The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  “There is a very fine line,” Wil overrode him, “between doing something for another, and doing something to another.” He paused, went on more cautiously, “Siofra managed to genuinely convince himself at the end that what he did, he did for me.”

  It was so close to Dallin’s own thoughts earlier that he was glad for the thick shadows, so Wil couldn’t see the flush that heated his cheeks. He had to be imagining the luminescence of those green eyes in the dark.

  “I trust you,” Wil went on steadily. “I have trusted you with my life more than once, and I can’t imagine anything that might change that in future.” Again the relief, and Dallin tried not to sag beneath it. “You are a good man, Dallin, I’ve never doubted that, and I have put you into a position I know you hate and resent, and I know you hate and resent it because you’re a good man.”

  Dallin’s teeth clenched—he couldn’t help it. “Wil, it isn’t to do with—”

  “Let me finish. Please.” Wil waited while Dallin sighed, shifted his position in the saddle, and steadied his gaze. “I know you know things you’re keeping from me, I know you’re seeing things I can’t see. Every time I trust you with something, I’m trusting you as blindly as any one of these people you so despise for their faith in you. I’m walking behind you with my eyes closed, holding on to your arm and trusting you not to let me fall into the rapids, but… but you have to warn me of what’s beneath my feet. I can’t…”

  He paused, ran a hand through his hair, stared up at the sky for a moment before dropping his gaze back down to Dallin. “I can’t keep going if you’re going to hide the path from me, if you’re not even going to warn me of a sudden drop because you’re afraid I’ll… I don’t even know— whatever you’re afraid I’ll do. Can you understand?”

  Of course Dallin could understand. He even managed not to rage at the searing shame that swamped him. But it didn’t allay a single fear, nor damp a single warning, however oblique and dream-symbolic.

  I’m going to have to tell him. I’m going to have to tell him everything, and all because I can’t bear to see that look of suspicion and reproach in his eyes. Why can’t I stop fucking this up?

  He cut his glance down the path: to the Old Ones, waiting patiently; to Hunter and Calder and Shaw, who had dismounted and now stood among them, also waiting. He loosed a shaky breath, gripped the reins hard in his fist.

  “And am I allowed to prevent you from jumping off a cliff?” he asked, his voice too soft and with too much pleading beneath it.

  Wil was silent for a long moment. “I expect that would depend upon whether or not it was something I truly needed to do.” He paused, leaned in a little. “But I can’t really answer that unless I know why, can I?” His tone was gentle, and far too knowing. “You’ll have to answer my question before I can answer yours, I think.”

  Dallin shut his eyes, rubbed at a throbbing temple. “As with everything, Wil,” he said slowly, “you give me no choice.” He opened his eyes, peered at Wil as calmly as he could.

  “I want to know,” Wil said, quietly implacable.

  All Dallin could do was nod, and close his eyes. “If it’s what you really want…” He sucked in a long breath, looked Wil in the eye. “I give you my word. Tonight.”

  Wil was silent for a long time, just looking at him, measuring. Finally, he nodded, even smiled a little, the bastard—a quick flash of teeth in the dark—leaned in, took hold of Dallin’s coat to drag him in and kissed him, soft and sweet. “Tonight, then,” he said, reaching out and squeezing Dallin’s hand around the reins. “C’mon.” A quick nod toward the waiting crowd down the path. “Let’s get this part over with.”

  Chapter Three

  Meeting the rest of the Old Ones was not quite as daunting as it had been back up at the caves. For one, Wil supposed, he was tired and sore and rather anxious, thinking that the Brethren might be behind any bush or rock, and his attention was spread too thinly to concentrate on worrying about whether or not a bunch of old men were judging him. For another, the altered circumstances lent these particular old men a normalcy that Thorne, Siddell, and Marden seemed to have lacked, though that was likely the formality under which Wil had met them. It probably helped that Dallin more-or-less paused impatiently, let them make their introductions while he had words with the commander of the Weardas who’d apparently escorted them, and then whisked Wil off before the Old Ones could do much more than present more gifts.

  Something called a blessing bowl from Singréne, who looked to Wil to be barely older than Dallin—the effects of FAeðme, as Wil understood them, because there were no men in Lind who were Dallin’s age—with keen hazel eyes that reminded Wil of Millard. A tear bottle from Heofon —a thick vial of cut amethyst, hollowed out and stoppered with moss-lined cork—which Wil thought odd, at first, until Heofon had told him it held the tears he’d wept when he learned the Aisling was safe and on his way ‘home’. Then Wil thought it very odd, but smiled and murmured his thanks as he hunted for an empty pocket in which to keep the strange little thing. Anyway, Heofon was a thin, sere husk of a man and didn’t look like he could spare a drop of moisture, so Wil appreciated the gesture, if nothing else.

  “Different tears hold different sorts of magic,” Dallin told him as they collected their gear and surrendered their horses to the squires looking after the Old Ones. They struck downhill toward the camp, the Weardgeréfan moving on ahead, and the others following at a discreet distance behind Wil and Dallin. For what it was worth, Dallin seemed less tense since he’d spoken to the commander. “Tears of joy are supposed to be the most precious, because they’re meant to lend the recipient peace and well-being in times of hardship.”

  Wil frowned, his hand going unconsciously to his coat pocket, fingers outlining the vial’s shape. “I’m not meant to drink them, am I?” Because that would be just a little too strange.

  “No,” Dallin told him; Wil could hear the smile in his voice. “You’re meant to keep them, that’s all.”

  Good. He’d eaten weevil-infested bread when it was all he could get, and once he’d hacked off the maggot-encrusted head and hide of a rabbit and roasted the rest of it, but somehow, the idea of drinking a withered old man’s tears gave his stomach a little twist. He peered down at the silver bowl still in his hand, swung his pack around and stuffed it in, along with a bottle of wine from… Seofian, or something like that.

  “What’s the bowl for?” he asked Dallin.

  “Well, in other places, where reading and writing are permitted, you’re meant to write down all of the things in your life for which you feel blessed, then you put them in the bowl and burn them, along with something special to you. Here in Lind, you’d take something like a leaf or the like and whisper those things to it, and then burn it.”

  Wil thought about that. “Why burn them?” he wanted to know. Burning bits of paper or leaves only made his eyebrows rise a bit, but burning something special to you seemed somewhat stupid and wasteful. He clutched his pack a little more tightly and slipped his fingers along the rifle’s strap over his shoulder.

  Dallin shrugged. “Burning releases them.” He waved his big hand about. “Their essence joins with the essence of the Mother. She’ll know you love and appreciate those things, so She’ll see to it they’re not taken from you. That’s supposing you’re a decent person and deserve the things you have, of course.”

  “Huh.” Wil re-slung his pack, peering up at Dallin through the dusky light. “So what if you’re not a good person and don’t deserve the things you have?”

  Dallin snorted. “Then you’d be wise not to offer them to a burning. Then again, if you don’t burn them, She’ll just assume you’re ungrateful and perhaps take them from you anyway.” He looked sideways at Wil with a lift of his eyebrow. “Rather gets you coming and going.”

  Most things did, in Wil’s experience. “And what about the wine?”

  “Now, that you’re meant to drink.”

  Wil’s eyebrows went up. “It doesn’t
mean anything?”

  Dallin’s hand came up, laid a light grip to Wil’s shoulder, and he chuckled. “Only that Whatshisname probably thought you could use one.”

  Too right. “Seofian, I think. I sort of lost track.” Wil looked down. “So…” He cleared his throat. The truce between them seemed… not fragile, really, but shakable, and he truly didn’t want to argue, or be angry. But he also didn’t want to feel like he had to pick his words like he was trying to step carefully through a nest of sleeping hornets. “So, how d’you know all this?”

  “Hm.” Dallin squeezed his shoulder. “That’s a good question,” he said and then didn’t answer it. He jerked his chin downhill. “I can see the fires through the trees now.”

  So could Wil, now that he looked. Dozens and dozens of them, and he’d been hearing sporadic music and the steady hum of voices and various animal noises since they’d dismounted.

  “Don’t shoot anyone,” Dallin told him, the smirk plain in his voice. “There should be a sentry melting out of the dark any second.” He gave Wil’s shoulder another squeeze and raised his hand. “Hullo, out there!” he called, voice booming. “Step out, please, we could do with some light.”

  Perhaps it was all the talk of magic, or just the fact that magic seemed to define this place— wound into the soil itself, pulsing from it—but it seemed to Wil as though the wide figure formed itself from shadows on the path, became whole from nothing in the blink of an eye. A woman, he guessed by the shape, and armed with bow and rifle both. He could see the shape of the bow silhouetted on her shoulder, and the long barrel of the rifle slung across her middle.

  “Call!” she shouted. “Torches! Step quick!” And then she went silent, bowed her head and stood, spine straight and shoulders squared.

  Dallin stepped forward, slowly and with a tilt to his head Wil recognized. Measuring and calculating. Wil didn’t even need to see the narrowing of the dark eyes and slight curl of the mouth. “Greetings,” Dallin said. “I am—”

  “We know who you are,” the woman blurted, gasped a little, and dipped her head lower. “Forgive me, Shaman,” she managed, voice subdued and wobbling. “I meant no disrespect. It’s only…” Her head bobbed up, eyes flicking to Wil and then back down to the ground. “With your permission…?”

  Torchlight flickered through the trees, resolving itself into a middle-aged man, his broad face not even needing the fire to light it, bright with expectancy and something that was, if not actual joy, at least close to it. Wil could see the woman more clearly now, the torchlight glimmering over her fair, plaited hair, sharding over her clear, hopeful face. Now that he could see her better, he realized she was no more than a girl, probably not even in her twenties yet.

  “Um…” Dallin turned a bit, shot a quick glance at Wil. Wil didn’t know why—he had even less of a clue about what was going on than Dallin likely did. He shrugged. Dallin turned back to the young woman. “As you will.”

  Whatever permission she’d been looking for granted, the girl’s face turned nearly beatific. She bowed low to Dallin, her long braid flopping over her shoulder and swinging down like a pendulum. Nervously, she mumbled something that sounded like, “Thank you, Shaman, we’ve waited for you for so long,” then straightened, stepping cautiously over to Wil. Again, she bowed, reached out with her wide hand, and hesitantly took up one of Wil’s… kissed it. It was all Wil could do not to snatch it back in alarm. “Aisling,” she breathed and shook her head, actual tears tracking down her smooth cheeks. “Welcome home,” she whispered.

  Wil… stared. He couldn’t do anything else. A vague bit of something that felt like mild horror was curling in his gut, and he couldn’t make his mouth work. He shook his head, dragged his gaze up and over to Dallin, slack-jawed. Dallin didn’t look quite as poleaxed, but it had clearly caught him off guard, too.

  “Hunter!” Dallin called over his shoulder, eyes still flicking between Wil and the girl, brow drawn down and mouth tightening by the second. “I think you’d best get down here and handle this.”

  Yes. Hunter. These were Hunter’s people, he’d know how to… to… to make them stop it.

  As gently as he could, Wil withdrew his hand, resisting the impulse to wipe it on his trousers. There was nothing repulsive about it, after all, and the girl clearly meant nothing but good, but… He couldn’t explain it, even to himself. He’d never been welcomed anywhere, never, and this was just too… something. He took an unconscious step back, waited for Dallin to quick-step over to him, not caring in the least that he was still supposed to be annoyed, and also not caring that he probably looked like a terrified five-year-old, sinking into the arm Dallin wound about his shoulders and almost cowering from people who had been kinder to him in these first few seconds than anyone before—ever.

  “What the hell?” he croaked.

  No answer but a tightening of Dallin’s arm about him and then a low near-reprimand from Hunter, striding down the path like he owned it. “Andette! Call!”

  They both straightened. Andette dropped one more quick double-bow to both Dallin and Wil, then turned to Hunter. “All is ready, brother,” she told him, shoulders straight and chin up for the first time since Wil had seen her.

  Brother? Wil’s eyebrows went up as he peered between Hunter and this Andette. In truth, all Linders rather resembled each other, to his eye, but these two… Yes. It wasn’t merely some kind of honorific—these two were kin. Perhaps even twins, if Wil was judging their ages correctly. He shot a quick glance at Dallin, noting the reluctant realization, the reflexive roll of his eyes. Wil almost snorted. Poor Dallin—he couldn’t seem to get away from Calders.

  “The Weardas are alerted, and the captain of the Commonwealth agreed to come across this afternoon.” Andette looked at Dallin, then blushed, turning her eyes back to the ground. “After your message came back, he agreed to meet with you here, unarmed, with only a small entourage. The bulk of his party waits across the river on the other side of the Bounds. Your…” She frowned, seemed to hunt for the proper word. “Your colleagues from Putnam joined us in camp several days ago. We saw no need to disarm them.”

  “I see,” Dallin said slowly, a slight smile curling, smirky and knowing in the flickering light. “I assume just about everyone’s met Corliss, then.”

  Wil startled, just a little. Corliss.

  Corliss! You tell everyone what you saw and heard here today, understand?

  He peered over at the other man—Call—noted the same bit of piety on his face, a tiny flicker of hunger. A light shudder ran through Wil, and he pushed it all away.

  Andette smiled, her expression fond and light, some of the awe leaking from it and making her seem more… real. More like the young girl she was, and not the abject devotee she’d seemed a moment ago.

  “Constable Stierne has been… busy,” she agreed. “We thank the Mother that she was sent to us, and we thank the Shaman for guiding her words.”

  She turned her gaze up at Dallin, that same look back again, an obsequious devotion and fervor Wil had seen when her brother had first spoken to him of his Lost Shaman. Complete and utter adoration. The tension in Dallin’s grip on him was telling in itself, and Wil knew that he saw it, too. Wil had never in his life expected to see that same look directed at him, but every time the girl’s glance turned shyly to his, a new spike of sympathy for Dallin struck him. It was unnerving, perhaps even a bit obscene. These people knew nothing about Wil, after all—how could they even pretend to love him? And why did they just assume they had the right?

  The rest of their party had dropped back, heads bent together, and appeared to be deep in conversation farther up the path. Wil should have wanted to know what they were talking about, but he didn’t; he only wondered why the lack of their buffering presence was making him like them more than he had ten minutes ago. Hunter was familiar, and so his presence was somewhat comforting, but just thinking about those dozens of fires down there through the thin screen of the trees, and the no doubt dozens of
people to whom those fires belonged…

  Not caring anymore what it might look like, he pushed back some more into Dallin. It felt a little stupid to fear them, but it was fear—burned at the stake or crammed on a makeshift throne, Dallin had snarked at the Old Ones just this morning. Right now, both seemed a little too possible.

  Wil turned his head, leaned up. “Are they all going to be like this?” he whispered to Dallin.

  Dallin sighed and shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s all too likely,” he replied, real regret and apology in his tone. “It’s best we get it over with, I think.”

  Wil wasn’t entirely sure he agreed, but he let Dallin push him past Andette and urge him once more down the path. Hunter silently took up a position on Wil’s other side, nodding to his sister as they passed. Wil watched it all with growing trepidation.

  “This,” he told Dallin, voice a little thin and strained, “is not at all what I thought it would be.”

  Dallin only sighed again, and drew Wil in close. “It rarely is,” Dallin muttered. “Just don’t shoot anyone.” Dallin snatched the torch from Call as they passed him. “You first,” he told Hunter. “Make sure they’re not scraping and kneeling when we get there, yeah?”

  Hunter shot Wil an apologetic glance, then dipped his head at Dallin. “I’ll do what I can,” he promised, though he looked rather dubious as he sprinted off ahead.

  Dallin shook his head, watched him go, then turned to glance over his shoulder, presumably at Andette, who was neglecting her watch and staring after them with a look of blatant longing. Dallin turned back, looked down at Wil, and rolled his eyes. “Fucking Calders,” was all he said.

  “Huh,” Wil breathed, overwhelmed and a bit shock-stupid as they paused on the ridge, staring out over the camp. “I thought I smelt cows.”

  There had to be more than a hundred of them—people, not cows—spread out in various clusters below, campfires set in front of tents that fanned out along the riverside like small constellations. It was lighter down there than it was where they now stood, still screened inside the cover of the trees. Dusk was only just now beginning to snatch at the fringes of the lingering gold of failing daylight, and shadowing slightly the various faces of the people below. Torches were being lit in a loose circle about the knots of tents and fires.