No, not buried. Taken away.
“Bloody damn,” he whispered, “and here I’d thought…”
Do you put everything away like that? Do you bury everything that hurts?
Except he hadn’t put this away—it had been put away for him.
“What are you seeing?” someone asked him, probably Corliss, but it was too far away, and he couldn’t make out the voice.
Dallin shook his head, reached deeper. “Myself,” he thinks he answers, but he’s not sure if the voice is inside his head or outside, and it doesn’t matter.
You knew your magic once, whispers through him, and it may be Her, or it may be Lind, it may even be him, but he doesn’t think it matters, because it’s almost the same, and the words are truer than any half-believed bit of sacred rite he’s ever bothered to look at from the corner of a wary eye. He’d known it, used it, and had screamed and fought when they’d taken him from his bed, dragged him down into the glittering-green throat of FAeðme and stolen the memories of what he is.
“Green as the Mother’s Womb,” he muttered to… whomever, surprised at how much sense it made, and how it had made none at all when he’d first read the words, scoffed at them. “That’s where he gets his eyes.”
He knows them all, all twelve, they’ve been his teachers, and he recognizes all but two now through a vertiginous sort of double-vision. Seeing them as they were, and as they are now with eyes that are young and not-so-young at the same time.
“Can’t cross the Bounds,” they say with one voice, “not before he’s Marked, not knowing what he knows,” only no one speaks, and he understands it, thinks he approves. But Ríocht comes, he’d dreamed it, and they’d dreamed it with him. They shouldn’t be here, they should be blowing the horns, waking the countryside. Instead, they surround him in the Mother’s Womb and speak in silent circles, deciding his fate for him, when his fate is not theirs to choose.
Their minds dig into his, sorting and taking, and he fights with everything he has. It’s enough, or it will be, he’s stronger than all of them put together, but there are too many of them, a concentrated assault, and he screams to his mother, and then to the Mother—“They steal my Calling!”—and She’s there, laying Her hand to his brow, cooling the fiery touch of too many minds inside his own.
“We are all bound by those who believe in us,” She tells him, draws up Her sleeve to reveal the iron that binds Her wrists, a clink of chains he hasn’t heard before. He wants to weep, but She looks at him, reproachful, so he holds the tears back. “The magic of faith is great and strong,” She says, “and We are its creatures.” Her fingers slide beneath his chin, lift his face up until he meets Her depthless blue eyes. A wave of Her hand sweeps the Old Ones, and Dallin is surprised to note that none of them see Her, he’s the only one, and he almost tells them to stop, this isn’t what She wants, but She shakes Her head. “They do what they think they must. One day, it will be yours to teach them, but today is not that day.”
She leans down, kisses his brow. Soft comfort moves through him, an immediate quelling of the minds inside his own, a lessening of the clamor. And then She’s taking up the empty spaces where the Old Ones have just been, seeking, and Dallin doesn’t fight Her like he had with them. He merely closes his eyes, allows Her in, though he doesn’t think he could stop Her even if he wanted to.
“They can take nothing you don’t give them,” She tells him, shows him the bars and locks, shows him how to use them. “Keep it safe. He will hold your keys as you hold his. How you each choose to use them…” She sighs, lifts Her shoulder in a graceful shrug, the chains at Her wrists chinking lightly, and the bone-deep outrage of it, the wrongness, makes him want to cry, but again he holds it back.
“You want me to hide,” he whispers, offended and wounded and crushed right down to his soul.
“He needs you to live,” is all She says. She kisses him again, slides Her fingertips across his unMarked cheek, and commands, “Lock it down where they cannot see it, and hold it close until you find him. I will come to you when he is ready.”
And then She’s gone, but he still feels Her, watching him as he does as She’s commanded, buries what he is beneath what he will need to be in this place of Her making, with its walls of malachite that stagger and shift with the flicker of lamplight. The Old Ones sigh, their weathered faces full of worry and sorrow as they lead him, weeping and confused, from Her embrace. And it’s only when he is taken from them by his mother, hauled, resisting mindlessly, through the fires and the screams and the clash of bone and metal, shoved into the back of the cart, that the horns blow, and he grasps at what it should all mean, but he can’t remember.
It doesn’t matter anymore, he is a different man now, he is what he’s made of himself, and those things he was before are the building blocks he’d used as foundations, even when he hadn’t known it. He is the Shaman, he does have magic, and he almost thinks he feels Her smile in his mind as he reaches for it, takes it in his hand, directs it.
Like an old friend, it fits back into his grasp, and he knows it, and it knows him. He’s had true faith before, and he has it now again, and it’s all he really needs.
He calls Shaw back first, calls Wisena, and every man and woman in Lind who carries a weapon, shows them where the enemy hides, and shows them the enemy that waits. He calls to the land, warns it, and it whispers back to him, tells him of bootsteps beneath its skin, and fires that burn hotter than suns and scrape moaning cries from deep in its heart.
Dallin opened his eyes, snatched the reins back from Corliss. “He’s waking up.” With a short command, Dallin kicked his heels into the horse’s barrel and let him bolt, let him set the pace, only a short tug on the reins every now and then to keep him on surer footing. Leaning down into the gather and release of thick muscle, he wound his fingers through the rough, gray mane and dug in with his knees. His lips curled back, teeth bared and clenched together in a grin that felt hard and cruel, but ripe with anticipatory satisfaction. “You really can fly,” he whispered through them, and sank himself into the veil of fleeing night, guiding the animal’s lurching strides by nothing more than his forgotten bond with the land and the surety that the tie wouldn’t fail him.
He understood now, he understood it all, and it might have angered him before, might have paralyzed him with rage, but now there wasn’t time for anything but the beat of hoofs to ground, the shortening of distance between him and what he knew to be happening farther up the trail. The physical was the only thing important right now: the rhythm of the uphill gallop, the silent urging for more and faster, and the animal’s willing acquiescence to both, the mindless glee at opening the stride, pouring everything into the stretch and bunch of the thumping gait. Hot blood raced through the gray’s veins and opened its heart, pumping air through its frothing mouth. The thin scent of smoke was wafting toward Dallin, and he urged the horse faster still.
Miles stretched beneath them, then a league and more, the gray planting his hoofs on rock and paths still mud-slick from the rain three days ago, trusting the Guardian to guide him true. Dallin trusted the gray back to carry him on the wings of muscled flanks and pure, uncomplicated heart.
Thunder rumbled above at the same time that they rounded a slight bend and saw the first of the fires, gnawing only at the tops of the trees for now. Smoldering bits of leaf and branch fluttered down onto the path, the crackle and hiss only dimly reaching Dallin beneath the cacophony of wind in his ears and hoofs on rock. Dallin half-expected the horse to rear and shy, but he didn’t, merely put his head down and barreled through the smoking rain of debris, eyes a bit wild and nostrils flaring, but never losing speed.
“Almost there,” Dallin murmured to him, dropped a reassuring pat to the thick neck as the booming report of splitting wood roiled from farther uphill, then the dull whoosh of new flame. The hard grin reasserted itself on Dallin’s face, stretched and tugged at the new skin of the stillhealing burn on his cheek. “Thought you knew better, did you, Calder?” He snor
ted as he leaned to the side, guiding the gray about a tangle of burning brush and on up the path. “Thought you could control him, eh? Serves you right, you spineless fuck.”
He turned his head, spat in the dirt, urging the horse on with a tightening of his calves and a shift in the saddle. He could hear voices now, raised in anger and fear, a growling curse and an incongruous shriek of laughter, before thunder boiled again. A streak of lightning split the sky, turning the heavy drape of darkness into bright daylight for the span of four of Dallin’s thumping heartbeats. Two shapes seared themselves into his vision, locked in stumbling combat. He made out the wider shape of Calder, holding Wil’s smaller, struggling form against him with one arm. Wil’s head was pulled back by a fistful of black hair, while Calder held a flask to his lips, trying to force whatever was in it down Wil’s throat. Wil kicked and twisted in a grip that was simply too strong and steady for someone who was already impaired by the grasping hold of a drug designed to make one helpless.
Fire leapt up again all around them, trees going up like giant candles. Great, oozing gobs of it flew out in every direction, flame dripping like melting wax, as it had been when they’d tried to crash the gates of Chester. Dallin’s horse reared this time, bawled a frightened protest, and tried to veer away. Dallin crouched down over the horse’s neck, wrenched the reins, and felt the tremor in the hindquarters as the horse fought instinct and obeyed Dallin’s command. The gray gathered beneath Dallin and leapt to a driving run, only shivering a small, frantic cry as they breached the barrier of flame and arrowed to its center, head-on to the men locked in lopsided skirmish.
Calder’s arm was secured around Wil’s throat now, Dallin saw by the light of the fires, the shimmer of liquid flowing down Wil’s chin as Calder poured the brew into his mouth. Calder watched Dallin coming at him, his hold letting up just long enough for Wil to get a gasping breath and choke, using the breath to try and spit the drug out. Calder kept watching as Dallin drove in, and still he kept trying to force the stuff down Wil’s throat. And all the while, Wil gasped and kicked, face going from red to blue then red again, pulling into an unsettling mixture of pain and rage and laughter as he fought with everything he had to keep the stuff from sliding down his throat. A wild, flailing jerk of Wil’s elbow caught Calder just below the ribs and he lost his hold. Dallin took immediate aim.
The horse didn’t balk or back down, but kept driving on as Dallin fired a shot at Calder’s head. The shot missed and hit Calder’s shoulder instead, but Dallin had to be at least a little satisfied when the force knocked Calder back and farther away from Wil. The horse kept driving still as Dallin leaned in the saddle, reached out, and snatched firm hold of Wil’s coat by the collar. Dallin clenched his teeth at the way his muscles wrenched, and his shoulder nearly slipped its socket as he threw Wil up and around. He tried to sling Wil over the horse’s rump, but they were going too fast and Wil’s reflexes weren’t worth much of anything at the moment. He yelped, scrabbled momentarily at Dallin’s back, trying to latch onto the strap of the rifle and failing. Desperately, Wil’s hand found the crossbow wedged into the saddle’s straps and took hold, but Dallin hadn’t tied it down. Wil slithered out of Dallin’s hold, hands still wrapped about the bow’s tiller, and thumped to the ground, bow and all, before Dallin could rein in.
Three shots whizzed over Dallin’s head, rapid-fire. He ducked and jerked the horse around for another pass at Wil, thankfully not trampled and not looking too terribly the worse for the fall. Another shot, this one right past the horse’s nose, and it reared again, a thick, heavy scream rolling up from its barrel. Two more shots rang out, one close enough to flick at the hair over Dallin’s left ear, and the other thumping into his right bicep. Just the meat, not the bone, Dallin’s mind automatically assessed the wound, almost not feeling the searing heat and quick-sliding pain of the bullet hammering through flesh, but it knocked his aim wild as he returned fire. His shot this time went harmlessly over Calder’s head as the horse finally threw Dallin to the ground and took off through the small patch of surrounding trees that weren’t on fire.
Winded, Dallin rolled, anticipating more shots. He reached for the gun at his hip and tried to aim himself for nonexistent cover to the side of the rocky path. Except no shots followed him. Dallin lifted his head, found Calder reloading, so hauled himself up to make a sprint toward Wil. Dallin had got farther away from Wil than he’d thought; damned horse must’ve thrown Dallin at least twenty paces.
He could hear shouts now from farther down the path, and could feel the steady rumble of hoofbeats beneath his feet. He almost laughed. He’d actually forgotten about the rest of the party, hadn’t thought of them once since he’d closed his eyes and opened himself up to magic.
You’re not alone, Corliss, he warned. Watch your back.
Wil was grinning; Dallin could see the flash of teeth as he got closer. The expression was horribly savage and empty. Right out in the open, no cover at all, Wil sat on the ground, eyes locked onto Calder as he planted his feet to the staves of the crossbow. He yanked the whipcord with both hands and seated it in its notch, nocked a bolt like he’d been doing it all his life, then pulled it up to his shoulder in the same way he aimed the rifle, sighted down. Good man, Dallin cheered silently, not terribly confident Wil could actually hit anything on his first go, but at the very least it might be a distraction. Calder had finished reloading his own gun, eyes on Dallin as Dallin continued to run in a low crouch toward Wil. Calder’s gun was trained directly on him, and at a range that would afford fair accuracy.
A thin twang rippled the air, and Dallin flinched before he recognized the sound. He only watched, momentarily disbelieving, as Calder dropped his gun in the dirt. Calder’s eyes were wide as he stared, amazed, at the fletching of the bolt sticking at an angle from one side of his wrist, the tip protruding from the other. He screamed, something thwarted and enraged, and dove to the side as Dallin complemented Wil’s shot with one of his own. He aimed this time for the artery in the thigh that had caused him so many problems back when he’d first stumbled into the chaos of Wil’s life in Dudley. He couldn’t tell from here if he’d aimed true, but Calder went down quickly and heavily, giving Dallin time to cover the remaining distance between himself and Wil.
Wil was still grinning and chuckling quietly now, Dallin saw with fury and unease both. The soles of Wil’s boots were once again planted to the staves of the crossbow, his hands loading another bolt. His face was filthy, scraped raw at the left temple and down his cheek from his fall, mud and leaves covering the left side of his coat and trousers, clinging to his hair. The green eyes were murky and somewhat crazed, a strange reflection of the euphoric savagery that had glinted from them when he’d taken the butt of Locke’s gun to a man’s head. Dallin reached for him— tentatively, like he had that day—and laid his hand to Wil’s arm, the light of the fire making Wil look feral and macabrely beautiful.
A blooming stain was spreading between Wil’s collarbone and right shoulder, Dallin could see it widening beneath Wil’s coat. One of Calder’s last shots, had to be. The fabric around the ragged hole in Wil’s coat was still smoking. Dallin bit back his alarm and unlaced Wil’s shirt, slipped his hand inside, and covered the wound with his palm. Not fatal, but it could be if Dallin didn’t do something, and Wil would definitely feel it when the leaf wore off.
“All right?” Dallin asked, afraid for a moment, as those wild eyes fixed on him, narrowed, that Wil wouldn’t remember him, that whatever the leaf did to Wil—damped his fiery core beneath those terrible, cheery smiles—would make it so Dallin couldn’t reach him at all, even here, with his hand pressing over the wound, fingertips resonating with Wil’s too-slow heartbeat.
But Wil sobered, just a little, though the smile never left. He shook his head, tears Dallin hadn’t noticed before tracking thick down his dirty cheeks, glinting like stars in the firelight. Muttering some garbled little mantra Dallin couldn’t make out, Wil jerked himself out of Dallin’s grip, d
ropped the bow, and turned on hands and knees. He jammed his fingers down his throat and retched everything he had in him into the leaves and spiny bracken. “No,” he warbled eventually, hoarse and heavy, “I don’t think I’ll ever be all right again.”
With a low curse, he spat, wiped his mouth on his dirty sleeve, then crawled away from the mess and toward Dallin. He clutched hold of Dallin’s coat, almost scaled his chest like it was a particularly steep hill, and managed to drag himself up into a wobbly crouch. Somber and serious, he leaned in, said Dallin’s name—slowly, like he was reacquainting himself with the shape of it—and took hold of Dallin’s arms like he meant to say something terribly important. Dallin flinched when Wil’s fingers closed over his right arm, he couldn’t help it, and Wil pulled his hands back, movements slow and jerky. He blinked down at his fingers, red with the blood seeping through Dallin’s coat.
“Oh,” was all he said. His eyes drifted shut, his head tilted, then he lifted his hand, drew his fingertips along his right cheekbone, a trail of Dallin’s blood streaking uneven and mixing with the tears. “Blood to Blood,” he whispered, snorted a little, then opened his eyes slowly, leaned in; Dallin thought for a moment Wil was going to kiss him, but instead he dipped his mouth to Dallin’s ear, murmured, “It isn’t finished yet.” He quavered something that sounded like a tortured little giggle that made the hairs at Dallin’s nape stand up and chills skitter up his spine.
No, not finished, not by any stretch of the imagination.
“No,” Dallin agreed. “There are more coming.”
Eyes closed, he leaned in, let the land gather at him, let it push its power through him and seep into Wil, let it swamp his body, and directed it back out through his hand, asking. Reached for the Mother’s Blessings to the Shaman, accepted them all, then altered the balance. Listened as the land sang its songs of healing, silently added his own voice, until he heard Wil hum a happy little sigh, felt him go boneless against his chest. Not healed completely—Dallin would need more time for that—but not life-threatening, and not bleeding now, at least.
The Aisling Trilogy Page 87