The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  “Brayden.”

  He kept ignoring it, kept walking. His head was already pounding, the power of this place beating at him, screaming at him, and it was all he could do to shove it to the edge of his consciousness and concentrate on more immediate matters. He didn’t need Shaw distracting him when his mind was already in fifteen different places at once.

  When he reached the lip of the rise, he spotted Wisena, called to him, and hooked a thumb over his shoulder in Shaw’s general direction. “Get him ready,” he told the captain. “We’re stretched thin here, but take five or so with you, your choice—not trackers or sharpshooters, though. I want every one of them with me. When you get across the Bounds, tell your men to go to Healdes for orders when they get here. And tell them to hurry.”

  “Brayden,” Shaw rumbled, “you can’t possibly still be thinking to send me to intercept Wheeler? I know Calder, I can—”

  “No,” Dallin told him flatly. “You can’t. No one can, not now. He’s used up his last chance.” “You mean to just kill him, then?”

  Dallin stopped, fisted his hands, turned on Shaw, saw Andette watching, listening, and didn’t care. “Yes. I mean to just kill him.”

  Shaw stared. “Just like that.”

  “Yes. Just like that.” Dallin tilted his head. “Did Calder ever tell you about what Siofra did to Wil? Did he ever tell you what Wil did at the Guild? How they got him to do what he did at the Guild?”

  “You told me what he did at the Guild.”

  “True.” Dallin’s lip curled up on a cold little sneer. “But I didn’t tell you everything. Discretion, you know. Wil doesn’t like to talk about it, doesn’t like to think about it, so I kept the things he’d prefer not everyone knew to myself.” His teeth were clenching again, he couldn’t help it. “Except, see, I told Calder, back in the cellars of your Temple. I had to, after all, didn’t I? We needed him, and Wil had given his permission, so I told him how Siofra had kept Wil sotted on mAeting from the time he was six years old until the Brethren finally kidnapped him some three years ago. I told him how he’d been forcibly addicted to the stuff and then forcibly withdrawn from it, the Mother only knows how many times.” He paused, cheek and jaw twitching with the effort of keeping his voice level, his expression under some kind of control. “And d’you know what Calder did with that knowledge, Shaw? C’mon, you’re an intelligent man, a healer, surely you can guess.” That last emerged as a growling hiss.

  Shaw was suitably disturbed by the revelation, suitably troubled by the implications, but not suitably daunted. “The man gave up his Calling,” he argued. “He grieved for the Mother’s Voice, and being back here, it… did something to him. He hasn’t been himself. A temporary snap, perhaps, but he is not malicious.” He paused, took a breath. “You don’t need me to go to Wheeler, you need me to help you find Calder. I can talk to him, I can—”

  “No, the thing is, General, I do need you to go to Wheeler, and I need you to do everything in your power, even if that means killing him, to keep him away from Lind. Because he isn’t just an incompetent, arrogant career officer who stumbled into a command he couldn’t manage—he’s the bloody Cleric.”

  Dallin hadn’t really known how sure he was that it was true until the declaration rolled up from the fear and anger seething in his gut and out his mouth.

  Shaw reared back, eyes wide. He shook his head. “That isn’t possible,” he whispered.

  “Yeah?” Dallin snarled. “Well, I’ll be sure and tell Wil that it’s not possible when Wheeler helps Aeledfýres to shove him from out his own soul, because Calder has just done what the Guild and the Brethren have been failing at for the past three years—he’s got Wil drugged stupid on leaf, and now Wil’s wide open and helpless to stop it, and the place is bloody crawling with Wheeler’s thugs.”

  Several people, hurrying about the business of getting ready to begin the search, had paused to stare. Dallin didn’t know how many, if any, here knew much about the Brethren or what their business with Wil was, other than that they meant to take him. Nor did Dallin care. In fact, he thought it might be a good idea to explain the Brethren’s plots to as many as he could; perhaps that would make them search a little more vigorously.

  Shaw was still shaking his head. “He wouldn’t… couldn’t, I…” He stared at Dallin, so stunned and grieved that Dallin almost felt sorry for him. “He is… was… a good man, a friend.”

  “Not anymore,” Dallin said, ruthless, then turned and started for the horses. “Now he’s just another dead man.”

  “What about the Old Ones?” Shaw called. “They should be consulted, at least.”

  Dallin stopped again, turned, snorted derisively, and shook his head. “Until they decide to pick up a weapon and join the hunt, I haven’t any use for the Old Ones at the moment.”

  Shaw peered about at those still watching, listening, with their eyes wide and jaws suddenly slack. He stepped quickly over to Dallin, lowered his voice. “And what if I won’t go?” he asked, calm and almost imperious, his bearing that of a general of the Commonwealth, and not that of Chester’s humble shaman.

  “If you don’t do this,” Dallin answered evenly, “then I will have Wisena escort you across the Bounds, and what you do from there will be no concern of mine, because you will not step foot across them again. And if you try, I will shoot you down myself. This is the Father’s Gift to the Mother we’re talking about here, shaman—just how deep is your faith, and what will you choose to do with it?”

  “The Old Ones—”

  “I am the Guardian,” Dallin answered, raising his voice for any who might hear. “I am the Shaman. I will do whatever it takes to find the Aisling and keep him safe. If you refuse your help, I’ve no use for you, either.” He stepped up close, leaned in. “He trusted Calder. He trusted you. We know what Calder did with that trust; what will you do with it—shaman?”

  Shaw sighed, bowed his head. “Wil would plead for him,” he said quietly.

  Dallin nodded, flashed a cold little twist of a smile. “Wil would also take a cup from his hand.” He turned and started walking again. “Lucky for me, I’ve never had that problem.”

  “Guardian!” Shaw called after him. “You can’t come back from something like this.”

  Dallin only snorted again and kept walking. Did Shaw think for one second that Dallin didn’t already know that? Shaw said it like he thought Dallin hadn’t crossed that line too many years and lives ago, like there was even a way to go back, if Dallin cared enough to want to. And did Shaw honestly imagine that it mattered? Perhaps he hadn’t been paying attention—then again, if he still thought it possible to save Calder, if he still thought Calder worth saving, he obviously hadn’t been.

  The horses were all saddled, snorting excitement and pawing at the ground impatiently as their various owners mounted and waited for the signal. Dallin was glad that the man he’d ordered to find him a horse was watching for him, because he hadn’t been paying attention to whom he’d been barking the order. As it was, he found himself peering at a furry gray stallion, not terribly pretty, but with a feral glint to his eye that Dallin could appreciate.

  “He’s a bit wild,” the man told him. “Never taken terribly kindly to the saddle. Or walking, for that matter—he’d much prefer to run. Sometimes I think he’d run himself off a cliff, just to see if he can fly.” The man shook his head, patted at the gray’s neck. “He’ll give you the business if you let him, but he’s clever and respects a horseman.”

  It was said with a fond grimace that told Dallin this was the man’s very own mount, of which he was terribly proud, and prouder still to hand the reins to his Shaman. Dallin accepted them with a steady look at the man and a nod.

  “And he’s fast?”

  The man snorted. “Just make sure you’re seated well and you’ve a good hold before you prod him on.” He smiled, scratched at the velvety nose, and gave the horse a swat when it took a nip at his fingers. “He’s more than fast—he’s unnatural.”


  Dallin cracked a small smile, nodded again. “I thank you, and I’ll take good care of him.” He took hold of the gray’s bridle, leaned in, and looked straight into one dark eye. “Don’t fuck with me and we’ll get along just fine,” he told it quietly, then nodded once more to the man and led the horse away. He cast his glance about the torch-lit dark, looking for Corliss. There—she and Woodrow were already mounted with a small group Dallin had to assume she’d picked out herself. Good. Corliss knew them all better than Dallin did, and she knew what to look for. He gave the horse an encouraging chirp and started toward her.

  It took him a moment to realize he was being shadowed. He shot a look over his shoulder, expecting to see Shaw preparing more arguments. It was Andette, matching his stride, watching him, staring like she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite manage the courage. Brilliant. One more thing he didn’t need, and he didn’t have the time for it. Dallin stopped, looked at her straight.

  “His case has already been pled and heard,” he told Andette stiffly. “I haven’t the patience to hear more. He made his choices. If you’re looking to help your kin, I suggest you turn your heart toward your brother.”

  Andette shook her head, set her teeth. She dipped down on a quick bow, considerably less deferential than she’d been yesterday. “Shaman,” she said evenly, “I would ride with you. He has broken the laws of the Father and the Mother both. It is my right as kin to see justice done.”

  Dallin’s eyes narrowed. “He is your uncle.”

  “Hunter is my brother,” she answered boldly. “And Wil is my Aisling, and you are my Shaman, and Lind is my country. He has betrayed it all. It is my right.”

  She was shaking—with rage or fear, Dallin couldn’t tell. Likely a bit of both.

  “I haven’t the time for the distraction of a blood feud,” he told her, with a bit more sympathy than he’d allowed before. “You would do best to stay here and look after your brother.”

  “Is blood not what you seek yourself?” Andette retorted, brash and with a touch of cheek Dallin hadn’t expected from any of these people. She paused, bowing her head, though with a smidge of irony that almost made Dallin smile. “I ask only for my right by the laws of Lind. Please, Shaman —I would ride with you.”

  Dallin closed his eyes, rubbed at his aching brow. For pity’s sake, why could he not seem to shake himself of Calders? He didn’t trust her, but he was not so full of bloodlust that he couldn’t see that the mistrust was because of to whom she was related. He had no choice but to admit she had the right to make the demand.

  “If you get in my way,” he told her, low and serious, “I will put a bullet through you to get to him.”

  Andette raised her chin, nodded. “If I get in your way,” she returned, just as serious, “it will be because my bullet has already hit its mark.”

  Dallin sighed, raised an eyebrow, and waved a hand. “Get your mount,” he told her. “I’m leaving now, and I’m not waiting for you.”

  He hadn’t expected the grin, hadn’t expected her to look so much like her brother when she did it, so it threw him a little. “Yes, Shaman!” was all she said, then turned and darted off. Dallin shook his head, watched her for a moment, then made his way over to Corliss and her party. He’d have to remember to be careful where he aimed these people.

  It wasn’t merely pain—it was consciousness, awareness, and it was driving into Dallin with an insistence that would not be denied for much longer. The land, the Mother, one and the same. All of it coming at him, trying to tell him something, and he’d bloody-well better stop to listen, and soon. Corliss was riding beside him, the horses down to a walk now, because it was still dark, and the path they were riding was rocky and steeper than most of the others. It was the quickest way to FAeðme, more of a footpath than a horse trail, and even if Calder hadn’t taken this particular corridor—though there was no real doubt, and the signs had borne Dallin out thus far—they’d at least catch him up when they got there or beat him to it. It wasn’t until Dallin had seen Shaw leaving with Wisena on the roan gelding Wil had ‘stolen’ from Chester that he’d realized Calder had taken Miri. Wil’s own horse, the cheeky fuck. Traveling in a smallish group, as Dallin was, might slow the chase a bit, but Miri still wasn’t terribly fast, nor was she used to climbing these hills. With the added burden of two riders…

  They’d catch up. Because the alternative was unthinkable.

  Without giving himself much chance to think it over more thoroughly, Dallin held out his reins to Corliss. “Hold these for a moment,” he told her. “And keep a tight hold. He’s been aching to bolt since we started.” More like dying for it, and willing to throw Dallin off if he didn’t leave him to it soon.

  “Why?” Corliss wanted to know, eyes narrowing slightly as she took the lead from Dallin’s hand. “What are you going to do?”

  Dallin merely shrugged, rested his hands on the saddlebow, and closed his eyes. “I’m a Watcher,” he told her. “I’m going to Watch.”

  He didn’t know what made him think he could do it—he just knew that he could. He’d never tried it outside of dreams, but in those days when Wil had been wandering, dream and reality had seemed to mesh too often, one blending into the other, and actual sleep hadn’t seemed necessary to the practice. A state somewhere in between, and he’d needed dark and quiet to achieve it then, but if he couldn’t have that…

  I am the Shaman.

  Three parts arrogant blustering at the time, but now… The Aisling needed the Guardian, so the Guardian he would be. He stretched himself inside the channels, butted up against his own barriers. Cracked the locks on the flood-gates and saw the might of the terrifying power straining behind them.

  It was waiting for him, eager for him, so he merely opened himself up and let it in.

  The rush of relief nearly overwhelmed him. He hadn’t realized just how bad the pain was until he stopped resisting the call, let the power run through him, let it show him, guide him.

  He saw his mistake with Shaw right away—he hadn’t needed to send the shaman to Wheeler, because Wheeler wasn’t there anymore. Dallin had suspected it might happen, worried over it. He’d prevented the Old Ones from announcing Wil’s location by blowing those damned welcome horns, only to have Wil do it himself by trying to prove something he hadn’t needed to prove. Certainly, Wisena had needed the confirmation, and Wil was right when he argued it was the only way the captain would believe with his whole heart and help in the way Dallin needed him to.

  But Wil hadn’t done it for that, even if he truly thought he had. Wil had been out to prove his own worth to the people of Lind, and Dallin couldn’t lay blame, even though, at the time, choking Wil had crossed Dallin’s mind once or twice. Except Dallin knew how Wil thought, what was important to him. Wil would make himself a liability by trying to prove he wasn’t one. Bloody apples and potatoes.

  “It’s how Calder got him to drink it,” he heard himself whisper, shaking his head at the curious murmur from Corliss. “Used his insecurities, his own heart against him. Treacherous bastard.”

  He could see it now, could feel it. The land had stood witness to it all, and it remembered, showed him. He couldn’t hear words, but he could feel everything—Wil’s initial suspicion, a bit of craftiness, then the guilt, the uncertainty, the hesitancy, and the remorse… then the incomprehension, the murky awareness, the recognition, the shock and the terrible, nauseating dismay…

  Dallin pulled away from it before he lost his concentration, stretched himself farther instead, tried to find the now and the here. But Calder was clever, and talented, and he hadn’t lost all his magic when he’d lost his Marks. He may not hear the Mother’s Voice, but he could still manipulate Her land, as he’d manipulated Dallin that day in Chester. And Wil… wherever he was wandering, Dallin couldn’t reach him, at least not yet. Either he was deliberately hiding from his Guardian, or the dreamleaf made it impossible for him to reach out. Dallin was betting on the latter.

  All
right, then.

  Magic untapped and unknown, Wil had told him; Dallin tapped it now, put away every defense he’d clung to since this whole business started, let it trickle in and let it know him. Let it twine itself into him with an awareness that nearly made him sick with its intimacy, its awful knowing. It was against everything he had ever believed right—his mind was his own, and Dallin had had every intention of keeping it that way. Except now Wil was in trouble, and Dallin would knock down every barrier he’d ever held close and sacred to get Wil back out.

  I will do whatever it takes, he’d told Wil, and even though he’d had no idea it would take this, still, he’d meant it.

  “This might take a bit,” Dallin murmured to Corliss. “Stop if you have to, but don’t interrupt.”

  Some part of him noted the absurdity of it, hunkering down to meditate while riding horseback on tricky terrain. Another part he didn’t even know he had in him reached out with a mental hand, kept it firm to the horse’s tether, and sat back, satisfied at the compliance.

  And then he let down the blockades of everything he was, let it all in, let it wash over him, take him, and it’s so much less jarring and sickening than he’d thought it was a moment ago, so much less intrusive. More like a greeting, a reacquainting, than a conquest or invasion, and he almost laughs at the trepidation he’d felt before.

  WAepenbora, it names him, and Ealdordéman, Foreládtéowes, and more names, too many, they flit by him too quickly. He snags them with mental grappling-hooks, lets them tell him what he is, what he should be, the words themselves commands.

  Soldier, Guide, Chief, Warrior, Doorway, Guardian…

  On and on and on, it reaches down into those empty places he has inside him, and he lets it, lets it fill them up, only they’re not as empty as he’d always thought them. Rife with parts of himself he hadn’t known he’d known, things tamped down and buried—