The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  There was a pause. Wil could almost see the thoughtful frown he knew had to be creasing Dallin’s brow. “The leaf makes him vulnerable,” Dallin finally said, soft but direct. “He won’t be —”

  “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Wil muttered. Which was a little stupid, since he was currently doing his very best to hide and pretend he wasn’t. Which was a lot stupid. Because he could cower here like the pathetic leaf-freak they seemed to think he was and let them debate for another hour, or he could grow some stones and act like he’d just stood before the Mother and accepted all the power She chose to give him. Either way, what they thought of him was his own to guide, and it was going to matter in a little while.

  He pushed himself up from the damp-warm of Dallin’s chest, couldn’t help the wince and hiss as pain shot out from his shoulder, wound through his ribs, and momentarily took his breath. Dallin held on to him, but only to steady him. Wil managed a weak smile in thanks, reached up, and ran his fingertips just below the new Mark, careful not to touch. “I’d almost forgotten,” he halfwheezed, half-croaked. “I expect it’s official now.”

  Corliss handed a water skin over Dallin’s shoulder; he peered up, nodded his thanks, and passed it to Wil. Dallin’s return smile was tired. “For what it’s worth.”

  “Everything, of course,” Wil told him sincerely. He took a long drink, craned his neck about, and squinted up at… everyone. Everything. He was here, in FAeðme, the Cliabhán, and it was nothing at all like what he’d feared it would be. But then again, nothing about this had ever proven even close to his fears, so he wasn’t terribly surprised.

  It was beautiful. Ancient and primitive, the vast caverns arching up so far above that the flicker of the lamps didn’t even reach its highest recesses. The rock was like nothing he’d ever seen. He’d never imagined there could be so many hues of one color, but there were more shades of green here than he thought perhaps had names. Like Father’s eyes, he thought, and a sharp stab of worry and remorse churned his heart.

  Water flowed past, just to his right, the very mouth of the river, catching the lamps and torches and sparking bright gold-emerald. Something about it warmed the chill that had settled in Wil’s bones. Flównysse. Mother’s Blood. Maybe it was as simple as that.

  He let his gaze wander over the various faces—some he knew, some he didn’t—and stopped at Singréne. Wil nodded. “If you can help, I’d appreciate it if you would.” He caught Dallin’s look of worry, gave him another smile, and dipped in close. “You can’t do everything yourself,” he told him. “You have to start trusting them sometime. If they had any corrupt intent, you’d know it. You knew all along with Calder.” He pulled back a little, flushed lightly, and looked down. “Dallin… I’m sorry about—”

  “Don’t.” Dallin shook his head, looked at Wil straight. “Just… don’t.”

  He really meant it. Not just I don’t want to talk about it, but I don’t blame you, let it go.

  Wil nodded. “All right. You’re right—I won’t. Only don’t let him get in the way of what we have to do here. We need them, or we will. Right now, I need them.” He tried to flex and fist his right hand, couldn’t quite make it, and brought his left up to rest lightly over the wound on his shoulder. A quick shudder swept him, and he winced, snorting a little. “If it’s the ague, and I sneeze, I think it might kill me.” And, naturally, since he’d gone and said it, his nose started to tingle and itch; he dared a sniffle and wiped his filthy sleeve across it.

  “Here,” Corliss piped up, behind him now, crouching just at his left shoulder. He cut his glance at her, caught a bit of worry in her eyes as well, so gave her a weak smile and let her carefully angle his arm out of his wet coat. “This is Léaf’s,” she told Wil, nodding at the shirt draped over her knee, “so it’ll be big on you. He’s gone up to fetch another from his saddlebags. Andette’s donated her coat. For pity’s sake, Brayden, get out of the way, can’t you. Here, lad, lift your arm if you can.”

  Wil might’ve laughed at the way Dallin immediately and unquestioningly did as she said, but even the small amount of shifting set the pain humming. “I don’t think I can,” Wil hissed. Corliss and Dallin were both being exquisitely gentle—he trying to drag his legs out from under Wil’s and get out of the way without jostling him, and she trying to remove the coat with as little movement as possible—but there was apparently no way around the fact that every slight shuffle made the pain flare out and remind him that… bloody damn.

  He blinked, near-disbelief. He’d been shot. He’d actually been shot. “I was shot,” he muttered, shook his head, and puffed a dubious little chuckle.

  “And thrown from a horse,” Dallin reminded him grimly as he finally extracted himself and stood. “And… other things. Don’t put the shirt on yet, Corliss, I’ll want to check the bandage.” He watched Corliss work for a moment, watched Wil try not to flinch every time he moved, then sighed, turning his attention to Singréne. A low conversation between the two ensued above Wil’s head, during which he hoped threats were not exchanged.

  Corliss set her mouth tight as she dropped Wil’s soggy coat and began working the shirt off his left arm. She stopped, shook her head. “No point in making it worse,” she muttered as she slipped a long knife from her belt and proceeded to cut the tunic, careful to draw the knife down and away from his chest. Too bad; it was nice and soft, almost as green as the cavern, and he didn’t even know who’d given it to him. Corliss shot a quick look up at Wil, strangely pointed, as she worked. She raised one auburn eyebrow, then turned her glance up and over his shoulder. “Andette, come give me a hand, won’t you?”

  Wil didn’t turn around—it hurt too much to move, and the process of just getting the coat and shirt off was almost more than he could take. His head was throbbing, his gut was beginning to curl in on itself, and his nose was starting to clog and itch maddeningly, and more than anything else in the world right now, he desperately did not want to sneeze. Or cough. Or even breathe, really, but he hardly had a choice in that one.

  He waited until Andette crouched down to his eye-level, then raised his gaze to meet hers, a polite smile at the ready… He frowned instead. Andette was subdued and pale, her Mark gone stark and vivid over her wan complexion, and her long braid now a short stump at the back of her neck. She kept her eyes on her hands as she fumbled at his sleeve, fingers very carefully not touching him, head bowed.

  “What happened to your hair?” was all Wil could blurt.

  “It will be buried with Barret Calder’s body,” she said, short and clipped, “so that his ghost may remember who he was and what he’s done.”

  Barret Calder and not my uncle. This was not at all the girl who’d greeted Wil so happily and sincerely on the path down to the Weardas’ camp just yesterday. From the tight look of… shame —he was sure it was shame—Wil wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d smeared her face with ash.

  He turned the frown up at Corliss, watched both eyebrows go up this time as Corliss dropped him a slight shrug and waved her hand a little in a gesture Wil was fairly certain translated into It’s up to you.

  He was tempted to ask her exactly what was up to him, but… he was pretty sure he knew. He waited until Andette gently pulled the sleeve of his tunic free, then reached out with his good hand as she made to retreat and stopped her.

  “Andette,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry about your uncle.”

  She flinched, shook her head quickly, but she still wouldn’t look at him. “Contrition is mine,” she whispered, her voice shaky and small. Her glance turned to the bandage wrapped about his chest and shoulder, the colorful bruising that was blooming out from beneath it. “That he would dare…” She bit her lip, shook her head again.

  “It was your arrow,” Wil said, “wasn’t it?” His fingers tightened automatically on her arm as she nodded. He only half-remembered it, and what he did remember slipped from reality to dream, so he couldn’t be entirely sure of what had happened. But he remember
ed the blood on the arrow, on his hand, scarlet drops on white fletching, and he remembered placing the gruesome thing over her palms like some sort of trophy. Perhaps that hadn’t been the smartest thing he’d ever done.

  “It was my right,” she whispered.

  Wil nodded, peering over at Corliss for help, but her face remained impassive. What was he supposed to say to this girl? She had spilled the blood of her kin in his defense; did that make this his responsibility? Was Calder’s blood just as much on his hands as on hers? Was Wil expected to mourn the man, or absolve his executioner? He didn’t know the traditions here, he had no idea how to even begin to soothe her conscience, or if it was even his place to try.

  “I’m sorry,” was all he could say.

  By the way Andette flinched again and gasped, bowed her head and quickly jerked herself up and away, Wil guessed it was the wrong sentiment to offer. He stared after her as she slipped around the Old Ones, then he turned back to Corliss, nonplussed.

  Corliss merely shrugged, draping the thick coat carefully over his bare shoulders. It was still warm from Andette’s heat, and Wil couldn’t help the slight shiver. He also couldn’t help the scowl he arrowed at Corliss. “Was that really necessary?” he wanted to know.

  “Yes,” she retorted, “I think it was.”

  He didn’t have an opportunity to pursue it, which was just as well, since he wasn’t even really sure he wanted to. Wil turned his glance gratefully—for more than one reason—to Dallin and Singréne as they broke away from the others and sat to either side of him. Finally. Leaf or no, he hurt, everywhere, and the need for relief was becoming more necessary than any need for leaf, whether it was ingrained habit and expectation, addiction to the craving in his own mind, or blunt reality. He didn’t even think he cared which anymore.

  Except they’d only just settled in, got themselves as comfortable as possible on the cold stone, when both started a bit, exchanged alarmed glances. A hush fell over the others and every weapon in the room came up, followed by the grinding, metallic slide of bolts cocking and the thin whisper of arrows being drawn from quivers, bowstrings tightening. Wil tensed, too, though he had no idea why until a tight few seconds passed and he heard the sound of quick, light footfalls approaching. Fuck, he’d forgotten where he was for a few minutes there, forgotten why he was here. Now it all rushed back at him, all the fear, all the… everything.

  Anxiety wasted, it seemed, at least for the moment: Dallin and Singréne both relaxed for reasons Wil couldn’t share until Dallin gave him a small smile, then turned and addressed the others. “It’s only Léaf.”

  Who? Wil almost asked, but then he remembered the shirt Corliss hadn’t handed over yet.

  Dallin blew out a long breath, shook his head ruefully. “Wheeler wouldn’t be coming from that way, anyway. Gave myself a start for nothing.” His chin jerked over Singréne’s shoulder; Wil followed Dallin’s gaze to the darkness on the far side of the chamber, opposite from where Léaf was now emerging, red-faced and breathing hard, eyes flicking over the others and then landing squarely on Dallin. Dallin saw him, but merely indicated the other side of the cavern again and went on with what he’d been saying: “He’ll be coming from those tunnels over there.”

  “You know where Wheeler is?” Wil asked.

  “He’ll be here shortly,” Dallin told him, blunt and without preamble, “so let’s get you as ready as we can, all right?”

  “Skirmishes,” Léaf panted as he bulled his way over to Dallin, dropping a quick, cursory bow and absently swatting long, wet waves that had come loose from his messy braid from out his eyes. “Bealde’s squadron lost a few, but she managed to secure the Temple. She’s sent for Gebyld to fortify the perimeter, but fears the runner may not have made it across the line. Your Creighton is there, with two squadrons, so Bealde is up to almost a full battery now. She sends word to the Shaman—‘The enemy has reconnoitered and is trying to concentrate its attack here, but the Weardas followed as they drew upward and inward. The battle-lines are many and holding, but all of the enemy now aim for the Temple. Healdes and Wisena hold the Bounds against a full battalion of Commonwealth soldiers, though no word has come back yet as to whether any shots have been fired.’” He paused, caught his breath. “She also said that Wisena says to tell you that their orders from Wheeler were to invade and subdue, by any means necessary, and to arrest Ríocht’s Chosen for his personal interrogation. You, Shaman…” His jaw set tight, and he lifted his chin. “You are to be executed on sight.”

  Wil’s head was spinning a little with all of the dismaying information, but Dallin merely nodded once, as though he was already fully aware. “The runner made it, and Gebyld is on her way, not to worry. Thank you, Léaf. Sit down before you fall. It’ll all be over shortly.”

  It was surreal. So quiet here, and Wil had been so worried about his own aches and what they might or might not mean, and all the while there were actual battles going on who-knew-how-far above—people dying. “How many is a battalion?” he asked faintly.

  “A thousand men.”

  Dallin’s reply was calm and even, but that didn’t make it any less shocking. Wil’s heart took a jolt in his chest. “A thousand? Plus all the Brethren?” He shut his eyes tight, shook his head before looking back into Dallin’s unruffled gaze. “Surely there aren’t enough of the Weardas to hold them all back? Lind will be overrun.”

  Unaccountably, Dallin smiled. “They’re outnumbered at least ten to one, if it comes to it. The Weardas are not the only ones who carry weapons. No Linder forewarned is defenseless. Anyway, Wisena’s already got Wheeler’s men convinced they arrived just in time to stop an invasion, and he’s ceded command to Shaw. A soldier wants a general, and Shaw’s reputation will do what no direct order from Wheeler ever could. Unless Aeledfýres prevails…” only a minuscule pause and the barest hint of an angry grimace, “which he won’t, Lind and its people are safe from Cynewísan’s guns for the moment.”

  “Did you know all this before?” Thorne asked from behind.

  Dallin shrugged, looked over his shoulder. “I knew Shaw would be necessary. I’ve been… keeping track.” And that was all he would say, it seemed. He looked again to Wil, took careful hold of his arm, and pushed him lightly back. “Let’s get you ready, shall we?” He nodded at Singréne.

  Wil’s eyes narrowed, but he let them guide him gently, until he was stretched out on his back on the stone floor, Andette’s heavy coat cushioning his bare skin from the chill that was still seeping in through his damp trousers. “You said Wheeler will be here shortly.” Wil couldn’t help how his eyes darted over toward the pocket of darkness that concealed the tunnel Dallin had indicated. “How shortly?”

  “I’d say within the hour.”

  Wil took as deep a breath as he could, blew it out slowly, trying to calm the thumping of his heart. He watched with only half-interest as Singréne slid a small charm between his palms, like Calder had done that first day in Chester when he and Shaw had prayed over Dallin. Wil’s hand unconsciously wandered to his trouser pocket, outlining the shape of his little Sun and Moon charm within. Singréne delicately pulled the crystal pendant from where it had slid on its chain down to the floor by Wil’s shoulder, and laid it in its place on his breastbone. He centered his big hands over Wil’s chest and began to sing, low and gorgeously deep, the words indistinct, but Wil recognized the familiar cadence of the First Tongue.

  “You know,” Dallin said quietly, reaching down and slipping his hand about Wil’s; instantly, Wil felt the soothing magic of Singréne’s song redouble, felt the unconscious power leaching from Dallin’s hand and into his own. “I know where they are,” Dallin went on. “He’s only got one squad with him. I could…” He paused, shrugged, met Wil’s curious gaze with one that was even but a little bit hard. “I could collapse the tunnel.”

  He could. Wil didn’t doubt he had the power; Wil could feel a tiny fraction of it running through him, after all. And Dallin wanted to, Wil could see it. Dalli
n had likely been thinking about it since they’d arrived down here, but he’d waited—waited for Wil. Everything about this is your business, Dallin had growled at him last night, even as he’d been trying so desperately to withhold his suicidal plan from Wil, trying to keep things from him to protect him, and not quite managing the lying part of it. Servant to the Aisling—Dallin down on his knee before him, Wil remembered that all too clearly, and though the interpretation of ‘servant’ seemed to vary from one person to the next, Wil thought Dallin’s definition the most definitive. It warmed Wil, but still… he didn’t want it. He didn’t want a servant at all, any more than he wanted to be one.

  “Is that what you want to do?” he asked Dallin, muscles relaxing without Wil even having to work at it, Singréne’s song and Dallin’s magic winding into his bones, soothing the aches, despite everything else.

  Dallin sighed, rubbed at his face with his free hand, rough fingers scratching over at least a day’s growth of thick, red-gold beard. “Part of me, yes,” he answered honestly. “Part of me still wants to get rid of Wheeler while I can and get you out of here, go into hiding until we’re stronger.”

  Singréne’s song didn’t pause or hitch, but his eyebrows rose a little, and his gaze turned to Wil’s, hung for but a moment before Singréne shut his eyes again. Wil kept looking at him for a moment, wondering, before Wil too closed his eyes on a relaxed sigh. The pounding in his head was receding, and the pain that radiated from his chest and all down his arm was edging back. Dallin had been right—it really wasn’t the leaf. He smiled, just a little—pure relief.

  “I’m not sure we can get any stronger,” Wil said softly.

  “Maybe not, but…” Dallin shifted, his hand tightening about Wil’s. “We could stay ahead of them, at least for a while. And perhaps, when a new Cleric is chosen… I mean, I can feel Wheeler, so it stands to reason—”

  “But you’re the one who said it has to be now.”

  “I know, but… bloody hell, Wil, that was when I was still hoping you’d do it my way. You and your bloody risks, you scare the hell out of me, and this risk is just…” His hand was gripping so tightly the tips of Wil’s fingers were going numb. “I can get you out, I can keep them from finding you this time, I know I can, if you’d just—”