That line of thought would do nothing but distract him, so Wil pushed it away. He realized Dallin was staring at him, silent and measuring.
Wil cleared his throat. “Sorry, I’m listening.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to—”
“No. Now.”
Dallin looked down at his hand again, then slowly pulled his gaze back up to meet Wil’s. “Some of it will likely be difficult to hear.”
Wil shrugged. “Isn’t it always?”
This seemed to satisfy Dallin. He nodded, bent one leg up at the knee, and rested his arm loosely atop it.
“It didn’t dawn on me until after you’d slipped out earlier. It was sort of strange—I was lying there, and I wasn’t sure if I was asleep or not, I thought maybe it had all been a dream, and then I heard you curse me, and then I heard you apologize, all murky-like, and then I wondered if you were a dream. Everything just….” Dallin flipped a hand out. “It just tumbled. Clicked. All at once. One moment I didn’t know, and the next it just started to fall into place—everything. Well, all right, nearly everything. I think.” He paused, pensive. “I realized…. Do you remember saying once that you thought it was strange that Aisling means ‘dream’ and not ‘dreamer’?”
Wil nodded slowly, wary now. Something had just curled cold in his gut. “You said I was borrowing trouble.” His words were measured, a faint note of accusation he didn’t think he really meant beneath them, and it was as though he almost knew why, wanted to know why, but wanted to get up and back away just as badly. “You said translations are always getting bollixed.”
“I did.” Dallin’s mouth went a bit tight. “Except in this case, it’s not bollixed translations that are the problem—it’s the near complete lack of translations in general. You—the Aisling—it’s all been kept so deeply secret that it’s like….” He shook his head impatiently. “It doesn’t matter, and I don’t want to get too far from the point. The point is…. Wil….”
Dallin stopped again, hands going fisted before he realized what he was doing and visibly forced them open. Whatever it was he was trying to get round to saying, it must be pretty bad.
The anxiety simmering in Wil’s chest was starting to bubble and pop in reaction before he even knew what he was supposed to be reacting to.
Wil dipped his head, drew his knees up, and wrapped his arms about them. Drawing himself inward and not even trying not to.
“Please.” So much smaller than Wil would’ve liked. “Just say it.”
Dallin sucked in a long breath and laid his big hand on Wil’s shoulder. “Earth, air, fire, water. That takes care of the four, but what about their kin, the Father and the Mother? What do they hold sway over?”
What was this, a test? Wil’s brow twisted, guarded. All his defenses were suddenly quivering, chewing into his nerves with sharp, panicky little nipping teeth.
“The Mother… healing. Cultivating and reaping. Comfort and nurturing. Protection.” Wil flickered a look at Dallin. “War.”
Dallin nodded, somberly encouraging. “The Father?”
“Music.” Wil’s voice was going wobbly, fainter. It was coming, he knew it was coming but didn’t know it at the same time, and if he let himself, he’d know what was coming, and he didn’t want to know, not ever, but the answers wouldn’t stop forcing themselves from out his mouth. “Harmony of the seasons. Beauty. The stars….” His mouth kept working, but his voice abruptly abandoned him.
Dallin leaned in close and wrapped an arm around Wil’s shoulders. He dipped his head down and spoke low into Wil’s ear.
“Dreams, Wil. He dreamt you into life. Aisling means ‘dream’ because that’s what you are.”
Everything went hazy for a moment, gray and muffled. It wasn’t a surprise—that was the problem. Wil had known. He’d known forever. He just hadn’t wanted to know. Because if he knew, that would make him… it would make everything….
Pointless. Nothing. All the pain, all the fear… it wasn’t even real. Wil wasn’t anything but someone else’s nightmare.
Without even realizing it, Wil jolted, tried to jerk himself up and away, but Dallin—clever, shrewd Constable Brayden, damn him—had once again been several steps ahead, had got them twined in a position that made it difficult to move, let alone bolt. Dallin’s arm locked around Wil’s shoulders, curling around and pressing Wil into his chest, Dallin’s mouth right next to Wil’s ear.
“Listen to me.” He whispered it, urgent. “You can’t take it literally. It doesn’t make you not real. It doesn’t make anything empty. It makes you more real than anyone in the whole of the world. You weren’t some chance get of random-man-and-random-woman—He wanted you, and He set out to make you in the way of His own making. Haven’t you ever noticed how much you look like Him? He gave to the Mother everything She loved about Him. And then He took that dream and made it real.” Dallin squeezed tighter. “You’re real. It hasn’t all been for nothing.”
How could he just… know like that? How could he speak these impossibly wrenching things and take the knives out of them with only the power of that low, soothing voice?
“Then why?” Weak and watery, and Wil hadn’t even meant to say anything at all. Every dark thought in his head had just been articulated in that calm basso, strangling him with rationale when all he wanted to do was scream in panic.
Dallin was silent for quite a while, just holding on, before he sighed and ran his hand firmly up and down Wil’s arm. “I think the question is rather ‘how.’ And as soon as it’s safe to let you go, I’ll tell you what I think the answer is.”
Wil squeezed his eyes shut tight and shook his head, only slightly piqued but a lot confused that he didn’t really want to be let go at the moment. “Just say it.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m going to be throwing up in your lap pretty soon if you don’t just get on and say it.” It wasn’t an exaggeration—Wil’s stomach was roiling and thumping along in rhythm with his heart, which was in turn trying to drum itself through his rib cage. Surely Dallin could feel it?
“All right.” Dallin gave Wil another reassuring squeeze. He sat back, dragging Wil perforce with him, sucked in a long breath, and blew it out slowly. “It’s really just a matter of finding Point A and following the path logically. Point A, in this case, is the Father and whatever’s wrong with Him. I mean, think about it—who could subdue a god, after all?”
Wil pondered that for a moment, bit back How the fuck should I know? and tried to approach it from the side of reason and logic.
“Another god.” Wil opened his eyes, narrowed them, and stared at the creased weave of Dallin’s shirt in the folds gathered in the crook of his elbow. “Æledfýres. Dearg-dur.”
“Right,” Dallin agreed. “Wherever he was, is, whatever, someone found him and woke him up, and I’m betting it was Síofra.”
Wil dragged himself up to peer at Dallin closely. “What makes you think that?”
“Because the simplest answer is most often the correct one. I think I forgot that for a while. But think about it—thousands of years, these people looked for the Aisling, and then Síofra just stumbles over you? Before you were even born?” Dallin shook his head, a cagey look of cynicism flashing quick-fire over his face. “Even the Old Ones couldn’t find you, not unless you wanted them to—they have to be called. And if Síofra had the kind of magic he’d need to do it, he wouldn’t’ve stopped at subduing yours. Someone told him. Most likely the same someone who’s… well, I don’t know—weakening the Father somehow.”
There were several things to be addressed in that. Only one twanged sharp little razor teeth and set them gnawing at Wil’s gut.
“Subduing mine?”
“Ah.” Dallin rubbed at his mouth. “Right.” His other hand was still resting on Wil’s shoulder; now it tightened a smidge—a gesture surely meant to be reassuring, but Wil was beginning to recognize it as a nervous habit, a harbinger, which wasn’t helping his own anxious state. “This i
sn’t exactly my area of expertise, and I’m still stumbling a little blind here. But what you’ve got, Wil… it’s huge. Don’t you know that? Can’t you feel it?”
Wil looked away. This was the hardest part to accept, the part that… hurt. Offended. Scraped at what little sense he had of right and fair and clawed it raw.
“Hey.” Dallin’s hand on Wil’s shoulder tightened again, then shook lightly. “Hey.”
It was the first time in quite a while that Dallin’s touch felt heavy. Wil couldn’t help it—he shifted a shrug and flinched out of the grip.
“No. I can’t feel it.”
Wil wanted to feel it. He wanted to touch it, tame it to his hand, direct it wherever he pleased, and… and do what?
Burn the world, as Calder feared? Cure it? A little bit of both? Perhaps aim it at a select few and never have to run again?
“Well,” Dallin said slowly, more cautiously than before, “we’re going to need to change that. Soon.” The mattress dipped heavily to Wil’s side as Dallin shifted. “We’re going to test it. And then we’re going to keep testing it, and you’re going to learn to use it, so if we end up coming up against Síofra or anyone else who wants to hurt you or take from you… well. It won’t be so easy this time.”
Wil paled—he actually felt it. He stared at his hands as they clenched tight in his lap.
Easy.
“What was the word Millard used?” Dallin went on. “Design, right? He said you were blind to yours, that you wouldn’t be able to see it until you were ready. So we need to get you ready. Because I’d lay down just about anything that the dreams, the threads—that isn’t what you’re meant to do.”
Before he even knew he was going to do it, Wil sprang from the cot, lurching the few steps across the little room. He came up against the opposite wall all too soon, so he just propped an elbow to it and leaned in. It was abruptly hard to breathe. Through a whining buzz in his head, he heard the cot creak.
“Wil? Are you all—”
“Don’t.” Wil flung his hand back, warning, acidly satisfied when the creaking stopped abruptly. Touch me right now and see how fast you lose the hand rattled at the back of his throat. He choked it off, shook his head, and laid it on his forearm. There were too many things shrieking in his mind, too many questions, too many answers he didn’t want, too much anger and fear, and fear of the anger, and all of it clogged in his chest. “There was nothing bloody easy about it.” Nearly a wheeze, forced past the scalding blockage in his throat.
“I know that. I wasn’t—”
“There’s nothing bloody easy about knowing it now. How d’you know? How d’you know any of this? How can you…. I don’t… how—?”
“Because, Wil, it isn’t normal to bleed. It isn’t normal to be in pain all the time. You work your fingers bloody because it’s too big for you. It’s not your job—it’s His. When Síofra made you change the patterns, it hurt you because they’re not yours to change. You said it yourself.” There was a quick pause before Dallin’s voice edged sharper. “Who told you it was your task? Was it the Father? Or was it Síofra?”
Wil shook his head. “I don’t know.” Damn it, he was getting awfully bloody sick and tired of repeating that phrase. “No one. Neither. It just….” He pushed away from the wall and turned, slumping back. “It’s how it’s always been. It’s… it was… it was the whole point of—”
Again Wil bit it back, pushing into the wall as though he was trying to physically recoil from the words themselves. If they were never spoken, perhaps they’d never be true.
“Except it isn’t.” Dallin said it like the words weren’t twisting right into Wil’s chest, driving the breath from him. “It never was. Earth, air, fire, water—not dreams, not this… pushing thing you do. You shocked the shit out of Calder with that one, y’know. He didn’t know you could do it, which means it isn’t something any Aisling before you has done. Whatever you started out to be, you’ve gone beyond it, and I’ve a feeling you’ve only just brushed the surface of what you’ve really got. I think you’re—”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” It was making Wil’s head pound and his gut clench. It was making him want to stalk over and clock Dallin just for knowing these things and making Wil know them too.
“We have to talk about it. I told you, I don’t think there’s a whole lot of time. Something’s coming—it might even be Síofra. And the way it’s crawling up my spine all the time makes me wonder if he was closing in on us when we left Dudley—it feels the same to me, except it’s worse—and if he catches up and you’re not ready—”
“Ready for what? What d’you think it’s going to be? What d’you think is going to happen? Have you forgotten what I told you? Do you not understand that it doesn’t matter what I’ve got, that whatever it is, he can turn it against me? Use it to make me… damn it, I don’t even know, I thought… the point, my point….” Wil’s hands were cramping up, they were fisted so tight. “It’s so damned easy for you! Made of mountains, for pity’s sake, you don’t even have to wonder what you’re supposed to—I mean, you don’t have to…. The reason I even exist—tending the threads, that’s what I… and getting away from him fixed my… my crimes, or at least started to atone for them, but now I—”
“Crimes? Are you out of your bleeding mind?” Dallin stood, stepping quickly over to Wil. He made to reach out but caught himself, clenching his hand into a fist instead and dropping it to his side. “How can you even think you’re responsible for that?”
“Because I’ve only brushed the damned surface, right? It’s huge, I’ve been holding it back, that’s what you said, and if I hadn’t been holding it back—”
“He took it from you, he hurt you while doing it. How can you—”
“And yet you want me to test it, use it, so it won’t be so easy next time. You can’t have it both ways, Dallin. I’m either stronger than him or I’m not. If I’m not, then I’m fucked, and probably you too, if you happen to be standing next to me, and if I am, I should’ve been able to—”
“Should’ve been able to what?” Dallin’s teeth clenched tight. “Understand it in all your six-year-old wisdom? Figure out on your own what it apparently takes a dozen clan elders years to teach and explain? And that’s not even considering whatever impact the leaf had.”
“He should’ve told me!” Wil cried. “Father…. He should’ve told me I’d got it all wrong, He should’ve told me the power was there, and He should’ve told me how to use it!” His eyes were burning, and he locked his jaw against it. “He should’ve told me… told me….”
Dallin slumped down, budding anger gone now and replaced instead with a soft sympathy that nonetheless sat heavy on Wil’s shoulders. “Told you he was sick?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t get all nice and compassionate, don’t dream up excuses, don’t patronize me. If it’s there, if it’s inside me, if you could feel it….” Wil shook his head and looked away, blinking at the blur of threatening tears. “Do me the small courtesy of not excusing everything I do, everything I get wrong, like I’m still that six-year-old without a real thought toward right and wrong. I should’ve known, and now that I do know, I should be… I don’t know what I should be, and there’s no excuse for that either. Though I’m sure given enough time you’ll manage to think of one. Or fifty.”
“Is that what you think I do?” Dallin’s voice was low, leaden. He looked… wounded. Trying not to be angry. “You think anything I’ve ever said to you was not exactly what I believed at the time?”
Wil stared down at the great smear of gray that was the cold stone floor. “That’s the problem,” he answered, hushed and slightly wobbly. “You… believe.”
“And your problem is that you won’t see what’s right in front of you.” Dallin’s hand twitched again, wanting to reach out, but he restrained himself once more. Wil almost wished he hadn’t. “You couldn’t see what was inside you while you were at the Guild because Síofra kept it from you. When y
ou finally got away from him, you wouldn’t see it because that would mean it was there all along. And because you’re convinced you deserve to be punished, you won’t see now that some things were beyond your control. Wil, look at me.”
Dallin waited, but Wil couldn’t, simply could not drag his gaze up to meet whatever soft look was turned his way.
“Wil….” Dallin’s hand came up, fingers gently sliding beneath Wil’s chin, tipping his head up. Wil thought about snapping his teeth but couldn’t make himself do that either. His eyes caromed into the dark depths of Dallin’s, clung there.
“We’re talking about the strength of gods here. If whatever’s going on is big enough to weaken the Father the way it’s doing, do you really think it is or ever has been your ‘point’ to beat it? When you were six years old?” Dallin shook his head, mouth quirked in something that wanted to quiver into a sad smile, but he didn’t let it. “Rather an ego you’ve got there, innit?”
Wil glared, then jerked his chin until Dallin let go. “Ego.”
“Well, you must think awfully highly of yourself to assume all this was in your control, or should’ve been.”
“And yet you’re so bloody sure it could be now.”
“…All right, fair enough.” Dallin returned to the cot and sank down. “Here’s what I think. I think someone—whether it was Síofra or the Brethren or both—tried to get hold of the Father and ended up with that Æledfýres instead. He’s sucking the life out of the Father somehow. That’s why He’s sick, that’s why He can’t help you, because He needs you to help Him, except He doesn’t want you to because he’s afraid for you.
“I think you’re tending the threads because no one else was doing it, and because you’re you, you assumed it must be your responsibility. And once Síofra figured out you could do it, that he could follow you when you did do it—that you had the powers of a minor god, Wil, think about it—Síofra pushed the rest back—”
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