by Jordan Rivet
They barely paused all night, only slowing to a walk when their horses couldn’t run anymore. Archer or Jemma occasionally galloped ahead to scout their path, and Lew kept a close watch at the rear. All of them looked back often to see if the authorities were catching up.
The sky glowed pink by the time they crested another hill and found a broad, powerful river running through a shallow gorge below. The Sweetwater, which marked the boundary to Larke County, glimmered in the morning light. The land on the other side was pockmarked with rock formations, hinting at ample hiding places.
“Finally!” Nat exclaimed, slumping in his saddle, his patchwork clothes even more rumpled than usual. “I thought we’d never get here.”
“Barden’s minions would love an excuse to violate Larke’s borders,” Archer said, wiping sweat from his high forehead. “We’re not safe yet.”
“Nowhere is safe.”
Briar thought she’d spoken quietly, but Archer looked over and met her eyes with steady intensity. She was the first to drop her gaze.
“Boss, we might need a detour.” Lew trotted up the shallow gorge toward them. He had been scouting along the riverbank, which twisted out of sight to the west.
“Trouble?”
“The bridge is out downriver, and the water is too deep and swift to cross here.”
Archer muttered a curse—the vulgar sort, not a magical one—and checked the road swooping across the hills behind them. It was empty. “What are our options?”
Lew waved to the east. “There’s a crossing a few hours upstream. It’ll take us out of our way.”
“We’ve already lost too much time,” Archer said.
Jemma and Lew began discussing possibilities for fording the river. Nat fiddled with his reins, anxiously scanning the countryside behind them. Archer’s horse danced beneath him, suggesting his rider was more nervous than he looked.
Briar touched the bundle of paints attached to her saddle. She had a few tricks that could help, though she wasn’t sure revealing them would be wise. She had committed to the job. She might as well go the whole way. She cleared her throat. “I can get us across the river.”
Archer turned toward her, quirking an eyebrow. “How?”
“I know a curse that’ll lift us clear over it.”
“An ambulatory curse?” Esteban guided his scrawny mare closer on her other side. “Those are too volatile.”
“I’m very good at them,” Briar said. “Anyway, we’ve been in our saddles all night. They’ll respond well.”
“Someone want to enlighten me?” Archer asked.
“An ambulatory curse is what I used to throw you out of my cottage,” Briar said. “I can paint them right on our saddles to lift us across the river.”
“In my professional, licensed opinion,” Esteban said. “That is a moronic idea.”
“I’ve seen it work, though,” Archer said. “Why not let her try?”
“Because we could all end up with broken necks, that’s why,” Esteban said.
“You have any better ideas?” Archer asked.
Esteban stared at him for a prickly moment. “You know anything I do will draw the authorities right to us.”
“Well then, let Briar try,” Archer said. “Can’t hurt.”
Esteban’s mouth tightened into a knot, his narrow shoulders quivering, but he didn’t continue the argument. As soon as Archer turned away to address Jemma, Esteban shot Briar a look of pure venomous hatred. She understood why. He had been with the team far longer than she had, and he was a more experienced mage. Archer should trust his opinion over hers. Yet he had sided with her. Why? She felt flattered and a little nervous about it, but she didn’t have time to worry about Archer. They needed to be out of sight among the rock formations on the far side of the Sweetwater before Barden’s men reached it.
They scrambled down to the riverbank at the bottom of the gorge, which smelled of mud and summer moss. Little insects hovered above the rapids, iridescent wings flashing in the early sunlight. The river was wide and wild, the opposite bank much farther away than it had seemed from the top of the ridge. Briar felt a hint of misgiving. She’d never covered that much distance with an ambulatory curse before.
“Stay in your saddles, please,” she told the others as she prepared her paints. “The longer you’ve had contact with the item the more effective the curse will be.”
“Do mine first,” Archer said. “If someone’s going to break their neck, it might as well be me.”
Esteban snorted, folding his arms over his thin chest.
“Very well.” Briar guided her horse alongside his bay stallion and handed him her reins. “Keep the horses still.”
“Don’t worry.” He winked. “I’ve seen what happens when your work gets messed up.”
Briar grimaced, pushing away the memory of the nails pinging out of Winton’s house. She needed to concentrate.
She tucked a few small paint jars into her left hand, selected a fine-tipped brush, and leaned in close to Archer’s leg to paint the curse on the pommel of his saddle with her right hand. It was awkward to work at such close quarters, and she had to lean on his thigh to keep from falling off her own horse.
Archer went utterly still, as if afraid to breathe with her pressed against him like that.
He’s probably just praying I don’t accidentally curse off his manhood. She tried not to think about the tension in his leg muscles, the warmth of his body near hers. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and her fingers tingled with magic.
A bird soaring over a river took shape on the saddle. Once, her hand slipped, but Archer didn’t flinch, holding the horses steady. She felt a jump in his pulse when she adjusted the arm leaning on his thigh, though. Her own pulse was racing just as fast. She didn’t dare meet his eyes.
After what felt like an eternity, she painted the final verdigris stroke and sat back.
Archer grinned nervously at her. “I hope I haven’t just made a terrible mistake.”
“Me too.”
Before he could respond, there was a leathery creak, and his saddle lifted into the air, taking both horse and rider with it. The others gasped and pulled back, as if afraid the horse would careen out of control and crush them.
Hovering a few inches off the ground, Archer and his mount drifted slowly across the riverbank like a pair of very heavy ghosts. The horse’s eyes rolled wildly, and its hooves churned as it was carried out over the water. Their weight had no bearing on the curse itself, but Briar feared the girth strap would break right off the saddle. She wished she could do something to reinforce it. Curses did damage by nature. Ambulatory curses were dangerous in their own right, but she could still make use of them. In order to make the strap stronger, though, she would have had to turn it to stone. The horse wouldn’t appreciate having a saddle cemented to its back—not that it was particularly enjoying being carried through the air.
Nat covered his eyes with his pudgy hands, watching Archer’s progress through his fingers. Jemma clutched Lew’s sleeve as if to keep from launching herself at the river, and Lew’s face took on a green tint. Briar avoided looking at Esteban.
Archer’s horse got more nervous as they drifted across the rapids. The animal thrashed its hooves, the saddle groaning dangerously. Archer leaned close to the bay’s neck to speak soothing words and stroke its heaving sides. The creature calmed a bit as they floated across the expanse.
After what felt like a year, the curse deposited both horse and rider on the opposite riverbank. The horse tried to bolt the instant its hooves touched the grass, but Archer reined it in with a steady hand. He waved at them across the river.
“All clear!”
Briar released a breath. Nat whimpered, deflating in his saddle. Lew’s forehead glistened with sweat. Jemma and Esteban both stared at Briar with new eyes, calculating eyes.
She lifted her paintbrush. “Okay, who’s next?”
Moving the rest of the team was less stressful since she knew the curse
worked—less stressful for Briar anyway. They blindfolded the other horses to keep them from panicking on their way across the river. A few of the humans looked as though they wished they were blindfolded, too, but they allowed Briar to work her magic.
Painting the ambulatory curses was a lengthy process requiring over forty strokes for each saddle. If she’d simply thrown them across the river—the way ambulatory curses were normally used—it would have been much faster, but Briar had dampened and drawn out the effects of the curse through the use of painstaking detail in order to make the journey safe. She couldn’t remember the last time she had painted so many complex curses in quick succession. Her eyes felt grainy, and her fingers were trembling by the time she sent the last outlaw—Nat—across the river, clutching tight to his horse’s gray mane. Only one more to go.
Briar cursed her own saddle last—or at least she started to. Then she heard the telltale thunder of hooves on the road behind her. Their pursuers had caught up.
Archer saw Sheriff Flynn first. He charged onto the ridge above the river on the Barden side, leading a posse of mustard-uniformed men. He looked like an angry bull after spending all night in his saddle—red-faced, round bellied, and agitated. He raised his sword, bellowing wordlessly as more men galloped up behind him.
Briar was still directly in their path at the bottom of the slope.
Archer started forward without thinking, and Jemma seized his arm.
“We have to get out of sight,” she hissed.
“We can’t leave her,” Archer said.
Jemma’s grip tightened. “They must not learn what we’re doing.”
“Barden’s men already saw me in the market.”
“You could have been doing anything there, but if he sees all of us on this side of the river, word could get back to—”
“I know.”
Archer had taken pains not to be seen with Jemma and Lew over the past few months. If anyone saw them on Larke land, in the company of a licensed mage and a curse painter no less, the game would be up. But they couldn’t leave Briar after she had gotten them safely across the river. It wouldn’t be right.
“Get the rest of the team behind those rocks. I’ll catch up. Esteban, you stay and help Briar.”
The mage coughed. “I will do no such thing.”
“You have to hold them off while she crosses the river.”
Esteban raised his arms, baring the ends of his tattoos. “Why would I further implicate myself for her?”
Archer seized Esteban by the collar and hauled him halfway out of his saddle. “I said hold them off.”
Esteban scowled, his eyes going black and hooded. Archer knew the old man could blast him halfway to High Lure with a word, but he didn’t back down. He’d had enough of Esteban’s attitude. He tightened his grip on the man’s collar.
“Fine, I’ll do it.” Esteban wrenched himself away from Archer, rubbing his throat. He climbed off his scrawny mare and scrambled down to the water’s edge.
Jemma gave Archer a hard look then motioned for the others to follow her deeper into Larke territory. Their argument wasn’t over, but that was a problem for Archer’s future self. First, he had to make sure Briar was safe.
A dozen riders had joined Sheriff Flynn at the top of the ridge on the Barden side of the river. They were far enough away that Archer hoped they hadn’t seen most of the team. He yanked the blanket roll from behind his saddle and tossed it over his head to obscure his own identity. Then he dismounted, snatched up his bow, and slid down the shallow embankment toward his voice mage.
On the opposite riverbank, Briar was still painting her own saddle. The sheriff waved his sword and pointed it at her as if he were a wartime king. His riders whooped and charged down the hill in a thunderous torrent, heading straight for Briar.
Archer’s boots slid in the mud. He was almost to Esteban. Just before Archer reached him, the voice mage opened his mouth and unleashed the highest note Archer had ever heard.
Wheels of fire spun out of Esteban’s mouth and flew across the river, twirling fast, gathering strength with each spin. Flynn’s riders scattered like pigeons, and the fiery wheels exploded on the slope.
The sheriff bellowed at his men, red-faced and raging. The riders reformed around him, still only halfway down the embankment. Flames licked the grass, sending smoke into the morning air.
Esteban’s shoulders tensed. He sang another high note, harsher this time. More flaming spirals formed and spun across the river. The riders dodged them, keeping their heads a little better the second time. They were almost to the bottom of the hill.
Briar still bent over her saddle, fingers flying as she scribed her curse. The riders drew closer. Archer reached for an arrow, tangling with the blanket he’d tossed over his head.
Then Esteban shrieked, and a dozen arrows shot from his mouth. The conjured steel streaked across the water, flying faster and farther than anything Archer could shoot from his longbow.
The arrows hit an invisible wall. They hung suspended for an eyeblink then fell to the ground and vanished.
Barden’s men had a mage too. Had Radner recovered from his beating already? It was hard to pick him out without his cloak. Archer scanned the riders for his sleek brown hair and sneering face.
Then a volley of fiery arrows sped back across the river toward him and Esteban. Archer ducked, but Esteban sang a series of low, deep notes, and the whole river rose up to quench the burning darts, the water curling like a silver snake in a single rippling mass.
Archer stared. That was not ordinary magic. The king had lost an immense talent when he’d offended Esteban badly enough to drive him away. Archer would have to take care not to do the same.
The river crashed down, once more filling the riverbed. As the water settled, Archer saw Briar and her horse still on the ground on the opposite bank. She had stopped painting, her hand poised over her pommel, a brush tipped with green in her grasp.
What is she waiting for? The sheriff and his men were almost upon her.
Briar’s brush hovered above the curse as she waited for the right moment to paint the final stroke. The riders were drawing nearer. Any second a halberd could skewer her or a sword could separate her head from her shoulders, but she couldn’t launch herself over the river when the two voice mages were shouting deadly spells through the air. They needed to stop long enough for her to cross. Esteban had to give her an opening.
Across the river, the gaunt old man was sweating as he traded blows with the other mage—Briar was pretty sure it was Radner. She recognized some of the spells Esteban was using. Battle spells, the kind only the most powerful mages learned in the service of the king himself. Esteban was more than he seemed.
The battle spell he used to turn the river into a silver snake was especially rare. It snatched a volley of arrows from the air as if protecting the walls of High Lure itself. As the water crashed back into its banks, Briar managed to catch Esteban’s eye at last. He stared back at her, his face impassive.
He’s not going to help me. The realization made her go cold. He would do enough to show Archer he’d tried, but then he was going to let the sheriff catch her, or kill her.
Briar fumbled for more paints, but she had no time to defend herself. The riders were surrounding her. She smelled the sweat of their horses, glimpsed the whites of their eyes. Radner was there, his face bruised and swollen. He opened his mouth.
Then, when Briar was certain all hope was lost, Esteban changed his tune. A great wailing cry issued from his throat, and a fist of smoke formed in the spray from the agitated river. The fist hardened like marble and punched into the sheriff’s men, knocking them off balance. Radner yelped, struggling to stay astride his rearing horse.
Despite the incredible complexity of his song, Esteban managed to utter a note meant for Briar’s ears alone. “Now,” he sang.
Briar flicked the final bit of verdigris paint onto her saddle. Her horse rose into the air, shuddering at the pressure ar
ound its belly. Briar added an extra flourish to increase the speed of the curse, risky as it was, and she and the horse soared across the river. Behind her, Esteban’s misty fist pounded into the sheriff and his men again and again.
Briar’s horse landed hard on the opposite side of the Sweetwater, jarring her teeth. For a moment, she couldn’t move, paralyzed with relief. That had been way too close.
Archer and Esteban scrambled back up the bank to join her, the younger man assisting the older. A blanket slipped from Archer’s shoulders, tangling in his quiver. His blond hair stood on end.
“You made it!” Archer shouted gleefully. “They can’t catch us now!”
Briar thought they probably could, with Radner’s help. She wanted to curse the man to dust for what he’d done to her cottage, but she tucked her paintbrush into her belt, resisting the urge. They had nothing to fear from Radner with such a powerful voice mage of their own. Briar nodded at Esteban, silently thanking him for not abandoning her after all. He ignored her completely and scrambled back onto his horse.
Then they were off, flying into the rocky landscape, leaving the river and their pursuers behind.
Chapter 10
They traveled as far from the river as possible in case Sheriff Flynn decided to risk entering Larke’s territory to capture them. Unlike the forested vales of Barden County, Larke’s northern land was open and sprawling, strewn with jagged rock formations and vast purple heaths. They could ride faster there than they had in the woods, but the night had been long and difficult, and the horses were spent. They took shelter in a cave well before the sun went down.
Briar was utterly exhausted. Painting so many intricate curses in a row had left her fingers numb and her back aching. The others noticed her stumbling footsteps, and Nat offered to take care of her horse so she could rest. She barely managed to scarf down a few bites of hard cheese and jerky without nodding off.
