“Do the—?” Wil stepped in close to Calder and lowered his voice. “Is the Guardian a shaman?”
Calder puffed a jaded little snort. “Lad,” he said slowly, “the Guardian is the Shaman.”
Wil nodded, satisfied, then went back to his stance against the wall. Kept watching.
He counted fourteen sutures, wincing a little every time the tiny curved needle dipped and pulled. It would probably leave a worthy scar, at least. Wil hadn’t noticed before—he hadn’t really looked—but Brayden’s lack of additional scars was fairly remarkable, now that Wil thought about it. Brayden had spent eight years in the military, quite in the thick of it, from the little he’d divulged about it. It was strange that he was relatively unmarked. He was obviously very good at what he did—
Wil had been rather impressed with the smooth, curling moves in the alley, the dependence not on brute force, but finesse and brains—but he had to wonder if it was even possible to be that good.
Once the suturing was done, it was all rather anticlimactic. Brayden seemed to finally sink into a heavy sleep—painless, at least in the depths of it, Wil hoped—breathing going deep and even, a slight touch of color leaching back into otherwise waxen features. Calder helped with lifting and turning him while Shaw changed the sheet then wound a bandage around his torso, and covered him with a thick blanket Calder retrieved for him from… well, Wil didn’t know, but somewhere else. Shaw tried to get Wil to come away, but Calder didn’t even bother to argue—he brought Wil a chair, propping it next the cot without a word.
Wil peered at him sideways with a frown as he sank slowly into the uncomfortable thing. There hadn’t been much of a chance to even think, let alone ask questions, but now that he was here, more-or-less trapped in this damp basement, placing too much trust in people he didn’t know, one question rose to the fore: “Why?” Wil asked, made a vague gesture toward his own face and let his gaze settle on the scar stretching over Calder’s cheek.
Calder leaned himself into the wall, glance flicking between Wil and Brayden. “Only one may venture beyond the Bounds wearing the Marks. Only one’s Path has been Blessed.” He shrugged. “We do what we must.”
“It must’ve hurt,” Wil put in quietly, and he didn’t just mean physical pain. He only knew probably half of what those Marks meant to their wearers— Mother’s Soldier, Brayden had said they spelled out. For someone like Calder, once an Old One from Lind, the land that claimed to be the birthplace of everything, even the Mother Herself, to remove them must have been like losing a limb.
Calder merely shrugged. “We do what we must,” he repeated.
“Did he do it for you?” Wil jerked his chin toward Shaw, still puttering silently, flitting in and out the close little room with fresh potions and clean water.
Calder paused before answering, waited for Shaw to flit back out again. “He is the only one I would trust for such a business,” was all he said.
Wil sighed, slouched down in the chair, feeling the events of the day settle into his bones. He’d been half-expecting the pain in his hand to flare and renew itself, what with how much he’d been using it today, but it failed to throb or ache. He was glad. Considering what Brayden had been through, the residual ache of a few broken fingers seemed quite petty. The ache of an empty belly, on the other hand, was another thing entirely.
Now that the anxiety was receding, hunger was starting to tap lightly. That made Wil think of the packs in the saddlebags, which in turn made him think of—
“Someone needs to retrieve the horses,” he told Calder.
“We left them at the temporary posts by the gates. Has Shaw got a boy or someone who could go and get them?”
He’d seen Brayden put the chit in the breast pocket of his tunic. Wil hoped no one had pitched the clothes they’d cut away. The money and Brayden’s handguns were distributed about Wil’s own pockets.
Calder shook his head. “They’ll be watching,” he said brusquely. “Can’t chance it.”
Wil opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t come up with anything reasonable with which to negate the statement. Except that he wanted them back, but he didn’t think Calder would be moved by that vague sentiment.
Wil couldn’t help the thwarted scowl. “What’ll happen to them?” he wanted to know.
A shrug as Calder pulled up his own chair, planted it next to Wil’s and dropped into it. “When no one claims them by the time the gates close tonight, they’ll likely go “Where is that?” Wil asked. “We need the packs, at least.” He could sneak in easily, he was sure—wait ’til after dark, slip in, retrieve the packs and slip back out again. He was good at it. He’d often suspected he’d make a good thief, should he ever decide to put his mind to it.
“Let it go for now,” Calder said, closed his eyes and rubbed at the back of his neck. “You’ve come away with your lives. Let that be enough for tonight.”
“No thanks to you.” Wil couldn’t help the bitter little growl. He glanced at Brayden, lying on his stomach, face scrunched into the flat pillow, and feet hanging over the edge of the mattress. Wil got up without thinking, angled himself to the foot of the small bed and pulled the blanket down to cover Brayden more evenly. “What were you doing to him?” he wanted to know, tucking the ends about Brayden’s bare feet. “He said you’d been mucking about in his head, and no one could’ve got behind him otherwise.” He straightened to level a mild glare at Calder. “Whatever you were doing, it was cocking up his reflexes.”
Calder sighed. “We didn’t know where either of you had gone,” he said evenly. “We didn’t know what had become of you.” He flicked a narrow glance up. “Nor what you’d become. I had to know.”
Wil walked slowly back to his chair and sat down.
“And are you satisfied now?” he asked, voice soft and level, a slight bit of challenge leaking into the tone.
“I know what he is.” Calder nodded toward Brayden.
“Better than he does, I expect, else I wouldn’t’ve been able to touch him, let alone cock anything up.” Calder angled a shrewd sideways stare at Wil. “What you are is an entirely different matter.”
Wil snorted. “Is this where I’m meant to come over all weepy and spill my guts?” He slouched down in his chair, jaw clenched, and twitched his chin toward Brayden.
“He knows,” he said quietly. “If he chooses to trust you with it, I’ll abide by his decision.” His gaze slanted back toward Calder, hard. “Right now it only matters who I trust.” A shrug. “I trust him.”
He let the rest hang there, unspoken.
Frowned a little as the truth of the statement sank in.
Huh. Who knew?
Calder didn’t seem to take offence, just sighed again, weary and resigned. “His magic has a green feel to it,” he said, low and rough, “new and largely unclaimed.” A slight frown wrinkled his browned forehead. “He fears it, I think.”
Wil thought about it for a moment then shook his head. “He fears very little,” he told Calder. “He denies it because his life made it necessary to disbelieve. Give him time.”
“It isn’t mine to give.” Calder paused, his gaze sliding sideways. “And you may not have it.” It was quiet, no judgment.
Wil flicked out a hand, palm-up. He shrugged.
“When you’ve lived outside of Time…” Or spent who-knows-how-many years drugged out of your mind and dreaming at someone else’s command… Wil chewed his lip, discomfited suddenly at what he’d nearly said, out loud and to a stranger. He looked away. “It’s all relative, I expect.”
“That tells me very little. And I don’t mind telling you that the only reason you’re a guest in the temple and not a prisoner is because I could read him,” Calder jerked his chin at Brayden, “which I shouldn’t’ve been able to do.”
He looked Wil over keenly, pursed his lips. “Where’ve you been, lad?”
Genuine concern and distress. Accompanied by a vast question without any simple answers, regardless of the angle from whic
h it was approached.
Wil stared at Brayden in the light of the lamps, at the steadiness of his breathing, at the intermittent flick and twitch of his eyebrows as a spasm of pain worked its lethargic way through the haze of sedatives and exhaustion—Brayden had barely slept the past several nights, after all.
Scowling, Wil couldn’t help but be uncomfortably reminded of how annoyed he’d been on several occasions when on the receiving-end of Brayden’s orders, or questions, or even a well-meant instruction. Couldn’t help but remember the authentic solicitude and consideration looking back at him from those dark-dark eyes, even from that first night, though Wil had refused to see it.
Damn it, Brayden, the one time I really need you to muscle your way in and take charge, and you’re too busy trying not to die.
“I think…”
Wil looked down at the rifle propped across his knees, picked a little at the dirty linen wrapped about his hand.
Thought about how he’d walked a straight line for three years, his feet leading him inexorably, even when his head tried to direct him otherwise. Thought about Brayden’s commander’s apparent remarks, how he’d fought his way into Ríocht and tried to fight on and into the Guild itself.
How he obviously had no idea that he’d a motivation other than duty to his country.
Wil rubbed at his brow, gusted a tired sigh. “Seeking,”
he muttered to his lap, blinked up at Calder, and then quickly looked away again. He cleared his throat. “Is there anything to eat around here?”
They mustered up some cold vegetable pasties for both Wil and Calder. Shaw apologized for the lack of gravy.
Wil ate them dry and with no complaints. The vegetables were tender and the crust divinely flaky, and cold filled his belly just as well as hot did. A cup of deep red wine accompanied the meal, its flavor rich and woody, with a touch of smoke beneath it. It was overtly suspicious, terribly rude, and a little bit silly, considering he’d wolfed down the food without a second-thought, but Wil waited until Calder had taken a sip of his wine before he did the same.
“We’ve had visitors,” Shaw told them when he bustled back down to collect their dishes. “The Guard is going door-to-door, looking for an Exile and his fey companion.” He glanced at Wil with an apologetic shrug as he doused several of the lamps. “Remarkable little description on you, though. Apparently, no one got a look at your face.”
Wil shot a look at Brayden’s lax face, smiled something tired and cheerless. Well, the beard did little good, but the hat seems to have fulfilled your purpose. He sighed, propped his elbow to the small cupboard beside the bed, and rested his head to his palm. You do have your uses, Constable Brayden. Sorry they weren’t terribly useful to you.
“You’re safe enough here,” Shaw went on. “The Chester Constabulary has no jurisdiction on Temple grounds, and we’ve the right to grant sanctuary, if it comes to it, though it’ll be best if we keep your presence from them entirely.” His head tilted a little, and his shrewd eyes took Wil in, settled first on the lumps of bandages about his hand and then on his face. “Is there anything you’d like me to do for you, lad?”
Wil had almost forgotten what he must look like. No wonder that sour little librarian wouldn’t stop staring at him once he’d taken off his hat. He shook his head.
“Thank you, I think everything that could be done has been.” Anyway, the hand didn’t hurt all that much anymore, and his face never did unless he forgot and touched it wrong.
Inexplicably, Calder’s mouth pinched up, like he was angry about something, but Shaw merely looked dubious. “If you say so.” He waved at the doorway. “I’ve prepared a cot for you in the next room. Clean water for washing. I’m afraid the facilities are little more than an indoor privy, but it’ll do best if you stay down here and out of sight. The priests and initiates can be trusted to keep silent, but the fewer who know you’re here, the fewer chance of mistakes or missteps.”
Wil agreed wholeheartedly with the logic. He dug up a tired smile for Shaw and thanked him sincerely as he retired, but didn’t move yet from his uncomfortable seat.
Calder, however, stood slowly, staring down at Brayden for quite a while before he turned his faded blue eyes to Wil.
“Pleasant dreams,” was all he said, kept his gaze even and unflinching as Wil narrowed his eyes. Calder merely nodded and quit the little room, leaving Wil alone with Brayden for the first time since they’d burst onto the road this morning.
“Is it wrong that I keep wanting to tell him to fuck off?”
he muttered quietly to Brayden’s sleeping face. Brayden, of course, didn’t answer, just twitched his eyebrows a hair and slept on. Good. Sleep was a better healer than any infusion, in Wil’s admittedly slim experience, and Brayden had got sparing little of it over the past days, instead watching over Wil in the deeps of night. “My turn on watch,” Wil whispered, slouched down a bit more against the stiff back of the chair, toed off his boots and gingerly propped his feet on the edge of the cot. Brayden, of course, didn’t stir or object. The waiting cot to which Shaw had referred didn’t even occur to Wil; he merely got as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances and settled in for a long night.
Surprisingly, he didn’t even try not to doze.
“Tell me about the Gift,” he asks Father. “Tell me how to help him.”
Father smiles dreamily, sighs a song. “At last the binding begins,” he murmurs, dulcet and slow. “Weave it well.”
“I don’t know what that means.” He can’t help the anger. He’s tired of hints and allusions, and nonsense advice that means nothing. “Can’t you just it, damn it, just for once ?!”
But Father only closes His eyes, a lone tear leaking from one corner. “You accept a cage like you belong in one, beautiful Gift.” Another sigh, this one deep and wrenchingly sad. “And yet the keys to your prison are right within your grasp.”
And then He’s gone, leaving Wil alone, but not alone; he turns, looks behind him.
He’s not surprised to find Brayden here, Watching as always, but he is rather surprised at his hereness, his presence, which has always been more a part of the background, and not as finely etched and clear as it is now.
Certainly no threat.
His dark eyes near blaze at Wil, urgent beneath the unruly fringe of gold. Wil is both startled and discomfited that Brayden looks just as unhealthy here as he did lying on that too-small cot. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t intrude, though Wil can tell he wants to, he’s almost vibrating with it, but he just keeps Watching, and Wil wonders for the first time ever if it’s because he can’t say anything, can’t intrude, not unless Wil allows it—demands or requests it.
Wil thinks about it. For quite a long while. He’s been avoiding this for days and days—they both have—and if he does this now, opens the door, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to close it again. More to the point, he doesn’t know if he’ll want to, and that scares him quite a bit more. He’s grown to like Brayden, trust him more than he should. Why else would he have hesitated in that alley, instead of taking the opportunity to run? And he can’t really explain it, but Brayden’s opinion matters to him.
Wil actually gives a shit what Brayden thinks.
Perhaps because Brayden seems to think so well of him, and it makes him childishly pleased. Wil sighs, goes to Brayden slowly, no longer afraid of Brayden himself, nor what he might do, but a little bit afraid of what Brayden apparently needs to tell him. The urgency and asking in his eyes make Wil shiver a little and slow his steps. He stops just in front of Brayden, peers closely for a moment, somewhat surprised that he’s not nearly so much shorter than a giant from Lind as he’d thought. Brayden looms so large in the waking world, and Wil does his best not to—he’d never noticed before that Brayden is only perhaps a head taller than him.
It matters very little, he thinks, but it’s interesting.
“You’re here.”
“Apparently,” Brayden returns, a little hoarse and
strained, “I’m always here.”
Wil shrugs too: belated apology for previous declarations made from within tangled bitterness.
Brayden’s mouth turns down in a scowl, and he reaches out, takes up Wil’s hand, frowns at the bloodied fingertips. “Why d’you do this to yourself?” he wants to know.
Wil doesn’t answer, just watches with interest as Brayden smoothes his fingers over ragged flesh, sores closing up and healing beneath his touch, and he doesn’t even see it. Wil wonders if it had happened that first time, but can’t remember. He doesn’t think so, though.
A slight shock goes through Wil, a twinge of power that runs from Brayden’s fingers into his own. Brayden’s wide frame shivers just slightly, but he otherwise appears to have no idea.
Wil looks Brayden over thoroughly, registers the new lines spidering at the corners of his mouth “D’you feel it even here?” he asks in concern.
Brayden sucks in a long breath. “It’s bad,” he tells Wil. “Worse than I’d thought. I may have mucked this up. I’m sorry.”
“You still don’t understand, do you?” Wil has to smile a little in exasperated wonder. “You’re as Chosen as I am,” he tells Brayden. “You’ve the gifts of a shaman—the Gift of the Shaman, I’m told. You’ve more power in you than Calder. You could be better and stronger than any of Lind’s Old Ones, if you’d only see it.”
“It isn’t important right now,” Brayden says, his voice and gaze both very kind, but implacable. “I’ve something I have to show you. I’m sorry, it’ll be hard, but I think it’s why I’m here, I think it’s part of my job, and I can’t take the chance that I’ll be gone before you dare it.”
Wil scowls, surprised at how fierce it is, surprised at how the words hit him like an undeniable punch in the gut. “You’re not going any—”
“Likely not,” Brayden placates, though Wil can tell he doesn’t really believe it. “But it’s something I should have told you already; you need to know it, and I can’t take the chance that you won’t understand when you really need to.” He holds out his hand, palm-up. “Come with me?”
The Aisling Trilogy Page 45
