The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  ***

  By the time they got to the Sheriff’s Office, set in the center of the small town, right between a shabby little hostel and an apothecary, Dallin was having a continuous argument with his eyelids and Calder kept slumping into his shoulder, relaxing for a moment, then careening back off again when he realized what he was doing. He’d been in a semi-doze for most of the ride, but had blinked out of his stupor when he’d watched sleep-addled orderlies unload the cart’s gruesome cargo at the healing house. It seemed to have sapped the last of what was holding him together.

  Locke led them silently inside, lit some lamps and guided Calder immediately to the cell in the western corner. He stood remarkably quiet and compliant while she confiscated his shabby coat and moldy boots, only closing his eyes, lifting his arms while she patted him down, searching for weapons. When she found none, she jerked her chin, gestured him into the cell. An iron-framed cot, a bucket and a basin were its only furnishings. Calder stared, owl-eyed, on the threshold for a moment then lurched to the cot, fell to the clean linens and didn’t stir again. Dallin doubted he even heard the barred door close behind him, or the key grinding the lock into place.

  The sheriff blew out a great, deep sigh, turned to Dallin. “Tea?” She didn’t wait for him to answer, just stepped to the stove, retrieved a kettle left simmering, and began to make a pot of tea.

  “Coffee?” Dallin asked hopefully.

  “Tea,” Locke replied, smirking and without pity. She waved him to a seat opposite her desk, brought the teapot and two cups then flopped into her padded chair, leaned back and propped her boots on the edge of the desk. “Now,” she said with a bone-cracking stretch of her spine, “talk.”

  Chapter Four

  “…strangest damn thing I ever saw. Not a single one can give an account from start to finish.”

  A heavy sigh and the creak of a wooden chair.

  “I’m not surprised. I saw their eyes. From what I understand from witness reports, it was the same in Putnam.”

  A long pause, the clink of porcelain, then:“Tell me about Putnam.”

  Wil shifted a little, tried not to gasp and groan as he adjusted his head on the lumpy pillow, and stopped listening. He’d seen and heard all he wanted to of Putnam, and listening to a repeat would likely just make his slight nausea turn into acute nausea.

  He turned his mind instead to his present circumstance, tried to get a better idea of his new prison without letting on that he wasn’t unconscious. Not that he cared if they knew he was listening; he just wasn’t up to questions or penetrating looks at the moment, and as soon as Brayden thought he could sit up without falling over, Wil was more than certain he’d find himself on the receiving end of both. With an added dose of that sheriff in the bargain. He had no idea what to think of her yet. She’d taken an instant dislike to him, he felt it the moment she showed up at the inn, but that was nothing new. He made her uncomfortable. Someone like Sheriff Locke—practical, down-to-earth, direct—was not the sort to appreciate odd feelings she couldn’t explain. Anyway, she seemed to have already sprouted the makings for some kind of ‘thing’ for the constable, and likely viewed Wil as an oblique threat. Which, under different circumstances, would be pretty funny, if one appreciated paradoxical absurdity. Wil himself was getting a little tired of it.

  He didn’t much care what Locke thought about him, when he considered it seriously. If he was reading the situation correctly, Brayden ranked her and had claim to him, so the sheriff wasn’t likely to have much influence on what was left of his future, dislike and discomfort notwithstanding. Though, she could probably make things unpleasant for him, while they were here, so he’d best not antagonize.

  He slitted his eyes, cast a blurry glance as far as it would go. The cell was nothing more than two brick walls and two made of heavy iron bars. Meant for the temporary detention of drunks, vagrants, and petty criminals, Wil guessed, and those being held before transfer to the nearest courthouse internment center for trial. It was cleaner and more comfortable than several others in which he’d been a ‘guest,’ though the pillow had seen better days. Not that it mattered much, the way his head was throbbing.

  “…know what either one of them were doing there, but it may well be they came after Calder. Orman was likely involved in the talks somehow, but he appears to be a minion and not someone of note, so the Dominion wasn’t concerned with…”

  A little free with information, Wil thought at first, but when he paid attention, he could tell the constable was holding back. Details, mostly, but there was no mention whatsoever of Wil’s own interrogation, nor any hint that he’d presented false papers. As far as the sheriff had been informed, Wil was a witness and Putnam wanted him for questioning. The constable did everything but flat-out lie to give the impression that Wil was innocent of any knowledge of the men, or their intentions, until they’d shown up and tried to kidnap him. According to Brayden, he’d stumbled upon some kind of bar fight when he arrived in Dudley, and since Wil seemed to be the unwitting and unwilling center of the storm, Brayden had decided to extend the province’s protection to him until he could get them both back to Putnam. Which he would like to do as soon as Wil was fit to travel.

  The altercation between Brayden and Wil was explained as Wil having been somewhat in shock, a stranger to the village and not knowing who to trust, and probably afraid he was going to be arrested and sent to a workhouse or perhaps conscripted into the military. It could have been true, if either one of them had been someone else, but Wil was surprised at the forethought behind the intentional side-step.

  “Mm,” the sheriff grunted, “someone like him wouldn’t last long in either.”

  Someone like him. Wil clenched his teeth, winced at the pain that pounded through his jaw and deliberately relaxed it.

  “Did he give you that black eye?” the sheriff asked with a smirk in her voice.

  Brayden snorted. “Is it blackening?” Movement again, and heavy footsteps traveling over the squeaky floorboards, then Brayden’s voice from across the room: “Bloody hell, that’s a good one, innit? Have you got ice?”

  “Not until the morning,” the sheriff replied. “I’ll fetch some from the hostel next door before I go down the mortuary. I’d like to send a healer over to have a look at your friend there, too.”

  “Mm,” Brayden agreed. “Have you got any plaster? I didn’t realize these scratches had bled.”

  Huh. Wil didn’t remember landing any blows, but apparently, he’d marked the constable—and the constable didn’t seem too terribly upset about it. Seemed, in fact, rather amused. Odd.

  Wil loosed a quiet sigh, winced a little when his ribs twinged. Fuck, he hurt. His head and hand, especially, but when he mentally probed the rest of his body, there wasn’t an inch of it that didn’t at least whimper a little. He was going to have a bugger of a time even getting up to piss, so he put it off for now, concentrated on ignoring the sick thump in his head and how it inexplicably kept wanting to throb down into his stomach. It was a battle he’d probably lose eventually, but he’d had a very nice supper before all hell had broken loose, and he intended to hold onto it if he could. Anyway, throwing up would probably make his head explode.

  “…three or four days, I expect. I’ll send on to my superior in the morning by fast courier and let him know to expect reports and vouchers from you to cover the expenses of the… unfortunate incident.”

  “Incident,” the sheriff echoed; Wil could hear the skepticism in her voice. “Tell me—if these men had nothing to do with what happened in Putnam, how was it that you decided to accost them before you even knew there was an altercation?”

  Wil perked his ears; this should be interesting.

  “I’m afraid,” Brayden began, voice laden with caution, “that I have reached the end of the information I can share with you until I’m able to contact the Constabulary.” His voice dipped down a bit, took on a somber tone. “I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere. “I am fully aware of the position
this puts you in, and you’ve every right, but… I can’t tell you more.”

  Wil frowned. Huh.

  “Anyway, I’ve too many unanswered questions myself, and all of this looks to be a lot bigger than what I’d thought it was when I left Putnam. P’raps, after I’ve had a chance to question Mister Calder, things will be clearer and I can be more forthcoming. But as it stands, I’ve no idea… I mean, one of the men last night alluded to hundreds of others, and if they’re as dangerous as—”

  “Which is exactly why I need all of the information you have!” the sheriff insisted, voice harsh and impatient. “I’ve concerns of my own, and if you’re right in thinking those men were responsible for the destruction in Kenley—”

  “I know, I do, and I’m sorry, but…” An uncomfortable pause and the scrape of a chair then boot-steps on the wood floorboards. When Brayden spoke again, Wil was startled to realize his voice was coming from mere feet away. “You must understand, this is no longer the assignment for which I was sent. There’s something going on here, something very big, and I don’t know how much of it is political and how much of it is some kind of religious dementia. Either one could present serious problems between Cynewísan and Ríocht, problems that could botch the talks and perhaps even result in another all-out war. Those men were willing to kill and die for something, and it appears that something is our Mister Calder, or what he represents to them.”

  “And what does he represent?”

  A long pause, a sigh, then: “I can’t tell you that, either.” Brayden’s voice was low and heavy. He really didn’t like keeping a fellow law enforcement officer in the dark like this, Wil could tell by the remorse in his tone. “But until I know why they’re so eager to have him, I’ve a responsibility to see that no harm comes to him or my country, and in view of all that, I’m afraid that’s all the information I can share.”

  Wil could feel Brayden looking at him, calculating. He tried to look as natural as possible, breathed evenly and allowed a small twitch and stir, relieved when the sound of the big man’s boots finally shuffled a little then moved farther into the office.

  The sheriff was silent for another long moment, the clink of metal against porcelain, then: “And what are we to do if those hundreds the man spoke of show up and try here what six of them succeeded in doing at Kenley?”

  Another weighted sigh, and the creak and groan of wood as Brayden dropped heavily into his chair. “Have you got a militia?”

  The sheriff puffed out a light snort. “As much as any other village, which means one-legged veterans and any farmer who can afford a rifle.”

  “Then I suggest you put them on alert for now. I expect Chief Jagger will send along what I ask for, and I intend to ask for ten men to accompany us back to Putnam. Until then, we rely on Dudley’s resources.”

  “Such as they are,” the sheriff muttered.

  “Just so,” Brayden returned.

  Well, that was good news—perhaps, if the Brethren did send more, Miri and the others at the inn might be protected. If the citizens were watching for them, Wil doubted they’d break cover and attack. Their strength lay in their ‘invisibility’ and they rarely risked it unless absolutely necessary and unless they were sure they would leave no witnesses.

  “…said ‘tranced,’ so why haven’t you got this man in shackles? Don’t you think it would be wise? What’s to keep him from doing the same to us, making us hand over the keys and strolling out of here?”

  Wil’s heart picked up pace, panic thumping in his chest and blooming down into his roiling belly. Bars, he could take, but shackles would likely send him over the edge again.

  Brayden paused for a long time before replying thoughtfully, “I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t think he was responsible for it.” The sheriff must have opened her mouth to protest, because Brayden quickly went on, “No, I was there, I saw it—Calder was unconscious on the floor long before the spell or whatever it was seemed to break. It wasn’t until the man I shot died that the others began to show some life again. That Miri was the only one who seemed aware of what was going on, so perhaps we should talk to her again in the morning with that in mind. She might be able to tell us some of what went on before I got there and when exactly the gaps in her memory begin and end.”

  “You think it was these men, then?”

  “I think… maybe,” Brayden said slowly. “But again, I’ll need to talk to Calder.”

  Wil pondered that one. He hadn’t been aware that the inn patrons had been tranced, and Brayden’s explanation surprised him—not only the lack of suspicion directed at Wil himself, but the constable’s near-defense of him to the sheriff.

  It was possible, he supposed. Whatever sway he seemed to have over others was wild and unpredictable, and even tonight, when he’d actually tried to use it on purpose, the results were varied and not something he could understand or foresee. He’d succeeded in reaching Eyebrows, but the other had been unaffected enough to start using Wil’s head as a tetherball; it was not unreasonable to think that Eyebrows had been the only one affected. And it hadn’t worked at all on the constable.

  Except, then there had been Old Bridge…

  “Either way,” Brayden continued, “I don’t think we’re in any danger of magicking from him. At least, not unless he thinks he’s in danger from us.”

  Wil almost snorted. Probably true enough.

  “And even if that’s the case, I think I’d worry more about him doing himself in than anyone else.” Then, lower and more thoughtful: “Should’ve thought to take his belt.” There was a pause; Wil could feel Brayden’s gaze, right between his shoulder-blades.

  I don’t intend to hang myself, so you can stop fretting. If I get that desperate again, I’ll go for a gun—quicker and likely less painful.

  “Anyway, shackles seem to have an ill effect on him. I’d prefer to keep things as calm as possible.”

  Wil tuned them out again, sank deeper into the bedding. Frowned.

  All right, so Brayden didn’t seem to want him dead. In fact, he seemed intent on keeping Wil alive. Then again, so did the Brethren. Except Brayden wasn’t with the Brethren, as Wil had first assumed last night. A stupid assumption, he realized, after his mind had semi-cleared and he’d thought about it. The Brethren denied the existence of the Guardian, and worked to expunge all doctrine that even mentioned the legend. Brayden’s very existence neatly negated almost half of their beliefs, so they probably wanted Brayden dead just as much as they wanted Wil alive. So, the fact that Brayden had eliminated those men could mean that he was now working for the Guild. Except that made no sense, either—he could have killed Wil several times over tonight and explained it easily, if he had to. After all, Wil hadn’t exactly been cooperative, and who would question a constable of Putnam about the apparently-necessary death of some drifter nobody? Then again, last he’d heard, Siofra needed him alive, at least for a little while… unless he’d found how to get what he needed without Wil. Possible. He’d done it the once, right?

  And yet, here Wil was—caged and battered, certainly, but very definitely and undeniably alive.

  And unshackled. Brayden had actually argued against restraining him.

  It made no sense.

  Perhaps it was another cruel game. Brayden was too good at playing with people.

  Wil rolled slowly to his left side to face the wall, puffed out a sleepy snort, in case either of them was paying attention.

  So, it seems I am under the ‘protection’ of a man born and sworn to stamp me from the skin of the world like a filthy disease, he thought hazily, adjusted his right hand so it rested on the pillow beside his head. If nothing else, the irony is pretty amusing.

  He let their low voices carry him into fitful sleep.

  ***

  Always faceless before, but now he knows the eyes that watch him, and he doesn’t know what that means, but it’s different and he doesn’t think that’s good. Father sleeps on, won’t answer his questions, and sometim
es it seems like he’s been asking them forever, over and over again, but he can’t make himself stop.

  “What am I?” he begs. “Why am I here? Why can’t I just… stop?”

  Father doesn’t answer him, and then Father isn’t there anymore. He is alone, always alone, friendless and defenseless, heart as raw as his abraded fingertips, with only the silent, brooding Watcher at his back.

  “Go away,” he says over his shoulder, fingers flying, and he tries to concentrate on what he’s doing, but he’s afraid and he can’t think. “I don’t want you here, go away!”

  He closes his eyes, tries not to weep, but he’s so tired, and he bows his head, hot tears scalding behind his brow, searing his cheeks. “I want Mother,” he whispers, though he has no idea why he says it—it’s stupid and childish and his cheeks darken with humiliation; he shakes his head, confused, says, “No. I have no mother.”