The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  “Because I was in the Cavalry,” Brayden had informed him; Wil could distinctly hear the proper name status in Brayden’s voice. “And yes, I do know everything, or at least more than you do, so if you please—show me how you load that cartridge.”

  Wil had rolled his eyes, sighed out loud like a five-year-old, then did what Brayden instructed. Now, he completed the task of pumping and expelling one-handed, swaying back a little to avoid getting hit by the spent cartridge as it spun out from the bolt. He pointed the rifle’s barrel at the ground and slid the safety into position, then looked up at Brayden with a grin he couldn’t’ve kept from his face if he’d just shot his own foot off.

  “Very good.” Brayden nodded. “Now, let’s back you up a few dozen paces and see if that was just a lucky shot.”

  Wil gaped. “A lucky shot?” He followed Brayden back to a new position, mouth flapping. “It was bloody beautiful; what d’you mean ‘lucky shot’?”

  Brayden merely shrugged. “It may well be that you’re a naturally brilliant shot,” he told Wil, calm encouragement in both his hint of a smile and his tone. “It may also be that we have just witnessed conditions that will never be repeated. The only way to tell for sure is to repeat them.”

  Damn the man—there was that annoying reason again.

  It wasn’t until his second shot that Wil began to appreciate the undeniable power in his hands. He’d thought he’d known what to expect the first time, but it had all happened so fast that he didn’t really remember any individual, distinct impressions. This time, everything made an impression: the line of focus from the end of the barrel to the target, and how it fuzzed out everything in its periphery; the feel of cool metal against his cheekbone as he sighted down; how the forend made itself a gentle cushion against the bandages on his right hand; the almost-tender resistance of the trigger against his finger as he steadily pulled it back…

  The awesome punch of the recoil as it vibrated from his hands and up his arms, through his shoulder and chest, and on down his backbone to the ground. Wil was still standing there in his firing stance, feeling it all, when Brayden’s big hand clapped to his shoulder, gripped tight and shook.

  “Un-bloody- believable!” Brayden laughed, shaking Wil again in his enthusiasm. “I have never seen anyone shoot dead-on like that, not the first time. You’re brilliant!”

  Wil felt pretty brilliant. He lowered the gun, cocked it and ejected the cartridge, then slid the safety into place, breathing deep the scent of oil and spent gunpowder.

  He hadn’t just taken off the other end of the twigs this time; he’d pulverized the string from which they hung and turned it all into a shower of fluttering splinters and smoking twine. He’d never known destruction could be so beautiful.

  A grin curled his mouth, and he looked over at Brayden, seeing his own pleasure reflected back at him. Even the heavy hand gripping his shoulder wasn’t very heavy.

  “I want to shoot something bigger,” Wil said.

  It was growing too dark to see when Brayden finally managed to drag Wil away from their makeshift target range to head back to camp. Wil’s arms were sore and a little shaky, and his shoulder was probably going to be bruised, but he was still too high for any of it to worm through the euphoric haze. Brayden had been more than accommodating, finding bigger and bigger things to shoot from farther and farther away, until he got tired of setting up targets and just had Wil shoot the trunks of trees. Not quite as satisfying—they didn’t fly apart like sticks and piles of leaves or small stones did—but it did help Wil adjust his aim.

  “We’re blazing a trail miles wide for anyone to follow,”

  Brayden had muttered. “Let’s just hope they miss where we turned off, and they might miss us altogether.”

  Wil absolutely could not bring himself to care.

  “So, did you learn to shoot in the army?” he asked Brayden as they walked back to camp, the rifle a comfortable weight against his back, hanging from its strap about his shoulder.

  “No, my foster father taught me,” Brayden replied.

  “The one who gave you the knife?”

  A lift of sandy eyebrows. “I only had the one.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “I like him just fine. And my foster mother, before you ask. They still live in Putnam, and I have dinner with them almost every week.”

  Huh. Interesting. Brayden really did have an actual life. “But you don’t live with them?”

  “No,” Brayden snorted. “Not for a very long time.”

  “Well, why not?”

  “Because when children become adults, they move out on their own. It’s just the way it’s done.”

  Wil took this in with interest. “So, you don’t hate them, then?”

  “Of course not. Why would I hate them?” Brayden sounded genuinely mystified by the question.

  “Well, you said your foster father gave you that knife, and you just sort of… handed it over to someone you barely know. I thought, if you liked him, you would’ve wanted to keep it.”

  “You do have a different way of looking at things,” Brayden said; Wil tried to find condemnation in the tone but couldn’t. “I gave you the knife because… well, did you look at the inscription?”

  Wil considered the casual assumption in the question, thought about dodging it, but… well, dodging was seeming less and less necessary anymore. “I can’t read,” he answered bluntly, the challenge in his tone more overt than he’d meant.

  Brayden, as he seemed to do with everything, rose to the dare in his own way. “No?” he drawled. “You’ve not taught yourself that, too?” He didn’t allow Wil time for a retort. “I’ll show it to you once we’ve a fire going. It’ll explain it better than I can.”

  They walked in silence for a moment before Wil frowned, asked, “You were an officer in the army, weren’t you?”

  “I was,” Brayden answered. “Captain.”

  “For how long?”

  “I did two four-year tours.”

  “Volunteer or conscripted?”

  “Volunteer.”

  Wil hadn’t really needed to ask that question. Brayden was definitely the volunteer sort. And Wil would bet that he’d volunteered and served out of honor and duty, and not the three square meals and respectable pay many others did it for, or even the opportunity to shoot at people with impunity. Wil didn’t think Brayden shot at anyone with impunity, even if the censure was only from himself.

  “I saw a regiment of the Cavalry once.” Wil smiled a little at the memory. “They looked very sharp in their red and gold. I quite envied their boots, and they all had brilliant mounts; they even made those stupid helms look good.”

  “Hey!” Brayden seemed like he was trying to be offended but he couldn’t keep the smile from out his voice.

  “They might not be the sexiest things in the world, but they serve the very useful purpose of resisting all manner of sharp implements aimed at one’s head.”

  “I just said they made them look good,” Wil defended with a snort, slid his gaze over to Brayden with a sly bit of a smirk. “I’ll bet the pretty girls got all swoony over you, kitted out in your officer’s surcoat and all, didn’t they?” Brayden didn’t answer, just rolled his eyes, pursed his mouth, and watched his boots. Wil grinned. “Ha, I knew it—the pretty boys, then.”

  Brayden shook his head with a low chuckle. “Now who’s the chatty one?”

  “Hey, I answer all your questions. And you ask a bloody lot of questions.”

  “Maybe,” Brayden sighed. “But you make me walk through fire first.”

  “Then you’ll never have to worry about ticks,” Wil countered.

  Brayden stopped, chuffed out a small laugh, and ran a hand through his hair. “You’ve a very odd sense of humor.”

  “I’m a very odd person,” Wil informed him.

  Brayden shook his head again, resumed his pace.

  “You’re not, you know.” His voice was quiet and frank, but still quite amiable.
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  Wil frowned. “Not what?”

  “You’re not odd.” Brayden stopped again and looked at Wil steadily through the thick-falling darkness. “You could be a maniac who runs about attacking children. You could be a drooling imbecile. You could be a depraved cutthroat who lurks in dark alleys and murders for a billet or two. You could be an infinite number of foul things. You could have lain down and died and let Old Bridge be your grave. Instead you’re a man who is more than capable of killing, but only does it when he has to, and you don’t let anyone else’s mores tell you when ‘have to’ is. You take hold of every single thing in your grasp and value it, things I’ve taken for granted my whole life and never had the first clue were precious. You learn things faster than anyone I’ve ever seen, and yet you keep thinking you have to defend your intelligence. You’ve invented your own way of being, and perhaps it might be ‘odd’ to one who has no idea of the life you’ve led, but to one who does…” Brayden paused, shrugged. “To one who does, it’s… it’s… I haven’t got a word. It’s astounding.” He took a step closer, dark eyes strangely alive and perceptive in the murk. “You’re not odd—you’re just who you are and I think you’ve done bloody well, for all you’ve been through.”

  Wil stared, narrowed his eyes against the dark. What was he on about, and what was with the… Well, Wil wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but he was pretty sure it was at least close to flattery.

  “You know,” he said slowly, “I meant it when I said I didn’t intend to murder you in your sleep.”

  Brayden snorted again. Then he laughed. “And that’s something else. You wouldn’t believe a kind word from the Mother Herself.” His laughter dried up, and he cleared his throat. “Sorry, bad example. But, you know, you should be… I don’t know, you should have been another Siofra. You should have imprinted on him like a kitten imprints on a goat, if it’s the first thing it sees. But you didn’t—you fought him every way you could, and you don’t even know how impressive that is.”

  That was the second time Brayden had said that to him— impressed. Rising discomfort was very nearly making Wil squirm. What the hell?

  “I thought I was a vicious little shit,” he muttered.

  “You are,” Brayden said simply, turned and started walking again. “But you say it like it’s a bad thing. C’mon, I hear the horses.”

  No shelter was necessary that night, so setting up camp was relatively quick and easy. As it had been last night, Wil took care of the horses—sneaking them each another of his dwindling store of apples, getting those disgusting horse-kisses as thanks—and Brayden took care of supper.

  Wil kept the rifle with him, unwilling to release his new friend yet, until they sat by the small fire to eat, at which point he laid it carefully on the ground beside him. Talk, being unnecessary, was fairly scarce, until they’d finished eating and cleaning up, and Wil, intrigued by Brayden’s earlier hints, slipped the knife from out his boot. It had been a comfortable weight against his calf all day. It was bulkier than the little dirk had been—he was grateful all over again for the thicker stockings—and he had to wear it on the opposite side in consideration of his right hand, but he’d grown used to it almost immediately.

  He held it slanted into the light, finger lightly tracing over the string of finely etched symbols engraved in its surface. “So, what does it say?” he asked Brayden.

  “That?” Brayden moved in closer, smiling a little.

  “That’s just my name. The thing I wanted to show you is on the other side.”

  Wil’s eyebrows went up. He turned the knife over, examined the wider swath of glyphs on its opposite side, then turned it again. “That’s awfully long for just your short little name,” he observed.

  “Well, it’s both my names.” Brayden leaned closer and pointed at one little group of runes. “Dallin.” And then the next. “Brayden.”

  “Your name is Dallin?” Wil frowned. Why had he never even considered the fact that Brayden must have a given name before? Dallin. It was… nice. Not as harsh-sounding as Wil would’ve expected, considering Brayden’s build. Wil would’ve guessed Stone or Bear, or something equally descriptive. He peered over at Brayden, more interested than he would have thought. “What’s it mean?”

  “Why d’you want to know?” Brayden’s voice had gone just slightly cagey; not unkind but just edging on suspicion.

  Wil blinked, shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just interested.” Perhaps because he didn’t have one of his own, but he didn’t want to say that out loud, not now.

  Blatantly shoving Brayden’s face in the fact that Wil had liberated the name he used now from a dead man could only take that edge of suspicion blooming in Brayden’s tone to a full blossom. “The people of the Commonwealth seem to put a lot of stock in what names mean,” Wil said instead, hesitated, then skirted around the point with, “I was very glad to learn what Wilfred Calder meant.”

  “River of stones,” Brayden murmured, staring into the fire with a frown. “And much peace.”

  “Peaceful River.” Wil nodded. “It’s nice, isn’t it? I want to live by one someday. I want to stare into the water all day long and then watch the stars dance over it all night. I want to listen to the music the current sings and nothing else until I get tired and hungry and can’t listen anymore.”

  Brayden was looking at him now, gaze penetrating and eyebrows drawn slightly inward. “That’s a very good wish,” he said quietly. “And perhaps you’ll get it—there’s a river runs through Cildtrog, you know. That’s the valley below Lind.”

  Wil hadn’t known, though with the amount of time he’d spent spying there, he wondered why. Perhaps it was the very one for which Wilfred Calder had been named.

  He frowned into the fire, unsure how that thought made him feel.

  “Dallin,” Brayden said, “means pride’s people. It also means from the valley. Brayden means brave.” He shrugged, pensive. “My father told me that as long as I never forgot my name, I’d always know my way home.”

  “Well, I expect forgetting your own name isn’t much of a danger,” Wil observed with a smile; he’d meant it lightly, but it made Brayden’s frown deepen.

  “You’d think,” Brayden said, distant. “But She seemed to think I have done.”

  Wil couldn’t help the way his stomach dropped a little.

  He also couldn’t help the curiosity. “What did…?” He paused, chewed his lip. “What did She tell you?”

  Brayden turned his gaze slowly from the fire and fixed Wil with it. “She said I’d forgotten my name.” And then he shook his head, troubled eyes flicking over Wil’s shoulder and taking an absent sweep about the camp. “I am Dallin Brayden from the valley of Cildtrog, Lind’s Cradle,” he told the darkness. “I am the twelfth Brayden, possibly the last of my line, son of Ailen and Aldercy. I know my name, I haven’t forgotten, I know my way home, and I’ve no idea—” He paused, frowned. “What?”

  Wil’s stomach had taken another bit of a dip about halfway through.

  …he will dragoon you to the Cliabhán , make of you a sacrifice…

  He shook his head. A harsh little snort burbled in his throat, and he clenched his teeth. Why was he so surprised?

  “They call where we’re going a Cradle?”

  “Cildtrog,” Brayden replied. “It means Cradle in the First Tongue. Lind sits in the hills above it. Why? What’s wrong?”

  That weary snort pushed again, and Wil let it come, rubbed at his face. “One of the prophecies,” he said, suddenly very tired. “Maybe it was another lie.” He peered up at Brayden, the light of the fire sparking in dark eyes, catching on the gold of his hair and bringing back that forest god effect. It made Wil shiver just a little. “I hope it was a lie,” he told Brayden seriously. “Because if it wasn’t, we’re both in the process of making the biggest mistake of our lives.” His mouth pinched, and he looked away. “I’m used to betrayal,” he furthered, caught between anger and resignation. “You’re not, and I don’t think you coul
d stand it.”

  Not many things could take this man down, Wil thought, a little bit of pity mixed with the chagrin. The bigger a person’s heart, he’d come to believe, the deeper the blade of treachery plunged. Brayden, for all his gruff arrogance and bossy ‘I know better than you do’ ways, had a heart that would one day do him in. When it came right to it, Wil was pretty sure that if Brayden wasn’t a man ruled by a heart that was perhaps just a bit too sloppy for the affairs of a Guardian, Wil wouldn’t right now be sitting here, carrying on an actual conversation like he was a real person. In fact, he might not be sitting anywhere at all.

  Brayden stared at him—just stared at him—his gaze alive and heavy, crowding out everything but the wavering light that scudded over his face, dropping swirls of gold into the depths of those dark eyes like flickering points of pitiless hope in shadowed wells. He leaned in, closed his hand over Wil’s, and took the knife from him gently, turning it over. Firelight hit the long dagger, scatter-shot over Brayden’s fingers as he tilted it. He leaned in so close his shoulder was touching Wil’s. His wide finger slipped along the blade, tiny scores in the smooth metal sliding beneath his fingertip in rhythm to his words:

  “The Mother’s Blessing upon this blade. May you use it never in anger May it protect you, and cleanse your Path of foes. May it remind you always that you are the Mother’s Beloved Son”

  Wil frowned and leaned back. A vague, bewildering feeling of having just been somehow duped was creeping into his gut, and he rubbed at the low ache that was starting to bloom behind his eyes.

  “I know you’re angry,” Brayden said quietly. “I know you feel betrayed, and I won’t argue that you shouldn’t. I can’t begin to guess at the mind of the Divine, and even if I could, I won’t pretend there is any reason good enough or important enough to justify what’s happened to you.”

  He held the knife out again to Wil, hilt-first. “But I saw Her face, I saw her Eyes. She loves you, and She made sure She dragged me from a lifetime of ignorance and borderline belief to do what She, for whatever reason, can’t, and I don’t intend to displease Her by getting you captured or killed. If you can’t believe in Her, believe in me. You wanted to know why She didn’t help you—I am that help. I’m sorry I took so long to get here.” He waggled the knife a little between his fingers, its blade catching shards of fleeting brilliance from the fire, spiking into Wil’s eyes and making them burn. “I gave this to you because right now, I think you need it more than I do. Maybe you can’t read it, but that doesn’t mean you can’t understand it.”