The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  Table of Contents

  Description

  Aisling

  Interlude

  Dream

  Beloved Son

  Everything

  About the Author

  The Aisling Trilogy by Carole Cummings containing:

  Guardian

  Constable Dallin Brayden knows who he is, what he’s about, and he doesn’t believe in Fate. ‘Wilfred Calder’ has no idea who he is, what he’s about, and has been running from Fate for as long as he can remember. When Wil is brought in for questioning as a witness to a brutal murder, and subsequently flees, Dallin is dragged by duty into the chaos of ancient myth, fanatical religion, and the delicate politics of a shaky truce between two perpetually warring countries, all of which seem to hinge on the slender shoulders of the man he knows is not Wilfred Calder.

  Dream

  What begins as Constable Dallin Brayden escorting the prisoner Wilfred Calder back to Putnam quickly turns into a flight for both their lives. Political betrayal and malicious magic lurk behind every bush and boulder in their flight across the countryside, resulting in Dallin becoming more protector than gaoler, and fostering a growing connection between him and his charge.

  Beloved Son

  Newfound love might not be enough. Trust holds the possibility of both salvation and damnation. Circumstances having forced them to seek asylum in Lind, Wil and Dallin are momentarily safe, but find themselves at the center of a convergence they’re not sure they’re strong enough to face. The power of the land and the Mother awaits Wil in the bowels of Lind, but it comes with strings attached. With Dallin’s help, Wil must find a way to defeat the soul-eater, save the Father, Her Beloved, and manage to keep his soul in the process.

  Short Story: Everything

  Both sex and a bathtub somehow are distracting for Wil and Dallin… but maybe not quite the way one would expect.

  Aisling

  Chapter One

  “This one’s yours, Brayden.”

  Dallin looked up, lifted an eyebrow as the leather folio came skidding across the desk to rest with a smart slap against his mug; coffee slopped over the rim and he scowled. Elmar stood at Chief Jagger’s elbow, snorting wolfishly, as Dallin shook his hand then wiped it on his trousers. Dallin ignored him. He’d never liked Elmar.

  He kept his expression neutral as he reached over, wicked up his lamp and tipped a nod to Jagger. “Chief.” Swiping coffee from its flyleaf, Dallin picked up the folio, and slapped it open. “What’s this and why’s it mine?”

  “You’re good at this sort of thing,” Elmar supplied, still with that arsy grin. Dallin wondered what that grin would look like with a few less teeth. “That is, it’s within your purview of interest, I should say.” A waggle of thin eyebrows beneath a lank fringe of greasy brown hair. “A pretty little piece, too, innit, Chief?”

  Jagger sighed, rolled his eyes with a slight clench of teeth, then turned on Elmar. “Have you got that request to the Ambassador finished yet?”

  Elmar’s grin finally fled and he swallowed, stepped back a little and dipped his head. “Right away, Chief,” was all he said.

  Jagger watched the back of him with a sour grimace. “That’s the sort as gets shot by his own in the army,” he muttered. Dallin covered his smirk as the chief turned back to him. He waved a hand to the folio. “Witness,” said Jagger. “There was murder done at the Kymberly last night.”

  Dallin blinked. “Murder?” He stared. He’d lived in Putnam for more than twenty years, been a constable for nigh on ten of them, and yet, even after two tours in the Cavalry, and all of the violence inherent, murder in the more civilized Putnam still gave him a mild shock. Dallin shook his head and focused on the few sheaves of paper inside the folio. “And at the Kymberly, by the Mother.” He shot another glance at the chief. “Was it robbery?” And then the significance caught up with him, and his heart did a bit of a flip. “Not Ramsford?”

  Medeme Ramsford—respectable proprietor of the respectable Kymberly, one-time companion and best friend in the long years since.

  The chief shook his head. “Master Ramsford is unscathed, but for p’raps a few bruised knuckles.” He shrugged at Dallin’s quizzical look. “He had to pull the brigand off the victim, and the brigand didn’t want to let go.”

  “Bloody damn,” Dallin breathed, shaking his head. “Is this the man, then?” He held up the prisoner profile. “There isn’t much here.”

  “And I wouldn’t make bank on what is,” Jagger told him. “That’s the witness—or the instigator, depending on what you manage to wring from him.” A frown from Dallin got another shrug from the chief, this one a little uncomfortable. “It would seem that the fight started over who would keep company with this…” He took the paper, scanned it quickly then handed it back. “This Calder.”

  A prostitute. Bloody hell. Dallin sat back, rolled his eyes with a stifled growl. Now he understood Elmar’s sly digs. “And you want me to slap him around a bit.” He kept his voice flat, but he couldn’t keep his jaw from tightening. He’d thought this was finished, at least between himself and Jagger. “I never touched the woman, damn it, and I won’t be used as some sort of ogre to scare the whores into—”

  “I want you to question him because I don’t fancy letting Elmar or Payton at him. Have I ever done else to make you think otherwise?”

  The chief stared, gaze level and hard, until Dallin’s hackles smoothed again and he glanced away. “You have not, sir,” he said quietly. In fact, Jagger had asked Dallin the question once, and when he’d testified that—as little as even he’d believed it—the woman had bounced her own head off the table before screeching her accusations, Jagger had merely nodded, accepted Dallin’s word and signed off personally on all of the reports. Dallin supposed it wasn’t Jagger’s fault that the other smarmy gits wouldn’t let it go. Payton had bloody congratulated him. Slimy little shit. He sucked in a long breath, cleared his throat. “My apologies,” was all he said.

  Jagger accepted this with a small nod of his head. “It isn’t like it was before,” he said, mouth set in a thin, bitter line. “These men aren’t veterans of Aldrich’s army like you and I, and it’s only got worse since Wheeler took command.”

  True, Dallin reflected resentfully. The newest truce—negotiated between Ríocht’s Guild and General Wheeler, military head of Cynewísan—was more of a capitulation than a victory, at least as far as the welfare and safety of the Commonwealth of Cynewísan went. The Dominion of Ríocht was happy with it, but that was no surprise—all one had to do was look to see the Guild’s fingerprints all over it.

  “Men like us,” Jagger went on, “are getting steadily pushed out of positions of rank and authority to make way for the types who would as soon pull a few fingernails as ask a simple question.” He shook himself with a surly snort. “Which is neither here nor there at the moment, but the bottom line is that as long as I am in charge here, we do things the old way—our way.

  “Here is this Calder’s statement and those of the other witnesses.” He slid more papers at Dallin. “The truth is, even had I not already decided as much, Ramsford asked that I assign you. He says you’ve been a friend to him, and he’s concerned for the… lad.” He cleared his throat. “And in truth, I’m not sure I trust any other with this witness. This man… this boy, I can’t tell…” A slight shift in posture and the chief looked away. “I’ll say no more. Ask your own questions, draw your own conclusions then report them to me.”

  “But… wait, witness—not suspect?” Dallin lifted his gaze from the papers, and quirked his eyebrows. “We have the murderer in custody, yes?” At Jagger’s nod, Dallin frowned. “Why did we bring this man in? Did no one interview him at the scene?”

 
“I interviewed him at the scene,” Jagger replied. “I decided the… situation required further enlightenment.”

  Dallin kept his response to a small lift of his eyebrows. “As you wish,” was all he said then paused, tilting his head. “But I’m not sure I understand what I’m to do with him. All of these statements seem to say the same thing. One man killed another—one is on a slab and one is in a cell. What exactly am I meant to wring from this one?”

  Jagger sighed, pulled out the chair opposite the desk and lowered himself into it tiredly. There were circles under his bloodshot eyes, and his skin was pallid-gray. He must have been dragged from his bed for this some hours ago. He leaned into the desk, folded his hands atop it. “The victim and the assailant were both Dominionites.”

  Dallin blinked; his stomach gave a little flip. “That’s…” He trailed off, pushed a low whistle between his teeth.

  “It is,” Jagger agreed. “The talks in Penley go bad enough as it is. The last thing Cynewísan needs is to give the Dominion an excuse to make them go worse, and if I can help it, Putnam will not be giving them that excuse.” His big hands opened. “I’m sending a courier with a request to their ambassador for instructions on what they… ‘suggest’ we do with this Orman.”

  “The suspect,” Dallin said, lifted his eyebrows; Jagger nodded confirmation and Dallin returned the gesture. “May I suggest Corliss for courier duty?”

  “You may. She’s due for a day away from the brood, I imagine; an overnight will be good for her. Anyway, she’s likely the only one I can trust not to get drunk and start a fight at the inn.”

  Dallin loosed a mild snort, flipped through the papers. “I wouldn’t take that bet.”

  Jagger lifted an eyebrow. “A good subordinate allows his chief an illusion or two.”

  “All right, then,” Dallin retorted, peering down at the papers, all innocence. “Then I’ll let you believe I made the suggestion because Corliss is the better rider.” He smiled a little, waggled his eyebrows. “And not because I will be chuckling myself to sleep tonight, imagining the looks on their faces when they receive that request from a woman’s hand.”

  “Ha!” Jagger sat back with a dreamy look in his eye. “A woman in trousers, no less. I think I’d pay to see that. Devious bugger, you are.” He grinned when Dallin gave him a modest little flourish of his hand. “Even if you weren’t so good at your job, I think I’d keep you about for sheer comic relief.”

  Dallin took the gruff, left-handed compliment with a shrug and a stifled grin. Jagger snorted then turned serious again.

  “I’ll want your report ready for the afternoon’s post. I mean to send it on to their ambassador and ours, plus copies of everything we have to the Elders in Penley. I want them there with the morning post so Corliss can bring back…” He sighed. “Whatever word they choose to send with her.”

  “Don’t suppose I could pull courier duty and let Corliss take the statement?”

  “No, but it was a nice try,” Jagger retorted. “Anyway, there’s the matter of a woman in trousers to consider.” A weak smile and he shook his head, face set now in weary anticipation of a great deal of lost sleep in the next few days, once again all business. “We need to go by the letter on this, no mistakes. The scrap is said to have started over this Calder person, and I am not satisfied that he’s been truthful thus far. I would know all I can before I send those reports.” He paused, shifted uncomfortably. “There was talk of conjuring.”

  Dallin snorted. “There’s always talk of conjuring.”

  “True.” Jagger nodded agreement. “Still, two of the other witnesses—including Ramsford himself—said both the victim, if you can call him such, and the assailant seemed tranced, and this Orman accused as much during his interrogation.”

  “Don’t they all,” Dallin muttered then snapped a glance up at Jagger. “Do you believe it?”

  Jagger sighed, rubbed at his stubbled chin. “As you say, they all claim witchery when caught. Still…” A heavy shrug. “I’ve met the man, and I must admit to… entertaining the possibility.”

  Dallin nodded, looked again at the scant information he’d been provided. “His papers look legal,” he put in.

  “They also say he’s from Lind,” Jagger told him. “And if that man is from Lind, or even from Cynewísan, I’ll don petticoats and ask you for a dance, come Turning Night.”

  Well, if anyone would know whether a man was or wasn’t from Lind, it would be Dallin. He couldn’t help the snort. Shaking his head, he tucked the page back into the folio and flipped it closed. “Never place a bet on which you have no intention of making good, sir.”

  Jagger stood, smirked. “Not unless you’re dead certain,” he agreed. “You’ll see.” With a nod and a tip of his head, he quit the room.

  Dallin sighed and stood as well, snatched up the folio and his mug, grimacing a little as he gulped his coffee. It was cold. Naturally.

  ***

  He’d never liked coming down to the jail wing of the Constabulary, set dark and dank in the basement of the great building. Dim and moldy, the only light the oily flicker of smoky gas lamps set in sconces too few and far apart. And even though the interrogation rooms were set more toward the center of the cellars, at least fifty feet down and around the corner of the wide corridor to the left, still Dallin wrinkled his nose at the smells that breathed from the cell wing, permeated every pore of stone and brick: piss and vomit, stale liquor and fear, rancid heat from new fires built on the bones of the old. Death leached in somehow, snaked its darkling spice into brick and mortar, and Dallin shook his head at himself. We’ve not lost one down here in seven years, he told himself, and that was the old caretaker who tripped over his own wash bucket and broke his tosspot neck. No angry ghosts. Still, he couldn’t help the slight shudder as he slipped his holster from his hips and handed it over to the bailiff.

  “Sign in,” was Beldon’s bored instruction. He turned the book on the table with his wide, callused hands, and handed Dallin a pen.

  Dallin bent to sign his name, shooting a sideways glance as Beldon looped the belt around the holster, and eyed the cool metal inside it with greedy appreciation. “From Booker’s in Wedgewood,” Dallin offered. “A pretty sum, but it comes with proof and papers from Oxnaford.”

  “And it sings?”

  “True and sweet as a virgin lass on her wedding night.”

  Beldon snorted. “Your witness is in there.” A jerk of his head toward the heavy wooden door in the center of the stone corridor. “You’d best step along; Payton didn’t wait for you.”

  Dallin frowned. “Payton? What’s—?”

  “He’s the one signed him in,” Beldon cut in. “Couldn’t’ve stopped him had I wanted to.”

  The discomfort in Beldon’s glance gave Dallin pause. “You wanted to?”

  Beldon sat back, sliding Dallin’s revolver carefully to his left hand. “He spoke of having another go at the poof enchanter.” He said it with a disapproving curl of his mouth, but hitched his shoulders in a, ‘What do you want from me?‘ shrug when Dallin glared. “His words,” Beldon said. “But I wasn’t keen on the way he said ‘em. The lad was already bruised a bit going in, but…” Another shrug. “I made sure Payton knew someone would be counting them on his way back out. I’ve bent my ear, but so far I’ve heard nothing to move me down the hall. Payton’s not knocked yet to be let out, though.”

  Dallin merely nodded, tightening his jaw. “Thank you.”

  “You’ll need no help with the door,” Beldon said as Dallin turned down the corridor. Dallin noted that it wasn’t a question, and so he didn’t answer.

  The doors to the interrogation rooms had no locks, because they didn’t need them—they were so heavy that any attempt at escape from within would be handily stymied unless that attempt was made by three men simultaneously. Or one, if he happened to be as big as Dallin. But then, there were no other men as big as Dallin. Even Beldon, wide as he was, needed the help of a push from whatever officer was on th
e other side of one of the doors, wanting to be let out.

  Dallin swung the door open with only slight resistance, almost hoping to surprise Payton in mid-blow or something else just as unseemly and forbidden. He liked Payton only a little more than he liked Elmar; both men were rather too fond of the more sordid aspects of their jobs than was decent; both men looked upon their constant striving to earn the responsibility of carrying a sidearm as a goal and a right to be had, rather than the somber, oft-times distasteful duty it was. But Payton merely lounged on one of the wooden chairs, his handsome face smiling easily, perfect white teeth bright even in the dim of the lamps.

  “Ah, Brayden, I wondered when you’d spoil my little chat.” Payton waved over the table. “You’ve not met this…” He paused, cleared his throat with a shrug that was a bit exaggerated, but still theatrically elegant. “Gentleman.” The inflection of the syllables made it all too clear that the intent was in direct opposition to the word itself.

  Dallin said nothing, only pointed his gaze toward the huddled figure on the other side of the table. Dark hair worn long to the shoulders, but clean and kept; it hid the man’s face and he had yet to look up. The shoulders were hunched; an attempt at smallness, perhaps, but Dallin could see that the build was lean and lanky. Height was not readily apparent, but the once-pale hands that stuck out from the ends of sleeves too long and loose were long-fingered, red and roughened with new chafing and calluses. The man’s hands tugged and twisted at each other atop the table, nervous sweat leaving telltale ghosts on the lacquered wood with each pull and pick. The posture was one of resigned defeat, but there was nothing abject about it. Dallin sensed a hum beneath it all, an alert watchfulness that belied the weary set of the shoulders and hang of the head.

  “Says his name’s Calder,” Payton went on, tipped his chair onto its back legs with a laconic smile. “What was that first name again, Calder?”