The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  Let it come.

  “Dallin!” A sharp shake and a near-snarl. “Dallin Brayden!” A smack this time, right to his ribs; it smarted good, but if Dallin had the breath, he would’ve snorted.

  “You son of a bitch, you promised, you swore, I trusted you, you said—”

  “I said,” Dallin wheezed, propped on his hands and knees, head hanging, lungs wrenching and gasping, “not to hold it back and to…” He had to pause to catch his breath. “…and to do it quick.”

  Wil went loose against him. “Bloody hell,” he breathed, leaned down and dipped his head beside Dallin’s, careful not to lean too hard lest he knock Dallin over, but leaning in just the same. His hand tightened on Dallin’s shoulder, and he blew out a long, shaky breath. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  Dallin lifted his head, squinted up into Wil’s worried face, marked the lack of even the smallest drop of blood, the color to his cheeks, and sagged. He let Wil help him lean back and plant himself semi-steadily on his arse on the floor of the cave. “Now you know how I feel,” was all he said. His eyes went first to the fire: blazing again, but banked lower than an inferno, thank the Mother. He checked what little sky he could see through the cave’s mouth next: still blue and cloudless with no threatening rumbles muttering in the distance. Though, when his eye drifted groundward, he noted a few too many loiterers standing about the cave’s entrance, mere paces away, anxious whispers flitting amongst them, and gazes all trying to pierce through the gloom inside. Dallin trusted they weren’t getting much of a view. He dismissed them, blinked about, saw Shaw right beside Wil—one hand still on Dallin, and one resting lightly between Wil’s shoulder-blades, support and comfort.

  Dallin gripped Wil’s arm, looked closely when Wil peered back just as intently. There was still some bit of worry in Wil’s gaze, and he was still pale and drawn, but color was creeping steadily back into his cheeks, and his eyes were no longer wild and filled with pain and feral power—just green.

  “All right?” Dallin asked.

  Wil gave him a look that was halfway between wonder and exasperation. “Yes, I’m all right. Are you?”

  Dallin had to think about it for a moment. “A bit of a headache, but yeah.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re sure? It’s all…” His hand waved about. “It’s holding?”

  He didn’t really have to ask—he could feel it, like a low hum thrumming somewhere at the bottom of his spine—but it made him feel better when Wil nodded and smiled.

  “I don’t know quite what it is, but yes, it’s holding,” he assured Dallin. “C’mon, let’s get you over there where it’s a little more comfortable.”

  Dallin let Wil and Shaw help him up, though he didn’t feel at all wobbly—just that bit of a headache—but his back was likely going to hurt like hell later. He was already on his feet, trying to stretch his shoulders a little beneath all the hands, when he noticed that were a few too many of them. He turned, frowning, and found that… that boy, that… Calder’s kin… what the hell was his name?

  “Hunter,” Dallin rasped, “what the hell are you doing here?”

  The lad blinked, wide-eyed. “I…” He turned, waved confusedly at the mouth of the cave, where a pewter cup lay in a pool of what was likely the tea he was supposed to bring Wil.

  How long had he been standing there? How much had he seen, and how much of it did he plan to report to the others? And how much did Dallin really care about what Hunter did or who he told?

  “If Calder put you on us to spy,” Dallin said steadily, “you needn’t bother. You’ll find I’m not quite as secretive as he would apparently like. All you have to do is ask.”

  “Spy?” Hunter looked genuinely confused, genuinely… hurt. He shook his head, adamant. “I would… no, I never—”

  “Leave him alone,” Wil scolded, still a little shaky, but apparently gaining back his equilibrium, along with his snark. “He’s not his uncle. He means well.” He leaned in close, dipped his voice. “He bloody worships you, y’know. Have a care.”

  Dallin frowned, peered at Wil with a lift of his eyebrows, and then turned the look on Hunter with barely suppressed suspicion. Worships. Dallin didn’t quite know how to take that one, and had absolutely nothing to say to it, so he didn’t even try. Instead, he looked back at Wil.

  “Uncle?”

  “Well…” Wil shrugged, flicked his glance away. “I just assumed. Here, let’s get you over there and sit you down.”

  It was the aversion of the gaze that made Dallin pause.

  No you didn’t. You know. And he didn’t tell you, did he?

  ‘I could feel it. I can still feel it. All of them.’

  Dallin wondered just exactly what Wil had seen, and how much. Wondered what all that knowing might do to a person’s head.

  “You assumed correctly,” Hunter put in with a dip of his head and an uncertain tilt of a smile. Annoyingly, he followed along as Dallin shrugged off his helpers and sat himself down on the rumpled bedroll. “I am the son of Garrick Calder, brother to Barret Calder.”

  Dallin refrained from asking if Garrick was still alive and if they should be expecting him to show up and get underfoot, as well, and if there were any more Calders running about the place, waiting to pop up and not go away.

  “And are you close?” Wil’s question was quiet. He didn’t look at Hunter as he folded himself down beside Dallin.

  Dallin saw Shaw catch the tone, frown a little, but Shaw kept silent, merely leaned himself against the stone of the cave’s wall. He folded his arms across his chest and watched. It had been necessary to fill Shaw in on quite a lot of Wil’s history after he’d more-or-less sort of commandeered Wil’s horse and joined them in their escape from Chester, but Dallin didn’t remember telling him about Wil’s non-encounter with Wilfred Calder. Perhaps Shaw was in the process of twigging to the coincidence of the names now, or perhaps Calder himself had filled him in.

  Hunter shifted an uncomfortable shrug. “Our families shared inhíredes.” He paused, brow creased in thought, expression brightening when he settled on the right word:

  “Household,” he translated for Wil.

  “So…” Wil looked down, tugging at his fingers like they were too close to his hands. “You would have grown up with his son, then.”

  Dallin was very careful to keep himself from sighing and rolling his eyes. This insistence of Wil’s on seeking rebuke and snatching at guilt that didn’t belong to him was getting wearisome.

  Hunter’s eyes had gone round, cautiously eager. “You have seen Wilfred?”

  “I…” Wil stuttered into silence, shut his eyes and rubbed at his brow.

  Hunter wouldn’t have been told why Wilfred left the Bounds. He wouldn’t have been told why Barret had cut his Marks and followed later. And he obviously hadn’t yet been told that Barret had found, in a sense, what Wilfred had left looking for. Without even knowing exactly what he was looking for… It still set Dallin’s teeth on edge.

  “No, we haven’t seen Wilfred,” Dallin put in, watching with a small pang as Hunter sagged and the earnest gaze dimmed. Dallin shot a quelling glance at Wil— There, are you happy now? You’re not the only one you hurt when you insist on punishing yourself—looked back at Hunter with a bit of a frown. He was so young, so full of illusions, as all young men were; his disappointment showed all too clearly, and Dallin was at a loss as to what to say to it.

  Shaw saved him. “Here then, lad, did you manage to find some of that wood betony?” he asked kindly. He pointedly didn’t look at the former contents of the cup still lying spilt across the stone floor. Dallin didn’t even want to guess at which part of the previous half-hour or so the boy had walked in on that had startled him enough to drop it.

  “Oh!” Hunter jumped to his feet. “My apologies, Wil from Ríocht,” he said with a small, diffident bow.

  “I…” He looked over at the cup with obvious chagrin.

  “It… When I…” He shook his head, flushed. “I’ll fetch another.”
And then he was gone, snatching up the cup smoothly as he went, scattering the crowd that had gathered outside with a few sharp, imperious words and animated shooing gestures.

  Dallin watched him go, sighed. He turned to Wil with a grimace.

  Wil still had his head down, fingers working at his brow—more to hide his face now than a reaction to any lingering pain. “I know, I know,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”

  “Brayden will perhaps forgive me for speaking for him,” Shaw ventured softly, “but I believe the point is rather that you’ve nothing for which to be sorry.”

  Well, then. Not only did it put Dallin’s thoughts into concise words, but it rather answered the question as to how much Shaw knew.

  “I know,” Wil said again, this time with a heavy sigh.

  He finally lifted his head and looked up. “I know it with my head.” He turned his gaze on Dallin, apparently marking the skepticism there. “I do. I just…” He shook his head. “It feels… unfair that I should be here, in his country, among his people who loved and miss him, and using his name.”

  Dallin was immediately sorry for any cross thoughts he’d had a moment ago. He propped his arm behind Wil and leaned back—not quite an arm about him, but hopefully just enough light contact for comfort.

  “Perhaps,” Shaw said slowly, thoughtfully, “perhaps ‘using his name’ is not the proper way to think about it.”

  He paused, peering sharply at Wil. “Perhaps ‘honoring it’ would sit better.”

  Wil’s brow drew in, pensive, and he looked down again, fingers twitching at each other, but not yanking and twisting as before. Thinking about it, but seemingly not howling inside. Dallin had had plenty of cause over the last several days to be thankful Shaw had followed his impulse toward adventure that day in Chester; here was another. And the now-shaman’s former vocation—to which, granted, Dallin hadn’t twigged ’til he’d seen how Shaw sat a horse—might prove extraordinarily handy, if Shaw would ever open his mouth and own it.

  “I’ve brought the kettle this time,” Hunter said as he ducked through the cave’s opening, kettle in one hand and cup in the other. He didn’t wait for instruction but crouched down in front of them, poured steaming tea into the cup and offered it to Wil before putting the kettle to the side.

  Wil accepted the tea with a flimsy smile, but leaned in to mutter quietly to Dallin: “I don’t want to hurt his feelings, since he’s gone to all the trouble—twice—but I really don’t need it anymore.”

  “You will,” Dallin answered just as softly. “We’re not quite through yet.”

  Wil still didn’t move to take a sip. Instead, he stared down into the cup for a long moment then lifted a tense, half-embarrassed look up at Dallin. “It’s… it smells…”

  He looked down again, shook his head, dropped his voice so low Dallin had to lean in to hear him. “It’s flowery, and I…”

  Dallin didn’t need for him to finish, which was good, because it was all too clear that he couldn’t. Dallin blamed Hunter for even mentioning bloody mæting in the first place. As casually as he could, he folded his hand over Wil’s, guided the cup to his own lips and took a sip himself, then pushed it back. Slightly bitter beneath the lavender and honey, but not bad. And definitely not laced with anything more sinister than wood betony and some spice. He pushed it back at Wil.

  “It’s fine, no worries,” he said with no fuss and no judgement. “I’ll have a cup when you’re through.” He twitched his shoulders, shot Wil a small smirk and rubbed at his sore neck, deliberately dropping the subject of the tea. “Don’t know your own strength, you.”

  Wil returned a rueful smile. “That’ll teach you to reprimand me when I’m being pummeled by…” The smile slanted into new uncertainty. “What was all that?”

  “That,” Dallin sighed, “was— is—the Aisling’s legacy. Except you’re special, so you get more of it. Lucky you.”

  Wil and Shaw both cut their eyes toward Hunter, frowning. Dallin merely shrugged. He turned to Hunter with a challenging lift of his eyebrows.

  “One of the things over which your uncle and I vehemently disagree is secrets. I don’t like them; he thinks they’re a necessary part of life. What do you think, Hunter?”

  Hunter’s own eyebrows went up, but in surprise and near-chagrin to be so pinned to the spot, as he found himself. “I think…” He looked to Wil for help, found only bemusement to match his own. He answered the challenge, rather than the question: “Was that why you quarreled with the Old Ones?”

  “Part of it.”

  “No one has ever quarreled with the Old Ones.”

  Hunter’s expression was a mix between intrigue and rebuke.

  “Then this is new for them,” Dallin answered. “And if I have my way—and by tradition, I should—it’s the first of several new things.” He sat forward, draping an arm over his up-thrust knee. “Haven’t you ever wondered what they do up there beneath that great Temple? Hasn’t it ever angered you that you’re kept so far removed from your own religion? Don’t you want to know what their Marks mean?”

  Hunter looked down for a moment, studied the floor.

  “It is the way of things,” he answered slowly, lifted his head. By the new light in his blue eyes, Dallin could tell he’d hit a nerve. “It has always been the way of things.”

  “That doesn’t make it right,” Dallin told him. “Sit down.” He waited for Hunter to comply, then: “You know of Ríocht’s Chosen.” Hunter’s glance went immediately to Wil, narrowed a little. He nodded. “Do you know the legend of the Aisling?”

  Again, Hunter nodded, the vague suspicion in his gaze dulling somewhat to… Dallin wasn’t sure but he thought it might be disappointment. Hunter just shrugged and waved his hand. “The Beloved who sings the songs of rain and sun to the Mother in the People’s voices. Some still burn offerings to him in times of drought or flood, but most have forgotten.”

  Dallin hadn’t known what answer he’d expected, but this one piqued his interest. He’d never heard of the Aisling until Manning had hit him with it that first day he’d met Wil, and he’d lived here until he’d been twelve.

  Except… that wasn’t entirely true, was it? Hadn’t it rung a faint bell, even way back then?

  He tilted his head. “How d’you know of it, then?”

  “Calders have walked Lind since the Mother birthed it,” Hunter answered, ingenuously proud. “My name’s song is quite long.”

  Ah. Dallin couldn’t help the small stab of envy and the childish wish that his father had lived long enough to teach him his own songs. Not, apparently, that he would’ve remembered it. He pushed it away, caught Wil looking at him with something soft and sympathetic. Dallin gave him a reassuring smile, turned back to Hunter and waved his hand at Wil.

  “Hunter Calder, I’d like you to meet Ríocht’s Chosen, the Father’s Gift to the Mother, and my friend—the Aisling. No bowing necessary.” He ignored Shaw’s bit of a gasp and turned to Wil with a small smirk. “You don’t want them all bowing to you, right?”

  “I…” Wil’s mouth was hanging open, and he stared at Dallin, wide-eyed, but he managed a dazed shake of his head. “Um… no?”

  Dallin grinned. “You’re not drinking your tea.” He waited for Wil to take an obligatory sip, still frowning in surprise, then turned back to Hunter, keen to analyze his reactions. If Dallin had his way, Hunter would be the first to know all of the deadly-deep secrets, but by no means the last.

  Hunter was staring rather blankly at Wil. “Dúil,” he said softly, slowly, then slid his gaze over to the fire, out the cave’s mouth to the sky. A frown gathered at his brow as he turned back to Wil. His expression had gone awed, almost overwhelmed, but there was instant belief—helped, no doubt, by the dancing fires and threat of thunder in the clear blue sky only a little while ago, but not nearly so much Prove It as Dallin had waded through. The immediate trust was somewhat disturbing but still exactly what Dallin had been hoping for.

  “Brayden,” Shaw put in, so
ftly cautious, “do you really think this is wise?”

  Dallin turned to him, all smart-arse smirks and cheeky retorts gone. “I think it’s not only wise, but necessary,” he answered steadily. “We have Commonwealth soldiers pawing the ground and tugging at their reins at the Bounds, a band of who-knows-how-many nutters who want to steal Wil and push him out of his own mind roaming the countryside, and in case you’d forgotten, they know exactly where we are. That’s not even counting what the Guild’s reaction will be when they get word their emissary is dead and their Chosen once again missing—’kidnapped’ by me, no less, and with too many witnesses for even the Brethren to silence this time.

  “Lind is a tiny piece of land, relatively speaking, caught right between Ríocht on one side and Cynewísan on the other, and Cynewísan wants us just as badly as Ríocht does. The very last thing any of us needs right now is more bloody secrets.” He paused, throttled down the anger welling at the back of his throat, took a calming breath. “Considering all that,” he told Shaw more evenly, “I think it’s the smartest damned thing I’ve ever done.”

  He turned to Wil. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked you first, but—”

  “No, it’s…” Wil was frowning but not angrily. “It’s smart, you’re right, I just… There are soldiers at the Bounds?”

  “Ah. Shit. Yes, sorry.” Dallin shrugged. “I forgot you’d need some catching-up.” Not forgotten, really—there’d hardly been a moment, after all. “They didn’t exactly chase us here, but they might as well have done. The result’s the same, after all. The company that escorted Siofra to Chester is there, no doubt with reinforcements by now, and if not yet, then soon enough. Nine of the Old Ones have been out there with a good number of Weardas since we arrived, keeping them from crossing over and trying to avoid making it necessary for countrymen to start shooting at each other. The Brethren are lurking out there somewhere, but if past observation means anything, I don’t think they’ll have the brass to try anything on that side of the Border.” He grimaced. “Though there’s nothing stopping them from going around and trying from their own side. Besides lack of intelligence, of course.”