She stepped lightly over the ridge, but nothing lurked there, waiting, nor did it leap at her as she made her way to the lip of the spring. The water’s surface shimmered lightly, a faint steam rising from it, and she rested her hand there, her palm—and the sigil—not quite touching water.
She breathed in, then out, waiting. Thinking.
The ill-wishing had been sent to harm, to weaken, to destroy. But there was power here that did not exist beyond its borders, Gabriel said. Medicine that could heal even that which was sent to destroy?
“I’m sorry,” she said out loud, feeling her way. “I didn’t know; I didn’t understand. You didn’t either, did you? All so new, so confusing.”
It might be dead, deep under the water. But she thought not.
She plunged her hand below the surface and called.
It resisted. It was hungry, it needed to feed, replenish itself, but it would not attack her.
I know, she told it. I know. Come to me.
Slowly, angrily, it rose, the whiskers breaking the surface, the ears and eyes, the giant head, but no more. It stared at her, and she reached out to touch the side of its massive muzzle.
It had shape, form, feeling. Whatever the other ribbons had done or not done, this had changed . . . been changed or changed itself, Isobel thought it didn’t matter. The Territory marked them all one way or another if they chose to stay.
She had to make it understand . . . or she would have to destroy it. In that much, Farron had not been wrong.
She sank shallowly into the bones, reaching herself out to it again. You’re safe, she told it. You may hunt and feed. This spring is yours. But there are certain rules . . .
Not everyone in the Territory made a bargain with the devil, but they all accepted the Agreement he’d forged: share the land and give no offense without cause. Accepted it or paid the price. Like her parents.
Can you do this?
When she returned to the others, her eyes sore and her limbs trembling, her companions asked no questions, and she did not speak, save to say that the spring was now safe.
The world was a blur, first of pain, then noise, and there had been a time, a brief time, when Gabriel had been reasonably sure he was dead. Even now, slowly becoming aware that he was propped up against his saddle, a blanket drawn over his legs, he wasn’t entirely sure that he was alive.
He watched through half-slitted, pain-heavy eyes as the two monks and Isobel brought back the bodies of the dead monks and buried them just beyond the camp’s borders, then went to wash their hands in the stream. The magician remained nearby, perched on a rock and watching him uncomfortably, akin to a buzzard watching an injured deer. Gabriel wondered if the magician had disdained manual labor, or if the friars had refused his help, tainted as they thought him.
They weren’t burying him, he reasoned, so he must in fact be alive.
“How long have I been out?”
“Two days,” the magician said. “A close thing, rider. And pointless, when all you need do—”
“Enough,” he said sharply, and wonder of wonders, Farron stopped talking.
He knew that occasionally someone had inspected a bandage or forced warm water down his throat, but other than that, there had been only the sharp memory of pain, of drowning and bleeding, rivulets of fire chasing their way through his body, and then there had been nothing, and now there was . . .
Nothing. He could see, he could hear, he could move his limbs, albeit slowly, but he felt nothing. He felt a moment of panic and reached for the nearest water, reassured to feel it trickling past him, a handspan underground. Not all his senses were dulled, then.
He did not reach for anything larger, half-afraid of stirring the spring again and waking whatever Isobel had left there. Or, he admitted, feeling the magician’s gaze on him, of waking more within himself than he could accept.
The friar who had been tending him came over, obviously intending to check his bandages again. His name was Zacarías, Gabriel remembered. The only surviving friar other than Bernardo, and didn’t that burn, to lose Manuel and keep Bernardo.
“What you feel is normal,” Zacarías said now, clearly mistaking his brief panic for something else. “I’ve caused the numbness to ease the pain of the poison as it leaves your body. As you recover, enough feeling will return to remind you not to do that again and give you time to heal. And once the poison is gone, you will heal. Your fever is down, and you can move your limbs; those are excellent signs.”
Every curando he’d ever known had that same tone, warmly smug, when they thought they’d saved the day. “How . . .”
“Your companion had the proper herbs, and I have the knowledge.” Zacarías had a surprisingly cheerful smile, considering that they’d been off digging graves. “The Lord smiled on you.”
If Gabriel had felt better, he might have rolled his eyes. “You know I’m not of your faith.”
“Not yet,” Zacarías said, patting the shoulder without a bandage.
“Leave him be,” Isobel said, coming to kneel next to Gabriel as well. “He’s not well enough for to be preached at yet.” She still had dirt under her fingernails despite washing up, and sadness that lingered in her eyes. He should have been digging the graves instead of her, not been sprawled like an invalid. He thought about sitting up, showing her that he was fine, but his limbs would not respond to the command.
He settled for glaring at her. She might be the devil’s Hand, but she was still a sixteen-year-old girl and his charge, and he resented his body’s helplessness in front of her.
“And you, stop that,” she said softly. “You kept your word to the boss; your silver shot was what made the beast retreat, not anything they did, and you kept me safe. And Fray Zacarías says you’ll be well in a day or two.”
“Good,” he said shortly. He’d spent too many years moving since coming home, that it felt wrong to stay in a place longer than overnight. Even if he had been unconscious for most of it.
And once he was well again, he would get the full story from Isobel, everything that had happened after . . . after he couldn’t remember.
“And you,” Isobel said, “are you ready to go home, Fray Zacarías?”
“Si,” the young man said, accepting his defeat gracefully. “More than. As soon as I feel confident my patient is well enough to leave.”
“We go nowhere.” Bernardo strode up to them, as seemingly unaffected by the burial as he’d been by their deaths, and Gabriel saw Isobel’s expression change from concern to annoyance. Whatever had occurred while he was unconscious, the man had not endeared himself to her. “So long as the spell remains, my obligation remains.”
“You are not welcome here any longer, Fray Bernardo,” Isobel said, her voice civil, if only just, with a tempering of steel at its core.
“I do not fear you nor this land. God is with me.”
A harsh snort from behind them told them what the magician thought of that.
“We are but two, Bernardo,” Zacarías said. “Would it not be prudent to return to where our brothers wait for us, and receive further orders? At the very least, if we are to follow God’s will, we need be properly outfitted with food and funds. And horses.”
“I am—”
“Your brother is wise.” Isobel spoke over Bernardo’s posturing. She stood, a head shorter than the friar, her face and fingers smudged with dirt and her braid askew, the two feathers fluttering slightly, and her voice was the roll of thunder moving closer. “Heed him. And tell this to those who give you your orders, that the Territory is not theirs for the taking or the breaking.”
For a brief instant, Isobel née Lacoyo Távora was the most terrifying, awe-ful thing Gabriel had ever seen. His expression, he was certain, was purely malicious enjoyment of the moment, and one, when he looked, that was mirrored on the magician’s face. In this, at least, they were in
agreement: seeing Bernardo toe up to the devil would amuse them both.
“You may not—” Bernardo tried to object again, and Isobel tilted her head to the left, eyes narrowing as though she were contemplating how best to smite him into ash.
Gabriel was reasonably sure she wouldn’t do it, even if she could, but if he wasn’t mortally certain, only a fool would push her.
Then again, they had already established that Bernardo was a fool.
“We thank you for your patience and your hospitality.” Zacarías stepped between them, and there was a worn desperation in his eyes and the set of his mouth that Gabriel wished he didn’t recognize. One of the Spaniards, at least, had a lick of common sense, and the ability to know when—and where—they weren’t wanted. “We will leave as soon as Gabriel is up and walking.”
“Zaca—”
“Be silent, brother,” Zacarías said sharply. “You led us by acclaim, not divine right. And I do not acclaim you now. Stay if you will, but be it on your own pride, not God’s will.”
The silence that followed could have split rocks, but Bernardo finally gave a curt nod of his head, then turned on his heel with precision an army man might have admired, and retreated to where the two remaining Spaniards had set their bedrolls, as far away from the others as was safe distance from the fire.
Isobel was exhausted. Not bone-tired, or even flesh-tired, but heart-tired, she thought. Sore of soul, not body. And while this patch of ground was not where she might have chosen to make camp, particularly with the graves of three men so close, however warded with salt and sigil, it had water nearby, and enough to burn for a fire, and that was enough for now.
It took two more days for the poison to leave Gabriel’s body to Zacarías’s satisfaction. The magician was gone when they woke on the second day, and Isobel knew she was the only one who felt hurt that he had not said farewell.
She also suspected that she had not seen the last of him. The Territory was wide, but there was only one road, after all.
Gabriel had only smiled when she said that, then closed his eyes and went back to sleep. She sat by his side all day, the same as the days before, unable to close her own eyes for fear of what she might see: too many dead, too many who yet might die as the ribbons snaked their way through the Territory. Not all would change; not all would shift from their original intent.
Whatever Zacarías had done, the wounds had finally stopped bleeding, and the smaller ones were already beginning to scab over.
“He should be able to ride in a day or two,” the friar said softly. “But you, too, must sleep.”
He handed her a tin mug filled with the tisane she had smelled from their camp before, and she drank it down without hesitation.
Despite her fears, she did not dream.
The next day, Gabriel was using the mule as a crutch, resting his arm across its back as they moved slowly back and forth, wobbly but upright. And when she woke on the fourth morning just before dawn, the sky too overcast for late stars or early sun, Zacarías was packing up their camp, readying to leave.
Isobel sat on a rock, Uvnee cropping grass contentedly at her feet, and watched the road where the two Spaniards had gone hours before. Her elbows rested on her knees, her chin was cupped in her hands, and the sigil was quiet.
Gabriel, who had been double-checking the straps on Steady’s saddle, gave the gelding an affectionate pat and walked—slowly, carefully, but steadily—over to join her.
“You’re brooding, Isobel.”
“A little,” she admitted. She reached out to touch his side, where a thick plaster covered the worst cut, and studied his face to make sure he didn’t wince. “Thinking, mainly.”
“Nothing wrong with that in moderation.”
“Now you sound like Farron.”
“Cruel woman. I retract my accusation.” He watched her, making her uncomfortable enough that she turned away, back to the empty road. She didn’t know what he would see, wasn’t sure what she wanted him to see.
“What would you have done if he’d persisted?”
That hadn’t been the question she’d half expected. Isobel pursed her lips, then shrugged, a faint lift of one shoulder. “Zacarías won’t let his brother leave the road until they were well back into Spanish-held lands,” she said. After that, they weren’t her problem any longer.
He huffed in exasperation. “That wasn’t my question.”
Still the mentor, even now. Isobel had ducked the question intentionally. If Bernardo had persisted, if he had insisted on continuing his path to find every bit of the spell-ribbons, no matter where they landed, or what they’d become . . . eventually, inevitably, his anger and his refusal to acknowledge the customary law of the Territory would have caused him to give offense. And she, as the Left Hand, would have been forced to take action.
Something inside her twisted uncomfortably at that fact.
The final word, the boss had called her. Silver on the road, Gabriel had said. The curb on power, Farron had warned her. Where she had thought first of the power, the respect, then she had seen only the burden, the shame of being the tool of another, she now understood obligation. Calls Thunder had not shaken off responsibility, nor had the marshals. They had other chores. This was hers, what she had taken upon herself, even unknowing.
Anyone might come to the Territory. But to stay meant living under the devil’s Agreement. Even things that had no name. Even things that had not asked to become. And everything under the devil’s Agreement was hers to protect.
“I don’t know,” she said finally.
“Yes, you do.” He reached up and tugged the brim of her hat down a little, his expression gentle. “We’re going to be riding into the sun,” he said. “Don’t let it blind you.”
She nodded and jumped off the rock, then swung into Uvnee’s saddle. East and then north again, they’d decided, riding easy while Gabriel healed. To listen for news of other places where the storm still raged, where bones shattered, illness spread, or strange new beasts lurked.
Eventually, the road would bring her home. But not for a while yet.
FURTHER READING
For further information on my research for the book, visit me at www.lauraannegilman.net/devils-west-bibliography.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The road to creating the world of The Devil’s West is long and encompasses so many people; it staggers me as to where to begin. So I’ll just mention everyone I can remember, and pray they forgive me if I leave them out . . .
First and foremost, acknowledgments are due to whose work came first, the people who shared their stories in oral histories that made their way—battered but intact—down to my generation; the translations into English of legends and the stories of first encounters and the negotiations and conflicts along the trading routes. Your individual names may have been lost, but your words remain—and remain relevant.
The world of The Devil’s West is not ours . . . but the core of it remains true. And that core begins with them.
For their considerable aid, information, and introductions (ongoing):
My driving partner, Christine Hobson, who made every stop from Kansas City to Colorado Springs, no matter how odd, and was patient while I took photos from every angle.
Chuck Bonner of Keystone Gallery & Museum (Scott City, KS), for the history—and the cold water!
Vibeke Adkisson owner of Purgatorie Gallery (Trinidad, CO), for giving us excellent advice.
John Edwards of the Flute Player Gallery (Colorado Springs, CO), for letting me rummage through his reference books.
Jane Lindskold and James Moore
Samantha Cornelius
Fabio Fernandes (for reality-kicking my Portuguese)
Natania Barron (for the Québécoise amendments)
Aliette de Bodard (for the Spanish conjugations)
Constantin
e Kaoukakis (for the Latin backup)
Aaron Carapella of Tribal Nations Maps
Meg Turville-Heitz
Everyone employed by the New York Public Library, especially everyone who ever had anything to do with the map collection.
Phil Nanson and Peter Morwood, for general weapon and tactical knowledge.
All accuracy is laid at their respective feet; all errors I accept as my own.
And last, but nowhere near least:
John Joseph Adams, who first bought “Crossroads” and “The Devil’s Jack,” telling me that there was interest in the world of The Devil’s West.
The First Draft Alphareaders, whom I put through hell. Thank you again.
Everyone in the WordWar Room, for what remains of my sanity.
And most especially, the folk who attended the SFWA Readings in Seattle and Portland, and the folk at SF-in-SF, in the spring of 2011, whose response to the early drafts of this book kept me going and gave me hope. You guys rock.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LAURA ANNE GILMAN is the Nebula Award–nominated author of the Vineart War fantasy trilogy. She has also dipped her pen into the mystery field, writing the Gin & Tonic series as L. A. Kornetsky (Collared, Fixed, Doghouse, and Clawed). You can find her at lauraannegilman.net and on Twitter at @LAGilman.
VISIT US AT
SimonandSchuster.com
authors.simonandschuster.com/Laura-Anne-Gilman
ALSO BY LAURA ANNE GILMAN
The Vineart Trilogy
Flesh and Fire
Weight of Stone
The Shattered Vine
As L.A. Kornetsky: The Gin & Tonic Mysteries
Collared
Fixed
Doghouse
Clawed
We hope you enjoyed reading this SAGA PRESS eBook.
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