The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  “You are Dearg-dur,” his other self says, low and trying for kind, but with a hard edge beneath it that makes Dallin’s teeth go tight—the bastard’s got the inflections down so well that even Dallin’s not sure if he’s here or there. “I can’t love you, Wil. I can’t even look at you.” And to prove it, dark eyes turn away.

  Wil stares, eyes narrowed, scrutinizing, trying to find the flaws and telltales; Dallin thinks to tell him not to bother, there won’t be any, but he can’t seem to bring himself to speak, too unsettled by hearing his voice coming out of… that. His words, he can’t deny them; he’d spoken them and he’d meant them, he still means them, but not in the way they’ve been twisted, and he pauses to wonder at it, at himself. Was it all just righteous talk that meant nothing because it didn’t have to mean anything? Are his principles so very fragile that he can ignore them, find ready excuse for ignoring them, twist them just as tightly as Aeledfýres twists his intent?

  “I saw your face,” Wil whispers, and drags his eyes up to Dallin’s. “I saw the look on your face when you realized… when you saw what…” He trails off, frown deepening. “Why are you here?” He hesitates, lip quivering. “I won’t be your task,” he goes on, angry and a bit resentful. “I won’t be your duty.”

  It nearly staggers Dallin, the doubt sliding through the question, the sudden ache that blooms in his chest, because it was so bloody easy to wake it. Hasn’t he proven himself enough already? Doesn’t it mean anything that yes, it does offend him, yet here he is, because morals and principles don’t seem to matter to Dallin when it comes to Wil—Wil is what Wil is, and Dallin has enough trust and faith in him to know that none of the names Aeledfýres took to himself in his long life of treachery will ever fit Wil, and it doesn’t matter what Wil has to do to keep himself alive. He’s better than his enemy, even if he has to use his enemy’s tools, and it’s too easy for Wil to forget that; the insecurities that Siofra planted are rooted too deep. Wil expects to be betrayed and abandoned, like it’s his lot in life, and Dallin supposes it has been.

  So Dallin reminds him. He tightens his hand around Wil’s until he feels bones rubbing together. “Can you doubt me now?” is all he can ask. He turns his gaze on the thing that pretends to be him. “I also told him I would do whatever it takes. I told him I want him to do whatever he has to do to survive. Did you forget that part, or did it just not fit your plans?”

  Wil’s fingers twitch a little in Dallin’s grip, but that’s all the response there is. A red wave of rage that isn’t his pounds through Dallin, sharp and blazing hot: an oozing, darkling touch from the monster’s mind directly into his. Seeking out Dallin’s cracks and weaknesses again, and only succeeding in revealing his own. He can’t take from Dallin, not this time, but he can impart, whether Dallin wants it or not. Insanity—oh, save him, the madness is almost a live thing, Dallin can feel it. Every base emotion there is—envy, fury, greed, hatred, lust—and beneath that, a low seed of mewling, childish impudence.

  A teacher of men once, wielder of fire; Aeledfýres was not always the daemon with no face. Something gone wrong, some fundamental bit of his being tweaked and twisted out of shape, and the innovation of damnation tasted so much more delightful than what his brothers pretended was life. Men were such stupid animals, anyway. Minds so easily bent by a whisper inside their brittle skulls or a booming voice of authority from a rostrum. Too willing to be cattle, chattel, and so he’d given them their wish.

  He’d sipped the first of his dark craft from the screams of the daughters of men; their flavor was sweet and piquant, so he moved on to others, always wanting for More and Better, and when he found his first sorceress… nectar like he’d never known. It almost—almost—filled the blanks in his spirit. He’d taken and taken some more, it was his to take, his right, for he owned the strength and the will. They’d nearly begged him to take, for weak minds leeched the strength of others like ticks to deer. Revenants, all of them. Corruptible children after his own black heart. He only gave them what they thought they wanted, after all. They’d proven it when they took the Slattern and the Fool as their gods.

  And neither envy nor vengeance would suffer the get of the Slattern and the Fool.

  Dallin gasps a little, shoves the dark touch from out his mind, squeezes Wil’s hand again. Could it really be so simple, so… normal? A jealous soul moved to gluttony, and with the power to take unchecked—finally checked and thwarted, and reeking of furious insanity. The simplicity—the grand mundanity—makes him sick.

  He grits his teeth. “You hide behind my face, you spout my words, but you can’t seem to get them quite right.” He’s angry now, and it fills him up, pushes out some of the fear and uncertainty, until the pulse that hammers through his head is his own heartbeat. He cocks his head to the side, an odd, slithering realization wending through him. “He uses others,” he tells Wil slowly, “because he can no longer tell which Self is his. I’m not so sure he even has one anymore. All he knows is his own hunger, his own greed, but he’s fed on the greed of others for so long that it’s taken him over.” Dallin smiles a little, for the first time on ground that’s sure and real, because he knows this, just like he knows when a suspect is lying or telling the truth. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he forgets his own face.”

  The tension in the air notches up again, the push nearly crushing, but Wil pushes back, keeps the middle ground steady. Dallin’s hand tightens around his gun, still wondering what would happen if he just leveled it at the not-him and pulled the trigger; it’s what Dallin had promised to do for Wil, after all, and it seems Aeledfýres is just as trapped in Wheeler’s body as he would’ve been in Dallin’s, had Dallin prevailed in his half-formed strategy. He raises it, just to see if there’s a reaction, just to test, and it’s flung from his grip before his thumb can even twitch toward the hammer, the familiar weight of it leaving his hand too light as the revolver flies through the air, then dissolves into nothing.

  Aeledfýres merely chuckles with Dallin’s voice, but Wil shakes his head, sighs.

  “I’m sorry,” he tells Dallin. “I don’t doubt you.”

  Perhaps not now, but it had been there a moment ago, and Dallin supposes he can’t blame him. Dallin’s own righteousness has bitten him on the arse quite a lot since he’d met Wil, and it’s only Wil’s own nature that prevents it from killing them both. More, it’s what Aeledfýres wants, and they’ve very nearly just handed it to him. The power of belief even now bolsters the power of Lind, and if they don’t stand together…

  Dallin suppresses a shudder. The emptiness of his holster and his hand unnerves him, more than he’d thought it would, but not nearly as much as what they’ve almost just let happen. Their choices are dwindling down to almost nothing, but if they don’t come up with something, Dallin will either be forced to keep his wretched promise or watch Wil do something Dallin desperately doesn’t want to have to watch him do.

  He turns to Wil. “You’re right—you’re not Wil, you’re not Aisling, and you’re sure as hell not Dearg-dur. You’re Drút Hyse, the Father’s Gift to the Mother. And you give them what they think they want.”

  He watches Wil closely, watches the knowing depth of his eyes, like Wil has already guessed, but was afraid of what it might make of him. There’s sadness there, a bit of revulsion, but no balking, just a calm acceptance, then a forced little smile. He pulls his hand from Dallin’s, draws it to his chest, then closes it into a fist, opening it again to reveal the little charm—Sun and Moon, Mother and Father—he’d been so determined not to accept only days ago. He watches Dallin’s eyebrows rise a bit, then shrugs, the smile just as small but real now, not forced.

  The power running through Dallin intensifies for a moment, Wil’s putting everything into it, building a wall of silence and protection around them, blocking Aeledfýres out, even if it’s only for a second.

  “The rifle,” he murmurs, watches Dallin’s eyes narrow, then shrugs again, a smart-arse little smile that’s too characteristic
flicking at the corner of his mouth. “It’s a dream, innit?” A pause as Wil shivers, grits his teeth to keep the barrier for just another few seconds. “I’m blind to my Design,” he goes on, a touch more urgent now. “Find my key and you’ll find his.” He stares long and hard into Dallin’s eyes, waiting…

  And Dallin knows, all at once, and he almost laughs, because he’s surprised and he shouldn’t be.

  This is Wil’s element, he knows what he’s doing, he has done all along, he’s just been waiting for Dallin to catch up. Dallin curls his fingers around Wil’s, closes the little charm back into his palm, then drew his hand from Andette’s, reached out, and slid the rifle’s strap from Wil’s shoulder. Blood had welled from the cut on Dallin’s palm, making his hold on Wil’s hand too slick and precarious. One-handed, careful not to let his grasp slip from Wil’s right hand, he placed the rifle into Wil’s left, holding on until the lax grip tightened. Dallin peered about them, reached once again for Andette, and smiled a little when she wordlessly extended her hand and wrapped her fingers about his.

  “Lind’s power depends on her people lending her the strength of their belief,” he told them, smiling again when Thorne and several of the Old Ones bowed their heads in what he guessed was profound relief, and he couldn’t really blame them. He nodded, pushed out a quick breath. “Drút Hyse stands now for the Father,” he said. “And the power of Lind shall stand for him. Get ready.” He didn’t wait for reactions or questions, merely flicks a quick look at Wil, closes his eyes, and steps back. Lets go.

  Wil staggers with the loss of contact, the power ripping all around them suddenly shifting, a slight tremor rumbling beneath their feet, and a hole opens up in the sky above them. The stars leak through it, shrieking their songs, and Dallin watches them, listens for sense inside the chaos, thinks about Fate and Threads and how it had hurt Wil’s soul when he changed them. Thinks about how he’d never been able to find his own, tried and failed to find those of the ones who hunted him, how one does not make a being entrusted with such power invulnerable or allpowerful, and how Calder had once told him that the Mother’s wisdom in the making of the Guardian complemented the Father’s.

  Wil’s hand goes almost immediately to his brow, and he shakes his head, swipes at his nose, and draws his hand back bright with blood. He sways, just a little, but Dallin sees it, frowns.

  Too pale too quickly, gaze gone a little hazy, Wil shakes his head again as if to clear it and levels a wobbly glare at Aeledfýres. “Take off that face,” he breathes, voice tight and thin. He looks at his hand, like he’s bewildered at the scarlet on his fingers, clenches it into a tight fist. “Take it off!” A command this time, enraged and feral-eyed and a little bit demented. He moves away from Dallin, lurches this time, and frowns again, leans to the side and spits blood.

  Dallin hadn’t realized how quickly Wil would fade, how quickly he’d lose his footing when Dallin stopped sending power, and now that Dallin sees it, new fear swarms through him and pushes out virtually everything else. Time is almost as much of an enemy as Aeledfýres is; Dallin can’t waste a second of it.

  “He can’t remember his own,” Dallin goads, the pain sliding into him again, dull agony creeping through him, but he doesn’t let his mind tear loose this time, just stands there and takes it and keeps gathering power—his hand to Andette’s, to the Old Ones, to Lind. He bares his teeth at Aeledfýres, snarls, “Show yourself, if you remember how. Take me on, if you’ve the nerve, but you won’t use that face against him.”

  “Mm, so touching.” Aeledfýres chuckles a little, shakes his head. “My boy,” he says, his own voice, strangely kind, “you demand as though you’ve a right or a choice or even a hope. Nevertheless…” He waves a hand.

  Dallin had expected intense relief when his own eyes finally stopped looking back at him, but a new shock weaves through him when he finds himself looking into eyes too like Wil’s. Bloody fuck, he thinks, stomach sinking a little and new sweat springing to his brow, one of You might’ve mentioned at some point that he can do that.

  “Father?” Wil breathes, eyes cloudy and dull, that constant green pulse down to no more than a murky spark. Terrible confusion crowds out everything else on Wil’s face and spikes Dallin’s fear down his backbone, hard and fast. Wil reels a little, the blood not just dripping from his nose now, but gushing, and this was an insane plan, a terrible plan, it’s not working—a huge fucking mistake. “Father,” Wil whispers and steps toward the monster.

  ‘No!’ Dallin wants to shout, ‘that isn’t Him, can’t you tell?’ but he can’t. He’s paralyzed, silenced, sent back into that in-between of Watching, put aside, and it isn’t Aeledfýres who’s done it this time, but Wil. And it matters. That blinding agony that’s become too familiar is still ripping through him, still trying to rend him from himself, compounded now by the strength of the Mother, of Lind, of her people, all pouring into him until he thinks his soul will burst. It isn’t meant for him, only to go through him, and right now, it’s got nowhere else to go; he’s a bloody dam for it. He concentrates on feeling the sweaty grip of Andette’s hand around his in another where, concentrates on not letting go.

  “Father,” Wil says again, his tone distressingly sure now, and he extends a hand, says, “Help.”

  If Dallin could move, he’d reach out and snatch Wil back, but he can’t, he can only Watch. There’s no way to tell if Wil knows he’s got Dallin pinned, no way to tell if Wil did it on purpose or if he’s so far gone he doesn’t realize what he’s done. It couldn’t have been worse if Aeledfýres had planned it himself. Then again, perhaps he did—how the fuck would Dallin know?

  Aeledfýres reaches out, closes his hand around Wil’s, and draws him in until they’re only inches apart. He smiles, all kindness and love, and Dallin is once again amazed and revolted that he’s so bloody good at imitation.

  “I never stopped believing,” Wil whispers, and it nearly breaks Dallin’s heart, because it’s so sincere. Wil really believes this is the Father, and Dallin can’t do a bloody thing about it. “You guided me even in Your weakness, and I never stopped believing You’d come back.”

  “Darling boy,” Aeledfýres croons, running his fingers through Wil’s hair, brushing it gently from off his brow. “I would not forsake you like all the others. Siofra has been punished. All who have defied me will be punished.” He spares a small, crafty smile for Dallin before turning it softer, lifting Wil’s chin with a slender hand, swiping at some of the blood with a long, white finger. “What lies in you once was mine,” he whispers. “It’s too much for you—forgive me, I never meant to hurt you. Let me help you, lad, and we will go to the Mother together. All you need do is open to me, dear, lovely Son.”

  “Together,” Wil murmurs, too weak and distant, and Dallin wonders if it’s some kind of spell. Wil had let his defenses down, trying to get up close, trying to deceive the deceiver to let Dallin take a strike, and now Dallin thinks Wil’s been caught in his own trap.

  And here Dallin is, paralyzed and without his guns. He couldn’t keep his awful promise to Wil if he wanted to.

  “Is it what you want, dear boy?” Aeledfýres asks, borderline-seductive. “Ah, but I can see it is. It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Wil breathes, leans in, takes Aeledfýres’ hand and slides it up and over his own smooth cheek. “We all want so badly.”

  Dallin could weep at the familiar turn-of-phrase, his gratitude is that deep, and he ignores all of the pain, all of the inner-agony, as he watches Wil’s other hand slide around his back, latch on to Dallin’s. The paralysis breaks all at once, and all Dallin’s been gathering into himself, all the power, bursts from him and floods into Wil in one great raging torrent of strength. Dallin’s knees should weaken and buckle, but they don’t. He’s carried on it, in it, the connection to Wil, to Lind, and to her people so deep and profound he thinks he can hear them all, see them all, and all at once.

  Battles have gone silent, fingers have stil
led on triggers, as all hearts and minds look now to FAeðme, sending their strength in the form of faith to the Heart of the World, bolstering what runs through Dallin until he thinks he’ll split down the middle and burst himself wide. Wil just keeps taking it all, drawing it out of Dallin and throwing it at Aeledfýres in unrelenting surges of brute force, teeth bared, and hand clamped tight to the thing that would claim the Father’s place. Dallin can feel the push, can feel it like a vise around his own chest, so strong and ruthless that fear for which he doesn’t have the wit or time rolls through him.

  “This is what you want,” Wil pants, eyes blazing again and wild, and Aeledfýres tries to drag his hand away, surprise and rage plain on his beautiful face, but it’s like their hands are fused together.

  He’s pushing back, Dallin can feel that, too, like a solid wall butting up against Wil’s offense, but Wil is at least as strong; he’s got the advantage, however small, and they all know it.

  It can’t last. It’ll rip the world apart at least, or take too much from the people of Lind, leave them just as dead behind the eyes as any Aeledfýres has taken for himself. Dallin goes for it only a split-second before Wil snaps his head around, shouts, “Dallin!”

  Blind to my Design, Wil had said to him. Dallin sees him; Dallin has always seen him, has always recognized him, even when “Design” was no more to him than another word. He reaches through the hole in the sky, doesn’t even think about what he’s doing and how impossible it is, just closes his eyes and wades through the sea of fates—voices, so many voices, and thoughts and minds and moments and eternities—captures stars right in his hand, testing each for the familiarity of Wil’s spirit, seeking the darkling web that’s wound about it. And the Thread is there, at the tips of his fingers, because it’s a dream, innit, you can do anything in a dream, all you have to do is believe hard enough, and Dallin does now, enough to take thin air and stardust and turn it into something he can’t even really see, and he watches as Wilcocked the rifle one-handed, eyes still ablaze and jaw set hard, as he set the barrel just beneath Wheeler’s chin—