Dream

by Carole Cummings

  “Wil,” Brayden insists, “this isn’t yours.”

  “How can it be anyone else’s? He died because I wouldn’t hear him.”

  “You wouldn’t hear him because you couldn’t. He died because he was just a second or two too slow.”

  A wet, humorless laugh wends from Wil. “And what of you, then? Do I get to watch it happen through my own eyes next time?”

  “Maybe,” Brayden answers steadily. “But this is what I’ve chosen.”

  Wil shakes his head. “You were dragged into it, you said it yourself. You had no more choice than—”

  He stops short when Brayden lifts an eyebrow, a smile curling clever and knowing. “There it is. Don’t take on the choices of others. You’ll never get yourself from out that cage.”

  Wil jolts, frowning, and looks down. Thinks about cages and prisons and keys….

  “C’mon, then,” Brayden says, softly cajoling. “I’ve brought you a present.”

  The sound of running water sluices over Wil’s senses, supple and comforting. He peers up, a tired smile curling at his mouth, though there are tears on his cheeks—someone else’s grief, his own a paltry offering intertwined. He leaves them there, unashamed.

  “How did you do this?”

  Brayden smiles and shrugs. “It’s a dream, innit?” He nods at the river. “The Flównysse. I’m not sure how precise it is. It’s been years, but this is how I remember it.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  It is. The current flows clear and blue-green, rippling over stones dark and beslimed, smoothed by time streaming over and past, ages of gentle unseen destruction. Starlight sinks into its liquid furrows, placid breakers winking and swelling, then moving on, carrying a bit of night downstream in their crest and curl. He can hear the voices of the stars inside the flux and flow, humming along with the rush in almost perfect synchronicity with the tender breeze that lifts his fringe from his brow, whiffles teasing fingers through his hair, and brushes the lightest of kisses over his cheek. The horror and sorrow of a moment ago are still thrumming beneath it all, coursing along as surely as the river runs, but their edges have stopped slicing into his heart, his conscience. It allows him to look at it all with a mind as clear as the rippling water. He wonders if that’s why Brayden chose this place, and thinks yes, quite likely.

  He turns his face up to the stars. “They kept the tale safe.” He looks back at their faces reflected bright and soft on the water. “Their memories are long, but they never dream. There is so much more I would know from them.”

  Brayden is silent for a moment, then: “You see why I had to show you.”

  It isn’t a question, but it wants to be. The anxious curl of it is almost a plea for understanding and forgiveness.

  “I see.” Wil turns to Brayden, finally pulling his hand free, but not for the sake of discomfort. “I’m sorry.”

  A long sigh winds from Brayden’s broad chest. “So’m I.”

  “I’m right to trust you.” Wil almost feels like a little boy looking for approval, but somehow, with Brayden, he can’t.

  “I hope so.” Brayden casts his glance out over the river. He looks sad. “Be careful of Calder. I don’t know why, but something….” He pauses, shakes his head—perplexed, maybe, but resolute. “Shaw seems all right. If anything happens, you stay with him, you hear? If I can’t—”

  “Shaw is not the Guardian.” Wil pushes stern command into his tone. “You said you chose this. Well, I choose you. You’ve dragged me through weeks of trials and persuasions, and you can’t cut out on me just when you’ve managed to convince me you know what you’re doing.”

  Brayden rubs at his brow, frustrated. “But I don’t know what I’m doing, that’s the point. I’ve been guessing, stumbling blind, and now look where it’s got us—got you. I almost got you killed, and I don’t know if I’m going to—”

  He pauses and chokes out a shaky sigh. He doesn’t have to finish—Wil knows what he was going to say—and Wil has to keep himself from growling derision, rolling his eyes at the stubborn insistence on standing on ground that can be seen.

  Wil sets his shoulders, determined. Brayden’s talking about dying, as though he’s already accepting it, and it pisses Wil off. “Men died because I wouldn’t see. If you won’t, it may be me next time.”

  Brayden shakes his head. “I don’t know what that means. What am I not seeing?”

  “Heal my hand.” Wil holds up his right hand. There were no bandages around it only a moment ago, but there are now because he willed it so. He deliberately draws the knife from his boot to slice away dirty linen, pulling it back to reveal fingers that are no longer fat and tight but still somewhat bruised, and from the looks of them, permanently crooked. His wrist is ringed black and green, with smudges of blue and yellow blooming up his forearm.

  Brayden takes it all in with a frown. “What are you talking about?”

  Wil takes hold of Brayden’s hand, turns it palm up, and lays his own atop it. “It’s a dream, innit?” he mimics lightly.

  “Wil….” Brayden sighs impatiently. “I don’t have magic. I can’t heal. I’m sorry.”

  “You can conjure a river, but you can’t do me this kindness?”

  “It isn’t the same thing. This….” Brayden waves his hand around. “It’s just a dream.”

  Wil thinks for a moment. “If you could do anything, would you heal my hand?”

  Brayden rolls his eyes. “Of course.”

  “Then do it. Pretend you can do anything. We’ll try flying next.” Brayden’s scowling, his mouth twisting tight. Wil steps in close, looks up, encouraging. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a dream, remember? Just try.” Brayden is still reluctant, his face pale even here, so Wil knows the pain is leaking through, and he’d like to spare Brayden the reluctant knowing that has to come, but Brayden may well be Wil’s only chance. “Take the pain away,” Wil demands, insistent now. “Heal me.”

  Another roll of the eyes, but Brayden doesn’t look like he doesn’t believe—he looks like he doesn’t want to believe, so he hesitates. Wil thinks if he’d instructed Brayden to heal himself, he’d still be cajoling. The fact it’s someone else in pain is what moves Brayden, and Wil hides a small smirk in his collar.

  He’s surprised that it happens so fast; he’s downright shocked at the level of intimacy—not only that Brayden initiates it, but that Wil allows it. Wil hadn’t even been completely sure he’d been convincing enough, hadn’t been sure Brayden would in truth try on his first go, but one moment Brayden’s hand holds Wil’s loosely in his palm, and the next, long fingers are clamping down, sending stinging bolts of pure energy throbbing through Wil from his fingers and all through his hand and arm, then striating throughout his whole body. He can feel Brayden touching Wil’s own soul, truly feel it. And doesn’t want it to ever stop. Warm and bursting with reverberant serenity. It does more than heal Wil’s hand—it rocks his body and spirit in contented quietude.

  It’s almost orgasmic in its amity and intimacy.

  It’s better than leaf. Better than anything. Ever.

  Wil takes a long, deep breath, unashamed that he leans into Brayden’s chest until he finds his balance, lingering perhaps a few seconds longer than he needs to before he pulls back again.

  He’d been a fool to ever think this man duplicitous or wicked. Nothing like this could have come from the heart of malevolence.

  Wil turns his hand over, and holds it up in front of Brayden. Wil doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to—all the bruising is gone, all the swelling, and the bones are as straight as they’ve ever been. A smile spreads slowly, his fingers flexing, and Wil peers up into Brayden’s skeptical face, smirking.

  “Remember this” is all he says.

  Opens his eyes.

  BRAYDEN WAS already staring at him, that familiar disbelief shining overbright in his bleary, pain-filled gaze. Wil didn’t say anything, didn’t have to. He shucked the bandaging quickly, impatiently, eager not jus
t for the proof it would grant, but to finally be rid of the dirty, bulky thing. He grinned when he got a look at his knuckles—not swollen, slightly twisted knobs of bone and flesh, but straight and bending only where they were supposed to. He held his hand down where Brayden could see it and wriggled his fingers.

  “It doesn’t hurt.”

  Brayden stared for quite some time. before he ventured a shaky reach, as much as he could. Wil slid from the chair and crouched down next the bed. He dipped his head and allowed Brayden to slide rough, cold fingers over Wil’s cheekbone, even went so far as to guide Brayden’s fingertips to trace the sockets of his eyes, still tender and no doubt as green-black as the fingers had been.

  The euphoric peace took Wil again, wound through him. He came back to himself with his forehead pressed to the thick blanket beside Brayden’s arm, clumsy, callused fingertips pressing into his scalp, seeking….

  Wil dragged himself up, shaking his head, and smiled. “Not those.” He didn’t know why, exactly, only that it didn’t feel right. He took hold of Brayden’s hand, tucking it up to rest on the hard, flat pillow.

  “Sleep now.” Wil adjusted the blanket and drew back. “It’s your turn.” A slow smirk. “Impress me.”

  4

  WIL WAS sitting on the cold stone floor, back propped to the wall beside the cot, when Dallin opened his eyes. The ever-present rifle was braced barrel-up to Wil’s left, knife at work against a whetstone between upthrust knees. Wil’s feet were bare, and he’d shed his coat. By the way his dark hair glistened in the lamplight, he must’ve had a bath. Dallin squinted, noted the clean clothes, and confirmed his theory. Good. At least someone had been taking care of Wil.

  Dallin closed his eyes again.

  Mother—strange how the entreaty came to him so naturally—I’m sorry. I don’t think You’ve chosen very well.

  He would’ve snorted and rolled his eyes at himself, but it all seemed like too much work. More than half a lifetime spent assuming it all fairy tales and legends to make old men feel better about death, and now….

  Now Dallin was neck-deep in things he would have thought devotional dementia only weeks ago. Had committed his word to protecting a man who seemed better able to take care of himself.

  What was Dallin even doing here? What was he playing at? He could have got Wil killed in a grimy little back alley smelling of piss and garbage—and not by Síofra or one of the Brethren, but by petty little men who liked to use their small authority to bully and intimidate.

  The low ache of the wound pulsed a dull throb through his awareness, noticeably there but not nearly as acute as he would’ve thought. The steady swiff, swiff, swiff of the blade against the stone whispered a mocking counterpoint.

  Is this how your Guardian guards you?

  Dallin lying here like a landed fish, and Wil armed and ever at the ready.

  Yes, apparently it is. I’ve spent the last thirty years not learning whatever it is I need to know in order to do whatever job it is that’s expected of me, and what I have learned isn’t nearly enough. Save me, I’m not ready for this.

  Except there was no not ready—he was in it, up to his arse, and so was Wil. Dallin had loftily asserted that he was Wil’s best chance, had honestly thought he could think and batter their way out of this great stinking mess, and drag Cynewísan out of it with them. He almost laughed—in point of fact, he’d nearly forgotten about Cynewísan.

  All right. So he was an arrogant ass.

  Now what?

  Dallin thought about it. Thought about it hard.

  Now, he supposed, he would have to suck it up and use every tool at his disposal to pull both their stones out of the fire.

  As soon as he figured out what his tools were. And how to use them.

  He opened his eyes again and focused on Wil’s hands. The right was just a touch paler than the left, but there were no tells otherwise. Wil’s fingers moved with nimble poise, stopping every now and then to flick the pad of a thumb over the edge of the blade, checking its bite, then adjusting the grip with quick, agile movements.

  Well, there’s that, Dallin told himself with some amount of disgust. If he managed to get Wil hurt, Dallin could always heal him again. Whoops, sorry, didn’t mean to let that one lop off your head. Here, let me see if I can fix that for you.

  This time Dallin did roll his eyes.

  “Are you going to make a noise?” Wil asked quietly, hands still busy with knife and stone. “Or are you going to just keep lying there pretending you’re not awake?”

  Dallin sighed, perversely glad when his back and side twinged heavily with the expansion of his chest. “How long?”

  Wil paused to blow a small puff of breath over the blade’s edge. He held it up to the light and tilted it, examining it closely. “You’ve been out for almost two days.” He skimmed a clever little glance at Dallin out of the corner of his eye. “But you knew that.”

  Dallin had. Some part of him had been aware of everything that had gone on while he slept, as though he’d kept an eye on Wil every moment. And oddly, Wil had let him.

  “How are you feeling?” Wil asked.

  Dallin thought about it. “Sore. But….” He rotated his shoulders, gave an experimental stretch but truncated it when he felt the sutures pull. “I don’t feel like I was almost gutted. I feel like I got a good kick from an ill-tempered horse, but nothing more.”

  “Hm.” Wil spat on the stone and swirled the knife’s tip in it.

  No further comment, no smug told you so. Dallin was… grateful. It was hard enough to accept. And acceptance was fairly important in the application.

  Healing. He’d never have believed it.

  “You were singing.” Dallin’s voice was rough and grainy, but he couldn’t make himself clear his throat yet.

  Wil lowered the knife and looked up, his expression candid. He shrugged. “You asked me to.”

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  They’d been by the river again, Wil telling a story about the Father, saying he was translating a song the stars were singing, though Dallin couldn’t hear it. So he’d listened to Wil’s voice instead, asked him to sing the songs that had been haunting him for too long. Wil had complied easily and, with a small smile, sang the tale of how the Father had wooed the Mother with His music and fair looks, His passion and wildness. How She’d captivated Him with Her fierce beauty and elementary honor. How They’d joined Their separate clans and marched on the old gods, their kindred, fought side by side—He with His sword; She with Her bow and quiver—took the powers away from the old gods and banished them, and led Their people out of bondage and fear. Showed them how to use the gifts of the world the gods had once wielded against them—earth, air, fire, and water—and taught them to live out from beneath the yoke of tyranny and oppression. How the people had rejoiced and placed Them on Their thrones—Hers in rock and soil; His in sky and star.

  And when Dallin had asked Wil to sing him the songs of the old gods, Wil had done so, spun the histories-cum-legends in a tenor that surprised Dallin in its sweetness and clarity. The story of ugliness and violence had unwound sonorous and dulcet inside the gentle tones, taking something that should have chilled one’s bones and singing beauty into it. Dallin had almost wept.

  “It’s Æledfýres.” Dallin watched the oily light stutter over the etchings on the blade that spelled his own name. “The fire god, the one who stole the babies and drank their blood, the one who thieved men’s bodies and walked around in them.” He let his gaze drift up, catch on Wil’s. “Whatever it was with that Watcher—the first one—and wherever the Brethren came from, it started with him.”

  One dark eyebrow rose. “How can you know that?”

  “Dunno. But it fits. Díepe and Célnes were Her sisters, yeah? Goddesses of water and air. That’s what the song said. And Eorðbúgigend and Æledfýres were His brothers. Gods of earth and fire.” Dallin paused, frowning in thought. “That dream I showed you, that man from the Brethren—he said the first W
atcher had been a sacrifice to the Father, that the Father had been reawakened with the man’s blood. But it wasn’t the Father they’d got hold of. Someone powerful, surely, and dearg-dur….” He peered at Wil. “D’you know of anyone else who fits?”

  Wil looked down for a moment, thinking. He shook his head.

  “Could it be Síofra?” Dallin asked carefully.

  There was no flinch or flare at the name this time, only a slight pinch of Wil’s mouth and an almost undetectable shudder. Wil flipped the knife in his hand, and laid it on the floor beside his hip with a muffled chitter of metal to stone.

  “I’m not sure how you think I’d know that. Although….” Wil’s brow twisted tight. “I’ve seen them both. If family resemblance means anything, I’d have to say no.”

  “You see Him every night.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Wil nodded anyway. He’d already said as much, groused sullenly, even. Told Dallin how the Father would half wake to spout nonsense at Wil and then go away again. There was anger there, and bitterness, but not nearly as much antipathy as there was for Her, though that seemed more rueful discomfiture now, and Wil had thus far refused to lower his walls enough to let Her in. Not ready yet, and no real blame to Wil, though that wouldn’t stop Dallin from continuing to push gently. Whatever they were in for, they would both need Her. And maybe Him too.

  “Can you ask Him?”

  Wil shrugged this time, surly. “For whatever good it’ll do.” He peered up at Dallin, measuring. “Can’t you?” Dallin’s eyebrows rose. Wil waved his hand. “You’re the interrogator. You’re the investigator. Shouldn’t you be asking the questions?”

  “Well, I would, but….” Dallin pondered it.

  If Wil’s inner defenses were what was keeping the Mother from him, if he was blocking Her out, as Dallin was convinced, was it possible that Dallin’s own defenses were keeping him from seeing the Father? He’s right there, Wil had told him, pointing. He talks to me in His sleep, but He never says anything that makes sense. But Dallin had only seen more stars reflected on the river.