The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  Wil only scowled a little and burrowed under the fur, not being particularly careful with his elbows, just for spite. “Bothersome,” he muttered, and let his eyes drift shut again.

  This… was not at all the sight to which he’d expected to wake. Wil blinked, rubbed at his eyes then gave his head a good, sharp shake. No, still there.

  He’d been alone when he’d opened his eyes mere moments ago, well-rested and surprisingly serene, all things considered. No slow coming back to himself this time, just an instant of going from sleep to waking, an unconcerned understanding that he was alone—no big, broad, not-so-soft Dallin for a pillow this time—then a sharp awareness of gnawing hunger.

  Out for four days, going on five, and exactly how had he been getting fed? He wasn’t hungry hungry, certainly not starving, just really damned hungry, so something had obviously been managed. And now that the heaviness of a morning visit to a privy-loo-bush-whatever was knocking at his groin, he had to wonder—how had he been…?

  Never mind, he didn’t want to know.

  He’d been dressed in a soft, sage tunic made of velvety suede—far too roomy, but very warm—and drawers when he woke. It took only a few seconds to blink about the little stone hovel and locate some trousers: his, from his pack, he was pleased to see. And his own drawers, too, while he was at it—thank you, Dallin—though all of the food he’d had stashed in the pack was now gone; turned rotten and tossed, he supposed. His shirts were all gone, too, though there was a pair of trousers and three pairs of stockings left. Upon less-casual inspection of his surroundings, he noted the rifle was missing, though the knife had been set neatly atop his pack. The absence of the rifle bothered him somewhat. He hoped he hadn’t lost it in all the… whatever had happened while he’d been… swooning.

  Too much, too big, too dark…

  Swooning . Swooning. Like a… like a… swooning… thing.

  Weak.

  With a small growl, Wil dragged on stockings and boots, dropped the knife into the left, and ambled a little stiffly to the mouth of the small cave. He paused to squint into bright daylight…

  And found himself peering out onto a camp of at least twenty brawny, blond giants. Massive shoulders bloody everywhere. At least two-thirds of them were women and even they were at least half-wider than Wil. Hair long and pulled back at the temples in beaded braids, or queued in long tails down their backs. More than a few of them even had feathers twined at the ends of the plaits. All of them in varying shades of the earth—browns and greens, russets and grays—all of them in leathers and suedes and flaxes, all of them in short, heavy animal skin coats, lined in fur or wool, and all of them armed: bows and quivers, guns and holsters, swords and scabbards. Milling about a central fire-pit, bigger than the smattering of individual blazes that radiated outwards from it. Kettles or pots of water hung over them from makeshift tripods. Ownership seemed to be defined by saddles and cooking supplies, set up about each fire. Another several giants stalked the perimeter, keeping watch.

  Wil didn’t choke on fear when he saw them. He choked on astonishment. The fear came after. Not really fear, exactly. More like an overfaced disquiet. He’d got used to Dallin, certainly, but this was… different. He didn’t feel so puny around Dallin. Too bad they kept themselves so secluded and didn’t breed outside their borders—a country full of men and women like this and Ríocht would never dare fire another shot. People like this didn’t just let someone walk in and take from them, after all.

  They looked very much a part of this place, their beiges and greens blending with the hunchbacked foothills that sprouted up almost at their feet and rolled upwards and outwards, plumped with unbroken tree-cover, like the backs of great green sheep, but for a brown strip of road that wound up the spine of the anchoring highlands. Lind.

  And with the steady mutter of the river behind—just behind, on the other side of the rock formations in which this little beehive of caves nestled—Wil guessed he was now standing in Cildtrog, birthplace of Dallin Brayden: pride’s people; from the valley; brave. On the whole, he’d say his introduction to the place, after all the drama of deciding to come, and then trying to get here, was rather anticlimactic. Just as well.

  With a nervous glance outwards, Wil spotted Dallin easily; Dallin’s hair might have been going a bit shaggy just lately, but it was short compared to everyone else here, and it made him easy to single out. He stood just at the edge of the campsite, in intense conference with Calder—naturally—and Shaw, and another three giants.

  Wil couldn’t hear anything from here, but for all the body-language, they may as well have been screaming.

  Dallin was shaking his head a lot, jaw set hard, eyes narrowed, riding right over Calder and anyone else who dared speak, with what appeared to be a rather scathing opinion of something. Calder’s tanned face had gone red, and if he didn’t stop pointing that finger at Dallin’s chest pretty soon, Wil mused, he was likely to lose it. Shaw just looked worried, while the others stood a little apart, watching calmly. Every now and then, one of them would interject with something, Dallin or Calder would listen and respond, then it would all begin again.

  A debate over the worth of Wil’s life again? A reliving of the mess he’d apparently made in Chester? In Dudley? All the way back to Old Bridge? Ríocht and Cynewísan? Everywhere in-between?

  Wil sighed, eyeing the little enclave then eyeing the fire-pit. The smell of cooking meat was wafting toward him now, tapping at his empty belly, which in turn started shrieking at his brain. He wanted to know what was going on with Dallin and Calder, but he wanted food more.

  Well, all right, he wanted food first. But before that, he’d have to wade through a sea of giants.

  He ventured slowly from the darkness at the cave’s mouth and into sunlight, placing his boots carefully in the spongy, winter-pale grass. He was still stiff and sore, and a little dizzy, eyes dazzled in the bright light of day, and a headache he hadn’t noticed while he was lying down was sending a dull pulse through his temples. Not so much hurting; more like rattling its chains and clanking a stern warning.

  …your brain nearly exploded out your ears…

  Wil supposed a lingering headache was a small thing, by comparison.

  Horses were penned in what looked like a rough-fenced pasture on the outskirts of the camp, smaller paddocks scattered around it, and Wil reconsidered his assumption that this was a temporary site. He was pleased to spot Sunny and Miri—and the one he’d more-or-less stolen and hadn’t had time to name yet—milling about with the rest and made a note to greet them after he’d begged something to eat from whomever was cooking whatever that meat was that was making his mouth water.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched in a little against the breeze, regretting almost instantly that he hadn’t thought to hunt about for his coat. Watching his steps on the slippery ground, he paused by one of the small fires—this one sporting a good cast-iron kettle almost at the boil—dragged his hands from his pockets and crouched over it for a quick warm-up, stretched his hands under the kettle and over the flames.

  … great gobs of it, like a ghost was throwing balls of it…

  Curious, Wil shot a quick glance about to see if anyone had marked him yet, then turned back to the fire. Opening himself up the tiniest bit, he flattened his hand, watching, weirdly relieved, as the flames skutted down, and compressed over the edges of the small pit like the petals of a fiery flower. He shook out his hand and blinked it away. Only the tiniest of pushes, but the headache stretched and tendriled behind his eyes now, and he rubbed at them. Probably shouldn’t’ve been messing about with it so soon, but it made him feel a little better, knowing it was still there. Furtively, he swiped at his nose, relieved when his fingers came away clean and dry. Dallin would kick his arse for him, if he did anything stupid so soon after he’d more-or-less sucked himself dry to heal him. Now that he thought about it, it seemed a little ungrateful. Cautiously, Wil lifted his head and cut a guilty glance over his should
er. Dallin was still in heated consultation, and looked like he was nowhere near finishing up yet. Good. Wil just wouldn’t mention his little test when they were finally done with their pissing contest.

  He snorted, shook his head, turned back to the fire— Almost fell backward on his arse.

  A pair of tall, fringed buckskin boots rose up from the ground, long, thick kid-covered legs sprouting from the tops and climbing up—and up and up and up… Wil followed the line of the wide body past the buff and sheepskin coat, finally craning his neck, gaze coming to rest on candid indigo eyes set in a grave young face, a sober smile crooking over wind-chapped lips, and crinkling the small semi-circle of cobalt tattoos inked over a high cheekbone.

  The young man stared for a moment, seemingly unaffected when Wil just stared warily back, then he quirked his brow ever-so-slightly, dipped a small bow.

  “Hunter Calder,” he said.

  Wil couldn’t help the twist of his mouth, the quick drawing away of his gaze. Bloody hell, was he going to be stumbling over Calders for the rest of his—admittedly probably short—life? His throat was suddenly dry, the aches and twinges in his bones tightening as tension took hold of him in a tight fist. None of which was helping the headache.

  “Wil,” he muttered, kept his head down, eyes to the ground.

  The young man cleared his throat and scuffed the heel of his boot in the spongy sod, digging a small channel in the soft grass in its wake. “You are a sorcerer, then?”

  Wil shot him a sideways frown, raised an eyebrow.

  Sorcerer. Ha.

  The young man—Hunter—gestured at the fire. “I saw a woman command fire once. When I was very young.”

  Wil thought he looked very young now. “Made it burn every color of the rainbow, but it didn’t dance to her will. We young ones thought it quite clever, even so. She called herself a sorceress, but the Old Ones called her a trickster and sent her away.”

  Wil flicked another glance up, sorry already that he’d been so stupid as to do what he’d just done out in the open like that. Dallin would kick his arse twice-over. And now that he’d done it, opened up, he couldn’t stop seeing the patterns.

  “Trickster, eh?” He eyed the young man, measuring.

  He didn’t look like he was about to run for a noose or anything, but you never knew. Wil turned his gaze back to the fire, shut his eyes when he couldn’t make the shapes of the threads recede, couldn’t make it all stop pulsing behind his eyes. Anyway, what was he supposed to say?

  Hullo, I’m the person who pointed the way to the raid that took out every young male between ten and twenty before you were born—good thing you weren’t born yet, though, eh?—and I’ve been told it wasn’t my fault, and I’ve been told I was tricked, but that doesn’t quite take away the fact that I did it, does it?

  “No, I’m not a sorcerer,” he said quietly. “I’m just…” He thought about it, couldn’t come up with anything with which to even vaguely define himself. “I’m just nobody,” was all he said.

  Hunter hunkered down on the other side of the fire, head atilt, quizzical. “The Old Ones do not call upon the Weardas to guard Just Nobody. The Old Ones do not command the Weardas to cross the Bounds to defend a Domin—” He cut himself off. “—defend an outlander Just Nobody and escort him into the very heart of our country.”

  Wil had nothing to say to that, and even if he did, he thought it best to keep his mouth shut until he knew just what these people had been told. “Weardas?” he asked.

  “Ah.” Hunter squinted thoughtfully at the sky for a moment, then looked again to Wil. “‘Guard’ suits best, I expect. Perhaps ‘Sentry.’” He shrugged. “Some of the First Words encompass many meanings.”

  Wil thought of all of those meanings for Wæpenbora Dallin had rattled off in that little inn outside Dudley, and nodded. “Is that what your Marks say?”

  Hunter lifted a big, chapped hand unconsciously to his cheekbone. “So I’m told. At any rate, it’s what they mean.”

  A distinction Wil could certainly understand. “You don’t cut them into your skin, then—like the Old Ones.”

  The open expression narrowed slightly. “You have been to Lind?”

  “No,” Wil replied, wondered if he’d said too much already, and waved a hand over his shoulder toward Dallin. “My…” He trailed off, confused. Just exactly what was Dallin to him now? And would whatever they were to each other be acceptable here? “My friend…”

  He caught the word as it came out his mouth and trailed off again. He’d never called anyone by that descriptive before.

  “Ah, I wasn’t thinking,” Hunter said. “You are the companion of Dallin Brayden.” He placed a hand over his heart, dipped his head, as though the name itself held some sort of reverence for him. “You would be aware of some of our customs, then.”

  Wil looked down, curled his fingers over the flames, tried to ignore the things inside them, the things inside everything around him, and shivered. “Some,” he muttered. He really should have gone back for his coat; the chill was working right through him, despite the fire.

  He kneaded at the headache. “You knew of him before?”

  The blue eyes widened in surprise. “Of course. All in Lind know of the Lost Shaman. We have been waiting for him.” Hunter didn’t seem to notice Wil’s discomfiture.

  “Tell me,” he ventured, “did he truly destroy Chester with his spells to rescue you?” He paused at Wil’s bit of a flinch, seemed to twig to his own lack of discretion, and dipped his head. “Forgive me, but… he has been spoken about since I was a boy. He’s become somewhat of a legend. Many spoke as though he was lost forever, and I don’t think I actually expected to set my own eyes on him, and now…” A light flush crept to his tanned cheeks. “We didn’t arrive in time to see what happened in Chester, we joined your party just outside it, but I saw him fight against your countrymen, you see. I thought perhaps, now he’s home, he might… teach.”

  It took a moment for the sense of it to get through the growing pain behind Wil’s eyes. The lad was just too bloody bright with his gyrating reds and golds. It was distracting and even painful to look at him, drilling into Wil’s eyes with too much… here ness.

  “Fight…” Wil squinted. “My countrymen…?

  “Ah, yes, I expect you wouldn’t remember.”

  Soft sympathy; a tiny bit of condescension toward the weak little Dominionite who’d apparently had to be rescued by the big, strong Lost Shaman in Chester, and then defended in some skirmish Wil hadn’t even guessed had happened. Just as well, he supposed, or he might have been throwing random fireballs into the middle of it all and setting them all ablaze, regardless of who was who.

  “Ten of them,” Hunter supplied, paused for a quick sneer before going on: “They skulked outside the Bounds, tried to prevent us from entering our own country.” He lowered his voice, leaned in with narrowed, angry eyes. “They wore Marks they did not own.”

  “Oh,” Wil said faintly. This time, he rubbed at his brow. The Brethren. Of course. He’d almost forgotten about them. “They are no countrymen of mine,” he said, quiet and through his teeth.

  If Hunter heard him, he didn’t acknowledge it.

  “Dallin Brayden led the defense when they attacked, took command from our own Weardgeréfan and turned it to a thorough rout. They say he was a captain—in the Cavalry.” Hunter’s indigo eyes had gone bright with something both light and dark at the same time. Lust, but not the sort Wil was used to seeing in the eyes of a young man. A warrior trained for battle, too-obviously in his prime, and with no war on which to exert that hunger.

  Hunter’s gaze went softly avid. “What’s he like?”

  Wil stared. Blinked. Tried kneading at the base of his skull this time.

  Oh, for pity’s sake—the boy’s in love with him. Listening to stories about him since he was a child, romanticizing it all, and now he’s seen him and he’s gone and lost his head.

  And how was Wil supposed to answer a question like
that?

  Well, let’s see—he’s strong enough to break me in half if he wants to, and yet I don’t think I’ve ever felt a gentler touch. He could easily walk about and take anything he wants, but he never takes from another without permission. He’s denied his magic his whole life, and then in the space of less than a week he learned to heal himself of a stab-wound and then heal me of… something I don’t want to think about. He had a life that he loved, a job he was very good at—I know, I saw him do it up close—and he walked away from all of it because he thought it was the right thing to do. He’s intensely passionate, but you have to pay attention; you have to look beyond the self-possession to see the coals burning behind his eyes. But you’d better be careful, because he’ll look back and see you, too.

  ‘What’s he like?’ can’t be answered with words; you have to be there beside him and live it with him to even begin to understand who and what he is. And even then, he’ll likely surprise you.

  Wil frowned, rubbed at his eyes.

  Oh, hell… Does that mean I’ve lost my head over him, too?

  A flush warmed Wil’s cheeks, and he shook his head, stopped when the pain flared out, wrapped about his skull like an iron band, tightening. He stood—a little slowly and awkwardly, like he’d aged fifty years while he’d slept. He’d got up too soon, that was all this was. He should’ve stayed in the dark little cave and waited for Dallin to come and coddle him some more.

  Weak little Dominionite in the middle of all these great big Linders, needs to be rescued and defended, coddled and cosseted, then condescended to by someone who wasn’t even alive when I’d already done my worst…

  He had to get out of here. He wasn’t even hungry anymore.

  “I’m sorry,” Wil said. “This must be your own campfire, and I didn’t mean to impose. I was only—”