, then slide past, engulfing the creature, twining around it, engulfing it, claiming it.

  Fear. Need. Hunger. Defend.

  “No,” Isobel breathed, unsure if she were protesting that need or her inability to soothe it.

  The creature screamed again and lunged for Gabriel, wrapping all four webbed paws around him and pulling him backward into the spring, the splash of water rising higher than the creature before coming down again, soaking the friars and magician, even as the creature and Gabriel disappeared below the surface.

  “No!”

  She didn’t remember crying the word, didn’t remember standing or moving, but she was at the edge of the spring, her long knife slack in her grip, helpless. Her words rang out into the air, sank into the stones. “Let him go!”

  Farron, his face ashen and blood trickling from his nose, raised his arms again, but before he could ready himself, the water roiled, then the surface exploded again, the beast rising to snarl at the magician, flinging something at him before sinking below the surface again, the water around it turning a murky dark red with blood.

  Crumpled on the muddy stones, Gabriel groaned.

  There was an impossible silence, deep and loud enough for Isobel to feel all the way through her body, as though the quiet filled the entire Territory from Mother’s Knife to the Mudwater River, loud enough for the viceroy to hear it in his capital, for all the tribes to lift their heads and listen, for the boss to pause in dealing his cards.

  Then: “That went about as well as I expected,” Farron said, his voice as wearied and rough as she felt, and the silence shattered, and the world began again. He reached down to touch Gabriel’s shoulder, but the man pulled away, struggling to do so, and the magician sat back on his heels, hands raised to show he meant no harm.

  Isobel hurried to join them, skirting around the edge of the spring, offering her hand to her mentor so he could pull himself to his feet. Gabriel hesitated, then grimaced and took the aid, his hand
warm and callused against her own.

  “Not . . . part of the bargain,” he said, and coughed up more water. He was sodden and shivering despite the water’s warmth, and the drops that ran down his face were tinged with red, paler versions of the stains on his torso and arms. She could see no wounds on him but blood everywhere, and she wondered if it were any of his own.

  “Little rider, you need to—” Farron started to say, but she interrupted him.

  “We need to move away from here,” she said. The surface of the spring was still, but it was not the stillness of something dead and gone, not entirely. An intense sorrow rose in her, but she couldn’t indulge it, not now, and guilt clogged her throat, but she couldn’t indulge it, not yet. A thing injured but not dead was twice as deadly as it had been unharmed.

  She looked at Gabriel. “Can you . . . ?”

  “Yeah,” he managed, standing mostly upright, his free hand pressed against his side. His face was tight with pain, but he was able to shuffle forward under his own power, so she merely followed close enough to catch him if he stumbled, and said nothing more. Farron, wordless for once, followed them as they staggered away from the edge of the spring, back behind the boulders, where Gabriel faltered and nearly fell. The magician shook his head once when she glanced at him: Gabriel could not move much farther, not without worsening his injuries.

  “Go, quickly,” she told him. “Bring our supplies here.”

  “I will help.” She looked up to see one of the friars standing over her, the younger one, who had been staring at them the night before, the one who had begged for mercy from the beast. “Zacarías,” he prompted. His mouth was bleeding, his clothing muddy, and there was a bruise purple and green over the entire side of his face, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. She refused to look back at where the bodies lay, forcing all thoughts of Manuel’s gentle smile or Esteban’s stern faith from her mind, and nodded at him, unable to form the words to say thank you just then.