The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  Calder looked at him keenly. “Your defense seems a bit… strident.”

  “Maybe so,” Dallin admitted. “But it’s past time someone defended him at all. If it seems strident to you—”

  “He’s an addict,” Calder cut in flatly. “He still wants it. I saw him wanting it.”

  “And likely will for the rest of his life,” Dallin retorted.

  “But he didn’t get himself addicted to leaf at the age of bloody six out of choice, and he didn’t take it when you oh-so-kindly offered it, did he?”

  “And how long d’you think that’ll last?” Calder wanted to know. “If I offered it to him right now—”

  “Then you’d best hope I haven’t a gun within reach.”

  Through his teeth now. Dallin’s blood was pounding, throbbing hot behind his brow. How dare the man. Dallin pushed himself up, leaned forward, locked a glare on Calder. “Have you ever seen someone coming down from leaf? Ever seen them twist with muscle spasms, stomach cramps, tremors, sweats? Ever watched the agony, heard the screams? Most don’t even live through it.” His lip curled up in a snarl he couldn’t have helped if he’d tried.

  “If I respected the man for nothing else, the fact that he didn’t stumble out from Old Bridge and right into a leaf den would be enough. The further fact that he’s been on his own for three years, living in the sorriest state of poverty I’ve ever seen, and didn’t end up dead from an overdose is more than enough.” He let his eyes narrow, let the threat inside them flare out plainly. “I ever catch you making that offer—even talking about it to him—and his sanity isn’t the one you’ll need to worry about.”

  Calder’s jaw was tight, his eyes hard. “Have you any idea what kind of power we’re dealing with here? D’you know what could happen if that man’s mind broke?” He held his hands out, palm-up. “Your responsibility is not only to him.”

  Dallin’s blood went from hot to cold all at once, dropping like lead to his belly. Calder had said it like he was talking about putting down a dog that had gone rabid, that same righteous look in his eye as those men from the Brethren.

  “You,” Dallin said slowly, “are not the Guardian.

  You’ve no call or right to even consider it.”

  “And you are the Guardian?” Calder shook his head with that same derisive curl of his lip he’d turned on Dallin when he’d offered him water earlier. “You don’t even know what it is.”

  “And I imagine you’re sure you do,” Dallin snapped, deliberately allowing every bit of scorn that was needling his nerves into his tone. “People like you…” He set his jaw, hands clenching into fists. He wondered suddenly where his guns were, wondered where Wil was, and hoped he was still clinging to that rifle. “I’ve seen your sort a little too often,” he told Calder slowly. “You’re no better than any of those men he’s been dealing with all his life. And I’ll tell you this: the fact that he runs from people like you is the best marker of sanity I’ve seen in him yet. So bloody sure you know, so bloody sure there’s only one right answer and you’re the one who’s got it.”

  Calder’s color was up now, eyes blazing. “Not the only one,” he contended heatedly. “Generations of—”

  “Generations of pious certainty, right, yes, I know,”

  Dallin seethed. “Generations of secrecy and silence that contributed directly to Siofra’s ability to kidnap your Aisling and keep him drugged and dreaming against his will, right before the unsuspecting eyes of the whole of Ríocht for bloody decades.” He tilted his head. “You and your Old Ones—when you discovered your Aisling was gone, stolen, what did you do? Did you check with the sheriffs and constabularies? Hire bounty hunters or even an independent canvasser?” He snorted derision. “No, you didn’t—you sent men who had no idea what they were even looking for out to their deaths. Useless deaths.

  “I lived in Putnam for almost thirty bleeding years—I wasn’t hiding, I didn’t change my name—and no one once came along asking why an obvious Linder was so far from Lind. If your search for Wil was as half-arsed, and from what I’ve seen I’m pretty sure it was, then you people are the last ones who have any right to question a damned thing about him, let alone presume to judge his sanity against your own insane standards.”

  “‘You people,’” Calder echoed. “Is that what we are, then? And what does that make you?”

  You have forgotten your name.

  Dallin shook his head.

  Yeah? Well, maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

  He thought about Calder’s question… decided Wil’s words suited best for an answer: “I am what I’ve made myself,” he told Calder. “And Wil is what he’s made him self. We are neither of us your creatures, and you don’t get to decide to execute him because you don’t like his version of sanity.”

  “Sometimes our responsibilities are unpleasant,”

  Calder replied slowly. “That doesn’t make us any less responsible.” His eyes narrowed. “If you knew the power—”

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea,” Dallin cut in. It wasn’t a lie; he had his suspicions, had seen and felt the edges of that power in its near-physical manifestation in that cell in Dudley, and again inside his own dreams. And anyway, he was pissed and loath to give Calder the satisfaction of superior knowledge. “And the fact that he’s not used it to burn the world, despite having every reason to despise it and everyone in it, should be enough proof—”

  “Because he doesn’t know his power yet!” Calder shouted. “And if nothing else, I can give Siofra credit for 165

  The Aisling Book Two Dream

  that much—he kept it buried, and likely for exactly that reason!”

  Dallin boggled. “Are you really going to stand there and tell me that anything that man did was right?” He shook his head, filled with crawling disgust. “You know, I must say that I’ve wondered why the Mother hadn’t just gone to one of the Old Ones, told you where I was, told you where Wil was, made everyone’s lives a little easier.”

  A slow nod this time. “Now I think I see why She came to me instead.”

  That stopped Calder dead. “She…?” His eyes widened.

  Dallin couldn’t be positive, but Calder may have even paled beneath his leathery tan. “You’ve seen Her?”

  It wasn’t just surprise—it was shock. And without even really thinking about it, Dallin knew what it meant.

  You haven’t done, at least not in this. You’re working even more blind than I am. He rubbed at his brow, edging this close to real abhorrence. You spout these things like She’s whispered them into your own ear, and yet you’ve less of an idea what it is She really wants than I do. You wouldn’t listen if She told you.

  You’re no bloody better than the rest of them.

  Dallin pinched at the bridge of his nose, snorted disdain. “I’ve my orders from Her,” he told Calder, perhaps a bit more snidely than necessary. “And you’ll understand if I choose to take Her word for what She wants, rather than yours. And what She wants is for me to take care of Her Gift. Which, I must assume, means I shouldn’t allow fanatical zealots who think they know better to put him down because he scares them and they don’t know what to do with him.” He sat back, kept the glare. “If you’ve a problem,” he said evenly, “I suggest you take it up with Her.”

  Even though we both know you can’t.

  Calder was silent for several long moments, confused fuming. Then he uncurled hands that had gone fisted, nodding slowly. He bowed his stiff neck and placed a hand over his heart. “Forgive me, Guardian,” he said, steady and respectful.

  “I do not question the Mother’s Purpose, and I should not have questioned yours.” His head dipped lower. “I am,”

  he went on with sincere deference, “at your service.”

  Dallin stared, blinked. He didn’t know just what to say yet, so he stayed silent.

  “I have assumed and presumed.” Calder looked at Dallin straight. “If you cannot pardon me, allow me to offer atonement—allow me to help you prepare
for what you must face. It is the best recompense I can offer.”

  Suspicion still knocked lightly at Dallin’s nerves, but it was residual and fading. Calder really seemed to mean what he was saying. “There is much we need to know,” Dallin said slowly.

  Calder dipped his head on a measured nod. “There is much I can tell you,” he replied.

  Dallin didn’t even feel it necessary to think about it. “After supper,” was all he said. That should give him enough time to catch Wil up on all of… this.

  The nod this time was low enough to pass for a bow. “As you wish,” Calder replied, turned with slow dignity… stopped.

  Dallin was just as surprised to see Wil leaning against the doorframe as Calder seemed to be. There was no rifle hanging by its strap over his shoulder; he looked strangely small and naked without it. His posture appeared relaxed—arms crossed over his chest, one bare foot propped atop the other, head tilted to the side—but his eyes were alive with sage fire, cagey and distrustful, and burning into Calder. Dallin had seen the look before, swallowed down the rush of apprehension.

  “Wil,” he said quietly, but Calder held up his hand.

  “Aisling,” he said—this time he did bow. “Your servant.”

  Wil merely flicked his glance to Dallin. Dallin watched, fascinated, as the brilliance in the gaze dulled and calmed.

  Wil pulled himself straight, said, “Don’t call me that,” then brushed past Calder. “We’ll see you after supper,” he furthered by way of dismissal. Again, Dallin only watched as Calder nodded respectfully then quietly left the room.

  The change in Calder was astounding—gone from haughty near-contempt to almost reverence with the mere mention of the Mother. It was convenient, surely, but still unsettling. He’d accepted it, after all, with no proof, only Dallin’s assertion, and knowing very little about him.

  What might happen if someone else made a claim, just as lacking in evidence, that Wil needed to die? Dallin was telling the truth, certainly, but Calder had no way of knowing that. Would he believe another just as easily?

  Wil stood by the bed for a moment, flicked a glance to the chair Calder had just vacated with a bit of a grimace then peered down at Dallin, considering. With a little bit of effort, Dallin took the hint and shifted his legs, waved toward the now-open space on the small cot. Wil sank down with no hesitation, but the silence was somewhat uncomfortable.

  Dallin attempted to break it with a bit of levity:

  “Where’s your friend?” he asked with a small smirk.

  He gestured at Wil’s naked shoulder when Wil tilted a questioning frown. Wil’s brow untwisted. “It makes Shaw nervous,” he offered softly. “He’s been kind to me, so I thought…” He trailed off, shrugged.

  Dallin suspected that kind to me likely translated into fed me, but he refrained from making the comment. And it certainly spoke to Shaw’s character that Wil would part with the gun to soothe his unease. Dallin wished he would have had time to get Wil’s thoughts on Calder before the last hour or so had happened.

  “Where is Shaw?” he asked instead.

  Wil waved a hand. “He’s got patients. A mum and her little one’ve got… I forget what he called it. Nothing serious, but they’re sick, and he didn’t want them to see me, so he shooed me off.”

  Dallin’s eyebrow went up. “Shooed you off from where?”

  That got a twitch of a smile. “He’s got his own rooms, with a stove and everything. Calder’s staying up there with him.” The smile faded a little. “Shaw smuggled me up when I asked him if he had any books for you. You should see this place, all the backstairs and passageways.

  It’s even more of a maze than the city is. And then Shaw showed me how to make these brilliant little… well, he called them skillet cakes, but they were more like biscuits.”

  Funny, how he remembered what Shaw had called the treats, but not the name of whatever the two patients had.

  And it rather confirmed the translation and the reason for Wil’s regard. Dallin would have snorted, except for the statement that had been buried within. He asked for books. For me. Huh. He was absurdly touched.

  “Sounds like you had an interesting morning,” was all he said.

  Wil’s gaze shot over to the door then quickly back again. “Mm,” he replied vaguely. “And how are you feeling?”

  “Amazingly well,” Dallin answered truthfully. “Still pretty sore, and oddly shaky, but that’s all. Well, thirsty.”

  “From losing so much blood,” Wil told him. “The shakiness. That’s what Shaw said. You’re to drink a lot of water and eat. He should be by with your lunch soon.”

  It made sense to Dallin. A simpler and more pleasant therapy than what it could have been. “Now if I could just get some damned clothes,” he groused lightly.

  Wil’s glance flicked over Dallin’s bare chest then quickly to his own lap. He shifted a little on the narrow mattress.

  “Calder wouldn’t let me go after the packs,” he offered with a pinch of the mouth. “And Shaw said that if he gave you back your trousers, you’d just be hobbling about before you should do.”

  It could have been worse, Dallin supposed—at least they’d left him his drawers.

  “Well, as much as I’d like to have my clothes back, and everything else, I’m afraid I have to agree with Calder. It’s too much of a risk for you to go traipsing about the city.”

  Dallin leaned in, narrowed his eyes. “Leave the matter of the packs, all right? We’ll figure something else out.

  You’ve still got the money, yeah?”

  Wil nodded. “And your guns.”

  “Good man,” Dallin said with a smile. “If we have to, we’ll just buy all new supplies. I know it would hurt to lose your things, but…”

  Wil’s hand waved about in a gesture that was trying to be dismissive. “I’ll see what I can do about getting you some clothes,” was all he said.

  He went silent again, fingers picking restlessly at each other, now that there was no bandage with which to fuss anymore. His head was bowed, hair hanging down to cover his face.

  No sense in pretending it hadn’t happened. And no sense in pretending Wil shouldn’t be upset about it.

  “How much did you hear?” Dallin asked quietly.

  Wil shook his head, dragged a leg up and propped an elbow to his knee, rested his head in his hand. “Is there anyone, d’you suppose,” he asked, voice rough, “who doesn’t want to kill me?”

  Well. That answered that question.

  Dallin sighed and slumped back. He had an almost-overwhelming urge to draw Wil in, pull that dark head down to rest on his shoulder, except Dallin didn’t know if that would get him bitten for his trouble. “I don’t want to kill you,” he told Wil.

  Wil scrubbed a hand over his face. “Well, yes,” he sighed, looked over at Dallin with a small, thoughtful smile. “There’s always you.”

  He said it like he really believed it. Dallin was idiotically buoyed.

  “Wil,” he said, pushing force into the tone, “this isn’t about you, all right? You can’t take what he says any more to heart than you’d do with Siofra.” By the slight twitch, Dallin guessed Wil took an awful lot of what Siofra said to heart. Dallin cursed the man silently and violently, wondering just how deep the damage really went; Dallin didn’t fear its depths like Calder apparently did, but he worried that Wil would never really be free of its echoes.

  “He’s an extremist,” Dallin went on evenly, “with all of the bigotry and mania extremism entails.” He reached out, laid a hand to Wil’s shoulder. “We’re going to have to handle him carefully, but it’s nothing to do with you.”

  “Of course it’s to do with me,” Wil snapped. “His Aisling isn’t perfect, maybe even crazy, so he—”

  “First of all,” Dallin cut in sharply, “you are not ‘his’ anything, and don’t let him treat you like it for even a second. Did you see how he bowed to you? That’s who you are to him—take advantage of it.” He squeezed Wil’s shoulde
r. “Second of all, Aisling is not who you are. The way I see it, it’s a job, and one you’re still learning. It doesn’t have to be you unless you choose it.”

  Wil peered at him seriously. “You really believe that?”

  “I live it,” Dallin told him. “If I didn’t, I’d never have taken those shackles off you that first night in Dudley. Constable Brayden is… well, was my title—it’s never been my name.”

  “And you really believe there’s a choice?”

  Dallin hesitated. Because when Wil put it like that, the surety suddenly didn’t seem so sure anymore. Nonetheless, Dallin firmed his jaw. “I have to believe it.”

  Because he really did. Even if he was, in this strange new reality, choosing the path that had apparently been set for him, he had to believe it was still his choice.

  Wil looked down, thought about it for a moment. “Do you think I’m mad?” he asked, voice steady but very soft.

  Dallin resisted the urge to open his mouth immediately on a sharp negation. It was a serious question, the answer would carry weight with Wil; Dallin could see the little bit of hope intertwined with rueful expectation. So he paused and gave the question the careful consideration it merited.

  “I think you’re different,” he told Wil sincerely. “I think that what I might once have seen as madness is more just a way of coping and carrying on that I never would have thought of. The simple fact that you now and then wonder about your sanity tells me you’re saner than a lot of people I know—Calder not the least of them. D’you think he ever wonders about his sanity or if he’s even right? D’you think Siofra ever did? The Brethren?”