The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  This—Linders and bonfires and music and beer and spiced cider and meat on a stick and joyous songs that bid temporary farewell to the Mother and welcomed the Father with praise and gladness—this was a festival.

  Dallin hadn’t trusted Wil on horseback yet—still too dizzy when he stood too fast—and though Wil didn’t quite trust himself yet, either, he still put up enough of a fuss for show. Dallin drove them in a sled pulled by a furry gray stallion that looked like he’d never seen a sled before and wasn’t in the least impressed now that he had; Dallin only snorted and told Wil it was a bit of retaliation in Miri’s honor.

  They’d had a late start, because Wil had insisted on a bath, and Thorne wouldn’t let him leave the Temple until his hair was dry. He threatened to withhold clothes, but relented when Wil promised. Eventually Thorne had handed over a fine white linen shirt that fit Wil surprisingly well, and deerskin trousers dyed black that were a bit long but would do. Sent especially for him by a man named Gecynd—Wil had remembered to ask this time, though he had no real expectation of tracking the man down and thanking him personally. Still, he’d try.

  Dallin had stared at him, head a-tilt and eyes a bit intense, as Wil had hiked up the trousers. “What?” Wil wanted to know.

  Dallin merely shook his head, smiled a little, said, “Nothing,” and handed him a thick pair of stockings.

  The delay suited Wil, since it gave him a chance to meet some of the initiates and apprentices he hadn’t seen while he’d been holed up in the room. There were at least two-dozen men and women who were a bit battered and torn and receiving care, in one form or another; those Wil thanked with all the sincerity in him, and returned their smiles and greetings with a warmth he didn’t think he would’ve meant only days ago.

  It took an hour before Thorne would hand over a thick, fur-lined suede coat, from the same Gecynd. Wil’s own boots—the ones from Locke—had luckily survived.

  He didn’t take the rifle when Dallin had Marden open the vestry for them to retrieve their weapons, but he did take the knife; he’d got used to its weight against his calf. Anyway, its significance had grown for him, and he wanted it with him. Dallin took all of his own weapons, because he was Dallin and he just would.

  It was snowing again, great, thick flakes that took no time at all to dust Wil’s hair and shoulders in pristine white. The world was nearly silent with it, muffled somehow, but sharpened, too, every line of it fluffed and muted by drifts and mounds of the stuff, but honed and stark. He heard every sound as though filtered through cotton, yet it was all clear and precise, too. Wil made no apologies for scooping up a heap of snow in his ungloved hands and giving it a healthy taste, though Corliss chided him and told him it would give him a headache. It didn’t, so he did it again.

  Corliss and Woodrow had been waiting for them at the bottom of the Temple’s steps, along with Creighton, about whom Wil had heard, though they’d never met. A wide, rough-looking man, with big, blocky hands and a thick, jagged scar that went right ’round his neck from ear to ear, like he’d had his throat cut once or been garroted and lived to tell about it. Not that Wil would ask. Veteran, most likely. Wil could see the rust-brown stains on his deer-hide coat, where Corporal Holden’s head had splattered all over it, but decided not to comment.

  Creighton’s smile was wide and full of square, dulling teeth, and his hair was an unremarkable brown going to an unremarkable gray that kept flopping down over a pair of very remarkable gray eyes, peering out at the world with a knowing depth and an easy acceptance of what he found there. He didn’t seem like the sort of man who would hold another still so an executioner could get a clean shot. Then again, Dallin didn’t seem like an executioner—Diabhal Mháthair— though Wil supposed it was all semantics, when you got right down to it, and on which side of Right you chose to stand. And really—who was he to judge?

  Creighton greeted Wil with an unembarrassed bow, then gripped Wil’s hand and arm both, but it was Creighton’s eloquent gaze that held Wil.

  “Wil,” he said, respectful, though it seemed his gentlest tone was an affable bellow, “a pleasure and an honor to finally meet you. A fitting companion for our Brayden, that I can see whenever one of these fine, strapping folk speak of you, but it’s Brayden’s own eyes that convince me.” He grinned, shot a look at Dallin, then back to Wil, leaned in close. “You fought for your Guardian, Aisling—fought and won, and came out the other side. A good fight any soldier should respect. Just see to it you keep bringing him back, eh?”

  That wasn’t quite how it had gone, but Wil decided not to quibble, merely nodded gravely, answered, “I’ll surely do my best,” and suffered a great, booming laugh and a slap on the back that nearly sent him sailing into a snowbank. That was all right, too, because it was his sincere goal in life to do exactly as Creighton had said.

  A guard contingent accompanied them down to Lind-proper, because Dallin said they couldn’t be sure all of the Brethren had been captured or killed or converted, and he wasn’t taking any chances. Wil was pleased to see Hunter and Andette among them, though the shorn hair still made him wince.

  “I had a talk with both of them,” Dallin told him, his mouth set grim. “Even after I sent Hunter up to you, they both still had that… look to them. I don’t know how much good it’ll do, but I had to try. Anyway, if I hadn’t made it clear they were favored, they might’ve been shunned.” He shook his head. “P’raps it would’ve been better to let them. They both seem to think they deserve punishment, and I don’t know if I’m doing them any good by not giving it.”

  “Shunned?” Wil turned to look at them both, then at those around them. They didn’t seem to be acting any differently toward either Andette or Hunter. Then again, they were all concentrating on their surroundings and not on each other, so Wil doubted he’d be able to tell anyway. “Seems very harsh for having merely been related to someone who did something wicked.”

  “There’s a lot of work to be done here,” Dallin said; his voice was quiet and grim. Wil slid a little closer to him, both offering support and trying to absorb some of his heat. “There’ll be time.”

  “There’s still Channing to see to,” Dallin murmured, tired and unhappy. “Haven’t figured what I want to do with that, yet, but I expect there’ll have to be a trip to Penley.” He cut a sideways glance at Wil. “And likely Putnam first. I’ll probably need Jagger for Penley. And I want to make sure he and Ramsford are all right.”

  Wil merely shrugged, unperturbed. “There’ll be time,” he said again.

  “Mm,” was all Dallin replied.

  Wil turned back again, eyed Andette, her short hair flat beneath the weight of accumulating snow. “I shouldn’t’ve said I was sorry,” he murmured, more-or-less to himself. “I should’ve thanked her.”

  “Mm,” Dallin said again. “P’raps you might make it a point to do that, yeah?”

  Wil would’ve smiled, but it didn’t seem appropriate; he merely shook his head a little, watched Dallin out the corner of his eye. How could Dallin even think Lind didn’t need him as their Shaman? How could he think he wasn’t exactly what Lind needed?

  “Yeah,” was all Wil said and leaned closer.

  Their arrival at the common was, predictably, greeted with horns and cheers, then a song Wil didn’t understand, but that Dallin told him was meant as a lullaby to send the Mother to Her sleep in ease. They would sing the songs to welcome the Father after the Shaman lit the bonfire, which he would do when midnight arrived.

  That had been more than an hour ago now, and Dallin had been pulled away immediately after to dance with the ‘Mother’ and all Her maids. And a long line of young women who Wil suspected weren’t Her maids at all. And a good smattering of young men who were most definitely not Her maids. They all waited with such delight and enthusiasm that Wil hoped Dallin wouldn’t find the heart to refuse them. Dallin didn’t—he smiled like he meant it, sang the songs and coiled through the steps with his partners like he’d never done anything else in hi
s life. Better at it all than Wil would’ve thought, though he didn’t know why, really. He’d noticed Dallin’s odd grace almost from the start; he’d just never really seen it applied to anything that didn’t have to do with violence before.

  Woodrow was out there, too; in fact, he hadn’t sat down once since the dancing started, and though he wasn’t quite as graceful on his feet as Dallin was, he had his own, smaller line of both young men and young women waiting their turns. Not surprising. He was wonderfully friendly and perpetually cheerful, though Wil wouldn’t be surprised if some of the Linders were hoping for stories of their Shaman along with their promised dance. And Woodrow would cheerfully comply, Wil had no doubt. Dallin might be annoyed, if it were brought to his attention, but Wil couldn’t imagine it would be anything but a good thing. Perhaps he’d join the queue later himself. He wouldn’t mind a few Constable Brayden stories to fill in some of the less important blanks.

  Scattered in amongst the revelry were stone-faced men and women, weapons held at the ready, eyes scanning continuously. More dark shapes stalked the perimeter. Wil absently wondered if their presence and obvious purpose were muting the festivities at all. Perhaps Linders were even more raucous and exultant when they weren’t mourning and there hadn’t just been a very brief war only days ago. He peered about, marked the smiling faces, the hearty fervor with which the people threw themselves into the celebrations. He could hardly imagine.

  “Are you cold?” Corliss asked him, all motherly concern, which still warmed him and which still embarrassed him a little when it did.

  “I’m not, actually.” He’d been freezing before, when they’d all stood about a great pile of wood and kindling annoyingly not on fire, their songs accompanied by the percussion of his chattering teeth. Now he was quite warm, sitting at their own small fire on a pile of hide-covered pine boughs that weren’t exactly comfortable but which kept his arse off the ground, and as close to the fire as he could get without actually sitting in it. He supposed the beer and cider weren’t hurting. And the mead, too, now that he thought about it.

  Creighton nudged Wil’s arm with a flask. After a second’s pause and the quick suppression of a shudder, Wil took it and swigged down a healthy swallow of… something really fucking strong. He blinked a few times, sucked a breath in through his teeth to hold back a cough, and handed the flask back. Well, if he hadn’t been warm before, he was now. His gullet was downright flaming. Creighton was grinning at him, like he’d been expecting Wil to hurl his guts into the snow and was heartily pleased that he hadn’t. Wil only hoped he wasn’t in for another back-pounding.

  “Puts hair on your chest,” Creighton told him with a wink.

  “Or burns it off,” Wil retorted, his voice a little more high-pitched than it had been a minute ago.

  Creighton threw his head back, barked a deep, full laugh that came up from his belly, teeth flashing gold in the firelight, and—oh, fucking hell—gave Wil a swat between the shoulderblades that Wil thought might shove his spine out through his breastbone. Wil shot a glance at Corliss, but she merely shook her head at him, rolling her eyes in a way that Wil interpreted as Serves you right.

  “So, Wil,” Creighton rumbled, still smiling but with a curious crease to his brow, “I’ve been wondering something, and I think you’re the one to answer it.” He set his elbows on his knees, leaned in. “I know what happened, same as everyone else.” He frowned a little, sharp gray eyes going a touch distant. “Like I was there, but I know I wasn’t. It’s all very strange.” He paused for a moment, thoughtful, though he hadn’t quite got to the question yet. Instead, he stared at his hand as Hunter had done.

  “It was Dallin, you know,” Wil put in. “Brayden, I mean.” Perhaps Creighton was unnerved by it all, and was trying to make sense of it. “He reached out to all of you, and he saved me. In a sense, you were all there, every one of you. He sort of… borrowed you.”

  And apparently, everything that was in him somehow touched these people, showed them what he was about and what he had to do. Wil had once wished everyone in the world could somehow be touched by Dallin; this seemed a pretty good start.

  “Mm,” Creighton hummed, tilted his head. “But why did he have to?” he wanted to know. Wil frowned, looking at Creighton closely. Blame? Accusation? It didn’t feel like either. “Well… I wasn’t quite strong enough to—”

  “No, that isn’t what I mean,” Creighton interrupted. “I mean, why didn’t the Mother just save the Father Herself? If you weren’t quite strong enough, surely She was?” He waved his great hand about. “Here we sit, celebrating Them, promising our faith to Them because They love us and each other, trust Them to watch over us, and yet…” His eyes narrowed. “If my wife were dying —”

  “Like anyone would marry you,” Corliss put in.

  Creighton snorted amiably, conceded the point with an easy nod and a small flourish of his hand. “If I had a wife and she were dying, and I had the power to save her, I’d do it m’-damn-self. And I sure as shit wouldn’t send a—you’ll pardon me—a boy to do a thing meant for gods, Constable Brayden at his back or no.”

  Ah. Interesting. Here was a difference between Lind and the rest of the world that Wil had known for some time now, but hadn’t really thought about in any specific way. He doubted any Linder had the same question; he was pretty sure they all knew the answer without even thinking about it, and even if they didn’t, they’d hardly question it.

  “Actually, I’m not the one to answer that.” Wil nodded at Corliss. “You would’ve done better to ask Constable Stierne.”

  Corliss blinked, lifted an eyebrow, and asked, “Me?” in a way that told Wil that perhaps she’d been asking herself the same question, too.

  “You’re a mum,” he told her, holding out his hand to Creighton for the flask. “Think about it.” She did. She frowned a bit, looked down, while Wil took another swig and passed the flask back to Creighton again. It tasted horrid, but it did warm a person.

  “She couldn’t let him get Her, too,” Corliss finally said slowly. She looked up, narrowed her eyes at Wil; he merely gave her a small nod, and she went on, “She wasn’t… expendable. Not with the Father so entangled. If She got caught in his spells, too, we would’ve all been done-for. And if it’s a choice between your husband or your children…” Her eyes sharpened, honed in on Wil’s, almost angry. “Or even one child or all of them…” She trailed off, pulled her gaze away, stared at the fire for a moment, silent and thoughtful, then shook her head, held out her hand. “Give me that flask, Creighton.” Her voice was low and a bit rough.

  Creighton wordlessly handed it over. She likely hadn’t realized the ability to make that decision was in her until just that moment. And by the looks of it, she wasn’t sure how to feel about the fact that she now knew she could make it, even though she’d likely never have to. Not everyone liked to know they had steel in their hearts somewhere, Wil supposed, even if they fancied those hearts were made of leather.

  Well, they’d asked.

  He was just getting over the pang at having silenced them both so thoroughly, when he spied Andette walking slowly through the crowd on her watch. He sighed, opened his mouth to excuse himself—

  “He’s not coming back,” Corliss said softly. “Is he?”

  Wil followed her gaze to Dallin, his face flushed with exertion and spirits, that grin that made Wil’s knees melt stretched across his face like it belonged there. Like he belonged. Wil couldn’t answer. What was he supposed to say?

  No, he’s not coming back, he’s coming with me. He’ll stay here for a while, get to know his people, teach them, and then he’ll leave them again, because I’m not done and I need him. I know it’s selfish, and I know it’s unforgivable, but I love him, I need him, and it’s poor consolation, but I’ll spend my last breath to make sure he comes out the other side. Because he is not expendable.

  I’m sorry for you, and I’m sorry for him, but I’ve got steel in my heart, too. Only I’m luckier than you
, because he’s got it in his hands, and there’s no safer place for it. I’ll try and hold his just as carefully.

  “I think that’s a question for him, don’t you?” Wil answered quietly. “If you’ll both excuse me…”

  He rose slowly and carefully, because stumbling dizzily into the fire just wouldn’t do. Woodrow, on his way to join his friends, greeted Wil enthusiastically as they passed each other, his open face bright red and sheened with clean, healthy sweat amidst the freckles.

  “Now, this is a festival!” He grinned at Wil, echoing Wil’s own thoughts of earlier. Wil couldn’t help grinning back.

  Dallin caught him on his way over to intercept Andette, surprising Wil by wrapping his arms about him, lifting him off his feet, spinning him about, and planting a hard, sloppy kiss to his mouth, to the delight of everyone about them, wolf-whistles and applause rippling into Wil’s ears and rivaling the music. Dizzy, oh yes, and not minding it one little bit. And not in the least bit cold.

  “What was that for?” Wil asked when he could breathe again.

  Dallin merely grinned and squeezed so tight Wil thought his head might pop off. “For following the pull,” he said, kissed Wil again, finally put him down, but didn’t let go. Dallin leaned in, took Wil’s face between his big hands, looking at him so hard it felt like he was seeing right through to bone. “For finding me,” Dallin whispered, spirits on his breath and a flush on his cheeks, gold fire sharding through his hair and bright sparks of it burning in his deep-dark eyes. Forest god, Wil thought, and welcomed the dizziness that swept his head and heart. “Just… for living, for surviving, and for walking down the length of Cynewísan to find me.”