The Cold Eye

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “It . . .” Pity and despair and grief chewed on her, understanding what she had seen burned into her bones like a brand. “They trapped a spirit, something old and powerful.” Something beautiful. “They pulled it from the air and trapped it, reshaped it the way we carve wood to make a boat that they would ride. . . .” Great, choking sobs wracked her, pulling the dust from within to scatter on the trampled-down grass in front of her. Gabriel reached across his wardings then, breaking them without ceremony, and pulled her into his arms, his body sheltering her as she wept, the infinitas under their knees glowing with a faint green light.

  Gabriel felt as though someone had dragged him through a berry bramble —the price for breaking his ward-line so roughly—but that was the least of his concerns. Once Isobel cried herself out, he’d reached back for his canteen and rinsed her mouth, her spittle laced with a greyish-blue foam that he didn’t want to think about. After her first flood of words, she’d gone silent, shaking and shivering, her skin cold to the touch, then flaring too warm before going cold again.

  He had no idea what to do, so he left her there, within what remained of the wards and the fading green glow, and fetched blankets and another canteen of water, and came back to her, draping her in the blankets and letting her rest against his shoulder until the worst seemed to pass and her shivering calmed.

  This was Isobel, he told himself. Izzy.

  The sun dropped lower in the sky, turning it a pale red along the ragged edge of the horizon. The horses shuffled closer to the circle, the mule going so far as to push his black-and-brown muzzle over the salt line where he had broken it, to sniff at the humans within before drawing back. But there were no other sounds: no howl of a coyote or wolf pack, no chittering of insects, no cry of birds overhead, not even the slough of wind down from the hills to rustle the grass. It was uncanny, as the girl next to him was uncanny, and the urge to saddle up and ride away, alone, shivered through his own body, even as he held her to him.

  There were things simply accepted in the Territory. Spirit-talkers and dust-walkers, the danger of crossroads and the power contained within the bones. The power of the Devil to make his end of a bargain come through. Medicine that filled this land, even as those beyond its borders had forgotten it, or burned it to the ground. But an ancient spirit was something else entire. Near every tribe had a story of things that had hunted before man was shaped from dust and water; Gabriel could retell half a dozen himself, and he was certain there were more he hadn’t heard, ranging from the all-powerful to merely dangerous. . . .

  Stories. Legend. Myth.

  How many magicians had it taken to bind it? And why? And what had happened to them after? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answers to those questions, save to the most important one: how did they—how did Isobel—release it without it killing them, too?

  “I can’t.”

  Isobel’s response was so soft, her face turned against his shoulder, he barely heard it. He hadn’t realized he’d asked the question out loud, then wondered if he, in fact, had.

  “What they did, they changed it. It can’t go back, can’t . . .” She hiccupped again and stopped speaking. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, willing his own body heat to calm her again.

  “It killed them,” she said finally. “The ones who did this. Not all, I don’t think. But some. Most. They’re . . . they’re trapped too.”

  He didn’t want to know more. He suspected they would both be having night terrors for months to come, even now.

  “So, what can we do?” He rested his chin on the top of her head, reassured when she shrugged him off, glaring up at him. Her eyes were still red-rimmed and glassy, but the spark that had first drawn his attention had returned.

  “Find them,” she said. “The ones that escaped. Find those bastards and —”

  Anything she was going to suggest was cut off when her jaw snapped shut and her eyes went wide. He followed her gaze and felt his own jaw unhinge partially in shock. Not a pace away, just outside the trail of salt, a massive bird folded its wings and cocked its head at them.

  A Reaper.

  Gabriel had only ever seen them from below, soaring far overhead. The thing was as monstrous on the ground as it seemed in the air, even with its wings folded back, the talons long as fingers and covered with scales, digging restlessly into the ground below, flexing and releasing in a way that was near mesmerizing. Its breast was dun-colored, the wings banded brown and cream, and the massive, bald head boasted a dark, heavily hooked beak, and a ruff of brown feathers folded back over wide-set eyes that held a distressing intelligence.

  Gabriel forced his gaze away, then flicked back to it, refusing to be cowed or intimidated.

  That hooked beak opened and a shrill cry emerged, making his bowels vibrate in sympathy, and a shiver of fear broke his bravado like kindling.

  “Little sister.”

  It took Gabriel a heartbeat to realize that the sound had come from the bird, carried under a second harsh cry. Beneath his arm, Isobel shuddered as though ice had touched her skin or someone had told her bad news. But when she responded, her voice sounded as composed as though the bird had just asked her if she wanted another cup of tea.

  “I am honored, elder brother.”

  Uncanny, Gabriel thought again, cold sweat prickling his brow. Always call a spirit-animal cousin; do not presume on the relationship; do not—but the Reaper hawk had called her little sister first.

  “You are not honored; you are terrified.” The bird shrieked again, raw laughter shuddering underneath it; there was no humor in that laughter but the cruel pleasure of a predator sensing prey. Gabriel forced himself to take a slow, quiet breath through his mouth, then out through his nose, calming his heartbeat and trusting Isobel’s instincts, despite every instinct of his own.

  “I am honored that you have chosen not to eat us,” she responded, a hint of sass in her tone, despite the tremble Gabriel could feel in her body, and suddenly she was familiar again, his Isobel. “And I assume that you have reason for that, and for bringing yourself to ground to speak to me.”

  The Reaper hawk tilted its head, the heavy, curved beak opening and closing with a clack. “Is that how you speak to your master, little sister?”

  There was just a hitch, a hesitation, as Isobel considered and then chose to ignore whatever insult the bird had intended. “Yes, actually. It amuses him.”

  It likely did. Gabriel had spent only two days in Flood, but the devil had never shown a preference for truckling, and his sense of humor had been as dark as his coffee.

  “Does it amuse you, knowing that he sent you here to die?” The beady golden eyes fixed on her, the head tilting to the other side, its neck stretching out, feathers ruffling as the sharp black beak came too close —but still remained on the other side of the salt line. Gabriel thought that something held it back. His warding-skills were good but they were not that good, not with the salt line broken. Something else protected them.

  “He didn’t . . .” But Isobel’s certainty faltered.

  “He sent you out into the world without a hint of what you would need, what you would see, what you would be called upon to do. With a stubborn half-born as guide?” The bird shook out its feathers and its wings unfurled, displaying a span easily the length of a grown man. It was beautiful in a terrifying way, and if it was not intended as a threat, Gabriel would eat his hat and Isobel’s both.

  “We have allowed your master his time, trusted the strength of his oath, watched him, waited. But there are those who do not abide, who will not listen.”

  The bird did not look at him, did not so much as acknowledge his existence, but Gabriel felt the words as though they’d been delivered with talon and beak.

  “Choose your sides now, little sister,” the Reaper told her, “and be prepared for the consequences.”

  “Do not threaten her on this ground.”

  There was no way a creature that size could have appear
ed without them noting it, even with the massive distraction in front of them. The Reaper lifted its wings, a full threat display, but the elk merely lowered its head until the points of its antlers were angled directly at the bird. Even covered in summer felt, they were capable of as much damage as the Reaper’s talons.

  Isobel’s squeak was the only indication that she was still aware, that and the way her heart was beating too rapidly, so that he could feel it slamming against her rib cage, as though it were trying to escape both her hold and his grasp.

  The two creatures stared at each other, then the Reaper launched itself into the air, talons outstretched as those massive wings flapped once, twice, and lifted the bird away from them before landing again, refusing to give ground.

  “What?” Gabriel’s mouth was dry, and he couldn’t form the words without coughing. He took a sip of the canteen he’d brought to Isobel, and tried again. “What the —”

  Isobel’s hand on his knee stopped him, her grip too tight, her fingers trembling, but the message clear: Do not speak.

  “I thank you for your help, before and now, elder cousin.” She reverted back to a cautious formality when speaking to the wapiti, as though aware that it had not given her permission for familiarity, aware that those antlers were close to their faces as well, sharp enough to gouge and tear the same as a Reaper’s claws.

  “It does not aid you,” the Reaper said, its words a low screech. “It uses you, as your master uses you. As a toy would be used and then thrown away when it is broken.”

  “They are not toys,” the massive elk responded, shifting its weight in clear threat, the antlers moving closer until the Reaper was forced to take an ungainly backward hop. “Weapons, perhaps.”

  “And as easily discarded. I would counsel you better, little sister.”

  “You would counsel selfishness and destruction,” the elk spat, its head lowering again to display its antlers to best effect, and that they were aimed at the Reaper, not them, was small comfort.

  “I would counsel survival.” The great head tilted again, showing what Gabriel thought was either great bravery or abject stupidity in ignoring the rack of bone directed at it, to look at Isobel. “Walk away, little sister. Let the stones fall as the ground moves them. Let the power go where it will.”

  “You speak as though she retains choice. What has been done cannot be undone.” The elk backed up, lifting its head, and Gabriel thought it less a retreat than it no longer deeming the hawk an immediate danger. “You bear the mark, and the weight of that obligation.” The elk wasn’t looking at Isobel now, but its words were plainly for her. “The Territory must be protected.”

  “The quick knife,” Isobel said, her voice muted, as though echoing something else said long ago. “The cold eye and the final word. But—”

  “The final word is yours,” the Reaper told her. “That will forever give you choice.”

  Gabriel’s patience broke. Pulling Isobel up with him, he shifted enough to draw their attention from each other, the dramatic flourishes he’d learned to use in front of a judge rushing back with his ire. “Enough! You are wiser than we, none gainsay that, but if you will insist on only back-clatter and manipulations rather than useful advice, you can both be gone and be damned!”

  The Reaper hissed and lofted its massive wings at him, their shadow rising taller than he stood, but not even that could pause Gabriel once he started. “Whatever her Bargain with the devil, it is her Bargain. That is the Law. Whatever your purpose in counseling her, you would be best served to come outright and state your intent so that she may judge your advice fairly.”

  Even as he spoke, Gabriel wanted to laugh at his presumption: spirits, demons, magicians—those with power said very little plainly and took direction not at all. But his anger seemed to have taken them aback, as though they’d forgotten that he —or she —might have an opinion at all.

  And then they were gone, only the harsh sound as the raptor took flight as indication that they had not simply faded into the air like morning mist.

  A hissing laugh broke the stunned silence that followed. Gabriel kept Isobel behind him as he turned to find the source, having to look down into the grass to locate it.

  This snake was the length of his arm, flecked in yellow-brown scales, with the tail poised but still as it considered them, its head raised up out of the grass. The long pale tongue flickered out, and it slid closer, skirting the edge of the salt circle much the same way the others had, though Gabriel got the feeling that if the snake wished, it would simply slide over the warding without hesitation.

  “What now?” He was out of patience with the medicine world.

  Isobel slipped from behind him, casting him a sideways look that was part exasperation and part amusement, then went down on her knees again, to be on more even ground with the snake, trusting that it had no intention of lunging at her to strike.

  To be fair, none of them had offered violence at any point. Not toward her, at least.

  “Have you come to offer conflicting advice as well?” she asked, her voice light but shaking with exhaustion. “Or merely to watch for your own amusement?”

  “Issssss there a differerenssssse?”

  “The boss took lessons from you, didn’t he?” Isobel muttered.

  “He hassssss known ussss well,” the snake admitted. “Little cousssssins. You have come a long way.” The rattler shifted, its scales brushing through the grass. “How far yet will you go?”

  Isobel lifted her hands as though asking the winds for answers. “Gabriel was right. You all talk around the problem, make it sound like you’re being helpful, but you’re not.”

  More hissed laughter. “No. We are not. We tell you only what you already know but will not let yourssssssself hear.”

  She lowered her arms. “I’m listening now.”

  “Then I do not need to sssssssay anything,” the snake told her, and its tail rattled once before it dropped into the grass and slid away.

  Gabriel licked too-dry lips and ran a hand over the scarred side of his face, casting a glance up into the clear blue sky and the hills rising around them, as though expecting yet another form to appear. Nothing did. He summoned all of his irritation, his frustration, and his exhaustion into one word. “Sssssnakes.”

  Isobel clamped a hand across her mouth and bent forward, her shoulders shaking with what could have been either tears or laughter.

  He wouldn’t judge her for either.

  Isobel’s limbs felt loose, her skin too cold, her bones too hot. Gabriel had gotten her out of the circle, had broken what remained of the warding and scattered it properly, then seated her by the fire, which he’d built back up, and put a kettle of beans and dried venison to boil. But she’d been aware of all that vaguely, as though through a fog, until the smell of the broth reached her nose, and the thought of warm food woke her stomach, suddenly aware that she was deeply, painfully hungry.

  The sky was darkening, the air cooler. How long had she been sitting here? How much time had she lost?

  Isobel could still feel the press of the ancient spirit, like a bruise on her skin. If she touched it, if she looked at it, she thought it would overwhelm her. So, she looked at anything but. She looked at the fire crackling around the coalstone, eating the kindling and grasses she had gathered the night before. She listened to the horses shuffling and breathing, the crunch of their teeth and the swish of their tails. She smelled the scent rising from the jacket draped over her lap for warmth, deep and smoky and sharp, with an unrecognizable flavor that she could only identify as being Gabriel himself.

  Gabriel. Panic hit her, until she was able to identify the noise of him settling the horses for the night, his voice speaking softly to them, calming them. They might not know what was happening, but horses were prey, not predators, and they knew when something dangerous was nearby.

  The haint-presence lingered but at a distance, and underneath, Isobel could taste something else, taste or smell or touch, she wa
sn’t certain, and she had no desire to chase it, the hot sweet sulphur smell that she’d not been able to shake since they came north.

  Or before, she thought. Since she saw the slaughtered buffalo. Since the whisper first tangled in her dreams. It lured her, drove her, protected her. . . . It burned like the sigil but it felt no part of it, harsh and liquid in her bones, burning her like a coalstone, heat without ash.

  She lifted her head and looked out into the valley, but the shadows were too dark to tell if there was a massive elk lurking at the edges still, a Reaper perched in the trees, or snake curled in the dirt. She was afraid to think about any of it, her fingers curling into her palms, her skin cold without its touch, afraid to poke at that for fear the whisper might come back, demand that she do something, and a greater fear that it might not.

  “Better?” Gabriel was closer now, standing behind her.

  She didn’t understand the question, didn’t understand how to answer it. She stroked the jacket over her legs, focused everything on the feel of the canvas under her fingertips, rough and warm and real.

  “Isobel.” His voice was a rope, settling around her wrists, pulling her in.

  “What would you do?” Her voice was too high, too thin; she didn’t recognize it.

  “Doesn’t matter what I’d do or not do.” He sat down next to her, mimicking her pose, legs crossed, boots tucked under him. The firelight turned him into shadows, and she wondered what she looked like to him; did he see her truly, or was she, too, shadows and smoke? “Matters what you think’s best.”

  Once upon a time, she’d thought the boss knew everything, was everything. Then she’d thought she knew something, understood how the Territory worked, could bend magicians to her will, defend against intruders, make newcomers part of the whole.

  But the Reaper’s words had shaken her, the anguished madness of the ancient spirit had broken her, not because they existed but because she could not fix them, could not make them make sense.