The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  Expecting me to shoot fire from my eyes, Wil put in silently, but since that wasn’t too far off the mark, he kept his mouth shut.

  He tuned them out. It didn’t truly matter to him, one way or the other. He was going to be stared at and whispered about no matter what Lind’s people were told. And since Dallin was likely to get his way anyway, the entire thing seemed rather pointless. He occupied himself with toying with his new gifts, opening himself to their lethargic magic, the lambent nuances of their sleepy songs. He could spend decades listening to one single slice of awareness, absorbed through miniscule pores and drawn out over Time with no real concept. Every single thing that had touched the pieces had left a mark of some sort, and the stone had kept it, enhancement to its… well, character, Wil supposed, was as good a word as any. There didn’t seem to be a word to describe it.

  “…then we shall have to prepare,” Thorne was saying. “A celebration.”

  “It’ll take days we don’t have,” Dallin argued.

  Thorne laughed. “You have been too long away from home, my boy.” His tone was sincerely amused. “Allow us to send word ahead.”

  Dallin thought about it for a moment, frowning. “Yeah, fine, whatever,” he finally agreed. “We strike camp in the morning. Send a runner to the Bounds as well. I want to know what’s going on out there. We still don’t have…”

  Wil tuned them out again. Apparently, the Shaman had prevailed and was as uncomfortable about it as he’d been since… well, at least since Wil had woken and been able to observe the grimacing and twitching every time someone gave in to Dallin’s demands. For someone who was so used to giving orders and having them followed, Dallin was damned ill at ease. More of that blind faith he so derided, Wil supposed. Ha. If what Wil had seen so far was any indication, Dallin would have to get over that pretty quickly, or spend the rest of his life scowling.

  Gently unheeded and mutually heedless, Wil quietly rose, stuffing the charm in his trouser pocket and the crystal inside his shirt. He found his coat and ambled slowly over to the cave’s opening. Breakfast having been over for some time now, most of the small fires had been left to smolder, their owners having wandered off past the paddocks to occupy themselves with either throwing knives at a target or betting on others who were throwing knives at a target.

  Wil spotted Hunter standing a dozen or so lengths away from the caves, not joining in either the betting or the throwing, but merely watching from a distance. Wil peered over his shoulder, catching Dallin’s eye. Dallin lifted an eyebrow, asking, and Wil answered with a nod toward the green and a small smile; Dallin returned the smile and turned his attention back to the conversation.

  Freed from the pretense of caring about whatever details they were discussing, Wil stepped from the cave and into the sunshine. He paused for a moment, closed his eyes, reaching tentatively. If he was going to get pounded again, he’d rather it happened right here, so he could crawl back inside and not have another collapse out in the middle of the Weardas. The dull throb of the headache still remained, but it neither subsided nor grew—it was the same as when Dallin had gone flying backward, perhaps a little less intense after the doctored tea. Comparatively speaking, it was nothing.

  Satisfied, Wil breathed relief, opened his eyes, and made his way toward Hunter. Approaching from behind, Wil noted the stiff set of the shoulders, the straightness of the spine. And now that he was paying attention, Wil noticed the way Hunter’s head swiveled, how his gaze swept the camp with slow regularity. Wil’s eyebrows went up, curious.

  Apparently, Hunter heard him coming; he peered over his shoulder, squinting against the brightness, the sun having shifted behind Wil now with the turning of the day. Hunter offered a shy, uncertain smile and dipped his fair head. “Greetings, Aisling,” he said, though his voice dropped down on the last, apparently conscious of… well, nobody, really—everyone else was occupied with their games, the horses, or walking their watch.

  A knee-jerk Don’t call me that rose to Wil’s tongue, but stayed at the back of his throat. Yesterday, even this morning, he would have snapped and snarled at the name, but now… Well, it was what he was, wasn’t it? He couldn’t give it back; he couldn’t walk away from it. All his life, he’d been used and hurt, imprisoned and punished because of that name, and he didn’t suppose the ache of reminder when it was voiced would ever really dim. Still, it was more his than Wil was, and he supposed it was past time he stopped hissing and spitting about it.

  His hand rose without his permission, fingers sliding into his hair, over the small scars. I have a real name. He turned the gesture into a casual brushing away of an unruly hank and tucked the tangles behind his ear.

  He kept his mien pleasant, returned Hunter’s smile. “Perhaps ‘Wil’ would be better for now.” He nodded over his shoulder. “They’re debating now exactly how they’re going to go about…” He paused, snorted a little. “Whatever they’re going to go about.”

  Hunter tilted his head, his smile slightly bemused. “It does not concern you?”

  “Not really.” Wil shrugged. “Dallin will do what’s right.”

  “As a Guardian should,” Hunter concurred with a firm nod. His expression turned solicitous. “Is there something I can get you?” He indicated the fire-pit, still blazing and attended by a crew of one, but there was a notable lack of anything cooking over it. “It is not quite time to prepare for the midday meal, but if you’re hungry…”

  Surprisingly, Wil wasn’t especially. Hunter and Shaw had brought him a huge chunk of what Dallin had told Wil was goat only a few hours ago, and he’d gnawed it right down to the bone. “No, thank you,” Wil replied, peering up at Hunter with a tilt of his head and a carefully friendly smile. “Have you been ‘assigned’ to me or something?”

  Hunter’s eyebrows went up. “Assigned?”

  “Well, you…” Wil paused. How to put this politely, so as not to hurt the boy’s feelings? “You’re being very nice to me. Which is very good,” he hastened to add. “I appreciate it, I just…” I’m not used to it. There’s usually a reason why people are nice to me, and I don’t see that reason behind your eyes. The only one who’s ever been nice to me for no reason is Dallin, and… well, he’s different. “It just… confuses me,” he finished lamely.

  Hunter frowned. “Confuses you?”

  Wil shook his head, embarrassed. “Never mind.” Idiot. One would’ve thought he might have picked up some useful social skills over the past few years, but apparently not.

  “Are people generally not nice to you?” Hunter wanted to know.

  Now that the question had been voiced so plainly, it made Wil’s entire line of thought, and his questioning of the boy, seem extraordinarily sulky and childish. Nobody likes me, everyone’s mean to me, boo hoo hoo…

  He flushed. “I’m not generally a nice person, I suppose.” He lightened it with a grin that was apparently convincing enough, for Hunter returned it. “Are you on duty?” Wil asked—both curiosity and a bid to change the subject.

  “Duty? Oh.” Strangely, Hunter dipped his head, his cheeks pinking just slightly. “No, I… Well, I thought it might be…” He stammered into discomfited silence, peered at Wil out the corner of his eye, and then shifted his glance quickly away. “It seemed as though you should not be disturbed,” he offered, softly rueful. “You were unwell, and then… well, the Old Ones, and everyone was trying to peer in, and…”

  Wil blinked, the sudden remembrance of Hunter shooing everyone off earlier rising to the fore. Followed by the remembrance of the look of awe and admiration on Hunter’s face every time he saw or even spoke of Dallin.Wil tilted a smile. “Have you assigned yourself guard duty?” He carefully kept his tone friendly and light.

  To Wil’s chagrin, Hunter reddened some more and dipped a low bow. “I apologize, Ais—Wil. I meant no offense, I merely—”

  “No, no,” Wil cut in. He took hold of Hunter’s arm and pushed him straight. “I wasn’t reprimanding you; I wouldn’t have the right. I
only…” He tried very hard to throttle the amused snort—the last thing he wanted was to offend the boy or embarrass him further—but he couldn’t help it. “I’m sorry,” Wil said, sincere through the snickers. “It’s only that… well, the thought of the Guardian needing a guard… I mean, if you knew Dallin…”

  Hunter’s return smile was awkward, a bit stricken. “I didn’t suppose the Guardian needed any such thing,” he said, too quietly.

  Wil’s laughter dried up. “Oh.” He cleared his throat. He’d just assumed… After all, Hunter was enamored with Dallin; it hadn’t occurred to Wil that Hunter would extend his good intentions so far in Wil’s own direction. He hadn’t spent enough time around people who had no ulterior motives, that was his problem. Lind was going to take some getting used to.

  Still, there was a tiny niggle of suspicion creeping through the warmth. Old habits, he supposed, but they’d served him relatively well, regardless. Wil decided to return Hunter’s honesty with a blunt question, rather than allowing unaddressed doubt to linger. “Are you guarding me, or are you guarding against me?”

  The shocked jerk of Hunter’s head was answer enough. “Why would I need to guard against you?” he wanted to know. The uncomplicated honesty in his eyes was just too palpable to mistake for anything else. All doubt put to rest, Wil grinned with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Wait’ll you get to know me.” Hunter’s return smile was a little confused, but genuine.

  Having, he hoped, soothed any hurt he may have caused, Wil peered again over his shoulder, toward the caves. He tuned his hearing to the rush of the river beyond them that was such a presence it became merely a background hum when one didn’t listen for it. He thought about asking Hunter to guide him to it—he was almost writhing to see it—but, as soppy as it was, he wanted that chore to go to Dallin. Instead, Wil turned back to Hunter with a smile.

  “You offered to guide me about camp before,” he said. The prospect of wandering about in the midst of all these people, standing out the way he did, was a little unnerving. Perhaps being accompanied by his own personal self-assigned babysitter might take the anxiety out of it all. “I want to visit the horses and then perhaps… well, I don’t know. Have you got any suggestions?”

  Hunter smiled, shoulders squaring. He tipped his head toward the men and women throwing and betting. “Have you got a knife?”

  Wil grinned.

  He’d thought he was pretty good at knife-throwing. He’d spent many a night in various solitary camps entertaining himself with his rusty little dirk, after all. But it only took him a few throws to realize he was quite overmatched here. The knife Dallin had given him was perfectly balanced, not at all what Wil was used to. The people of the Weardas, extraordinarily generous with their welcome, even after Wil had nearly crisped a few of them this morning, were equally generous with their advice. The lack of suspicion toward him was surprising; after all, he was obviously not of Cynewísan, and he was well aware of this place’s history with Ríocht. This morning, he’d been able to feel every chary thought that had gone through their heads. Now, he felt none of it—only consideration and welcome.

  Perhaps it was the fact that he’d arrived with their Shaman. There was also the fact that he actually wasn’t shooting fire from his eyes… this time, anyway. He supposed it might even be Hunter’s doing, with his obvious, open acceptance. Wil decided not to care. They were friendly and quite funny with their constant banter, and he’d never felt so comfortable in a crowd in his life. He was having fun.

  One woman—exquisitely beautiful beneath her sunburn and tattoos—even went so far as to plant herself behind him, bully him into her preferred position, guide his fingers into the proper grip, and then his arm into the proper arrangement. To Wil’s sincere bemusement, low whistles flittered through the rest of the crowd, and quite a lot of chuckles.

  “Watch yourself, young Wil,” one of the men called. “Thistle likes the ones that are smaller and can’t get away.”

  ‘Young Wil’. He couldn’t help the snort. If they only knew…

  Strange; he was so used to people calling him ‘lad’ that he actually felt like one most of the time. With the life he’d had, he supposed age was rather an esoteric thing. Sometimes he felt as ancient and rickety and frail as the Old Ones. But most of the time, he felt like the twenty-something young man Dallin told him he looked like. Right now, he felt very young and very much alive.

  “True,” another remarked. “But her heart’s doomed to loneliness, poor lass—she doesn’t know her own strength and keeps crushing them.”

  Wil looked up and over his shoulder at the woman, mouth twisting wryly. ‘Thistle’ hardly described her. Taller than even her peers, and twice as wide as Wil—no delicate flower, this one. And Wil doubted she ever had a problem filling her bed, when and with whom she chose. Who would dare refuse, after all? Who would want to? Still, they must make an amusing picture, now that the size difference had been called to Wil’s attention. Strange how quickly he’d stopped noticing it, fearing it.

  Thistle grinned down at Wil, then smirked at the man who’d heckled her. “Aw, Free, don’t be absurd,” she chided. “He’s a guest. I’d never put a guest in an awkward position. It would be rude.” She tipped a wink at Wil. “Guests get the top.”

  Wil was laughing so hard he almost didn’t realize she’d guided his throw nearly dead-on. Amazing. Bawdy and bold, jibes and innuendo flying in every direction, and yet he could feel nothing beneath it but humor and good will. No one was trying to manipulate him, no one stared at him just a little too long—or worse, glanced at him, then looked away too quickly—no one was making sly little comments and waiting to see if he’d take their bait.

  Candid. Open. Frank and accepting.

  No buzzing want came at him from unexpected directions. No giveitgiveitgiveit yammered beneath a face trying to be kind but sliding helplessly into greed.

  I could live here. I could stay here for the rest of my life and never have to wonder what anyone wanted from me. I could be me—whoever that is.

  What was it, he wondered? Was it the place itself? Did it somehow influence kindness and acceptance? Or did it merely overpower what he was, what others saw when they looked at him in the outside world? Were people like this everywhere, and he’d just never seen it because what he was crowded it out of them?

  Determinedly pushing useless conjecture away, Wil retrieved his knife. He had to really work to wrangle it from the tree’s trunk—Thistle’s strength had sunk it deep—suffering some more goodnatured teasing in the process. Jokes about his strength, of all things, and yet he didn’t feel weak. They didn’t try to make him feel weak. Every single denial of weakness he’d snarled only hours ago seemed like so much ridiculous noise. He didn’t need to defend himself to these people. He was weak, comparatively speaking, and no one here cared, no one here tried to use it. They made him laugh at himself, and they laughed along with him, and it felt really damned good. He hadn’t quite got up the nerve to throw his own barbs back—he was well aware that his sense of humor was a bit strange, and he didn’t want to ruin anything—but he grinned and laughed and shook his head accordingly.

  He hadn’t noticed Dallin arrive, surprised to see him standing beside Hunter, quite a ways away from the crowd. Dallin didn’t look any the worse for his morning spent arguing; in fact, he was smiling a little as he watched Wil, eyes serene and pleased as he leaned over and spoke quietly with Hunter. He gave Wil a wave and a nod. Wil waved back and started over toward him.

  “Ha, there’s your competition, Thistle,” a young woman chuckled as Wil passed, obviously referring to Dallin, and was immediately shushed.

  Wil was about to turn, perhaps smile and wink, when another voice, reproachful and harsh, made him re-think it. “That’s the Shaman,” a man hissed at her.

  “Well, I know that, don’t I? I wasn’t—”

  “It isn’t appropriate,” another voice put in.

  Wil pretended he hadn’t heard it and kept walkin
g. He didn’t know what else he should do, or if he should do anything at all. Oddly, his cheeks were heating, and he had no idea why. Why wasn’t it appropriate?

  He ignored the mild unease the exchange had risen, flipped the knife in his hand as he walked, watching the sun flare and scatter over the blade with each revolution. He listened to nothing but the slap of the metal against his skin, the muted chatter of the river at the back of his consciousness. His smile was back in place by the time he reached Dallin, and he peered up, squinted a little.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t have your purse with me. You’d be a very poor man just now.”

  Dallin smirked. “Outclassed by the competition?”

  “In every way,” Wil replied.

  “He’s being modest,” Hunter put in. “He did quite well.”

  “He’s lying,” Wil told Dallin, with a wink toward Hunter, “but he’s forgiven, because he means well.” He held up the knife, waggled it, then leaned over and dropped it into his boot. “It’s too perfect, y’know. Apparently, I can only throw a crap knife and hit anything with it.”

  “My apologies.” Dallin dipped a little mock-bow. “I promise to only give you crap from here on.” He jerked his chin over his shoulder. “We’ve had a runner from the Bounds. My presence has been ‘requested.’”

  Wil’s eyebrows went up. “Requested? By whom?”

  “Well…” Dallin shook his head, ran a hand through his hair. “The captain there has apparently been suffering harassment from Corliss—at least that’s the gist I’m getting. His message arrived with one from her, in which she said, and I quote, ‘Get your great arse down here—talking sense into these people is your job.’ You should have seen the messenger’s face when he had to recite that one at me.” He rolled his eyes with a bit of a grin.

  “I hadn’t realized she was there,” Wil murmured, thoughtful.

  “Neither had I,” Dallin told him. “But it sounds like she’s perhaps making some headway. I’m not surprised. If I recall, the captain is younger than she is, and she’s got this… mother thing about her. People listen—they can’t help themselves.” He shook his head. “Anyway, I’m told Wheeler himself is on the way with a full regiment, and the captain has asked to see me before they get here. There’s not a whole lot of choice.”