The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  He’d been a fool to ever think this man duplicitous or wicked. Nothing like this could have come from the heart of malevolence.

  Wil shakes his head, turns his hand over then holds it up in front of Brayden. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to—all the bruising is gone, all the swelling, and the bones are as straight as they’ve ever been. A smile spreads slowly, fingers flexing, and he peers up into Brayden’s skeptical face, smirks.

  “Remember this,” is all he says.

  Opens his eyes.

  Brayden was already staring at him, that familiar disbelief shining over-bright in his bleary, pain-filled eyes.

  Wil didn’t say anything, didn’t have to. He shucked the bandaging quickly, impatiently, eager not just for the proof it would grant, but to finally be rid of the dirty, bulky thing. He grinned when he got a look at his knuckles: not swollen, slightly twisted knobs of bone and flesh, but straight and bending only where they were supposed to. He held his hand down where Brayden could see it, wriggled his fingers.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” Wil told him, nearly smug.

  Brayden stared at it for quite some time, eyes narrowed. His hand ventured out from his side, reached.

  Wil slid from the chair, crouched down next the bed, dipped his head and allowed Brayden to slide rough, cold fingers over his cheekbone. Even went so far as to guide Brayden’s fingertips to trace the sockets of his eyes, still tender and no doubt as green-black as the fingers had been.

  The euphoric peace took him again, wound through him, and Wil came back to himself with his forehead pressed to the thick blanket beside Brayden’s arm, clumsy, callused fingertips pressing into his scalp, unconsciously comforting. “Thank you,” Wil breathed, dragged himself up, took hold of Brayden’s hand, and tucked it up to rest on the hard, flat pillow. “Sleep now,” he whispered, adjusted the blanket, and drew back. “It’s your turn.” A slow smirk. “Impress me.”

  Chapter Four

  Wil was sitting on the cold stone floor, back propped to the wall beside the cot, when Dallin opened his eyes. The ever-present rifle was braced barrel-up to Wil’s left, knife at work against a whetstone between his up-thrust knees. His feet were bare and he’d shed his coat. By the way his dark hair glistened in the lamplight, he must’ve had a bath. Dallin squinted a little, noted the clean clothes and confirmed his theory.

  Good. At least someone had been taking care of him.

  He closed his eyes again.

  Mother—strange how the entreaty came to him so naturally— I’m sorry. I don’t think You’ve chosen very well.

  He would’ve snorted and rolled his eyes at himself, but it all seemed like too much work. More than half a lifetime spent assuming it all faerie tales and legends to make old men feel better about death, and now…?

  Well, now he was neck-deep in things he would have thought devotional dementia only several weeks ago. Had committed his word to protecting a man who seemed better able to take care of himself. What was Dallin doing here? What was he playing at? He could have got Wil killed in a grimy little back-alley smelling of piss and garbage, and not by Siofra or one of the Brethren, but by petty little men who liked to use their small authority to bully and intimidate.

  The low ache of the wound pulsed a dull throb through Dallin’s awareness—noticeably there but not nearly as acute as he would’ve thought. The steady swiff, swiff, swiff of the blade against the stone whispered a mocking counterpoint.

  Is this how your Guardian guards you?

  Dallin lying here like a landed fish, and Wil armed and ever at the ready. Dallin’s teeth clenched.

  Yes, apparently it is. I’ve spent the last couple decades not learning whatever it is I need to know in order to do whatever job it is that’s expected of me, and what I have learned isn’t nearly enough. Save me, I’m not ready for this.

  Except there was no not ready—he was in it, up to his arse, and so was Wil. Dallin had loftily asserted that he was Wil’s best chance, had honestly thought he could think and batter their way out of this great stinking mess, and drag Cynewísan out of it with them. He almost laughed—in point of fact, he’d nearly forgotten about Cynewísan.

  All right. So, I’m an arrogant ass. Now what?

  He thought about it. Thought about it hard.

  Now, I suck it up and use every tool at my disposal to pull both of our stones out the fire. As soon as I figure out what my tools are. And how to use them. And where the fire’s coming from.

  Willfully holding back a growl, Dallin opened his eyes again, focused on Wil’s hands, the right just a touch paler than the left, but there were no tells otherwise. His fingers moved with nimble grace, stopping every now and then to flick the pad of his thumb over the edge of the blade, checking its bite, then readjusting his grip with quick, agile movements.

  Well, there’s that, Dallin told himself with some amount of disgust: if I manage to get him hurt, I could always heal him again. ‘Whoops, sorry, didn’t mean to let that one lop off your head, here, let me see if I can fix that for you.’

  “Are you going to make a noise?” Wil asked quietly, hands still busy with knife and stone, “or are you going to just keep lying there, pretending you’re not awake?”

  Dallin sighed, perversely glad when his back and side twinged heavily with the expansion of his chest. “How long?” he croaked.

  Wil stopped, blew a small puff of breath over the blade’s edge, held it up to the light and tilted it, examining it closely. “You’ve been out for almost two days,” he answered, flicking a clever little glance at Dallin out the corner of his eyes. “But you knew that.”

  He did, actually. Some part of Dallin had been aware of everything that had gone on while he slept, as though he’d kept an eye on Wil every moment. And oddly, Wil had let him.

  “How are you feeling?” Wil asked.

  Dallin thought about it. “Sore,” he admitted. “But…”

  He rotated his shoulders and gave an experimental stretch, but truncated it when he felt the sutures pull. “I don’t feel like I was almost spitted. I feel like I got a good kick from an ill-tempered horse, but nothing more.”

  “Hm,” Wil hummed, spat on the stone and swirled the knife’s tip in it.

  No further comment; no smug told you so. Dallin was… grateful. It was hard enough to accept. And acceptance was fairly important in the application.

  Healing. He’d never have believed it.

  “You were singing.” Dallin’s voice was rough and grainy, but he couldn’t make himself clear his throat yet.

  Wil lowered the knife and let his hands dangle between his knees. His expression was candid and open when he peered up at Dallin. He shrugged. “You asked me to.”

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  They’d been by the river again, when Dallin asked Wil to sing the songs that had been haunting him for too long.

  Wil had complied, easily and with a small smile, sang the songs of the old gods, spinning the tale of how the Father had wooed the Mother with His music and fair looks, His passion and wildness; how She’d captivated Him with Her fierce beauty and elementary honor. How They’d joined Their separate Clans and marched on the old gods, Their Kindred, fought side-by-side—He with His sword; She with Her bow and quiver—took the powers away from the old gods and banished them, and led Their people out of bondage and fear. Showed them how to use the gifts of the world the gods had once wielded against them—earth, air, fire, and water—and taught them to live out from beneath the yoke of tyranny and oppression.

  How the people had rejoiced and placed Them on Their thrones—Hers in rock and soil; His in sky and star. Wil had sung the legends in a tenor that surprised Dallin in its depth and clarity. The story of ugliness and violence had unwound sonorous and dulcet inside the gentle tones, taking something that should have chilled Dallin’s bones and singing beauty into it. Dallin had almost wept.

  “It’s Æledfýres,” he told Wil, watching the oily light stutter over the etchings o
n the blade that spelt his own name. “The fire god, the one who stole the babies and drank their blood, the one who thieved men’s bodies and walked around in them.” He let his gaze drift up, catch on Wil’s. “Whatever it was with that Watcher—the first one—and wherever the Brethren came from, it started with him.”

  One dark eyebrow rose. “How can you know that?”

  “Dunno,” Dallin muttered. “But it fits. Díepe and Célnes were Her sisters, yeah? Goddesses of water and air. That’s what the song said. And Eorðbúgigend and Æledfýres were His brothers. Gods of earth and fire.”

  He paused, eyebrows drawing together in thought. “That dream I showed you, that man from the Brethren—he said the first Watcher had been a sacrifice to the Father, that the Father had been reawakened with the man’s blood. But it wasn’t the Father they’d got hold of. Someone powerful, surely, and dearg-dur…” He frowned at Wil. “D’you know of anyone else who fits?”

  Wil frowned, too, looked down for a moment, thinking. He shook his head.

  “Could it be Siofra?” Dallin asked carefully.

  There was no flinch or flare at the name this time, only a slight pinch of the mouth and an almost undetectable shudder. Wil flipped the knife in his hand, laid it on the floor beside his hip with a muffled chitter of metal-to-stone. “I’m not sure how you’d think I’d know that,”

  he replied quietly. “Although…” His eyebrows twisted tight, and he shook his head again. “I’ve seen them both. If family resemblance means anything, I’d have to say no. Siofra doesn’t look anything like the Father.” It was bitter and derisive.

  Dallin didn’t comment on it. “You see Him every night.” It wasn’t a question, but Wil nodded anyway. He’d already said as much, groused sullenly even. Told Dallin how He’d half-wake to spout nonsense at Wil, and then go away again. There was anger there, and bitterness, but not nearly as much antipathy as there was for Her, though that seemed more rueful discomfiture now, and Wil had thus far refused to lower those walls enough to let Her in. Not ready yet, and Dallin couldn’t blame him, though that wouldn’t stop Dallin from continuing to push gently. Whatever they were in for, they would both need Her.

  And maybe Him, too. “Can you ask Him?” he wanted to know.

  Wil shrugged this time, surly. “For whatever good it’ll do.” He peered up at Dallin, measuring. “Can’t you?”

  Dallin’s eyebrows rose. Wil merely waved his hand, seemingly having got immediately used to having it whole again. “You’re the interrogator. You’re the investigator. Shouldn’t you be asking the questions?”

  “Well, I would, but…” Dallin frowned and pondered it.

  If Wil’s inner-defenses were what was keeping the Mother from him, if he was blocking Her out, as Dallin was convinced, was it possible that Dallin’s own were keeping him from seeing the Father? He’s right there, Wil had told him, pointed, He talks to me in His sleep, but He never says anything that makes sense, but Dallin had only seen more stars reflected on the river.

  Maybe it was like the Threads, how Dallin had seen them as stars inside clouds, because his mind didn’t know how else to interpret them. What little religion he’d been taught since his riving from Lind had been that of Planting Plays and Turning Nights—most of it the Mother, his country’s patron—so, maybe he didn’t see the Father because he didn’t know what to look for. Had purposefully forgotten whatever teachings he’d had in his first twelve years.

  You have forgotten your name.

  For the first time, it made sense, so much that it brought a slight warmth to Dallin’s cheeks. From the valley—he hadn’t forgotten the words, but he’d forgotten what they meant. He’d forgotten what it meant to be a Linder.

  He’d forgotten what it meant to believe.

  “I think you’re right,” he told Wil, smiled a little when Wil snapped a narrow, surprised glance at him. “Next time…” Strange how he just assumed there would be a next time; strange how Wil let him. “Next time I’ll try.”

  He shifted a little, stretched his neck. “When is the last time you slept?” he wanted to know.

  “Too long ago,” Shaw blustered as he rammed into the little room, an air of efficient hurry-up about him, as seemed to be his natural state. Calm and commanding, the air of a military officer, rather than a man of religion and healing. Dallin narrowed his eyes, but the thought flittered away from him, Shaw’s chivvying of Wil too distractingly amusing—especially since it seemed to work so well. “Come then, up with you,” Shaw told Wil. “You can help me sit this one up, and then off you go.” He turned a pained look on Dallin. “Can’t you convince him that he shouldn’t go about with bare feet?”

  Dallin snorted as Wil rolled his eyes and levered himself up against the wall as Shaw had bidden. “If you can figure out how to get him to do anything he doesn’t want to do,” Dallin told Shaw, “please give me the secret.”

  “Oh, har,” Wil groused, though he smirked a little, hands strong but gentle on Dallin’s shoulder as he helped him turn over. “Watch yourself, Constable,” he murmured as he slid himself down beside the cot and angled Dallin’s arm across his shoulders, “I know where you sleep.”

  When Dallin next came awake, it was Calder who sat beside him, only he hunkered in one of the rickety wooden chairs, and not on the floor as Wil tended to do.

  He didn’t smile when he saw Dallin was awake, only lifted his eyebrows, reached to the side and poured water into a mug. Calder didn’t offer to hold it for him, just put it into Dallin’s hands, eyeing the bit of a tremor with something just shy of scorn when Dallin accepted the cup.

  There were all kinds of things Dallin could have told Calder, all sorts of defenses: The raid, she sent me away, no one came looking for me, how was I supposed to know? He didn’t bother. Calder was just as fanatical and rigid in his beliefs as those men from the Brethren were, so any negation would be a waste of breath. And Dallin didn’t necessarily give a shit what Calder thought. The only person who had a right to condemn or pardon him was Wil, and he’d proffered his acquittal before Dallin’s failures had even been made plain—done it when he’d slipped his shoulder beneath Dallin’s and tried to help him off his knees in a dim, stinking alley.

  “Funny, how the lad’s bruises healed overnight.”

  Calder looked at Dallin expectantly. Dallin felt no compulsion whatsoever to rise to that expectation, so he kept silent.

  “He told me where he came by the name,” Calder offered, gruff voice flat.

  For reasons he didn’t examine, Dallin took a sniff of the water before allowing himself a slow sip, and he didn’t try to hide it, either: warm and tinny, but if there was anything else in it, it had no taste or odor. Suspicious and over-cautious, but at the moment, he didn’t think there was any such thing. He didn’t trust Calder for a moment. “Did he?” was all he said.

  They’d never got around to how Wil had come upon those papers and taken the name of the man to whom they’d belonged. So many other, more urgent matters had crowded out their importance, and then Dallin had been too busy avoiding thinking about dreams to give anything else room.

  “He was a good lad,” Calder said quietly, gaze falling to his hands and hanging there. “My Wilfred. A good man.” His shrug was small, despondent. “Seeker.” It was said with some bit of awe that Dallin could easily share. A task at least as dangerous as what his own was apparently to be, for the men and women who took it on did so without even knowing the dangers they faced, nor why they faced them, only that the Old Ones asked it, and so they complied. “I didn’t want him to go, but how could I ask him not to? I?” Calder shook his head. “It was when I felt him pass that I sent for Shaw to cut my Marks, and when they were gone, I left the Bounds and began to Seek.” He lifted his head, fixed Dallin with an even stare. “He said he had entrusted his tale to you; that if you chose to tell me, he would abide it.”

  Dallin looked down and blew out a long breath. His own father had worn the Marks of the Weardas. Dallin might not
remember everything he should about Lind, but he knew what pride was tangled up in the Marks for those who wore them. To lose the Marks of the Old Ones themselves, to actually cut them away, compelled by duty and the love of a son lost… it must have been devastating. And yet, was it reason enough to hand this man Wil’s secrets?

  “My son died within feet of him,” Calder went on, low and with just a slight wobble inside it. “From what he says, he was running away, says he didn’t know, didn’t see, that Wilfred must’ve stepped in front of whoever was chasing him. Says he didn’t know there’d been violence done until he doubled back to lose his pursuers and found…” He didn’t choke or sob, but the emotion in his expressionless face was like a spike through Dallin’s heart. “Says he didn’t know, says it wasn’t him, but…”

  Calder paused, cleared his throat. “But Wilfred found him, y’see, found him when he didn’t want to be found, and I’ve looked straight at death in that man’s eyes. You can’t tell me he wouldn’t—”

  “I can tell you exactly that,” Dallin cut in gently. “I won’t tell you he isn’t capable—he’s more than that. I will tell you that if he said it wasn’t him, then it wasn’t him.

  He doesn’t lie.”

  Slowly, Calder looked up and pointed a trenchant stare at Dallin. Said, “Tell me.”

  Dallin did. Everything.

  Calder sat staring at his hands for quite a while, tanned brow twisted in thought. Or perhaps worry. He stood with a bit of a grunt and stretched his back. Still frowning, he turned to Dallin.

  “He’s insane, you know.”

  Dallin scowled, shook his head. “You’ve only just met him.”

  “I could tell you the same thing without ever having met him.” One big hand opened, waved vaguely. “No one could have lived through that and not gone insane.”

  “Which only makes him unique,” Dallin argued. The blind surety of Calder tweaked Dallin’s anger, indignant on Wil’s behalf. “You can’t judge him by your own standards. I’ve spent time with him; I’ve seen his mind work. He may not walk the same lines of sanity others do, but he does amazingly well, and better than some whose sanity would never even be questioned.” His voice was rising, so he paused and took a breath. “Look,” he said more calmly, “we’re talking about a person who has escaped an unhinged life, dragged off his own path before he’d even had a chance to mark it, and managed to define his own standards of sanity, against every odd imaginable. It may not be the same as yours, but that doesn’t make it any less legitimate.”