Beloved Son

by Carole Cummings

  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, head atilt and eyes a bit intense, as Wil hiked up the trousers.

  “What?”

  Dallin merely shook his head, smiled, said, “Nothing,” and handed Wil 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, and 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 he returned their smiles and greetings with a warmth he didn’t think he would’ve meant only days ago. Now he most definitely meant every word.

  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 gotten used to its weight against his calf. Anyway, its significance had grown for him, and he wanted it with him. Dallin took all his 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, every sound heard as though filtered through cotton, yet clear and precise.

  Wil made no apologies for scooping up a heap of it in his ungloved hands and giving it a healthy taste. 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 but had 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, as though 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 he decided not to comment.

  Creighton’s smile was wide and full of square white teeth. His hair was an unremarkable brown going to an unremarkable gray that kept flopping down over a pair of very remarkable gray eyes that peered 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 his 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 depended on which side of Right you chose to stand. And really, who was Wil to judge? Creighton greeted Wil with an unembarrassed bow, then gripped his hand and arm both, but it was his eloquent gaze that held Wil.

  “Wil,” Creighton 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.” Grinning, Creighton shot a look at Dallin, then back to Wil. He 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. He merely nodded gravely and 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 Wil’s 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 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 made him wince.

  “I had a talk with both of them.” Dallin’s mouth was 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 that it’s doing them any good not to give 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.”

  Wil slid closer, both offering support and trying to absorb some of Dallin’s heat. “There’ll be time.”

  “There’s still Channing to see to.” Dallin sounded all at once 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.”

  “Mm.”

  Wil turned back again to eye Andette, her short hair flat beneath the weight of accumulating snow.

  “I shouldn’t’ve said I was sorry. I should’ve thanked her.”

  “Mm.” Dallin squeezed Wil’s knee beneath the furs. “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 and 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 he leaned closer.

  Their arrival to the common was, predictably, greeted with horns and cheers, and 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 as if he’d never done anything else in his 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 before seen it applied to anything that didn’t have to do with violence.

  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, he had his own smaller line of both young men and young women waiting their turns. Not surprising. Woodrow 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 d
oubt. Dallin might be annoyed, if it were brought to his attention, but Wil couldn’t imagine it would be anything but a good thing. In fact, perhaps Wil would 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 among the revelry were stone-faced men and women, weapons held at the ready and scanning continuously. More dark shapes stalked the perimeter. Wil absently wondered if their presence and obvious purpose were muting the festivities at all. Perhaps they were even more raucous and exultant when they weren’t mourning and there hadn’t just been a very brief war only days ago.

  Wil peered about, marking the smiling faces, the hearty fervor with which the people threw themselves into the celebrations. He could hardly imagine.

  “Are you cold?” Corliss asked, all motherly concern, which both warmed and embarrassed Wil.

  “I’m not, really.” He’d been freezing before, when they’d all stood around a great pile of wood and kindling annoyingly not on fire, their songs accompanied by the percussion of Wil’s 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 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. 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 more high-pitched than it had been a minute ago.

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

  “So, Wil.” Creighton was 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 and leaned in, keen. “I know what happened, same as everyone else.” He frowned, 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 gotten to the question yet. 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 Dallin had somehow touched these people, shown 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 tilted his head. “But why did he have to?”

  Wil frowned. Blame? Accusation? It didn’t feel like either.

  “Well… I wasn’t quite strong enough to—”

  “No, that isn’t what I mean.” Creighton shook his head. “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 around. “Here we sit, celebrating Them, promising our faith to Them because They love us and each other, trusting 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, conceding 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. Wil 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.

  “In fact, I’m not the one to answer that.” Wil nodded at Corliss. “You would’ve done better to ask Constable Stierne days ago. Likely would’ve saved yourself a lot of wondering.”

  Corliss blinked and lifted an eyebrow. “Me?”

  “You’re a mum.” Wil held out his hand to Creighton for the flask. “Think about it.”

  Corliss did, frowning and staring into the fire.

  Wil took another swig and passed the flask back to Creighton. It tasted horrid, but it did warm a person.

  “She couldn’t let him get Her too.” Corliss finally looked up. Wil 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 the enemy’s spells too, we would’ve all been done for. And if it’s a choice between your husband and your children—” Her eyes sharpened, honing in on Wil’s, almost angry. “—or even one child, or all of them….” She pulled her gaze away and went back to staring at the fire for a moment, silent and thoughtful, then held out her hand. “Give me that flask, Creighton.” Her voice was low and a bit rough.

  Creighton wordlessly handed it over. Corliss 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 wanted 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. Wil sighed and 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 to hold his just as carefully.

  “I think that’s a question for him, don’t you?” Wil gathered his legs beneath him. “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 around him, lifting him off his feet, spinn
ing him about, and planting a hard, sloppy kiss to Wil’s mouth, to the delight of everyone around them. Wolf whistles and applause rippled into Wil’s ears and rivaled 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.”

  Dallin kissed him again, then finally put Wil down, but he didn’t let go. He leaned in, took Wil’s face between his big hands, and looked at Wil so hard it felt like he was looking right through to bone.

  “For finding me.”

  There were spirits on Dallin’s breath and a flush to his cheeks, gold fire sharding through his hair, and bright sparks of it burning in his deep-dark eyes.

  Forest god, Wil thought, and he welcomed the dizziness that swept his head and heart.

  “Just… for living,” Dallin said, “for surviving, and for walking down the length of Cynewísan to find me.”

  Wil grinned, warmed right through and happier than he ever remembered being in his life.

  “Well, it’s only fair.” Wil took hold of Dallin’s shirt and dragged him down for one more kiss. “You helped me find myself.”

  He patted Dallin’s cheek, shoved him away and back toward his admirers, swept a small bow to the still smattering applause, then went off to find Andette.

  Aisling: Glossary

  Æledfýres—(āel-et-fēr-es) God of fire. Brother of the Father. One of what are known as the old gods. Also referred to as dearg-dur or daeva.

  Ǽlíf—(āel-if) Given name of the Mother; literally translated as “eternal.”

  Aire—(ə-rā) Literally translated as “danger.”

  Aisling—(ä-ēsh-ling) Literally translated as “dream.” In Ríocht’s culture the Aisling is also referred to as the Chosen, a holy figure who is called on once a year to ask the Father for His favor and blessings, and then convey those blessings onto the people.