Dream

by Carole Cummings

  “Anyway, this way I could shoot from the saddle and still keep hold of the reins,” Wil had enthused—back when he was still more bloodthirsty than tired.

  “Right” had been Brayden’s laconic reply, “and end up on your arse from the recoil or from the horse getting spooked and throwing you. Not all horses are made for the cavalry, y’know. They have to be trained not to bolt at loud noises, which is why we left them back at the campsite.”

  He seemed to revel in bursting bubbles.

  “How d’you know that?” Wil had asked somewhat truculently, refusing to let go of his bubble just yet. “Do you know everything?”

  “Because I was in the cavalry,” Brayden had informed him. “And yes, I do know everything, or at least more than you do, so if you please—show me how you load that cartridge.”

  Wil had rolled his eyes, sighed out loud like a five-year-old, then did what Brayden instructed. Now Wil completed the task of pumping and expelling one-handed, swaying back to avoid getting hit by the spent cartridge as it spun out from the bolt. He pointed the rifle’s barrel at the ground and slid the safety into position, looking up at Brayden with a grin he couldn’t have kept from his face if he’d just shot his own foot off.

  “Very good.” Brayden nodded. “Now, let’s back you up a few dozen paces and see if that was just a lucky shot.”

  Wil gaped. “A lucky shot?” He followed Brayden back to a new position, mouth flapping. “It was bloody beautiful. What d’you mean, ‘lucky shot’?”

  Brayden merely shrugged. “It may well be that you’re a naturally brilliant shot. It may also be that we have just witnessed conditions that will never be repeated. The only way to tell for sure is to repeat them.”

  Damn the man—there was that annoying reason again.

  It wasn’t until his second shot that Wil began to appreciate the undeniable power in his hands. He’d thought he’d known what to expect the first time, but it had all happened so fast he didn’t really remember any individual, distinct impressions. This time everything made an impression: the line of focus from the end of the barrel to the target, and how it fuzzed out everything in its periphery; the cool metal the tang against his cheekbone as he sighted down; how the forend made itself a gentle cushion against the bandages on his right hand; the almost tender resistance of the trigger against his finger as he steadily pulled it back….

  The awesome punch of the recoil as it vibrated from his hands and up his arms, through his shoulder and chest, and on down his backbone to the ground.

  He was still standing there in his firing stance, feeling it all, when Brayden’s big hand clapped to Wil’s shoulder, gripped tight, and shook.

  “Un-bloody-believable!” Brayden laughed and shook Wil again in his enthusiasm. “I have never seen anyone shoot dead-on like that, not the first time. You’re brilliant!”

  Wil felt pretty brilliant. He lowered the gun, cocked it and ejected the cartridge, then slid the safety into place, breathing in the scent of metal oil and spent gunpowder. He hadn’t just taken off the other end of the twigs this time—he’d pulverized them and turned it all into a shower of fluttering splinters and smoking twine. He’d never known destruction could be so beautiful.

  A grin curled his mouth, and he looked over at Brayden, seeing his own pleasure reflected back at him. Even the heavy hand gripping his shoulder wasn’t very heavy.

  “I want to shoot something bigger.”

  IT WAS growing too dark to see when Brayden finally managed to drag Wil away from their makeshift target range and head back to camp. Wil’s arms were sore and a little shaky, and his shoulder was probably going to be bruised, but he was still too high for any of it to worm through the euphoric haze. Brayden had been more than accommodating, finding bigger and bigger things to shoot from farther and farther away until he got tired of setting up targets and just had Wil shoot the trunks of trees. Not quite as satisfying—they didn’t fly apart the way sticks and piles of leaves or small stones did—but it did help Wil adjust his aim.

  “We’re blazing a trail miles wide for anyone to follow,” Brayden had muttered. “Let’s just hope they miss where we turned off, and they might miss us altogether.”

  Wil absolutely could not bring himself to care.

  They’d determined that his accuracy began to flag pretty badly after about two hundred paces, but he almost never missed at closer range. Wil had been somewhat surprised that he never got tired of shooting, of watching targets go to pieces at the end of his focus, but each time was a new thrill. He kept expecting his enthusiasm to wane—and Brayden was likely hoping for it—but it never did, not even when Brayden pointed out somberly that watching a man’s head explode through your sights was not quite as thrilling. Wil considered that seriously, then privately concluded it probably depended on exactly whose head it was.

  “So, did you learn to shoot in the army?” he asked Brayden as they walked back to camp, the rifle a comfortable weight against his back as it hung from its strap around his shoulder.

  “No, my foster father taught me.”

  “The one who gave you the knife?”

  A lift of sandy eyebrows. “I only had the one.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “I like both my foster parents just fine. They still live in Putnam, and I have dinner with them almost every week.”

  Huh. Interesting. Brayden really did have an actual life. “But you don’t live with them?”

  “No. Not for a very long time.”

  “Well, why not?”

  “Because when children become adults, they move out on their own. It’s just the way it’s done.”

  Wil took this in with interest. “So you don’t hate them, then?”

  “Of course not. Why would I hate them?” Brayden sounded genuinely mystified by the question.

  “Well, you said your foster father gave you that knife, and you just sort of… handed it over to someone you barely know. I thought, if you liked him, you would’ve wanted to keep it.”

  “You do have a different way of looking at things.”

  Wil tried to find condemnation in the tone but couldn’t.

  Brayden waved a hand. “I gave you the knife because… well, did you look at the inscription?”

  Wil considered the casual assumption in the question, thought about dodging it, but… well, dodging was seeming less and less necessary anymore.

  “I can’t read.” The challenge in the tone was more overt than Wil had meant.

  Brayden, as he seemed to do with everything, rose to the dare in his own way. “No? You’ve not taught yourself that too?” It was a sardonic drawl, and he didn’t allow Wil time for a retort. “I’ll show it to you once we’ve a fire going. It’ll explain better than I can.”

  They walked in silence for a moment before Wil frowned and asked, “You were an officer in the army, weren’t you?”

  “I was. Captain.”

  “For how long?”

  “I did two four-year tours.”

  “Volunteer or conscripted?”

  “Volunteer.”

  Wil hadn’t really needed to ask that question—Brayden was definitely the volunteer sort. And Wil would bet he’d volunteered and served out of honor and duty, not the three square meals and respectable pay many others did it for, or even the opportunity to shoot at people with impunity. Wil didn’t think Brayden shot at anyone with impunity, even if the censure was only from himself.

  “I saw a regiment of the cavalry once.” Wil smiled at the memory. “They looked very sharp in their red and gold. I quite envied their boots, and they all had brilliant mounts. They even made those stupid helms look good.”

  “Hey!” Brayden looked like he was trying to be offended, but he couldn’t keep the smile from out his voice. “They might not be the sexiest things in the world, but they serve the very useful purpose of resisting all manner of sharp implements aimed at one’s head.”

  “I just said they made them look good.” Wil slid his g
aze over to Brayden with a sly bit of a smirk. “I’ll bet the pretty girls got all swoony over you, kitted out in your officer’s surcoat and all, didn’t they?” Brayden didn’t answer, just rolled his eyes and watched his boots. Wil grinned. “Ha, I knew it—the pretty boys, then.”

  Brayden shook his head with a low chuckle. “Now who’s the chatty one?”

  “Hey, I answer all your questions. And you ask a bloody lot of questions.”

  “Maybe.” Brayden sighed. “But you make me walk through fire first.”

  “Keeps the bugs away.”

  Brayden chuffed out a small laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “You’ve a very odd sense of humor.”

  “I’m a very odd person.”

  Brayden was quiet for a moment. “You’re not, you know.” His voice was low and frank but still quite amiable.

  Wil frowned. “Not what?”

  “You’re not odd.” Brayden stopped and looked at Wil steadily through the thick-falling darkness. “You could be a maniac who runs about attacking children. You could be a drooling imbecile. You could be a depraved cutthroat who lurks in dark alleys and murders for a billet or two. You could be an infinite number of foul things—you could have lain down and died and let Old Bridge be your grave.

  “Instead you’re a man who is more than capable of killing but only does it when he has to, and you don’t let anyone else’s mores tell you when ‘have to’ is. You take hold of every single thing in your grasp and value it, things I’ve taken for granted my whole life and never had the first clue were precious. You learn things faster than anyone I’ve ever seen, and yet you keep thinking you have to defend your intelligence.

  “You’ve invented your own way of being, and perhaps it might be ‘odd’ to one who has no idea of the life you’ve led, but to one who does….” Brayden paused, searching, then shrugged. “To one who does, it’s… it’s…. I haven’t got a word. It’s astounding.” He took a step closer, dark eyes strangely alive and perceptive in the murk. “You’re not odd. You’re just who you are, and I think you’ve done bloody well, for all you’ve been through.”

  Wil stared, eyes narrowed against the dark. What was… what was with the… the…. Well, Wil wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but he figured it was at least close to flattery.

  “You know,” Wil said slowly, “I meant it when I said I didn’t intend to murder you in your sleep.”

  Brayden snorted. Then he laughed. “And that’s something else. You trust absolutely no one and wouldn’t believe a kind word from the Mother Herself.” His laughter dried up, and he cleared his throat. “Sorry, bad example. But you know, you should be… I don’t know, you should’ve been another Síofra. You should’ve imprinted on him like a kitten imprints on a goat if it’s the first thing it sees. But you didn’t—you fought him every way you could, and you don’t even know how impressive that is.”

  That was the second time Brayden had said that. Impressed. Rising discomfort was very nearly making Wil squirm. What the hell?

  “I thought I was a vicious little shit.”

  “You are.” Brayden turned and started walking again. “But you say it like it’s a bad thing. C’mon, I hear the horses.”

  NO SHELTER was necessary tonight, so setting up camp was relatively quick and easy. As it had been last night, Wil took care of the horses—sneaking them each another of his dwindling store of apples and getting those disgusting horse-kisses as thanks—and Brayden took care of supper. Wil kept the rifle with him, unwilling to release his new friend yet until they sat by the small fire to eat, at which point he laid it carefully on the ground in easy reach. Talk, being unnecessary, was fairly scarce until they’d finished eating and cleaning up. Afterward Wil, intrigued by Brayden’s earlier hints, slipped the knife from out his boot. It had been a comfortable weight against his calf all day. It was bulkier than the little dirk had been—he was grateful all over again for the thicker stockings—and he had to wear it on the opposite side in consideration of his right hand, but he’d grown used to it almost immediately.

  He held it slanted into the chancy glow of the fire, lightly tracing a finger over the string of finely etched symbols engraved in its surface. “So what does it say?”

  “That?” Brayden moved in closer. He smiled. “That’s just my name. The thing I wanted to show you is on the other side.”

  Wil turned the knife over, examined the wider swath of glyphs on its opposite side, then turned it again. “That’s awfully long for just your short little name.”

  “Well, it’s both my names.” Brayden leaned in and pointed at one little group of runes. “Dallin.” And then the next. “Brayden.”

  “Your name is Dallin?” Why had Wil never even considered the fact that Brayden must have a given name? Dallin. It was… nice. Not as harsh sounding as Wil would’ve expected, considering Brayden’s build. Wil would’ve guessed Stone or Bear or something equally descriptive. He peered over at Brayden, more interested than he would have thought. “What’s it mean?”

  “Why d’you want to know?” Brayden’s tone was somewhat cagey—not unkind, but just edging on suspicion.

  Wil shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just interested. The people of the Commonwealth seem to put a lot of stock in what names mean. I was very glad to learn what Wilfred Calder meant.”

  “‘River of stones.’” Brayden stared into the fire with a frown. “And ‘much peace.’”

  “Peaceful River.” Wil nodded. “It’s nice, isn’t it? I want to live by one someday. I want to stare into the water all day long and then watch the stars dance over it all night. I want to listen to the music the current sings and nothing else until I get tired and hungry and can’t listen anymore.”

  Brayden was looking at him now, gaze penetrating. “That’s a very good wish. And perhaps you’ll get it. There’s a river runs through Cildtrog, you know. That’s the valley below Lind.”

  Wil hadn’t known, though with the amount of time he’d spent spying there, he wondered why. Perhaps it was the very one Wilfred Calder had been named for. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

  “Dallin,” Brayden said, “means ‘pride’s people.’ It also means ‘from the valley.’ Brayden means ‘brave.’” He shrugged, pensive. “My father told me that as long as I never forgot my name, I’d always know my way home.”

  “Well, I expect forgetting your own name isn’t much of a danger.”

  Wil meant it lightly, but it made Brayden’s frown deepen.

  “You’d think. But She seemed to think I have done.”

  Wil couldn’t help the way his stomach dropped a little. He also couldn’t help the curiosity. “What did…?” He chewed his lip. “What did She tell you?”

  Brayden turned his gaze slowly from the fire to fix it on Wil. “She said I’d forgotten my name.” And then he shook his head, troubled gaze flicking over Wil’s shoulder and taking an absent sweep around the camp. “I am Dallin Brayden from the valley of Cildtrog, Lind’s Cradle,” he told the darkness. “I am the twelfth Brayden, possibly the last of my line, son of Ailen and Aldercy. I know my name, I haven’t forgotten, I know my way home, and I’ve no idea—” He frowned. “What?”

  Wil’s stomach had taken another bit of a dip about halfway through.

  He will dragoon you to the Cliabhán, make of you a sacrifice….

  He shook his head. A harsh little snort burbled in his throat, and he clenched his teeth. Why was he so surprised?

  “They call where we’re going a cradle?”

  “Cildtrog. It means ‘cradle’ in the First Tongue. Lind sits in the hills above it. Why? What’s wrong?”

  That weary snort pushed again, and Wil let it come. He rubbed at his face. “One of the prophecies.” He was bone-weary all of a sudden. “Maybe it was another lie.” He peered up at Brayden, the light of the fire sparking in his dark eyes, bringing back that forest-god effect and making Wil shiver just a little. “I hope it was a lie. Because if it wasn’t, we’re both in the pr
ocess of making the biggest mistake of our lives.” He looked away. “I’m used to betrayal. You’re not, and I don’t think you could stand it.”

  Not many things could take this man down, Wil thought, a bit of pity mixed with the chagrin. The bigger a person’s heart, he’d come to believe, the deeper the blade of treachery plunged. Brayden, for all his gruff arrogance and bossy “I know better than you do” ways, had a heart that would one day do him in.

  Brayden stared at him—just stared at him—then leaned in, closed his hand over Wil’s, and took the knife from him gently. He turned it over. Firelight hit the long dagger, scattershot over Brayden’s fingers as he tilted it, tipping in so close his shoulder was touching Wil’s. He slipped his wide finger along the blade, tiny scores in the smooth metal sliding beneath his fingertip in rhythm to his words:

  “The Mother’s Blessing upon this blade

  May you use it never in anger

  May it protect you and cleanse your Path of foes

  May it remind you always that you are the Mother’s Beloved Son.”

  Wil scowled and leaned away. A low ache was starting to bloom behind his eyes, and he rubbed at it, annoyed, though he couldn’t quite tell why.

  “I know you’re angry,” Brayden said quietly. “I know you feel betrayed, and I won’t argue that you shouldn’t. I can’t begin to guess at the mind of the Divine, and even if I could, I won’t pretend there is any reason good enough or important enough to justify what’s happened to you.”

  He held the knife out again to Wil, hilt-first, as Wil had done last night.

  “But I saw Her face, I saw Her eyes. She loves you, and She made sure She dragged me from a lifetime of ignorance and borderline belief to do what She, for whatever reason, can’t, and I don’t intend to displease Her by getting you captured or killed. If you can’t believe in Her, believe in me. You wanted to know why She didn’t help you—I am that help. I’m sorry I took so long to get here.” Brayden waggled the knife between his fingers, its blade catching shards of fleeting brilliance from the fire that spiked into Wil’s eyes and made them burn. “I gave this to you because right now I think you need it more than I do. Maybe you can’t read it, but that doesn’t mean you can’t understand it.”