“Tell me what you did at the Guild before you got sick,” Brayden said softly.
Another skillful turn in conversation. For some reason, this one made Wil able to breathe again. He latched onto the calm tone, steadied himself with it.
“I dreamed.” It sounded so… simple, so insignificant when he said it out loud like that. “Minded the patterns, guided them into their proper… weave, I suppose you’d say, laced the new threads into the world and plucked the old—”
“All right, hold.” Brayden was frowning, shaking his head. “The patterns of what?”
“Men,” Wil answered bluntly.
“Men,” Brayden echoed. “And you say these… threads—they’re what? The patterns of men?” He tilted his head. “All men, or only certain ones?”
Wil almost smiled, couldn’t quite make it. “Well, there’s the trick,” he said tiredly. “It isn’t really our design, is it? We’re not meant to meddle and change, only to guide the threads to where they should be.”
“We?”
“Right,” Wil sighed. “Fine. Me. The Aisling.” He couldn’t suppress a shudder. He hadn’t said that word in reference to himself for longer than he could remember. “And when you do meddle and change, it… it hurts.”
“Hurts how?”
Wil shook his head. “I can’t explain it—it hurts your mind, like a bruise inside your Self, like… like a tear in your soul…” He closed his eyes, pressed his fingers into them, realizing too late that it was a mistake, and pulled them back with a hiss. “Siofra—he discovered that he could…” He peered up at Brayden, pleading. “I was too young and I was sick, and, and drugged, I didn’t… couldn’t—”
“You were six-years-old, you were sick and full of dreamleaf,” Brayden offered evenly. “Don’t apologize before you’ve even confessed—it wasn’t your fault. Just go on, get it done.”
A drained, bitter little laugh puffed out of Wil, and he shook his head. “You may want to save your sympathy, Guardian,” he said quietly. “And you may want to rethink my status as friend or enemy before I’m through.” He took a deep breath. “He can follow me.”
“Follow you. Siofra?”
Wil nodded.
“How?”
“I don’t know. There was talk that he was a magician, that he rose to his position through witchcraft, but it was only ever whispers, and I was—”
“No, I mean—follow you how? Where?” Brayden had gone tense, leaning in with a narrow frown. “Does he know where you are now?”
“Ah.” Wil shook his head. “No, I mean, I would dream and he would… follow somehow.”
“In your dream?” The tone was incredulous now.
“Not… precisely.”
“Then what, precisely?”
“The dreams, they…” Wil chewed his lip, shrugged. “When I dream, they’re not really my dreams.”
An impatient bit of a growl. “All right—whose are they?”
“Sort of… everyone else’s.” Wil looked up, mouth turning down into a small frown. “You don’t believe it.”
Brayden seemed to be thinking it over. “Well, I don’t know.” He sat back, folded his arms across his chest. “As you said, you were young and drugged, and—”
“It didn’t stop when I was six,” Wil snapped, whatever wire he’d been walking now twanging out from under his feet, and he was falling, falling… “And it was no delusion. When he realized what he could do, that he could make me do anything in that state and I couldn’t fight him, he… it started with just maybe once a month or so, but then it got to be more and more and more, and I knew it was wrong, it wasn’t what I was meant to do, it was wrong, and it hurt, but when he followed me, when he was there and telling me to do something, I couldn’t not do it.
“So I finally refused to take the leaf, but they’d slip it into meals and teas—I was afraid to eat so I stopped that, too—and then I tried to run away, but there’s no way out of that place, and there was no one to turn to, nowhere to go, and they got tired of trying to keep me under control, it was just easier after a while to keep me on the leaf all the time, except… except…”
It had been like chewing glass to get it started, and now he couldn’t stop it—neither the flow of the words nor the flow of the tears.
“Except they had to take me to the Turning Festival—they had to, I had to be seen by the people, and I had to say my lines and give my blessings and aver my support of the Guild, but they couldn’t take me out like a walking corpse, so they’d have to… have to take it away for a while.” He couldn’t look at Brayden, afraid of what he might see looking back at him. Shame set fire to his cheeks, but he couldn’t stop talking. “I begged for it.” Low and shaky. “I promised things, did things that… it hurt when they took it away, almost as much as when Siofra followed me, and they’d only take it away long enough for me to be able to put on some weight and stand up on my own and speak the lines they gave me without slurring and drooling—and then… and then they’d take me right back and it would start again for another year, until eventually, even that got to be too much of a bother.
“They started a search for someone who looked like me, someone who could ‘behave,’ they weren’t going to take me out anymore, not even that, and when I realized…” His voice was rising to a high-pitched tremor, so he stopped, drew a shaky breath.
“I tried to jump off the parapet at the Turning.”
It sounded so stark, spoken in a lone sentence like that, with nothing of the despair and agony that came with it. A dark little chuckle rose through the cragged chunk of helpless rage in his throat.
“The crowd was… well, horrified isn’t quite right, and there was quite an outcry—never did know if it was against me or the Guild—so they couldn’t take any more chances, the people had seen and I was too much of a risk, so when they found another, they took him out instead, and after that…” He shook his head, couldn’t help the impotent growling whimper. “…I don’t know for how long, they just… they kept me… sotted and stupid. And the worst part about it was that the only time I minded it was when Siofra was there. The rest of the time, I just…” A shamed, tearful little gurgle of a sob was all he could muster. “The rest of the time, I dreamed and didn’t… didn’t hurt, and it was enough.” His hand clenched around the fabric of the bedding in a feeble fist. “Understand—I didn’t know what… I didn’t remember enough of life to know that wasn’t it.”
He stared into his lap, trying to stanch the humiliated tears, unable to lift his gaze, only watched the teardrops fall and wet the weave of his trousers, unable to even care what Brayden might think of him. There was no such thing as pride in Wil’s world anymore—he wasn’t even so sure there ever had been. He felt like an open wound, leaking infection. Brayden had wanted the truth. He’d wanted answers. And now that he’d forced the key and thrown the door wide, Wil couldn’t stop the avalanche of rot that came spilling out to bury him beneath it. Raw and unguarded and exposed—Brayden could ask him anything now and he’d answer it, wouldn’t be able to stop himself from answering.
Except Brayden wasn’t asking any questions. He was just sitting there, peering at Wil with a look that made his gut roil and his head dip down. Pity, perhaps, or disgust or disbelief or maybe even shock; Wil couldn’t tell and the suspense was clogging his throat, driving a spike behind his eyes.
The silence was maddening, the gaze heavy; he couldn’t take another second of it. He gathered the scraps of the wits still left to him, lifted his head. “What else d’you want to know?” he rasped.
It took a moment for Brayden to answer; he just kept staring. And then he rubbed at his chin, frowned. “How long?” he wanted to know.
Wil shook his head. “How long what?”
“It started when you were six,” Brayden replied thoughtfully. “How long did it go on?”
Wil puffed out a hoarse, sullen little chuckle. “I don’t know. The last clear memory I have of any value is a Festival during which someo
ne happened to mention that it was my sixteenth year. The trick on the parapet came sometime after, but I don’t know how long. After that…” He shrugged. “Before that, even—it’s all rather murky. I don’t remember much of anything but images and… and things I don’t want to remember, until the Brethren stormed the Guild a little more than three years ago and took me.” He laughed—a real laugh this time, wild and a little bit crazed. “When the leaf started to wear off and I could think a little, I thought it was a rescue. Before the pain came, anyway, and then I thought—” The laughter stopped as abruptly as it had hit, turning the hollow echo of it even more demented. Exhaustion was sucking at him, and he blinked, eyes gone once again blurry and heavy. “I don’t know how long I was there, I don’t even know how old I am. But there’s something I do remember, something you should know, before you decide to take any risks for my sake.”
A pause as Brayden merely raised his eyebrows, then: “All right.”
Calm and detached. Simple encouragement, no emotion Wil could detect inside of it—no suspicion, no sympathy, just a cool, professional interest in what he might say next. It was oddly comforting.
Wil licked his lips, drew his knees up, tried not to look so much like he was balling in on himself when he too obviously was.
“I said he could make me do anything when he followed me—I meant anything. The man could tell me to put my own eyes out and I’d do it.”
Brayden leaned forward at that, peered at Wil closely; Wil lifted his head, let him look.
“You’re serious,” Brayden said after a moment.
Wil didn’t answer. “There can be only one of us—one Aisling, and one Guardian to Watch. Another won’t be born until I’m dead. And since I was too much trouble…” He looked straight at Brayden, wearing no face but his own. “He’s their main strategist now, you know—he’s not only implicit Elder of the Guild, but he’s also the tacit head of the military. They talk about him like he’s a sorcerer, because he always seems to know who’s going to do what, and when they’re going to do it.”
“Because he ‘followed’ you into others’ heads.”
Wil nodded. “Except he couldn’t follow me all the time—he couldn’t control what I did when he didn’t follow me. So, every time he had me spy inside someone’s head or influence someone through their dreams, I found someone of the opposite number and did the same.”
That got a surprised puff of a laugh out of Brayden. “You sabotaged the Dominion?”
Wil dipped his head. “You need to understand—I didn’t do it to help Cynewísan or hurt Ríocht. I knew they’d get tired of dealing with me eventually, I knew what would come. I think I knew it before it occurred to anyone else. That ‘sabotage,’ as you call it, was the only rebellion I had left. It was the only way I could hurt him back.”
Brayden hissed out a low whistle. “They found out?”
“Of course.” Wil shrugged. “Once Siofra twigged and knew what to look for, all he had to do was ask and I had to spill my guts.” It hadn’t been as cut-and-dry as all that—it had been more like spilling his mind and his soul, then splitting both down the center and gutting them. Wil gave a little shudder. “That’s when they decided they needed a new Aisling.”
“And that’s why they want you dead?”
“Yes,” Wil answered. “That was to be my last task: to find the next one so they could be rid of me.”
Brayden pondered that for a moment, then: “Why didn’t Siofra do it and save everyone the trouble?”
“I’ve thought about that,” Wil replied softly. “I still don’t really know for sure, but I imagine it’s for one of two reasons: either he lucked into finding me and didn’t think he could do it again; or he wanted to make sure I knew I was signing my own death warrant. He hates me, so I tend to lean toward the latter. From what I understand, the only reason I was still alive when the Brethren attacked was because he was away on Ambassador’s business and wanted to do the deed himself after I’d found the next for him. Of course, I had that from the Brethren, so who knows, really.”
He paused, knocked out a heavy sigh and set his jaw.
“But I’ve got away from what I was trying to…” Damn it, this was hard, and he hadn’t even got to the worst part yet. His teeth all but rattled, the way he was shaking. He stubbornly firmed his resolve, went on, “A Guardian is meant to Watch and ensure the Aisling doesn’t do exactly the kinds of things Siofra had me doing.” He looked up, shook his head with a sad smile. “You’re not meant to guard me—you’re meant to guard against me.”
Brayden merely lifted an eyebrow. If he’d come to any conclusion or judgment, his face didn’t show it. “Keep going,” was all he said.
Wil nodded slowly, braced himself. He’d live or die by what he said next. And he wasn’t sure which one he was hoping for.
“You must have been about ten or so.” Brayden narrowed his eyes at that, tilted his head. Wil realized that, for the first time since he’d opened his eyes, he could see perfectly clearly—could see the hot spark of suspicion in the dark gaze, the swell of doubt and distrust. He didn’t buckle beneath it, didn’t allow it to stop this last confession. He lifted his chin, ploughed on, “Siofra—he had me look for you.” He kept his gaze steady on Brayden’s face, watching for reaction, but there wasn’t one. Shaking harder now, he swallowed, steadied his voice, said, “I showed him Lind. The raid, when you were a boy… they weren’t really trying to annex Lind—they were looking for you. And I told them how to find you.”
Chapter Five
Dallin went blank. Completely and utterly blank. Which was probably a good thing, because otherwise, there was no telling what he might’ve done. What was a person supposed to do in a case like this? Had there ever been a case like this?
So, he sat, stared, mind racing, heart pounding. Trying not to give the memories purchase. Trying not to let his hands close into fists. Trying not to launch himself at Calder and…
And do what?
Throttle him because he’d been used and exploited his entire life? Close his hands around the skinny throat and squeezesqueezesqueeze because the man had been made an addict when he was six-years-old? Watch as those damnable eyes bugged out their sockets, petechia blooming and spider-walking the whites, because—
Because he killed your mother.
Dallin lifted a hand to rub at his temple, slowly, because he really might snap this time, if Calder flinched again. Dallin already couldn’t look at him. The fear in Calder’s face was doing things inside Dallin that made his chest burn and his gut clench itself into a hard fist.
Keep looking at me like that, and I’ll give you a bloody reason to fear me, you son of a bitch.
He needed to get out of here, he needed to walk away, except he couldn’t—he wasn’t done yet. There was an open door in front of him, long-awaited information finally flowing through it, and if he walked away now, it might close, and close for good. This… whatever-it-was—problem, cock-up, big gigantic bloody political swamp—it was too big now, beyond anything he’d imagined, and he couldn’t pitch the best chance he’d had thus far to get a grip on it.
Except the big gigantic bloody political swamp had just got personal.
Right up until that last revelation, Dallin had been perfectly willing to believe Calder delusional. After all, the functionally insane made it their business to dream up fantastic scenarios that fit lock-and-key with reality. It was how they could keep themselves believing that they were the sane ones and everyone else was crazy. Except, even as Dallin was talking himself into believing this comforting theory, he knew too well that it was its own form of self-delusion. There may well have been lies and half-truths scattered about Calder’s account, but the bulk of it felt like more truth than Dallin wanted to face.
And yet, he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t let it be personal.
“How old?” he asked quietly.
Calder was sitting in a little ball on the cot, shaking, and staring at Dallin with eyes
like a rabbit in a hawk’s shadow. He shook his head, stuttered, “S-sorry?”
Dallin’s jaw tightened. “How old were you when this happened?”
Calder blinked, seemed to think about that one carefully. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “It was after the parapet.” He looked down, brow creased, sweaty fingers picking nervously at the wrappings on his hand. “I… I think.”
Dallin thought about it, did the math in his head. He’d been twelve when his mother had shoved him onto that cart, and that had been more than twenty years ago, almost twenty-five. Calder said the parapet had happened after he was sixteen—by the sound of it, probably at least a few years after… Dallin narrowed his eyes, gave Calder a good look.
“If your reckoning is even close to correct,” he said slowly, “that would make you at least forty-years-old.” He shook his head. “You look maybe twenty-five, if that.”
The Aisling Trilogy Page 18