Beloved Son

by Carole Cummings

  Reluctant understanding rolled over Dallin like a slow-sliding avalanche.

  Calder might really mean to kill Wil. And only the knowledge that Wil wasn’t dead already—the land hadn’t cried out, hadn’t screamed along with him—prevented Dallin from howling off in whatever direction he happened to be facing, hunting Calder down, and tearing out his heart with his bare hands. If he could find him.

  Dallin let his hands curl into tight, solid fists. “Oh, I’ll find him.” He jerked a sharp little nod, stepped away from Hunter’s limp form, and stalked toward the center of the camp, strapping his guns on along the way. One of the sentries spotted him, only a star-silvered man-shape in the darkness. Dallin merely waved a hand, ordered “Get a torch and come on,” and kept walking.

  Wisena and his men were camped just at the fringes of the Linders, those from Putnam only slightly more toward the river, close enough to share a campfire. Dallin lumbered through them all, kicking at limbs, and snapping, “Up, I need you,” as he went. He didn’t wait for them to blink and ask him why, just stalked on ahead, long strides eating the ground so the man with the torch had to sprint to catch up by the time Dallin had reached a clear spot toward the camp’s center.

  He stood, back straight, feet planted apart, and surveyed the camp with a critical eye. They wanted the Shaman; the Shaman they would get. Out the corner of his eye, Dallin spotted Corliss and Woodrow hurrying toward him, sliding on surcoats and holsters as they jogged. He ignored them, took a long breath, then shrilled a sharp whistle through his teeth.

  Called “Weardas—to me!” and watched, satisfied, as the camp leaped to life.

  IT WAS the rifle that did it, seeing it lying there in the grass. That was when the reality of it all truly sank in. Wil wouldn’t have left it like that if he could help it, which meant Wil couldn’t help it, which meant… an endless array of very dark possibilities.

  Andette had been the one to find it and Wil’s pack down by the river, at the spot where Wil and Dallin had—

  Dallin pushed that away and focused on right now.

  He’d roused the camp, told them their Aisling had been stolen, told them they’d be hunting one of their own, and watched with cold satisfaction as their eyes turned hard and their faces set. Next he’d sent runners to every known picket and post with the same message, gave Healdes the charge of coordinating the search, then stood back and watched the wheels begin to turn.

  He kept watching as the war horns blew, kept listening as they were answered in a slow-rolling chain from every part of Lind, farther and farther and deeper and deeper, until he could no longer hear the resonance. Ordered every able body to saddle up and be ready to move, and then ordered a sweep of the area just in case.

  He’d known it was useless—Wil and Calder were long gone, and Dallin knew where Calder would be heading—but no possibility, however slim, would go untried. And even though Dallin had known, his heart still took a hopeful leap when Andette arrowed through the bustle of the breaking camp right toward Dallin and told him she’d found something.

  Luckily she’d only been scouting with Shaw, and they’d been careful, so there wasn’t much trampling. Not that the tracks and signs told Dallin much he didn’t already know. He crouched down to examine the grass and waved at whoever that was with the torch to come closer… closed his eyes and rubbed at them. Choking back a growl, Dallin picked up the cup, sniffed it, then held it up over his shoulder, staring straight ahead—because if he looked at Shaw, Dallin might take out some of his wrath toward Calder on the wrong target, and Dallin didn’t have the time to indulge himself.

  “Does that smell like anything to you?” It was barely even a question, Dallin’s tone was so hard and flat. And anyway, he already knew the answer.

  There was a pause as Shaw took the cup from Dallin’s hand, another as he gave it a sniff. “I can’t tell,” he finally said. “Too much spice.”

  Dallin nodded, stood, picked up the pack and the rifle, then stared unseeing at the flow of the river, thinking.

  Something to put Wil out, surely. Likely the same stuff Hunter was currently sleeping off. Which was good, in a way—if Hunter was still out, so was Wil, and if Calder was heading where Dallin was almost certain he was heading, he might catch Calder up before Wil woke. Because Wil frightened and angry and confused, trying to throw off the dregs of a drug, and in the heart of Lind—

  Dallin pushed that away too. He’d just have to get to Wil first, was all.

  There’d been a fight. It was all over the flat crimp of the grass, the divots in the dirt. The badger had shown its teeth, but it hadn’t done any good.

  There was no reason to assume it had been mæting. There were plenty of opiates and soporifics that could put a person out quickly and thoroughly, and lots of them grew in these hills. Calder was a shaman, a healer, and he’d know more of them than Dallin did. There was no reason in the world to be so bone-deep sure that Calder had forced on Wil the one drug that would mean disaster—not just under the circumstances, but for Wil himself. No reason in the world except for the fact that it was Calder, and Calder knew, and it would be just the sort of thing in which someone like him would find some sort of twisted, serendipitous meaning. He’d take it as a sign or portent and think himself following the Mother’s will, even as he—

  “Son of a fucking bitch!”

  One outburst, one moment of surrender to his rage, and that was all Dallin allowed himself. He turned to the small crowd behind him, jaw set.

  “You’ve all got your orders. Let’s move.”

  Without waiting for any of them, Dallin turned toward the path up to camp, fingers literally itching for want of wrapping them around Calder’s throat. If what Calder had already done to Wil—his bloody Aisling, to whom he’d sworn service—wasn’t bad enough, the Brethren were still out there. Dallin didn’t want to even think about what would happen if Calder ran into them with Wil unconscious, unarmed, utterly defenseless.

  Dallin’s grip tightened around the rifle.

  “Brayden.”

  Shaw was behind him, hurrying to make up for Dallin’s longer stride. Dallin ignored him, turning instead to one of the Weardas coming up alongside him.

  “I want the fastest horse you can lay your hands on. I don’t care who it belongs to. I’ve a mare to offer on a not-quite-even trade until this business is through.”

  “Brayden.”

  Dallin kept ignoring it, kept walking. His head was already pounding, the power of this place beating at him, screaming at him, and it was all he could do to shove it to the edge of his consciousness and concentrate on more immediate matters. He didn’t need Shaw distracting him when his mind was already in fifteen different places at once.

  When he reached the lip of the rise, Dallin spotted Wisena, called to him, and hooked a thumb over his shoulder in Shaw’s general direction.

  “Get him ready. We’re stretched thin here, but take five or so with you, your choice—not trackers or sharpshooters, though. I want every one of them with me. When you get across the Bounds, tell your men to go to Healdes for orders. And tell them to hurry.”

  “Brayden,” Shaw rumbled, “you can’t possibly still think to send me to intercept Wheeler? I know Calder. I can—”

  “No, you can’t. No one can, not now. He’s used up his last chance.”

  “You mean to just kill him, then?”

  Dallin stopped, fisted his hands, and turned on Shaw. He saw Andette watching, listening, and didn’t care.

  “Yes. I mean to just kill him.”

  Shaw stared. “Just like that.”

  “Just like that.” Dallin tilted his head. “Did Calder ever tell you about what Síofra did to Wil? Did he ever tell you what Wil did at the Guild? How they got him to do what he did at the Guild?”

  “You told me what he did at the Guild.”

  “True.” Dallin’s lip curled up on a cold little sneer. “But I didn’t tell you everything. Discretion, you know. Wil doesn’t like to talk a
bout it, doesn’t like to think about it, so I kept the things he’d prefer not everyone knew to myself.” Dallin’s teeth were clenching again—he couldn’t help it. “Except, see, I told Calder, back in the cellars of your Temple. I had to, after all, didn’t I? We needed him, and Wil had given his permission, so I told Calder how Síofra had kept Wil sotted on mæting from the time he was six years old until the Brethren finally kidnapped him some three years ago. I told him how Wil had been forcibly addicted to the stuff and then forcibly withdrawn from it, the Mother only knows how many times.” He paused, cheek and jaw twitching with the effort of keeping his voice level and his expression under some kind of control. “And d’you know what Calder did with that knowledge, Shaw? C’mon, you’re an intelligent man, a healer. Surely you can guess.” That last emerged as a growling hiss.

  Shaw was suitably disturbed by the revelation, suitably troubled by the implications. But not suitably daunted.

  “The man gave up his calling. He grieved for the Mother’s voice, and being back here, it… did something to him. He hasn’t been himself. A temporary snap, perhaps, but he is not malicious.” Shaw took a steadying breath. “You don’t need me to go to Wheeler. You need me to help you find Calder. I can talk to him. I can—”

  “No, the thing is, General, I do need you to go to Wheeler, and I need you to do everything in your power, even if that means killing him, to keep him away from Lind. Because Wheeler isn’t just an incompetent, arrogant career officer who stumbled into a command he couldn’t manage—he’s the bloody Cleric.”

  Dallin hadn’t really known how sure he was that it was true until the declaration had lurched up from the fear and anger seething in his gut and out his mouth.

  Shaw reared back, eyes wide. He shook his head. “That isn’t possible.”

  “Yeah?” Dallin snarled. “Well, I’ll be sure to tell Wil it’s not possible when Wheeler helps Æledfýres to shove him from out his own soul, because Calder has just done what the Guild and the Brethren have been failing at for the past three years—he’s got Wil drugged stupid on leaf, and now Wil’s wide open and helpless to stop it, and the place is bloody crawling with Wheeler’s thugs.”

  Several people, hurrying about the business of getting ready to begin the search, had paused to stare. Dallin didn’t know how many—if any—of them knew much about the Brethren or what their business with Wil was, other than that they meant to take him, nor did he care. In fact, Dallin thought it might be a good idea to address it to as many as he could. Perhaps that would make them search more vigorously.

  Shaw was still shaking his head. “He wouldn’t… couldn’t. I….” He stared at Dallin, so stunned and grieved Dallin almost felt sorry for him. “He is… was… a good man, a friend.”

  “Not anymore.” Dallin turned and started for the horses. “Now he’s just another dead man.”

  “What about the Old Ones?” Shaw called. “They should be consulted, at least.”

  Dallin stopped. He turned on Shaw with a derisive snort. “Until they decide to pick up a weapon and stand a post, I haven’t any use for the Old Ones at the moment.”

  Shaw peered around at those still watching and listening with their eyes wide and jaws suddenly slack. He stepped quickly over to Dallin, and lowered his voice.

  “And what if I won’t go?”

  Dallin took a long, deep breath. “If you don’t do this, I will have Wisena escort you across the Bounds, and what you do from there will be no concern of mine, because you will not step foot across them again. And if you try, I will shoot you down myself. This is the Father’s Gift to the Mother we’re talking about here, shaman. Just how deep is your faith, and what will you choose to do with it?”

  “The Old Ones—”

  “I am the Guardian.” Dallin raised his voice for any who might hear. “I am the Shaman. I will do whatever it takes to find the Aisling and keep him safe. If you refuse your help, I’ve no use for you either.” He stepped up close, and leaned in. “He trusted Calder. He trusted you. We know what Calder did with that trust. What will you do with it—shaman?”

  Shaw bowed his head. “Wil would plead for him.”

  Dallin flashed a cold little twist of a smile. “Wil would also accept an oath of protection from him like it actually meant something.” He turned, and started walking again. “Lucky for me, I’ve never had that problem.”

  “Guardian!” Shaw called after him. “You already toe the very edge of honor’s line. Take care you don’t trample it to ruination.”

  Dallin kept walking. Shaw said it as if he thought Dallin hadn’t crossed that line too many years and lives ago and assumed he’d even know how to go back if he cared enough to want to. And did Shaw honestly imagine that it mattered? Perhaps he hadn’t been paying attention. Then again, if he still thought it possible to save Calder, if he still thought Calder worth saving, Shaw obviously hadn’t been.

  The horses were all saddled, blowing in excitement and pawing at the ground impatiently as their various owners mounted and waited for the signal. Dallin was glad the man he’d ordered to find him a horse was watching for him, because Dallin hadn’t been paying attention to whom he’d been barking the order. As it was, he found himself peering at a furry gray stallion, not terribly pretty, but with a feral glint to his eye that Dallin could appreciate.

  “He’s a bit wild,” the man told him. “Never taken terribly kindly to the saddle. Or walking, for that matter—he’d much prefer to run. Sometimes I think he’d run himself off a cliff just to see if he can fly.” The man shook his head, patting dotingly at the gray’s neck. “He’ll give you the business, if you let him, but he’s clever and respects a horseman.”

  It was said with a fond grimace that told Dallin this was the man’s very own mount, of whom he was terribly proud, and prouder still to hand the reins to his Shaman. Dallin accepted them with a steady look at the man and a nod.

  “And he’s fast?”

  The man chuckled. “Just make sure you’re seated well and you’ve a good hold before you prod him on.” He scratched at the velvety nose, then gave the horse a swat when it took a nip at his fingers. “He’s more than fast—he’s unnatural.”

  Dallin cracked a small smile. “I thank you, and I’ll take good care of him.” He took hold of the gray’s bridle, leaning in and looking straight into one dark eye. “Don’t fuck with me and we’ll get along just fine,” he told it quietly, then nodded once more to the man and led the horse away.

  Corliss and Woodrow were already mounted with a small group Dallin had to assume she’d picked out herself. Good. She knew them all better than he did, and she knew what to look for. He gave the horse an encouraging chirp and started over toward her.

  It took Dallin a moment to realize he was being shadowed. He shot a look over his shoulder, expecting to see Shaw preparing more arguments. It was Andette, matching his stride, watching him and staring like she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite manage the courage. Brilliant. One more thing Dallin didn’t need, and he didn’t have the time for it.

  He stopped and looked at Andette. “His case has already been pled and heard. I haven’t the patience to hear more. He made his choices. If you’re looking to help your kin, I suggest you turn your heart toward your brother.”

  Andette shook her head, teeth set, and dipped a quick bow, considerably less deferential than she’d been yesterday. “Shaman,” she said evenly, “I would ride with you. He has broken the laws of the Father and the Mother both. It is my right as kin to see justice done.”

  “He is your uncle.”

  “Hunter is my brother. Wil is my Aisling. You are my Shaman. Lind is my country. Barret Calder has betrayed it all, and defiled the names of all his kin with dishonor. It is my right.”

  She was shaking—with rage or fear, Dallin couldn’t tell. Likely a bit of both.

  “I haven’t the time for the distraction of a blood feud.” There might have been a bit more sympathy in Dallin’s tone than he’d allowed b
efore. “You would do best to stay here and look after your brother.”

  “Is blood not what you seek yourself?” Andette’s retort was brash and held a touch of cheek Dallin hadn’t expected from any of these people. She bowed her head, though with a smidge of irony that almost made Dallin smile. “I ask only for my right by the laws of Lind. Please, Shaman—I would ride with you.”

  Dallin rubbed at his aching brow. For pity’s sake, why could he not seem to shake himself of Calders? He didn’t trust her, but Dallin was not so full of bloodlust that he couldn’t see it was because of her uncle, and he had no choice but to admit she had the right to make the demand.

  “If you get in my way,” he told her, low and serious, “I will put a bullet through you to get to him.”

  She raised her chin, nodded. “If I get in your way,” she returned, just as serious, “it will be because my bullet has already hit its mark.”

  Dallin raised an eyebrow and waved her ahead. “Get your mount. I’m leaving now, and I’m not waiting for you.”

  He hadn’t expected the grin—hadn’t expected Andette to look so much like her brother when she did it—so it threw Dallin.

  “Yes, Shaman!” was all she said, then turned and darted off.

  Dallin shook his head, watching after her for a moment before he made his way over to Corliss and her party. He’d have to remember to be careful where he aimed these people.

  IT WASN’T merely pain. It was consciousness, awareness, and it was driving into Dallin with an insistence that would not be denied for much longer. The land, the Mother—one and the same—trying to tell him something, and he’d damned well better stop to listen, and soon.

  Corliss was riding beside him, the horses down to a walk. It was still dark, and the rocky path they were riding was steeper than most of the others that led to Fæðme. More of a footpath than a horse trail, and even if Calder hadn’t taken this particular corridor—though Dallin knew he had, and the signs had borne it out thus far—they’d at least catch Calder up when they got there, or beat him to it.