“That,” Dallin sighed, “was— is—the Aisling’s legacy.
Except you’re special, so you get more of it. Lucky you.”
Wil and Shaw both cut their eyes toward Hunter, frowning. Dallin merely shrugged. He turned to Hunter with a challenging lift of his eyebrows.
“One of the things over which your uncle and I vehemently disagree is secrets. I don’t like them; he thinks they’re a necessary part of life. What do you think, Hunter?”
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Hunter’s own eyebrows went up, but in surprise and near-chagrin to be so pinned to the spot, as he found himself. “I think…” He looked to Wil for help, found only bemusement to match his own. He answered the challenge, rather than the question: “Was that why you quarreled with the Old Ones?”
“Part of it.”
“No one has ever quarreled with the Old Ones.”
Hunter’s expression was a mix between intrigue and rebuke.
“Then this is new for them,” Dallin answered. “And if I have my way—and by tradition, I should—it’s the first of several new things.” He sat forward, draping an arm over his up-thrust knee. “Haven’t you ever wondered what they do up there beneath that great Temple? Hasn’t it ever angered you that you’re kept so far removed from your own religion? Don’t you want to know what their Marks mean?”
Hunter looked down for a moment, studied the floor.
“It is the way of things,” he answered slowly, lifted his head. By the new light in his blue eyes, Dallin could tell he’d hit a nerve. “It has always been the way of things.”
“That doesn’t make it right,” Dallin told him. “Sit down.” He waited for Hunter to comply, then: “You know of Ríocht’s Chosen.” Hunter’s glance went immediately to Wil, narrowed a little. He nodded. “Do you know the legend of the Aisling?”
Again, Hunter nodded, the vague suspicion in his gaze dulling somewhat to… Dallin wasn’t sure but he thought it might be disappointment. Hunter just shrugged and waved his hand. “The Beloved who sings the songs of rain and sun to the Mother in the People’s voices. Some still burn offerings to him in times of drought or flood, but most have forgotten.”
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but this one piqued his interest. He’d never heard of the Aisling until Manning had hit him with it that first day he’d met Wil, and he’d lived here until he’d been twelve.
Except… that wasn’t entirely true, was it? Hadn’t it rung a faint bell, even way back then?
He tilted his head. “How d’you know of it, then?”
“Calders have walked Lind since the Mother birthed it,” Hunter answered, ingenuously proud. “My name’s song is quite long.”
Ah. Dallin couldn’t help the small stab of envy and the childish wish that his father had lived long enough to teach him his own songs. Not, apparently, that he would’ve remembered it. He pushed it away, caught Wil looking at him with something soft and sympathetic. Dallin gave him a reassuring smile, turned back to Hunter and waved his hand at Wil.
“Hunter Calder, I’d like you to meet Ríocht’s Chosen, the Father’s Gift to the Mother, and my friend—the Aisling. No bowing necessary.” He ignored Shaw’s bit of a gasp and turned to Wil with a small smirk. “You don’t want them all bowing to you, right?”
“I…” Wil’s mouth was hanging open, and he stared at Dallin, wide-eyed, but he managed a dazed shake of his head. “Um… no?”
Dallin grinned. “You’re not drinking your tea.” He waited for Wil to take an obligatory sip, still frowning in surprise, then turned back to Hunter, keen to analyze his reactions. If Dallin had his way, Hunter would be the first to know all of the deadly-deep secrets, but by no means the last.
Hunter was staring rather blankly at Wil. “Dúil,”
he said softly, slowly, then slid his gaze over to the fire, out the cave’s mouth to the sky. A frown gathered at his brow as he turned back to Wil. His expression had gone awed, almost overwhelmed, but there was instant 391
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belief—helped, no doubt, by the dancing fires and threat of thunder in the clear blue sky only a little while ago, but not nearly so much Prove It as Dallin had waded through. The immediate trust was somewhat disturbing but still exactly what Dallin had been hoping for.
“Brayden,” Shaw put in, softly cautious, “do you really think this is wise?”
Dallin turned to him, all smart-arse smirks and cheeky retorts gone. “I think it’s not only wise, but necessary,”
he answered steadily. “We have Commonwealth soldiers pawing the ground and tugging at their reins at the Bounds, a band of who-knows-how-many nutters who want to steal Wil and push him out of his own mind roaming the countryside, and in case you’d forgotten, they know exactly where we are. That’s not even counting what the Guild’s reaction will be when they get word their emissary is dead and their Chosen once again missing—
’kidnapped’ by me, no less, and with too many witnesses for even the Brethren to silence this time.
“Lind is a tiny piece of land, relatively speaking, caught right between Ríocht on one side and Cynewísan on the other, and Cynewísan wants us just as badly as Ríocht does. The very last thing any of us needs right now is more bloody secrets.” He paused, throttled down the anger welling at the back of his throat, took a calming breath. “Considering all that,” he told Shaw more evenly,
“I think it’s the smartest damned thing I’ve ever done.”
He turned to Wil. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked you first, but—”
“No, it’s…” Wil was frowning but not angrily. “It’s smart, you’re right, I just… There are soldiers at the Bounds?”
“Ah. Shit. Yes, sorry.” Dallin shrugged. “I forgot you’d need some catching-up.” Not forgotten, really—
there’d hardly been a moment, after all. “They didn’t 392
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exactly chase us here, but they might as well have done.
The result’s the same, after all. The company that escorted Siofra to Chester is there, no doubt with reinforcements by now, and if not yet, then soon enough. Nine of the Old Ones have been out there with a good number of Weardas since we arrived, keeping them from crossing over and trying to avoid making it necessary for countrymen to start shooting at each other. The Brethren are lurking out there somewhere, but if past observation means anything, I don’t think they’ll have the brass to try anything on that side of the Border.” He grimaced. “Though there’s nothing stopping them from going around and trying from their own side. Besides lack of intelligence, of course.”
“I’d heard you had some goodly trouble from the Brethren,” Wil said, pensive.
Dallin’s eyebrows rose. “Did you, then?”
“Hunter told me you’d run into them.” A small smile.
“That you took command from their…” He peered at Hunter, expectant.
“Weardgeréfan,” Hunter supplied absently, still lost in his own thoughts.
“I didn’t take it,” Dallin argued. “I just sort of—”
“Just sort of started giving orders and didn’t remind the commander he was in charge when everyone followed them.”
Dallin scowled. It was rather on the mark, so he couldn’t really argue.
Anyway, Wil didn’t give him much of a chance. “So, the rest of the Old Ones are at the Bounds, playing diplomat, then. Where does that leave us?”
“Quite thoroughly pinned,” Dallin answered frankly.
“The only thing we can do is get Lind ready for a standoff and possible battle to give us time to do what we came here to do. I think the best way to go about that is to fill our defenders in on exactly what they’re defending, 393
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so they at least know what they’re fighting for.” He shrugged. “I’ve found that men who know their cause tend to
put a bit more heart behind their aim. We might be asking these people to fight their own countrymen—I think they deserve to at least know why.”
Wil reached out and flicked Dallin’s more-and-more unruly fringe from his eyes. A throwaway gesture, but the intimacy behind it pleased Dallin absurdly. “Yes, you would,” was all Wil said.
Dallin only jerked his chin at the cup. “Drink your tea.”
Hunter had been rather quiet; now he peered up at Wil, measuring and still awestruck, then turned his gaze sharply to Dallin. “You are the Guardian, then,” he said quietly. “Has the Shaman always been the Guardian?”
“That’s sort of the point, yes,” Dallin answered.
“But…” Hunter’s face screwed up in bewilderment, budding ire. “Why should…? I don’t understand. Always, when the young ones are taught religion, we are taught of the past Shamans. We are taught that only the Shaman may welcome Outlanders, only the Shaman may leave the Bounds and still be the Shaman. My uncle had to cut his Marks from his face!” He was getting agitated now. “Never were we told the Aisling and the Guardian were real; never were we taught that those Outlanders the Shamans before had welcomed were the Aisling come to live among us.” He shook his head, hands stretched out toward Dallin. “I just… I don’t understand.”
That was betrayal lurking behind Hunter’s eyes. Dallin filed that reaction away, too. A whole lot of resentment toward the Old Ones was healthy, in his opinion, and more than deserved, but if it wasn’t doused very quickly, he’d end up with a rebellion he didn’t want and chaos they could all do without.
“Don’t think too harshly of them,” he told Hunter.
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“Lind’s laws have kept you all barricaded against the rest of the world, and they had their reasons when those laws were made. But it didn’t stop the world from changing outside the Bounds. The Old Ones are wise and kind, but they are also men—very old men.” He shrugged.
“Men are fallible, and you can’t blame them for being so.” Though it would certainly make Dallin feel better if he could. He sighed. “Who knows? Had I grown up here, had I not been taken away and lived in the world for all those years, I may have thought the same way as they do.”
He actually doubted that one, in his heart, but he wasn’t sure if that was merely wishful thinking, so he didn’t say it aloud.
“The Mother’s Will,” Shaw put in quietly, lifted an eyebrow when Dallin shot him a sardonic glance. He shrugged. “You would argue the course of your Path, Dallin Brayden? You, who has seen both the Mother and the Father?”
Dallin narrowed his eyes. “How did you know that?”
“Um…” Wil raised a hand, gave Dallin an apologetic grimace. “Sorry.” He dipped his head at Dallin’s scowl, cheeks coloring. “I didn’t say it was you, I didn’t say it was anyone, really, I just sort of asked if it was normal, and I didn’t say what you’d been told—”
“No, no,” Shaw put in with a wry smile, “he was almost as close with information as you are.”
“And…” Wil squirmed a little. “Well… He made me skillet cakes,” was all he offered by way of excuse, perhaps even slightly accusatory. Which, considering what Dallin knew of Wil’s appetite, was actually a pretty believable explanation. He wondered what else the two had discussed in Shaw’s rooms in the Temple while Dallin had been preoccupied with recovering. Wil wasn’t about to tell him; he was too busy pretending to drink the tea.
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“You have seen Them?” This from Hunter, whose voice had gone down to a hoarse whisper as he turned a look of such awe and adoration on Dallin that Dallin almost wanted to smack it off his face.
Dallin sighed and waved a hand. “Yes, I’ve seen Them,” he replied uncomfortably.
“Does it bother you so?” Shaw asked with interest.
“For a man who has seen and spoken to his gods, you seem rather uneasy with the Divine. The words and messages from the Mother and the Father should not be kept so close to one’s own chest.” It had the tone of light rebuke. “Part of a shaman’s Calling is to impart the wisdom he is gifted by Them to all.”
“A cleric I am not,” Dallin replied tersely, slightly stung. “And I intend to impart whatever I must to effect the changes I think necessary, so save your reprimands, if you please.”
For the first time, Shaw pulled himself away from the rock wall, frowned a little and stepped slowly over to stand behind Hunter. “Why do you hate them so?” he asked.
Dallin’s brows snapped down over his eyes. “I don’t
‘hate’ any one. What are you talking about?”
Shaw shrugged. “All right, then—you dislike Calder intensely. You tolerate me because of Wil. I suspect only a proper upbringing and your life in service has kept you from being out-and-out rude to the Old Ones, though you’ve bordered on disrespect more times than not.” He laid a hand to Hunter’s shoulder. “And only your kind heart kept you from trying to shatter a boy’s faith to suit your own ends.” He paused, pierced Dallin with a finely honed gaze. “You disdain belief, and you scorn believers.
And yet you’ve seen the Mother and the Father both.”
Dallin’s teeth had gone tight. His cheek twitched and ticced without his consent, but he kept his temper.
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“I neither disdain nor scorn,” he said evenly. “I merely cannot respect blind belief. People are weak, and the weaker they are, the more they rely on what they’ve been told is stronger than themselves, even beyond all sense and reason. I’ve seen too many—” He cut himself off, clamped his jaw. Choking back a growl, he snatched up the cup from out Wil’s hand and downed the rest of the bolstered tea, wishing it was something a hell of a lot stronger.
“Hm,” Shaw hummed into the resulting silence, “I imagine you have.”
Dallin couldn’t help narrowing his eyes a little. And you would know, wouldn’t you—shaman?
Shaw patted Hunter’s shoulder. “Come, lad. Wil’s not had his breakfast yet, and the Old Ones are waiting.” He peered over at Wil while Hunter got to his feet. “We’ll likely be a little while.”
Giving Wil time to talk Dallin into who-knew-what, he suspected by the way Shaw’s eyebrows lifted meaningfully. Shamans and their damned fondness for conspiracy. Dallin rolled his eyes a bit, but didn’t say anything, merely watched Shaw chivvy Hunter ahead of him and make their way across the green to the communal fire. Aggravated, Dallin got up, went to the kettle and poured another cup of the tea.
“Why
do you hate them?” Wil asked quietly.
Dallin gusted an irritated sigh. “I don’t hate them, I just…” He shook his head, pointed to where Shaw and Hunter had just been. “It’s people like those, people like Calder, who made it possible for Siofra to do what he did to you. D’you think that no one at the Guild ever had a question as to what was going on? D’you think that not a single one of them ever thought what was happening to you was wrong? But they believed, they put faith in something they’d never even bothered to question, and 397
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watched horrors happen because they believed that Siofra was doing the will of the Father. Without ever once having heard the Father’s will from His own mouth. It—” He growled, ran a hand through his hair. “How can you not hate them?”
Wil was staring at him, thoughtful. “Faith didn’t put me in my position—one man’s choice did.”
“And the blind faith of dozens of others kept you there because they chose not to see the wrongness of it. And shall we talk about the Brethren and their ‘faith’ while we’re at it?” Dallin puffed a derisive snort. “I’ve seen the look in their eyes, I’ve seen it in the eyes of too many others before them, and I’ve seen the same damned look in Calder’s eyes, too. That isn’t faith—that’s mania.”
“Where have you seen it before?” Wil asked, peering at Dallin with a very kee
n interest, and a soft depth to his eyes that reflected an odd sort of accepting compassion that Dallin had never seen there before. He tilted his head, voice low and gentle. “Is this why you won’t talk about your time in the military?”
Dallin twitched before he could help himself. He took a gulp from the cup, wishing again for something stronger. “It isn’t that I won’t talk about it.” He shrugged, inexplicable discomfort, walked over to the cave’s opening and leaned himself into its curve. “There’s nothing to say.
I served, I lived, I went home. A great many others have bigger stories to tell.”
A long moment of silence, then Wil was suddenly there behind him, slipping a light hand to the small of Dallin’s back, propping his chin to Dallin’s shoulder. Dallin took inordinate comfort from it, despite the unfathomable disquiet roiling in his gut.
“It was children,” Wil said quietly into Dallin’s coat, tightening his hand just a fraction when a small shudder flittered up Dallin’s backbone. “Wasn’t it?”
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No denial would come to Dallin, though he wanted one desperately. Instead, “Why would you think that?”
he asked hoarsely.
Wil sighed. “It’s why the children in Kenley haunt you so. You went and turned them into your own private ghosts. I’d thought it was what happened here all those years ago, but… I expect that would only make what you saw in the army worse.” Dallin firmed his jaw, but Wil didn’t back off. “It’s always worse when it’s children,” he murmured.
And just like that, it was all there, behind Dallin’s eyes, all of it, inescapable. Things smothered mercilessly and buried just as deeply as that day more than twenty years ago when he’d left these Bounds locked beneath the bench of a tinker’s cart. No tears came, no wrenching sorrow—
just that fiery rage, burning in his chest, in his head, acid boiling in his stomach and searing up his backbone.
Dallin lifted the cup slowly, drained it, and then just as slowly, lowered it. He gripped it in both hands. The sun was high above the treeline over the hills, sharding into his eyes, but it took the shadows away, so he kept looking.
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