The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  Wil shrugged. “Or perhaps because you don’t know what you are.”

  “Right. The Guardian.” He paused, tilted his head. “Tell me what that means to you.”

  A wild little laugh burbled at the back of Wil’s throat, and he choked it back, rolled his eyes. It was pretty funny, though, in a dark-mad-paradox sort of way—the man was serious. He really was serious. And he really did expect an answer. He might as well have said, Give me another reason to kill you; it would have been no less merciless.

  Interesting. Apparently, Wil didn’t have a death wish, after all. He wished he could make up his mind.

  Wil made himself take a deep breath, made himself blow it back out slowly. Made himself ignore the question.

  “How did you get your eye blackened?” he asked instead.

  Brayden growled a little, sat back and sighed. “You’ve a mean left-hook,” he retorted curtly.

  Wil blinked in surprise, squinted a little and leaned in. “I did that?”

  “And the scratches.” Incredibly, there was a hint of amusement beneath the tone. “That make you feel better, does it?”

  “I…” Wil frowned, leaned back against the wall. He thought about it. He didn’t remember doing that. Although… he did seem to remember hearing the sheriff point it out last night, now that he thought about it. He also remembered that Brayden had had plenty of opportunity—and plenty of excuse—to increase the count of Wil’s own injuries and had refrained. He shook his head. “No, I… Sorry.”

  Another pause, then: “Accepted,” Brayden said simply, shifted in his chair and chuckled lightly. “You’re very good at changing the subject,” he observed. “But I’m very good at getting answers.”

  Wil sighed, slumped, said, “I know.” That was what he was afraid of. “I can’t answer you,” he said softly. “I mean… I can, but I’m afr—” He bit his lip, flushed. “I don’t want to. You ask me to betray myself.”

  “You were willing to kill yourself last night. You sat here this afternoon ready to die by my hand—how much bigger of a betrayal could the truth possibly be?”

  It sounded so reasonable. A lifeline of sanity flung out as Wil was drowning in madness and perpetual confusion.

  “I didn’t care this afternoon,” Wil told Brayden. “I wasn’t… afraid.”

  “And now?”

  Wil let the first answer come, the honest one: “Oh, yes.”

  “What if I told you,” Brayden said slowly, “that I know exactly what I am?—or what legend says I’m supposed to be. What if I told you that I know the story of the Aisling and the Guardian and that it doesn’t quite suit the one you’ve obviously heard?” He leaned in. “What if I told you that I don’t believe in legend or fate or any of those things zealots twist about to prove their madness is a righteous means to everyone else’s end?”

  “Then…” Wil swallowed, pulling in a heavy breath. “Then I would say that you are a very lucky man.” He peered up, even managed a weary smile. “And that you must sleep very well at night.”

  “Oh, I do,” Brayden assured him. “Mostly because I don’t allow anyone else to tell me what I am.”

  “How very fortunate for you,” Wil said under his breath.

  “Aisling means dream, doesn’t it?”

  Wil started at the sudden turn then clenched his teeth when he realized the purpose of it. Trying to catch him off-guard. More games. And Brayden had been rebuking him for ‘wearing faces.’

  “We’ve been through this already,” Wil muttered, softly insolent. “If you already know all of the answers, why d’you keep asking questions?”

  “Because you keep not answering me.”

  “Because you keep asking questions I can’t answer!”

  “You can’t tell me what ‘aisling’ means?”

  Wil sighed, rolled his eyes. “All right. Fine. Yes, it means dream.”

  There. He already knew anyway, so what difference did it make?

  “And the Guild holds the Aisling as some sort of figurehead?”

  Wil couldn’t help the derisive snort. “I suppose some might look at it that way.” Then he shook his head. “No. The Chosen is the figurehead.”

  “They’re not one and the same?”

  Wil shrugged. “They’re meant to be.”

  Brayden propped a booted foot across his knee, tapped at the leather with long, callused fingers. “What did you do at the Guild?”

  “I…” Wil looked down, closed his eyes tight.

  The raw shock of violation, so deep and profound it makes his soul scream, too many tears, too many pleas, and pain and need and craving, and he can’t tell what’s his and what isn’t, until it doesn’t matter anymore, it all flows to him, from him, and he can’t stop it, so he opens himself up, swallows emptiness…

  He’d been calm a moment ago, and now his gut roiled and his heart thumped about behind his ribs like a wild bird trying to loose itself from a cage. Bile burned at the back of his throat, sour and bitter. He was going to be sick. He was going to lean over and retch all over the man’s boots.

  “You said Aisling isn’t a name, it’s a command,” Brayden persisted. “Did you dream for them? Is that what this is about?”

  Wil shook his head. “There’s… I can’t…” It was getting harder and harder to breathe.

  “Are you a prophet? Some kind of oracle?”

  “Wait,” Wil whispered, clenched his eyes tighter, “I’ll tell you, just… just wait, let me… just…”

  A moment, he needed just a moment to slow his pulse, calm his breathing—

  Except Brayden wasn’t about to give him one. “Are the Brethren part of the Guild?”

  Wil shook his head, tried to clear his mind. “No—no, just… stop for just a moment, all right, let me—”

  “What did they tell you about the Guardian? Why are you so afraid of me?”

  Wil snapped his head up, blurted, “Because you’re a bloody terrifying man!” He lifted a hand, tried to shove his hair out of his eyes, realized it was the bandaged hand and he was doing nothing more than pawing stupidly at his head. “Look at you—d’you have any idea what it’s like to… to… I mean, if you were me, wouldn’t you be afraid?”

  The boot hit the floor with a thump so hard it made Wil jump. “Damn it,” Brayden snarled. “If you’d just—” He stopped, scrubbed a hand over his face, took a long, calming breath. “All right,” he said more evenly. “Fine. Then let me tell you the little faerie tale I’ve heard.” He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a dark shape that, as Wil squinted at it, resolved itself into a small, slender book.

  It was so surreal that Wil puffed a shaky little snort. “Are you going to read me a bedtime story?”

  “Shut it,” Brayden snapped, the rein he’d obviously been keeping on his patience now stretched nearly beyond its strength. Wil sometimes had that effect on people when he stayed around them for too long. “You had your chance, you didn’t take it, so you’ll shut your mouth and listen to me now.”

  Constable Brayden was back again. And he wasn’t happy.

  It was strange. The first time Wil had been on the receiving end of that tone of voice, that hard stare, he’d nearly wet himself in his terror; now, he didn’t even twitch. The steady rat-a-tat of the questions nearly had him on his knees, begging for reprieve, but these overt near-threats didn’t even faze him. In fact, they were almost a relief. Odd. For all the man’s size, Wil was more afraid of his mind than he was of his obvious strength.

  Maybe he’d gone insane and didn’t know it.

  “According to this,” Brayden was saying, “the Father created the Aisling as a gift for the Mother, gave him… hold on…” He turned a few pages, scanned down. “Right, ‘gave him hair as black as the bower of the Stars, skin as fair as the Moon’s face, and eyes the green of the Mother’s Womb—’” He paused, shook his head. Wil’s eyesight must have been getting better, because he was sure he saw the left eyebrow rise up into the hairline. “Now, I’ll give you that th
e description matches pretty well, but is there such a thing as a green womb?” He didn’t wait for an answer. ”’—and then he taught the Aisling to dream, taught him to sing the songs of the stars and to weave the songs of Man.’” He paused again. “D’you know how to weave songs?”

  He said it like it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard, but Wil’s heart had lurched into his throat with the first sentence. One cannot be reborn without returning to the Womb… For the first time since… since ever, he wondered if it meant something other than a cruel riddle. His mouth worked, but nothing came out of it.

  “Are you all right?” Brayden wanted to know.

  Wil flinched a little. No, he wasn’t all right, but he needed to hear this. “Go on,” was all he said, as steadily as he could manage.

  Brayden stared at him for a long moment, skeptical, before finding his place and continuing: ”’The Mother was well-pleased with her Gift, and loved the Dreamer well, but soon saw that Man would covet the Aisling, that the Father had taught him too well in the ways of dreams, but not enough in the ways of Men’s hearts.’” He paused again, with some no doubt sarcastic retort on his tongue, but stopped and peered keenly at Wil; Wil didn’t know what was on his face, but whatever it was, it seemed to make Brayden think better of whatever he’d been about to say. He merely read on. ”’And so the Mother gave to the Father the Guardian, made of the hearts of mountains and the living rays of the Sun, gave him eyes as dark as the Father’s mantle, and taught him to Watch. And when the Mother was well-satisfied, she took the hand of the Father and led him to their bower, covered him with the veil of her hair and kissed him—’ And it goes on from there about begetting rivers and meadows and rocks—apparently they were randy as teenagers—and there’s something in there about banishing the old gods of the Four Corners to the bolls of evergreens and other such nonsense.

  “Now.” He sat back, jammed the little book back into his coat and folded thick arms across a wide chest. “Tell me what about any of that is worth killing for.”

  Wil could only stare blankly for a moment, frown, ask, “Sorry, what?” He was still trying to make sense of this version of the tale. And wondering how it could be almost exactly the same and yet entirely different.

  Brayden either didn’t see his bewilderment, or dismissed it, in his growing impatience to get to the point. “I have never seen anyone in my life who had so many people on his arse, and I’ve been a constable for nearly a bloody decade. I’ve enlisted bleeding posses, for pity’s sake!

  “Six men died last night—three by their own hands—every one of them in the attempt to get those hands on you. And that’s not even counting Palmer—plus Orman, who, unless there’s been some miraculous recovery while I’ve been gone, has been turned to a bloody drooling potato. The highest authority of a bloody country wants you, is stopping just short of declaring war if I don’t find you and hand you over, and I somehow can’t make myself believe it’s because their pet prophet ran away from home.”

  He leaned forward, too obviously trying to squelch rising anger, real entreaty in his voice and in what Wil could make out of his face. “You say the Guild wants you dead. Fine—from them I can believe anything. I can even believe that the Chosen that they’re supposed to revere and protect is actually a prisoner, and that they would lie to him and tell him anything to keep him one; in fact, it doesn’t even surprise me.

  “If you want to believe I’m this Guardian, then believe it, but at least consider that the people who you say are trying to kill you have lied to you, and that what I’m meant to guard is you. I’m the only one trying to keep you alive right now!” He sighed, frustrated, held his hands out, palms-up. “I have to take you back, understand? I’ve no choice. So, I need you to tell me why I can’t.”

  Wil kept staring, a little bit stunned by the display of anxiety. He shook his head. “Why would…?” Was Brayden saying what Wil thought he was saying? Was this an offer, or…? “What would happen to you if you didn’t?” he asked, voice raspy and small.

  “Then a warrant would likely be issued for my arrest and I’d be just as wanted as you are.” It was said in matter-of-fact tones, no self-pity or guile Wil could detect. “And Ríocht would likely use it as an excuse to stop the talks and withdraw the treaty. I imagine it wouldn’t take long after that before war was declared—they’ve been looking for an excuse for the last five years.”

  “War…” Wil sat back, closed his eyes. He had no idea whether or not he should believe that—he didn’t know politics. But he knew the Guild, and he knew how badly they wanted him gone, and he knew why. He shook his head. “They won’t declare war, not yet.”

  Brayden was silent for a long time, breath coming a little heavier than normal, hands fisted. “Why?” he asked evenly.

  Wil looked up, blinked him into near-focus. “Because they can’t—they need their Aisling.”

  That made Brayden’s eyes narrow. “You’d best tell me what that means.”

  As near to real hostility as Wil had heard thus far. Not surprising, he supposed. He’d already pushed Brayden close to some kind of edge, and he’d just more-or-less confessed to being a weapon against the man’s country.

  Anyway, he was right. This was far too big, and Wil couldn’t pretend to know all of the repercussions. This man seemed to, and seemed also to sincerely think he could figure out a way around them. If Wil told him the things he needed to know. Except the things he needed to know were also the things that would likely turn him from potential protector to the true Guardian.

  What difference does it make? It’s going to happen eventually, anyway—you’ve seen it, you can’t stop it, you can only put it off. Wouldn’t you rather see it coming? Wouldn’t you rather your last words be truths, instead of puling lies?

  Wil gave a little nod, lifted his chin.

  “I was… six, I think, when they found out what I could do. I don’t really remember, I was very young and it was… forever ago.” He swallowed, curled his left hand into a sweaty fist. Fuck, he was really going to do this. “There was a fever. It swept through the Guild, cut their numbers in half—that’s when Siofra was officially indoctrinated to the Guild, and things—”

  “Wait, Dúthomhas Siofra?”

  Wil jolted. “You know him?”

  “No,” Brayden replied slowly. “He was in Putnam when I left, but I didn’t meet him. Came flying from the talks in Penley when our reports about Orman and Palmer reached the ambassador.” He narrowed his eyes. “I was told he was merely a lackey to the ambassador.”

  A low snort gusted from Wil’s throat, and he rubbed carefully at his temple. “Think about it,” he said quietly. “If someone wanted to get close to the opposition, have the most influence possible, without having to go through the bother of spying or the constrictions of state formalities, what profession do you think would be most convenient?” He lifted a somber stare to Brayden, a bitter smile. “As an ambassador’s ‘lackey,’ he has functional invisibility and complete immunity. He doesn’t even have to show his papers when he crosses the Border.”

  Brayden was silent for a long time, assimilating this revelation, then he sucked in a long breath between his teeth, said, “He came for you.”

  There was no real surprise in Wil. Still, a shudder skittered up his backbone. “Right.” He shook himself, licked dry lips. “Anyway, it was him who found me several years previous, before I was even born. The Chosen wasn’t… it was meant to be one and the same, that’s what they’d wanted since the Guild began, but the Aisling—it had become legend, and no one… I’m not even sure they believed it anymore themselves when Siofra came along. They’d been searching for hundreds of years, thousands, even before Ríocht became its own state, but they didn’t actually find one until Siofra.”

  “You,” Brayden said.

  Wil nodded. “And so he could do no wrong as far as the Guild was concerned. They allowed him complete discretion, and when he found out what… the things that… I was only
six—how was I supposed to…?” He stopped, made himself breathe evenly, started again. “I was sick, I caught the fever. There was no treatment. They could only give the normal remedies, make a person as comfortable as possible, and hope they got well on their own.” His heart was racing, and a trickle of sweat ran down between his shoulder-blades. “The usual drug of choice was dreamleaf.”

  He peered up at Brayden, saw no judgment yet, only patient encouragement.

  “And…?”

  Wil swiped at his brow, shrugged, looked down. “And… well, it’s called such for a reason. For normal people, it helps one sleep and… enhances one’s dreams, makes them more vivid and real. For me, it…”

  Why couldn’t he just get it out? He could feel it, locked in a painful lump in his chest, and he wanted it gone, but he couldn’t make his mouth speak the words that would expel it.