Dream

by Carole Cummings

  “I—”

  “You didn’t know—you were a child. It wasn’t your fault. I understand that.” Brayden’s voice was still quiet, very calm, but there was a slow swell of wrath welling beneath it. “Just give me the same benefit, all right? We’ve enough blame and blindness between us already, I think.”

  All Wil’s own wrath seemed to have left him. He was disoriented without it. “How do you know…?” His voice was softer than he liked, but he couldn’t seem to get enough air. “How do you know you’re… you’re not—?”

  “Those marks the Brethren wear.” Brayden’s teeth were tight, his jaw clenched. “Those tattoos—d’you know what those are?” He didn’t wait for Wil to answer. “They’re clan marks, the tokens of the Old Ones, Lind’s shamans. Only they don’t just tattoo them on—they etch them right into their skin. They’re runes that spell out Wæpenbora in the First Tongue. Do you know what that means?” Again he didn’t wait for an answer. “It means paladin, weapon bearer, warrior protector, Mother’s soldier. And the funny thing is, written language in Lind is forbidden, except for the shamans. My father wore the mark of the Weardas—they’re only a little different—and I didn’t know what they meant until ten minutes ago. I didn’t bloody remember. I’d seen them for the first ten years of my life, and yet I didn’t recognize them. I saw them on those men the first night at the inn in Dudley, and I knew I’d seen them before, but….”

  Brayden’s hands closed into fists, that low level of rage still vibrating through him.

  “All that meaning and history in a word they likely can’t even read, and those men stole it all, took it like it belonged to them, and then tried to take away everything it means.”

  Wil thought about it. Carefully. It still wasn’t enough—it was too ambiguous and not nearly enough to stake his life on.

  “But how do you know?”

  Brayden sighed. He looked exhausted already, and it couldn’t be past sunup yet.

  “Think about it for once, and try to do it without any of Síofra’s noise cocking up the logic. You said you saw my mother—she smiled at you, touched your cheek. Does that seem like something the mother of someone meant to kill you would do? I don’t know, because no one told me, and right, I could still convince myself She was a dream or delusion if I tried really hard—but I know now, I can’t stop knowing, and I can’t offer you any better assurance than that.

  “I can offer you the relative safety of my protection. You’re not helpless, you’ve survived on your own, but things have changed, and this is… this is fucking huge.”

  Brayden rubbed at his brow, agitated but trying not to show it.

  “I can help you, but not if you keep trying to run from me, not if you still insist on believing I’m going to murder you. I can’t make you trust me, and I can’t keep seeing that, that… look in your eyes.”

  He didn’t say that he could force his help if he wanted to. Wil didn’t know if it was because Brayden was serious about asking what Wil wanted, or simply because he didn’t have to say it—it was fairly obvious.

  A sharp rap at the door startled them both. Even though it nearly loosed a shriek from Wil’s throat, he was almost glad for the interruption. He kept pinging from hope to guilt to suspicion to wrathful outrage, and every word Brayden spoke pushed Wil closer to some kind of edge.

  “Open up in there!” someone barked from the other side of the door. More pounding rattled the hinges, this time heavy and impatient. “Open up, I say!”

  Wil half expected Brayden to throw himself between Wil and the door. But Brayden merely drew his gun from the holster strapped to his thigh, slipped his hand beneath the bedding, and nodded at Wil.

  Wil raised his eyebrows but opened the door cautiously to a red-faced innkeep, hand raised in a fist as though caught midknock and mouth open on more thwarted demands. There was a thick, nasty-looking cudgel hanging by his hip. The innkeep paused when he saw Wil, then leaned in with a wary look.

  “There’ve been complaints from the other guests.” The innkeep shot his glance over Wil’s shoulder, eyes narrowed in suspicion, presumably at Brayden. “Said there was shouting up here like murder was being done.” He looked back at Wil, gaze lingering pointedly—on the yellowing bruises, on the bandaged hand, on Wil’s no doubt bloodstained nose and lip, and doubtless his chin as well—his overall disheveled state. The innkeep leaned in and lowered his voice. “Everything all right, lad?”

  Wil dropped his gaze, then angled it slowly over his shoulder. Brayden was watching—no warnings in his eyes, no threats, just a cool interest in what Wil would do. Wil was pretty interested himself. If Wil shot the innkeep a desperate glance, whispered to him—help, I’m afraid, he’s kidnapped me, anything—the innkeep would be an instant ally. Wil could run, and no one would try to stop him but Brayden—maybe not even Brayden. And if Brayden did try, he’d be so occupied with explaining the situation and trying not to get himself arrested that Wil would be long gone before Brayden managed to sort the tangle.

  And yet.

  Wil somehow found himself nodding. “Thank you, everything’s fine. I’m afraid I was dreaming and woke with a nosebleed, and I rather….” A warm flush flooded Wil’s cheeks, and he swiped at his face, embarrassed, in case there were any residual tears lurking. “I rather went to pieces for a little while, until I finally realized I was awake, and….”

  The innkeep still looked chary, eyeing Brayden dubiously over Wil’s shoulder. He apparently wasn’t going to go away unless he was convinced someone wasn’t going to get murdered in one of his rooms, and right now he seemed fairly convinced that Brayden was the one who’d done the damage to Wil.

  If the situation weren’t so surreal, Wil might’ve doubled over with preposterous little cackles. Hahaha, look at this, me coming to the defense of big, scary Constable Brayden, oh the irony….

  Wil cleared his throat and looked down with an uneasy shrug. “I had a…. I was accosted several days ago by brigands—” He waved vaguely at his face with the bandaged hand. “—and I’m afraid some of the effects… linger. I’m very sorry to have disturbed the peace of your establishment.”

  The innkeep’s tense stance softened immediately. He even looked a little abashed. “It’s quite all right, there, Mister…?”

  “Wil.” He gestured over his shoulder. “And this is my companion, Constable Brayden from Putnam.” He shot another glance back in time to see Brayden lift a bemused eyebrow.

  The innkeep bobbed a nod. “Jarvis.” He stuck out his hand to Wil, then smiled apologetically and withdrew it when Wil ruefully waved the wad of bandages that was currently passing as his hand. “Are you well, then, Wil?” It was earnest and solicitous. “I can send for a healer, if you need—”

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary,” Wil assured him quickly. “I’ve already embarrassed myself enough. I’d just as soon forget any of it happened, if you don’t mind.”

  “As you wish.” Jarvis hovered at the door, still frowning in concern.

  Perhaps Wil had chosen the wrong course of action. Perhaps he should have just barked at the man and got them thrown out. It likely would’ve been quicker.

  “My Elli brews a brilliant headache remedy,” Jarvis said with a decisive nod. “I’ll have some sent up, shall I? And I don’t expect you’ll want to come down to breakfast soon, what with….” He cleared his throat. “A tray, yes? Eggs and bread and whatnot. Elli will handle it. I’ll send her along.”

  “Coffee?” Brayden piped in.

  Jarvis spared him a wry smile. “Indeed.”

  Absurdly touched, Wil thanked Jarvis warmly, then slowly shut the door on his smiling face. With the click of the latch, all the tension seemed to run out of Wil. He leaned his forehead to the jamb, closed his eyes, and sighed.

  “Um.” Brayden said from behind. “Companion?”

  A droopy little half snort whiffed out of Wil. “Ah, Cynewísan,” he muttered to the door. “Where the women wear trousers, the men love men, and the shee
p are bored.” He turned and leaned his back to the door. “I’d never have got away with that in Ríocht—they’d already have us out on the gibbets.” A shrug. “It was either ‘companion’ or… something else I couldn’t think of in the moment.”

  “It’s fine.” Brayden waved his hand. “It’ll just confirm what he already suspected last night, I expect, and it did rather take care of… other suspicions.” He tilted his head, eyeing Wil thoughtfully. “You could’ve got away.”

  Wil looked down, chewing his lip. “According to you, I don’t need to get away—I’m not a prisoner.”

  Brayden sighed, slipped the gun out from beneath the bedding, and reholstered it. “Can I ask you something?” His eyes were on his fingers as he resecured the weapon.

  “You can ask.”

  Brayden didn’t acknowledge the ambiguity, just nodded. “Last night—well, this morning, I guess—the coffee, the rain….” He stopped fiddling, set his jaw, and looked at Wil straight. “Did I hurt you?”

  Wil frowned. “Hurt me?”

  “You said it hurt when Síofra… did the things he did.”

  “Oh.” Wil hadn’t thought about it until now, what with the blur of… everything that had happened since Brayden had shaken him awake. And now that Wil was thinking about it, he wasn’t sure if it was a relief or a new worry. “No. You didn’t hurt me.” Brayden looked so relieved, Wil found himself feeling an odd sort of sympathy. “Then again, you didn’t… or rather I didn’t—” Frustrated that he couldn’t seem to find the right words, Wil scowled at the floor. “There was no push.” He said it quietly, almost to himself, thinking. “You wanted something, and I chose to give it to you. And it didn’t hurt.” It was as simple as he could make it, as close to sense as he could come.

  “Huh.” Brayden deliberated over that for a moment. “Has it ever happened that way before?”

  Wil shook his head.

  “Then why the bloody nose?”

  Wil’s mouth twisted sourly. “You keep asking me these things like I know. No one told me either, y’know.”

  Brayden opened his mouth, closed it, then rubbed at his stubbly chin. “You chose to give me something. Why would you do that?”

  Wil could feel that embarrassing flush rising to his cheeks again, and he gritted his teeth, annoyed. It wasn’t as though the dreams always made sense. In fact, sense was rather a rare thing, in his experience. It had just seemed like something he wanted to do at the time. The truth was he’d felt bad about the things he’d said last night, the way he’d accused Brayden, and coffee had seemed such a small thing. Now it took on significance all out of proportion.

  “It hasn’t rained in this part of the country for a long time,” Wil mumbled fractiously. “If I’d known… if I’d thought of it myself—”

  “Right,” Brayden was quick to agree. “Rain. That makes sense.”

  Apparently they both decided to forget about the coffee entirely. Wil was a touch comforted that at least Brayden was as uncomfortable about it all as Wil was. It was small consolation, but consolation it was.

  Brayden shifted, still looking uncomfortable and trying really hard not to. “Listen, I’ve not even had a piss yet.” He stood. “I’m going down the hall to take advantage of plumbing while we have it. Then you can have your turn.”

  Wil had to keep from blinking in surprise that Brayden was going to leave him in the room by himself. It was… strange, this new tentative trust. And Wil didn’t even know yet if it was real or merited. He tried not to show his confusion, just shrugged and made himself busy with retrieving his pack from the floor and rummaging in it for nothing in particular.

  Brayden watched him for a moment, then walked to the door. Stopped. He looked at Wil over his shoulder.

  Wil didn’t look up. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

  Brayden only nodded and quit the room.

  “YOU STILL want to travel today?” Wil angled his gaze to the window with a frown. It was still pouring, and what with his new enlightenment on saddle soreness, he realized he’d been assuming—or hoping—up until now that they’d linger here at the inn until the rain let up.

  It was cozy once the fire was rebuilt and stoked, and Wil had got used to sharing the small space. It only got easier after he let go of the tension and made a concerted effort to view things in the new, nonlethal light in which Brayden insisted upon standing. Brayden sat across from Wil on the bed with the tray between them, each of them shoveling down the generous breakfast Mistress Elli had provided. Brayden wasn’t lunging at Wil, wasn’t trying to stab him with a spoon—not that he’d need to, what with the arsenal strapped all over him—and he wasn’t trying to knock Wil unconscious so he could practice his newly learned skills at following. In fact, Brayden seemed even more uncomfortable with the whole idea than Wil was, and Wil wouldn’t have ever believed that possible. Although he might change his mind when it came time to sleep again.

  Wil shuddered, took a bite of sausage, and chewed it slowly.

  Brayden plopped a great glob of runny scrambled eggs onto his toasted bread and chomped it down, chased it with a slurp of coffee, and shrugged. “Provided it stays nice and heavy like this, it’ll wash away our tracks. With any luck, anyone coming after us will spend days on the road north before they realize their mistake, while we’re safely detouring west and on over to….” He looked down into his coffee. “Um.” He shifted a bit, then plucked up a sausage link, examining it with a little too much focus. “We need to discuss our plan again.”

  Wil raised an eyebrow, curious. He didn’t particularly like the idea of trudging through the rain, but he hadn’t intended to argue about it. It made too much sense, and Brayden did know what he was doing. Wil never would have thought of rain as a benefit to travel, but he did like the idea of using it to throw off any followers.

  “I don’t think we should go to Putnam.” Brayden looked up at Wil, somber. “I think we should go to Lind.”

  Wil’s breakfast took a slow, rolling tour around his stomach. He shook his head automatically, mouth open on a ready protest.

  Brayden held up his hand. “Whatever else is there, they’ve got answers. They know things we don’t, things we need to know so we can figure out what the hell we’re supposed to do. In case it’s escaped you, besides all of this—” He waved his hand about. “—this Aisling stuff, you’ve made quite a nasty political mess. If we make a move before we know what we’re doing, we could cause a war—a real war, like The Fifty Years War, not these little border skirmishes of the last ten years.”

  “I didn’t choose the mess, y’know.”

  “Well, it’s made, so it hardly matters.”

  “Then why d’you have to say it?” Wil caught Brayden’s frown, the sardonic tilt to his gaze, and flushed some, but clenched his teeth with a stubborn shake of his head. “I haven’t missed the obvious. I’m not slow. But the way you say it….” He spread his hands, caught between anger and bewilderment. “I never asked for this. I only wanted a life. I never intended to hurt anyone or cause any political messes. I only ever wanted… I only want to be let to live. And not drugged ’til I can’t even take a piss by myself, or chained to a—” He stood abruptly, agitated, and paced back and forth beside the bed. “I’ve never even seen a river, except in someone else’s dream—I learned to think inside the minds of madmen and dreamers. How fair is any of that? And you say these things like I’m supposed to bloody care about political messes!”

  Wil stopped, took a long, deep breath, and stared levelly at Brayden. “I’m not being ungrateful—I’m not—and I understand the enormity of what you’re doing, what you risk in doing it. I didn’t mean… I never… I’m not belittling it or making light, and I wish I could be as brave. I just….” Wil shrugged heavily and looked down. “I don’t want to go anywhere near Lind or Putnam, and it’s very hard for me to give a damn about a political mess when I know too well what walking back into that trap means. You don’t understand. You can’t know—”
<
br />   “No, I can’t,” Brayden agreed. “But I saw Old Bridge last night, and I at least understand the risk you take if we don’t keep several steps ahead of the Brethren.” He shot a look at the scars on Wil’s wrist, then flicked it quickly away, back up to Wil’s eyes. “If I’d known, I never would have….” Brayden shook his head, true remorse on his concerned face. “The shackles,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  Damn it, how could he make Wil go from dread to insight to umbrage in the space of ten words?

  “Pity?”

  “Not pity.” Brayden ignored Wil’s angry tone, keeping his own mien calm. “Understanding—something I need desperately and you provide sparing little of. If you’d just told me all of this from the beginning….” He set his jaw, clearly annoyed. “What did you think was going to happen? What did you think I would do?” He held a hand up when Wil opened his mouth. “Besides killing you, I mean, because if you say that one more bleeding time, I swear—” He growled with a roll of his eyes. “Well, I don’t know what I’ll do. Killing you now would only prove your point, and I’ve a contrary nature.”

  Amazingly, Wil had to smile at the uneasy frustration. It only lasted a moment before he shrugged and looked away.

  “I thought Síofra was telling the truth.” Wil looked up, solemn now. “You must understand—it wasn’t always… that way. He was kind to me at first. He was the closest thing to a parent….” His mouth twisted. “I had no reason to doubt him. I thought he was protecting me, and it wasn’t until after I started to rebel against the leaf that it turned… ugly. And even then, I thought it was me, my fault. I was bad, I couldn’t behave.”

  Wil shook his head. “I tried to do more than find you when I went searching about in Lind.” His voice had dipped down, lower than he would’ve preferred, but at least even. “I couldn’t read the Old Ones, just like I couldn’t read you, and your mother was the only person in the entire village—in the entire world—who knew what you were. Lind doesn’t just breed giants—they breed Watchers and have done for thousands of years, and no one knows what Lind is about but your shamans, no one. Why would they keep it so secret, if there wasn’t something terribly sinister beneath it all? How d’you know you’re not going to walk me right into a new trap, if I agree to go there with you?”