The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  Wil shook his head. “That isn’t an answer.”

  He said it like he deserved one. Dallin rolled his eyes, irritated with himself that he was going to capitulate and give him one. “Yes, Wil, I’m that idiotic, and I’m going to take the Dominion’s most wanted straight to their capital city and hope no one hangs us before we get there. No, we’re not going to Ríocht.”

  “Then what do you plan to do?”

  Dallin willfully controlled his breathing, rubbed at his temple. “I haven’t got a lot of options,” he answered slowly. “We’re going back to Putnam.”

  “Are you insane?” Dallin angrily shushed him, but Wil only backed up a small step, though he did lower his voice to a hiss. “I can’t go there, either. If you want me dead so badly, at least have the balls to do it your damned self!”

  And that was just about enough for Dallin. He took hold of Wil’s arms, dragged him in close. Wil twitched instinctively, but otherwise stood his ground, such as it was, and maintained his fierce glower. Good. If there was a true self to this man, it was the vicious survivor glaring out from behind those bruises, and Dallin was more than willing to accept it as proof of sanity, however dubious.

  “That is the very last time I want to hear something like that from out your mouth,” Dallin said, low and through his teeth. “If I ever do want you dead, rest assured, you’ll see me and my balls coming with both barrels. Until that time, you would do very well to keep in mind that I have as yet resisted every very good reason and excellent opportunity you’ve thus far presented me to choke the life out of your bony neck—if for no other reason than to get you to shut your damned mouth every once in a while!

  “Now, we are going back to Putnam, because I need help. If this is what you say it is—and it’s looking more and more like it’s at least close—I can’t do it by myself, I need resources, allies, people I can trust, and I can’t find any of that out here in the middle of bloody nowhere, not with men like this behind every bush and boulder.”

  Dallin had expected Wil to jerk back, but he didn’t—he leaned closer until they were nose-to-nose, kept his voice just as low as Dallin’s. “I’ve been doing just fine by myself,” he retorted, with no small amount of venom and a strange bit of perverse pride. “If you need your friends in Putnam, then fine, go and get them, but you won’t drag me back there so they can hand me right back to Siofra.”

  “Oh, you’ve been doing ‘just fine,’ all right.” Dallin snorted, shaking his head. “When I got to the inn the other night, you were bleeding, broken-boned and blue in the face.”

  Wil’s lip twitched, and his eyes flared. “I’d’ve—”

  “No, you wouldn’t’ve, and you know it. How many close calls have you had over the past few years? How many times have you been caught or almost caught? The Guild is so desperate to find you they’ve solicited bloody Cynewísan for help, and I thought they’d chew off their own tongues before ever admitting they didn’t have complete control over every bleeding thing that goes on over there.” He jerked his chin toward the far cell. “I’ve seen more than enough evidence to suggest that at least these fanatics aren’t about to give up, and they’re serious enough about whatever it is they want out of you to raze entire villages, and then off themselves in probably the most gruesome manner I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying something. If I hadn’t come along when I did, you’d right now be…” He let go, backed off a step, dipped his voice even lower. “You’d be doing whatever it was those men had in mind for you. And somehow I doubt whatever it was would’ve involved arguing with your keepers.”

  Right up until that last comment, Wil’s eyes had been on fire with anger and defiance; now, they dulled somewhat, and he swallowed, deflated a little. His mouth was working, like he was trying to be outraged and couldn’t find the ire necessary. “I never…” He looked away, flushed bright red. “I never thanked you for… for that.” His gaze shot over Locke’s body again, then back to Dallin, moving quickly from hesitant and resentful to frank and open. “Thank you.” His voice was low, and if there was deceit in it, Dallin didn’t detect it. “You’re right. I don’t think I’d’ve got away this time. Perhaps it doesn’t seem so, but I’m grateful.”

  Dallin’s eyebrows shot up. He didn’t really know what else to do, so he nodded. “You’re welcome,” was all he said.

  “So… you would make me your prisoner?” Wil’s voice was quiet but even. “Are you my keeper?” Dallin rolled his eyes, he couldn’t help it, and sighed up at the ceiling. “I don’t mean it like… like…” Wil waved the bandaged hand about. “There were shackles and then there weren’t; there was a locked door and then it was open and then it was locked again, and I don’t… it would be better if I knew.”

  All right. Fine. Dallin supposed that was fair. And annoyingly reasonable. He hadn’t exactly been consistent, after all, undecided himself as to whether he was detaining Wil or protecting him. Though, it was more like a bit of each, so he wasn’t surprised that he’d managed to confuse them both.

  “I didn’t lock the cell because I wanted to see what would happen,” Dallin admitted. “If you’d bolted, you wouldn’t’ve got far; when I wasn’t sitting on the porch myself, I had a guard on the door.”

  Wil’s jaw twitched, a little flare of anger spiking his gaze. “A test?”

  Dallin merely shrugged. “You fight shackles like a wild animal, but you accept a cage like you belong in one. You didn’t even try the door.” He watched with interest as Wil frowned, looked at the floor, thoughtful. “If we’re going to do this,” Dallin went on, “you’re going to have to make up your mind about yourself. If you act like a kicked puppy, you can’t be surprised when people go on kicking you; if you act like a vicious cur, they’ll want to put you down. Find a place in the middle before you get us both killed.

  “And you’re right—we need to be clear about this.” Wil tilted his head a little, regarded Dallin with mild suspicion out the corner of his eye. Dallin caught the gaze, held it. “However you’ve managed to stay ahead of these people for the last three years, it’s done now—they’ve caught up with you and will keep on catching up with you until you’re caged for good. I told you before I’m your best chance, and nothing has changed my mind. If you want me to be this Guardian, then fine, but it’ll be on my terms, and I do not consent to being your execution—or your suicide, while we’re at it. I will get you someplace safe and figure this out, you have my word, but if you fight me, if you run, you’ll have the rest of the world and me on your arse, and I guarantee that I’ll catch you first. And what follows will not be pretty.”

  Wil was silent for a moment, considering, then: “What if…” He looked over his shoulder again, his eye traveling over the bloody lump of blanket outside the cell on the floor. “What if you figure it out and it turns out that it’s either me or Cynewísan? What if the only answer you find when we get to Putnam is that you have to hand me over to the Guild?”

  He was still staring at the gruesome lump on the floor, but very conspicuously didn’t mention the Brethren. So. He’d already figured out that Dallin had no intention of letting them get to him. Good. At least that was one point of trust between them.

  “Then,” Dallin answered tiredly, “I shall have to figure something else out.” Wil looked up sharply at that, gaze heavy with cynical doubt. Dallin opened his hand. “If what you told me about them is true, then—”

  “If?”

  Dallin, ignoring the way it emerged from Wil’s mouth like the point of a dagger, merely went on, “—then it’s a matter for nations and not mere peons like us. And if an entire country can’t manage to keep one peon in line, I’m hardly going to do their job for them.” He smirked a little. “Quite a coup for one Commonwealth peon, innit?—snatching away the Dominion’s Chosen when I wouldn’t’ve even known what you were unless they told me.”

  A small wisp of a snort gusted from Wil, and he shook his head—almost disbelieving but not quite—blinked a few times then eyed Dalli
n soberly. He dipped a heavy shrug, nodded. “All right,” was all he said.

  Not exactly enthusiastic endorsement, but it was at least an accord, however half-hearted. Dallin hadn’t known he was holding his breath, tense, until it leaked from his chest in a long, silent sigh. Finally. An understanding. Which should make the trip to Putnam a lot less fraught with… everything it promised to be fraught with. Now, he’d just have to keep on his toes and make sure it stuck.

  There was more. Wil was still staring at him, working himself up to something. Dallin recognized the set of the jaw, the look of taking a bit in his teeth. “I should…” Wil’s chin lifted, gaze set firm to Dallin’s. “I’m sorry,” he went on, soft but steady. “For… for…” He lifted his right hand, as though he meant to push his hair out of his eyes, noted the red stains on the wrappings quickly going to brown, curled his lip a little and lowered it to his side again. “I don’t expect you to believe me, but if I could’ve prevented what…” He paused, set his jaw firm but couldn’t stop it quivering. “If I could’ve prevented Lind, I would’ve done.”

  It made Dallin’s stomach dip down a bit, but he kept his face impassive. “Even knowing what you think I am and what you think I’m meant to do?” he asked quietly.

  If Wil hadn’t stopped to think about it, Dallin likely wouldn’t have believed him, but he had. Wil stared down at the floor for a moment before lifting his eyes back to Dallin’s. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I don’t think it would’ve been because of any kind of selfless sacrifice; in fact, it likely would’ve been out of selfishness. I just…” He shrugged uneasily, looked away. “I would choose not to have something like that on my conscience.” A dark little puff of a snort and the slight twitch of a grimace. “Such as it is.”

  Dallin stared for a long time, thinking he should tell Wil it shouldn’t be on his conscience, it wasn’t his fault, he shouldn’t be apologizing for having been a walking-wounded casualty in a war he hadn’t started and couldn’t possibly even understand… But in the end, he couldn’t quite get the words out his mouth yet. He only nodded, once but firmly. “Then I believe you,” he said. And he meant it.

  Wil took a long, deep breath, flicked another glance over Locke’s corpse then dipped his head, peered at the toes of his new boots—the ones Locke had given him. Nodded. “Am I to understand that you mean to question that man?”

  Dallin’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Why?”

  Wil didn’t answer the question. Instead, he asked, “And should I assume that we can’t leave until you do?”

  Ah. Impatience to be gone. Dallin could certainly identify with that. “Yes,” he said again.

  Wil was silent for a moment then he scuffed the toe of his boot along a seam in the floorboards, loosed a leaden sigh. “I think…” he started, stopped, licked his lips.“I think I can help.”

  Chapter Six

  Wil watched the steady parade of Dudley’s citizens, busily filtering in and out of the Sheriff’s Office, with something between sympathy and dark amusement. They wanted so badly to help, to do, and while it seemed there was plenty to be done, it also seemed there were too many helping hands to do it. The new sheriff and the constable had all they could do to keep track of the comings-and-goings. Wil, on the other hand, had nothing to do but wait and watch.

  Miss Jillian had been by earlier, trying not to chirp and smile coyly at Brayden as she proffered baskets of breads and boiled eggs. The not-so-subtle advances on Brayden did seem a little tasteless, Wil had to admit, what with Locke’s body only feet away, but Wil couldn’t help but like her. Which was likely due to the fact that she seemed to think being extra nice to Wil would win points with Brayden, and as a result, Wil had ended up with one of the only two sausage rolls she’d brought. Brayden had accepted his like he was afraid it was going to detonate in his hand, but Wil made short work of his while Miss Jillian prattled about the lonely life of a prosperous hostel owner—she’d said ‘prosperous’ three times—while handing him a couple of eggs and a small saltcellar and telling him what a good listener he was. Which was mostly because she was keeping his mouth full, and he hadn’t much of a choice. Then again, he hadn’t exactly complained.

  Mistress Slade was dourly directing Mal and Hal in the grim business of preparing the bodies to be moved to the morgue. Someone had mopped up the lake of blood and brains that had leaked from Sheriff Locke’s head, but the dark ghost of it still stretched across the floor only a hand’s-breadth from Wil’s feet, clad in the boots she’d been trying to give him when her head had exploded. She’d been right: they were better than his, newer and better made, and a lot less likely to fall off his feet if he stumbled through a mud puddle. And he was grateful—he’d been grateful even as he was arguing with her. But the others had been his, and he still wanted his own back. He had so few things that were his, after all. Childish, perhaps, as she’d accused. But still.

  It took less than thirty minutes after the smoke had cleared for people Wil hadn’t seen before to begin poking their heads hesitantly through the door to stare—at Brayden, at the man in the cell, at their new sheriff, at the sticky pools of blood on the floor, at Wil… Wil watched them back with still blurry eyes, impassively let them get a good, long look, then watched them grow as uncomfortable beneath his stare as he was beneath theirs.

  And while Wil was watching people, Brayden was watching Wil, and trying to look like he wasn’t. Kenton was, too, but he didn’t really care if Wil caught him at it. Which was fine; Wil didn’t much care if he watched, so they were even. Despite his proximity to the door, he had no intention of running—at least not at the moment—so let them both watch.

  He’d been planted behind Locke’s desk earlier, out of the way of both the comings-and-goings and the darting glances from between the shattered doors, but when Mistress Slade had shown up to begin the business of preparing and moving the dead, he’d moved to a spot on the floor by the doorway, where he wouldn’t have to watch. It was a good spot. He didn’t mind the chill filtering in through the broken doors. He didn’t even really mind the prisoner staring at him; in fact, Wil had to keep himself from smirking at the irony—him on the outside of those bars, free to walk about as he pleased, and the man on the inside, shackled and bruised. He wondered if the paradox had sunk in with the man yet. Likely not—they were all so bloody sure of their Cause. The man was no doubt sitting in there, praying, and blissfully certain he’d be saved somehow, and if he wasn’t saved, then martyred. Wil was more than willing to help out with the latter, but he’d gone and bollixed his chance.

  “…how to do suppression spells?” Brayden was asking the shaman, a portly little man, with a hangdog face that transformed itself into near-artistic serenity with his gentle smile.

  Wil had never seen a shaman before, and hadn’t realized he’d even formed a notion on them until he’d seen Brother Millard. He’d expected him to be tall and dour and robed in something like a dark, modest ulster. This man was short, round, clothed in like local fashion, such as it was, and quick to smile, with bright hazel eyes that seemed to have never known judgment or bias.

  “I assure you, Constable Brayden,” Millard said kindly, “I was schooled at the Temple in Penley. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Glad someone does,” Brayden muttered then blinked tiredly at the little man. “Can you protect entire households? I’ve seen charms engraved into lintels and such for the purpose.”

  “But, of course,” was the placid reply.

  “And how many initiates have you got?” Brayden wanted to know. “I’m going to want every shack and farmstead protected. It would be helpful if you could cast individual spells, too—you know, for when they’re out and about.”

  That rippled the smile into a disappointed grimace. “It’s a small village, you understand,” Millard said regretfully. “I’ve three novices, but no initiates.”

  “Shit,” Brayden breathed. Wil almost snorted to see him startle a bit, as though just realizing what he’d said, then flush a
light pink and clear his throat. “Sorry,” he offered gruffly.

  “It’s quite all right,” the shaman chuckled. “And there’s no need to agitate yourself. I understand the problem, and I’m aware of the danger. Be easy, Constable Brayden—it’s a simple spell, really, it’ll just take a little time. If I didn’t think my apprentices and I could handle it, I assure you, I’d let you know.” He clapped his pudgy hands together. “Now, I think we’ll all be a bit easier once this is done, and I’d like to get started twenty minutes ago. If you’ll allow me…?”