Dream

by Carole Cummings

  “Wil!” Dallin shook him, harder than before. “Wil, listen to me. Don’t hold on to it, don’t try to sort it—just push it right at me. I won’t let anything happen, I promise, just send the pain—”

  He jerked abruptly back and away as if a great hand had just reached out and shoved him in the chest. It knocked the wind out of him—he couldn’t even let loose a small yip—as he was thrown backward with a force that hurled him across the small cave, slammed his back to curved rock, drove him into it, compressed him between immovable granite and mind-numbing power.

  Oh fuck. This wasn’t just big—it was bloody huge!

  Dallin took it all, pulling down every barrier and letting it flow over them, letting it drive into his body and his mind, seep into the cracks, and fill them up. His body instinctively tried to double over with the pain, but he was pinned like a bug to a cork.

  Mother help me—is this what he’s been feeling all this time? How could he stand it?

  Breath was just a memory. Dallin’s chest was caving beneath the force of it all.

  Out the corner of his eye, Dallin saw the fire climbing up the wall of the cave. He heard the rumble of thunder, then he was deaf and blind, unable to move, to claw air into burning lungs. Still he let it wash into him, took it all, and invited more.

  He could feel Wil inside it, distant and still confused, but sanity was returning, relief was slowly taking the place of agony. Dallin reached, setting himself like a baldachin beneath the onslaught. He showed Wil the channels, showed him how to use them, and then was swamped by the bald grace of Wil’s reprieve when the stanchions held.

  Part of Dallin smiled, smug and satisfied—Ha! Fuck you, Calder, told you I knew what I was doing—the rest of him saw the dark void of oblivion beckoning.

  He let it come.

  HE WAS propped on his hands and knees when the black receded, head hanging, lungs wrenching and gasping, and vaguely glad he hadn’t ended up in a helpless heap. There were far too many hands plucking at him, far too many voices nattering concern.

  One set of hands was rougher than the others, clutching and almost shoving, where the others were just shaking lightly, almost petting. One voice was angrier than the others, frantically growling and demanding, where the others were low and worried.

  “Dallin!” A sharp shake and a near snarl. “Dallin Brayden!” A smack this time, right to Dallin’s ribs. It smarted good, but if Dallin had even an ounce of air in his lungs, he would’ve snorted. “You son of a bitch, you promised, you swore, I trusted you, you said—”

  “I said not to hold it back and to—” Dallin had to pause to catch his breath. “—and to do it quick.”

  Wil went loose against him. “Oh thank fuck.” He leaned down and dipped his head beside Dallin’s, careful not to lean too hard lest he knock Dallin over, but leaning in just the same. His hand tightened on Dallin’s shoulder, and he blew out a long, shaky sigh. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  Dallin finally managed to lift his head, squinting up into Wil’s worried face and marking the lack of even the smallest drop of blood, the color to Wil’s cheeks. He sagged, letting the hands help him lean back and plant himself semisteadily on his arse on the floor of the cave.

  “Now you know… how I feel.” He was still wheezing.

  Dallin’s gaze went first to the fire—blazing again but banked lower than an inferno, thank the Mother. He checked what little sky he could see through the cave’s mouth next—still blue and cloudless, with no threatening rumbles muttering in the distance. Though, when his eye drifted groundward, Dallin noted a few too many loiterers standing around mere paces away, both worried and excited whispers flitting among them, and gazes all pointed into the little cave. Dallin trusted they weren’t getting much of a view and dismissed them. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and saw Shaw right beside Wil—one hand still on Dallin and one resting lightly between Wil’s shoulder blades, support and comfort.

  Dallin gripped Wil’s arm. There was still some bit of worry in Wil’s gaze, and he was still pale and drawn, but color was creeping steadily back into his cheeks, and his eyes were no longer wild and filled with pain and feral power—just green.

  “All right?”

  Wil gave Dallin an incredulous glare. “Yes, I’m all right. Are you?”

  Dallin had to think about it for a moment. “A bit of a headache, but yeah.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re sure? It’s all….” He waved his hand. “It’s holding?”

  He didn’t really have to ask—he could feel it, almost a low hum thrumming somewhere at the bottom of his spine—but it made him feel better when Wil nodded and smiled.

  “I don’t know quite what it is, but yes, it’s holding. C’mon, let’s get you over there where it’s more comfortable.”

  Dallin let Wil and Shaw help him up, though he didn’t feel at all wobbly—just that bit of a headache—but his back was going to hurt like hell later. He was already on his feet, trying to stretch his shoulders beneath all the hands, when he noticed for the second time there were a few too many of those hands. He turned, frowning, and found that… that boy, that… Calder’s kin… what the hell was his name?

  “Hunter. What the hell are you doing here?”

  Hunter blinked, wide-eyed. “I….” He turned and waved confusedly at the mouth of the cave, where a pewter cup lay in a pool of what was likely the tea he was supposed to bring Wil.

  How long had Hunter been standing there? How much had he seen, and how much of it did he plan to report to the others? And how much did Dallin really care about what Hunter did or who he told?

  “If Calder put you on us to spy, you needn’t bother. You’ll find I’m not quite as secretive as he would apparently like. All you have to do is ask.”

  “Spy?” Hunter looked genuinely confused, genuinely… hurt. He shook his head, adamant. “I would… no, I never—”

  “Leave him alone.” Wil was still shaky but apparently gaining back his equilibrium along with his snark. “He’s not his uncle. He means well.” He leaned in close and dipped his voice. “He bloody worships you, y’know. Have a care.”

  Dallin frowned at Wil, then turned the look on Hunter with barely suppressed suspicion. Worships. Dallin didn’t quite know how to take that one, and had absolutely nothing to say to it, so he didn’t even try. Instead he looked back at Wil.

  “Uncle?”

  “Well.” Wil looked away. “I just assumed. Here, let’s get you over there and sit you down.”

  It was the avoidance of the gaze that made Dallin narrow his eyes.

  No, you didn’t. You know. And he didn’t tell you, did he?

  “I could feel it. I can still feel it. All of them.”

  Dallin wondered just exactly what Wil had seen, and how much. Wondered what all that knowing might do to a person’s head.

  “You assumed correctly.” Hunter dipped his head with an uncertain tilt of a smile, following along as Dallin shrugged off his helpers and sat down on the rumpled bedroll. “I am the son of Garrick Calder, brother to Barret Calder.”

  Dallin refrained from asking if Garrick was still alive, and if there were any more Calders running around the place waiting to pop up and not go away.

  “And are you close?” Wil’s question was quiet. He didn’t look at Hunter as he sat down beside Dallin.

  Dallin saw Shaw frown when he caught the tone. But Shaw kept silent, merely leaning against the stone of the cave’s wall, folding his arms across his chest, and watching. It had been necessary to fill Shaw in on quite a lot of Wil’s history after Shaw had more or less commandeered Wil’s horse and joined them in their escape from Chester, but Dallin didn’t remember telling Shaw about Wil’s nonencounter with Wilfred Calder. Perhaps Shaw was in the process of twigging to the coincidence of the names now, or perhaps Calder himself had filled him in.

  Hunter shifted an uncomfortable shrug. “Our families shared inhíredes.” He paused, brow creased in thought, expression brightening when he settle
d on the right word. “Household,” he translated for Wil.

  “So….” Wil looked down, tugging at his fingers as though they were too close to his hands. “You would have grown up with his son, then.”

  Dallin was very careful to keep himself from sighing and rolling his eyes. This insistence on seeking rebuke and snatching at guilt that didn’t belong to him was getting wearisome.

  Hunter’s eyes had gone round, cautiously eager. “You have seen Wilfred?”

  “I—” Wil stuttered into silence, shut his eyes, and rubbed at his brow.

  Hunter wouldn’t have been told why Wilfred crossed the Bounds. He wouldn’t have been told why Barret had cut his Marks and followed later. And he obviously hadn’t yet been told that Barret had found, in a sense, what Wilfred had left looking for. Without even knowing exactly what he was looking for.

  It still set Dallin’s teeth on edge.

  Keeping his tone even, he made himself say, “No, we haven’t seen Wilfred.” Dallin watched with a small pang as Hunter sagged and his earnest gaze dimmed. Dallin shot a quelling glance at Wil—There, are you happy now? You’re not the only one you hurt when you insist on punishing yourself—and looked back at Hunter with a bit of a frown. He was so young, so full of illusions, as all young men were. His disappointment showed all too clearly, and Dallin was at a loss as to what to say to it.

  Shaw saved him. “Here then, lad, did you manage to find some of that wood betony?” He pointedly didn’t look at the former contents of the cup still lying spilled across the stone floor. Dallin didn’t even want to guess at which part of the previous half hour or so Hunter had walked in on that had startled him enough to drop it.

  “Oh!” Hunter jumped to his feet. “My apologies, Wil from Ríocht.” He dipped a small, diffident bow. “I….” He looked over at the cup with obvious chagrin. “It…. When I….” He shook his head with a light flush. “I’ll fetch another.” And then he was gone, snatching up the cup smoothly as he went, scattering the crowd that had gathered outside with a few sharp, imperious words and animated shooing gestures.

  Dallin watched him go. He turned to Wil with a grimace.

  Wil still had his head down, fingers working at his brow—more to hide his face now than a reaction to any lingering pain. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Brayden will perhaps forgive me for speaking for him,” Shaw ventured softly, “but I believe the point is rather that you’ve nothing for which to be sorry.”

  Well, then. Not only did it put Dallin’s thoughts into concise words, but it rather answered the question as to how much Shaw knew.

  “I know.” Wil said it with a heavy sigh this time, finally lifting his head. “I know it with my head.” He turned his gaze on Dallin, apparently marking the skepticism there. “I do. I just.” He shook his head. “It feels… unfair that I should be here, in Wilfred Calder’s country, among his people who loved and miss him, and using his name.”

  Dallin was immediately sorry for any cross thoughts he’d had a moment ago. He propped his arm behind Wil and leaned back—hopefully just enough light contact for comfort.

  “His own father said he would have willingly shared it. And you’ve only kept a part of it.”

  Lame, lame, lame—but then, there was no good argument. Dallin would have felt the same in Wil’s place. Then again, how would he know? His name had never been in question.

  “Perhaps,” Shaw said slowly, thoughtfully, “perhaps ‘using his name’ is not the proper way to think about it.” He peered sharply at Wil. “Perhaps honoring it would sit better.”

  Wil’s brow drew in, pensive, and he looked down again, fingers twitching at each other but not yanking and twisting as before. Thinking about it but seemingly not howling inside.

  Dallin had had plenty of cause over the last several days to be thankful Shaw had followed his impulse toward adventure that day in Chester. Here was another. And the now-shaman’s former vocation—to which, granted, Dallin hadn’t twigged ’til he’d seen how Shaw sat a horse—might prove extraordinarily handy, if Shaw would ever open his mouth and own it.

  “I’ve brought the kettle this time!” Hunter ducked through the cave’s opening, kettle in one hand and cup in the other. He didn’t wait for instruction but crouched down in front of them and poured steaming tea into the cup, offering it to Wil before putting the kettle to the side.

  Wil accepted the tea with a flimsy smile but leaned in to mutter quietly to Dallin, “I don’t want to hurt his feelings, since he’s gone to all the trouble—twice—but I really don’t need it anymore.”

  “You will. We’re not quite through yet.”

  Wil still didn’t move to take a sip. Instead he stared down into the cup for a long moment, then lifted a tense, half-embarrassed look up at Dallin. “It’s… it smells….” He looked down again and shook his head. “It’s flowery, and I—”

  Dallin didn’t need for Wil to finish, which was good, because it was all too clear that Wil couldn’t. Dallin blamed Hunter for even mentioning bloody mæting in the first place.

  As casually as he could, Dallin folded his hand over Wil’s, guided the cup to his own lips, and took a sip himself. Slightly bitter beneath the lavender and honey, but not bad. And definitely not laced with anything more sinister than wood betony and some spice. Dallin pushed the cup back at Wil.

  “It’s fine, no worries.” No fuss and no accusation. “I’ll have a cup when you’re through.” Dallin twitched his shoulders and shot Wil a small smirk, deliberately dropping the subject of the tea. “Don’t know your own strength, you.”

  Wil returned a rueful smile. “That’ll teach you to reprimand me when I’m being pummeled by—” The smile slanted into new uncertainty. “What was all that?”

  “That was—is—the Aisling’s legacy.”

  Wil and Shaw both cut their gazes toward Hunter, frowning. Dallin merely turned to Hunter with a challenging lift of his eyebrows.

  “One of the things over which your uncle and I vehemently disagree is secrets. I don’t like them. He thinks they’re a necessary part of life. What do you think, Hunter?”

  Hunter’s own eyebrows went up, but in surprise and near chagrin to be so pinned to the spot. “I think… um.” He looked to Wil for help but found only bemusement to match his own. He answered the challenge, rather than the question. “Was that why you quarreled with the Old Ones?”

  “Part of it.”

  “No one has ever quarreled with the Old Ones.” Hunter’s expression tottered between intrigue and rebuke.

  “Then this is new for them. If I have my way—and by tradition, I should—it’s the first of several new things.” Dallin sat forward, draping an arm over his upthrust knee. “Haven’t you ever wondered what they do up there in that great Temple? Hasn’t it ever angered you that you’re kept so far removed from your own religion?”

  Hunter looked down and studied the floor. “It is the way of things.” He lifted his head. By the new light in Hunter’s blue eyes, Dallin could tell he’d hit a nerve. “It has always been the way of things.”

  “That doesn’t make it right.” Dallin waved his hand. “Sit down.” He waited for Hunter to comply before he went on, “You know of Ríocht’s Chosen.” Hunter’s glance went immediately to Wil, narrowing. He nodded. “Do you know the legend of the Aisling?”

  Again, Hunter nodded, the vague suspicion in his gaze dulling somewhat to… Dallin wasn’t sure, but he thought it might be disappointment.

  Hunter shrugged. “The Beloved who sings the songs of rain and sun to the Mother in the People’s voices. Some still burn offerings to him in times of drought or flood, but most have forgotten.”

  Dallin hadn’t known what answer he’d expected, but this one piqued his interest. He’d never heard of the Aisling until Manning had hit him with it the first day he’d met Wil, and Dallin had lived here until he’d been twelve.

  He tilted his head. “How d’you know of it, then?”

  “Calders have wal
ked Lind since the Mother birthed it.” Hunter seemed ingenuously proud. “My name’s song is quite long.”

  Ah. Dallin couldn’t help but wonder if the concept of the Aisling would have blindsided him as it had done, had his father lived but another two years. He pushed it away and caught Wil looking at him with something soft and sympathetic. Dallin offered a reassuring smile, then turned back to Hunter and gestured at Wil.

  “Hunter Calder, I’d like you to meet Ríocht’s Chosen, the Father’s Gift to the Mother, and my friend—the Aisling. No bowing necessary.” He ignored Shaw’s bit of a gasp and turned to Wil with a small smirk. “You don’t want them all bowing to you, right?”

  “I….” Wil’s mouth was hanging open, and he stared at Dallin, wide-eyed, but he managed a dazed shake of his head. “Um. No?”

  Dallin couldn’t help an answering grin. “You’re not drinking your tea.” He waited for Wil to take an obligatory sip, still frowning in surprise, then turned back to Hunter, keen to analyze his reactions. If Dallin had his way, Hunter would be the first to know all the deadly deep secrets, but by no means the last.

  Hunter was looking rather blankly at Wil. “Dúil.” He said it softly, slowly, then slid his gaze over to the fire and out the cave’s mouth to the sky. A frown gathered at his brow as he turned back to Wil. His expression had gone awed, almost overwhelmed, but there was instant belief—helped, no doubt, by the dancing fires and threat of thunder in the clear blue sky only a little while ago, but not nearly so much Prove It as Dallin had waded through. The immediate trust was somewhat disturbing but still exactly what Dallin had been hoping for.

  “Brayden.” Shaw was softly cautious. “Do you really think this is wise?”

  Dallin turned to Shaw, all smartarse smirks and cheeky retorts gone. “I think it’s not only wise but necessary. We have Commonwealth soldiers pawing the ground and tugging at their reins at the Bounds. Roaming the countryside somewhere out there is a band of who knows how many nutters who want to steal Wil and push him out of his own mind. And in case you’d forgotten, all of them know exactly where we are. That’s not even counting what the Guild’s reaction will be when they get word their emissary is dead and their Chosen once again missing—kidnapped by me, no less, and with too many witnesses for even the Brethren to silence this time.