The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  “No.” Like he’d been hit with ice water, Wil all at once knew. Dazed, he shook his head, said it again: “No.”

  Dallin gave him a cheerless little smile, which only served to chill Wil further. “It’s what they were trying to do in Old Bridge, testing, making sure you really were what you were supposed to be, making sure it could be done before bringing you to their Cleric, except they didn’t know about the leaf then. ‘The Cleric must commune with the Aisling,’ right? Follow you into dreams, let Aeledfýres in so he can push you out, take everything you are and everything you have.” He paused, dark eyes drilling right into Wil, relentless. “I call your name and summon him. I am the Vessel. You can beat him if you push it all at me before he can come at you. Once you’ve Lind behind you… you push it all at me and you crush him. If he gets to you first, it’s all lost. Everything.”

  Wil was still shaking his head, somehow expecting every word and still sideswiped by it. Now, he shut his eyes tight, clamped his jaw, swallowed bile. When he opened his eyes again, dark spots were spiraling at the fringes of his vision. “And what…?”

  Don’t ask, you know the answer, why are you doing this to yourself?

  “What happens to you?”

  Dallin’s expression didn’t change; his gaze didn’t waver. “I don’t know.”

  Liar.

  Wil couldn’t say it. Could barely even acknowledge it. “It can’t be the only way,” was all he could manage.

  “If there’s another, I’ve not been able to figure it, and no one’s bothered to pop by to help me find it.”

  Dallin was suddenly so calm, so infuriatingly composed, that Wil actually wanted to stalk across the small room and punch him in the mouth.

  “The Heart of the World, Wil,” Dallin said softly. “You can’t let him have it.”

  “I never intended to,” Wil answered, vague and raspy and altogether too weak to support the arrogance of the statement. It was wrong, all of it just wrong, like the skin of the world had just been snapped out from under him, shaken thoroughly, then slipped back on, backward and upside-down. “There has to be another way,” he whispered.

  Dallin sighed, nodded like he’d expected it. “All right, then. Let me know when you think of one, yeah?”

  Rage flared through Wil, bright-hot and blinding white, and he let a growl burn up from his chest. “You’re going to be bloody glib? You’re sitting there and seriously telling me that the only way out of this is if I do something that will very likely kill you, and if I—”

  He choked, the words clogging acidic in his throat like great chunks of poison, gagging him.

  “I assure you,” Dallin said, so tender and compassionate it was almost galling, “the irony is purely unintentional.”

  You will come out the other side, Dallin had told him—you, not we—and Wil hadn’t even noticed the deviously deliberate wording until just this second. And all this time…

  “You fuck,” Wil breathed through a throat tight and burning, not caring, more like refusing to care, that Dallin could very well give him another Now you know how I feel. Except he wouldn’t, Wil knew he wouldn’t, and somehow, that only made the rage burn hotter. “You weren’t going to tell me.”

  A slow shake of the head. “No.” And that was it. No apology, no justification, not even the satisfaction of watching the frank gaze waver.

  “And how did you intend to get me to do it?”

  Dallin shook his head again, propped his elbows to the table, and rubbed at his temples like he was trying to keep his brain from beating its way out through them. “That I hadn’t quite figured yet.” He sighed. “The best plan thus far involved a lot of begging. Maybe a bit of weeping. Definitely some groveling. Probably an attempt at bullying mixed with reason.” He whiffed out a snort that sounded anything but humorous, cradled his head in his hands, and closed his eyes. “Surprise you with it when it was too late to back out,” he said more quietly. “I hadn’t got that far in the plan.”

  It didn’t look like a lie, didn’t feel like one, but suspicion flared. Wil couldn’t help it, and it twisted a shard of bitter-sharp doubt through his chest. “No?” His voice was shaky, a little too high-pitched. “You’ve all the keys as well, haven’t you? The First Constable of Putnam, the Shaman of Lind, and the most obvious answer never once crossed your mind?”

  Dallin went utterly still, so still that Wil thought he might have stopped breathing. Tension wound between them, thick and choking, the hiss and shiver of the oil lamps, the low mutter of the fire in the stove nearly deafening in the silence. The drums still coming from outside throbbed into Wil’s skull, set it pounding.

  You think I’d drug someone all unsuspecting? What d’you think I am?

  It was a mistake, an accusation made from fear and desperate denial and too much time spent around people who snapped their teeth the moment you exposed your jugular. And now Wil was drowning in it, unable to move as Dallin slowly stood, hands planted on the table like he had to hold himself up. Vibrating, Dallin took several long, deep breaths, eyes shut tight and jaw clenched. “Right,” he breathed, took another long breath and said it again. “Right.” And then he nodded—once—straightened, and without casting so much as a fleeting glance at Wil, he turned and walked out. Wil was expecting the door to slam behind him, prepared himself for a mild jolt, and nearly jumped out of his skin when it merely shut with a quiet click.

  Wil just stood there, staring at the door, tracing the whorls and loops of the grain, not thinking anything at all, his mind buzzing white and too loud, his body far away and numb. You’ve just compared the most honorable man you know to Siofra and the Brethren. He shut his eyes, counted to ten, and lost track around four, had to back up and start again twice before he let that go, too. You’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life kept wanting to jumble its way into understandable shapes in his head, but he wouldn’t let it, too busy not thinking. His legs started moving, and he didn’t think about that, either, just followed them to the door, watched his hand reach out, open it, and heard his voice ask Hunter, “Which way?” and then his legs were in charge again, picking up pace until he was running in the direction the boy had pointed.

  Dallin didn’t believe in Fate, all right, Wil could understand that, because Fate was too often unkind, and had shown Dallin the back of her hand more than was fair. But Wil did believe, he had no choice, and if the Father said it wasn’t Wil’s fate to save Him…

  No. Fate, chance, or divine command—he didn’t care. There were only so many sacrifices a man could make, and Wil didn’t think anyone could argue that he hadn’t already made more than his share. He wasn’t about to sacrifice Dallin, too, or let Dallin sacrifice himself. Dallin had shown Wil hope, had made him believe he could change his own fate, so if it all went wrong, Wil would just blame it on Dallin. Well, not really. But still.

  Catching up wasn’t easy—Dallin had a stride on him, and he was angry, so he’d likely be walking fast. It was dark, which didn’t help, and he’d taken a path down to the river, which didn’t help, either. Too-smooth rock interleaved too-soft sweetgrass, neither of which lent much by way of traction beneath Wil’s boots on the path that didn’t look like too much of a slope until he tried navigating it in the dark and in a hurry. He slid to his arse twice, kept himself from sliding to his arse another four or five times by sheer determination, until he reached the bottom and stopped to catch his breath.

  He’d seen Dallin standing just that way before, in just that spot, but that time, the sun had been bright, and the air had been sweet with spring, and Dallin’s spirit had been bared and reaching. This was it, the bend in the river where Dallin had brought Wil that first night, when the Guardian had first stepped deliberately into dreams and shown Wil he wasn’t as alone as he’d always thought he was, and then again when Wil had taken a chance he hadn’t known he was taking and offered a kiss, and then again when Wil had been lost and Dallin had waited for him here, waited and searched and poured himself out. Now,
the posture was the same, but everything else was wrong, closed in, pulling away, and Wil couldn’t stand it. It was just wrong.

  You didn’t approach from behind a person with an arsenal strapped all over him, but Wil was still too busy not thinking to care. He stalked over to Dallin, kept coming when Dallin cocked his head to the side and then spun, kept coming when he watched Dallin’s mouth set firm and his fists clench tight in the thin light of stars and moon. And when Dallin started to say something, to warn Wil off, perhaps, Wil kept coming until he was planted right in front of him. Reached out, took hold of Dallin’s coat, dragged him in, and kissed him. Kept kissing him until Dallin stopped trying to push him away, stopped trying to protest, stopped resisting altogether, wrapped Wil in a death-grip that made it hard to breathe, and kissed him back.

  After that, it was easy. Easy to fall to the cold grass. Easy to bare skin to the chill brilliance of the stars and heat it with hands and mouth. Easy to beg and plead and demand, and easy to rock into the rhythm of soft words spoken to the distant heady beat of earthbound drums and the immortal songs of stars and river. Easy to gasp things that were real and things that he meant into sweated skin and damp hair that smelled of smoke and pine and the sharp-spicy scent of dreams that didn’t hurt.

  Easy to lie there after, panting and shaking, whispering apologies and promises, listening as they were whispered back, and realize that he’d just made real, honest love for the first time in his life.

  They’d been given the little guardhouse—the perks of privilege, Dallin had joked as they’d made their way back up the path. Wil had to admit he was rather pleased. It would be nice to have an actual bed, and this one was built for Linders, and so quite big enough. Still, he made himself stay awake until well after Dallin had dropped heavily into sleep; with any luck, the dreams would leave Dallin alone tonight, and if they didn’t, Wil wouldn’t be long behind him.

  Dallin was snoring lightly, arm heavy across Wil’s chest, when the drums finally stopped and the night went quiet. Wil waited until his own eyelids were drooping dangerously; then he slid himself carefully from out the loose grip and stood over the bed for a few moments, holding his breath. Dallin slept so lightly, and Wil wanted to make sure this little jaunt would be private. Dallin had been exhausted, so Wil wasn’t terribly surprised when Dallin stirred just a little, then slept on. Satisfied, Wil dressed quickly, slipped the knife into his belt, snatched up his pack, slung the rifle, started for the door—

  Matches. It would be stupid and thoughtless to risk calling fire. He poked about on the sparsely covered shelves, found the matches in a small crock on the second, and nicked several.

  He took stock, ticked down his mental list, then stole outside, shut the door as softly as was possible, and sat down on the step to put his boots on and drop the knife—can’t forget the knife —into the left. He was surprised to note no sentry at the door. Dallin had told Hunter to have Corliss and Woodrow take shifts, and it was unusual that the boy would leave before he was relieved. Anyway, Wil wasn’t about to rat him out, and this way, Wil wouldn’t have to go through the bother of arguing someone into a moment of privacy. He stood, smiled a little at his good luck, and made his way down to the river again.

  It was easier going this time. It helped that he wasn’t scrambling to make up for the nearly unforgivable, wasn’t shocked clumsy by his own stupidity and callousness. He really could be an idiot sometimes.

  The grass was still tamped down in a wide swath, and he couldn’t stop the ridiculous grin that stretched his mouth, the hot flush that moved from his toes all the way up to the tips of his ears. It really had been quite… He sighed. There wasn’t a word for it, or if there was, he didn’t know it.

  “It was what it was,” he told himself, letting the smile curl as big and stupid as it wanted. “Just let it be what it was.”

  Wil swung his pack about, folded himself down, laid the gun aside, and pulled out the bowl. Setting it in the grass, he dug the charcoal and paper from his coat pocket, and the knife from his boot. The moon was just bright enough, made a touch brighter by its reflection from the water. Tilting the knife slightly away, Wil could see the runes well enough to copy their shapes onto the crumpled paper. It took him several tries, even going slowly and carefully; it seemed colder than it had been only a little while ago, and his fingers were clumsy with the chill. He was running out of clean spots on the paper when he finally got it right, tore what he’d written in a strip from the rest, and set it in the bowl.

  Just to be certain, he dug into his pack, found the leaves by feel, and slid one out. Rather battered and torn, going dry and crumbly, but Dallin hadn’t said the condition of the leaves mattered. Anyway, he’d said you were supposed to burn something special to you, and the leaf was special. Three of them—perfectly shaped—had been lying on his chest the morning he’d woken in a serene little wood to see a doe, framed in morning sunlight sifting through the trees, staring down at him, soft-eyed and wildly beautiful. He’d kept the leaves because he’d wanted to remember how those dark, liquid eyes looked, and how free and at peace he’d felt in that moment before she’d bolted off, tail twitching. Perhaps not worth anything to anyone else, but special to him, and it would have to do.

  He stroked the veins of the leaf with a fingertip, whispered to it what he’d hopefully written on the paper, and placed it in the bowl as well. Paused. Shrugged. Decided it couldn’t hurt, so he dug out the remains of the other leaves and dropped them in, too.

  The match sparked to life immediately beneath his thumbnail, blinding him for several seconds. He touched it to both ends of the paper, then to several spots on the leaves, slipped it beneath all the rest, and sat back to watch it burn. It was… anticlimactic. He’d been hoping for some sort of… something. A sudden wind out of nowhere, a slight tremor, an owl hooting…

  Nothing but the quiet and the sweet smell of burning leaves.

  Ah, well. He’d taken a chance. He’d done it. He’d swallowed the last of his anger and resentment, bowed to the Mother in his own way, and asked for Her Favor. Well, asked it for Dallin, but… sometimes it was one and the same. Not willing to leave anything to chance, even if it was a little absurd, Wil waited until the last of the ash was dead and black, then blew into the bowl, scattering the remnants on the bit of breeze.

  For what it was worth.

  Satisfied, Wil collected the bowl and the knife, stuffed them in his pack and boot respectively, and turned—

  “You should not be—”

  “Fuck!” Wil jumped, spun, heart racing, pack flying from his hands and dropping to the ground. He knew the voice, but that didn’t register until after he’d already been startled nearly out of his skin. “For pity’s sake, Calder, what the fuck are you doing, sneaking up like that?”

  Beads clacked the tiniest bit as Calder dipped his head. “Forgive me. It was not my intention to ‘sneak.’ I assumed your sleep was disturbed by the pain, so my nephew sent me along with your tea. Anyway, I thought your Guardian might prefer it if I did not leave you to yourself.” His eyebrows drew down, and his tone slanted reproachful. “I cannot say I agree that a guard is necessary—Lind protects its own.” His chest puffed a bit, then he waved a hand in concession. “However, I doubt Brayden would appreciate you wandering about alone.” He peered about the darkness, then back to Wil, measuring. “You are rather far from the others, after all. No one would hear if you called for help.”

  Wil’s mouth worked, but his heart hadn’t slowed down yet, and his hands were still shaking a little. He couldn’t think of a single excuse, and he certainly wasn’t going to tell Calder what he’d been doing. A giddy urge to tell Calder that he was right about that last warning nearly took him; Wil had been so loud before that Dallin had to put a hand over his mouth to muffle the screams, and no one had come running then. Instead, he latched on to the first part of the reprimand: “Why didn’t Hunter come?”

  Calder shrugged. “He did not want to leave the Shaman unguarded. I a
greed to bring this to you in his stead.” He held out his hand. “He worries for you.”

  Wil stared at the cup in Calder’s hand. “You brought tea all the way down here?” He almost snorted; he held it back and shook his head, hand rising to swipe at an only slightly throbbing brow, now that he noticed. “I don’t need it, actually, but thank you. I’ve barely noticed it all day.”

  Calder took a step closer, still holding out the cup. “I don’t mean to sound…” He paused, shook his head. “It’s very difficult to know what will or will not be welcome. I don’t mean to interfere.”

  Wil’s eyebrows went up. Back to the deferential Calder, servant to the Aisling. Wil was having a hard time keeping up with the ever-changing moods. Somehow, starting with the incongruity of that cup of tea down here in this place, this whole encounter seemed… off.

  “Interfere?”

  “You do not understand how… precarious a position you’ve put your Guardian in, young Wil.” Calder sounded so serious, so concerned. “A link has been forged. Every weakness of yours, he uses his strength to shield. Your pain is his, tenfold. I don’t think you know just how much of himself he is using up to keep you from falling beneath the weight of what bombards his defenses.”

  Wil looked down, thought of the dark circles under Dallin’s eyes, the weary set of his shoulders when no one was looking, the constant rubbing at his temples, like he was in pain… A light flush warmed Wil’s cheeks, and he was glad Calder wouldn’t see it in the dark. “Yes,” he agreed, subdued. “You’re right, I didn’t realize.”

  Calder held out the cup again. “Drink it. Your good health and well-being can only help your Guardian.”

  He might go about it all wrong, but Calder did mean well, though Dallin would never admit it, with his strident dislike which, at times, bordered on rabid and unreasonable. Wil understood it, but didn’t always agree. Calder was kind in his way. When he tried. Which he was clearly doing now.