The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(44)
“They . . . came full of knowledge? And the beasts left, the skies emptied, and the ground trembled,” Gabriel translated, although he wasn’t quite sure he’d gotten it entirely correct. It made no sense to him, and from Isobel’s expression, she fared no better.
“Ground trembled” was reasonably clear, though.
Isobel jerked her head as though dislodging an unhappy thought, then reached over and took the mug out of his hands, drinking half the contents in one long pull before handing it back. “And the magicians? Did they flee too when the ground shook?”
When Gabriel asked him, the old man lifted his shoulders in a gesture that needed no translation. He did not know.
Isobel had just refilled the mug with the last of the coffee, Gabriel scraping the last bit of corn mash and honey from his plate, when the old man stood up without a word, walking away from the fire. They watched as he clucked to his pony, sliding the woven halter over its head and draping his pack over its back like a blanket.
“He’s leaving?” Isobel glanced at her mug, then at the camp’s morning disarray. “Are we supposed to follow?”
Gabriel made no move to get up. “I don’t think so. He’s satisfied his curiosity and led us to where we needed to be. He’s done.”
“But . . .” Isobel stopped herself from complaining like a child, biting her upper lip. She didn’t like the old man, and he clearly didn’t have much use for her or her boss, but he had helped them when he’d no obligation to do so. Isobel had no right to ask more of him. She stood up, stepping in front of the old man and his pony before they could leave.
“Merci,” she said, and made one of the few gestures she knew for certain, hands up and palm down, fingertips pointed at the old man and sweeping in until her thumbs pointed at her own chest, almost a reverse of the boss’s gesture when he spoke of the Territory. “Thank you.”
He looked at her then, and his right hand clenched and rested over his heart, then he brought a single finger up and touched his forehead, opened his hand and placed it palm down at his heart again, sliding it out to the right. Then he smiled, a narrow squint of his eyes more than his mouth, and reached forward, his finger pausing just shy of touching her, before his hand clenched again and dropped to hip high.
“He says you are wise,” Gabriel said behind her. “A child still, but wise.”
She felt her eyebrows go up but kept her voice civil. “I suppose that’s his way of saying ‘well done’?”
“More or less.” She could hear the laughter in her mentor’s voice, and her own mouth quirked up in response, even through her frustration. The old man nodded once at Gabriel, then got on his pony and left.
We don’t say goodbye on the Road, Gabriel had taught her. The Road curves around on itself, and you just assume you’ll meet again. She didn’t know that she ever particularly wanted to see the old man again, but it was an odd comfort, nonetheless, to think that she might.
“So, what now?” Gabriel asked once the pony had ambled out of sight. “Do we go? Stay?”
Something cold stirred in Isobel’s gut at the question. The presence had left them alone during the night, but it still lingered, trapped in its own pain. Something terrible had been done to it here, something that reached out beyond this place, as far down as Jumping-Up Duck’s people, and maybe farther than that.
“I need to find out what happened here,” she said, turning to face him, half-expecting argument or outright refusal. Instead, Gabriel simply sighed and poured the dregs of the coffee over their fire, listening to the flames hiss down into embers.
“Of course you do. Which means we’ll be chasing after magicians.”
Isobel ducked her head at the expression on his face, an odd, determined distaste. “Not yet. First, I need to settle the haint.”
“No. Absolutely not.” He spoke even before she’d finished, his words trying to drown out her own. He’d stood up too, his arms crossed against his chest. She was tall for a woman, but he could still tilt his head and look down, making her feel like a little girl scolded for doing a poor job sweeping the floor.
She opened her mouth to continue, to explain, and he cut her off. “Last time, it was only the wapiti and the old man who saved you, Isobel. And neither of them are here now.”
Of all the objections he might have raised, that she hadn’t expected. “You’re here.”
“I’m useless.” He spat the words out, then stopped, drawing a quick breath as though he hadn’t meant to say them, was trying to pull them back. Isobel blinked at him in shock, then crossed arms across her own chest, refusing to retreat further.
“I can’t do what you do,” he said, softer this time. “Even the old man could see it, could see you were in trouble, and I just . . . stood there.” His jaw clenched, and he rubbed at his face as though exhausted. “I can teach you how to behave around marshals and unfriendly miners, I can talk my way past bandits and natives, but Isobel, when you throw yourself into the crossroads, I can’t help you.”
“That’s not . . . I’m not asking you to.” Her voice wobbled a little, and she fixed it, irritated. “You said it yourself: I’m the silver. I need to find what’s wrong and fix it.”
Devil’s silver, he’d called her. Throw her at something that felt wrong and draw the power out, make it safe again. She rubbed the fresh-polished ring on her little finger, watching it glint in the sunlight.