Beloved Son

by Carole Cummings

  Gently unheeded and mutually heedless, Wil quietly rose, stuffed the charm in his trouser pocket and the crystal inside his shirt, found his coat, and ambled slowly over to the cave’s opening. Breakfast having been over for some time now, most of the small fires had been left to smolder, their owners having wandered off past the paddocks and now occupying themselves with either throwing knives at a target or betting on others who were throwing knives at a target. Wil spotted Hunter standing a dozen or so lengths away from the caves, not joining in either the betting or the throwing but merely watching from a distance. Wil peered over his shoulder and caught Dallin’s eye. Dallin tilted his head, asking, and Wil answered with a nod toward the green and a small smile. Dallin returned the smile and turned his attention back to the conversation.

  Freed from the pretense of caring about whatever details they were discussing, Wil stepped from the cave and once again out into the sunshine. He paused for a moment to close his eyes, reaching tentatively. If he was going to get pounded again, he’d rather it happened right here so he could crawl back inside and not have another collapse out in the middle of the Weardas. The dull throb of the headache still remained, but it neither subsided nor grew—it was the same as when Dallin had gone flying backward, perhaps a little less intense after the doctored tea. Comparatively speaking, it was nothing.

  Satisfied, Wil made his way over toward Hunter. He approached from behind, noting the stiff set of Hunter’s shoulders, the straightness of his spine. Now that Wil was paying attention, he noticed the way Hunter’s head swiveled, how his gaze swept the camp with slow regularity. Wil’s eyebrows went up, curious.

  Apparently Hunter heard him coming. He turned, squinting against the brightness, the sun having shifted behind Wil with the turning of the day. Hunter offered a shy, uncertain smile. He bobbed his fair head.

  “Greetings, Aisling.” His voice dipped down on the last, conscious of… well, nobody, really—everyone else was occupied with their games, the horses, or walking their watch.

  A knee-jerk Don’t call me that rose to Wil’s tongue, but it stayed at the back of his throat. Yesterday, even this morning, he would have snapped and snarled at the name, but now… well, it was what he was, wasn’t it? He couldn’t give it back. He couldn’t walk away from it. All his life he’d been used and hurt, imprisoned and punished because of that name, and he didn’t suppose the ache of reminder would ever really dim. Still, it was more his than Wil was, and he supposed it was past time he stopped hissing and spitting about it.

  His hand rose without his permission, fingers sliding into his hair, over the small scars—I have a real name. He turned the gesture into a casual brushing away of an unruly hank that he tucked behind his ear.

  He returned Hunter’s smile. “Perhaps ‘Wil’ would be better for now.” He shifted a nod back toward the cave. “They’re debating exactly how they’re going to go about….” He shrugged. “Whatever they’re going to go about.”

  Hunter’s smile was slightly bemused. “It does not concern you?”

  “Not really. Dallin will do what’s right.”

  “As a Guardian should.” Hunter’s expression went solicitous. “Is there something I can get you?” He indicated the fire pit, still blazing and attended by a crew of one, but there was a notable lack of anything cooking over it. “It is not quite time to prepare for the midday meal, but if you’re hungry….”

  Surprisingly, Wil wasn’t especially. Hunter and Shaw had brought him a huge chunk of what Dallin had told Wil was goat only a few hours ago, and Wil had gnawed it right down to the bone.

  “No, thank you.” Wil peered up at Hunter with a tilt of his head and a carefully friendly smile. “Have you been assigned to me or something?”

  Hunter blinked. “Assigned?”

  “Well, you….” How to put this politely, and so as not to hurt Hunter’s feelings? “You’re being very nice to me. Which is very good,” Wil hastened to add. “I appreciate it, I just—”

  He wasn’t used to it. There was usually a reason why people were nice to him, and Wil didn’t see that reason behind Hunter’s eyes. The only one who’d ever been nice to Wil for no reason was Dallin, and… well, Dallin was different.

  “It just… confuses me.”

  Hunter frowned. “Confuses you?”

  Wil shook his head, embarrassed. “Never mind.”

  Idiot. Apparently social skills were something else Wil was just not good at.

  “Are people generally not nice to you?” Hunter wanted to know.

  Now that the question had been voiced so plainly, it made Wil’s entire line of thought, and his questioning of Hunter, seem extraordinarily sulky and childish. Nobody likes me, everyone’s mean to me, boo-hoo-hoo.

  Wil rolled his eyes at himself. “I’m not generally a nice person, I suppose.” He lightened it with a grin. “Are you on duty?”

  “Duty? Oh.” Hunter’s cheeks went pink. “No, I—well, I thought it might be….” He stammered into discomfited silence, peering at Wil out the corner of his eye before quickly shifting his glance away. “It seemed as though you should not be disturbed. You were unwell, and then… well, the Old Ones, and everyone was trying to peer in, and….”

  Wil blinked, the sudden remembrance of Hunter shooing everyone off earlier rising to the fore. He tilted a smile.

  “Have you assigned yourself guard duty?”

  To Wil’s chagrin, Hunter reddened some more and swept a low bow. “I apologize, Ais—Wil. I meant no offense. I merely—”

  “No, no.” Wil took hold of Hunter’s arm and pushed him straight. “I wasn’t reprimanding you, I wouldn’t have the right. I only….” He tried very hard to throttle the amused snort—the last thing he wanted was to offend Hunter or embarrass him further—but he couldn’t help it. “I’m sorry.” It was as sincere as it could be, considering it sort of huffed out amidst the snickers. “It’s only that… well, the thought of the Guardian needing a guard. I mean, if you knew Dallin….”

  Hunter’s return smile was awkward, a bit stricken. “I didn’t suppose the Guardian needed any such thing.”

  Wil’s laughter dried up. “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Are you guarding me, or are you guarding against me?”

  The shocked jerk of Hunter’s head was answer enough. “Why would I need to guard against you?” The uncomplicated honesty in his eyes was just too palpable to mistake for anything else.

  Wil only shot another glance back at the cave before giving Hunter a shrug. “Wait’ll you get to know me.”

  Hunter’s smile was confused but genuine.

  Beyond the caves, the river was an ambient almost-sentience, a white rushing roar that clarified rather than crowded the air. It was such a presence it became merely a background hum when one didn’t listen for it. Wil thought about asking Hunter to guide him to it—he was almost writhing to see it—but, as soppy as it was, he wanted that chore to go to Dallin. Instead Wil turned back to Hunter with a smile.

  “You offered to guide me around camp before.” The prospect of wandering around in the middle of all these people, standing out the way he did, was unnerving. Perhaps being accompanied by his own personal self-assigned bodyguard might take the anxiety out of it all. “I want to visit the horses, and then perhaps… well, I don’t know. Have you got any suggestions?”

  Hunter smiled, shoulders squaring. He tipped his head toward the men and women throwing and betting.

  “Have you got a knife?”

  HE’D THOUGHT he was pretty good at knife throwing—he’d spent many a night in various solitary camps entertaining himself with his rusty little dirk, after all—but it only took Wil a few throws to realize he was quite overmatched here. The knife Dallin had given him was perfectly balanced, not at all what Wil was used to. The people of the Weardas, extraordinarily generous with their welcome even after Wil had nearly crisped a few of them this morning, were equally generous with their advice.

  The lack of suspicion was surprising. After al
l, Wil was obviously not of Cynewísan, and he was well aware of this place’s history with Ríocht. And this morning he’d been able to feel every chary thought that had gone through their heads. Now Wil felt none of it—only consideration and welcome.

  Perhaps it was the fact that he’d arrived with their Shaman. There was also the fact that Wil actually wasn’t shooting fire from his eyes… this time, anyway. He supposed it might even be Hunter’s doing, with his obvious open acceptance.

  Wil decided not to care. They were friendly and quite funny with their constant banter, and he’d never felt so comfortable in a crowd in his life. He was having fun.

  One woman—exquisitely beautiful beneath her sunburn and tattoos—even went so far as to plant herself behind Wil, bully him into her preferred stance, and guide first his fingers into the proper grip and then his arm into the proper position. To Wil’s sincere overfaced amusement, low whistles flittered through the rest of the crowd along with quite a lot of chuckles.

  “Watch yourself, young Wil,” one of the men called. “Thistle likes the ones that are smaller and can’t get away.”

  Young Wil. He couldn’t help the snort. If they only knew.

  Strange. He was so used to people calling him “lad” that he actually felt like one most of the time. With the life he’d had, he supposed age was rather an esoteric thing. Sometimes he felt ancient and rickety and frail as the Old Ones, but most of the time, he felt like the twenty-something young man Dallin told him he looked like. Right now, Wil felt very young and very much alive.

  “True,” another remarked. “But her heart’s doomed to loneliness, poor lass—she doesn’t know her own strength and keeps crushing them.”

  Wil peered up and over his shoulder at the woman, mouth twisting wryly. “Thistle” hardly described her. Taller than even her peers, and twice as wide as Wil. No delicate flower, this one. And he doubted she ever had a problem filling her bed, when and with whom she pleased. Who would dare refuse, after all? Who would want to? Still, they must make an amusing picture, now that the size difference had been called to Wil’s attention. Strange how quickly he’d stopped noticing it, fearing it.

  Thistle grinned down at Wil, then smirked at the man who’d heckled her. “Aw, Free, don’t be absurd. Wil’s a guest. I’d never put a guest in an awkward position. It would be rude.” She tipped a wink at Wil. “Guests get the top.”

  Wil almost didn’t realize when Thistle guided his throw almost dead-on, he was laughing so hard.

  Amazing. Bawdy and bold, jibes and innuendo flying in every direction, and yet Wil could feel nothing beneath it but humor and goodwill. No one was trying to manipulate him, no one stared at him just a little too long—or worse, glanced at him then looked away too quickly. No one was making sly little comments and waiting to see if he’d take their bait.

  Candid. Open. Frank and accepting.

  No buzzing want coming at him from unexpected directions. No giveitgiveitgiveit yammering beneath a face trying to be kind but sliding helplessly into greed.

  He could live here. He could stay here for the rest of his life and never have to wonder what anyone wanted from him.

  He could be himself—whoever that was.

  What was it, Wil wondered? Was it the place itself? Did it somehow influence kindness and acceptance? Or did it merely overpower what he was, what others saw when they looked at him in the outside world? Were people like this everywhere, and he’d just never seen it because what he was crowded it out of them?

  Determinedly pushing it away, Wil retrieved his knife. He had to really work to wrangle it from the tree’s trunk—Thistle’s strength had sunk it deep—suffering some more good-natured teasing in the process. Jokes about his strength, of all things, and yet Wil didn’t feel weak—they didn’t try to make him feel weak. Every single denial of weakness he’d snarled only hours ago seemed like so much ridiculous noise.

  He didn’t need to defend himself to these people. He was weak, comparatively speaking, but no one here cared, no one here tried to use it. They made him laugh at himself, and they laughed along with him, and it felt really damned good. He hadn’t quite got up the nerve to throw his own barbs back—he was well aware that his sense of humor was a bit strange, and he didn’t want to ruin anything—but he grinned and laughed and shook his head accordingly.

  He hadn’t noticed Dallin arrive, surprised to see him standing beside Hunter quite a ways away from the crowd. Dallin didn’t look any the worse for his morning spent arguing. In fact he was smiling as he watched Wil, gaze serene and expression pleased as he leaned over and spoke quietly with Hunter. He gave Wil a wave and a nod. Wil waved back and started over toward him.

  “Ha, there’s your competition, Thistle,” a young woman snorted as Wil passed, obviously referring to Dallin, and was immediately shushed.

  Wil was about to turn, perhaps smile and wink, when another voice, reproachful and harsh, made him rethink it.

  “That’s the Shaman,” a man hissed at her.

  “Well, I know that, don’t I? I wasn’t—”

  “It isn’t appropriate,” another voice put in.

  Wil ignored it and kept walking. He didn’t know what else he should do, or if he should do anything at all. Oddly, his cheeks were heating, and he had no idea why.

  Why wasn’t it appropriate?

  He put it away, flipping the knife in his hand as he walked, watching the sun flare and scatter over the blade with each revolution and listening to nothing but the slap of the metal against his skin, the muted chatter of the river at the back of his consciousness. His smile was back in place by the time he reached Dallin, and he peered up with a squint.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t still have your purse with me. You’d be a very poor man just now.”

  “Outclassed by the competition?”

  “In every way.”

  “He’s being modest,” Hunter put in. “He did quite well.”

  “He’s lying,” Wil told Dallin with a wink toward Hunter, “but he’s forgiven, because he means well.” He held up the knife, waggled it, then leaned over and dropped it into his boot. “It’s too perfect, y’know. Apparently I’m only any good with a crap knife.”

  “My apologies.” Dallin dipped a little mock bow. “I promise to only give you crap from here on.” He jerked his chin over his shoulder. “We’ve had a runner from the Bounds. My presence has been requested.”

  “Requested. By whom?”

  “Well.” Dallin ran a hand through his hair. “The captain there has apparently been suffering harassment from Corliss—at least that’s the gist I’m getting. His message arrived with one from her, in which she said, and I quote: ‘Get your great arse down here—talking sense into these people is your job.’ You should have seen the messenger’s face when he had to recite that one at me.” He rolled his eyes with a bit of a grin.

  “I hadn’t realized she was there.”

  “Neither had I. But it sounds like she’s perhaps making some headway. I’m not surprised. If I recall, the captain is younger than she is, and she’s got this… mother thing about her. People listen—they can’t help themselves.” Dallin shook his head. “Anyway, I’m told General Wheeler himself is on the way with a full regiment, and the captain has asked to see me before they get here. There’s not a whole lot of choice.”

  Wil sighed. “I suppose we should be grateful for the warning.”

  “A warning is exactly what it sounds like, which is what makes me think this captain might be coming around. With Corliss there, it just might be possible. Then again, it could just be a last chance to avoid bloodshed. I won’t know until I get there and talk to the man.” Dallin shrugged. “I wondered if you wanted to join me.”

  Wil blinked. Strangely, he hadn’t been assuming anything from the conversation, neither that he would go nor that he wouldn’t. And now that he’d been given a choice of preference, he didn’t think he had one.

  No, that wasn’t true—what he wanted to do was to st
ay here and have another day like today had turned out, laughing and being laughed at and feeling like he belonged. What he should do was stand by Dallin’s side, be at his back, and be ready for whatever was brought down on them. He was, after all, the whole reason there even were soldiers at the Bounds.

  “I was hoping we might have a chance to go to the river.” A light flush rose to Wil’s cheeks at the faint note of pleading in his voice. It was so close, after all. “D’you think we’ll have time?”

  Dallin smiled, gentle understanding. “We’ll be following it, in fact. And we’ll camp by it tonight.” He paused, thoughtful. “Why don’t we go there now? We can’t stay for long—we’ll want to get down to the Bounds before sunset—but we’ve got a little bit.”

  Wil was ridiculously pleased. Perhaps there’d even be time to doff his boots and stockings and dip his toes into it. The water was likely freezing, but that was wholly beside the point.

  “I’d like Hunter to come along.” Wil tipped his head when Hunter’s blue eyes went wide and hopeful. “To the Bounds, I mean. If you get caught up in negotiations, he can help me with Lind’s customs and… whatever.” Wil grinned. “He fancies himself my bodyguard.”

  Dallin’s eyebrow went up. “Does he, then?”

  “Don’t be jealous. I’m sure he’ll protect you too.”

  Hunter had gone red to his roots. “I…. No, I didn’t… I wouldn’t presume—”

  “Presume all you like.” Dallin shot a sardonic glance at Wil. “This one needs all the guarding he can get.” He turned to Hunter. “You know which horses are ours?”

  Hunter bobbled a nod.

  “Good. Shaw is coming with us. Get someone to help you saddle them up. Our things are already gathered and packed—bring them along. And see if you can’t scare up something to eat on the way. Bring them ’round the path to the Stairs, and give us a whistle when you’re done.” He cut his glance to Wil. “Shall we?”

  Dallin watched Hunter scurry off, then took Wil’s elbow and steered him toward the caves. Now that Wil was looking, the tops of the formations did rather resemble a great staircase. They weren’t walking directly toward the caves themselves but toward a well-worn path around the eastern side of them. It was only a few paces before Dallin’s arm slipped over Wil’s shoulders. Halfway conscious of the others—of what they’d said and the fact that they were probably now looking on and marking them—and halfway not caring, Wil leaned in slightly, matching Dallin’s long-legged pace.