This time, he’d been back in the Army, on one of the many Border campaigns for which he’d volunteered, the one that had earned him his Captain’s rank in only his second year. I swear, that one won’t be happy ’til he hacks 76
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through the Dominion and over the ramparts of the Guild itself, Colonel Mancy had told Dallin’s commander back then. Except in the dream, Mancy kept asking Dallin the words to the songs of the old gods. And every time Dallin couldn’t answer, Mancy would turn into Manning, amiable Librarian-now-tutor to an adolescent once-Linder, sliding a book with no pictures at Dallin, telling him if he didn’t decode it his father would die. Dallin kept trying to explain that he didn’t have the key to the code, and anyway, his father was already dead, but then Manning would turn into a tiny burnt skeleton, Clan-marks glowing phosphorescent on the flesh of a cheek that wasn’t there, point a small bony finger at him like it was his fault, and tell him he’d forgotten his name.
The other, the one he was coming to think of the Watcher Dream, had come again after, just as vivid and violent as it had been the night before. And, as it had been the night before, it left him just as angry as shaken.
So, after he’d grumbled awake, relieved Wil from watch and made sure he was safely asleep, Dallin dug out the book Manning had loaned him, and waited for a faint tint of dawn so he could make out the words.
He hadn’t read much past the Aisling legend, but he remembered a mention of the old gods and their fates in there somewhere, and since they seemed to be the point of the damned dreams, he likely wasn’t going to be able to set them aside until he figured out why. Even if the dreams were just nonsensical rubbish—which dreams generally were and precisely why Dallin hadn’t missed his—perhaps forcing some reason into their crevices would at least take away some of their power. And let him get some bloody sleep.
The book didn’t have much more than a few passing references. Apparently, the old gods were still about but spellbound and trapped inside of evergreens somewhere.
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Uh-huh. Likely some kind of metaphor for something a lot less poetic, and really not helpful.
Luckily—not only for Dallin’s mood, but he suspected for his sanity—Wil had woken in a more pleasant mood; seemed, in fact, to have made up his mind to forget his pique altogether. He was back to his semi-amiable self, though perhaps somewhat subdued this morning when Dallin told him they’d likely reach Chester in a another two or three days. Dallin occupied himself with drawing Wil out further to get his mind off the horses again, and Dallin’s own mind off of darker matters. He finally succeeded when he happened to mention the Kymberly and Sunny Ramsford in passing. Wil perked right up.
“You know the Ramsfords?”
Dallin had been flailing a little up ’til then, so he latched onto the common thread. “I do, and very well,”
he answered as he re-packed his kit. “For years, in fact. I stood Second at their wedding.”
“Get on,” Wil said, boggled.
“Ramsford had some very nice things to say about you, y’know,” Dallin ventured.
“About me?” Blinking now, with a bemused lift of black eyebrows.
Dallin nodded, slanting a look at Wil from his crouch near the saddles. “He’s the one asked for me on the case.
Told my chief he was worried about you and wanted me to see no harm came to you.”
Wil’s mouth worked. Dallin waited for the sarcastic retorts about what had actually come of that first night, wondering if he should bring up Wil’s own dodging and then running in his own defense, if he found himself accused. Again. Instead, Wil whiffed a small, surprised laugh, said, “That was very kind of him.”
Dallin’s own eyebrows rose. He nodded. “It was. But not surprising. He’s a very kind man.”
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“Mm,” Wil agreed readily enough. “And Mistress Sunny, too.” Dallin nearly laughed out loud when Wil’s expression went nearly dreamy. Dallin couldn’t exactly blame him. Sunny Ramsford was sweet and beautiful, and had certainly beaten Dallin out in the ‘ideal companion’
category, bless her, and she hadn’t even been trying. “And she’s the most amazing cook,” Wil went on. “Have you ever had her venison sausage?”
“Ha,” retorted Dallin. “It’s my recipe. She stole it.”
Wil’s mouth dropped open. “Really? You know how to make that?”
Ah- ha. Dallin hadn’t thought about it in such plain terms before, but now that he considered Wil’s obvious regard for Miri, the way he’d chatted amiably with Miss Jillian, how he’d been as close to charming as Dallin had ever seen him when Mistress Elli had brought them breakfast the other day, it clicked into place like a key in an oiled lock. He’d noticed it on their first day on the road, but now all of the accumulated evidence rose to support it: all one had to do to win Wil’s regard was feed him.
Dallin snorted, flipped his pack closed and cinched the fastenings. “No,” he replied with a smirk. “But you should see your face.”
Too bad he didn’t know how to make it and couldn’t whip a plate of it from thin air to offer. He could certainly do with some of that open favor. He sighed it away and settled for the provisional congeniality.
They spent another several days plodding through admittedly beautiful countryside, dotted here and there with the rare lone cottage or farmstead, and wending their way slowly back to the road and the almost-comfortable rapport they’d achieved in the days previous. Wil’s smirky smile came back, and so did the questions and the sardonic comments to Dallin’s answers. Dallin was not 79
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the least bit embarrassed or chagrined to admit to himself that he’d missed them.
The dreams were still on his mind.Though not constantly at the fore of his thoughts like before, they still lingered in the back, just waiting for a lapse in conversation, or the wrong turn of phrase. Or when it came time to attempt sleep. Dallin wasn’t getting much of that these days. He thought several times to ask Wil if he knew anything about the old gods—Wil sometimes knew odd things, after all—but was reluctant to inject anything of possible import into the casual and pleasant conversation and the tentative balance they’d once again managed to strike between them. He’d quite thoroughly had it with serious talk for a while, and had no doubt Wil had, too. He kept it all locked behind the agreeable conversation and easy smiles.
They made better time than Dallin had anticipated, reaching Chester late in the morning of the seventh day since they’d left Dudley. They’d been passing travelers much more frequently this morning, both coming and going, startling the knickers off an old man and his wife traveling by ox-cart as Wil and Dallin led their horses out of a thicket and onto the road right behind them. Dallin had waved a friendly greeting, conscious of his no doubt intimidating appearance and fully prepared for the couple to either cower and ignore them or pull a weapon on them; they did neither. After the initial distressed alarm, they both slanted annoyed glances over their shoulders, tipped grudging waves, and ambled on.
“Rugged and fierce, eh?” Wil drawled.
Dallin shot him an acerbic smirk, mounted up. “It’s you and your waifish charm,” he retorted. “It’s counteracting my carefully cultivated air of danger.” More likely the fact that they were only a few days out of Lind and people Dallin’s size weren’t as uncommon here as they 80
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were farther south, but he saw no need to let Wil in on the logic. “Given another thirty seconds, she’d’ve been cooing all over you, trying to feed you up on her ‘famous pork pies’ or some other such specialty.”
“Waifish,” was all Wil snorted as he swung himself up into the saddle and fell in after Dallin.
They both made it a point to smile brightly and tip their heads politely as they passed the couple again.
The sun was bright but the day cold, a harsh wind cuttin
g right through their coats and whining in their ears. Chester stretched over the wide, flat summit of a broad knoll, sloping slow and gradual up from the belly of the open valley of Green Basin.
Dallin stopped them just as they started up the incline that led to the gates, dug his hat out of the saddlebags and handed Wil’s to him. Dallin himself likely wouldn’t stand out here as much as he did in Putnam, but Wil’s dark hair would. “Keep it pulled down, if you can,” Dallin told him as Wil donned his hat. “Try not to let anyone get a look at your eyes.”
Wil merely nodded, pulled the hat low over his brow and slanted Dallin a grim, edgy tic of a smile. “Head down, eyes to the ground,” he muttered, blew a breath between his teeth and set his shoulders.
The gates of the small city were open, the days of battles and skirmishes in this part of the country over ten years past, and life—as was its wont—picked up like they had never been. A fortress once, the walls were thick stone, cut from the cliffs Dallin knew dressed the step-like formations where the Flównysse carved its way through the countryside. Still strong and kept, but Dallin couldn’t help but note and curl his lip at the fact that the watchtowers were all unmanned. With unrest at the Border simmering once again, strongholds like this one were all the more important, and he didn’t like that his 81
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countrymen had got so lax lately—not when it had only been a little more than a decade since he himself had been defending that Border. Guards stood posts at the entrance, but they seemed mostly for show. Dallin didn’t see them stop a single soul, either going in or coming out.
“Looks like Market Day,” Wil mumbled as they dismounted, and he craned his neck to have a look ’round the guard. He was already hunching in on himself, face set and eyes hardening, wary.
It made Dallin understand fully just how much Wil had opened up on their journey. Even the discomfort of a few days ago didn’t compare to this near-complete reversal. Now, he was the narrow-eyed creature made of strung nerves who’d pulped an enemy’s head; he was the hard-faced man who’d tried to throw himself through iron bars to get at a prisoner. The earnest young man who’d shown Dallin a prized find in the woods, holding out his hand and offering ingenuous discovery, was gone entirely, tucked away in the amount of time it took him to slide from his saddle.
“Just stick close,” Dallin told him as they led their horses to the gates. “We’re fine. No one’s followed us so far, and there should be no reason anyone would guess we’d come here. We’re as safe as we can be.”
Wil only shrugged noncommittally, though his gaze never stopped shifting, weighing, calculating. For all that he might as well have been on holiday when they’d been trekking in the wilderness, now Dallin thought Wil might spot trouble even before he did.
“You’ll have to check your weapons here,” one of the guards gruffed, bellying up to Wil with a superior look Dallin recognized all too well—something he’d seen often enough on the faces of Elmar and Payton back in Putnam.
This was one of those men who would only ever achieve minimal rank and command, lording it over those who 82
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didn’t know better, because they were the only ones he could bully effectively. Terrific. Just brilliant. “There’s a no arms edict in Chester on Market Day,” the man went on. “You check ’em here and pick ’em back up on yer way out.” He reached out toward Wil. “Unshoulder that cannon there, boy, din’t ye hear—”
Dallin saw it coming; it was only by virtue of reflexes that he managed to get between the guard and Wil as Wil’s shoulder dropped, the rifle coming around and across his torso in one smooth sweep. Dallin caught it before Wil could swing it up to firing-stance, angled himself in front of the guard’s hand before he could lay it to Wil’s arm and get it bitten off for his trouble.
“He’s with me,” Dallin told the guard calmly, surreptitiously keeping hold of Wil’s arm down low and slightly behind him, feeling the tension and vibrating stress running beneath his fingers. He was a little surprised that Wil didn’t wrench out of his grip and shoot them both, but he stayed still and silent, though Dallin would swear he could hear a low growl rumbling at his back. Dallin’s horse stretched her neck, dipped her great nose over and buried it in the crook of Wil’s shoulder; Dallin had to actually choke back a snort as Wil twitched and cursed at her under his breath. “I assume dispensation is granted to visiting officers?” Dallin said pointedly to the guard.
“And who’re you?”
Dallin sighed, dug out his badge and his papers, keeping his hand clamped to Wil’s arm. He’d rather not have to show identification—he’d hoped they could slide in and out of Chester without leaving much of a trace, and here they were, stopped at the gates, every passerby goggling and whispering as they sidled along—but there was absolutely no way he was going to allow himself to be disarmed, and he judged flashing his badge about to be the lesser risk.
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“From Putnam?” the guard asked suspiciously, squinting closely at the raised lettering around the sword and leaf pattern that was Putnam’s seal. “Ye en’t from Lind?”
The question shouldn’t have surprised Dallin, but it did. “Used to be,” was all he said.
The guard tilted a narrow stare at first Dallin then Wil.
“What’s yer business in Chester?” he wanted to know.
“Our business is not yours,” Dallin replied tersely, pushing all his years of command into his tone. “But we would be happy to discuss it with your superior, if you feel it necessary. Of course, then we might find it equally necessary to explain how, at least in Putnam, we don’t growl at visiting colleagues and attempt to manhandle them at the gates.”
Of course, Putnam had no gates, and all visiting officers were required to check in at the Constabulary and explain their business upon arrival within the city’s limits, but this man didn’t need to know that.
The guard glared but backed down a touch. He eyed Wil up-and-down, gaze going half-lidded with a knowing little smirk, but he addressed his next question to Dallin:
“Yer little, uh… lad got a badge?”
Dallin’s jaw clenched. He’d used the wrong approach.
He’d been looking for instant respect, or at least a pretense of it, when he’d pushed authority into his demand. What he’d got was instant jealousy and hatred. And since Dallin was too big to bully and had a badge that outranked the guard’s, the man chose Wil as his default. The inflection of the word ‘lad’ made the insult to Wil all too clear, and the sudden deliberate interest blooming in the flat stupid eyes made it clearer. Prey. Wil’s admittedly pretty face with its fading bruises probably nearly screamed ‘rough trade’ to someone like this. Dallin didn’t know if he was indignant on Wil’s behalf or his own.
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“As I said,” Dallin grated, tone low and dangerous,
“he’s with me.”
“Who he’s with, makes no nevermind,” the man informed him, still eyeing Wil in a way that was beginning to make Dallin’s skin crawl. Wil saw it, too, tensing even more behind him; Dallin could feel the throttled rage boiling. “It’s what he’s got that matters,” the man went on, eyebrows waggling. “Don’t know what sorts of arrangements they have out Putnam way, but here you’ll have to—”
“You finish that sentence,” Dallin said between his teeth, “and it’ll be the last your tongue sees of your filthy mouth. For the Mother’s sake, man, you’re on duty!”
The guard’s eyes narrowed and his lip twitched, but the hateful smile remained. “If he en’t got a badge, he can’t carry a gun.” He slid another slow glance over Wil, very clearly and purposefully lewd, then slanted it up to Dallin, challenging. Bluffing. Baiting. Ugh, he looked just like Elmar, with his square, stupid face and smug air.
Dallin doubted the man would even have Wil, even if Dallin shoved Wil at him with a cheerful grin—this was all poking and
provoking just because he could. “Either he hands it over,” the man went on with his pompous little smirk, “or he’s with me, and you can pick him up on yer way out.”
Dallin made himself breathe evenly, made himself think it through. Knowing it was all a bluff wasn’t helping.
He didn’t like being provoked. The thought of giving in to the grandiose boor was repugnant, but the only two alternatives were to turn around and leave or to demand to see the man’s superior. And Dallin didn’t want to do either. He supposed there was always the alternative of beating the shit out of the foul troll, or letting Wil shoot him, but either of those—while probably a little too satisfying to imagine—would regrettably call attention 85
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to them they really didn’t want. Dallin ground his teeth, turned to Wil, grip still tight on his arm.
“You’ll have to give it up,” Dallin said, low and as even as he could manage through his anger.
Wil tilted his head, looked at Dallin from the corner of his eye, gave the horse a light swat and shrugged her away. “I know,” he answered, just as quietly. “I just didn’t want him touching me. And I… he’s…” He clenched his jaw, huffed. “I don’t want his grubby paws touching it, either.”
Dallin thought about that, too. Carefully. Then he smirked.
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