Dream

by Carole Cummings

  This little conference was to be the result of two days of almost continual arguing, defending, assuring, and Dallin quite resented the fact that they hadn’t allowed time for him to talk to Wil about it privately first. Dallin could insist on it—they put up a good fight on some things, but they always acquiesced when their “Shaman” put his foot down, as it were, and though it was convenient, it still made Dallin want to hit someone. Who was he, after all? And who were they to let him stroll in and take control, simply by virtue of legend and ancient law? And all right, so it wasn’t truly legend—Dallin had accepted the reality of what he was, what Wil was, as he’d sat stunned in that inn their first night out of Dudley—but how could these men just… just hand him Lind? Expect him to guide its fate and everyone’s in it?

  Dallin turned to Wil, noted the shuttered gaze, the wary attention, and silently approved. As much as the simple acceptance annoyed him, Dallin still wasn’t entirely sure there wasn’t some kind of trap lurking beneath it all. Calder, after all, had been one of these men before he’d cut away his Marks. How many of them thought as Calder did? How much of all this was simply information gathering until all twelve could convene and vote on Wil’s fate—with or without their Shaman’s consent? How much of that control they seemed so eager to hand Dallin was, in truth, control, and how much of it was stalling?

  He kept silent as they seated themselves on the stone floor, moving a bit slowly and cautiously, all of them, but surprisingly less rickety than Dallin would have expected from men of such advanced ages. Then again, doing what they did, immersing themselves daily in the power of this place, good health and longevity were rather low on the shock scale.

  Dallin shook his head. How was it he could be remembering things he’d had no idea he’d even once known? And how could he have forgotten so profoundly that he hadn’t even known there was anything he had forgotten?

  “Forgive our eagerness, young Wil,” Thorne began, “but we have waited so very long.” He gestured to his right, to a broad-faced man with a full beard of silver-gray and a shaggy mass of the same on his head. He was thick and swart, round-cheeked, a man who appeared to thoroughly enjoy his food. “May I present Æweweard Marden,” Thorne said, then indicated the man to his left. “Æweweard Siddell.” A scarecrow made of sticks, hair only just beginning to go iron beneath the gold, thin cheeks clean-shaven though cragged with obvious age; Thorne’s junior by a few years, but age sat heavier on him than any of the Old Ones Dallin had met thus far.

  Both men once again dipped their heads, hands laid over their breastbones in a gesture of deep respect. Marden reached into his tunic and withdrew a thin, fine-wrought silver chain. A small dagger-shaped drop of crystal quartz dangled from its end, clear and flawless, catching the light from the cave’s mouth and spattering prisms over the walls and his cragged face.

  “A small gift.” Marden extended it to Wil on the tips of his thick fingers. “You are full of questions. Used properly, this may help you find answers.”

  Taken aback, Wil started to reach out but stopped before his fingers touched the stone. “And what is the proper way to use it?”

  Marden smiled as though the question itself satisfied his own curiosity. “Why, whatever way you choose to use it, of course.”

  Back to those same cryptic answers Dallin had been getting for two days now. He almost growled.

  “It is also known to offer protection,” Thorne put in, “and to aid one in….” He paused, searching. “Forging links,” he finally continued. “Making difficult unions less difficult.” He nodded, encouraging. “Go on, then, lad. It’s all right.”

  Wil shot a glance over at Dallin. When Dallin only shrugged, Wil leaned forward and allowed Marden to drop the chain over his head. Wil sat back, frowning, but his fingers closed over the stone with a strange delicacy before cupping it lightly against his breastbone. It took a moment for Dallin to twig to the odd emotional jumble twisting in Wil’s expression.

  No one’s ever given him a gift before. And he’s scunnered.

  Wil tried to speak—couldn’t. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know what that means.” He watched his finger through the clear stone as it stroked slowly along the smooth line of it. Swallowing heavily, Wil looked up at Marden, a soft shimmer to his eyes, and nodded. “Thank you. It was very kind of you.”

  Siddell was next, extending his bony hand, thin eyebrows raised encouragingly as Wil slowly held out his own, palm up. “Sun and Moon,” Siddell said as he dropped a small, smooth charm into Wil’s hand.

  Primitive-looking, though somehow more beautiful for it. The shapes were vaguely male and female—the woman made of fiery gold sunstone; the man cool and opalescent moonstone. The Mother and the Father, Sun and Moon, fused together into one. Their arms were outstretched, one eternally reaching for the other, a forever-dance of intertwined love and faith.

  “Balance and harmony.” Siddell closed his fingers over the charm and folded his own gnarled, blue-veined hand over Wil’s. He smiled. “You feel it already.”

  Wil nodded slowly. “It feels… extraordinarily old. It’s been….” He closed his eyes and held the charm to his chest over the crystal at his breastbone. “Its dreams are so very deep and… and long.” He peered at Siddell, once again taken aback, almost to the point of anxiety. Wil held the charm back out in an open hand. “I can’t accept this—it must be thousands of years old. Time before time. I can feel it.”

  “Then it seems to me that you can indeed accept it, for it seems it belongs in the hand of one who knows it.”

  Wil shook his head, his expression too close to distressed. “You don’t understand. I can’t. It’s been touched by Her own hand.” He held it out to Dallin, near panic. “Here. You should have it. It isn’t for me. They’ve made a mistake. It should be in the hand of one who… who—”

  “Who deserves it?” Dallin cut in softly. Wil only stared at him for a moment, then shunted his glance away, dipping his head and pointing it stubbornly at the floor. Dallin folded the charm into Wil’s hand as Siddell had done. He squeezed his hand tight around Wil’s fist. “These men know all about you, Wil. They know, just as She does. If you think you need some sort of absolution, they’ll happily give it to you, so will She, but you’re the only one who thinks hiding from Her deserves retribution.”

  “I’ve not been hiding.”

  “No?” Dallin set his arm over Wil’s shoulders. “I know a little bit about hiding. I know it’s possible to hide things so well you forget you’d ever buried them in the first place. You of all people know I’ve likely got you beat when it comes to denial. If I’d not hidden away so much of myself, I really might’ve hacked my way into the Guild when I had the chance all those years ago. I’ll always owe you a debt for that. I’ll always be sorry.”

  He gave Wil’s hand a light squeeze around the charm. “You hated Her and you loved Her at the same time, and both combined to keep Her from you. That’s all this is. Not failure, not disloyalty, not weakness. You built up walls to survive, and you’ve forgotten how to let Her through them. That’s all right. She’s never stopped loving you because of it. She’s never stopped trying to help you, reach you. That’s why I’m here, remember?”

  “For Her,” Wil whispered.

  Dallin sighed. “You’re such a stroppy idiot sometimes.” He tugged at Wil’s hair to soften the sting of the rebuke. “For you, y’daft dolt. And not because I owe you, so don’t even start. I’m here because of you. You said you trusted me.”

  “I do, I… it has nothing to do with—”

  “Then trust my word.”

  Wil shook his head, frustrated. “It doesn’t have anything to do with trusting you.”

  “It will have.” Dallin pushed Wil away and nodded toward the three shamans silently watching them, gazes keen and observant but benevolent. “They’re here to tell you what’s expected of the Aisling. I’m here to remind you that it’s all up to you. But you also need to know that….” No. Not yet. “We’ll ge
t to that. Right now, trust me in this.” Again Dallin squeezed Wil’s hand around the charm. “You should have it. Accept it graciously, and let’s get this done.”

  He withdrew his hand and sat back. Making his opinion clear, he hoped, but leaving it up to Wil.

  Wil only sat there for a moment, slightly hunched, staring at his fisted hand. Slowly, like the petals of a reluctant flower unfurling, his fingers loosened, opened, the little charm lying in his palm glowing iridescent in the combined light of the fire and daylight creeping in from outside—coral-gold and irised-pearl, tatted in a perpetual stone embrace.

  Shoulders drooping, Wil peered up at Siddell through his fringe, then closed his hand over the charm again. “Thank you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. It’s beautiful, it’s more than—” He bit his lip. “Thank you.”

  Siddell bowed his head with a smile, then turned a hard gaze on Dallin. Measuring. Strangely, all of them were staring, and more at Dallin than at Wil. Perhaps Dallin had stepped outside their expectations for their Guardian again, as it seemed he was entirely too wont to do. He didn’t care now any more than he’d cared the other fifty times he’d done it.

  “Well, then.” Dallin returned their stares evenly, with perhaps a slight touch of defiance bubbling beneath it. “Shall we get on?”

  Glossary

  Æledfýres—(āel-et-fēr-es) God of fire. Brother of the Father. One of what are known as the old gods. Also referred to as dearg-dur or daeva.

  Aire—(ə-rā) Literally translated as “danger.”

  Aisling—(ä-ēsh-ling) Literally translated as “dream.” In Ríocht’s culture the Aisling is also referred to as the Chosen, a holy figure who is called on once a year to ask the Father for His favor and blessings, and then convey those blessings onto the people.

  Brethren: A band of priests cast out of the Guild and reformed as a more fanatical sect dedicated to the Father.

  Célnes—(sāl-nəs) Goddess of the wind. Sister of the Mother. One of what are known as the old gods, or the gods of the Four Corners.

  Chester—A midsized city south of Lind.

  Chosen—See Aisling

  Coimirceoir—(kim-ȯl-ēk-āȯrr) Literally translated as “guardian.”

  Commonwealth—See Cynewísan

  Cynewísan—(kin-ə-wiss-än) Also referred to as the Commonwealth. A conglomeration of united provinces with a democratic government overseen by their elected Elders. Bordered to the north and east by Ríocht.

  Daeva—Vampire.

  Dearg-dur—Incubus; soul-eater.

  Díepe—(dē-əp-ā) Goddess of water. Sister of the Mother. One of what are known as the old gods, or the gods of the Four Corners.

  Dudley—A small village south of Putnam.

  Eorðbúgigend—(ē-ərthpā-gēg-ānd) God of the earth. Brother of the Father. One of what are known as the old gods, or the gods of the Four Corners.

  Father—The patron deity of Ríocht. God of music, harmony of the seasons, beauty, the stars, and dreams.

  First Tongue—The language of the old gods and the first clans.

  Flównysse—(flō-win-üss-e) A major river that runs a southeasterly course from the mountains on Lind’s northern border.

  Gníomhaire—(gə-nēv-əm-hˈer) Literally translated as “agent.”

  Guild—The governing body of Ríocht.

  Lind—A province of Cynewísan known for its Old Ones, a governing assembly of magic users and healers. Its denizens are devoted to the Mother and are highly secretive, keeping themselves as isolated from the rest of the Commonwealth as is possible. It sits in the northeast corner of Cynewísan. Ríocht sits at its northern and eastern borders.

  Mother—The patron deity of Cynewísan. Goddess of cultivating, reaping, comfort, nurturing, protection, and war.

  North Tongue—Native language of Ríocht.

  Old Bridge—A tiny hamlet in northern Cynewísan, northwest of Putman.

  Putnam—A major city in the mideastern region of Cynewísan (also referred to the Commonwealth)

  Ríocht—(rē-äkht) Also referred to as the Dominion. A highly religious and patriarchal country governed by priests sworn to the Father, their patron deity. Bordered to the west and south by Cynewísan.

  Exclusive Excerpt

  Beloved Son

  Aisling Trilogy: Book Three

  By Carole Cummings

  When a man’s identity is built on lies, can he find the true self buried beneath? For Wil and Dallin, newfound love might not be enough. To heal themselves and their world, they must learn to see things as they truly are and break free of what they have been tricked into believing.

  Wil and Dallin stand at the center of an approaching convergence they’re not sure they’re strong enough to face. The power of the land and the Mother waits for Wil in the bowels of Lind, but it comes at price: he must defeat the soul-eater and save the Father, Her Beloved, and manage to keep his soul in the process. He can’t do it alone. But where can he turn for aid when friends are not necessarily friends, trusted mentors are not necessarily to be trusted, and good intentions are sometimes the most dangerous kind?

  Dallin and Wil must accept their roles as the Guardian and the Aisling and stand together against a ruthless god in a cataclysmic battle of dreams and wills, the fates of both of their souls and those of all mortals hanging in the balance. Trust, if they can finally embrace it, holds both the promise of salvation and the risk of damnation.

  Coming Soon to

  www.dsppublications.com

  1

  TOUCHED BY Her own hand. Wil could feel it. Could feel Her. Almost overwhelming strength wrapped inside soft benevolence; terrifying might and boundless love, impassionate wisdom and fierce defense. All of it in his palm, striating all through him, curling love and fear into his bones, resentment and longing. He wanted desperately to hurl the thing away from him and just as desperately to curl it so tight in his fist that it melded with skin and bone, sank into his blood.

  “Wil?”

  Dallin was leaning close, eyeing him with concern, sandy brows drawn down over a thoughtful gaze.

  Wil blinked, said, “Mm?”

  Dallin’s eyebrow went up. By the small twitch of a wry smile at the corner of his mouth, Wil guessed he’d been trying to get his attention for a while now. “I asked you if you had any questions or anything before we get into everything else.”

  “I have lots of questions,” Wil answered, “but….” He paused, peered at Dallin, frowning. “I’m not quite sure….”

  He’d been asleep for four days, and then he’d spent the morning getting pummeled by pure and unfettered power, raw and crude, almost primitive, but ancient and sophisticated at the same time. It had seemed for a while as though he knew everything, like the world itself was pounding down on him, every thought from every living thing driving into him, scouring his mind, beating at his body with pure knowledge, but he’d been too busy trying to shove it all away, unable to grasp more than a fleeting thread at a time for fear they’d all weave about him, strangle him, and take him down. Everything else had paled, lost its importance, until now. There’d been no real chance to talk, to find out how precarious their position might be, how much these people knew and how much they should know.

  Fortunately he didn’t need to explain it to Dallin; he knew. “They know all about you,” he told Wil steadily. “What blanks Calder left, I filled in.” He shot a pinched grimace over to the three Old Ones. “And then some.”

  Marden shook his head at Dallin, light reprimand. “You must be more forgiving of our brother,” he said, his tone somewhat sad but with a soft bit of pleading beneath it. “You have not yet received your Marks—you cannot know what it means to lose them.”

  “He didn’t lose them,” Dallin retorted. “He cut them away so he could—”

  “So he could step into the shoes of the lost Guardian,” Siddell put in, hazel gaze straight and unbending but not quite harsh. “So he could honor his son, lost to us now in s
ome anonymous grave, buried without the Graces or so much as a lock of hair from one of his kin so his ghost can remember who he was, or that his death was an honorable one.”

  “In the service of an Aisling he didn’t even know existed,” Dallin said through his teeth.

  Siddell frowned now. “You have much anger in you, Dallin Brayden.” He held up his hand when Dallin’s lip curled. “I do not reproach,” Siddell said quickly. “I only observe. But I would ask that you try to think more kindly of Brother Calder. Within the space of a year, the man lost his wife and his only son, both of whom he loved more than life. His Calling was all he had left, and his faith is strong, and yet he consigned it all so that he might wipe away the Mother’s tears, restore Her lost one to Her.” His thin lips pinched and he shook his head sadly. “You have seen and spoken to Her,” he went on quietly, shifted his sharp glance to Wil. “Can you now imagine the silence, if you were to call to Her and She could no longer hear you?”

  Wil swallowed. He’d guessed as much, but now the empathetic pain of the truth pierced him. “He didn’t just cut away his Marks,” he told Dallin softly. “He cut away his connection to Her—for Her.” He shook his head, frowned at Siddell. “It seems… very unfair.”

  The old man shrugged, waved a bony hand. “Ours is not to question.” He flicked a sly glance at Dallin. “Others have taken up that task.”

  Wil almost smirked as Dallin rolled his eyes with a low grumble. Instead he pointed a curious gaze at the old men. “He is very suspicious of me.”

  Thorne shook his head, but it was Marden who spoke: “He fears for you, lad,” he offered in his gruff baritone, “but he shares the fears of all of us as well.”

  “Fear of me.” He peered at every one of them closely; no one negated the statement. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t… I won’t—” Except he would—he had. Almost destroyed a city, almost took Dallin’s head off, almost set half the Weardas on fire…. Why should they believe a word he said, or trust any good intention, when it was all too plain he hadn’t the strength or power to control himself, let alone… everything else?