“No.” Wil’s brow twisted as he pulled his gaze up and turned it to the quiet bustle around them. “I think gods have no more control over our choices than we do over each other’s. If They did—” He didn’t finish the thought. “A gift and a curse to Their beloved children, and I don’t necessarily damn or thank Them for it. This is my choice, and I’ve made it. They can’t touch Æledfýres, and I don’t know why, but I can. I know my name now, and I won’t dishonor it.”
Dallin’s eyebrows twitched up. “Oh?”
“It’s funny.” Wil turned his eyes slowly to Dallin, that small smile going soft and warm. “The Brethren forced it on me, wrote it into my very skin. If I’d known what it was, I likely would’ve cut it away then.” He chewed his lip, but he didn’t look away. “You handed it to me, kept it for me until I could understand it and be glad it’s mine. You’ve been handing me keys since the moment I met you.” Wil’s head dipped down, a small deferential bow. “Thank you, Guardian.”
Sentiment again, crowding Dallin’s eyes, clogging his throat, only this time he didn’t curse it. He swallowed, then cleared his throat. “You can’t read.”
Wil smiled this time, a real smile, and pulled the knife from his boot, the flicker of the lamps and torches sharding green-gold fire over the etching on its blade. “No. I can’t.” He slicked his fingers over the runes. “And it’s a shame that the first time I hear it in the language She spoke it, it’ll be from the mouth of the Cleric. But I know what it means, and I believe it. That’s all that matters.”
Wil squared his shoulders and ran the tip of his finger gently over the last words of the verse engraved on the blade.
“I am the Mother’s Beloved Son.” His voice was calm, even, and deeper than Dallin had ever heard it. “And you are my Guardian. This is my end, Dallin, and it is you who’s brought me to it. I’m not Wil, I’m not Aisling, I’m what you’ve shown me I always was. I can’t ever repay you such a debt.” He held out his hand. “If Fate is at all kind, this will be the last blood you’ll spill on my account.”
Warm as he’d never been before, and calm, though he shouldn’t be, Dallin placed his hand in Wil’s and turned it palm up. “Take all that you need,” he said hoarsely, and by the way Wil’s smile turned sad, Dallin knew every meaning packed into the statement was understood.
Wil neither nodded agreement nor blanched. He merely rested the blade across Dallin’s bicep, tilted it, then slicked a long diagonal slice, the edge so keen Dallin didn’t even feel it until the skin split slightly and blood welled in the wound. Wil didn’t let go of Dallin’s hand, but dipped two fingers across the neat wound, then swept a new Mark over the one that had gone brown and flaky on his cheek, mostly washed away beneath rain, sweat, and tears.
He smiled, hand curled tight around Dallin’s.
“Let’s get this part done.”
TAKING WHEELER and his men was almost disappointingly easy.
Wheeler’s arrogance contributed to the ambush, which was no more strategic than Dallin’s party skulking in the shadows with weapons drawn and flanking them. The “great general” had obviously been expecting to just stroll in, and take the Aisling, probably execute Dallin in the bargain, and the look of anger and embarrassment on his broad face when he found himself surrounded was fairly amusing. But the familiar chittering buzz that slipped up Dallin’s backbone, Wheeler’s attempt to push him and take control of the situation, was not.
“Can’t we just kill him?” Dallin muttered to Wil, only half-joking, because this man was lower than those he led, more contemptible. At least the Brethren truly believed they served the Father, even if they’d completely lost sight of what that might once have meant. Wheeler had no delusions about whom he served.
Wil snorted, the negating shake of his head tellingly reluctant. “Only if you’d like to volunteer to call Æledfýres yourself.”
“I think I’ve already done as much.” Dallin’s tone might have been a bit more acidic and aggressive than he’d intended.
Wil shot him a look that, another time, might have made Dallin step back. “I won’t discuss it again.”
“We’ve barely discussed it the once!”
“Which was once more than I can stand!” Wil took a long breath, then softened his bearing and his voice. “I know what I’m doing, Guardian. Can you give it or not?”
Using the Mother’s challenge against him. Dallin could have choked him. Instead he merely set his jaw, hardened his gaze, and turned back to Wheeler and his men. Grunting out a surly “Mm,” Dallin stepped through the circle of armed victors and into the cluster of disarmed captives, Wheeler at their center.
Shaw had been right—Wheeler didn’t look anything like Síofra. Wide where Síofra had been thin; fair-haired and tan where Síofra had been dark and pale. But he had the same look to him, like he was certain what was coming and knew exactly how to twist it all to the outcome he wanted. The confidence of a senior officer, a man who gave an order with never a question that it would be followed. A man who commanded the respect of the army because he had the rank that made it a given. Power he could wield in service to all, and yet Wheeler had chosen to back a monster.
Ten years ago, Dallin would have followed this man. It would have been his duty. The thought made him want to vomit.
Wil had been right too—Dallin wanted this. Wanted to see Wheeler’s arrogant gaze go wide and frightened. Wanted to watch as Wheeler realized he couldn’t win, and wanted to keep watching as the superior light behind the arrogant sneer was snuffed, hopefully by Dallin’s own hand. Vengeance burned in Dallin’s chest, seared up his spine. This man had threatened Dallin’s friends, taken control of the law of his country, arrested Jagger—likely put him in shackles, because this sort of man just would. Dallin knew what that felt like, and the empathy was just too vivid. Wheeler had been responsible for Kenley, for uncounted deaths of Commonwealth soldiers, for battles raging even now above their heads, for dragging Dallin’s own country to the brink of war and the world ever closer to intended near-slavery.
Oh, Dallin wanted this.
For commanding that the Aisling be chained and broken, then leaving him alone to die with his laughing ghosts. For hunting the son of gods nearly to ground, trying to use him and take from him and make him no more than another sacrificial tool to claim whatever reward Wheeler thought his due. For having the bleeding audacity to think he had the right.
For Wil. Dallin wanted this for Wil.
“Dallin.” Wil’s touch was soft on Dallin’s arm.
Dallin blinked, realizing only then that he’d drawn his revolver and had the barrel pressed to Wheeler’s temple, finger twitching at the trigger. Well. At least he’d got his first wish—Wheeler looked satisfyingly worried. Dallin took a long breath, forcibly unclenching his teeth, but didn’t draw the weapon away until he’d savored the look of fear in eyes as dark as his own.
“…Right.” Dallin cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
He took a step back and peered around at his own small company, gauged their eyes and found no blame in any of them, not even the Old Ones. Alert and intent, certainly, beneath the runes of protection drawn on each of their brows, but there was neither accusation nor approval in any of them, merely interest in what Dallin would do and faith that whatever it was, it would be the right thing. Dallin wished he could be as confident.
He set his gaze on Andette. “Find something to bind these men with. A soldier’s first duty when captured is escape, and I don’t want any of them getting loose and mucking things up.”
He took hold of Wheeler’s sleeve where the gold leaves of rank were embroidered, then Wheeler’s collar where the star insignia shone mocking-bright in the flickering light.
“Make sure they’re paying attention,” he murmured quietly to Andette, flipping a tight little nod to the captive soldiers. “I want them to hear this, if they’ll listen.”
A shove he couldn’t quite resist, and a growl he didn’t bother trying to—Dallin pushed Wheeler ahead of
him, out of the circle and toward the flow of the river, and didn’t stop until they’d reached the edge, where Dallin turned Wheeler so his back was to his men. Wil followed silently, his rifle slung over his shoulder, a look of dry amusement tracing his otherwise somber expression.
“This changes nothing,” Wheeler said as Dallin reluctantly released his hold, giving one last bit of a shove before he stepped back and away because he really was aching to throttle or shoot. Wheeler turned his avid glance to Wil. “Aisling.” He dipped his proud head, by all appearances earnestly beseeching, but there was an oiliness beneath it he couldn’t quite hide. “You must know by now that your transgressions against the Father cannot continue. He will forgive you, but only if you let me help you now.”
“Don’t,” Wil said, deadly quiet, “call him that.”
That buzzing was all around them now, ramping into a steady hum. Wheeler was trying to pull power from Fæðme, the cheeky fuck, like it belonged to him and he had the right. There was power there, certainly, and stronger than what Dallin had felt from Síofra, but it couldn’t compete. Dallin reached out and slammed a protection down, adding it to the magic of the Old Ones and Fæðme itself.
Wheeler’s mouth pressed tight, but he only shook his head sadly. “You have been taken in by the false Guardian, but there’s no blame to you. The whole of renegade Lind shall pay for the lies it perpetrates—fools for the Mother, who seeks only to put down the Father and take all power to Herself.” He shot a wrathful glance over his shoulder, flipping a hand out to indicate the Old Ones, who’d moved as one into a loose semicircle behind them, hands held out and palms up, singing softly in one voice. Wheeler sneered. “Priests of the daemon-goddess, the whore who seeks to usurp the Father, and this one”—he pointed at Dallin, face flushing choleric in his pretense at righteous anger—“is their soldier, Her mack, peddler of lies and trader in your flesh and magic.” He held his hands out to Wil. “It’s not too late. He will forgive you, if you’ll only….”
Wheeler trailed off as Wil’s knife slowly rose, the tip of the blade coming to rest just below Wheeler’s flapping jaw. Its edge was still scarlet and shining red-gold in the torchlight.
“I think it’s time we all stopped pretending now,” Wil told him softly. “You’ll get what you want, though I doubt you’ll truly want it when you get it, and I won’t hear any more of your rot in the meantime. Save your wheedling for when you finally meet your hungry god. He feeds quite well on the small, stupid minds of men like you.” Wil tilted his head, genuinely curious. “Tell me—did you know Síofra?”
Wheeler smiled, trying to make his glance down at the blade casual and not nervous. “A man who grew arrogant and too settled in his own lies through his long stolen years.”
Dallin couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Said General Pot to Mister Kettle.”
The corner of Wil’s mouth quirked up, and he shot Dallin a sharp but nonetheless amused glare.
Wheeler ignored it, morphing his expression into something that tried very hard for sympathy but only achieved poorly hidden anger. “He used you very badly.” He said it in a soft voice that almost made Dallin shiver with its similarity to the man about whom Wheeler was now speaking. “And you allowed it, a sin for which you must realize you cannot escape all punishment.” Wheeler sighed. “But I must admit, he did have his uses, such as they were.”
“I imagine between him and High Seat Channing, you didn’t have much trouble manipulating both countries into rattling swords.” Dallin smiled at the reluctant surprise on Wheeler’s face when Dallin named his accomplice. “Síofra’s desperation toward the end must have seemed like a gift from….” Dallin grimaced, unwilling to complete the adage. “All that flapping about Síofra did at the end—all you had to do was let him go and follow after. Probably should’ve put more men on the Bounds, though. It was pretty easy crossing over.” Dallin’s smile came back when Wheeler bristled at the critique. “In fact, what you should have done was train the Brethren better. Or even at all. They’re far too easy to kill. Especially since they’re so willing to kill themselves.”
Wheeler lifted a hand, conceding the point. “One does what one can with what one is given. I do prefer the discipline of soldiers.”
“And if Dominion soldiers had been caught across the border, you wouldn’t have been able to stop a declaration of war before you were ready, before Æledfýres was ready—I see.”
Dallin did. All laid out before him in plain contours that had finally taken on the shapes of facts, the last of the puzzle pieces. Use men from Ríocht, so if they’d been caught across the border, the Embassy could claim they were merely a fanatical sect and nothing whatever to do with their government, no threat to the treaty. Let them do all the searching and all the dying, and when they found the Aisling, Wheeler would be the authority called in to handle the negotiations with the Dominion. Síofra himself might have even demanded Wheeler handle it. He’d been arrogant enough to insist upon Cynewísan’s highest-ranking officer for any negotiations—after all, he’d demanded Wheeler take charge of the hunt, hadn’t he? And once the Aisling was in Wheeler’s hands… speak his name, bring Æledfýres into the world through Wheeler, and through Wheeler, push the Aisling out of his soul, possess the power of the kin, and finish the job that had been started before time was time. War, slavery, mothers murdering their children because their false god told them to—
Dallin shuddered, his finger once again twitching at the trigger of his gun.
“Wil,” he said, because it was all he could say—a warning, a plea, a demand, a bone-deep scream hidden within the speaking of it, he didn’t know.
It didn’t matter, because Wil understood it, whatever it was. He nodded slowly and took a long, deep breath. “Yes. It’s time.” He looked again at Wheeler as he withdrew the knife, hand curled comfortably around the grip between the cross guards—like it belonged there and always had. “Speak your spells, fraud. My Guardian is impatient to watch your daemon-god reward you for your service.”
Wheeler frowned, real curiosity, and tilted his head. “You really do intend to defy the Father.”
“He is not,” Wil seethed, razorsoft, “the Father.”
“No?” Wheeler merely shrugged. “You shall see.”
His hand rose too quickly, and Dallin’s gun automatically came up, thumb chambering a round. Wheeler paused, smiling, mock-indulgent, and opened his surcoat slowly to withdraw a flask from its inside breast pocket. He held it out to Wil. Dallin only watched as Wil’s gaze narrowed on it, hung there, unreadable.
“I expect you’ll be wanting this.” The soft tone of Wheeler’s voice was belied by the hard little smirk crooking his mouth.
Dallin didn’t think he’d ever hated anyone so much as he did Wheeler right that minute. He tensed, and it had nothing whatever to do with trust or confidence or faith. Dallin had seen addicts—he’d seen the want, however reluctant, the need, unbearable and entirely necessary, and Wil had been dependent on the stuff for almost as long as he’d been alive. The sensation of it must still linger, even if it hadn’t been for Calder. As far as Dallin knew, it never truly went away, and it didn’t matter how necessary the drug might be to what Wil—they—had to do, because Dallin still hated Wheeler for handing it over so smugly, for the self-satisfied assurance in his gaze as he watched Wil’s face, waited eagerly for that first sip as Dallin waited with his gut curling in on itself.
Inscrutable, silent, Wil reached out slowly to settle his fingers around the slick silver of the flask, careful not to touch Wheeler.
“You expect a lot of things.” Wil hesitated for only a moment before taking the flask. Eyes never leaving Wheeler, Wil removed the cork with his teeth and spat it aside, took a whiff from the slim neck of the flask before he shook his head. “But I expect not.”
Wheeler wasn’t the only one who was surprised when Wil tipped the flask’s contents into the running veins of the Flównysse.
Dallin said nothing, confused though t
horoughly impressed, but Wheeler’s face twisted—anger, thwarted expectation, and a flicker of genuine fear he couldn’t quite cover. He slid a quick glance over his shoulder—his men captive and guarded, bound, slouching in a dejected row against the cavern’s far wall and no help at all. His dark eyes turned on Dallin, enraged and frustrated, before shifting back to Wil.
“Delay will do you no good. I am your doorway. If you would challenge the—”
Wil snapped the knife back up beneath Wheeler’s chin.
Wheeler opened a hand. “If you would challenge him, you must allow me to follow. I am your key.”
Wil only snorted as he drew back, flipped the knife in his palm, and shook his head. He slipped the knife back into his boot.
“I shrink to imagine the locks.” He took hold of Wheeler’s coat and leaned in. “You won’t be following. You’ll be leading.” Wil shot a sharp look at Dallin, a tiny nod. “Don’t take too long.” He turned back to Wheeler, captured his gaze, and smiled. “Don’t worry,” he told Wheeler softly, “this is what you want.”
Eyes gone bright and dark all at once, shifting and churning, almost their own source of darkling vert ghost-light. Dallin didn’t have time to so much as blink, let alone react, before he felt the surge and shiver rattle inside him, the shift of power as Wil gathered strength from all around him and pushed.
They went still, Wil and Wheeler, locked in a gaze of mutual loathing, the empty flask dangling from Wil’s lax fingers. Dallin only stared for a moment, wondering uncomfortably if this was what it had looked like before, when his and Wil’s soulless bodies were entangled on the floor of the cave while their spirits had been standing before the Mother—empty, defenseless husks. He peered over at Corliss and Andette and Woodrow, looking back at him like they knew, and he supposed they did; they, after all, had seen it before.
“We watch the Watcher.” Andette dipped her head on a confident nod, hands gripping her rifle and back straight, chin out.
Dallin eyed the Old Ones chanting their soft songs, all eyes slightly hazed as though watching something inside themselves, concentrating. Dallin blew out a long breath, let their song wind through him, let the magic of Fæðme slide into his blood to beat a pulsing tattoo through his heart and mind.
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