The worst of it was, Gabriel could not bring himself to blame the man. That was how the Territory worked: you honored the dead and you warded their bones, but you did not linger with their memory.
But Gabriel, for all that he knew better, for all the warnings he’d been given, couldn’t let go so easily. Only two things could destroy a magician: the wind they took their power from or another, stronger magician. And if a wind had taken back its medicine, there would not have been a lockhouse left standing to be blood-splattered.
A duel, one against two, and the two lost; the winner unknown but filled with the power they’d stolen, a powder keg of madness ready for a match to ignite.
The people of Andreas could pretend this didn’t affect them, that someone else would clean the mess. Gabriel traveled with the Devil’s Hand and had no such luxury.
Isobel wasn’t quite sure where she was when she woke. There was a bed underneath her and a warm coverlet above, and a feather pillow under her head rather than the hard leather of her kit.
Then memory hit her: magicians, the frantically beating wings of the ancient spirit, the marshal’s death, molten claws of something beneath her skin . . .
She sat up and shivered in the cool air, her bare arms prickling. It might be nearly summer, but she suspected it never reached the warmth of the plains this far north.
She had been warm the night before. Had burned from within, her bones limned with liquid heat, opening to . . .
She closed her eyes and breathed out. Survive, the Reaper hawk had told her. Isobel thought if she remembered too much of the night before, she might not.
Gabriel was nowhere to be seen, the blankets pushed to the foot of his bed, his boots missing. It was ridiculous to feel abandoned, alone: he’d likely gone to use the privy or find breakfast and would be back soon enough.
Isobel rummaged in her pack for her comb and toothbrush and powder, then dressed. On a whim, she dug into the bottom of her pack to find the shawl she remembered folding and placing there so long ago, back in her room at the saloon. It was dark blue and fine-woven, a birthday present from when she turned thirteen, one of the few things she’d packed simply because it was pretty. She pressed her face to the soft wool now, remembering green felted tables and sawdust, whiskey and soap, fresh bread and brimstone, and all over it, running underneath it, the familiar-comforting tobacco smoke and bay that meant the boss had been near.
After so many weeks of horse, leather, and woodsmoke, those once-familiar scents were strangers, and that thought made her eyes water before she dashed the dampness away, draping the shawl over her arms the way Marie had taught her, and went in search of Gabriel.
The judge’s house was open but empty, neither judge nor his wife nor Gabriel to be found, and Isobel had no idea where to look next, her lack of direction allowing uncomfortable thoughts to creep past her ear, trying to find their way to her eyes, to make her remember.
She drew the shawl more closely around her shoulders, wishing she had simply put on her well-worn jacket, and tried not to think at all.
“Excuse me?” She raised her hand, oddly tentative when she saw a group of three, two men and a woman, walking toward her. They paused on seeing her, as though they’d forgotten there were strangers in town, then the woman smiled?—tightly, nervously—and said in a voice softer than her face, “How may we help you, dear?”
“I’m looking for my mentor? Gabriel Kasun?”
Something shifted on their faces, echoing the woman’s nervous smile, and Isobel’s nerves tightened. “Do you know where he is?”
He was, it turned out, checking on the horses. Uvnee and the marshal’s pony had been let out into the small fenced yard, and the mare whickered when she saw Isobel coming, hoping for a treat. She rubbed the mare’s nose fondly, then went into the shed, looking for Gabriel. He was checking Steady’s hooves while the mule was busily chomping down on something out of a wooden trough set along the far wall.
Other than their three and the marshal’s pony, there was an elderly brown mare who likely had been retired from heavy work, resting in the shade, and the two brown dogs keeping her company.
“I would have thought they would have more horses,” she said when Gabriel and Steady both raised their heads to see who had come in.
“The others are in use,” Gabriel said, going back to work with a hoof pick. “Not that they have many—they kept ‘losing’ them to raids.”
“Raids?” Isobel was confused. “I thought they were on good terms with the local tribes.”
“They are. I suspect that’s how they kept it that way.” He finished checking Steady’s hooves, tossing what looked to be a small pebble to the side, and leaned against the horse’s side as she gave the mule a hand to sniff in greeting. “Gives them something to brag about and argue over when they get together. Pride’s important to a warrior. Stealing horses has become an honored tradition.”