Dream

by Carole Cummings

  Wil stared at the blade, at the words that had been senseless little scratches on metal five minutes ago but had already seared themselves into his heart with the tangled, ruthless burn of chaotic conflagration. Firelight glanced and shivered over its honed blue-white edge. Wil blinked desperately, refusing to let traitorous tears sabotage his last and best bulwark of safety, refusing to let the jagged lump in his throat choke him.

  He stood calmly and slipped the strap of the rifle over his shoulder. “I believe I’ve the watch tonight,” he told Brayden quietly and stepped away.

  “Wil.”

  Soft but urgent. Wil paused but didn’t look back.

  “Do I look like I don’t know what I’m doing?” Brayden asked him gently.

  Wil dipped his head, eyes shut tight, both unwilling and unable to say any of the raw, livid things lumping in his throat. So he merely turned and walked away.

  It wasn’t until he was already pacing his second slow sweep around the perimeter that he realized the damned knife was in his hand.

  2

  DALLIN DIDN’T jolt this time, didn’t wake panting and shaking. He merely opened his eyes, sighed up at the stars, and groaned.

  “Fucking hell.”

  Of all the things around which this mess could have centered, it just had to be dreams, didn’t it? Just his luck. The groan turned into a light growl.

  He shook his head, listening to Wil’s soft footfalls in the damp undergrowth, walking his watch.

  It was funny—two days ago Dallin wouldn’t have even considered allowing Wil to leave his sight, let alone stand guard while Dallin slept. Now he wasn’t even surprised that Wil hadn’t taken the opportunity to skive off. Relieved, yes, but not really surprised. It wasn’t trust, at least not the sort of trust with which Dallin was familiar. It was… something else. Mutual need, perhaps. After all, there were no illusions that Wil would stick with him if Dallin proved to be other than an asset in keeping them both alive. Wil wasn’t here for Dallin’s dazzling personality.

  The horses gave a few sleepy nickers, hoofs shifting quietly. Dallin smirked when he heard Wil stop to speak a few soft words to them, then gruff a grumbling curse when one of them blew on him. Wil’s affection for them was grudging but real and growing. And Dallin hadn’t missed the fact that most of Wil’s precious apples were serving as treats for them every night. For someone who’d looked like he was willing to fight to the death to take the damned apples along with him in the first place, and who professed to disliking horses in general in the second, the nightly surreptitious gift-giving was awfully damned funny. And now Wil had more or less forbidden Dallin from hobbling them, wanting to know how Dallin would feel if someone tied his feet together, and insisted on long pickets instead. Since they were out of thicker forest and there was no danger of one of them wrapping herself around a tree, Dallin hadn’t argued.

  He grinned and scratched the bristly growth on his chin.

  “Why don’t you shave that off?” Wil’s voice was soft and low in the dark, a mild note of amusement.

  Dallin stretched with a long groan. “What, it doesn’t make me look rugged and fierce?”

  “It makes you look like you’ve got fleas, because you can’t stop scratching at it.”

  Probably true. Dallin hadn’t grown a beard since he was in his teens and trying to prove he could, and he’d remembered days ago why he’d shaved it off immediately thereafter.

  “I thought perhaps it might be useful once we got out of those places where we wanted to be recognized.”

  “A disguise?” Wil snorted. “P’raps if you shaved off a foot each of breadth and height. Otherwise you stand out more than I do, beard or no.”

  “Well….” Dallin scratched again—he couldn’t help it. “True, I suppose, but it at least makes me feel like I’m doing something to disguise myself. How’s that?” He turned back again. “You don’t shave at all, do you?”

  He’d been wondering about that for days. Every time he thought to ask about it, there was always something more pressing going on.

  Wil didn’t answer, only struck his gaze out into the darkness and gave it a wide sweep. “What’re you doing up? It’s hours yet ’til sunrise.”

  Dallin sighed. Back to the nonanswers again.

  He rubbed at a crick in his neck. “Dreams.”

  “Hm.” Wil walked slowly over to stand in front of him, rifle held across his torso like he’d been born to the stance. Dallin could just make out the lift of a dark eyebrow in the glow of the dying embers, the hint of a smirk. “Looking for some sympathy, Constable?”

  “From you?” Dallin looked away. “I wouldn’t presume.”

  He couldn’t imagine the sorts of dreams Wil had to live through every night and then forget every morning just to maintain his unique sanity. Let alone what had gone on before. Expecting sympathy from him wouldn’t just be thoughtless; it would be obscene.

  Although Dallin was going to have to tell Wil about his own dreams soon, explain what he’d seen and put forth his theory. If Dallin had really been watching the last moments of someone else’s life, and not merely hallucinating and letting his mind run wild, Wil should know he hadn’t been abandoned all these years as he obviously thought—in fact, he had a right to know. Except how did one tell someone his own enraged denial and belief that he’d been betrayed was in fact what had perpetuated that betrayal? How did Dallin explain that the lack of trust and hope, which had been beaten out of Wil, seemed to be exactly what had prevented help from finding him?

  Dallin decided, for now, that he didn’t. At least not in the middle of the night when that man was standing over him with a loaded gun.

  …Or when he was almost comfortable in Dallin’s presence for a change and making stupid jokes at his expense. Almost smiling.

  “All’s quiet, then?”

  Wil merely nodded. “Look what I found.” He crouched down, settling the rifle across his knees and tilting his hand into the dim, wavering light.

  Dallin squinted, then reached out and plucked a textured, triangular stone from Wil’s palm. “Arrowhead?”

  “Chert.” Wil’s mouth had a slight curl upward at one corner. “From when the clans were still wandering folk.” He wasn’t smiling yet, but his voice was, and his face in the soft gold of the failing fire was full of interest and discovery. “See those marks there on either side?”

  Dallin nodded.

  “Pressure flaking, which means it’s old old, ancient old—like the-first-people-who-used-stone-tools old.”

  Dallin lifted his eyebrows. All thoughts of allowing violent dreams and gloomy conjecture to spoil the pleasant moment were decisively throttled and pushed away.

  He held the little projectile back out between his fingers. “How do you know all that?”

  Wil shrugged and took the relic back, frowning. “Dunno. Sometimes I just know things. Most of it’s pretty useless, generally, but….” The tip of his finger ran lightly over the edge. “People aren’t the only ones who dream. The stones and soil have longer memories and sleep more deeply.”

  Dallin opened his mouth… closed it. Decided he had nothing intelligent to say and so kept his lips buttoned tight. There were only so many fantastic anecdotes he could take in at a time, and he’d reached his limit days ago. And he didn’t even want to think about what it might be like to not only have the charge of tending the dreams of all the people in the world, but also the world itself—rock and stone, leaf and soil. Once again, watching Wil quietly communing with something Dallin himself would likely have passed over as just another stone amidst the debris of nature, Dallin adjusted his definitions of sanity and… wisdom, perhaps?

  Of all the lessons Wil had taught himself, Dallin mused, peering soberly at Wil’s surprisingly gentle expression in the flickering light, that was probably the most valuable—snapping up every single thing in his reach without shame or hesitation.

  Dallin grinned. “You’re like a crow picking at shiny bits.”

&nbs
p; Wil flicked a doubtful look at him.

  “In a very good way,” Dallin assured him. “I never would’ve seen it. How did you find it? In the dark, no less.”

  Wil thought about it for a moment before he leaned in and dropped his voice to a grave whisper. “The voices in my head told me where to look.”

  Dallin snapped a startled look up. Voices? As if everything else wasn’t bad enough, now there were bloody voices? How much more—?

  Except bloody Wil was bloody laughing. “Fucking hell, your face!”

  Dallin could’ve punched him right in the mouth. “Oh, funny.” Except it sort of was, and ridiculously relieved, Dallin couldn’t keep the grudging half grin off his face. “That sense of humor of yours is either going to do me in or get you throttled. I’m knee-deep in the surreal, and you’re cracking wise.” He shook his head, trying not to laugh. “Seriously, how’d you find it?”

  Wil shrugged, flipped the stone in his palm, and pocketed it. “Dunno. Just did.” He stood. “Brother Millard called me a crow too.” A peculiar little smile was working at the corners of his mouth. He looked back at Dallin, curious. “What’s a chimera?”

  Dallin winced. It had been nearly cheerful between them for a moment there. “Well….” He considered dodging the question—sometimes lies really were kinder than truths—but decided prevaricating would be disrespectful at best, tentative trust-breaking at worst. “It’s a dream.” He made his voice even, straightforward. “Usually an unattainable dream.”

  “Huh.” Wil thought about it for a moment. “Sometimes I wonder….” He trailed off, frowning off into the darkness. “Have you noticed that Aisling means ‘dream’ and not ‘dreamer’?” His voice was soft, somewhat flat, the humor of a moment ago gone completely. He looked back at Dallin. “Isn’t that strange?”

  “A little. But translations get bollixed all the time.” Dallin stood, groaning as the bones in his spine cracked and realigned themselves. He turned to Wil. “Everyone thinks about that now and again. You’re as real as I am. Don’t borrow trouble.”

  Wil cocked his head. “And what makes you so sure you’re real?”

  It wasn’t one of his odd little jokes, and he wasn’t being difficult—the question was genuine. And far too big for Dallin to address before coffee.

  “Sometimes you make my brain hurt,” he told Wil tiredly. He stepped away from the bedroll, waved a hand toward it, then went to wake the fire. “I won’t be getting back to sleep. You might as well have it for a few hours.”

  “Oh.” Wil shook his head. “I didn’t mean to disturb—”

  “You didn’t. I told you—dreams. I’d just as soon not chance any more tonight. They’re not terribly pleasant.” Dallin threw some kindling on the smoldering bones of the fire and jerked his chin at the bedroll. “Honestly. One of us should be alert in the morning.”

  Wil peered at him thoughtfully for a moment, considering, then nodded, looked down at the rifle, and reluctantly held it out. “You, um… want this back?”

  Dallin held back the snort, but not the twitch of a smirk. “I wouldn’t dream of coming between the two of you.” He shifted some bits of timber onto the coals and went to hunt through his pack for the coffee.

  If he kept giving his weapons away, he might end up being the one who needed protection.

  DAWN FOUND Dallin poring over his map—a wide roll of leather, browning and curling at the edges—when Wil snorted awake and blinked over at him with a wide, lazy yawn. “This,” he slurred contentedly, “is a very comfortable bedroll.”

  Dallin didn’t look up, but he smiled as he took a slurp of his coffee. “Well, you’ll have to drag yourself out of it soon. I want to get started as soon as we can.” He tilted a curious look at Wil. “D’you know that your fingers are always moving when you sleep?”

  Wil paused in midstretch to frown up at the sky for a moment. He grimaced. “Yeah, so? You snore.” He lifted his hands, squinting at them, fingers of the left hand flexing and wavering in front of his nose. “Why the rush? Something wrong?”

  “No, no.” Dallin turned his gaze to the map. “It’s time we started being proper fugitives and trying to hide our trail a bit better. Besides a change of course, that’ll mean no more target practice or evening fires. Sorry.”

  Wil sat up and rolled his shoulders, tipping his head from side to side, the bones in his neck cracking so loud it made Dallin wince. “I’m already a brilliant shot.” Wil smirked. “I don’t need to practice.” He grinned as he stood and stepped several feet away and behind a tree. “So which way are we heading, then?”

  “If I haven’t got us completely lost”—Dallin traced a finger over the worn lines of the map—“Chester is only a week’s ride northeast from here, and not much in between, so we can avoid being seen if we’re careful. We can stop there, sell the horses, and replenish our supplies—we need more ammunition, and our water’s getting low, so no more unnecessary washing either, I’m afraid. After that we strike northwest and follow the Flównysse all the way to Lind. If the weather holds and we don’t run into any trouble or delays, we should come upon Cildtrog’s Bounds in… say, ten days, maybe twelve.”

  He looked up with a lift of eyebrows. Wil was just emerging from around the tree, buttoning his trousers and frowning at the ground.

  “Sell the horses?”

  Trying to pretend his tone was just curious and not slightly mournful.

  Dallin’s problem, he decided, was that he didn’t spend enough time around people who weren’t looking at him from behind bars. If he did, he might stop to consider more how his words affected others. He winced, sincere apology in the shrug he angled at Wil. He’d been thinking only hours ago that Wil was starting to get attached to the horses. Dallin shouldn’t have just blurted it like that. Still, it had to be done.

  “We wanted to be followed when we started out. And the horses gave us a good head start through the rougher country, but our pursuers will likely be riding harder than we’ve done. I won’t be at all surprised if they can track us through here and all the way to Chester, but once we leave there, we can’t risk it. It’s a lot easier to follow hoofprints than footprints—especially if they’re trying to track us from horseback. Unless they’ve dogs, we should be able to stay invisible even if they’re within a few miles of us.” Dallin held out a hand, palm up. “Sorry. It’s for the best.”

  “They’re yours. You bought ’em.” Wil shrugged with a bit of a scowl. “Don’t care, really. Just a little surprised, is all.”

  Dallin wasn’t the least bit fooled, but he let it go. Let go of everything, in fact, that didn’t have something to do with the next thirty minutes. He stood, rolled up the map, and headed over toward the packs.

  “Porridge for breakfast. Might as well take advantage of our last fire. Start getting your kit together. Breakfast will be ready in about a half hour, and then we’ll strike camp.”

  Wil only offered a sullen “Mm,” glowering a bit as he slouched away.

  HE DIDN’T speak to Dallin for nearly the whole day, giving noncommittal grunts now and again at casual comments and one-word answers to actual questions. It didn’t feel like anger. Withdrawal, perhaps. He’d even stopped the habitual patting of his horse’s neck, concentrating instead on the sky, the trees, the landscape, but not with that continual interest Dallin had seen the first day’s ride north. If Dallin had been feeling unkind, he might have even called it sulking.

  Dallin gave him the day. There had been surrenders to sentiment too many times already on this journey—if it weren’t for sentiment, Dallin would be on his way back to Putnam with a prisoner in shackles and not on the run with the Dominion’s Chosen—and the matter of the horses was just more of the same. The matter of the horses, in fact, was damned important, and Dallin wouldn’t even think of selling them if it weren’t. Just because the maudlin broodiness was making him twitchy didn’t mean he was wrong, damn it.

  He held out until it was time to start scouting for a suitable campsite. T
he silence had been sort of nice, but he’d got used to the occasional ingenuous questions and smartarse commentary, and the absence of it just kept reminding him that he was taking away something from a man who had next to nothing. It didn’t matter that Dallin had bought the horses and he could do with them as he pleased; it didn’t matter that they’d been nothing to him on this trip but tools to get them from Point A to Point B—he hadn’t even bothered to check their papers to see if they’d had names when he bought them—and another two mouths to feed. What mattered was that he’d more or less handed something to Wil, forced it on him, in fact, and now he was taking it back. And causing the retreat of what he’d been amazed to realize was an intriguing personality right back inside a shell of guarded remove.

  So Dallin decided nearly ten hours was quite enough. “So, Wil, tell me,” he said as they rounded the feet of a range of lofty hills strung like mossy ribs sprouting from a fallen giant’s backbone, “where’ve you been?” Wil slanted Dallin a suspicious sideways glance. “I mean,” Dallin clarified, “what places have you been to since you’ve been… um….” How to put this tactfully? “…since you’ve been out on your own?”

  “Lots of places.”

  “So I assumed. You’ve been wandering about for, from what you’ve said, three years or more, and I don’t imagine you’ve been holed up in a cave all this time.” Dallin kept his tone light and conversational. “It’s almost a straight line southeast from Old Bridge to Putnam. Did you just sort of”—he waved a hand about—“pick a direction and keep going?”

  “I didn’t….” Wil’s eyebrows twisted. “Straight…?”

  Wil stared, surprise sliding into that maddening apprehensive antipathy Dallin hadn’t missed in the least. What the hell was wrong with him now, damn it?