After what felt like an eternity, she painted the final verdigris stroke and sat back.
Archer grinned nervously at her. “I hope I haven’t just made a terrible mistake.”
“Me too.”
Before he could respond, there was a leathery creak, and his saddle lifted into the air, taking both horse and rider with it. The others gasped and pulled back, as if afraid the horse would careen out of control and crush them.
Hovering a few inches off the ground, Archer and his mount drifted slowly across the riverbank like a pair of very heavy ghosts. The horse’s eyes rolled wildly, and its hooves churned as it was carried out over the water. Their weight had no bearing on the curse itself, but Briar feared the girth strap would break right off the saddle. She wished she could do something to reinforce it. Curses did damage by nature. Ambulatory curses were dangerous in their own right, but she could still make use of them. In order to make the strap stronger, though, she would have had to turn it to stone. The horse wouldn’t appreciate having a saddle cemented to its back—not that it was particularly enjoying being carried through the air.
Nat covered his eyes with his pudgy hands, watching Archer’s progress through his fingers. Jemma clutched Lew’s sleeve as if to keep from launching herself at the river, and Lew’s face took on a green tint. Briar avoided looking at Esteban.
Archer’s horse got more nervous as they drifted across the rapids. The animal thrashed its hooves, the saddle groaning dangerously. Archer leaned close to the bay’s neck to speak soothing words and stroke its heaving sides. The creature calmed a bit as they floated across the expanse.
After what felt like a year, the curse deposited both horse and rider on the opposite riverbank. The horse tried to bolt the instant its hooves touched the grass, but Archer reined it in with a steady hand. He waved at them across the river.
“All clear!”
Briar released a breath. Nat whimpered, deflating in his saddle. Lew’s forehead glistened with sweat. Jemma and Esteban both stared at Briar with new eyes, calculating eyes.
She lifted her paintbrush. “Okay, who’s next?”
Moving the rest of the team was less stressful since she knew the curse worked—less stressful for Briar anyway. They blindfolded the other horses to keep them from panicking on their way across the river. A few of the humans looked as though they wished they were blindfolded, too, but they allowed Briar to work her magic.
Painting the ambulatory curses was a lengthy process requiring over forty strokes for each saddle. If she’d simply thrown them across the river—the way ambulatory curses were normally used—it would have been much faster, but Briar had dampened and drawn out the effects of the curse through the use of painstaking detail in order to make the journey safe. She couldn’t remember the last time she had painted so many complex curses in quick succession. Her eyes felt grainy, and her fingers were trembling by the time she sent the last outlaw—Nat—across the river, clutching tight to his horse’s gray mane. Only one more to go.
Briar cursed her own saddle last—or at least she started to. Then she heard the telltale thunder of hooves on the road behind her. Their pursuers had caught up.
Archer saw Sheriff Flynn first. He charged onto the ridge above the river on the Barden side, leading a posse of mustard-uniformed men. He looked like an angry bull after spending all night in his saddle—red-faced, round bellied, and agitated. He raised his sword, bellowing wordlessly as more men galloped up behind him.
Briar was still directly in their path at the bottom of the slope.
Archer started forward without thinking, and Jemma seized his arm.
“We have to get out of sight,” she hissed.
“We can’t leave her,” Archer said.
Jemma’s grip tightened. “They must not learn what we’re doing.”
“Barden’s men already saw me in the market.”
“You could have been doing anything there, but if he sees all of us on this side of the river, word could get back to—”
“I know.”
Archer had taken pains not to be seen with Jemma and Lew over the past few months. If anyone saw them on Larke land, in the company of a licensed mage and a curse painter no less, the game would be up. But they couldn’t leave Briar after she had gotten them safely across the river. It wouldn’t be right.
“Get the rest of the team behind those rocks. I’ll catch up. Esteban, you stay and help Briar.”
The mage coughed. “I will do no such thing.”
“You have to hold them off while she crosses the river.”
Esteban raised his arms, baring the ends of his tattoos. “Why would I further implicate myself for her?”
Archer seized Esteban by the collar and hauled him halfway out of his saddle. “I said hold them off.”
Esteban scowled, his eyes going black and hooded. Archer knew the old man could blast him halfway to High Lure with a word, but he didn’t back down. He’d had enough of Esteban’s attitude. He tightened his grip on the man’s collar.
“Fine, I’ll do it.” Esteban wrenched himself away from Archer, rubbing his throat. He climbed off his scrawny mare and scrambled down to the water’s edge.
Jemma gave Archer a hard look then motioned for the others to follow her deeper into Larke territory. Their argument wasn’t over, but that was a problem for Archer’s future self. First, he had to make sure Briar was safe.
A dozen riders had joined Sheriff Flynn at the top of the ridge on the Barden side of the river. They were far enough away that Archer hoped they hadn’t seen most of the team. He yanked the blanket roll from behind his saddle and tossed it over his head to obscure his own identity. Then he dismounted, snatched up
