The Cold Eye

by Laura Anne Gilman

  But where once she would have looked anxiously at the boss, hoping to find some clue as to what she should do, some approval that she’d made the right choice, now she sank deeper into Uvnee’s saddle, wrapping the reins comfortably around her right hand, feeling every patch of her body, where it pressed into the saddle wrapped around Uvnee’s body, where the warming air touched her skin, where the sweat trickled under her hatband, sliding down the back of her neck, the occasional ruffle of breeze against her skirt, her boots now comfortably broken in, no longer chafing against her unmentionables or causing blisters on her heels.

  The familiar rocking motion of Uvnee’s walk was as soothing as folding linens, the repetition allowing her to move her awareness away from herself and outward, that sense of the Road below her no longer requiring the touch of ground directly. The push-away she’d felt before, the refusal that had left her feeling oddly hurt and uncomfortable, was not here; the bones allowed her to reach out, using them to spread herself further, though it felt more difficult here, as though she pulled a laden wagon behind her, weighing her movements.

  Ahead, the Road faded into mist and shadows. Isobel felt an urge to push into it, but that was not her immediate concern. Aside, behind: that was where the stranger-eyes watched, more than just the old man, their regard a tactile sensation here, sharp pricks of attention tapping at her, hail on the window or rain on a creek, impossible to deflect.

  Attention, focused. Aware of them. But nothing else: no anger or hunger, no fear or worry. No emotions, no distractions; merely a sensation of follow-watch-follow-watch.

  More than human eyes watched them.

  Isobel blinked, suddenly solidly within her own bones and flesh again. She swayed forward, wrapping her free hand in Uvnee’s mane, feeling the coarse strands against her skin, the smell of leather and trail-sweat and sun-warmed air and grasses and dirt in her nose. She tilted her head back to the sun, opening her mouth as though to drink it all in.

  Next to her, Gabriel rode closer than usual, ready to catch her if she became too dizzy to ride. She could feel him watching her, although his own attention seemed focused ahead of them, constantly scanning the rock face and brush for something that shouldn’t be there. Maybe he was waiting for the old man to appear again, or a Reaper hawk to land in front of them. Or the ground to shake suddenly, or any of a handful of things that could very well happen. Again.

  “We’ve gone into sacred ground and come back down again,” she said. “And now we’re going back. They’re watching to see what happens to us.”

  “And to think I could have stayed home as a child and been a farmer,” Gabriel said dryly, not asking who watched or how she knew.

  “Or stayed out of Flood entire as an adult and been none the wiser,” she retorted. “If fate did not force you to ride into the devil’s town and offer to mentor one of his workers.”

  “No, that was purely my own folly and good fortune,” he agreed. The urge to throw something at him came and passed, luckily for him, as the only things close at hand were her canteen and her knife.

  “Tell me a story.” At the very least, that would distract her from where they were heading and what she would have to do once they were there. . . .

  “About what?”

  “Demons.” Of all the things to suggest . . . but demons, at least, were not their problem here. “How many are there? Where did they come from?”

  Gabriel shrugged. “How many peaks are there in the Mother’s Knife? How many buffalo in the northern plains? More than anyone has ever counted, possibly fewer than we think. Nobody’s ever seen anything but a full-grown one; we don’t even know if they spawn or appear full-blown out of a winter’s sneeze.”

  “You don’t have any stories?” It was a challenge: Gabriel had stories for everything, gathered over the years.

  “Some say they’re the children of the living silver who came to the surface but were so disappointed in what they found here, they turned around to go back, only to find the gateways had been closed, leaving them trapped on the surface, growing dryer and dryer with every year.

  “Another story says that the first demon was born of wind and stone, and raised by the night bird to help it scour the bones, but it refused to limit itself to the dead, and so the night bird cast it out, breaking it into a hundred hundred pieces.”

  “None of that is comforting.”

  “None of them were meant to be.”

  They rode the rest of the day without discussing demon or magicians, what Isobel hoped to do once she returned to the valley, or what had happened back at Andreas. Gabriel made her practice dropping from the saddle at a trot, until her toes were sore from landing, and then, lacking other distraction, she taught him how to braid the rough strands of Steady’s mane into a credible plait. They paused at the spot where they’d made camp before, although Isobel refused to believe it was the exact same spot until she kicked up the still-fresh char from their fire pit as she was setting down her bedroll.

  “You need to look more closely,” he said in response to her glare at the fire pit. “The ground will tell you whatever you need to know, if you look and listen properly.”

  The thought that she still had more to learn should have been depressing, and yet Isobel found a measure of comfort in it. If she was still ignorant, it was because she was still Isobel, not . . . something else.

  She rubbed at her forehead and crawled into her bedroll before the night was fully dark, determined to not think at all about anything.

  But sleep that night was fitful, despite exhaustion. Isobel finally gave up, moving to sit by the remains of the fire, watching the stars wheel across the sky above them, the faint glimmer of a crescent moon barely visible for their brightness.

  In the shadows, Gabriel’s soft rumbling breath was almost a snore, counterpoint to the sleepy rustlings of the animals, and the soft noise of the night-hunters in the air and on the ground around her.

  It all felt familiar, comforting . . . safe. But Isobel could feel the storm caught within the bones, the closer they came to the valley, and she knew better.

  The first sign of trouble came the next morning, when they reached the narrow climb into the pass that led to the valley, and the mule decided he wasn’t going back. Long ears flattened back, eyes rolling, and gums pulling back from flat teeth in a clear threat to bite anyone who tried to pull him forward. Flatfoot lived up to his name finally, digging in and refusing to move.

  “That beast’s smarter than us both,” Gabriel said. He had picked up a length of twig as a switch but seemed loath to put it to use, reluctant to punish the animal for not wanting to do what none of them wanted to do.

  The horses waited patiently; they might be no happier, but they were willing to trust where the humans led, at least for now.

  “If we leave him here, the odds that our belongings will still be here when we return?” She firmly believed that they would return; she had to believe that they would return.

  Gabriel huffed, running the back of his neck as though it pained him. “There is no honor in stealing from someone trying to help you.” But he pitched his voice so that it carried past the two of them, lingering in the mid-day air.

  Isobel let a few breaths go by, but nothing sounded in response. “He’s your mule,” she said, “and most of what he carries is yours too.”

  “We can shift the most essential supplies to the horses. The rest will be safe enough until we return. And if we don’t, he’s too smart to let himself starve here.”

  It was a quick matter after that to unload the mule as though they were preparing to camp for the night, then sling several of the packs over Steady’s broad hindquarters. His tail twitched, but he allowed the indignity, as though aware it would not be for long.

  The leather satchel with the salt stick and her journal, Isobel slung over Uvnee’s shoulder as she mounted. She had not yet written down the events of Andreas, had not yet noted the names of the dead, and that knowledge was a bruise, tender a
nd sore, until she could remedy it. But there had been no time then, and this was no time now.

  Gabriel left the rope halter on the mule but undid the other straps and bands, giving it a roughly affectionate scritch on the poll before turning away and swinging up into Steady’s saddle, the gelding living up to his name despite his own clear unease.

  The mule let out a low noise, as though it were confused about what was happening, watching as they walked the horses toward the pass. When Isobel looked back, half-turning in the saddle before they passed out of sight, the mule was still there, watching them go.

  The narrow path and sudden drops seemed somehow less unnerving this time through. Isobel was unsure if it was familiarity or she was simply too tired to care. Then, she’d thought only to put distance between her and the haint, thinking that the wisest thing.

  There was nothing good waiting in that valley. Nothing she ever wanted to see again. And yet, here they were.

  She waited for Gabriel to tell her that she didn’t have to do this, that they could ride back down to the plains, continue on their way, following the route Gabriel had laid out, not the pokings and proddings of a whisper.

  He said nothing.

  Her mentor was practically slouched in his saddle, reins held loose in one hand, brim of his hat pulled down over his eyes, shading the afternoon sun from his face. Every inch of him spoke of casual comfort, as though he were half a breath from falling asleep, but she could feel the tension in him; he wanted to go through that passage even less than she did.

  She looked down at her hands, the right holding Uvnee’s reins, the left palm down on her leg, moving restlessly against the fabric of her skirt. When they reached the next town, she was going to dump all her skirts, all her unmentionables, into a vat of steaming water and boil them until they were clean again, if she had to sit in her shift to do it. Then she was going to refill the vat with even more steaming water and boil herself until she felt clean, from her toes to her scalp.

  And then she was going to make Gabriel do the same.

  “I wanted this,” she told herself, the words barely carrying past her lips. “I chose this. Even if there never was a choice.”

  The boss always said all he did was deal the cards; how someone played them was up to them. But once you picked up the cards, you played or you folded.

  She thought, probably, a Hand wasn’t allowed to fold.

  She flicked Uvnee’s reins and pressed her legs against the mare’s side, moving her into the passage, trusting that the others would follow.

  The sense of foreboding grew as they reached the plateau and started down again, the itch on the back of her neck intensifying, so when the heavy beat of wings overhead came, she was already primed to duck forward, wrapping her arms around the mare’s neck in case Uvnee took it into her head to bolt.

  Other than a full-body shudder, though, the mare kept to a walk, and when Isobel brought herself back upright, it was to see an owl staring at her from an outcrop on the rocks to her left.

  She could not swear that it was the same owl that had led them to the marshal and her captives, any more than she could swear that that had been the same owl that had startled her as they broke camp several nights before. But she could not convince herself it wasn’t the same, either.

  In daylight, she could see the slight clouding of its golden eyes, but its gaze seemed sharp, head tilting to follow her movement until she came alongside its perch.

  “Well?” she asked it, too tight-wound to be polite. “If you’ve advice, you’d best give it now. I may be too busy later. Or dead.”

  Somewhere, weeks’ travel distant, Isobel thought she heard the boss laugh.

  In front of her now, the owl lifted its wings, great banded feathers spread wide, and launched itself off the outcrop, swooping down before gaining height, leading the way into the valley.

  “I’m not sure if that was advice or not,” Gabriel said, his voice dry as wood, “but it seemed reasonably clear.”

  “And about as useful as dust,” Isobel muttered, but followed the bird out of the passage and into the afternoon light of the valley.

  The meadow, when they reached it, looked much as they had left it, although she thought the area of dead grasses had grown. The presence that had been there was faded; no corner-of-her-eye shadow or sense of menace lingered underfoot.

  But she did not believe it was gone. And other than the owl—that had disappeared, she noted, checking the sky overhead —there was still no sign of life anywhere in the valley. Even the constant annoyance of flies gathered around the horses’ eyes and haunches was obvious by their absence.

  She slid down from Uvnee’s saddle and pulled the satchel with her. The salt stick had been worn down to nearly a nub, fitting easily in her palm now. She reached past it, past the leather-bound journal, to the bottom of the pack, where one other item rested.

  The etched stone that she’d discovered earlier, still wrapped up in the torn stocking. The feeling she’d had, that it had been left there by Farron for some reason of his own, still lingered.

  She could not say why she took it out now, why she had not left it along the trail, thrown it into a creek and let running water have it. Gifts from magicians were to be avoided as much as magicians themselves. But he might have known she would need it, somehow. Or it might have been utterly random and useless, a foolish prank from a madman.

  Gabriel might have told her to lose it. So, she had not told him.

  “How many magicians are there, wandering the Territory, do you think? As many as buffalo?”

  “Buffalo don’t feed on each other,” Gabriel said, sliding down out of Steady’s saddle, his gaze still sweeping around them, looking for something, then returning to her. “And magicians seem to breed slower. Far fewer than even a single herd would be my guess. Fewer than all the settlers from Clear Rock to Poll’s Station.”

  She had no idea where Poll’s Station was or how many lived between those two spots.

  “What is that?” He’d seen the stone in her hand. She turned, opening her palm to show it to him but keeping far back enough that he would not think to take it from her. She felt a stirring possessiveness toward it, or perhaps a wariness: if it was a magician’s making, it was likely dangerous and certainly unpredictable.

  “What is it?” he asked again.

  She closed her fingers around the heft of the stone again, almost expecting the sigil in her palm to react to it somehow, but nothing happened. Making a decision, she shoved the stocking back into the bag and kept the stone with her.

  If it was Farron’s making, maybe it would be useful.

  “Isobel.” Gabriel’s voice was stern but curious. “What are you up to?”

  “I need to release the angered spirit, and clear the magicians’ medicine from where it is trapped.”

  “You couldn’t before.”

  “You can’t kill a magician,” she said, agreeing with him. “That was the problem. And, maybe, the answer.”

  He took off his hat, running a hand through his hair, then down along the side of his cheek, all signs he was nearing exasperation.

  “Isobel.”

  “You can’t kill a magician,” she said again, feeling her way through it. “And they . . . they brought the ancient one back. Why and how?”

  “Blood medicine,” he said. “Buffalo are powerful.”

  “Blood —and hide to wrap it in. Territory medicine. The buffalo’s medicine and the medicine of this place, sacred ground, all strong. Too strong. And magicians refuse to die down.

  “It’s not a haint, Gabriel.” She felt some of her worry, her fear, crack through her voice, and tamped it down again. “That’s why I couldn’t set it to rest. The Territory trapped it half-alive, and now it can’t let go. It doesn’t know how.”

  “If you break it free —the magicians will be able to re-form somewhere else?”

  Isobel shrugged; they had seen Farron do something similar, but she did not know enough t
o say what would be done. The magicians she had dealt with . . .

  She remembered little of it, as though something threw a drape over her memories. But she did not need to know how; if she was in truth the devil’s silver, meant to cleanse what had been fouled, then like silver, she did nothing of her own willing but rather what she was.

  And if she were something else . . .

  “Iz?” He’d seen something change in her face. “What is it?”

  “What am I?”

  He’d not been conscious of it, but the moment the words came out of her mouth, Gabriel knew that he’d been waiting for that question.

  “You’re Isobel of Flood. Isobel of the Devil’s House. Isobel Left Hand. Isobel of names yet to be earned. We’re none of us who we were when we began, Isobel. That’s the point of taking the dust roads.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.” She shifted uneasily, looking down at the stone in her hand as though she’d forgotten she held it, then shoved it into her jacket pocket. “Back in town, those magicians. I stood outside the cabin, I looked at the sigils, and I knew that I couldn’t allow them to go free. Not the way they were, not what they were.” Her eyes wouldn’t settle on him, shifting right, then left, always at an angle, never looking directly at him. Her hands were shoved into her pockets, her body braced as though expecting a blow. “You said . . . you said they were torn apart, bloody. I never touched them, Gabriel, I never even saw them, but I did that. I did that to them, something in me did that to them, and I don’t remember it.”

  A breeze touched the tendrils of hair that had escaped her braid, and the tips of her two feathers danced lightly, even as the air cooled the sweat the sun had raised on his skin. He thought a cloud might have passed across the sun, although the sky had been pale blue all day, but he didn’t dare look away from her, even for a second, to check if the weather had changed. It wasn’t storm season; they should be safe enough for now.