The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  The pillow disappeared, along with the top layer of furs, and Wil snarled this time, sat up a little too quickly. The bright morning sun coming through the open shutters went to spangly gray, and Dallin’s voice dulled in his ears for several seconds before equilibrium reasserted itself.

  “Fuck,” he mumbled. “Dizzy.”

  “That’s because you’re lying about too much,” Dallin scolded, but apparently, he wasn’t concerned enough to return the pillow and covers.

  The room was warm, the fire high and hot, but Wil nonetheless balled himself over his knees, shivered a little. “Funny,” he snapped, “everyone here keeps telling me it’s because I lost a person’s worth of blood.”

  “And now Thorne says you’re sleeping for ten of them.”

  “I’m recovering.”

  “You’re done recovering, or you should be,” Dallin retorted, merciless. “Now you’re just hiding.”

  Wil glared, stung by the accusation. “I was shot,” was all he could think to say.

  “So was I. And you moved pretty quick grabbing for those furs.”

  Wil only frowned, strangely out of balance, and he didn’t know why. His shoulder and arm did actually feel pretty normal, the remaining twinges likely nothing more than residual stiffness due to his own refusal to move. He’d healed very quickly, considering.

  Still, Dallin’s superior attitude, after having not even seen him for days, was tweaking at Wil’s nerves. “How would Thorne know, anyway?” he muttered, still groggy and so somewhat cranky and truculent. “I’ve not seen him for…” Wil frowned, forced his mind to focus. “…days, I think.”

  “Yes, well, I imagine he’s keeping an eye, one way or another. You’re fine, Wil. You just need to start acting like it.”

  Unaccountably, that pissed him off. “And how would you know?” he heard himself saying, as though someone else were speaking—someone else a lot less reasonable and a lot more surly than Wil liked to think he was—then, before he could stop it, that someone else barreled on, “I’ve not seen you for days, either,” appalled and instantly mortified that he’d let it escape his mouth, when he hadn’t even known he’d been thinking it.

  Dallin paused, narrowed his eyes. “Not much of a morning person, are you?”

  Right now, Wil didn’t think he was much of an anything person. He deflated, dropped his head to his knees. “Wait’ll you get to know me.”

  “And you think I don’t?” When Wil only scowled and refused to answer, Dallin sighed, sat on the bed, and slipped a warm hand to Wil’s calf, which only made Wil feel more like a recalcitrant child than he had five seconds ago. “Wil, I’m sorry, I’ve been—”

  “You’ve been busy trying to save Lind and Cynewísan, I know that, I don’t even know why I said it.” Thick and subdued now, appalled and mortified once again that tears were crowding.

  “That’s true, I have been doing.” Dallin paused, gave a light squeeze to Wil’s leg. “But, as Thorne pointed out rather, um… astutely—” Meaning ‘excruciatingly and sharply polite’, Wil had no doubt, knowing Thorne. “—I’ve got Shaw and Wisena, who could be doing a great deal of what I’ve been doing, probably better, and my place is and should be here with you.”

  And why did that make Wil feel even worse? He decided he didn’t want to know; instead, he slid a glance over Dallin. Overwhelmingly relieved but maybe a tiny bit resentful, Wil noted that Dallin did look rather fit, certainly not as pale and drawn as he’d been, and his arm didn’t seem the least bit stiff. So, why did Wil seem stuck in this relentless weariness?

  “Where are your guns?” he wanted to know. Dallin looked nearly naked without them. It took a second, but the question pinged something at the back of Wil’s mind, and he shot a look ’round the room, eyes narrowed. “Where’s the rifle?” Oh, shit. “I didn’t lose the knife, did I?”

  “Everything’s locked down in the vestry. Thorne won’t allow them in the Temple-proper.” Dallin stared for a moment, measuring. “It’s been three days,” he said slowly. “You’ve only just now noticed?”

  “Well, if I’d noticed before, I would’ve asked before, wouldn’t I?” Not that Dallin would’ve been about to ask.

  Dallin kept staring, his mouth set tight. “Thorne says you’re depressed.”

  Wil blinked, scowled again. What business was it of Thorne’s? And whether Wil was or he wasn’t, what right did Thorne have to discuss Wil or his moods with Dallin?

  “Only tired. I think I’ve a right.”

  “You have.” Dallin watched him for quite a long time before he sighed, laid himself back crosswise on the bed by Wil’s feet, and stared at the ceiling. “You’ve also a right to be depressed, though I wish you weren’t, and I’m not sure I understand why you would be, but… We’ve both a right to a lot of incomprehensible things at the moment, I’m thinking. Shock, for instance. Although that’s not exactly incomprehensible.” A pause, weighted, then: “Anger.”

  Wil hadn’t thought of shock. And didn’t feel much like thinking about it now. He shook his head. “I’m not angry.”

  “Ha!” Dallin lifted an eyebrow. “Yes. You are.”

  Wil opened his mouth… closed it. A frown kinked his brow. Was he? Maybe. Shocked and angry—it didn’t seem as improbable as it should. He’d have to figure it out when his mind was working better.

  “Well, if I am, it isn’t with you.”

  “I didn’t think it was.”

  He peered at Dallin closely, scrutinizing as he hadn’t done since he’d been bullied awake. Noted the tightness of the jaw, the crimp of the mouth, and the way Dallin kept looking at the ceiling instead of at Wil.

  “Pot, meet Kettle,” Wil ventured.

  “Mm,” was all Dallin said, and then didn’t say any more, just lay there, jaw winding tighter, the muscles in it twitching and jumping.

  Wil stared for a long moment, sincerely bewildered, until it finally dawned on him. “Oh.” And the bewilderment vanished, all at once. “So you have been avoiding me.”

  “Not really.” Dallin looked over at Wil, thoughtful. “Maybe. I’m not sure. No more than you’ve been avoiding me, I expect.”

  Honesty, with Dallin Brayden, in all things, even when it came to things about himself he too obviously didn’t want to dissect. He’d told Wil, as they’d stood looking down at the abyss, that he meant to do better; Wil wished he hadn’t picked this particular moment to start acting on his new resolution.

  “I admit,” Dallin went on quietly, “that it’s been easier to sink myself inside a lot of other problems than to remember. Because when I do see you, when you’re lying there asleep, so peaceful and whole and here…” His voice was gaining depth and timbre, and he raised his hands above his face, looked at them like they were something entirely new to him as he turned them over and examined the palms. “I want to touch you and hold on to you, and keep touching you and holding on to you, and yet I want to wring your neck as well.” He flexed his fingers, heaved a cheerless snort, then folded his arms up to pillow his head and looked at Wil again. Waiting.

  Wil wanted to look away, but he didn’t. “I had to. You know that.”

  “It could’ve worked. It would’ve worked, if you’d just waited, given it more of a chance. You didn’t have to pull it back. I had his Thread in my hands. You had nothing to prove.”

  “Didn’t I?” Wil swallowed. This time he did look away. “It was killing you,” he said, his voice shaky and small. “I could feel bits of you tearing loose, I could feel how…” His teeth clenched, and his eyes stung. “It was the only thing—”

  “You swore to me you’d choose yourself.” Accusatory. Bitter. Outright angry now, the words shoved out and barbed.

  “Actually, I didn’t.” The way he could almost feel Dallin’s temper spike piqued Wil’s own, and his jaw set. “You keep using this ‘choice’ thing against me like you’re the only one’s who’s got it. I had two choices—I could use you up and stay clean, or I could be what I am and—” He stopped, shut hi
s eyes tight. He hadn’t meant to approach the subject like this; he hadn’t even come ’round to planning an approach at all. Perhaps he really had been hiding. Wouldn’t They be so proud?

  “Be what you are,” Dallin echoed, his voice even and his expression unreadable. He sighed, scrubbed at his face, huffed a quiet, “Bloody hell,” and then went silent again.

  And there it was. Wil supposed he had been hiding, even if he truly hadn’t meant to and hadn’t known he was doing it, but now that it was happening…

  You are Dearg-dur. I can’t love you, Wil. I can’t even look at you.

  And he couldn’t, that was the hell of it. He stared at the ceiling, his mien still flat and far too calm. It wasn’t even truly Dallin who’d spoken the words, but they seemed as much his now as they had the first time Wil had heard them.

  “You can…” Wil chewed on his lip, because it was abruptly quivering, and he fisted his hands to keep the burning behind his eyes at bay. He shouldn’t be doing this like this, sitting naked on a fur-covered bed where he’d been held and healed, and with Dallin lying so very near but oceans away. He shouldn’t be shaking and close to weeping, when he’d stood before the Mother and the Father just days ago and accepted Their charge like he was strong enough to take anything. “I’m to relay to you a message,” he said, surprised that his voice came out a little thick but steady enough.

  “Huh. I’d wondered. They haven’t been speaking to me.”

  That one surprised Wil a little. “You’ve tried?”

  “Of course.” Dallin frowned, flicked Wil a quick glance, then pointed it back up to the ceiling. “They’ve reasons for everything They give us, even those things that look like gifts. I’ve been wondering what sort of price They were expecting of you for… for letting you choose.”

  When would Wil ever learn to stop underestimating this man’s insight?

  “So?” Dallin prodded tightly. “What will it be this time? More saving the world, or just being run over by it again? Surrender yourself to the Guild and let them lock you up for another few decades, maybe? Or no, better—let’s go right to Penley and confess to Channing, throw ourselves on his ‘mercy,’ and take odds on how long before we’re swinging in the gibbets. Really, the possibilities are endless.”

  He was very angry, and not just at Wil.

  “I can see to Channing,” Wil said softly, watched as Dallin’s eyes narrowed, but he still didn’t look at Wil. “I can see to the Guild, too, if you choose. I can fix it all, make it so that you can go back to Constable Brayden, a hero in the One Day War of Lind. Your life would be yours, your choices your own, and you could bury the memories of everything that hurts you just as deeply as you buried your past.”

  He would never know how he managed to get the words out without tripping all over them, without slanting them either pleading or accusing, how he managed to keep his tone even, unaffected. How he managed to sit there, bare and exposed in every sense, and yet give nothing away.

  “No more running,” Wil went on. “No more voices in your head you don’t want to hear, no more dreams you don’t want to remember, and no more…” This time, he did falter. “No more possession, no more soul-eater, no more gods who expect the impossible from you and then expect more. No faithful fold who look at you and expect you to know how to lead them, no blind faith, no Guardian, no Shaman of Lind. You can have your life back, Dallin.”

  Dallin was still staring at the ceiling, eyes still slitted and mouth gone flat. “And how is this your price?” he asked, his voice soft and dangerous.

  Leave it to sharp, shrewd Constable Brayden to cut right to the heart of it all.

  “I’m not quite certain it is.” Because even though it felt like some kind of punishment, shouldn’t he want Dallin to accept what Wil had been instructed to offer? And he was meant to think of it as an offer, a gift, he was sure of it. He should want Dallin to live, safe and oblivious. Wasn’t that what you did for someone you loved?

  “Another Guardian would be Chosen,” Wil answered, opened his mouth to say more, but it dried in his throat, because he’d rather said it all, hadn’t he? What more was there to say?

  “Ah.” Dallin sighed, smiled a little, though it was hard and rather cold. Finally, he looked at Wil, though Wil wished he hadn’t; his eyes were blazing rage like a physical blow. “And whose idea was this?” he wanted to know, his tone gently lethal.

  Wil was meant to back down and cower; he was sure that was the result that look usually got. Except he couldn’t—not only couldn’t, but wouldn’t.

  “You were right before,” Wil replied steadily. “I’m not Wil, I’m not Aisling, I’m not anything I was only days ago. I took him, and I…” Now Wil did cower a little, because Dallin’s whole body tensed, like he was ready to spring and pummel Wil into the mattress. Wil bit back the rising trepidation and lifted his chin. “What was his is now mine. I am Dearg-dur, I am Daeva, and I did see your face when you realized what She was talking about when She told me to use all my Gifts. I am everything you loathe, and you are no longer obligated to abet and protect what you loathe.”

  There. He’d said it. And had only got a pounding head, a racing heart, and a stomach that was trying to crawl out his throat for it. The walls hadn’t caved in on him, and the earth hadn’t opened to swallow him up. Whatever came of this, he would survive it. Because that seemed to be what he did best, one way or another, whether he wanted to or not, and to hell with whomever happened to be in his way.

  Beyond all sense, Dallin was chuckling—low, rolling ripples, that gathered in his chest and ground out his throat like a scree of gravel. “Sorry,” he snorted, “it’s only…” He covered his face with his hands, shook his head. “Show me enough rot and I’ll eventually have to close my eyes, right? Wait long enough, trust too much, and in due course, the badger will almost certainly turn its teeth on me.” The chuckles turned abruptly to a deep, grinding snarl, and Dallin fisted his hands, brought them down to the mattress so fast and hard it made Wil jump. “Fucking hell!”

  He snapped himself upright, leaned in, managing to somehow loom over Wil, even while still sitting. “Soul-eater, a smaller, weaker copy of a creature who wanted to tear out your heart, gobble you up, and you’ve done so many horrible things anyway, you probably deserved it, right? And now you’re just like him, of course, because obviously you’re not strong enough and don’t have enough decency to control it. I expect we’ll need to start chaining you up at night to be sure you don’t run about stealing babies and eating their hearts.” Dallin clenched his teeth, seethed out an inarticulate growl, and his fists curled tight once more. “Mother’s Tits, Wil, grow the fuck up and stop being that little boy who begged for scraps from Siofra because he didn’t know any better. You’re Drút Hyse, for fuck’s sake, don’t you know better than this yet?”

  “I saw you—”

  “You saw me grieve for what you were going to have to do. You saw me mourn that you were going to have to slog through more muck and darkness, and that I was going to have to watch you do it, and you saw me wish I could take it from you. I don’t have to like it, in fact it makes me sick, but you will not use some bloody ‘choice’ I never asked for and don’t even want as an excuse to walk away from this because you’re trying for some idiotic, twisted nobility and too scared to see what happens next.”

  “Walk away from…” Wil shook his head, sincerely bewildered. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  That made Dallin pause, stare at him, shock-silent, for so long that it seemed he’d turned to stone again. “You really don’t know, do you?” he finally managed, leaning back and away from Wil in mystified chagrin. “How could you not…?” His hand came up, rubbed at his mouth. He just kept staring, only he was more thoughtful than angry now, keen intent in his dark eyes. “I see,” he breathed, nodded once, said, “All right, then,” and stood slowly, walked to the window and peered out, his face like granite.

  Wil could see Dallin’s breath skirl from his mout
h on a thin puff of vapor in the chill, the only thing that indicated right now that he was a living being at all, until, “There was a young man, a corporal—one of Wheeler’s men. Said he was on his way to earning his lieutenant’s stripes, Wheeler had promised him a commission after this…” Dallin paused, thought about it for a moment. “…this mission. Only a little older than Hunter—said he had a wife and their first child on its way. He was hoping for a girl.” A tight, bitter smile. “He didn’t say all this easily, you understand. I got it out of him with… difficulty. I seem to have lost my aversion to pulling fingernails. Or re-found my approval of it. I don’t expect it matters which.”

  A soft chuckle that made a shiver walk up Wil’s spine. Dallin caught the movement out the corner of his eye, turned to look at Wil, animation abruptly leaching back into his stony expression, like a statue come to life. There was concern there, unnerving for its sincerity.

  “Sorry,” Dallin said, paced back over to the bed, retrieved the fur he’d swiped earlier, and wrapped it about Wil’s shoulders.

  And then he went back over to the window, resumed his tale and his strange remove like he’d never stopped. “You see, the problem is, we need everyone to tell the same story. A conspiracy of thousands. We need them all to state emphatically that they stopped an invasion of Lind by Ríocht, and that the Chosen was tragically killed in the melee. It would be helpful, of course, if Penley believed Constable Brayden died, too, because anything less than a complete, final conclusion to this, without Lind actually having to secede from the Commonwealth, just won’t do. We have to give them a firm statement of events and produce bodies.” He chuckled something rough and humorless. “The Mother knows there are enough of those to choose from on both sides.

  “So, anyway, almost every one of them—Commonwealth soldiers, I mean—are willing to swear on their lives that what we want them to say happened really did happen. They believe, you see. Seems they all had a Divine Epiphany on the battlefields, and could give the Linders a contest for faith. You should see it, it’s bloody mind-blowing. Men who halfway believed all their lives, crossed the threshold of a temple maybe twice, and now they’re faithful servants to the Mother and the Father. They’ll say anything I want them to say, and the funny thing is that most of them actually believe it.