“Safe or no, it’s running water. You really wish to take them across without thinking this through?” Isobel stared at the road marshal in disbelief. Running water could break bindings; that was why most folk claimed land near creeks but didn’t try claiming the creeks themselves, no matter how much their crops or flocks might need it. Crossing a stream was the first thing you did if you managed to offend a magician, assuming you lived that long.
“You’re the Devil’s Hand,” LaFlesche said, squinting down at Isobel in what, in another woman, might be called confusion. “Surely a creek like this could not break his bindings?”
Isobel felt the faint urge to scream. She had done it, not the boss. His power but her action. And since she wasn’t entirely sure what it was that she had done, she had no idea if it could be broken by running water.
There was no way she could tell the marshal that. Not in front of the two Americans, not . . . not ever. The Devil’s Hand. She spoke for him—in their eyes, she was him.
Isobel had been raised to keep a clean mouth, but at that moment, she could have cursed Gabriel for riding off and leaving her alone with this.
The marshal took her silence for assent. “So, we simply stand here until—”
“No, hush.” Isobel was trying not to think, trying not to be distracted by the quiet singing of the water against stone, letting the sense of how rise up in her.
Help me, she asked the sigil, the whispering noise. Help me do this.
Once again, she was in the saloon, folding linens, sweeping floors, kneading bread, watching the boss deal out cards. Flickerthwack against the green felt. Flickerthwack the water against stones.
Magicians were wind, the binding was earth’s bone, the risk was water. Water wore against stone same as wind, but not quickly. Water could move stone, but not easily.
She ducked under the reins and stepped between the horses. The magicians were laid out so their heads were to the outside, their feet—one set booted, one bare and bloodied?—were to the inside. Part of her quailed from touching them, protested even being this close to the push and lure of the power trying to escape, but she forced herself to place her palms on their ankles, feeling the unpleasantly papery touch of skin even through cloth and leather, sinking deep the way she did to bone, finding the pulse within the rush of blood and the give of flesh, slowing it until it was slower than water, slower than the wind, slow as stone and bone, and she nodded once, her voice saying, “Now go.”
The water was winter-cold even through her boots, the thrumming of power trying to escape softened but not silenced entirely, and Isobel pressed forward, pressed deeper, keeping the binding intact despite the water washing over it, until they were on the other bank, someone bringing the horses forward, leaving her standing, stock-still and unutterably dizzy, only to fall to her knees.
“Isobel? Hand!”
She opened her eyes to see one of the men—Tousey, she remembered?—kneeling in front of her, his hand outstretched, LaFlesche’s hand round his wrist, keeping him from touching her. The other man, Anderson, was nowhere to be seen, and she’d’ve worried more about that if she could stop the bells from ringing inside her head.
“It’s all right,” she said, and both hands retreated. “I just . . . Water?”
Rather than a canteen, as she’d expected, LaFlesche disappeared and returned with a tin cup filled with creek water. She took it with a nod of thanks, then sipped, the water burning a path down her throat, then splashed what was left into her hands, pressing them to her face, the cold shocking her to full alertness.
“Do you need to rest?”
“No.” Yes, but not until Gabriel returned or they caught up with him.
“We have company.” Anderson’s voice, a low, unhappy growl, and Isobel twisted without standing up to see what he was talking of.
Three paint ponies, bare-backed and bareheaded, and three riders standing beside them, their hair long and loose, their bodies marked by colors in patterns too distant to determine.
“Scouts, likely,” LaFlesche said, matter-of-fact.
Tousey was less calm. “They were following us? Why?”
Isobel had spent most of her strength getting to her feet but was pleased to feel her knees remain steady. She made the clicking noise that got the mule’s attention, and while it was still reluctant to approach the horses too closely, it came to her side, allowing her to lean on it. “Like we were here for their entertainment,” she responded finally, recalling Gabriel’s words. “Though you were likely watched since you crossed the River, came into the Territory proper. By one tribe or another. Just because they allow us here doesn’t mean they trust us. Particularly not you. But they wouldn’t do anything unless you did something first. That’s the Agreement.”
“They knew better than to attack us,” Anderson spat, and LaFlesche didn’t quite roll her eyes skyward for patience, but Isobel could tell the marshal wanted to.