The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  The name, coming so abruptly like that, hit Wil in a way that made him startle a little. The knife slipped along the branch, and he tightened his fingers about it, paused for a moment to make himself start breathing again, then resumed shaving away bark.

  “I’ve seen you kill,” Brayden went on determinedly. “It takes a certain cold-bloodedness to do what you did, and what happened with that man in the cell…” He shook his head with a frown. “You’re full of rage, I can see it every time Siofra’s name or the Brethren come up, and you’re not incapable, so why haven’t you just taken him out?”

  Wil was quiet for several long moments, staring at his hands but not really seeing, whittling the branch away to a weak, flexible spike. “You didn’t see me kill,” he reminded Brayden softly. “You saw me abuse a corpse.

  If you’d seen me kill, you likely would have seen terror first, and then surprise that the man had let me get close enough to knee him in the stones to get him down.” He dropped the branch, leaned to the side, and stabbed at the ground with the knife, leaving it hilt-up between them.

  “The rage came after.” He looked up at Brayden, noted nothing in his eyes but interest, then turned his gaze to the fire. “You would name me a murderer, then?”

  And why did he care what Brayden thought?

  “No,” Brayden answered immediately, “I think you’re a killer. Some would see no distinction, but those are the ones who’ve never had to choose between someone else’s life and their own.”

  Wil was slightly taken aback to hear his own estimation of Brayden turned back on him like that. “I never killed Siofra,” he told the fire, “because I couldn’t.” He flicked a glance over at Brayden, shrugged and turned away again.

  “There was no question of doing it when he followed me—I couldn’t do anything but what he told me to do. And by the time I was grown enough… well.” A bitter snort. “Leaf and violence are rather mutually exclusive.”

  Brayden pondered that for a moment in silence. After a short stretch of it, he ventured, “All right, but what about… well, can’t you follow him?” Wil frowned at him sideways. “You describe what you do when you dream as tending the Threads of men, lacing them into the Weave where they belong—can’t you sort of…?” Brayden’s hands waved about, and he shook his head. “I don’t know, can’t you find his thread and… rip it out?”

  “If it were that easy, you really think I wouldn’t’ve done it already?”

  “Well, that’s rather the question, innit?”

  It was so… reasonable. Why did Brayden always have to be so damned reasonable?

  “I don’t know why I can’t,” Wil barked, sitting abruptly and swatting shavings from his trousers to keep from looking at Brayden. “I don’t know why I can’t find him, or why he can’t find me—he did it once, right? You’d think he’d’ve caught up to me within days, but somehow he can’t, and I can’t hunt him down, or the damned Brethren, either—believe me, I’ve tried—and yes, I would’ve taken them all out, if I could’ve done, and what’s more: I don’t care if that makes me a murderer.”

  He took a long breath, tried to calm the anger that was ramming about his veins before turning squarely to Brayden. “Put me aside for a moment. Pretend I’m not a person and it doesn’t matter what happens to me. Look at what Siofra’s already done, look at what the Brethren want to do—is it murder to take men like that from out the world? Is it murder to keep someone from in turn murdering who-knows-how-many others, and not for any kind of higher purpose, but because they think it’s their right?”

  Brayden stared at Wil, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

  “No,” he said slowly. “But I’ll admit I’m a little surprised to know you’ve thought of it like that.” He shook his head when Wil’s eyebrows twisted. “I don’t mean it in a bad way—I only mean that… well, I understand why the politics of all this mean little to you; it’s right that they should. And it would be just as right if you didn’t give a rat’s arse about what those men could do with that power if they managed to get hold of you.” He shrugged.

  “You’ve every right to not give a fuck about the rest of the world. I’m just somewhat…” He paused, apparently searching for the right word. “I’m impressed that you do.”

  Wil was caught between indignation at being judged so, and an embarrassing grudging pleasure at being assessed as something other than a… well, as something other than a mutinous little badger. He sat back, looked down, cheeks heating. “Don’t be too impressed,”

  he muttered to his knees. “If I had to choose between another, even someone I liked, and letting one of them get me, I’d choose me, and it wouldn’t necessarily have anything to do with worrying about anyone else’s fate.

  Given that choice, there is no one I wouldn’t throw in front of a bullet.” He looked at Brayden straight. “I can’t go back. I can’t. There are worse things than death—I know, I’ve lived them—and I can’t…” His jaw clenched tight. “I won’t. And if I have to throw my self in front of a bullet or cut my own throat to prevent it, I’ll do it, and I don’t care what that makes of me.”

  Brayden stared at him, eyes slitted and brow contorted in a thoughtful frown. “We’ve spent an awful lot of time on your need or lack thereof to fear me,” he said quietly.

  “Do I need to fear you?”

  Again, there was cool interest and sincere curiosity, but no condemnation. The question was straightforward and genuine. Wil almost barked a sharp laugh at the idea of this man, of all people, fearing him. Brayden was almost an entire person wider, after all. And the Guardian, don’t forget, Wil mused. There was more power crouching inside Brayden than he’d probably ever want to know about. For pity’s sake, Brayden could swat Wil like a fly, if he ever let himself see it. So how exactly was Wil supposed to answer a question like that? In the end, he decided to return the favor of bluntness in kind.

  He wrested Brayden’s knife from its seat in the ground, held it out hilt-first. “I don’t intend to murder you in your sleep,” he said evenly. He shot a pointed glance at the rifle, propped against a tree, Brayden between it and Wil.

  And he hadn’t missed the way Brayden had practically slept atop his weapons last night. “I don’t intend to steal one of your guns and shoot you in the back. I choose to trust you because I believe that perhaps Siofra did lie and you’re not what I’ve always thought you. I believe you want to help, and I think any danger from you will be unintentional. But I won’t trust you blindly. If it comes to a choice between you or me…” He shrugged, waggled the knife a little. “I’ll still choose me.”

  Brayden nodded slowly, eyes on the blade. “Fair enough,” he finally answered. He nodded at the knife.

  “Keep it.”

  Wil frowned, let his hand fall open, the knife balanced across his palm. “It’s a nice knife.”

  “It is,” Brayden agreed. “My foster parents gave it to me when I was inducted into the army. It’s served me well.”

  “You were in the army?” Wil didn’t know why he was so surprised. Brayden was exactly the type: honor, duty, rectitude. All of those things necessary to men who fancied themselves guardians of anything, and liked to play with guns. It was amazing, upon reflection, that it had taken Brayden so long to admit what he was, regardless of what he was meant to guard. Wil’s frown deepened, the knife a growing weight in his hand. “Were you an officer?”

  Of course he was an officer—he had an air about him as one who’d been giving orders all his life, and was used to having them followed.

  But Brayden just waved a hand at the knife. “It’s a good blade,” was all he said.

  Wil didn’t miss the deliberate change of subject, but he didn’t pursue it just now. He shook his head. “Why would you give it to me?” he wanted to know, trying for suspicion, but only achieving consternation.

  Brayden didn’t answer, just leaned toward the fire, poked at the coals with a long stick, then stood. He shouldered the rifle and turned his back to the fi
re and to Wil. “Get some sleep,” he said. “If the weather lets up tomorrow, I’ll teach you to shoot, so you—” He turned with a frown, waved a hand at the sky. “D’you, um… d’you make it stop, too?”

  Wil blinked. “I haven’t before. Should I try?”

  Brayden thought about it for a moment then shook his head. “I can’t think why. Anyway, if the weather lets up, I’ll teach you to shoot so you can take a watch. In the meantime, at least one of us should get some rest.”

  Wil looked from Brayden to the knife in his hand, and let his arm drop. He refused to let himself ponder it, at least not tonight; instead, he turned the knife over in his hands, watching the firelight glance and shiver over its etched surface, its sharp edge. He peered up at Brayden’s broad back, smiled a little, then slipped the dagger beneath the saddle.

  The clearing was silent, the air still heavy and rimy with yesterday’s rain. They’d struck out south when they broke camp that morning, the forest petering out along the way, from dense and thick to sparser growth that grudgingly let through moody, erratic sunlight. There were fewer evergreens here—more oaks and elms—and the leaves and deadfall on the forest floor slipped and slid in the muck beneath their feet and the horses’ hoofs. Dead vines wound thick and treacherous, so the speed they should have gained through clearer paths was cancelled out by another day of cautious stepping. Still, Wil stood unmoving, concentrating, his back straight, head slightly bent to the left, one eye closed as he took careful aim at the target, licked his lips. He vibrated just a little, anticipation leaking through as though the cool metal against his skin was resonating eagerly beneath his touch. A long, calm breath drew itself evenly into his lungs, held for a moment while his finger twitched on the trigger, pulled…

  He blinked. Frowned.

  “No, you’re forgetting the safety again.”

  “I’m not forgetting it.” Wil took the gun’s butt plate from his shoulder, pointed the barrel at the ground as Brayden had instructed—six thousand times—and tilted it so he could point at the little catch behind the trigger.

  “Every time I go to shoot, my finger slides the safety back on.”

  “Mm, well, that’s because it’s designed for right-handed people, I expect. You’ll just have to get used to it.”

  Wil scowled and began the process once more. There was a lot to remember, and he hadn’t even got a shot off yet. Stupid-picky-bossy Constable Brayden had made him learn the various parts of the gun first, and what they did, quizzing him relentlessly as they’d ridden through the day. Once they’d finally stopped for the night—earlier than yesterday so they’d still have some light left—Wil was then instructed and quizzed on how to load and pump it. And all of that before he was even allowed to touch the poxy thing except to point at various parts and name them. Even though the rain had let up before dawn and the day was alternately bright and gray and not as cold, Wil found himself in a somewhat sour mood, and Brayden’s patience was noticeably thinner than usual.

  The combination was either going to result in one of them with the shotgun up his arse, or Wil in eventual giddy hysterics on the ground.

  He supposed he should be more accommodating.

  Brayden hadn’t slept at all and Wil had, quite well, in fact, as soon as he’d convinced himself Brayden wasn’t going to try following Wil into his dreams again. He’d been fairly sure he’d believed Brayden’s horror the next morning, and believed very firmly that if it had been possible for Brayden to convince himself it had never happened, he would’ve done. Still, there was blissful relief this morning when Wil had woken to the smell of coffee and the knowledge that he’d been as alone inside his head as he could be. Brayden’s dark shape had been behind him as always, at his back, Watching, but that was all, and strangely, it hadn’t unnerved him.

  “All right, start over,” Brayden said sternly. “Cock it first and slide the—”

  “—slide the safety on, right, I can’t apply the safety without first cocking it, then I brace the butt plate to my shoulder like so—”

  “Not too firmly—”

  “—because there will be a kick—”

  “Recoil.”

  Wil dipped the barrel back down, sent a sideways glare at Brayden. “What bloody difference does it make?”

  “The difference,” Brayden said slowly, “is that it’s called a recoil and not a kick.”

  Wil held back a growl, turned his attention back to the gun and the target. “Not exactly the strong, silent type, are you, then?” he muttered through his teeth, then:

  “Fine, there will be a recoil, and if my grip is too firm I’ll end up with a broken shoulder.” Wil rolled his eyes a little, forcibly relaxing his jaw before he ground his teeth away, and sighted down the long barrel and across the clearing, aiming for the bundle of sticks Brayden had strung from a branch as a target. “If you’d just let me use one of the handguns, I wouldn’t be having this—”

  “I keep telling you, they’re not as accurate and they don’t have—”

  “—don’t have the same range, yes, so you’ve said, but I bet they’re a lot easier to use one-handed.”

  “You’d think, but not really.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Wil grumbled. “You don’t have to pump this thing with a broken hand.”

  “Your hand isn’t broken,” Brayden replied, voice tight, “a couple of fingers and a few bones are—”

  “Right, like the fact that it’s ‘a few bones’ and not all of them is supposed to make some kind of difference?”

  “—and your wrist is only sprained, don’t whinge, and we’ve already taken care of pumping, you did just fine when you did it the other— Why am I even—? You know…” Brayden took a long breath, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “Do I look like I don’t know what I’m doing?”

  That was the truly irritating part—it would be so much easier to maintain annoyance with Brayden if he did look like he didn’t know what he was doing. As it was, it was too obvious that Brayden knew exactly what he was doing, and if Wil ever wanted to defend himself from a range longer than whacking-distance, all he could do was listen and try to learn. He sighed, checked the safety by feel—he’d slid it over again when he’d slipped his finger over the trigger, damn it—and put it back into firing position.

  “All right, I’m sighted, the safety is off and my grip is as relaxed as I can make it. Can I shoot now?”

  Brayden took a step to the side. “As you will,” was all he said.

  The reply was so unexpected, Wil had to stop himself from releasing his firing stance in exasperation before he realized he’d been given a Go ahead, rather than a No, no, stop, you’re doing it wrong, start again. He had to blink a few times and flex his fingers. Despite himself, he checked the safety another three times before determinedly curling his finger about the trigger, slowing his breathing to a low, even in-and-out. The bundle of sticks hung maybe fifty feet away, and he concentrated on the brown of the wood, the tan of the string holding them together, the over-and-under loop of the knot…

  It wasn’t a bundle of sticks; it was Siofra’s smug, smiling face.

  Brayden had been right—there was a healthy recoil to the thing. Had Wil been gripping it tight as he’d done the first few times, his arm would likely right now be several yards behind him. His ears rang dully, the sharp, acrid bite of gunpowder in his nose, and oily smoke wafted in a thin cloud about his head. He blinked, turned first to Brayden, and then followed Brayden’s surprised gaze to the target.

  The sticks were still held together in what used to be the center of the bundle, but now they spiraled crazily on the end of the string, the trajectory lopsided and erratic, Wil’s shot having sheared them in half. One end of ragged splinters twirled against the string at a sharp angle, the other end dipping and weaving in a wild orbit of unscathed kindling. Wil blinked some more, turned to Brayden again, who peered back with a surprised look that might have been somewhat insulting if Wil wasn’t so stunned himself.

/>   “I hit it.” It was rather stupid and redundant, but… well, he’d hit it. He’d actually hit it.

  “You did,” Brayden agreed, the faint lurking smile of approval doing things to Wil’s pride he refused to admit.

  “All right, what next?” Brayden wanted to know.

  Wil had to think about it. He’d never expected to actually get this far; the instructions about what came after still lived in a haze of It’ll never happen so why bother.

  “Pump the forend,” he heard himself say. “Expel the spent shell and reengage the safety.”

  “Good,” Brayden approved. “Do it.”

  Wil did, gripping the forend barrel-up in his left hand like Brayden had shown him, then giving the rifle a sharp jerk down then up. Ordinarily, or so Brayden had told him, one would keep the gun braced to one’s shoulder and maintain their firing stance while completing this task, but Wil had tried and hadn’t been able to pump the thing with his damaged right hand, so Brayden had shown him an alternative. This way held the risk of too much time between shots, Brayden had told him, and vulnerability of exposure, but it was better than trying to fumble through clumsily re-cocking the thing and getting shot while you stood there cursing at it.

  “Anyway, this way I could shoot from the saddle and still keep hold of the reins,” Wil had enthused—back when he was still more bloodthirsty than tired.

  “Right,” had been Brayden’s laconic reply, “and end up on your arse from the recoil or from the horse getting spooked and throwing you. Not all horses are made for the Cavalry, y’know; they have to be trained not to bolt at loud noises, which is why we left them back at the campsite.”

  The man just seemed to revel in bursting bubbles.

  “How d’you know that?” Wil had asked, somewhat truculently, refusing to let go of his bubble just yet. “Do you know every thing?”