The Cold Eye by Laura Anne Gilman

Author:Laura Anne Gilman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Saga Press

Half a day passed, the sun warm overhead, and Isobel could not shake the chill from her skin. She could feel the blanket over her shoulders, the heat of Gabriel near her, the flickering of the fire he’d built up, making her a tisane he said would warm her blood. None of it mattered. The cold ran deep inside, pushing everything else away. Her gaze dropped down to her hands, and she spread her fingers out in front of her, palms down, looking at them as though they were not her own.

She had done what was needed, had done only what was needed. That made it no better, that she had done it at all. The dead were to be protected, not abused, and yet she had. She had gone among the dead and forced them to her will. Without hesitation, without compassion. She had pushed herself into the sodden mess of what remained and forced them to speak to her, to tell her what she needed to know; had shoved herself into their most pained places and taken what she needed. The fact that she had disturbed no wardings, had uncovered no bones, did not change that fact.

And she knew that she would do it again if it were asked of her.

The elk—wapiti, Gabriel called it—had been right: she had duty, obligation. A sworn contract, turning her into the devil’s tool. Whatever power she contained, it was nothing more than that. She was no more a person than Gabriel’s knife or gun.

She looked at her hands and remembered something else.

“It was an easterner.” Her voice was too steady, too calm. It should shake under the weight of what she had done, what she had learned.

“Who was?”

Gabriel moved away from the fire, took her hands in his, turning them, wrapping the fingers around the handle of her mug, the battered tin almost too warm to hold. Still, all she felt was cold.

“The one who brought them here, convinced them to do this. I saw it in their . . . in them. He came across the Mudwater, American colors on his saddle.” Their awareness of the man was muddled by death, by pain, by the pressure they were held under, mangled by their own madness, but that much she knew: the creak of the leather of his saddle, the smell of him, the flash of the colors marking him as an outsider, giving him passage across the borders, a single man without troops.

But a single man could be as dangerous as an army.

Gabriel sat down opposite her, pushing her hands up, reminding her to drink the tisane. She took a sip, merely to oblige him. It was green, and sharp, and warm, but she did not feel warmed. “He spun them a story of . . . of the power they could gain if they did this. Of power elsewhere if they were strong enough to take it. That he would show them if they did this one thing. . .

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