The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  It wasn’t like up at the caves. These people looked settled in, like they’d been here for a while and planned to stay for a while more. Chickens clucked and scratched down by the strand, several goats wandering among them and bleating irritation at their fusty complaints. On a brighter note, maybe that meant there’d be eggs and milk for breakfast.

  Dogs roamed through clots of people, sniffing about campfires, then scuttling off, agreeably wagging their tails when they were shooed away. Another fenced pasture was set farther downriver, scores of horses and several cows nosing at winter grass and bundles of hay placed at intervals about the wooden fencing. Three great fire-pits smoldered beside what Wil guessed was some sort of small barracks or guardhouse, the smell of roasting meat sending its usual siren-call to his stomach. Cauldrons steamed nearby, barrels and casks piled and propped against the outer wall of the short stone building.

  It didn’t look anything like a campsite—it looked like a village.

  Children rammed about the place in various stages of play, squeezing through clumps of adults and laughing as they scampered away from halfhearted chiding. Guns made of grubby fingers took wobbly aim. Small chests were clutched and little bodies crumpled in heaps of giggles as imaginary bullets struck them down.

  It gave Wil an eerie shudder, echoes of violence he hadn’t seen, had refused to see, but which Dallin had escaped only through… what? He frowned. For the first time, he wondered how Dallin’s mother had known, how she’d managed to smuggle him out before they’d found the one child they’d wasted so many other young lives looking for. They’d been so thorough, wiping out an entire generation of males, so how did the one male who might as well have had a target painted on his back manage to waft through their crosshairs like so much smoke?

  He peered up at Dallin, dark eyes scanning the scene below, assessing and measuring and not even seeming to register the children or their macabre sport as they teased Death and innocently mocked its reality. Ignoring it deliberately? Wil wondered. Or genuinely not seeing because you’re so used to looking away?

  “What did that commander say to you?” Wil asked Dallin quietly. “That Weard… Weardger…?”

  “Weardgeréfan,” Dallin said absently, eyes narrowing as he marked a squad of armed men and women strike off away from the river and head west into the tree-brake. “He said the Old Ones had already alerted them. They’ve sent runners uphill to warn everyone, and hunting parties out to try and flush out as many as they can. They didn’t know which path we’d taken down, or they would’ve sent pickets up to meet us.”

  Wil’s eyes narrowed. “So they knew.”

  “Good thing, yeah? One thing that went right today, at least.”

  “Mm,” Wil replied, somehow disturbed and surprised that there was nothing in Dallin’s gaze that marked the significance. They knew.

  Wil shook himself a little, dragged his gaze away, and pointed it over his shoulder, watching the old men hobble ever closer, still chattering among themselves about who-knew-what. Somehow, they didn’t seem quite as friendly and benevolent as Wil had been thinking them, and Dallin’s withholding of trust appeared much more reasonable.

  They knew.

  He turned back to the camp. “Why are there children here?” he ventured.

  “Whole families,” Dallin answered. “They follow along when the Weardas have extended patrols. This is actually their camp. The sentries are billeted farther downriver, broken up into squads and scattered along the Bounds throughout Cildtrog. They’re allowed to come to camp when they’re not on post.” He swiveled his glance up and down the strand, shrugged. “It makes long posts easier on the Weardas, and it makes sense, so far as the children. Some of them have both parents on watch at the same time, so the rest of the adults look out for them. Defense is something of a family business here.”

  Wil watched two children—a boy and a girl, it looked like from here, but since they all wore their hair long, he couldn’t tell for sure—scrapping over something between them he couldn’t see. By the aggression of the encounter, it must be something valuable; those were some serious punches being thrown. One of the dogs yipped and danced about them, anxiously wagging its tail and sticking its nose into the mix, then leaping back again. A young man dragged the two apart, speaking harshly and shaking them each by the shoulder until they dipped their heads in something approximating apology.

  Wil wondered if Dallin had ever camped here with his mother, playing with mates and waiting for his father to come off patrol. Wil didn’t ask. He’d only have to watch the pain as another memory was resurrected and re-buried, and then watch Dallin lie to himself without even knowing it. And then Wil wouldn’t be able to help himself asking, pushing and prodding, and watching Dallin lie to him again, even if Dallin didn’t realize he was lying, would be… just too much. Dishonesty simply didn’t suit Dallin, and he was quite bad at it besides.

  Wil thought of Hunter, with the light of righteous violence shining in his eager eyes, and couldn’t help seeing its reflection in the features he could make out from this distance. “I imagine Linders make good soldiers,” he mused.

  Dallin shrugged. “When they’re allowed.” Wil’s eyebrows went up. “It’s against Lind’s laws,” Dallin clarified, “for its people to leave the Bounds unless so ordered by the Old Ones… and even then, sometimes they won’t be allowed back in. Depends on whether or not the Old Ones judge them…” He paused, searching for the right word, his mouth pinching slightly as he found it. “Contaminated.” A slight roll of the eyes. “If they’re conscripted, they have to go. Lind is a part of Cynewísan, and they abide by the Commonwealth’s laws as much as they have to, so those called up are given provisional dispensation. But there hasn’t been a draft since before I retired, so…” He waved a hand over the camp, shrugged again.

  All these frustrated warriors with no one against whom to exorcise their pent-up aggressions. Wil almost snorted—the Brethren couldn’t possibly know what they were getting into, skulking into a place like this.

  “Does all meet your satisfaction?” The loose, craggy voice was attached to a man just as craggy, though seeming nearly as fit as Dallin, considering his apparent age. The Old Ones had caught up. Walde, Wil thought this one’s name was, but he couldn’t be sure—he really had lost track after the first few.

  Wil turned, looked them all over, more carefully than he’d done before. Gracious and open to the casual glance, all of them, but… now he wasn’t so sure. Nothing but kind to him, every single one of them, but now he couldn’t help wondering what those soft gazes concealed. He caught Calder’s eye, remembered Dallin’s wariness of him from the very beginning, speculating that his opinions were likely slightly more vigorous than the Old Ones to whom he had once belonged, but perhaps not too far astray. Wil hadn’t really had cause to think about it before, but now, seeing how easily Calder fit in with the others, how Wil would have guessed him just another of them, were it not for the scars where his Marks used to be and the fact that Wil knew better…

  If it hadn’t been for Shaw, Wil thought he likely would have allowed Dallin to chase Calder off—that was, assuming Calder would have gone. But Wil liked Shaw, trusted him for the most part, and Shaw seemed to think Calder worthy of an apparently long friendship. Something didn’t fit, and Wil couldn’t help looking at the group of elders with new caution.

  He’s right to be suspicious of you. You’ve been lying to him, every one of you, and if not outright lying then at least not saying everything. What are you hiding? And how did you know?

  Dallin said he’d heard the land protest when the Brethren stepped onto it. Was it so unreasonable to assume the Old Ones possessed at least a faint echo of that same connection? So, if they’d known this time…

  “Everything appears adequate from up here,” Dallin was saying. “Healdes tells me all of the patrols have been alerted, and we can’t do much more until they start finding and turning over whatever dens the Brethren have managed to hole up in
. I think I’d like to ride out in the morning and—”

  “Brayden!”

  Wil didn’t know why he jumped as he did; perhaps because he’d heard the voice before, and the circumstances under which he’d heard it had been rather unpleasant. The last time he’d heard it, after all, the barrel of a gun had been resting against the nape of Dallin’s neck. Wil turned, watched Corliss quick-step up the slope, footholds established carefully but confidently as she rushed at them, relief and reprimand both in the wide smile on her flushed face. Cleaner than he’d seen her last, her blue and brown free of stains and road-dust, and her bright hair twisted neatly into a knot at the back of her head. It was stupid, childish, but Wil couldn’t help it—he angled himself slightly behind Dallin and stared at the woman warily from around his Guardian’s shoulder.

  Dallin seemed to have no such reservations. His face lit up and he started to move forward. Stupid and childish again, but again, Wil couldn’t help it—he snatched at Dallin’s sleeve and tugged him back. Dallin peered down at him with a bit of a frown, questioning, but Corliss was upon him before Wil could even try to form an excuse.

  “Thank the Mother!” Corliss wheezed as she took hold of Dallin’s arms and shook him a little. “I’ve been talking myself blue in the face for bloody days. One more and my throat will start to bleed.”

  Dallin snorted good-naturedly. “And we all know how you hate to talk,” he chided lightly.

  “And we all know how you love to dump your work on your peons,” she snarked back with an ease that spoke to long familiarity.

  It’s like nothing ever happened, Wil thought uncomfortably. When did I miss the forgive-and-forget part?

  Her pale hazel eyes shifted, locking on to Wil’s, narrowed slightly, but, unaccountably, her smile modulated into something softer. Corliss pushed Dallin aside—no easy thing—taking away Wil’s slim barrier of wide shoulders. There was nothing Wil could do but either move with Dallin and make it obvious that he’d been hiding, or stand and meet her stare. He chose the latter, lifted his chin, which, again unaccountably, only made her smile widen into a grin.

  Corliss let go of Dallin, extending her hand toward Wil. “We’ve not exactly met,” she said, perhaps a touch of apology in the tone, but Wil couldn’t be certain. “Corliss Stierne, Constable of Putnam and sometime-aide to your, um…” She smirked a little, shot a knowing glance up at Dallin.

  “Guardian,” Dallin told her, a stern warning inside the bit of affection.

  An auburn eyebrow arched. “Is that what they call it here?” she asked mildly.

  “Corliss—”

  “Yes, yes, I expect that’s the new title you were talking about, and I must say it suits you.” She turned back to Wil, hand still extended. “A pleasure,” she prodded.

  She wasn’t going to drop her hand, Wil guessed. He could keep ignoring it until the discomfort was apparent to all, or… He grimaced, reached out, and took her hand.

  “Wil,” he mumbled, though she must already know.

  “Wil,” she repeated. “It’s a pleasure and an honor to meet you.”

  Her grip was strong and sure as she pumped his arm—only once, but firmly—then let him withdraw his hand. Oddly, she seemed sincere, and even more oddly, he believed her. She tilted her head, eyeing Wil with a gaze that reminded him that this woman was a constable, and it had been mere chance that he’d ended up across a table from Dallin all those weeks ago, when it could just as easily have been her. He couldn’t help wondering if it would have been easier or harder to answer and how different her questions might have been.

  “You look hungry,” Corliss informed him.

  Wil blinked, shot a small frown up at Dallin.

  Dallin snorted. “Don’t look at me—you always look hungry.” He nodded at Corliss. “Small word of advice: always follow a mum at suppertime. They know where to find all the best stuff, and no one complains when they cut the queue.” He turned to the Old Ones and their squires. “Are we ready, then?”

  It didn’t sound like much of a question, but nonetheless, several answered with a negating shake of the head. “We must sound the horn,” one of them said—this time, Wil didn’t even try to remember or guess his name—and prodded the young man next to him down the slope with a stern nod.

  Dallin watched the boy go with a grimace. Wil saw Corliss catch the expression, grimace herself in sympathy, but surprisingly, she didn’t appear to have anything to say about it until she turned. Her gaze snagged on Wil’s before he could pull it away. She paused. Wil didn’t know what his expression was broadcasting, but it had to be at least close to what was churning in his gut—discomfort, trepidation, a touch of embarrassment, and yes, if he looked hard enough, he’d probably find a healthy dose of fear down there somewhere. Whatever it was, Corliss tightened her mouth and took a step closer to Wil, flipping a dour look on the Old Ones.

  “Is this really necessary?” she wanted to know.

  The one who’d given Wil the bowl—Singréne—bristled somewhat. “We must welcome the Shaman back home,” he answered curtly. “It is tradition.”

  “So is fucking in the fields on Planting Day, but we don’t blow horns while we’re doing it, do we?”

  Wil couldn’t help the surprised bit of a cackle—both at the question and the way every mouth but Shaw’s pinched in tight upon its utterance. Shaw merely covered his mouth with his hand, laughter twinkling bright in his eyes. It only made Wil’s own laughter burble more insistently, and he had to duck his head and hold his breath to stop it when all eyes turned on him.

  “Corliss, it’s fine,” Dallin said quietly, paused, then raised his voice a bit, directing his next statement more to the Old Ones than to Corliss. “He’s stronger than he looks.”

  Wil frowned. Another surprise, and this one not terribly laughable. Defense, again, and he hadn’t even known he’d needed it, but now that he looked, he could see the worry on each wrinkled face, the vague suspicion that he might spasm any second and start shooting lightning bolts from his fingertips. They had to have heard about Chester, of course—why hadn’t he thought of that before?

  “Of course he is,” Corliss affirmed, stout and serious. “Anyone can tell by looking, I should think —anyone with half a brain.” She looked only at Dallin, but it was clear her words were meant for the Old Ones. The past few days at the Bounds must have been very interesting ones indeed, if Wil was interpreting the tension correctly. “I only meant that you’ve been riding all day, and Wil looks like he’d eat a side of beef, if someone would only hand one over, so it seems to me—”

  “Wait,” Dallin put in, voice shot through with realization and new urgency. He turned, grabbed one of the boys by the elbow. “Go after him and stop him. No horns.” When the boy looked wide-eyed to the Old Ones, Dallin’s teeth clenched and he shoved the young man toward the slope. “Now—hurry!”

  The boy went, sliding down the incline in his haste, then quickly catching his feet to sprint after the other boy who was just now wading into the crowd. Dallin turned to Wil first, rolled his eyes, then looked to the Old Ones. “You sound those horns and they’ll know exactly where Wil is. We can’t risk it.”

  Enlightenment flashed over each face, then chagrin, except for Corliss, who looked pleased overall, and… something else. There was something shining in her eyes when she gave a slight nod to Dallin that Wil thought he recognized—pride, perhaps.

  “That’s why he’s First Constable,” she murmured aside to Wil, confirming his theory. “You couldn’t do better for a Guardian.”

  Wil couldn’t help the small smile, the agreeable nod. Even despite their earlier harsh words and the lingering doubt, he couldn’t argue. “I know,” he murmured back.

  “Sorry,” Dallin was saying to the others, “I don’t mean to spoil your party, but I won’t risk his safety.”

  “He couldn’t be safer,” one of them argued. “Where is safer in all of Cynewísan than in Lind itself, surrounded by Weardas?”

  “
How about not in Lind, with hundreds of nutters prowling about looking for him?” Dallin retorted.

  Wil was a little surprised Dallin didn’t mention that the raid of his youth had been in Lind, and the Weardas, according to what Wil had been able to glean from all of the Not Talking About It, had been thoroughly ineffective. It seemed increasingly apparent, however, that it was an event to which there was recurrent allusion, but never literal vocalization—at least not by using actual, descriptive words. Come to think of it, Wil had yet to hear anyone mention a single word about Dallin’s mother, or even the fact that he’d had one.

  “It isn’t as though they don’t know already,” Corliss put in reasonably. She nodded down toward the camp. “Look at them. Word is already spreading.”

  She was right: perhaps it was the commotion with the boys, or maybe Hunter’s cautions under Dallin’s earlier directive, or perhaps they’d simply been lingering up here for too long, and it had only been a matter of time. Whatever it was, faces were turning up toward them and a hushed expectancy was leaking across the camp in swift waves of silence.

  “Where are Creighton and Woodrow?” Dallin asked, his voice low and slightly edgy as he leaned in toward Corliss. He shot a narrow look down over the quieting crowd, then over his shoulder to sweep the Old Ones with a bit of a glare before turning his dark gaze back on Corliss.

  The silent message was clear: I don’t trust these people. Where are mine?

  Corliss looked up at Dallin, then shot a quick glance to Wil. “Creighton went on patrol with a squad of the Linders,” she answered, just as quietly. “Woodrow is waiting down by the kegs.” Wil and Dallin both followed the jerk of her chin. The surcoat was a little difficult to pick out in the falling dusk, but still distinctive. Wil peered about, looking for Hunter, but there were too many blond heads and wide shoulders to pick out one set.