“He just opens his mouth and it falls out, and suddenly, it almost makes sense, I almost know what it means, but…
but…” He looked at Dallin, clearly and unashamedly distressed. “But there’s the Cradle—caught and caged, right?—and I don’t know if I want to understand it.”
Dallin could only shake his head. “I’m not sure I know what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying that I’m beginning to think all of this has been a waste of time. Why did I even bother—?” His jaw clenched tight and he shook his head. “I’m beginning to think that no matter how I interpret any prophecy, no matter where it came from or who spoke it, whether they were lying or telling the truth, they all come down to the same bloody thing, and there’s no getting away from it.
I don’t think I was entirely serious before when I said I didn’t care what was in Lind, and now I’m thinking it wouldn’t matter if I did or not, because whatever’s coming is going to come, whether I care or not.”
Dallin frowned, pondered it.
The interesting thing about Wil… All right, there were many interesting things about Wil, but the most interesting thing was how he believed in bloody every thing. For all Wil had lived through, for all the surface cynicism, he talked about things Dallin had always thought of as myth and legend as though there was no question whatsoever.
Even having seen and spoken to the Mother Herself hadn’t depleted Dallin’s healthy doubt and—he’d like to think—his reasoning. Wil had been given every reason in the world, and then some, to distrust magic, and yet here he was, accepting the words of a shaman he’d never met before and erstwhile prophecies spoken by, for all they knew, ancient lunatics. Wil was—incredibly, implausibly and against all sense and reason—an idealist. With the widest, most contrary streak of fatalism Dallin had ever witnessed. An idealistic fatalist—what the hell was Dallin supposed to do with that?
He scratched at his chin. “I’ve no idea where this came from,” he said carefully, gave Wil’s shoulder a light squeeze, “but in my experience, the truth of a prophecy is in direct proportion to the sanity of the one who believes it. Any thing can be twisted about to mean something if you try hard enough.”
“And what if I gave you a prophecy?” Wil asked dully.
“Would you believe it?”
Dallin paused. Yes, he probably would, in fact, but now was not the time for such an admission. He shook his head. “Is this about what that man said in Dudley?
Caught and caged? Did something Calder said remind you?” Wil didn’t answer. “All right, think about it, then—hasn’t that one already come to pass? I did throw you in a cell, after all. But let’s don’t forget I let you out. So, that one’s over and done, yeah?”
It made perfect sense to Dallin—so much, in fact, that he was rather proud of himself for thinking of it so quickly, but Wil’s eyes squeezed shut, and he rubbed at his forehead.
“You’re to be my end, you know.”
It was said so calmly, so matter-of-fact, that for a moment, Dallin had to repeat it to himself a few times before it would make sense. And then he couldn’t help the flare of old rage. He shoved it back, let his hand slip from Wil’s shoulder, and made himself respond with unruffled patience.
“We’ve been through this,” he said slowly. “I refuse to be what—”
“I’ve seen it,” Wil cut in, just as calmly. “Did you think you scared me close to pissing my pants back in Putnam merely because of your size?” He shook his head, mouth turning down into a bitter grimace. “I recognized you.
And I don’t just mean that you looked like a Watcher should look—I recognized you.” Dallin opened his mouth to object, but Wil cut him off. “You know it’s true—you know it, because I saw you recognize me, too.
And then I saw you bury it. I saw you willfully disbelieve it, and you’ve been willfully disbelieving it ever since.” A slow shrug. “I thought I could use it, use you until you finally let yourself see it. And I reckoned you would see it eventually, because… well, because that’s how prophecies go. I thought I’d use you to get away from those men, and then I’d get away from you.”
Dallin thought about that at some length, didn’t even bother trying to deny it—not even to himself. He had recognized Wil, the moment he’d seen him. He hadn’t known what to make of it then, so he’d brushed it off, attributed it to salacious tricks, to Wil’s eyes, to Dallin’s own strange fascination…
“None of it matters now,” Wil muttered tiredly.
Dallin thought about that, too, thought about making calm arguments, offering objective logic. But what came out was a low growl between his teeth: “The fuck it doesn’t!”
Absurdly, Wil chuckled—something dark and dry, and utterly devoid of humor. “I’m sorry,” he said, scrubbed both hands roughly over his face, then blinked over at Dallin. “I know how all of this sounds, and I’m only making it worse. But when I say it doesn’t matter… It doesn’t matter in the same way anymore.” He paused, frowning sharply. “I meant it when I said I trust you. And I know that when you give your word, you keep it. So I’ll ask for it in this last thing: Don’t leave me alive inside a cage.”
Again, Dallin had to think about the words, analyze them, fit them into shapes in his mind that made sense. It only took a second this time before the anger snapped all through him, swiffed across a network of nerves like the crack of a whip.
He stood slowly, just as slowly paced the width of the small room, and stared at the wall for a moment, trying to breathe evenly. His fist came up, slammed at the stone before he even realized he was moving, then he wheeled about, turned on Wil.
“You son of a bitch,” he grated.
“I’ve no one else to ask!” Wil cried. “What if it’s all some trick? What if the Cradle is the trap Siofra always said it was? According to Calder, a whole bloody lot of what he said was true. For that matter, what if we never even get there at all? What if Siofra or the Brethren catch us first? Is that how you’d see me live?”
“What the hell is this?” Dallin wanted to know. “How did we get from nonsense prophecies to… here?—and in the space of thirty bloody seconds!”
“Thirty seconds for you,” Wil told him. “C’mon, Constable, you’re the detective, you’re the one with your feet locked in your quick-mud—look at me and tell me you’re as shocked as all that. D’you think this is a new thought for me? Except before, I had no one I could trust enough to ask, no one who… who cared. I’ve been looking at you over my shoulder all my life, waiting for it. I’m not asking you for anything you’re not bound to give.”
The warble of his voice, the grayness of his face—it should have made Dallin stop, calm himself, think it through, but he was too caught up in his own indignant outrage. “How many times,” he snarled, “do I have to prove I’m no danger to you? It was lies, all of it. Those things Calder said—don’t you know what it means? Siofra knew about Lind, he knew about me. And what d’you want to bet me he started out as one of the Brethren? He never needed you to find me, he had you do it because he wanted to see if you could, because he knew it would make you afraid of me. There is no reason—”
“That isn’t what—!” Wil stopped, bent himself over his knees, took several long breaths. Slowly, like the entire world had just been set on his shoulders, he got to his feet, approaching Dallin slowly.
“I’m not accusing you of murder,” he said quietly, eyes bleakly despairing. “I’m asking you for a mercy.”
He stooped down, pulled the knife from his boot. “Here.
Take it. If there is no other way, you’ll put it through my heart and twist, or even put your hands ’round my throat, if it comes to it, snap my neck—”
“Stop!”
Dallin’s arm shot out, knocked away Wil’s hand. The knife went clattering and skidding across the stone floor.
Dallin just watched it for a moment, marking the flash of golden lamplight on honed steel as it fetched up against a corner of the doorframe. It
was too far away, the lettering much too small, but he could swear he could read the blessing etched on its blade as though it were written in fire. He looked away, and tried to slow his breathing. He hadn’t realized his back was to the wall, hadn’t realized he’d retreated as Wil had advanced. There were very few things to which Dallin had ever given ground in fear, but this… this was actually making him recoil and almost cower.
Wil meant it—every word. He was, in all sincerity, asking Dallin to be his suicide—
No. Not asking. He just said he’d seen it, knew it would happen anyway. He wasn’t asking for something he was sure was already coming—he was absolving Dallin before it came.
It should have been darkly touching; it was, after all, probably the most profound show of trust and regard possible, and from someone who almost never showed either. It was, instead, enraging.
“I should hate you for this,” Dallin seethed. “Did you have no thought for me once your corpse dangled at the ends of my hands?”
And what of that? When had this man gone from a pain-in-the-arse renegade to someone Dallin would sincerely mourn if he were suddenly not here anymore? Damn it, had he gone and got attached to a man who suffered no attachments? Fucking sentiment. It really was going to be the end of him one day.
Wil was silent for a long time, then: “No,” he answered faintly. “I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
Dallin sucked in a long breath, took hold of Wil’s arms, and shook lightly. “I’ve seen you give up before,”
he told Wil forcefully. “But you only give up until you realize you can’t give up, and then the badger shows its teeth. Whatever this is… Wil, I understand what you’re saying, I do, but it isn’t the time for this. You haven’t even lived a real life yet.”
“I’m not even sure I want a life anymore,” Wil answered tiredly, that exhausted defeat Dallin had seen back in Putnam creeping into his dull gaze. “I can’t stand the… it hurts, I can’t… it’s all full of knives, knives everywhere, and they’ll never let me live it.”
Dallin had to blink to keep the sudden flare of emotion from leaking out his eyes. “A month ago,” he said softly, “you said you had a life wish as deep as the sea.”
“A month, a year, a thousand years…” A snort, hollow and humorless. “Well… I may have changed my mind.” Wil sagged. “Is it so cowardly?” The misery and pleading in his gaze made Dallin want to look away, but he kept his own gaze steady. “I can’t go back, and I can’t go on to something that might be just as… I can’t…” Wil puffed out a small gasp through throttled tears, dazed and hopeless. “Save me, I can’t take more.”
He meant it; Dallin heard it in the threads of his ragged voice, saw it in the tears that pushed past the stubborn resistance and leaked from eyes gone desolate. Saw the despair, the misery, plain and so real it thumped in his chest. Damn it, Wil had been so confident when he’d walked in with those packs, so proud. He’d actually been almost bloody shining, and now…
A silent, hollow cry of loss moved through Dallin, that image of Wil’s lifeless eyes staring at him from above his own wide hands. Then the betrayed, agonized shrieks of one trapped in endless torment.
The treacherous knowledge of which would be worse.
“You’re not going back,” Dallin vowed, quietly fierce.
“And if you want my word so badly, I’ll give it—I won’t see you caged. I won’t let it happen, and if it comes to it…” He stopped, clenched his teeth. Wil looked at him, the quiet hope in his eyes almost more than Dallin could stand.
“If it comes to it…?”
Dallin closed his eyes, pushed Wil back a little and let go of his arms. “A bullet is faster,” he managed. “And less painful for us both.”
Long silence, thick and nearly choking, then a cold hand reached for Dallin’s, squeezed.
“Look at me,” Wil said softly, “and say it again.”
Mother save or damn him, Dallin did.
He hadn’t thought he’d sleep, almost thinks he didn’t, but there’s the river, and there’s Wil, staring down into its rushing depths. Dallin wonders what Wil sees down there, wonders if he can hear the reflections of the stars as well as the stars themselves, and wonders if their songs are any different.
He remembers thinking Wil beautiful once, as he’d stared, shock-still, into green eyes for the first time. He allows himself to think it again now as he watches the breeze lift dark silk from a clear brow, watches peace spread over the face that had looked at Dallin before with misery and asking. Wil should always wear that smile.
Dallin wishes he could give it to him, wrap it up in a bow, offer it in the palm of his hand like a promise.
‘You can’t give smiles,’ someone had told him once; he thinks it was Corliss, ‘you can only give reasons for them.’
Dallin smiles a little himself.
He used to be surprised by how tall Wil is, but he isn’t anymore. Now he thinks Wil’s not nearly as tall as he ought to be, ought to tower over the world, though Dallin knows the strength and beauty on the inside doesn’t always manifest in the physical. Still, though…
Dallin can’t really imagine Wil looking any other way. Can’t imagine he’d want him to. The smile slips from Dallin’s face and he rubs at his eyes. He sighs, shakes his head. Fucking sentiment.
“Weft and Warp.” A whisper in a low tenor.
It might have startled him, coming from directly behind him like that, but the tone is dulcet and musical, soothing all by itself, like its own song, so Dallin only turns, curious. Several things at once occur to him: He knows exactly before whom he stands. Knows exactly where Wil got his dark hair and fair skin, and that sad, tilted smile. Knows exactly where he got those eyes and the burning life inside them.
Huh , he thinks abstractly, as his glance takes in the smooth cheek, so that’s why he never has to shave. You made him in Your own image.
He is Wil refined, polished. Tall enough to touch the moon, and yet somehow, Dallin looks Him in the eye.
He is elegant twilight personified, with all the power and majesty of the stars. He is perfect complement to His Beloved—night to Her day; star to Her sun.
Only somehow, for all His beauty, Dallin thinks the bit of the Mother in Wil—that earthy humor in his eyes, the occasional winsome artlessness—is more beguiling.
He wonders without guilt if that’s sacrilegious.
He dips his head; bowing and kneeling hadn’t seemed the way of it with the Mother, and it doesn’t seem to be the way of it now, either. Still, respect is the way of it with Dallin, so he settles for the low nod.
“You’re dying.” He hadn’t meant to say that—certainly not by way of greeting—hadn’t even really been aware he owned the knowledge until it tripped out his mouth, but now that he’s said it, he doesn’t really need confirmation.
He knows it, he can smell it.
The Father merely sighs. He waves a pale, long-fingered hand at the sky. “They begin the Weave of my shroud,” He says, “but they do not yet Sing my dirge.”
Dallin frowns, turns to look at Wil; Wil looks back now, shifts his glance between them, but he doesn’t move from beside the water. “You should tell him,” Dallin murmurs, turns back. “He thinks You sleep. He thinks You won’t help him.”
The Father’s eyes drift to Wil, turn just as sad as the Mother’s had done. “And would you have me tell him that my hope lies in his hands?” He shakes His head.
“Too many burdens.”
“Yes,” Dallin answers boldly, “I would tell him. His strength is nearly bottomless, but he grieves for the wrong reasons. Do You think he wouldn’t help You if he knew?”
“On the contrary, I have no doubt that he would.”
The Father sighs again. “Apples and potatoes. He accepts a cage like he belongs in one.” Dallin blinks a little to hear his own words come out someone else’s mouth— this
Someone Else.
His image flickers for a moment before Dallin’s eyes, winks out for
the briefest of seconds then flickers back into focus again. “Time is short,” He tells Dallin, a little lower than before, the smooth tenor going slightly weak and tinny. “Hear me, my brave Gift: your heart is true; do not second-guess it. You have the soul of a Guardian and the mind of a Constable—follow them both. No fate is unchanging; no destiny is set.”
He flickers again, dwindling to a glint of intense eyes, before sparking back into focus. Dallin frowns, thinks about it, brow drawing down.
“It’s Your brother, isn’t it? He’s doing something to You, taking Your strength, and it’s killing You. You’re not even here.”
He’s a dream within a dream. What was that Wil had said?
‘Have you noticed that Aisling means Dream and not Dreamer? Isn’t that strange?’
‘And how d’you know you’re real?’
Dallin stops thinking about it before his mind trips and falls down. He doesn’t know what it’s costing Him to do this, but it must be a lot—to sap the strength of a god…
The Father smiles—delighted and open—so very much like Wil that Dallin almost smiles back, but it seems wrong to him somehow, so he doesn’t.
“There,” He says. “You feared She had not chosen well. You would doubt even the Word of your Makers.”
His smile is approving. “Your own convictions disprove your doubt.” He nods toward Wil. “His choice is what matters.” He fades, almost transparent, then regains His substance. “He chooses you. I would have you see to it that he continues to choose himself, as well. Our fates are joined, but mine is not his to save. You’ve more than one Calling. Shaman.”
And then He’s gone, winks out without so much as a faint gleam to mark that He’d been there. Dallin blinks, shakes his head. Not quite as cryptic as Wil’s experience, apparently, but still, Dallin wonders why They seem loath to just come right out and say things clearly. If he ever gets hold of one of Them again, he’s going to ask.
The Aisling Trilogy Page 51
