The Aisling Trilogy
Page 81
“Don’t start jumping at shadows.” Corliss slanted Dallin a bit of a smile. “They love him already, and they bloody worship you. If there’s trouble, it won’t be from them.”
“I didn’t think it.” Dallin’s discomfort was apparent, and he stepped closer to Wil. “Nevertheless.”
He nodded at Corliss and waited; she twigged right away, stepped to Wil’s other side and placed a hand at the small of his back. Wil scowled a little, kept himself from twitching away, but he couldn’t keep from being annoyed at the assumptions. From both of them. Regardless of the fact that the idea of walking down that slope and into that watching crowd was probably one of the most daunting things he’d ever contemplated, they didn’t have to be so bloody obvious about it.
“I doubt they’re going to eat me,” he groused, shot Dallin an irritated glance, but softened it a little when he marked Dallin’s unease. “There are nothing but good intentions down there. Can’t you feel it?”
Wil could. Or at least it was nothing like the oppressive weight of too many voicesmindseyes drilling into him, as it had been this morning. Granted, Dallin had taken most of that away for him, but he couldn’t actually change what was in other people’s hearts. Right now, Wil felt nothing that alarmed him. Except perhaps an anxious inner-writhing at being stared at by so many sets of eyes. Then again, they were likely staring more at their Lost Shaman than they were at Wil, so perhaps he was overreacting.
Anyway, he was hungry, now that Corliss had mentioned it, and whatever was roasting in those pits was making his mouth water.
“Good intentions are not always a promise of good behavior,” Dallin muttered, eyes continually sweeping the crowd, dark and watchful. He nodded. “Off with you, let’s go.”
Wil twitched his shoulders irritably as Corliss pressed a hand into his back, but he allowed her to prod him into a slow walk down the incline, Dallin leading the way and staring down anyone who might even fleetingly consider blocking their path.
The silence was not complete, soft mutters buzzing through, but it was unnerving even so. Wil fancied he could hear the horses chewing, and he was sure he could hear the chickens nagging at each other. The people seemed sufficiently cowed by their Shaman’s stare, but there remained that light in their eyes that Wil had seen in all the other Linders when faced with Dallin. Like Dallin could tell them all to go drown themselves in the river, and they’d bow deeply, then leap in. No, they’d bow, then run, then leap. All of them dipped their heads as they passed, even the children; some of the elders even wept, though quietly.
Wil could see the tension strung tight in the set of Dallin’s spine, the stiffness of his shoulders, but he peered steadily back at all who met his eyes, his jaw set. Wil, on the other hand, watched his boots plant themselves in the pale, trampled grass, watched Corliss’ boots, watched Dallin’s back, until the first hand came into his peripheral vision, reached.
Smallish, a girl of perhaps fifteen, and a whisper of “Aisling” leaking from her gently upturned lips as she plucked at his sleeve. With a bashful smile, she snatched her hand back, curled it into a fist, and brought it up to cover her mouth. It seemed to open a floodgate: two more, then another two, and then he was losing track, losing his calm, as one hand after another came at him. Never threatening, never grasping, merely touching once, quickly, then dropping away. And all the while, Aisling flittered about him, and Bless and Mother’s Gift and any number of unnerving descriptives that only served to drive his heart up into this throat, constrict his chest. The closeness was making it difficult to breathe, the mass of bodies heating the very air and making sweat slide down between his shoulder-blades.
They weren’t touching Dallin—almost as though they wouldn’t dare—merely making a gap to let him pass, then closing it loosely again behind him so that Wil had to actually push his way through. It took all his will not to snarl and snap at them as they smiled down at him, those fleeting, tentative touches landing on arms and shoulders. Some even lightly brushed his hair, and he had to really try not to twitch and jolt.
“Dallin,” he said, except his throat was too tight, and it came out a whisper, drowned out by the low murmur of voices surrounding him. He reached out, meaning to take hold of Dallin’s sleeve, but bodies were coming between them and hands came out, reaching for his own, so he snatched it back.
“Just breathe,” Corliss told him, calm and soothing and annoying as hell. “They won’t hurt you, they only—”
“I know that,” Wil snapped, peered up into blue eyes, then hazel, then blue again—all of them expressing some form of adoration and acceptance, and surely none of it for him, because they didn’t know, they couldn’t know—before he tore his gaze away and pointed it again to the ground. “I’m not a child,” he growled, would’ve wrenched himself away from her hand against his back, but he hardly had room to move. He was eye-level with broad chests and more bosoms than he’d ever seen in one place in his whole life, and they were cutting off his air, sucking it all up for themselves, ’til he was nearly hyperventilating. And they wouldn’t stop touching him.
“I know you’re not a child,” Corliss answered, though the tone of her voice, with its easy, soothing pitch, seemed to belie it. “I’ve six of my own—believe me, I can tell the difference.”
“Wil?”
Dallin’s voice, dark eyes looking back at him, and Wil didn’t know if he was relieved or embarrassed that his acute discomfort had been spotted, recognized. The confusion only ramped up his agitation. Wil only stared, letting Dallin read what he would, until it hit Wil—this, right here… this was why Dallin thought it ‘best’ to keep things from Wil. This was why an otherwise painfully honest man had stood in front of him just this morning and then again mere moments ago, looked him in the eye, and said it was ‘best’ if he didn’t ask about his own fate. Because if someone was perpetually asking you for rescue, how much faith could you have that they might dredge up the will to rescue themselves if they had to? When had he crossed the line from accepting help when he really needed it to taking the easy way every time it was offered? And it was an offer, each and every time. Dallin always asked, he’d never forced rescue on Wil, and how many times had Wil actually refused? He couldn’t remember a single instance. …when you expect nothing but complete and total submission to your will from me.
Except was Wil submitting to Dallin’s will, or was Dallin submitting to Wil’s? If Wil twisted his mouth, furrowed his brow, Dallin would stalk through the crowding horde and whisk him away—because Wil asked him to. If he scowled, rolled his eyes, Dallin would leave Wil to it, and still be there, waiting, in case Wil changed his mind. He knew these things, knew them because he’d lived both situations, and more than once. So who, in truth, was submitting to whom?
Blaming Dallin for a situation Wil himself had at least half-helped create.
Oh, hell.
With effort, Wil lifted his chin, even managed to dredge up a smile, though he wouldn’t lay bets on how convincing it was. “I’m fine,” he said, turned toward the next hand that reached for him—reached back. His hand was immediately enclosed in a wide, rough grip, so he swallowed the lump of gravel in his throat and reached with the other, too. Muttered, “Hullo,” to an old woman, then a young man, without really seeing either of them, rigid smile stretched across his mouth in a mask he hoped at least somewhat resembled pleasant.
Dallin was still watching, concerned, so Wil took a deep breath, looked at Dallin straight, and gave him a real smile—meant for him and only him, small and private in this sea of people. Perhaps not wholly convinced but willing to take Wil’s word for it, Dallin half-smiled back, lifted an eyebrow and shrugged, shot a semi-warning glance over Wil’s shoulder—presumably at Corliss—then turned and started off again.
He really was a good man. And he really was an excellent Guardian.
And Wil really did want to have him by the river tonight.
“They’ve been waiting for you both,” Corliss ventured.
“The past four days have been very… enlightening,” Corliss went on. “Most of them knew the legend, but none of them knew it was true. Word has been leaking back from your camp about how their Shaman was healing you, and then this morning…” She snorted, shook her head. “Well, this morning for you—we didn’t hear about it ’til this afternoon.”
“The fires.” Wil grimaced.
“Aye, the fires.”
He nearly groaned. “The company that was with us… they hadn’t been told. They didn’t know what it meant.” He turned a hopefully amiable smile on a young… girl, he thought; it was so hard to tell with the younger ones. Nods all around to whomever, a clasping of hands and a few mumbled greetings, and they all backed off and made room for the next. It was actually sort of orderly, now that Wil was paying attention.
“Ha.” Corliss slanted a grin at him. “We didn’t have that problem here. As soon as they heard, they—All right, that’s a little too close, lad. Step back, there’s a good boy.” This to a little boy who’d actually wrapped his arms briefly about Wil’s torso before obediently dropping away and melting back, but with a shy grin up at Wil as he retreated. Corliss paused, shook her head. “It was like they’d got proof they hadn’t known they wanted. You’ve no idea how… hm.” A small smirk lifted her mouth. “I was going to say you’ve no idea how popular you are here, but…” Her glance skimmed over the crowd, then wryly back to Wil.
Wil couldn’t help the snort. “’Popular’ is…” He shook his head, blew out a long breath. “’Popular’ is new.” And not wholly welcome.
“Mm, well, I think I’d prefer your version of it rather than Brayden’s.” Corliss watched Dallin making his way to the edges of the gathering, hailing the man he’d called Woodrow as he neared what Wil was sure now was a guardhouse—had to be, with that turret atop it. “Not much of a glad-hander,” she went on. “He’d much prefer they were all lined up and saluting, than… well, this. At least they’re not afraid to look you in the eye.”
Wil kept nodding his head, kept smiling, kept touching and letting himself be touched as he followed Corliss’ gaze, noting the bowed heads, the bit of a berth they all allowed as Dallin bulled his way through. Yes, that would bother someone as straightforward as Dallin. He’d constantly be wondering what was behind the gaze they wouldn’t let him see. Respect, Dallin knew what to do with; awe made him twitchy and angry.
Wil couldn’t help but feel sorry for these people. They knew what they’d been taught, and they’d obviously been taught the Shaman was a man to be feared and obeyed, a man of great magic and skill, to be revered and held apart from ‘normal’ people. Obeyed blindly. Nothing to prove to these people, except perhaps that he wasn’t a god, he wasn’t all-knowing, he could be hurt, he could be killed…
“They expect him to be perfect,” Wil murmured, frowned, surprised at the twist it gave him. “Mm,” Corliss agreed. “Doesn’t leave much room for being a real person, does it?”
Wil paused, peered back over his shoulder toward the slope, where the Old Ones still stood, apart from it all and watching. From here, they all looked cold and remote, not at all the friendly old men who’d greeted him and given him gifts, but calculating and removed from the people they were supposed to guide and protect. These people gave the Old Ones as wide a berth as they were giving Dallin.
Wil remembered his first impressions of Calder, how he’d compared him to a force of nature, flicking aside obstacles without prejudice or compassion, only because they’d somehow managed to blunder onto a path that crossed his purpose. Now, Wil could hardly pick Calder out among the Old Ones—he fit in like he still belonged there.
How many of you were about when he was chosen? Some, most, all? Most seemed like the likeliest answer. They were extraordinarily long-lived, but Wil supposed it was not entirely logical to assume at least one or two hadn’t popped off in the more than twenty years since the last Guardian had Called Dallin’s name with his last breath. And now, for the first time, it occurred to Wil that it was quite likely that Calder had been one of them then.
Wil’s eyes narrowed. People were still tugging at him, murmuring to him, but he no longer registered their existence.
You knew the raid was coming, didn’t you? Just like you knew the Brethren were here before Dallin told you. You’ve met him before, all of you, and he doesn’t remember it, but you do, and yet you pretend otherwise. Why? What are you hiding from your Shaman?
“Wil?”
Wil peered over at Corliss, still frowning, opened his mouth before he realized he had nothing to say that would sound sane, at least not to her. Perhaps not even to Dallin, now that Wil considered, but Dallin would find the sanity in it eventually. He always did.
“Wil! Thank the Mother.” Hunter was plowing through the thinning crowd, face so set with imperious authority that Wil almost snorted. “Back away, go on, give the man room to breathe. Léah, leave off then, don’t cling so.”
Wil smiled at the young woman Hunter had apparently been chiding, because the light grip he hadn’t even really noticed suddenly let go, and she backed away a step or two, answering his smile with one of her own, considerably less shy than most of the others. Not quite as stunningly beautiful as Thistle, but quite pretty and fit. For the first time, it occurred to Wil that, had he been paying attention, he might have caught more meaningful gazes during all the ruckus than Léah’s, and he wondered how many of these people would let him bed them if he wanted to. Knowing what he was. Not trying to dig into him to sate a hunger they didn’t know they had, but trying instead to snatch a piece of what they knew him to be. All of this want, all of this belief, all of this faith…
Her power depends on her people, lending her the strength of their belief.
And what you do, take that want and use it…
Yes. Lind was a very powerful place indeed. Wil wondered if Dallin suspected just exactly how powerful. Of course he did. Why else would the idea of FAeðme and what it held frighten him enough that he’d actually try lying his way around it?
“Apologies, Wil,” Hunter puffed, dropped a small bow. “I warned them, as the Shaman instructed, but by the time I—”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Wil told him vaguely, still frowning, eyes moving thoughtfully between the people still hovering and the Old Ones, standing up on the rise and watching. He shook his head, turned to Hunter. “I expect you were given an impossible task, and you can’t be blamed. Anyway, it isn’t so bad.” His skin was still crawling, and his heart was still rabbiting, but nothing more. He was whole and more-or-less unmolested, and he hadn’t cowered and cringed within the circle of his Guardian’s arm throughout, so all in all, it was rather a success. He tipped his head toward Corliss. “This is a friend of the Shaman’s. Corliss…” He paused.
“Stierne,” Corliss put in, finally releasing her hold on Wil’s shoulder and offering her hand. “Constable Corliss Stierne. And you are…?”
Hunter took the hand, shook it, then bowed over it before releasing it. “Hunter Calder,” he replied stoutly. “I am… uh…” He frowned as if lost for a way to explain to an ‘outlander’ exactly what he was. Though clearly it involved some sort of possessiveness, for Hunter eyed Corliss with a narrowed gaze and took what Wil was sure was an unconscious step in his direction.
“Hunter has kindly agreed to babysit me,” Wil offered lightly, a smirk twisting as the boy sputtered. “My bodyguard for those times when Dallin can’t do it himself.”
“Ah.” Corliss smiled at Hunter. “And a fine bodyguard I’m sure
you make.” She nodded over toward where Dallin appeared to be in the process of introductions with five men in the livery of Commonwealth soldiers. Wil realized with a bit of a start that these men must be the very ones who’d had their guns trained between Dallin’s eyes as they’d stood in Chester’s square. “Why don’t you see if you can clear a path for us over there, without snapping at these lovely folk who’ve come to honor their Aisling? I’m sure Wil would appreciate being included in the conversation, since I’ve no doubt it will have something to do with him.”
The “Yes, ma’am,” that Hunter smartly snapped out almost made Wil laugh, but he kept it in, merely smiling at those still lingering about them, nodding his head and offering vague greetings when it seemed appropriate.
…she’s got this… mother thing about her, Dallin had told him fondly. People listen—they can’t help themselves.
Wil could see why. This woman had laid a loaded gun at his Guardian’s nape the last time he’d encountered her, and had appeared to have every intention of using it. And yet here Wil was, allowing her to prod him through the rest of the crowd toward a palaver he’d had no real intention of joining, and hoping she hadn’t forgotten about the feeding him part. Good job she hadn’t been the one assigned him back in Putnam, he thought as he followed in Hunter’s wake; he likely would have spilled everything at the mere prospect of succumbing to her caretaking nature—seduction by mothering, ha!—and spilling everything to anyone but his Guardian would have been disastrous. No flight to Lind with Corliss—more like a quick trip back to the Guild with Siofra. She never would have believed him the way Dallin had done, regardless of any benevolent nature. She would have thought him mad and sent him back ‘for his own good,’ and lived the rest of her life believing she’d done right by him. He shuddered—he couldn’t quite help it.