The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  “I beg to differ,” Thorne retorted, his voice more stern than Wil had heard it yet. “It is not our business to sit in judgment upon either the Guardian or the Aisling, but you must think about it as the Shaman now. Here we are, presented with an Aisling who possesses more powers than any before him—some that even we do not understand, all of them raw and untamed—and a Guardian who loves him above all.”

  Wil couldn’t help but blink at that one, snap his glance quickly over to Dallin. Dallin flushed a little, tightening his jaw, but he didn’t look at Wil.

  “Our task, our Calling, requires us to—” Thorne paused, shook his head. “No, it demands that we do not unleash upon the world one who will loose that power unfettered. Chester is but one example, and a small one, of what you are capable.”

  “But I wasn’t even conscious!” Wil defended. “I didn’t mean to, I wouldn’t—”

  “And that is our concern,” Marden cut in. His expression softened to one of understanding and concern. “You are a good man, as Brother Thorne testified. We know it. You wear your heart like a crown upon your head, visible to all and shining bright through the darkness. But even a good man’s neck may bend beneath the weight of what you carry.” His mien went stern. “You nearly destroyed a city in your pain and anger. We are told the storms alone were violent enough to wash away small animals, the hailstones large enough to knock grown men unconscious in the streets. You moved the very earth, lad—uprooted structures from the bedrock like you were plucking weeds. And all of that in your sleep.”

  Wil was mute. He hadn’t known the destruction had gone so far.

  “Countless were injured,” Siddell put in. “We have no word yet if any were killed.” He lifted a thin eyebrow. “Besides Siofra, of course.”

  Wil flinched—he couldn’t help it.

  “That,” Dallin said slowly, “is extraordinarily unfair. Siofra—”

  “Siofra,” Thorne interjected grimly, “was an evil little man, who has done unfathomable damage —not only to our countries and our world, but to Wil himself.” He looked at Wil steadily, his gaze just this side of hard, despite his implication of defense. “Do you even know what you did to him, lad?”

  Wil held the gaze for as long as he could, then tore his own away, pointed it unseeing toward his curled fist. Nodded.

  “What does it matter what he did to that piece of… filth?” Dallin seethed. “If you’re going to sit here and tell me that he didn’t deserve every damned—”

  “I crushed his mind,” Wil put in softly. He opened his palm, stared at the charm, almost pulsing in the wavering light of the fire, like it had twined with the beat of his own heart. He let his fingers curl over it loosely. “I held everything he was in my hand, and then I closed my fingers.” He paused, looking first to the three old men and then to Dallin. “I found his Thread and I tore it out. Father…” Shame he hadn’t even considered before took Wil; he felt his cheeks flush with it. He looked right at Dallin, ignored the others. “We’re not meant to meddle and change,” he said, small and raspy. “Before you knew me, the very thought horrified you. Now you condone it.”

  A flash of hurt skittered over Dallin’s features, a harsh flicker of betrayal. “That’s hardly what—”

  “No, I’m not criticizing you—in fact, I’m grateful.” Wil reached over, set his hand to Dallin’s knee. “But they’re right. You’re here for me, not the Aisling; you said it yourself. They should be afraid of me. I’m afraid of me.” He jerked his head toward the Old Ones. “They’ve a right to be concerned. But they don’t know you.” He leaned in. “You’ll do what’s right, even if it means I don’t live through it. I know that.” Dallin looked away. Wil leaned closer, relentless. “Swallow your pride and tell it to them.”

  Dallin was staring out the mouth of the cave, his jaw set, obviously just as angry with Wil as he was with the three old men. Slowly, he turned his head, set a wrathful gaze on Wil, the muscles in his cheeks and jaw twitching and ticcing with suppressed rage.

  “Should it come to it,” he said through his teeth, dark eyes nearly black, but steady and burning into Wil’s, “I claim the right—no one else.”

  Wil pulled in a long breath, ashamed that he was yet again forcing something that Dallin was so profoundly and morally against. “Tell them what you claim,” Wil pushed, reluctantly ruthless. “Say the words.”

  Impossibly, Dallin’s jaw set even harder, so tight Wil could actually hear his teeth grinding. He abruptly stood, knocking Wil’s hand from off his knee, stalked over to the cave’s opening and looked out. “I claim the right of murder,” he ground out coldly. “Execution. Slaughter. How many more ways d’you want me to say it?” He turned his burning glance to the Old Ones. “I’ll kill him, is that what you want to hear? If he proves too dangerous, I’ll snuff him out. Snap his neck, he said to me once—handed me a bloody knife and demanded the promise. You’re a little late with your concerns, y’see; he’s already beat you to it. So, if we’re done with this, I suggest we move on. Because this is not—even remotely—what I was told you wanted to discuss.”

  The Old Ones—three men heavy with years, skilled in magic, and rich in wisdom—sat shamefaced before their Shaman, heads bowed beneath his wrath. Wil’s cheeks tingled, too, with his own bit of contrition, but there was the confidence of necessity beneath it, mixed with a selfish warmth blooming from the core of Dallin’s fury. It confirmed Wil’s faith. Not only in Dallin and the emotion from which the anger sprang—the depth of feeling alluded to by Thorne and demonstrated so plainly in Dallin’s muted reaction to it, and then again in this very overt reaction to Wil’s demand—but in the promise itself.

  Wil stared up at Dallin, waiting until the dark, furious gaze clashed with his. “I’m sorry, I—” Dallin gave a sharp shake of his head, teeth still clenched tight, then paced slowly back over, lowered himself just as slowly beside Wil again, growled, “Fuck your apologies,” low and dangerous, then glared at the Old Ones. “You’ve three seconds to start talking or we’re done.”

  It was very telling, this slip of self-possession. Wil didn’t often think about how events affected Dallin—he so often didn’t allow them to affect him at all. The pressure must be getting harder and harder to contain, right along with his temper.

  Thorne gathered himself first, lifted his head, and turned his gaze to Wil. “You sit now in the Mother’s Cradle, the place from which all life sprang. You have felt the power here.” It had been more like being pounded relentlessly by an invisible sledgehammer, but Wil nodded acknowledgement.

  “I venture to say you feel it more keenly than any other,” Thorne went on. “It knows you and calls to its own.”

  “Tell him what that means,” Dallin demanded, keeping his hard gaze on Thorne and deliberately away from Wil.

  All three of the old men were shaking their heads. “We are not sure what it means to you, lad,” Marden answered. “We have meditated, asking, and always the answer to any one of us has been, The Heart of the World is born in FAeðme, nothing more.” He peered at Wil, hopeful. “Do you know what that means?”

  Wil blinked, turned to Dallin. No help there. Dallin was still brooding and avoiding Wil’s gaze. He turned back to Marden with a frown. “No. Should I?”

  Marden sighed, disappointed, and sat back with a shake of his head. “We do not know.”

  “It means,” Dallin put in, calm and flat, “that you are more than you were meant to be.” He turned his gaze slowly to Wil, the concern beneath it crowding out the anger somewhat. “Ordinarily, the Aisling is brought here when his Guardian receives the Call. He is taught and tutored, and when he is deemed ready, he is taken to FAeðme—to the Mother.”

  His gaze softened yet further when he saw Wil’s unintentional flinch. “You’re different,” he went on, less harshly—softer, and with more of the familiar warmth in his tone. “The power here is vast, it almost staggers the mind; no one could take it all and keep their sanity. No one but you.” Dallin shook his head, held
up a hand when Wil opened his mouth. “It gathers at you—it isn’t just asking you to take it, it’s begging, demanding. I could feel it all when you pushed the pain at me. Eventually, if you stay here for much longer, you’re either going to have to let it in or it’s going to crush you.”

  He leaned in, tapped at Wil’s chest, set the little crystal bobbing and knocking against his breastbone. “You are the Heart of the World. Or you will be, once you take what’s being offered.”

  Wil was… staggered. “I…” He shook his head, peered at the Old Ones, but they were staring at Dallin, a mix of enlightenment and chagrin on each wrinkled face, and no help at all. “Offered?” was all Wil could say.

  “Ahhh,” Thorne breathed, sudden illumination blossoming over his weathered face. He offered Dallin a small, sad smile, and dipped his head. “Power to power. Blood to blood.”

  Wil snapped his glance at Thorne, narrowed it. “What does that mean?” he demanded. “Blood kin to the Father,” Siddell put in softly, his expression also moving toward sorrow, sympathy. “And so, therefore, blood kin to His own.”

  Wil’s stomach dropped, all the way down to the floor. “Aeledfýres,” he heard himself whisper. Thorne nodded slowly. “Your Guardian tells us he stood right at the very edge of you and felt the Soul-eater emerge from a mere memory.”

  Wil’s dazed stare went slowly to Dallin’s, collided, then hung there. Dallin merely looked back, steady as ever, supportive and encouraging despite his genuine rage of a few moments ago.

  “If only a memory was that powerful…” Dallin began.

  “…then imagine what the reality must be,” Wil supplied hoarsely. Pulling and tugging and twisting, laughing and whispering… Blood to blood. Wil shut his eyes tight for a moment, opened them when he felt Dallin’s hand settle back on his shoulder. “A minor god,” he whispered.

  Dallin nodded, mouth twisting. “This place—it’s handing itself to you. She’s handing it to you.” A cold shudder worked through Wil; Dallin’s hand tightened in response. “She wants me to fight for Him.”

  “And She’s giving you the tools.”

  Wil shut his eyes. “How d’you know all this?” he asked, voice faint and shaky. He slid Dallin a sideways glance, hoping for… something. Confusion. Reservation. Doubt. He found none of those things. “Did She… have you…?”

  Dallin was shaking his head, rueful but not doubtful. “No. I’ve not seen either one of Them since that time by the river.”

  “And yet…?”

  “Yes,” Dallin answered firmly. “Yes. I’m sorry, but I’m sure.”

  Sure. Just like all the other times when he was sure for no reason, and turned out to be entirely right. And yet if anyone dared suggest it was anything other than reasoning and logic, he’d likely give them the same disgusted roll of his eyes he’d been directing at Calder since they’d met him.

  You don’t need to talk to Her—you really do know. You really are the Mother’s creature, and you don’t even know how much She’s given you. What more do you know that you don’t even know you know yet? And what do you suppose it’ll do to us, when you finally let yourself see the end? Do you really think She’s doing any of this for me?

  Wil shook his head, sucked in a long breath.

  On second thought, yes, you probably do. And maybe She is. Odd, how that doesn’t matter as much as I’d thought it should. Because you’re doing it for me, and that’s… probably ridiculously dangerous, but I can’t make myself care. More than I’d ever thought I’d want, more than I ever dared hope. You own the priorities of a lover, and I just can’t make myself feel sorry for that.

  Dallin had paused and was looking at Wil sharply. “What are you thinking?”

  Wil blinked, frowned. “A lot of things,” he answered, slightly wobbly. “But not what you probably think I’m thinking.”

  His first thought—perhaps even just a week ago—would have been that She was using him, that She didn’t care at all, that he was merely a means to Her end, a tool to fix what She, for whatever reason, couldn’t fix Herself. Now… it hardly mattered. He’d known when he’d touched Siofra’s memories, had slammed face-first into that cold, bitter presence, that this was his, that it was his place to stand for the Father, put back the balance somehow. And if She was going to hand him what he needed to do it, childish resentments and grudges had no place in it.

  Except it didn’t even feel like resentment anymore. More like embarrassment. A strange humiliation that he’d allowed himself to be so tricked and by someone like Siofra, someone so small and weak. Siofra kept Her from Wil just by convincing him he wasn’t loved, that he was weak and didn’t deserve to be loved. A fear of standing before Her and feeling rebuke, of being measured and found lacking. A bone-deep wish for that unconditional love only a mother could bestow, and the terror of not finding it when he finally got the courage to go looking for it.

  Childish. Oh, indeed. Time to grow up, Aisling. If not for Her, then for Him.

  “It doesn’t matter what Her intentions are toward me,” Wil told Dallin somberly. “Well, it matters, but not… not with this.” He lifted his chin, glanced around to the Old Ones, one by one, then back again to Dallin. “What do I have to do?”

  Thorne was shaking his head, dismal. “It is not that simple, young Wil. This is… even we do not understand what all of this means.”

  “Aeledfýres wants my name,” Wil told him simply. “And once he has it, he can push me away, send me out into the dark.” He looked squarely at the three shamans. “I’d rather not let him have it.”

  “The risk is far too great,” Marden put in. “Brother Calder was right in this at least. We cannot allow it, not without the Mother’s Blessing, and we cannot know yet if She will give it.”

  “It is not your place to ‘allow’ it at all,” Dallin put in with quiet authority. “But I will concede that it would be unwise to proceed without Her endorsement.” He tipped his head at Wil. “Tell him what that means.”

  The Old Ones went silent for a moment, brooding quietly to themselves, a sub-vocal conversation flitting between them by way of long looks and twitches of eyebrows. Wil kept from writhing through it only by virtue of the numbness that had seeped in with the realization that, whatever it turned out to be, it couldn’t be worse than facing that cold, hungry presence again—real this time, no weakness of mere memory—and on purpose.

  “FAeðme,” Thorne finally said softly. “You must empty yourself to the Mother and accept what She gives back to you.”

  Wil couldn’t help the bit of a shudder. He will empty you at the feet of his whore-goddess… It was almost as though Dallin heard the echo of it, too.

  “We’ll go to Faedme to settle things with Her once and for all,” he told Wil, “or we don’t go at all. We can always take our chances with the Brethren and everyone else on our own. I’ve been assured of safe passage out of Lind, if that’s what you want. We can show this place our backs and never look back. It’s your choice.”

  Wil drew up his knees, noticing that his hand was clenched about the stone again, so tight it was making his fingers tingle numb. He pressed his knuckles against the crystal at his breastbone. Several long, deep breaths weren’t nearly enough to calm him, but they helped a little. He slanted his gaze sideways, locked it with Dallin’s.

  “What do you think I should do?”

  Dallin’s mouth went tight. “Don’t ask me that unless you want me to tell you,” he said.

  With that, Wil knew exactly what Dallin thought he should do; he wanted to hear it anyway. “What do you think I should do?” he repeated.

  Dallin scrubbed at his hair, sighed. “I felt him in there with you,” he said quietly, keeping his eyes steady on Wil, open and honest. “All he needs is your name, and the Brethren have it. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Dallin’s expression was sad, as though he wished he could say something other than what they both knew was coming. “I know what the damned prophecies said, and I know what al
l this must sound like to you, but…” He sucked in a long breath, girding himself. “I think you should do it. If you’ve ever trusted me in anything, trust me in this—She loves you. It isn’t all some trick, it isn’t a cage, and even if that’s what it turns out to be, I’ll keep my promise.” There was still anger and resentment beneath that last, but it made the sincerity all the more real and… touching. “And you won’t be doing it alone. If it means anything, if it helps, I’ll be there, right behind you.”

  Even through the sick fear, the grieved dismay, Wil managed a small smile, dipped his head down to his knees, and closed his eyes. Could Dallin really not know what it meant? Had Wil been that stingy with confirmation and validation? He’d have to work on that. “It means everything,” he said quietly. “And it helps.”

  He opened his eyes, peered down at his fist inside the shelter of his own body, curled in tight around himself. Slowly, he opened his hand, stared down at the little charm. It must have been a trick of the eye—it still seemed to glow in light that wasn’t there, thrum against his skin in rhythm to his own heart. He shut his eyes again, accepting the cadence of it. Let the sensation of Mother seep into his skin, wind inside him, touch his heart.

  “All right,” he said softly, sighed, and lifted his head. He looked at Thorne. “What next?”

  What next? seemed to be a lot of more-or-less polite arguing about whether Lind as a whole should be told about the truth of the Aisling and the Guardian, and if so, exactly how it should be done. Dallin, being Dallin, wanted a gathering and an announcement, and then criers to all points to make sure the farthest reaches were informed. The Old Ones preferred to maintain the traditional silence as a policy, and if they couldn’t have that, they advocated a whisper campaign with no confirmation from themselves or Dallin. “Let the people believe what they want to believe,” Marden argued. “Gossip can sometimes be most useful,” to which Dallin replied, somewhat heatedly, “Right, and they’ll either have Wil burned at the stake or crammed on a makeshift throne.”