The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  “Of course.” Brayden hopped up from where he’d been perched on the edge of the desk, waved the shaman to his feet and led him to the door. “I’m sorry to have kept you, Brother Millard. It’s only… I can’t stay much longer, and I don’t like going off and leaving people unprotected like this, and especially with Sheriff Locke… If I had more men—”

  “But you don’t, so we shall all do as we can.” Millard was the very definition of cool tranquility and ease. He extended his hand. “We all appreciate what you’ve done for Dudley, Constable. Let Dudley do for itself now.”

  Brayden took up the hand, shook it warmly. “I’m not sure I’ve done much for Dudley, but I appreciate—”

  He stopped short, jolted a little, like a shock had just sparked up his arm. The shaman was staring at him, clutching Brayden’s hand in both of his own, with eyes gone sharp and narrow. “Ah,” was all he said. And then he tilted his head, turned, looked at Wil. If Wil could’ve pushed his back through the wall and disappeared, he would’ve done. The smile was there, serene as ever, and the eyes were kind, but the way they looked, saw…

  He didn’t even have time to twitch before Millard was crouched right in front of him. Wil’s left hand had been propped lazily on his up-thrust knee; now he found it trapped in Millard’s right, the grip stronger than Wil would’ve thought—hard, in fact, and relentless.

  “The Mother loves you,” the shaman told him earnestly. “She fears for you, for your path has only just begun and you refuse Her Gift.”

  Wil tried to jerk his hand away, but Millard’s grip was like a vice. The touch was like fire against Wil’s skin, yet his hand was going numb and frozen. “She is not my mother,” he whispered hoarsely, “and I want nothing from her.” He hadn’t known he was going to speak until the words were already out his mouth, couldn’t help the clench of teeth and the flare of duped fury that writhed beneath them. His lip curled back in a knee-jerk snarl, like the vicious cur Brayden had named him only a short while ago, but he couldn’t help it—what animal didn’t bite when it was cornered? White rage and a confused sense of betrayal all at once swarmed through him, and he couldn’t stop it spilling from his mouth. “I have no mother,” he seethed, “and yours is dead.”

  He’d expected… he didn’t know—shock, perhaps, or angry denial. He’d hoped for outraged recoil, at least, a jerk back and the release of his hand. He’d just blasphemed in the man’s face, after all. But the shaman merely shook his head, squeezed Wil’s hand.

  “She gives you a choice,” he told Wil shrewdly. “But then, you know that, for it is Their most precious gift to Their children, and you are most favored.” He paused, leaned in. “Their own.”

  Wil shook his head slowly, moved his mouth, but no angry denial would come. He was shaking, all of the calm amusement from a moment ago gone and forgotten.

  “Accept the Gift, starless child,” the man went on kindly, “let the Warp bind to your Weft. Your Destiny is obscured by guile that is not yours and fear that is. Your true Design remains hidden until you are ready to see it, and yet you persist in blindness.”

  And then he reached out, passed his hand over Wil’s brow, and the last of the blurriness was gone. Just gone. Wil blinked perfectly clear eyes, almost hoping it was just some strange illusion—he’d heard a shaman could convince a man to stop bleeding, if he was skilled enough, but he’d never really believed it—but his vision remained clear and sharp-edged.

  By contrast, his whole arm had gone dead, a dull tingle working beneath the skin like vibrating wires. He brought the bandaged one up, tried to push Millard’s hand away, and couldn’t. Tried to drag his eyes away from the warm hazel, and couldn’t do that, either. He meant to call out to Brayden, tell him to get the man off of him, get him away before Wil tore out his throat with his teeth, ripped him apart just to get him to stop looking at him like that, but when he opened his mouth, “Please… what am I?” wheezed out of it.

  He hadn’t wanted to ask the question, didn’t even know where it came from—he knew what he was—and now that he had, he thought he’d give just about anything to not have to hear the answer.

  The shaman’s smile slipped into melancholy, and he peered at Wil now with unhappy compassion. “You are the badger, fierce when cornered, snapping razor teeth, but you must mind where you strike.” Wil gasped a little, a spangling little shudder rippling down his backbone. “You are the crow, flying too fast to see the dangers of clear panes of glass, until you find yourself broken-winged and broken-necked in your haste to find the things you think you want but do not need. You are the chimera, the Father’s Gift, and your time runs short.” He reached out, touched Wil’s cheek with a warm hand. “Reject the Mother’s Gift and you deliver yourself into the hands of your enemies.”

  It was too much, too much, and it needed to stop right now, before Wil jittered apart on the floor, dissolved by some strange alchemy into nothing more than another insubstantial stain, a companion to the one that Locke had left behind. His arm was a dead thing, he couldn’t tear it from Millard’s grasp, so he jerked his whole body instead, shot up against the wall and tore his hand from the shaman’s, panting. He shot a desperate glance up at Brayden, croaked, “Make him stop.”

  Brayden was staring, something between vague horror and perplexed doubt. He was standing back and away, like he didn’t want to get too near, for fear the crazy might jump out and infect him, too. And then he looked at Wil, really looked at him. Wil didn’t even want to guess what was on his face, but it made Brayden shake himself a little, take a step forward. He leaned down, took the shaman by the elbow and prodded him to his feet.

  “Brother Millard,” he said, apparently not happy with how his voice rasped a little, because he cleared his throat, straightened. “You, um… that is—”

  “I shall be on my way,” the shaman offered, smile once again placid. “I’ve much to do.” He paused, nodded sagely up at Brayden. “As do you, lad. Time is indeed short and you mustn’t linger. Accept your Calling, for the Mother has laid Her Blessing upon your path—if you choose to mire yourself in the quick-mud of reason, you shall only squander it, and all Gifts shall be lost.”

  And then he was gone, waddling out the door and into the chill morning, leaving Wil unsure if he wanted to chase the man down and beg him to tell him more, or snatch up Brayden’s gun and shoot him in the back so he couldn’t. Of course, then he’d have to get Brayden to show him what a safety was and how to get it off, and he doubted Brayden would fancy allowing Wil even a sharp eggshell at the moment, but still. He rubbed at his arm with his bandaged hand, not caring that the linen was stiff with dried blood and beginning to smell. He’d expected the dull ache of pins-and-needles, but his arm felt perfectly fine, like it hadn’t been a long slab of useless flesh and bone a moment ago. Wary, he slid his glance over to Brayden, almost afraid to know what he made of it all.

  Brayden was shaking his head, staring out the ruined doors. “That,” he said slowly, “was very…” He couldn’t come up with a word, just kept shaking his head, ‘til he finally turned back to Wil, narrowed his eyes. “Are you all right?”

  “The… Did…?” It was absurd. The question made no sense at first. Wil’s mind was moving too fast and in no particular order. And then the words clicked into place, reminded him they had meaning. He blinked, still shock-stupid, opened his mouth. He didn’t know he was going to laugh until the manic bark of it spilled out his throat. Brayden tilted his head, frowned in concern. Wil shoved his fist in his mouth, blinked again, but the raspy little chuckles kept bubbling up his throat. “Sorry,” he snorted, frayed nerves lacing him tight, making him a little light-headed. “It’s only… well, you ask me that a lot, y’know.”

  Brayden’s eyebrows rose above a sophic little smile. Whether out of tact or prudence, he chose not to answer. “Well, are you?” he persisted. “Not just…” He waved his hand at the door. “Not just that, but how are you feeling? D’you need a draught or anything?”

  Wil
resisted the urge to be idiotically touched by the apparently genuine consideration in the man’s gaze. Damn it, every time Wil decided what Brayden was about, he’d go and do something… nice. It was bloody disconcerting.

  He rocked his shoulders a little inside his coat, shook his head. “I’m all right.” Not really—he was still very sore, and the headache was still hanging on, though a lot less intensely than before. His hand was bloody killing him, even worse than yesterday, and trying to manhandle the shaman hadn’t helped. But if he admitted any of it, there was the chance Brayden might continue this new niceness… thing, whatever it was, and decide to wait another day, and Wil was growing increasingly restless to be gone.

  Brayden eyed him speculatively, obviously disbelieving, but he didn’t argue the point. He nodded over his shoulder. “Kenton’s made tea, but I’m thinking some of that cider laced with the— Oh, hell, I have to take care of this.” Two youths had just ducked through the doorway; Wil guessed they were the young men Brayden and the new sheriff had been waiting for, the ones who’d seen the men of the Brethren before they’d attacked. Brayden peered at Wil with subtle concern. “Later, all right? And then we’ll see what to do about…” He didn’t finish, just jerked his chin toward the cell with a scowl.

  Wil didn’t bother to follow his gaze. He sighed, the earlier laughter gone and forgotten. “Can’t we just kill him?” he asked, suddenly bone-weary and wanting nothing more than to curl up in a corner somewhere and sleep until everything just went away. And knowing right down to his core that he was going to regret his earlier offer of ‘help’ if Brayden decided he wanted it.

  Brayden was shaking his head slowly, but Wil didn’t think it was in answer to his question, though he hadn’t exactly expected agreement. The constable was watching Mistress Slade, now making her way through the small crowd gathered about Locke’s desk, leading the little procession of litters. Locke’s body came first, covered respectfully with a clean sheet, little sachets of spices and herbs laid over her chest. The men who carried her were stone-faced and silent, Mistress Slade leaking tears as she led somberly. Kenton stood to private attention as the body passed, his ruined face working with emotion, intense eyes misted and blinking repeatedly. Even the boys stood and watched, sadly and reverently, as the litter carried Locke on her last trip out of her office, each of them whispering prayers or blessings, or superstitious charms, for all Wil knew.

  The healer paused minutely as she passed Brayden and Wil, offering a soft, sad smile to Wil and a pointed look down to the bandaging around his hand. Wil was selfishly glad she’d noticed; he’d very much like to get the disgusting thing off before it started really unnerving him. He put it aside as Mistress Slade led the litter out onto the porch and down the steps, his eyes following with what he was surprised to realize was real sorrow and regret. The sheriff hadn’t liked him, but she also hadn’t pretended to, and she hadn’t let it stop her from doing what she thought was right—even if ‘right’ meant taking care of him, making sure he didn’t starve, seeing that he had something to wear besides the bloodied rags he’d come in with. She’d been kind in her way, and honorable, and tough as steel. It wasn’t right that she’d gone out like she had, and Wil hadn’t missed the fact that her bulk had blocked the explosion from taking him out, too.

  He pulled his eyes away from the litter, looking down at his new boots. Offered silent apologies to a ghost.

  The mood changed palpably as the second litter followed, grieving faces turning hard and vengeful in the wake of their regard for Locke. Wil flicked his glance to the prisoner in the cell, but he couldn’t tell what the man was thinking. He was staring like the rest of them, but his expression was blank, his eyes dry. Wil wondered if it was because he thought the dead man was already communing with the Father, or if he was simply trying not to give anything away. Or maybe he just didn’t care. They weren’t exactly reverential when it came to the lives of others.

  “Why did you do that?”

  Wil turned away from the prisoner, peering up at Brayden, then followed his gaze to the bloody mass of body and blanket; they hadn’t covered this one with a clean sheet as they’d done for Locke. Brayden was frowning at the litter as it passed, thoughtful, like he was trying to solve a difficult puzzle, but there had been no accusation or judgment in the question.

  Wil’s eyebrows went up. He thought the answer was pretty obvious, but he spoke it anyway, and with no irony or hostility: “It was him or me. I chose me.”

  Brayden shook his head, twitched a grim little smile then turned to look at Wil. “No, I mean, why did you do that?” Nodded to the pulpy mess that was a man’s head this morning.

  “Oh.” Wil paused only briefly then shrugged. “Sheriff Locke didn’t have a face anymore. He did. I didn’t think it was fair.”

  Perhaps it sounded a little demented, but it had made sense in Wil’s head at the time, and it was the truth. All right, at least half of the truth, but he didn’t think Brayden wanted to hear about how it had made him feel better. How it had taken every bit of the terror of the previous moments, and with every hate-filled, rhythmic thud of wood and metal to flesh and bone, pushed it out from his chest, down his arm, and just… away. He’d had a blissful few minutes of utter inner-peace after Brayden had taken the gun away from him, just staring down at the mash of red and gray, knowing that for the second time in a mere stretch of minutes, it hadn’t been him. Three years’ worth of stored up hatred, throttled terror, impotent rage—he’d taken it all out on the man, cleansed his own soul with the spilt blood. And he wasn’t sorry he’d done it. Brayden probably wouldn’t want to hear that, either.

  Wil looked back at Brayden, waiting for some kind of scowl or shocked recoil, but it didn’t come. Brayden merely thought about it for a moment, nodded like it made perfect sense then straightened. He stepped to the doors and closed what was left of them. Wil hadn’t noticed that the last of the gawkers had straggled out behind the corpses, but he was relieved, now that the lack of bustle set in.

  “The worst is done for now,” Brayden said, jerked his head toward the office. “I need to take care of this, and then we’ll take care of that.”

  Meaning the man in the cell. Wil nodded, tried to make his answering shrug careless and not twitchy. He waited ‘til Brayden joined Kenton and the boys before letting his legs wobble out from under him and sliding down the wall to his previous seat on the floor. He pulled his knees in, let his head drop back and closed his eyes, tuned out the low murmuring from the office and tried to sigh away the tension, but it wasn’t done with him yet.

  Too much had gone on this morning, and the sun was only just up. He hadn’t known he’d even cared about Locke, but her death was having some kind of effect on him, though he wasn’t sure what kind just yet. Perhaps it was simply because it had almost been him, very well could have been him, if she hadn’t been built like she was and standing right in front of him. Standing right in front of him and arguing with him. And damn it, why did that make him flush and want to bow his head? He wasn’t dead, and he was glad; she was, and he hadn’t killed her. If it had been a choice between him or her, he would have chosen the same, so why did the fact that he hadn’t chosen it feel like some kind of lame excuse? Why did he keep staring at the toes of his boots like they held some kind of answer?

  Maybe because he was a mutinous little badger—it appeared Siofra had got at least one thing right. Even the shaman had named him so.

  Wil peered up at the ceiling, blinked eyes that were still remarkably not blurry, and gave a little shudder, looked down and picked at the stiff wrappings about his hand. The shaman had thrown him, and thrown him good. Nerves were still running through him like tiny ropes of lightning and his stomach wouldn’t settle down. A dose of that laced cider really would have been good, and he was sorry Brayden’s offer had been interrupted. He wanted to hate the little man, but those warm hazel eyes wouldn’t let him.

  Badger. Gift. Mother.

  He clenched his teet
h, shook his head, plucked some more at the wrappings; they were getting more and more uncomfortable. He hoped Mistress Slade wouldn’t forget, but he wasn’t terribly optimistic. The woman was likely to be very busy for a while, and she was mourning, after all. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have to autopsy a friend, and tending to the trouble-making transient who caused it probably wasn’t on her list of priorities. He shuddered again, wondering why that thought wouldn’t stop—

  “Time is short, Aisling.”

  Wil controlled the flinch; he refused to let the man see that he’d even heard, let alone reacted. He kept his gaze nailed to his hand, kept picking, flecks of brown coming loose from the wide weave and embedding themselves beneath his fingernails. It wasn’t the first blood on his hands, but somehow, it was the most visceral; even if it wasn’t Locke’s, it felt like it should have been.

  “We only want to save you,” the man went on, softly cajoling. “Help you fulfill your destiny. Why do you keep running?”