Aisling 2: Dream Read online

  It was almost belatedly that Wil thought of Millard, of how he’d known simply by shaking Brayden’s hand.

  Wil snatched at Calder’s elbow. “You can’t let that man touch him.” He flicked a look over at Shaw, busy with preparations for surgery, then back to Calder. “He’ll know, he’ll see.”

  Calder merely shook his head, giving Wil’s hand a light pat as he extracted himself from the frantic grip.

  “Lad,” he said quietly, “Shaw is the rare man who won’t see when blindness is necessary and won’t ask questions you shouldn’t answer. Trust him as you do me.”

  Uh-huh. Wil just let his mouth pinch, lifted an eyebrow, and let his distinct lack of trust show plainly.

  Calder didn’t even waste time or effort on reassurances Wil wouldn’t believe anyway, only smirked a little and went to join the shaman.

  Shaw was quick and precise, bullying Calder into getting Brayden laid out face-down on a cot that was much too small for him. Wil tried to stop them from cutting Brayden’s coat from him—and his shirt and vest and trousers, but mostly the coat—but Shaw patiently explained that as much of the surrounding fabric as possible must be removed so he could get a good look at the position and angle of the wound before removing the blade. Wil gave Brayden an apologetic shrug and stifled his protest. Brayden was past protest, but managed to growl his dissent when he heard Shaw mention mæting—

  Wil didn’t back down from that objection. They used 126

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  valerian and arnica, instead. A lot of it.

  Wil was chided by Shaw several times—gently, at first, and then rather insistently—for keeping the rifle poised across his torso and himself propped against the damp stone wall, but Wil refused to be moved on either point.

  He suffered himself to be chivvied into a far corner only because Shaw would stop sighing at him every time he tripped over him, and because Wil still had a good view and semi-tactical angle, but that was the only concession he made. These men may be Brayden’s best chance, but that didn’t mean Wil had to trust them utterly.

  For the most part, he watched quietly, listening to the dulcet chatter between the two men as they worked, alert for anything suspicious, but he didn’t really know what they were talking about in the first place, and in the second place, the many sharp little implements Shaw was using were plenty suspicious, but they were obviously healing tools. Wil only continued to follow the actions and words carefully, assuming he’d know somehow if something began to go wrong.

  After much serious discussion between Calder and Shaw, the blood was sluiced from Brayden’s bared back, leaving only the knife and the small bits of fabric caught by its blade. Shaw unfolded a thin green blanket and covered Brayden’s legs, then cleansed the area about the knife with water then two oils, pausing now and again when Brayden would loose a small gasp or moan. It had the feel of unnecessary ritual to Wil, but it didn’t seem to be causing an inordinate amount of pain and he didn’t know enough about it to object, so he kept silent. He watched with interest as Calder removed a small carved token from a pouch on his belt, kissed it then placed it between his palms. His eyes fell closed, hands pressed together in front of his chest, head slightly bowed. Shaw only stood over Brayden and waited, patiently eyeing 127

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  Calder, with quick glances down to Brayden’s face now and again.

  Even in the warm glow of two torches and five oil lamps, Brayden was still ashen, his skin going waxy, hair plastered to his face in sticky swirls of gold going to ochre with sweat. He appeared deeply asleep, but Wil noted the frequent twitch of a frown twisting his eyebrows, the clenching and unclenching of his fist where it lay on the cot near his hip.

  Calder leaned over the narrow bed, the little charm still between his hands as he hovered them over the knife, rubbing the token between his palms in rhythm to the low chant that flowed from his softly moving lips. A healing song in the First Tongue, likely persuading the Mother to look upon her child and send Her blessings upon the path toward healing. At least Wil assumed. Hoped. The song wound into the silence, working itself to a low crescendo; Shaw seemed to have been waiting for it. He splayed the fingers of one hand to either side of the blade, took hold of the hilt with the other, and slowly drew it out of the gash. Brayden didn’t cry out, but his fist clenched tight, knuckles white, and his jaw clamped, the muscles of his broad back contracting and bunching beneath pallid skin as he clawed in a harsh, shallow breath and held it.

  Shaw worked quickly, staunching the slow ooze of blood with herb-soaked cloths, douching the wound with an infusion of oil and water. Brayden’s face remained pinched and drawn with pain, scrunching into a stony grimace, pallor going near-white when the shaman’s long fingers dipped down into the wound. Shaw’s eyes closed as his head bowed down, concentrating.

  Calder began his song again, different this time—more soothing than insistent, the tone more beseeching than demanding. It seemed hours went by while Shaw’s long fingers worked, Calder’s chanting wending into Time 128

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  itself, stretching it and then pressing it narrow, until the hymn finally wound down. Calder withdrew, sweating and breathing hard now, then tipped a weary nod to Shaw. Shaw only grimaced, jerking a quick negation, and watched his fingers sink into Brayden’s wound yet again.

  Wil watched it for as long as he could. “That’s hurting him,” he finally blurted, though quietly. “Aren’t you through yet?”

  “It’s deep,” Shaw replied, just as quietly, eyes shut tight, head tilting slightly to the side. “I need to see if it’s hit anything important.”

  Wil was under the impression that pretty much everything in there was fairly important. “Well, give him something more for the pain,” he demanded.

  The silent clenching and twitching was more unnerving than screaming would’ve been. Wil was beginning to feel an absurd phantom-pain in his own lower back every time Shaw’s fingers moved. The whole business was setting his teeth on edge.

  Shaw only shook his head. “I’ve given him enough for two men. I daren’t—”

  “He’s the size of three men,” Wil insisted. “Look at his face, he can feel everything you’re—”

  “More might kill him,” Calder put in evenly. “Shall we take the chance?”

  He stared at Wil, challenging; Wil stared back, fuming.

  If he knew a little more about all this healing business…

  He backed down, slouched against the wall, and shut his mouth.

  A small eternity later, Shaw slumped back, withdrew his fingers then reached for a clean cloth to mop up the blood. “Nothing vital,” he said, more to Calder than to Wil, but he politely flicked his glance between them a few times.

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  decided ‘nothing vital’ wasn’t precise enough. “So, he’ll be all right?”

  “The blade missed all of the organs,” Shaw told him tiredly, sorting through his kit again for a suture needle.

  “Very fortunate. But it was long and the wound very deep. He’s lost a lot of blood, but he’s very fit and should rebuild from that quickly. If we can avoid infection…”

  Shaw shrugged, shot Wil an apologetic glance.

  “And how do we avoid infection?” Wil asked with a frown.

  Shaw sighed and turned a dour look on Calder. “We hope,” Calder answered.

  Two shamans—one of them an Old One, the most powerful Clan Elders in the known world, renowned for their magic and healing skills—and they were going to leave it up to hope? Wil narrowed his eyes, scowled. Not bloody likely.

  “Do the—?” Wil stepped in close to Calder and lowered his voice. “Is the Guardian a shaman?”

  Calder puffed a jaded little snort. “Lad,” he said slowly, “the Guardian is the Shaman.”

  Wil nodded, satisfied, then went back to his stance against the wall. Kept watching.r />
  He counted fourteen sutures, wincing a little every time the tiny curved needle dipped and pulled. It would probably leave a worthy scar, at least. Wil hadn’t noticed before—he hadn’t really looked—but Brayden’s lack of additional scars was fairly remarkable, now that Wil thought about it. Brayden had spent eight years in the military, quite in the thick of it, from the little he’d divulged about it. It was strange that he was relatively unmarked. He was obviously very good at what he did—

  Wil had been rather impressed with the smooth, curling moves in the alley, the dependence not on brute force, but finesse and brains—but he had to wonder if it was even 130

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  possible to be that good.

  Once the suturing was done, it was all rather anticlimactic. Brayden seemed to finally sink into a heavy sleep—painless, at least in the depths of it, Wil hoped—

  breathing going deep and even, a slight touch of color leaching back into otherwise waxen features. Calder helped with lifting and turning him while Shaw changed the sheet then wound a bandage around his torso, and covered him with a thick blanket Calder retrieved for him from… well, Wil didn’t know, but somewhere else. Shaw tried to get Wil to come away, but Calder didn’t even bother to argue—he brought Wil a chair, propping it next the cot without a word.

  Wil peered at him sideways with a frown as he sank slowly into the uncomfortable thing. There hadn’t been much of a chance to even think, let alone ask questions, but now that he was here, more-or-less trapped in this damp basement, placing too much trust in people he didn’t know, one question rose to the fore: “Why?” Wil asked, made a vague gesture toward his own face and let his gaze settle on the scar stretching over Calder’s cheek.

  Calder leaned himself into the wall, glance flicking between Wil and Brayden. “Only one may venture beyond the Bounds wearing the Marks. Only one’s Path has been Blessed.” He shrugged. “We do what we must.”

  “It must’ve hurt,” Wil put in quietly, and he didn’t just mean physical pain. He only knew probably half of what those Marks meant to their wearers— Mother’s Soldier, Brayden had said they spelled out. For someone like Calder, once an Old One from Lind, the land that claimed to be the birthplace of everything, even the Mother Herself, to remove them must have been like losing a limb.

  Calder merely shrugged. “We do what we must,” he repeated.

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  “Did he do it for you?” Wil jerked his chin toward Shaw, still puttering silently, flitting in and out the close little room with fresh potions and clean water.

  Calder paused before answering, waited for Shaw to flit back out again. “He is the only one I would trust for such a business,” was all he said.

  Wil sighed, slouched down in the chair, feeling the events of the day settle into his bones. He’d been half-expecting the pain in his hand to flare and renew itself, what with how much he’d been using it today, but it failed to throb or ache. He was glad. Considering what Brayden had been through, the residual ache of a few broken fingers seemed quite petty. The ache of an empty belly, on the other hand, was another thing entirely.

  Now that the anxiety was receding, hunger was starting to tap lightly. That made Wil think of the packs in the saddlebags, which in turn made him think of—

  “Someone needs to retrieve the horses,” he told Calder.

  “We left them at the temporary posts by the gates. Has Shaw got a boy or someone who could go and get them?”

  He’d seen Brayden put the chit in the breast pocket of his tunic. Wil hoped no one had pitched the clothes they’d cut away. The money and Brayden’s handguns were distributed about Wil’s own pockets.

  Calder shook his head. “They’ll be watching,” he said brusquely. “Can’t chance it.”

  Wil opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t come up with anything reasonable with which to negate the statement. Except that he wanted them back, but he didn’t think Calder would be moved by that vague sentiment.

  Wil couldn’t help the thwarted scowl.

  “What’ll happen to them?” he wanted to know.

  A shrug as Calder pulled up his own chair, planted it next to Wil’s and dropped into it. “When no one claims them by the time the gates close tonight, they’ll likely go 132

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  to the common livery for boarding by the city.”

  “Where is that?” Wil asked. “We need the packs, at least.” He could sneak in easily, he was sure—wait ’til after dark, slip in, retrieve the packs and slip back out again. He was good at it. He’d often suspected he’d make a good thief, should he ever decide to put his mind to it.

  “Let it go for now,” Calder said, closed his eyes and rubbed at the back of his neck. “You’ve come away with your lives. Let that be enough for tonight.”

  “No thanks to you.” Wil couldn’t help the bitter little growl. He glanced at Brayden, lying on his stomach, face scrunched into the flat pillow, and feet hanging over the edge of the mattress. Wil got up without thinking, angled himself to the foot of the small bed and pulled the blanket down to cover Brayden more evenly. “What were you doing to him?” he wanted to know, tucking the ends about Brayden’s bare feet. “He said you’d been mucking about in his head, and no one could’ve got behind him otherwise.” He straightened to level a mild glare at Calder. “Whatever you were doing, it was cocking up his reflexes.”

  Calder sighed. “We didn’t know where either of you had gone,” he said evenly. “We didn’t know what had become of you.” He flicked a narrow glance up. “Nor what you’d become. I had to know.”

  Wil walked slowly back to his chair and sat down.

  “And are you satisfied now?” he asked, voice soft and level, a slight bit of challenge leaking into the tone.

  “I know what he is.” Calder nodded toward Brayden.

  “Better than he does, I expect, else I wouldn’t’ve been able to touch him, let alone cock anything up.” Calder angled a shrewd sideways stare at Wil. “What you are is an entirely different matter.”

  Wil snorted. “Is this where I’m meant to come over all weepy and spill my guts?” He slouched down in his chair, 133

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  jaw clenched, and twitched his chin toward Brayden.

  “He knows,” he said quietly. “If he chooses to trust you with it, I’ll abide by his decision.” His gaze slanted back toward Calder, hard. “Right now it only matters who I trust.” A shrug. “I trust him.”

  He let the rest hang there, unspoken.

  Frowned a little as the truth of the statement sank in.

  Huh. Who knew?

  Calder didn’t seem to take offence, just sighed again, weary and resigned. “His magic has a green feel to it,”

  he said, low and rough, “new and largely unclaimed.” A slight frown wrinkled his browned forehead. “He fears it, I think.”

  Wil thought about it for a moment then shook his head. “He fears very little,” he told Calder. “He denies it because his life made it necessary to disbelieve. Give him time.”

  “It isn’t mine to give.” Calder paused, his gaze sliding sideways. “And you may not have it.” It was quiet, no judgment.

  Wil flicked out a hand, palm-up. He shrugged.

  “When you’ve lived outside of Time…” Or spent who-knows-how-many years drugged out of your mind and dreaming at someone else’s command… Wil chewed his lip, discomfited suddenly at what he’d nearly said, out loud and to a stranger. He looked away. “It’s all relative, I expect.”

  “That tells me very little. And I don’t mind telling you that the only reason you’re a guest in the temple and not a prisoner is because I could read him,” Calder jerked his chin at Brayden, “which I shouldn’t’ve been able to do.”

  He looked Wil over keenly, pursed his lips. “Where’ve you been, lad?”

  Genuine concern and distress. Accompanied by a vast question without any simple answe
rs, regardless of the 134

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  angle from which it was approached.

  Wil stared at Brayden in the light of the lamps, at the steadiness of his breathing, at the intermittent flick and twitch of his eyebrows as a spasm of pain worked its lethargic way through the haze of sedatives and exhaustion—Brayden had barely slept the past several nights, after all.

  Scowling, Wil couldn’t help but be uncomfortably reminded of how annoyed he’d been on several occasions when on the receiving-end of Brayden’s orders, or questions, or even a well-meant instruction. Couldn’t help but remember the authentic solicitude and consideration looking back at him from those dark-dark eyes, even from that first night, though Wil had refused to see it.

  Damn it, Brayden, the one time I really need you to muscle your way in and take charge, and you’re too busy trying not to die.

  “I think…”

  Wil looked down at the rifle propped across his knees, picked a little at the dirty linen wrapped about his hand.

  Thought about how he’d walked a straight line for three years, his feet leading him inexorably, even when his head tried to direct him otherwise. Thought about Brayden’s commander’s apparent remarks, how he’d fought his way into Ríocht and tried to fight on and into the Guild itself.

  How he obviously had no idea that he’d a motivation other than duty to his country.

  Wil rubbed at his brow, gusted a tired sigh. “Seeking,”

  he muttered to his lap, blinked up at Calder, and then quickly looked away again. He cleared his throat. “Is there anything to eat around here?”

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  They mustered up some cold vegetable pasties for both Wil and Calder. Shaw apologized for the lack of gravy.

  Wil ate them dry and with no complaints. The vegetables were tender and the crust divinely flaky, and cold filled his belly just as well as hot did. A cup of deep red wine accompanied the meal, its flavor rich and woody, with a touch of smoke beneath it. It was overtly suspicious, terribly rude, and a little bit silly, considering he’d wolfed down the food without a second-thought, but Wil waited until Calder had taken a sip of his wine before he did the same.