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  Dream

  By Carole Cummings

  Aisling Trilogy: Book Two

  To reveal the intricate machinations threatening them, two men must learn to trust each other. But how can they, when their hearts and minds—their realities—are subject to manipulation?

  When he set out to escort the prisoner Wilfred Calder back to Putnam, Constable Dallin Brayden didn’t anticipate the political betrayal and malicious magic threatening their lives at every turn. To his surprise, he slips into the role of protector—and it’s more than duty compelling him to ensure Wil’s safety as they’re haunted by strange dreams. But does Wil dare put himself in the hands of a man he believes wants him dead?

  Wil’s past weighs heavily on him, tainting his perceptions as he struggles his way through a tangle of lies. With both will and magic as his weapons, he fights desperately for survival—and his soul. For the Aisling is coveted by more than the Guild and the Brethren; ancient gods and soul-eating spirits also want what lives within him. His only chance might be Dallin and his goddess, the Mother, who Wil has been taught to despise above all others.

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Map

  Aisling: The Story So Far….

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  Glossary

  Exclusive Excerpt

  More from Carole Cummings

  Readers love Blue on Black by Carole Cummings

  About the Author

  By Carole Cummings

  Visit DSP Publications

  Copyright

  This one’s for Julia

  Aisling: The Story So Far….

  PUTNAM’S FIRST Constable, Dallin Brayden, is called upon to question a man brought in as a witness to murder. From the moment Dallin encounters the man who claims to be Wilfred Calder, things begin to skew off-kilter—from the not-quite-recognition Dallin feels when he first lays eyes on Wil to the fact that one man beat another to death, apparently as a result of an argument over Wil himself. Before Dallin can get answers, Wil skips town. It seems Wil is actually the Aisling, the Chosen of his country—Ríocht—sporadically at war with Dallin’s country, Cynewísan (also known as the Commonwealth), for as long as anyone can remember. And the return of Wil to Ríocht is the only thing that will keep the war horns from blowing this time. Dallin is commanded by the chief of Putnam’s constabulary to track Wil down and bring him back.

  Dallin sets off on Wil’s trail, and notices there are others on it as well, others who have burned an entire village and murdered its denizens in their pursuit. Dallin finally catches up with Wil in Dudley just as Wil’s pursuers do. A violent confrontation ensues, and once Dallin takes care of those who are after Wil, Wil once again tries to run from Dallin. Dallin jails him with the cooperation of Dudley’s sheriff.

  Under Dallin’s interrogation, Wil tells a tale of decades-long captivity and addiction, and a man, Síofra, who kidnapped an infant Wil and had been keeping him prisoner in order to control his magic until the Brethren—Wil’s other pursuers, and self-appointed agents of the Father, Ríocht’s patron deity—stormed Ríocht’s citadel and took Wil away. It wasn’t a rescue, Wil says, just another kidnapping, and his captivity no less horrifying than it had been with Síofra. Wil is the Aisling, he tells Dallin, one who can enter the dreams of others, and manipulate them into doing his bidding. Wil also says Dallin is the Guardian, a being of magic meant to guard against the Aisling and his power.

  Dallin doesn’t believe in magic, but he’s seen plenty of evidence that Wil is in danger, and that returning him to Ríocht and Síofra would be no less perilous—both to Wil and Cynewísan. Despite his orders to capture and return Ríocht’s Chosen, Dallin decides he needs to protect Wil, if he can get Wil to trust him. Before he can even try, the Brethren attack the jail. Dallin and Dudley’s militia manage to fight them off, after which Dallin and Wil flee into the wilderness.

  They decide to head to Lind, the northern country where Dallin was born, the place out of which Dallin’s mother smuggled him when he was a boy and Lind was attacked, apparently by forces sent by Síofra and looking for Dallin. Dallin barely remembers it, but he thinks it’s the place there might be answers, and they have nowhere else to turn.

  On their way, they stop at an inn for the night, during which Dallin dreams things that seem to confirm what Wil has told him. The Mother comes to him in the dream and tells Dallin he is indeed the Guardian, and he’s meant to protect the Aisling, not protect against him. She calls on Dallin to guard her precious Gift.

  Dallin wakes, still disbelieving, but then he makes a joke that Wil should prove it all to him by making it rain. Wil does.

  1

  “HEY. HEY, Wil, c’mon, wake up.”

  Wil swatted blindly, realizing too late in his sleep stupor that he’d done it with his right hand. A low hiss skidded through his teeth, and he curled the now-throbbing hand—thank you, Brayden—to his chest. He dragged open hazy eyes. Shut one. Squinted.

  “Are you all right?” Brayden’s tone was all urgent disquiet. When Wil only blinked in muzzy irritation, Brayden’s face pinched up with worry, and he took Wil by the shoulders to roughly sit him up. “C’mon now, say something, do one thing I ask, all right? I’m drowning here.”

  Annoyed, Wil shrugged out of the grip. “Get off, will you? ’M sleeping.”

  And why was he annoyed and not afraid? Where had his reflexes gone, damn it?

  A balled-up something came at Wil’s nose—another handkerchief? What the hell?—pressing a little too roughly. Wil tried swatting that away too, but Brayden shook his head.

  “Just calm down. You’re bleeding.”

  And if that wasn’t the dumbest contradiction Wil had ever heard.

  “What…? Why am I—?”

  “What were you dreaming?” Brayden gently but intractably tipped Wil’s head back, pressing fingers at either side of the bridge of Wil’s nose.

  Wil fumbled at the handkerchief and squinted fuzzily at the ceiling. “Coffee.” He frowned. “I was dreaming about coffee, and… rain, I think, but I don’t—” Suspicion crowded out the sleep haze and murky confusion. “Why d’you care?”

  Wil pushed Brayden’s hand away and snatched the handkerchief. Brayden let him, leaping back as though Wil had just spit hot coals at him. He just stood there, looking down at Wil with a mix of disbelief and too-cogent dismay, shaking his head slowly back and forth.

  Wil couldn’t decide between bewilderment, apprehension, or pique. “What?”

  Brayden didn’t say anything, just stared, still shaking his head like he was trying to deny Wil’s very existence, before he turned slowly, stunned gaze going inexorably to the little window above the cupboard. Staring, as though the steady drops of rain had mesmerized—

  The rain.

  It all slipped into place, snapped into a broader shape, like those puzzle pieces Brayden was always on about. Every bit of blood in Wil’s body dropped to his gut, leaving him cold and sickeningly numb. “Oh shit.”

  Brayden’s hand was tangled in his hair now, as if he’d gone to brush it back and forgotten what he was doing halfway through. “Yeah” was all he said.

  His voice was thin and shakier than Wil had ever heard it before. Wil’s own dawning dread was somehow temporized by the fact that Brayden looked almost as shocked and repelled as Wil felt.

  “You were there.” Wil’s voice was just as tremulous as Brayden’s had been. “How did you—?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Brayden turned to look at Wil—dark, intelligent eyes gone wide and near vacant now. He frowned. “No. No, I… I mean, yes. Yes, I do. I think I do.” He looked at Wil, still k
nocked for six, but earnest now. “Millard was right. She loves you.”

  And that was just about enough of that. Wil threw back the tangle of bedding and lurched up, only half noticing the dull spikes of pain that shot through his hips, his thighs, even his arse as he did so. Damn it, he’d had a feeling he was going to pay for a day in the saddle. He ignored it, skirted clumsily around Brayden, and made a dive for his pack on the floor. Wil backed himself out of Brayden’s immediate reach, hugging the pack to his chest as though it was going to offer even the smallest protection when Brayden decided to… to… well, to do whatever he meant to do.

  Except Brayden didn’t look as if he meant to do anything but stare at Wil in troubled bemusement. He merely turned his head and followed Wil with his gaze.

  “You’re still bleeding,” Brayden said quietly. “Looks like it’s slowed some, but check your ear too.”

  Wil swiped at his ear, then his nose, then backed up another few steps and into the wall when Brayden leaned over, retrieved the stained handkerchief from the bed, and held it out. Brayden did it all without taking a single step, the breadth of his reach going from the bed to the wall where Wil cringed without having to so much as stretch. No wonder he wasn’t chasing Wil around the room—he could probably reach every corner of it without moving more than two steps.

  “Take it.” Brayden held the wad of bloody linen out between his fingers. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to grab for you. Just take it before you bleed to death.”

  Slowly, cautiously, Wil reached out, eyes never leaving Brayden’s. A shudder he couldn’t help swept along his backbone when his bloody fingertips brushed Brayden’s knuckles.

  “What do you mean to do?” It was small and too timid, mumbled through the ball of blood and linen.

  Brayden looked as though he hadn’t thought of anything beyond the damned handkerchief. He rubbed at his face, the scratch of callused fingertips against the bristly growth on his chin louder than it should have been, but it was like Wil’s senses had trebled. He could hear raindrops searing and sizzling in the flue of the chimney, could hear ash tremble loose from the dying coals in the fireplace and sough down through the grate, could feel the infinitesimal drop in temperature with each one. He would swear he could hear Brayden’s heart beating, almost as loud in his ears as his own.

  “Do?” Brayden laughed, a low, arched snort without a trace of mirth. “I’ve been called. No.” He frowned, jaw clenched, and cast his gaze out the window. “No. I’ve been dragged into a calling I didn’t even believe ten minutes ago.” He shifted his glance to Wil, mouth twisting with bitter irony. “And it’s really not what you think it is. Whatever sinister things they told you, they were lies. Besides being a foul little shit who drugs and preys on little boys, Síofra’s a bloody filthy liar. He lied because he wanted you to be afraid of me. It’s why he sent those men to Lind, and… I don’t know, but She certainly—” He cut himself off, head tilting. “How could you have believed…?” A baffled pause. “How can you look at Her and not see the way She loves you? How could you ever think She means you harm?”

  Wil shook his head slowly, inching his way along the wall toward the door, eyes locked to Brayden’s. Curiously, Brayden only watched him do it, a peculiar raw interest in his gaze, like he was seeing Wil for the first time and didn’t know what to make of him.

  “You’ve seen Her?” Wil couldn’t help asking, voice low and hoarse, vibrating with both reluctant wonder and profound betrayal.

  Brayden didn’t answer the question, merely flicked a look over Wil and said, “You might want to put on some trousers before you bolt. And your boots.”

  Wil stared. “You’d… I can…?”

  Again Brayden didn’t answer, only slouched over to the bed, sat heavily, then propped an elbow to his knee and dropped his head into his hand. He rubbed at his brow.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he muttered to the floor. “I’m meant to protect you. She ordered me to—She bloody chastised me for not doing my job—” A cynical laugh barked out of him, and he looked at Wil. “Except She didn’t tell me how I’m supposed to convince you I’m not going to kill you, and I can’t prove a negative. The only way I can prove it is to keep not killing you, but you’ll go on expecting it, I’ll go on terrifying you without meaning to, and when you look at me like that, like I’m the worst monster conjured from your darkest nightmares, it makes me want to take your head off, so how am I supposed to…?” He threw his hands out. “Do I let you go, let you walk right into whatever’s out there waiting for you? Do I keep you a prisoner for your own good? You tell me.” Wil saw nothing in his eyes but honest confusion and earnest asking. “What d’you want me to do? What do you want?”

  It resonated right through Wil’s chest, rife with remembered surprise and cautious hope, and he echoed back the answer he’d given the last time the question was put to him. “I want to not be afraid anymore.”

  Brayden winced, as if hearing the words was another confirmation of something he didn’t want to believe. Wary, Wil lowered the handkerchief, fairly certain now the bleeding had stopped, and peered curiously at Brayden. It scared Wil a little to see Brayden like this. From the moment Wil had laid eyes on him, Brayden had oozed confidence and good sense, wily intelligence, and the capability to bend any circumstance to what he chose. To go from that to this… disoriented perplexity… it was almost as unnerving as knowing that what had set it off was too real to be denied.

  “All right.” Brayden sucked in a long, bracing breath. “I want you to not be afraid anymore too, but I don’t know how to… I didn’t mean to… to….” He waved his great hand about. “I didn’t mean to ‘follow’ you, and I don’t even really think I did—I think She did—and even if I did, I’ll be buggered if I know how, and I’ve no idea—”

  “She was there?”

  “She brought me. I wouldn’t’ve been there had it not been—”

  “You’re always there.” It just… blurted out of Wil, heated and furious, before he realized what he’d said and shut his mouth. He hugged his pack a little closer to his chest.

  Brayden blinked over at him, eyebrows twisted tight. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Wil’s teeth clenched, and he shook his head, angry and mortified when tears seared the backs of his eyes.

  “You’re always there.” It was maddening, enraging, that not only did Brayden really not know, but that Wil couldn’t stop himself from enlightening him. “You’ve always been there, Watching me. You just didn’t know it, because… because….”

  Wil was posturing as if he knew what he was talking about, and strangely, Brayden was listening to him. Inexplicably it drove up Wil’s anger until it spilled out his mouth like messy splatters of poison.

  “Because you’re a great lummox of a man who thinks if he just reasons hard enough and believes hard enough, everything will be as he thinks it should be. You didn’t want to see, you didn’t want to know. And now you’re going to sit there and tell me that all this time, She’s been watching, She’s been seeing, and you could but you wouldn’t, and there I was—” Wil bared his teeth in a snarl. “You want me to believe Síofra lied, made me afraid of you because he was afraid of you, and all right, it makes sense, but it doesn’t fix anything! Where was She for all this time? Where were you?”

  He hadn’t any idea that any of that was coming. It was as if he was listening from the outside as every word shot from his mouth in little darts of betrayal. His mind was caroming back and forth, remembering everything he’d been told, everything he’d believed, and the possible relief of contemplating it all for lies was almost a bigger betrayal than having been lied to in the first place. It would almost be less wrenching to think that this man—this Guardian—was everything Wil had ever thought he was, that he’d just been playing with Wil all this time, letting him suffer through small snatches at hope so it would be all the more painful when he finally took it away.

  Believing that She knew, that S
he’d sent Brayden—Her bloody damned Guardian—that Brayden had been there at Wil’s back all this time and done nothing….

  He didn’t know what to do with himself. There was a chasm at his feet, and he was standing on sand.

  “I’m sorry.” Brayden’s voice was soft, almost small. “I didn’t know.”

  Wil… slipped.

  “Why didn’t you know? You were there, you were Watching, and He just… sleeps, always sleeps, and mumbles things at me I don’t understand, tells me She loves me, and then just… just goes away when I ask Him for… to make it stop. I thought it was….”

  Tears were burning Wil’s eyes and cheeks, but he didn’t care anymore. His throat was rough and sore, but he couldn’t stop screaming.

  “I thought I was being punished, and I couldn’t… couldn’t make the thing I was being punished for stop, and I hated Him because He made me, and I hated Her because She didn’t care, and all the while—” A rough snarl nearly closed Wil’s throat. “You say She loves me like it’s supposed to make everything all right. I don’t want to know She loves me. I want to think She’s dead, or She hates me and laughs when I scream, and now you’re sorry!”

  He threw the pack, hurling it as hard as he could at Brayden’s head. Brayden only dipped a little to the side, dark gaze following the pack’s trajectory as it bounced on the bed and down to the floor. He looked back at Wil, the regret in his eyes lancing another wrenching spike into Wil’s heart.

  “What am I supposed to do with ‘sorry’ now?” Wil said, a whisper this time, broken and hollow.

  Brayden was silent for a long time, just looking at Wil, before he shook his head and pushed out a heavy sigh. “I expect you could tell me to shove it up my arse. But I would ask you to consider that perhaps I might have known, had my home not been attacked before anyone could tell me.”

  …Oh.

  Wil closed his eyes. The softness of the words, the quiet intent behind them—it hit Wil right behind the breastbone, sharp and raw.