The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  “And keeping the things in my head to myself is somehow going beyond that point?” Dallin wanted to know, real anger sparking now and searing down his spine. No one had a ‘right’ to what Wil was implying, no one. “It’s a bloody dream, Wil, and what Calder says in it means no more than anything he blathers at me while I’m awake.”

  “So you do remember.”

  “Oh, fucking hell.” An interrogation tactic Dallin had used himself more times than he could remember, and he’d just fallen right into it. Where the hell was Hunter with those horses, and why was the boy underfoot constantly, but notably not tripping Dallin up when he really needed a diversion? “Listen, I can’t do this right now.” He tried to make his voice apologetic, contrite. “You’re right, I’m very tired, and I haven’t been sleeping well, and… and I’m sorry, but sometimes I actually do know what’s best.” Bloody damn, his head was pounding, and the sound of the falls was abruptly filled with too damned much noise. He sucked in a long breath, pushed it out on a weary sigh, and looked at Wil. “Please. It’s best, Wil. Just trust me and don’t ask me any more.”

  Wil’s expression had gone incredibly hard. “How very noble of you,” he said slowly, “to decide what’s best for everyone else.”

  Dallin scrubbed at his face, held back a growl. “It isn’t like that, I—”

  “You know what?” Wil shook his head, breathed out a dour snort. “Fuck off.”

  Dallin watched him turn and stride off a little too quickly and carelessly on the slick rock, which was too bloody typical and only made a bitter laugh rise to the back of Dallin’s throat. He was tempted to follow after Wil—and who knew, maybe Wil wanted him to—but he truly didn’t have the energy to catch up to the pace, nor the will to further the argument. He couldn’t win it, not when Wil was so bent on being unreasonable about it. He’d give Wil some time to cool down, think about it, perhaps try to look at it from Dallin’s point of view… which, all right, would probably be a lot more possible if Dallin actually filled Wil in on his point of view.

  Annoyed and thrown, Dallin shook his head, watching until Wil had safely navigated the terrain and disappeared around the bend in the Stair. Sighed and let his head fall back to rest against damp stone and closed his eyes. It couldn’t have been thirty seconds later that Hunter’s whistle pierced through the hum of the falls. Dallin had to laugh.

  Bloody typical.

  Not that Dallin had really expected the peaceful mood of the morning to last. Wil was too damned changeable, which was one of the more interesting facets of his jagged edges. Still, it had been nice while it lasted, and Dallin missed it already. Right at the moment, he suspected he was getting the silent treatment, though he pretended not to notice, which was probably only driving Wil’s temper up further. Having dropped back to chat with Calder—most likely more to annoy Dallin than because of any real affinity toward the man, and it was probably a little self-centered to suspect such a thing, but that didn’t make it feel any less true—Wil was making himself easy to pretend to ignore.

  Anyway, Dallin had bigger things on his mind right now. Wil would come around. He had to. He just didn’t know it, yet. Which was, of course, Dallin’s fault.

  “…as it has always been,” Calder was saying. Pontificating, actually, but he wasn’t doing it at Dallin, so Dallin only allowed an eye-roll instead of the growl that was threatening. “Lind could not have survived as it has, else. Her power depends on her people lending her the strength of their belief. Outlanders could only contaminate that strength, winnow it away, and dilute it.”

  “Well, yes,” Wil agreed, “but belief does not depend on ignorance.” His voice rose a little. “If a question is asked, it should be answered truthfully, and the inquisitor allowed to make of the answer what he will, not what another thinks he should know.”

  This time, Dallin let the growl out, kicked his heels into his horse’s barrel, and jogged her a little farther ahead. Just enough that he could no longer hear the conversation, or Wil’s barbed responses to it that had very little to do with the subject matter and everything to do with scoring points on Dallin. Bloody hell, it had been a dream, for pity’s sake. Dallin’s dream, to be precise, and he had every right to keep the details to himself if he so chose. And with this one, he so chose.

  He knows your purpose. And yet he gives you his trust. He was weaned on betrayal—would you cage him now?

  Even if he wanted to, how was he supposed to tell Wil something like that? It would only lead to more questions Dallin couldn’t answer, which would no doubt lead to more arguments he couldn’t win, so it was best to ignore it and hope Wil’s anger dulled with whatever distance they could manage between them. Hopefully temporary distance.

  I think I’d like to have you by the river.

  Right. That really didn’t help.

  Though, considering the chill in Wil’s voice and in his eyes…

  Dallin sighed.

  Perhaps it was too much to hope that a ‘temporary distance’ would be enough to make the promise feel a bit more realistic. Dallin would be lucky to get Wil to look him in the eye again, let alone…

  This time, the sigh was somewhat gloomy and pathetic.

  Perhaps the failure to see things eye-to-eye was because it had to do with dreams. They were important to Wil—what they meant, how often they came, what the seeming-chaos of them might imply. Wil had lived in them for most of his life, after all; it probably shouldn’t come as any sort of revelation that he took them seriously.

  Perhaps Wil was regretting his pledge of trust, changing his mind, which wouldn’t really surprise Dallin. Wil changed his mind like a fickle mink changed mates. Which, all right, generally worked out in Dallin’s favor, since Wil usually ended up agreeing to do things Dallin’s way—after making him walk through bloody fire first, and then roll around in it for a while, if he was being particularly difficult to convince—but this time was apparently different, and it wasn’t even Dallin’s bloody fault. And while trust was nice, he could work around distrust if he had to.

  He sighed, shook his head. Who was he fooling? Trust was more than nice—it was essential, and he didn’t want to work around anything. He just wished like hell he could depend on it when the time came. Because the time was fast approaching.

  Shaking off the unease, Dallin peered over his shoulder, slowed his mare a little to allow the others to almost catch up, and tried to think about something else. The curved stave of the crossbow, wedged between the saddle and the bedroll one of the Weardas had dredged up from somewhere unspecified, dug into his hip a bit, and he allowed a small smile. Just the image of Wil charging through the stables back in Chester, lunging for the bow and snatching it from out the lad’s hands… It caused a reaction that wasn’t conducive to a comfortable seat in the saddle, so Dallin tried to push that one away, too.

  With a grimace, Dallin checked his weapons over. It was a relief to have the guns again, and the brightness in Wil’s eyes hadn’t been hard to see when Dallin had handed the shotgun back to him, though Wil had tried very hard not to let Dallin see it. Dallin still wasn’t completely certain he wouldn’t regret it later, handing over explosives to a man who sometimes couldn’t help setting things on fire, but he had to admit that it felt damned good to have carbon and powder within reach now, instead of just the sword and knife he’d been carrying since they’d reached the caves. Of course, he’d have to continue to restrain himself from aiming one of the guns at a Calder—the uncle more than the nephew, but still—but at least they’d been relatively pleasant on the ride thus far.

  He knew why he’d asked Shaw along; he wasn’t so sure why he’d allowed Calder to insert himself. Hedging all his bets, he supposed. If Dallin was going to drag Wil along with him—and he couldn’t seem to bring himself to let Wil out of his sight just now—traveling several hours to the Bounds without one of the Old Ones along in case anything… happened didn’t seem entirely wise. Having Calder along, since he at least used to be an Old One, was l
ikely the safest alternative, if not the best.

  Dallin had pushed another medicinal draught on Wil before they’d mounted up and left camp— had taken another himself, in fact, which he suspected was the only thing that kept Wil from throwing it at him—but the balance wouldn’t hold forever. Balancing and channeling and keeping things at bay would only last for so long, and the draughts were going to be useless all too soon. Another few days, if they were lucky; sooner, if Dallin was overestimating his own contributions. He’d thought of Wil curled up in pain, screaming agony, for all of three seconds before merely rolling his eyes and walking away when he’d seen Calder saddling up beside Shaw earlier. He wasn’t regretting it yet, but he expected to eventually.

  Hunter was another story altogether, but Dallin hadn’t decided which sort yet. Honest and forthright, surely; he’d taken to Wil quickly, and Wil had taken to him. Still, the boy was so very much of Lind that Dallin had decided to keep his reservations. And he was a Calder, after all. Which, in his defense, didn’t seem to take away from his determination to do right by the Aisling, so Dallin decided to keep an open mind as well.

  Anyway, with what he knew to be skulking… Well. It was best to have a few more guns about. And Shaw ought to prove somewhat useful once Wheeler showed up. Since Dallin had twigged to Shaw’s little ‘secret’ just outside of Chester, he’d been hoping Shaw would see fit to spill it himself eventually, though Dallin wasn’t going to be able to wait for him if he didn’t get to it soon. Dallin eyed Shaw now, noted his posture in the saddle—the straightness of his spine; the jut of his chin—how he was as attentive to his surroundings as Hunter was, eyes narrow and watchful. Certainly not the carriage of a man who’d spent his life praying in temples and hunched over sacred writ. Dallin sighed a touch of regret. At least Shaw wouldn’t be able to say Dallin hadn’t tried for tact.

  “…all along the Border,” Calder was telling Wil, sweeping his arm expansively along the river’s south-easterly course. “It defines our Bounds. Lind sits between the Flównysse and Ríocht, but once you cross the Bounds to the east, the river is all that stands between Cynewísan and the Dominion. Besides the mountains to the west, of course. Some places, it’s only a matter of stretching one’s legs and hopping across; others, you’d need a boat or a raft and a damned skilled river-driver.”

  Wil had been swiveling his gaze continuously, taking in the riverscape and all surrounding it, listening to Calder with avid interest. That curiosity Dallin had noted on the first day of their journey was resurfacing, shining out from him like a torch in the darkness. Now Wil frowned. “But I see no guards. Shouldn’t—?”

  “And you will not,” Calder answered, “but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. Since…” He swung a glance at Dallin, then back again to Wil. “The Weardas were increased just after your Guardian was lost. Men and women too old then and now too young, but they are ever-vigilant. You need not worry.”

  At least not for another hour or two, Dallin thought, but kept his mouth clamped.

  Calder had said the entirety of the reassurance without ever once mentioning the words ‘raid’ or ‘attack,’ implying but not saying that the sentries should be those of Dallin’s generation, but weren’t because there were none. Except for the women, who were most likely raising the children they’d birthed to re-stock the line. Nonetheless, by the way Wil dipped his head and went silent, Dallin assumed he’d heard everything Calder was very careful not to say. Shaw saw it, too, alternating his glance between the three of them, likely bracing for an argument Dallin didn’t feel like pursuing. He didn’t think he could expect anyone here to never mention the raid, after all; it was an historical fact, and one that had had a damned significant impact on this place. So Dallin didn’t suppose he could actually blame Calder for the sudden, subdued quiet. But he’d like to.

  “It’s quite lovely in the spring,” Dallin put into the silence. He pulled up a small smile when Wil dragged his eyes from the reins twisting fretfully through his fingers. Peace offering. I don’t want to fight with you, not now. “It’s very subdued now—” He gestured at the lazy flow of the water, burbling quietly, now they’d left the falls and the rapids behind them. “—even with the recent rains, but when the thaw comes down from the mountains, it… it comes alive.”

  That wasn’t quite right, but Wil seemed to understand what Dallin meant; Wil smiled a little, a small concession. “All of this,” Dallin went on, heartened, indicating with a wave of his hand the soft, sloping swath of strand they followed along the river’s edge, “it’s all under water in the spring, and most of the summer.” He motioned past the trees that separated them from the rich farmland to the north. “Now and then it floods the valley, which is why you’ll see lots of farm and grazing land, but not very many permanent dwellings. Most who farm this land build only huts and the like, and only live here during season, so that if the river breaks her bonds, they’ve not lost much more than some farming equipment and the few days it takes to build a dwelling—not to mention the harvest, of course, but that’s a different problem. Anyway, they move back to their homes on higher ground in the colder months.”

  Huh. There he went again, remembering things he hadn’t known he’d forgotten. Still, it did the job—Calder picked up the thread and turned the conversation toward agriculture and trade, and away from the violence of twenty-some years ago. Wil went agreeably along, asking questions and peering about himself with real interest, so Dallin allowed himself to disregard the buzz of conversation once more. A semi-welcome distraction from where his thoughts mainly dwelt these days, but a distraction nonetheless, and Dallin couldn’t really afford too many of them anymore. Wil saw too much, knew too much, things he really shouldn’t know, and there were some things Dallin didn’t want Wil to see. What was coming, where it had to go… Unfair, certainly—perhaps even treacherous, if looked at from a certain perspective, and perhaps that was what the damned dreams were about—but Wil couldn’t be allowed to see it, not yet, not until they were knee-deep inside it and there was no other choice.

  The problem, Dallin thought, the real problem, the problem that superseded all problems in the scope of what was to come, was that Wil had stopped choosing himself. Somehow—sometime around when Dallin had got a knife in the back, he thought—Wil’s razor-edge had dulled, lost its bite. The badger was still there, teeth sharp and eyes wary, but not quite as vicious as it had been.

  … that the Father had taught him too well in the ways of dreams, but not enough in the ways of Men’s hearts.

  It had been bothering Dallin for some time now. Distrust was something Wil had learned, not something that was a part of him, and so trust came perhaps a little too easily, when his back wasn’t to the wall. What had it taken for him to trust Dallin, after all? Nothing besides the treatment Dallin would have given to any prisoner, with the exception of the fact that Dallin hadn’t shackled him. Dallin had merely fed him, sheltered him, spoke to him like he was an actual person—something Dallin rather thought Wil hadn’t got a lot of in the years previous—and protected him because, at least then, when it had all started, it had been Dallin’s job as a Constable.

  I think you’re the only person in the world I do trust.

  What had Dallin really done to earn that trust? And was the claim of exclusivity even true anymore? Wil trusted Shaw, albeit admittedly marginally, only because Shaw hadn’t given him a reason not to—yet. Which was another reason Dallin wished Shaw would just speak already, before Dallin had to do it for him. The exposure of the pretense might have repercussions for Wil that would be, if not insurmountable, at least inconvenient. Wil was suspicious of Calder, but accepted his presence a lot more readily than Dallin did or could. Wil had spent the morning with Hunter, in the middle of a crowd armed and wielding knives, and he’d turned his back without thought on every one of them. And while watching Wil laugh and smile and have some actual fun had just about burst Dallin’s chest with warmth, a cold tendril of unease had slithered beneath it
.

  Any one of them could just walk up behind him and cut his throat, Dallin had thought as he’d watched, and he’d never even see it coming. He’s not even watching for it.

  The badger had been asleep on the job, and it worried him. He wondered with no small amount of apprehension what might have happened if the Old Ones had sat there this morning and informed Wil that yes, he was on trial and had been found lacking. Would the teeth have come out then? Would he have fought for himself? Or would he have agreed with them?—turned to Dallin and asked him what he thought, and then accepted his judgment?

  What if they had told Wil it was either him or Dallin? He’d failed to run when Calder showed up in that alley; he’d failed again to run when Siofra’s voice echoed outside Chester’s stables; and then he’d failed to stay gone, keep himself out of danger, when Dallin had finally forced him away. Three times now, Wil had chosen Dallin. Perhaps not in a conscious way, perhaps not deliberately putting another before himself, but three times Wil had risked everything because he somehow trusted Dallin, cared about him, cared what happened to him, and while it almost made Dallin’s knees weak, it also scared the shit out of him.

  He chooses you, the Father had told him. I would have you see to it that he continues to choose himself as well.

  A sentiment Dallin shared, actually. Except how was he supposed to do it?

  You have more than one Calling. Guardian.

  Unfortunately, he was rather terrified that he knew what the other was.

  You’ll do what’s right, Wil had told him, even if it means I don’t live through it. I know that.

  Would he?

  Dallin honestly didn’t know. And that, more than anything else, was a terrifying bit of reality he didn’t want to see.