“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 and 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.