Aisling 2: Dream

by Carole Cummings

  Several young girls were at work currying by the fence that separated the stables from the yard, sharing buckets and brushes between them. They laughed and chattered as they worked, and called out teasing advice to another as she loped a horse past the paddock’s fence. The girl merely smirked a little and flipped them a vulgar salute as she crouched in the saddle, the others shrieking good-naturedly before once again minding their own work.

  “D’you know where our horses are?” Dallin asked Wil.

  Wil was smiling a little, watching the girls. He turned to Dallin. “I do, but we can’t just go and get them. They have the tack locked up. We’ll have to get someone to get it for us.” His gaze shifted from right to left, looking for a likely mark, Dallin suspected. Wil smiled again when his eye settled on a tow-headed lad, leaning against an empty stall, staring at the girls and absently sharing bits of his apple with a docile little roan.

  “Is that—?”

  “Miri.” Wil was nearly grinning now. “She must’ve just had a bath. I told the lad to take care of them, told him they were pretty keen on apples.” He looked back at Dallin, delighted. “I think he listened.”

  I don’t think he had much of a choice, Dallin didn’t say. “What d’you have to do?”

  But Wil was apparently already doing it. “Shh,” was all he said, eyes fixed on the lad. “Come on, then,” he whispered.

  As though he’d heard, the boy’s head came up, turned, eyes gone vacant but with a bit of that hunger beneath the gaze that Dallin had seen in that man in Dudley. Muted, 268

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  somehow, not nearly so feral, but still unsettling. The boy stared at Wil, mouth quirking up in a smile that was both thrilled and famished. Slowly, like there was fishing line strung between them, he led the horse over to Wil, stopped in front of him, eyes for Wil and Wil alone.

  Miri puffed out a happy snort and dove her nose straight at Wil’s neck. He ignored her mostly, only shrugged at her a little, but kept his gaze locked with the boy’s. The boy stepped in closer. He almost looked like he wanted to throw his arms around Wil, but he merely tipped in, almost-but-not-quite touching. With a gentle little smile, he closed his eyes and slipped a quiet sigh into Wil’s cheek.

  “I thought I dreamed you,” he breathed.

  A tiny bit of a shudder moved through Wil, but he kept his smile and laid a hand to the boy’s arm. “Good lad,” he whispered. “I need the other horse now. You remember?” The boy nodded, standing there with his eyes closed like he was breathing Wil in. “Good. I need them saddled, all right? Will you help us?”

  Dallin hadn’t noticed until now that the place had gone eerily quiet. The girls had stopped their chatter, eyes every now and then flicking toward them and scudding right over them like they weren’t there. The bustle of the place hadn’t wound down, but it had… quieted.

  The shouts from the men tossing bales had receded to occasional grunts of effort and monosyllabic instructions.

  Even those working the horses had slowed them to lazy trots. It was like… Dallin didn’t know what it was like.

  It was like nothing he’d ever seen. Not like the inn at Dudley, but not terribly un like, either.

  He looked back at Wil—caught his breath.

  The boy was still standing there, eyes closed, swaying a little with each word Wil murmured into his ear.

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  communion between the two uncanny and almost-carnal in its mockery of some dark benediction… but Wil’s face was what made all of Dallin’s instincts come up short and stagger back a pace.

  His eyes were half-lidded and pulsing out something that nearly hummed with calm purpose. Glowing, they were fucking glowing, almost giving off their own eldritch light. Unbelievable and yet right bloody in front of Dallin.

  Undeniable, as much as he’d like to deny it. Like in the dreams, but stronger. Like in Dudley, but Dallin could actually see the power this time. It wasn’t real, he knew, there was nothing physical about what he saw—it was simply as close as his mind could come to explaining what his eyes were telling him. He had the oddest surety that if he asked Payton what he’d seen that night in the interrogation room back in Putnam, Payton would have said Wil’s eyes were perfectly normal.

  Only this time, there was no fear behind the serene gaze, no disquiet. Just a cool intent that made itself all too plain when Wil leaned in, brushed his lips over the lad’s, and patted his arm. “Go on, then,” he whispered.

  Dallin stepped back a little as the boy turned, looked right through him, then led the horse down toward the stalls. “What are you doing?” he asked Wil, as quietly and calmly as he could.

  Wil’s eyes were closed now, his head tilted to the side.

  “Pushing,” was all he said.

  “Well, yes, but…” Dallin laid his hand to Wil’s arm, almost shook him, but didn’t know if that would queer it all, break Wil’s concentration, make him start gushing blood, or make the stable’s staff all turn on each other with teeth bared. “All of them?”

  “Mostly the boy,” Wil murmured, distracted. “But yes, all of them.” His eyebrows drew down and he shook his head. “Don’t talk, I have to focus.”

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  Dallin shut his mouth and let go Wil’s arm. He couldn’t help but step away just a little. Just looking at them all, going about their business as though their minds were elsewhere, it gave him an uneasy chill and a queasy little pit opened up in his stomach. In Dudley, it had been as though someone had taken a cudgel to the minds of those people at the inn; with this, it was a sharp, precise scalpel.

  So very different from the blunt-force assault in that cell, where Wil had stumbled away from it bleeding, nearly didn’t stumble away from it at all, and the other man had come away from it… well, for all Dallin knew, he was still catatonic. This was so much more… sophisticated. And in only what amounted to—Dallin counted back—ten days, maybe?

  Mother save us—what will he be able to do with it when he really knows what he’s doing?

  I can turn myself invisible, Wil had joked once, tweaking at Dallin’s reticence because he knew he could, and it had been mildly amusing at the time; now Dallin thought it might not be too far off the mark. Perhaps Wil couldn’t actually make himself disappear, but he might be able to make others think he had.

  Dallin wanted to look away, nail his gaze to the floor and not lift it until this unsettling business was done.

  Instead, he kept his eyes on the lad as he unlocked what was apparently a storage cabinet, dragged out first Wil’s saddle and then Dallin’s own, and then went back for a third. Dallin was torn. He should stay close, he should be right where he was, in case Wil needed him—for what, Dallin was afraid to guess—but if nothing else, standing here and watching that lad saddle three horses was a waste of time they didn’t have.

  Dallin approached the boy warily, grabbed for his own tack, but kept his hands away from Wil’s things.

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  Dudley had lunged for him just for laying a hand to Wil’s shoulder. He didn’t know if this was the same or not, if the imagined proprietorship reached to Wil’s possessions, or if the lad even knew which were Wil’s possessions in the first place, but Dallin thought it safest to let the lad take care of Wil’s horse. By the way the boy was muttering to himself in a quiet little singsong, Dallin thought it might be smart to just try and stay out of his line of sight.

  He saddled his own horse quickly and cinched it all tight. The lad was moving a little slower than Dallin guessed was his wont, so Dallin saddled the horse that had apparently been confiscated for Calder, as well. Brilliant.

  He was already wanted—for desertion, certainly, treason likely, possibly murder for that fiasco in the alley, and now probably for horse-thieving as well. Of them all, h
orse-thieving hurt the least. Another roan, a little on the elderly side, but he had big hoofs and a big arse, barrel and flanks well-muscled, so he would do well enough for Calder.

  Growling lightly, Dallin finished, straightened his back and peered about. Wil was still standing right where Dallin had left him, straight and tall. His eyes were open now, tracking everything, doing that oddly beautiful thing they did, eldritch and unfettered. As before in the alley, Dallin was struck by the wild allure of him. Dallin hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told Wil he was like a minor god. When Wil looked like this, Dallin would swear he breathed in air and exhaled strength, wound it about himself in tensile threads of invincibility.

  “The heart of the world,” the lad murmured in that unnerving little harmonic buzz he’d been doing since he’d left Wil’s side. “Blood to blood.” His hands were opening and closing spasmodically around the reins of Wil’s horse.

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  looking for it, and still not realize they didn’t know what they were looking for.

  For the first time, looking at the blankly hungry look in the eyes of this otherwise-handsome and most likely honest young man, Dallin thought he had some idea what Wil might have meant. The worship on the boy’s face was almost predatory, like he loved Wil enough to rip him apart.

  Dallin had had just about enough. Too much, in fact.

  He took up the reins of his horse and Calder’s, tugging them over toward Wil. He was dismayed to see that Wil was sweating now, somewhat pale, and a light tremor ran through his body. No nosebleed, but Dallin didn’t like the way Wil’s brow was twisting and his jaw kept clenching and unclenching, too-obvious effort at maintaining control.

  “We’ve got what we need.” Dallin kept his voice low and smooth, so as not to startle Wil out of whatever focus he was applying. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

  Wil nodded slowly, waved the lad back over, then slid faintly shaking fingers to his temple, rubbed. “One more thing,” he murmured to Dallin. “The crossbow,” he said to the lad. “Get it, please.”

  “No,” Dallin protested, even as the boy allowed Wil to take the reins from his hand and turned back toward the tack cabinet. Some part of Dallin was absently amused when the mare lipped at Wil’s hair; the greater part of him wanted to kick Wil’s arse. Hard. In fact, Dallin had forgotten all about the crossbow; it had been strapped to the saddle when Dallin had left the horses at the post by the gates when they’d arrived, and he hadn’t even thought about it since. Strange, that Wil should even remember it and think to retrieve it now, and in the middle of all of… well, this. Dallin shook his head, reached out, tilting Wil’s chin up until that throbbing green gaze slid into his.

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  “I don’t need it, it’s done nothing but get in the way. Just put a stop to this now. We have to go, and you don’t look well.”

  Wil smiled at him, loose and too faraway. “All the ammunition we can get,” he answered, reached out and latched on to Dallin’s cloak. “There’s so much of it.” His face twisted in vague bewilderment. “I could wander forever.”

  Dallin hadn’t really understood what Wil was talking about, but that last statement woke him to it like a hammer to the thumb. He gripped Wil’s hand in his own, squeezed. “What are you doing?” he asked steadily.

  “Pushing?”

  “Tending,” Wil sighed and closed his eyes, swaying just a little. “Dreaming awake. It’s… really quite lovely.”

  A small laugh and he shook his head. “It doesn’t hurt.”

  “Doesn’t hurt, that’s good, Wil.” Dallin made himself breathe deeply, squelching rising panic. “I need you to stop it, all right?” The boy was coming back with the crossbow, quickening his steps when he saw how close Dallin had got to Wil, face darkening with possessive rage. Oh, shit, I hope he doesn’t know how to use that.

  Keeping his eyes on the boy, Dallin leaned down to growl into Wil’s ear: “Wil, the lad is coming back and now he’s armed. I’m going to get shot with my own bow if you don’t stop this.”

  “Amazing,” Wil breathed. “So much to see…”

  Without even pulling away or opening his eyes, Wil held up a hand, flicked it. The lad stopped short, so quickly the mop of bright-flax on his head flew back from his brow then into his eyes, as though he’d hit an invisible brick wall.

  Dallin shook his head, teeth clenched, gaze skimming back and forth between the thwarted devotion of the boy to the beatific abstraction of Wil. “All right, very nice, but 274

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  stop it now, we have to go.”

  Finally, Wil opened his eyes; Dallin almost wished he hadn’t. Dazzling muted sage flecked and eddied with churning malachite, twisting into Dallin’s chest with a sadness and regret that was near-physical, sliding from Wil’s heart and into Dallin’s own. Deep and old, years of pain and betrayal, sorrow and abandonment, and all of it winding over them like a rime of misted rain.

  “It doesn’t hurt in here,” Wil whispered.

  All of that pain, all of that anger, burbling up from a well the depth of which Dallin didn’t want to fathom, and there, inside wherever Wil was wandering now, it was gone. Inside with his patterns and his threads and his pushing, Wil was, probably for the first time in his life, free.

  Oh…

  This was a connection Dallin had never wanted. If he’d known this was coming back in that sooty, smoke-bitter cellar room, he would have backed away, shut himself down before it could cut him with the knowing.

  It’s all full of knives… Dallin could feel them. And what was he supposed to do?—pluck one of them up? Plunge it into Wil’s heart? Come back, don’t stay in there where it doesn’t hurt, stay with me and take the pain…

  Three chirps of the lark, the faint snicker of a squirrel.

  Dallin jolted in fully bloomed alarm, even before the half-memory of the warning blossomed into sense.

  Circumstances long forgotten or put away, down deep in his consciousness where he wouldn’t have to look at them, but the signal itself blared in his head like a claxon.

  It took too long for it to wend into his awareness, took too long for his memory to kick in and chitter the meaning to his instincts.

  A young boy, gold hair long and swaying over shoulders already widening, loping through the fields of 275

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  his country with a careless smile, pushing and shoving at his mates and laughing—

  Three chirps of the lark, the faint snicker of a squirrel.

  Danger, take cover.

  Calder was still outside, keeping watch. Chirping the code Dallin only remembered through a strange, vague twist of fright and nostalgia. And then the warning stopped, cut off between one trill and the next. A sharp cry sounded, then the stutter of bootheels clocking hard on the dry, packed dirt of the yard.

  Dallin threw his glance to the open doors. His hands clutched spasmodically on Wil, squeezing so hard Wil gasped a little. Dallin barely heard it. His heart was thudding a heavy pulse in his temples. Knocked into his ribs with a solid thump as the blue-clad figure pulled up abruptly in the doorway. Dallin loosened his grip, swallowed thickly.

  “Corliss?”

  “Brayden.” She shook her auburn head, closed her eyes. “Oh, shit.”

  Limned in thin sunlight, her solid figure wavered just the smallest bit. Dallin didn’t know if she’d actually swayed or if his own senses had hiccupped. Her blue and brown, always worn so proudly, was mud-stained and rumpled. Her hair, almost always in a tight knot at the back of her head, fell in long, wavy wisps about her face.

  She looked exhausted, face pale, dark circles beneath her tired eyes.

  “You’ve been riding hard,” Dallin said quietly.

  Corliss peered about, took in the saddled horses, the workers, the boy, the sile
nce…

  “I’ve been praying they’d got it wrong,” she finally replied. She looked like she was trying not to believe her own eyes. Her sidearm was still holstered, but the tethers were loose and her hand hovered just above the burled 276

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  butt. She shifted her glance to Wil. Took in the rifle in his hand, Dallin’s grip on his arm. “Please tell me,” Corliss said slowly, “that you’ve just arrested this man and were on your way to the Chester Constabulary to turn him in.”

  Wil looked up at Dallin slowly, more alert now. Like he was taking in the things around him as well as inside him again. The look was rueful, anxious— caught and caged—but hope took up the corners, waiting for Dallin to negate reality. I think perhaps you’re the only one in the world I do trust. Dallin wished with his whole self that the next few moments wouldn’t belie that tender, too-breakable faith.

  “Brayden,” Corliss warned, “say it and I’ll believe it.

  Don’t make me arrest you.”

  Perhaps it would be wiser: allow them to be arrested then figure out a way to get them out of it. Or say what Corliss wanted to hear and then figure out how to get Wil away again. No danger of having to fire on Corliss and whomever the two others from Putnam might be; no danger of having to fire on soldiers beside whom he would have been fighting ten years ago; no danger of either one of them getting shot while trying to escape…

  Dallin leaned in toward Wil. “Whatever happens, you get on that horse and you go, understand?”

  “Brayden!”

  Corliss sounded utterly horrified. It was enough to make Dallin flinch. He turned his gaze on her, hardened it.

  “You don’t know what’s going on here,” he told her forcefully.

  “I can bloody guess!”

  Ever the mum, Corliss. Dallin clenched his teeth. He pushed Wil back a little, but kept the grip on his arm. “It isn’t what you’re thinking. At least that’s not all of it.”

  “So, you are—”

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  “It’s bigger than that, Corliss, you’ve no idea what—