Wil tipped him a little nod, turned back to Miri, who shot Dallin an inexplicable little smirk around Wil’s shoulder. She leaned up, saying something low—and likely coy, judging by her expression—into Wil’s ear, and Dallin was treated to the surprising occurrence of witnessing Wil grin, hearing him laugh. He’d smiled almost all the way through lunch—couldn’t seem to stop, once they’d ridden up into the yard and Miri had greeted them warmly from the front porch—but Dallin hadn’t ever heard an actual laugh from him before. He’d heard its semblance—manic little giggles and derisive snorts—but this was a real laugh, winding up from the belly and flowing through the chest. It made him… almost handsome. In a gawky sort of way. Nearly fetching, actually. Even with the bruises.
Dallin shook his head with an uncomfortable frown. Fetching. What the fuck?
Still chuckling, Wil leaned in, gave Miri a tight hug about the shoulders with his good arm then clattered down the two steps and into the yard. His step was lighter than Dallin had yet seen it, and the smile still lingered. It didn’t even falter when he spied the horses.
“Ready?” Dallin asked him.
Wil dipped a pleasant nod, thanked Tom as he reclaimed the reins of his roan and swung himself up into the saddle without even a slight grimace. Rayburn had been a lot more useful in basic instruction than Dallin had been, teaching Wil in ten minutes what it likely would have taken Dallin two hours of grinding his teeth to knock into Wil’s head. As a result, Wil had taken only a mile or so, once they were on the road, to catch on to the rhythm of the mare’s dip and roll as she jogged. Dallin had expected at least several days of steady complaints and baulking from Wil, but it looked like the stop at the inn had been one of Dallin’s more productive intuitions.
Anyway, distance wasn’t crucial today; getting on the road and out of Dudley was the only real goal, and though it was already going on early afternoon, Dallin had high hopes of hitting the next inn on the road in time for a late supper. Now that Wil knew basically what he was doing in the saddle, and he was in a good mood for having seen his friend, Dallin hoped he could push a little more than he’d’ve been able to do before. Honey had its uses. He mounted his own horse, flipped a quick wave about the yard to whomever was about—and there were several. They’d been stared at all throughout lunch, and once Wil had vacated the porch, some of the patrons had leaked out onto it to stare some more.
“Thank you, Tom,” Dallin said, spotted Garson mingling with those on the porch and gave him a nod, as well. He looked back at the ostler. “I’ve no doubt you’ll be on your guard,” he told Tom seriously. “I know I don’t need to tell you, but these men are formidable in numbers, if not in skill. A delegation from Putnam should be here tomorrow or the next day, and Kenton means to arrest anyone who doesn’t belong until then, but…” He shrugged. “Just have a look over your shoulder now and then.”
Tom nodded soberly. “We’ve one of Millard’s apprentices bunking here for a couple of days, and Garson’s set up a target range around back of the paddock for anyone who’s gone rusty. We’re watching.” He gave Dallin’s chestnut a light pat on the rump, stood back. “Have a care on the road, Constable. Ríocht en’t where I’d choose, but I expect ye know what you’re doing. The Mother’s blessing.”
“Same to you,” Dallin returned, gave Wil a bit of a nod, satisfied when he nudged the roan lightly with his heels and led her out onto the road. Dallin followed, settling into the horse’s cadence, and allowing himself to relax a little.
Though, he likely wouldn’t relax much until he’d put some distance between Wil and anything but a long stretch of wilderness. Not that it would necessarily stop him if he decided to take off, and especially since Dallin had gone out of his way to make sure he could survive alone better than he’d been doing. Still, Wil wasn’t nearly skilled enough in the saddle yet, and even if he was, Dallin had made sure he himself had got the faster of the two horses. If there was any running, Dallin would catch up quickly enough. He didn’t think it was a real risk, at least not yet, but it was an ever-present vibration beneath every move Wil made, like it lived under his skin and he had to willfully keep it tamed and quiet when he wasn’t in any immediate danger. He was very good at survival. If it came right to it, Dallin thought he could probably hand Wil a gun and set him loose, and he’d disappear and survive more effectively than Dallin himself could do. He’d been doing awfully damn well, thus far, and with very little.
That man back at the office this morning had been almost twice Wil’s breadth, and yet Wil had managed to somehow get the man down and then eliminate the threat in probably one of the more gruesome ways possible. And Dallin believed with his whole heart that if he’d left Wil alone with the second one, he’d’ve found some way to get into that cell and take that one out, too. Even now, Dallin wasn’t sure if the man’s catatonic state had been purposeful on Wil’s part, or if he really didn’t know it would happen.
Then again, he didn’t think it really mattered, and as disturbing as that thought was—it should matter; it was his job to care about things like that—Dallin couldn’t make himself feel corrupt for it. What they planned, what they wanted… it made his stomach turn. There was something deeply, profoundly disquieting in even thinking about it, let alone thinking there were hundreds of men who thought it was not only their right to do it, but their calling, and they were willing to wipe out anyone who got in their way, covering their tracks by killing and destroying—
He paused, frowned. No, they weren’t covering their tracks. That hadn’t really made sense from the beginning, but he’d been too disturbed by the deaths in Kenley to think about it clearly at first, and then too many other things had left him little time to scrutinize his reasoning. Now, the clarity of it hit him like a pebble between the eyes.
There had been no need to burn Kenley, and doing it held far more risk than allowing it to leak about that a stranger had come by, asking questions and looking for another stranger. If they had wanted to keep their presence a secret, all they had to do was snatch and question one person, get the answers they needed, then kill that informant and skulk away. These men might be inept, but if they were that stupid, they wouldn’t have even made it across the Border with their heads still on their shoulders. The most any remaining witnesses would be able to relay was that a dark-haired stranger had passed through, looking for another dark-haired stranger. A dark-haired stranger who was no more remarkable than any other lone drifter—except for a pair of extremely remarkable and very distinctive green eyes. Anyone who knew what kinds of questions to ask would know immediately who fitted that description.
They hadn’t been covering their own tracks—they’d been wiping out Wil’s. They’d been covering up the fact that he even existed.
Dallin sucked in a thin breath, narrowed his eyes. “Oh, shit,” he whispered.
He couldn’t think about this like a constable—the shaman was right in at least this one thing: reason wasn’t going to help him deconstruct the unreasonable; he was going to have to come at this from inside the psychosis of a believer.
All right, then. He could do that.
The Aisling was legend in the Dominion, not reality. The Chosen a symbol, like Cynewísan’s Planting Plays, chanting around bonfires to symbolically wake the Mother: a woman chosen each year by something as unmagical as a lottery. The people of the Dominion didn’t even know they’d been seeing an impostor at their Turning for however-many years, and before Wil had been removed altogether from the public eye, they hadn’t known they’d been looking at a real Aisling. There had been no outcry when he’d disappeared—no national hunt. Once it was known Wil was in Cynewísan, there had been no outraged demands made at the Council in Penley. Except for the Guild, it seemed that no one in Ríocht knew their Chosen really was the Aisling. And Siofra had kept it that way.
And then along comes the Brethren, trying to rearrange an entire religion to suit their own interpretations. They’d kidnapped the Aisling, run across the Bord
er, and kept his existence secret, because…
Dallin stared down at his hand, fist clenched tight about the reins. Why would they—?
Because if the people of Ríocht knew how badly they’d been duped, the hunt would be on, they’d be out for blood, and the first throats they’d go for would be the Brethren. As it stood now, only a few people knew of their existence, and most of those were on the wrong side of the Border.
The bottom line, Dallin thought, a cold little knot forming somewhere in his chest, was that keeping the existence of the Aisling a secret benefited both the Brethren and Siofra. The Brethren were willing to kill as many as they had to, in order to ensure secrecy—did Dallin think Siofra would do less? If he did drag Wil back to Putnam, hand him over like he was supposed to, would Dallin then be marked, wind up dead shortly after? And Jagger?
He’d set out on this particular little ruse as a mere precaution, hoping to throw the Brethren off and avoid anyone of authority on his own side until he could get Wil safely back to Putnam and then lay out what he knew to Jagger—let him handle it from there. He was a good, intelligent man and knew more about politics than Dallin did, after all. Now Dallin thought perhaps it was the most brilliant stroke of intuition he’d ever had. Because, if he was right, who knew how many ambushes lay in wait along the way, and there was no telling from which direction they might be coming. For the Mother’s sake, he might end up in a shootout with his own men.
Although…
Keeping what Wil was—or was supposed to be—a secret had seemed good strategy, when Jagger had relayed the order, but now Dallin wondered if it wasn’t playing right into the hands of… well, everyone else. Letting it be known that the Aisling existed would cut at least the Brethren’s power in half, but letting it be known he was in the Commonwealth might very well bring about those hostilities between Cynewísan and Ríocht Jagger had been trying so hard to prevent when he’d given Dallin his orders.
Dallin eyed Wil now, from the side and slightly behind. He couldn’t see Wil’s entire face, but Dallin caught a partial-profile, noted the pleasant set of the expression, the way Wil flicked his gaze about constantly with sincere interest in the surroundings. The past two days had been more violent and confusing than Dallin had seen since his tour in the army, and he’d needed almost a year after his discharge before he could walk down a street without doing constant and unconscious recon; Wil was actually sightseeing. When the bemusement wore off and Dallin really thought about it, he supposed he couldn’t find real disapproval. He’d already noticed how Wil took unabashed advantage of every opportunity for even ‘trivial’ pleasures. The thought of dimming this small contentment lumped a guilty little weight in Dallin’s chest, but was still on the job, after all. And until he could get back to the Constabulary and do some real investigating, Wil was the only one who could give him even the smallest indication that his speculation was at least close to reality.
He sucked back a regretful sigh, bit the bullet. “Tell me about Old Bridge,” he said.
It was amazing to watch, now that he knew what to look for—Wil’s expression snapped shut, going from mildly congenial to hard and closed in under a second. His relaxed posture curled in on itself, shoulders hunching in and back stooping so he was nearly curved down over the saddlebow. Dallin wondered if he was aware, wondered if it was a conscious effort to disappear, or a youthful wish for anything even resembling safety and salvation leftover from a horrific childhood.
“What d’you want to know?” Wil asked quietly.
Dallin thought he was likely trying very hard not to let his voice tremble, but he couldn’t keep it entirely steady. That annoying bit of guilt snatched at Dallin’s conscience again, but he refused to acknowledge it this time.
“I want to know everything.” He nudged his horse, pulling up even with Wil’s so he could see his face. “I know it’s difficult. I know you don’t want to talk about it. But I need to know. Something has just occurred to me, and I think whatever happened in Old Bridge may either confirm or negate the theory.”
He’d found that Wil was much more likely to accept the rationale of a chosen course if Dallin explained the reasoning to him. If he’d thought of it yesterday, or even all the way back in Putnam, he might be richer in information than he was now. It had taken him nearly all day to get the tale of the Guild out of Wil, and that had been with a steady barrage of questioning and cajoling, but the matter of where they were going, and why they were going there, had taken only five minutes of straightforward arguing. Taking the time to justify why a distasteful action was necessary seemed to be a lot quicker and more productive than trying to surprise or force Wil onto any chosen path. He had a knee-jerk disinclination to cooperate when he was being forced into something, even if what he was being forced into was something he wanted—he’d likely bite off a hand, even if it was stuffing chocolate in his mouth. But when he was presented with a forthright question and then told why it needed an answer, he was likely to comply more willingly, if not exactly happily.
Dallin was going to have to get used to it—he’d spent too many years giving orders and expecting them to be carried out. Asking nicely was a formality he could choose to eschew according to circumstance. With Wil, it was going to have to be habit. Dallin hoped it was a habit he wouldn’t forget about in the heat of… whatever.
“Old Bridge…” Wil paused, took a long breath and set his shoulders. “Old Bridge was where the Brethren took me after they’d snatched me from the Guild.” A heavy shrug, and he looked down, rested both hands on the saddlebow. “It isn’t there anymore.”
He paused again, reins slack in his hand, allowing his horse to simply take her cues from Dallin’s. Dallin had rather guessed that Old Bridge had suffered the same fate as Kenley, so he didn’t prod Wil, just waited patiently, while Wil collected himself a little, built himself up to speaking what was obviously a difficult thing to speak.
“There were four of them. They killed each other and I got away. I was very sick, coming off the leaf, and when I got loose, I stumbled into an old woman—quite literally, in fact. She was mad, thought I was her son who’d died in the war, so she took me home with her and took care of me. I was just starting to be able to get around by myself and I made the mistake of going outside her hut in the middle of the day…” He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter, except they figured me for a witch and ran me out. I found a stand of bushes up on a ridge about a mile out of the village, and I laid up there for a couple of days until I felt like I could walk. I saw the flames… I think it was two nights later.”
He frowned, looked up at Dallin, eyebrows quirked in baffled disquiet. “There were no screams. I could see everything clearly, and no one was running away, no silhouettes against the flames—nothing.”
Dallin had to look away for a moment, cast his glance about and unclench his jaw, before he could turn back again. “It was the same in Kenley,” he said. Wil only nodded. He must have overheard everything Dallin had discussed with Locke, because there was no surprise in his expression—no reaction at all. Dallin peered at him closely, frowned. “The men who took you—you said they killed each other?”
Wil looked at him straight, jaw set, but the muscles twitched and jumped beneath the bruises. “Do you need to know the details in order to confirm or negate your theory?” His voice was quiet, the question sincere.
Honor and duty did disconcerted battle in Dallin’s conscience. If he said yes, he needed the details, Wil would give them to him; all he had to do was push the tiniest bit. Except his theory had been confirmed without those details, he was sure now—even the more insubstantial speculations felt like too much truth—and Wil very obviously would rather slice off an arm than relay those details. But here Dallin was, yet again being told half of the story, when he knew in his gut that only the whole of it would complete another missing puzzle piece. And he needed the damned puzzle pieces.
Honey
, he told himself morosely, shook his head
with a sigh and adjusted his seat in the saddle. “I want to know it all,” he told Wil seriously, “and I have a feeling I need it all, in order to fulfill my word to you. Maybe tonight, yeah? Everyone keeps telling us that time is running short, and I don’t know about you, but I feel it.”
And then he dropped it there. He merely nodded, made a business of getting himself a drink from his water skin, and turned his eyes straight ahead. When he next dared a glance sideways, Wil was once again admiring the scenery.
***
Lesson Three. Dallin sighed, very consciously resisted rolling his eyes. Don’t spring things on him. It was actually tangential to Lesson Two, when he thought about it, but it was important enough to rate its own category.
“We’re headed north,” Dallin said patiently, “for the same reason we’re traveling on the road. We need witnesses. We need people who can be questioned and answer honestly that they saw us on the road and we were heading toward Ríocht. Now, please—get back on the horse.”
The Aisling Trilogy Page 29
