Dream

by Carole Cummings

  She colored only slightly. “You’re hardly one to talk about what another does for or with ‘Dominion scum.’” Her mouth tightened, and she shook her head. “You don’t know what’s happened, Brayden.” She tugged at Dallin’s elbow. Dallin got to his feet with only a slight grimace—his knee was bloody killing him. “Both sides are massing at the borders again. The talks have fallen apart, and according to the elders at the Guild, the only thing keeping them from blowing their war horns is the fact that General Wheeler has personally promised that the Commonwealth will find and return their Chosen. Those aren’t just soldiers out there—they’re infantry sharpshooters, handpicked by Wheeler himself. You’re damned lucky none of them had to shoot at you—these lads don’t miss.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  Corliss shook him. “Síofra’s word now determines whether or not war is declared. Síofra’s word is all that’s keeping the Guild from foaming at the mouth. Síofra’s word will hopefully calm the Guild when he tells them Cynewísan did everything in its power to find their Chosen and return him to them safely, and then—” She stopped, face screwing up and eyes once again misting over.

  “And then see that the Chosen’s ‘kidnapper’ is properly hanged, I imagine.” Dallin shook his head. “How long have we known each other, Corliss?”

  She looked away, didn’t answer.

  “Since we were fifteen.” Dallin barely managed to tamp down the growl beneath it. “I’ve sat at your table. I watched you bind your hand to Olin’s. Your children have used me for a tree, all six of them, at one time or another.” He leaned in, teeth clenching with an anger he hadn’t even been aware was rising, but now that he was thinking about it—what right did she have to feel betrayed? “You should’ve known me better than this. You should’ve known that whatever it might look like, I did what I did because I had to, because the need was greater than the job.”

  “And how would I have—?”

  “You should’ve found a way to ask!”

  The bustle in their periphery paused for a moment, the stable workers and Commonwealth troops who’d been trying very hard not to look like they were watching suddenly sweeping keen glances their way. Woodrow met Dallin’s eyes squarely for the first time; Dallin was surprised to note there was no judgment there, no anger, no nervous blushing. Dallin noted it, but Corliss distracted him when she set her jaw, took his arm again, and began to lead him from the stable. Woodrow and Creighton fell in behind.

  The soldiers stared. Two of them spat in the dirt as he passed. Dallin ignored it.

  They walked in silence until they were out of the yard, making the turn for the street that led to Chester’s constabulary. Corliss was tense, brooding, but she leaned in. “What d’you want from me?” Her voice was whisper-thin, and her lips barely even moved.

  Dallin breathed a small, silent sigh. “He means to question me. I want you to listen. To all of it.”

  She shook her head. “He’s a close one, and he doesn’t trust women. I doubt he’ll let me.”

  “I didn’t say you should ask him.” Dallin couldn’t help the way it snapped out of him. He reined in his temper as much as he could. “There’s a book in my pack. Find it and read everything you can find on the legend of the Aisling, then get your arse to wherever they’re taking me and listen.” He lowered his voice. “I’ve never given you a reason not to trust me, Corliss, and I’ve never asked you for a damned thing. I’ve been a good superior to you while you’ve been at the constabulary, and for most of our lives, I’ve been a good friend. You do what I ask now, and whatever happens after, you owe me nothing.”

  Corliss gusted a heavy sigh and looked down at her dusty boots.

  “As you will.”

  THE CHESTER constabulary was newer than Putnam’s and brighter, with its great wide windows and gleaming wooden floors rather than the bulky stone and stale surroundings Dallin had always associated with the law. He’d expected glares and derisive gestures when he was brought in—lawmen didn’t generally take kindly to one of their ranks switching sides, and there was the mess with the gate guard, after all—but he was largely ignored, except for the few whose services were required to get him through the door and into an interrogation room.

  Dallin wasn’t taken to a desk to be processed by a bored minion, and he wasn’t formally apprised of the charges against him. He was led straight down into the gaslit basement of the place, the same stone as the city’s walls, and into a small dank room with no windows, merely a plain table bolted to the floor and two wooden chairs. Stark and dim and dusty.

  He’d thought Síofra would keep him waiting, try to get him anxious and sweating, but he arrived with no fanfare a mere several minutes after Dallin was deposited by a bored bailiff. He sat across from Dallin, no charming smile this time.

  Good. Perhaps they were to speak plainly, then.

  Except Síofra didn’t speak—just stared at Dallin, a pale glimmer in his eyes that was reminiscent of Wil but small and ugly, where Wil’s was… pure? Dynamic? Just solely and simply Wil?—all burning intensity and cool cunning.

  Dallin didn’t know and didn’t bother defining it. He merely rolled his eyes. “Right, that doesn’t work on me. Save your tricks for your own minions.” He tilted his head. “Orman ever recover?”

  Síofra’s calm façade slipped the tiniest bit before he caught himself. He shrugged. “I regret that our meeting has occurred under such circumstances.”

  Trying to be “friends,” talk man-to-man. Too bloody predictable. Dallin just hoped to hell Corliss was out there listening to this. Because Dallin meant for her to get a bloody earful.

  He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve no doubt.” He smiled. “Then again, I’ve no doubt you regret we’ve met at all. You did try rather hard to prevent the possibility, after all.”

  “Ah, delightful, we’re to be blunt, then.” Síofra smiled too and sat back in his chair. “So the lad’s been telling tales, has he?” He shook his head. “Perhaps I put too much trust in the boy.”

  “Trust. An interesting choice of words.” Dallin raised both eyebrows this time. “D’you know what it means?”

  Síofra chuckled. “As you will, then. Perhaps I should have been more… precise in my aim.”

  “Perhaps you should have been more precise with your questions afterward.” Dallin shrugged. “When you drug a man and trick him into being terrified of the one meant to protect him, then trick him again into making him believe he was responsible for wiping out half a village, you really can’t be surprised when he keeps a secret or two.” He shifted, affecting a thoughtful frown. “What I don’t understand is, why did you even think it necessary? I mean, let’s face it—you already had him. He was already petrified of me, and you were going to stage your raid on Lind whether he knew about it or not. Why was it so important that he believe he did it?”

  “Ah, that’s right. You are—oh, I’m so sorry, you were a constable. I imagine you’re used to asking the questions.”

  The condescending sympathy in the tone almost made Dallin laugh. Síofra really did think he knew what he was doing.

  Except he wasn’t so good without his drugs and his stolen magic. And he didn’t seem to know it.

  “My mistake,” Dallin returned just as sincerely.

  Anyway, he didn’t really need an answer. Síofra had done it to make sure Wil stayed far away from Lind. Why Síofra had thought he needed to do it, seeing as Wil had been a prisoner all his life and there had been no real hope of escape, Dallin would certainly like to know, but he doubted Síofra would be terribly forthcoming on the issue. Dallin had asked the question mostly for Corliss’s benefit, so he didn’t pursue an answer he wouldn’t get.

  Instead he frowned and tilted his head. “What was the question, anyway?”

  “I’m not quite certain I’ve asked one yet. But since you’ve brought it up—I’m very curious to know what you think the lad is about.” Síofra waved a hand. “It doesn’t really matter, you und
erstand—he’s mad and needs his drafts just to control his violent temper, and nothing he says can be trusted.”

  Dallin’s jaw twitched some with that snide little “needs his drafts,” but he managed to control the snarl. He kept his face blank.

  Síofra leaned into the table, clasping his hands atop it. “However. Perhaps, if I knew more about the story he’s given you, I might be moved to appeal for leniency once we reach Penley.” His eyes widened, mock-apology. “Oh, I don’t think I mentioned—you’re to be tried in your capital before your elders. I’ve become quite… familiar with the High Seat, Channing.”

  Dallin would just bet he had.

  He wished his hands were free. He would have liked to drape himself back over his chair for a more cavalier effect. He settled for stretching out his legs and slouching a bit.

  “You assume it was necessary for him to give me a story at all.” He quirked his lips. “You assume very many things. I thought you knew what I am.”

  Síofra’s mouth pinched. “I don’t care what you are.” It came out through his straight white teeth. “You’re no threat to me anymore.”

  “Perhaps not.” Dallin shrugged. “But he knows what he is now. He knows what he can do.” He cocked his head. “What frightened you the most, d’you think? You knew about the elements when you stole him away, so it must not’ve been that.”

  Síofra’s narrow features froze. “It was him that called the storm outside Dudley, then.”

  Dallin almost jumped up and did a little jig. One little bit of confession, and from the man’s own mouth.

  Corliss had damn well better have her ear plastered to that door. Because Dallin hoped this was just the beginning.

  “What else can he do?” Síofra demanded, all pretense at indifference abandoned.

  This morning I watched him call fire and tame it to his hand. Bet that would send your stones up to your throat.

  Dallin widened his eyes, all innocence. “P’raps when you see him again, you can get him sotted on mæting and make him tell you. That was how it worked, wasn’t it? Steal an infant and then try to steal his power?” He let his face go hard. “But you didn’t know what else he had in him, did you? You knew he was the Aisling, but you didn’t know about the dreams, right? And when you found out, you kept him drugged for fifty years so you could twist them yourself.”

  Dallin just wished he could see Síofra’s face when he found out the hard way about the pushing. He leaned in.

  “I wonder what your dear, familiar Channing would think if he learned you’d been using a man’s dreams to gain advantage against his country? Magicking without a license in Cynewísan is rather frowned upon, and I’d say magicking with criminal intent toward the Mother’s own Gift wouldn’t go over very well at all. How old are you, anyway? Ah!” Dallin sat back again. “But then, I suppose you reckon the elders won’t find out, yes? Because the only one besides you who knows about it will never make it to Penley for trial, am I right?”

  Síofra’s complexion had gone rather gray—a mixture of rage and fright, Dallin guessed. His hands were gripping at each other so hard his fingers had turned wax-white.

  “I rather thought ‘shot while trying to escape’ had a nice ring to it.”

  Dallin chuckled. “From the sound of it, I don’t suppose there are many left in Putnam who will dare to object. Nice trick, that. How did you get them to arrest Jagger so quickly?”

  “I’m to be asking the questions!”

  If Dallin had a hand free, he would have held it up, placating. “Ah, right, sorry, I forgot.” He dipped his head. “As you will.”

  Síofra sputtered for a moment, off-balance. It was only with an obvious effort that he reined in his fury and too-evident unease. “What—can—he—do?”

  Dallin allowed a snort this time. “You don’t really think I’m going to tell you that, do you? Honestly, man, do give me at least some credit.”

  “Oh, I give you all sorts of credit, young man. But you’ve obviously heard as much about me as I have about you.” Síofra leaned in, more confident now. “You know I can find out.”

  Dallin shrugged, unconcerned. “You can try.”

  Almost immediately the air thickened, grew heavy, and a light buzz fizzed at the back of Dallin’s brain. Dallin set his teeth. It was getting more difficult to maintain the smirk, but he kept it, hardened it.

  “You’ve been doing it all your life.” Wil’s calm voice, guiding Dallin resolutely through the locks and chains of his own mind. “Just find it and make it stronger.”

  The drone rose an octave, skittering over Dallin like tiny little insects crawling over his skin, slithering up his backbone. It was… familiar. Good thing for the shackles, else Dallin would’ve smacked himself in the head. Instead he barked a laugh.

  “It was you!” He snorted. “I felt you coming. Shit, wish I’d known what it was before. Would’ve saved me an awful lot of wittering.” He shook his head, still chuckling. “I kept thinking something terrible was coming, and all along, it was only you.”

  The buzzing stopped abruptly. Síofra sprang from his chair, and lunged across the table. Dallin consciously controlled his instinctive flinch and kept the smile. Síofra’s long fingers curled around the edge of the table, clenched.

  “Laugh it up, Guardian. Laugh all the way to the noose, for all I care. But then, as you say, you won’t make it that far. Just know, as you hear that bullet coming for you, that it’s all for nothing—I’ll find him, and I’ll have him. He’s mine, and you’ve failed, as the two before you did.”

  Dallin let the smile drop, let his expression turn cold. “I wonder what Æledfýres thinks about that?”

  He watched carefully as Síofra’s expression went from livid to blankly stunned. It wasn’t just surprise that Dallin knew how Síofra had found Wil—there was fear there.

  Dallin took advantage. “What did you promise him in return for telling you where to find the Aisling? Or should I say, on what promise did you renege?”

  Oh, this was just too rich. Síofra had lost so much color he was almost transparent.

  Dallin pushed it harder. “I have to hand it to you. Biting the hand of a god. Pretty nervy. I should warn you, though—the Mother and the Father are sorely displeased with you. You might want to watch your back.”

  Presumptuous, but likely pretty accurate. Dallin had just more or less spoken for gods, but he thought They might be somewhat forgiving under the circumstances. Now if only one of Them would see fit to give him a bit of a hand here—pop loose the shackles or something, make Síofra choke to death on his own rage. Really. Anything. Dallin wasn’t picky.

  “I’ve nothing to fear from either of Them.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t count on that. They’re quite cross that you’ve used Their Gift so badly.” Dallin’s teeth clenched, and he set his face hard. “And Their Gift is no longer addicted to leaf and helpless to fight you. So, you see, regardless of whether or not your bullet finds its target, or your noose, I’ve not failed. The Guardian has fulfilled his purpose.”

  Síofra’s chin trembled. “You expect me to believe you’ve seen Them?”

  “I don’t really give a shit what you believe. I don’t really give a shit about you at all.” Dallin sighed. “It’s so very strange. I’ve been expecting someone powerful, someone to fear, someone… someone with a bloody spine, at least.” He shook his head. “You’re so much smaller than I’d thought. It seems you’re only scary when you’re drugging little boys and stealing their power from them. It’s… well, it’s a little… disappointing, if I’m being honest.”

  And he was.

  Síofra just stood there for a moment, seething. Dallin wondered if Síofra realized just how much information he’d given up during this supposed interrogation. Realized he truly didn’t care. He didn’t know exactly what he’d be able to do with his new insight, considering his current circumstance and his apparently rather limited lifespan, but it was something. A victory. Somewhat.

&n
bsp; Please, Corliss, be out there and listening. And if anything happens to me, find him and help him.

  “When next I see him,” Síofra said, low and thick, “I’ll be sure to give him your regards.”

  “Do that,” Dallin said with a bored sigh.

  “And perhaps I’ll tell him you’re the one who whispered his true name into my ear.” Síofra’s mouth curled up in a vile, humorless smile. “I’ll tell him you were the one who gave me the key to his soul. I’ve no doubt he’ll be….” The smile curled into a grin that turned Dallin’s stomach. “Utterly shattered, I should think.” Síofra dipped his head in an ironic half bow. “But you take solace in that purpose of yours, Guardian. Perhaps it will make your grave less dark and cold.”

  Dallin kept his face completely blank as Síofra turned slowly, walked to the door, and let himself out. A moment ago, Dallin had been almost exhilarated with the heady kick of knowing he’d gotten the best of Síofra, that Síofra was truly, in fact, as small as Dallin had said he was.

  And then Síofra had parted with that last shot and left Dallin’s ears ringing with it.

  Have I a true name?

  The question had been so quietly earnest, hope edged with trepidation. There had been real pain behind the anger when Wil had first told Dallin he had no name. And now it seemed there was one. Not only a name, but a key. A key to….

  Dallin shook his head. Fucking hell, he’d just got done bulling his way through a thousand mysteries and secrets, and now here was another. And this one—

  I’ll tell him you were the one who gave me the key to his soul.

  What the fuck did that mean?

  Dallin shut his eyes, startled. There was a gentle little brush at the back of his mind—not the harsh, insectile buzz of Síofra trying and failing to force himself through the cracks of consciousness, but a light, grazing warmth. A request. No voice, no words, just knowledge, instant and clear:

  “Get ready. I’m coming.”