Aisling 2: Dream Read online

  this Guardian—was everything Wil had ever thought he was. That Brayden had just been playing with him all this time, like a cat playing with a mouse, letting Wil suffer through small snatches at hope so it would be all the more painful when it was finally taken away. Believing that She knew, that She’d sent Her Guardian, that he’d been there at Wil’s back all this time, and done nothing…

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

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  “I’m sorry,” Brayden breathed. “I didn’t know.”

  Wil…

  slipped.

  “Why didn’t you know?” he cried. “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 his eyes and his cheeks, and he didn’t care anymore; his throat was rough and sore, and 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 his 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 hurled the pack at Brayden’s head. Brayden only dipped a little to the side and followed its 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?”

  Brayden was silent for a long time, just looking at Wil.

  And then he shook his head, sucked in a long breath and pushed it out in a heavy sigh. “I expect you could tell me to shove it up my arse,” he said quietly. “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, and the quiet intent behind them—it was sharper than the keenest blade.

  “I—”

  “You didn’t know, you were a child, it wasn’t your fault, I understand that.” Brayden’s voice was still quiet, 16

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  very calm, but there was a slow swell of wrath writhing beneath it. “Just give me the same benefit, all right? We’ve enough blame and blindness between us already, I think.”

  All of Wil’s own wrath seemed to have left him. He was disoriented without it. “How do you know… you’re…

  you’re not—?”

  “Those marks the Brethren wear,” Brayden cut in,

  “those tattoos—d’you know what those are?” He didn’t wait for Wil to answer. “They’re Clan-marks, the tokens of the Old Ones, Lind’s shamans, only they don’t just tattoo them on, they etch them right into their skin.

  They’re runes that spell out Wæpenbora in the First Tongue; do you know what that means?” Again, he didn’t wait for an answer. “It means paladin, weapon-bearer, warrior protector, Mother’s soldier. And the funny thing is, written language in Lind is forbidden, except for the different Clan-marks. My father wore the Mark of the Weardas, they’re only a little different, and I didn’t know what they meant until ten minutes ago. I didn’t bloody remember. I’d seen them for the first ten years of my life, and yet I didn’t recognize them. I saw them on those men the first night at the inn in Dudley, and I knew I’d seen them before, but…” His hands closed into fists, that low level of rage still vibrating through him, and he looked over at Wil. “All of that meaning and history in a word they likely can’t even read, and those men stole it all, took it like it belonged to them, and then tried to take away everything it means.”

  Wil thought about it. Carefully. It still wasn’t enough.

  It was too ambiguous and not nearly enough to stake his life on. “But how do you know?”

  Brayden sighed. He looked exhausted already, and it couldn’t be past sun-up yet. “Think about it, for once, and try to do it without any of Siofra’s noise cocking up the logic. You said you saw my mother. She smiled at 17

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  you, touched your cheek. Does that seem like something the mother of someone meant to kill you would do? I don’t know, because no one told me, and right, I could still convince myself She was a dream or delusion if I tried really hard, but I know now, I can’t stop knowing, and I can’t offer you any better assurance than that. I can offer you the relative-safety of my protection. You’re not helpless, you’ve survived on your own, but things have changed, and this is… this is fucking huge.” He rubbed at his brow, agitated but trying not to show it. “I can help you, but not if you keep trying to run from me, not if you still insist on believing I’m going to murder you. I can’t make you trust me, and I can’t keep seeing that, that…

  look in your eyes.”

  A sharp rap at the door startled them both. Even though it nearly loosed a shriek from Wil’s throat, he was almost glad for the interruption. He kept caroming from hope to guilt to suspicion to wrathful outrage, and every word Brayden spoke pushed Wil closer to some kind of edge.

  “Open up in there!” barked from the other side of the door. More pounding rattled the hinges, heavy this time, and impatient. “Open up, I say!”

  Wil looked from the direction of the command, over to Brayden, half-expecting him to throw himself between Wil and the door. But Brayden merely drew his gun from the holster strapped to his thigh, slipped his hand beneath the bedding. He nodded at Wil.

  Wil raised his eyebrows but did as indicated. He opened the door cautiously to a red-faced innkeep. The man’s hand was raised in a fist, as though caught in mid-knock, and his mouth was open on more thwarted demands.

  There was a thick, nasty-looking cudgel hanging by his hip, gripped in a tight fist.

  “There’ve been complaints from the other guests,” the 18

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  man said guardedly, shot his glance over Wil’s shoulder and narrowed his eyes in suspicion, presumably at Brayden. “Said there was shouting up here, like murder was being done.” He looked back at Wil, eyes lingering pointedly on the yellowing bruises, on the bandaged hand, on Wil’s no doubt blood-stained nose and lip, and his overall disheveled state. The man leaned in and lowered his voice. “Everything all right, lad?”

  Wil only stared at him, dropped his gaze then angled it slowly over his shoulder. Brayden watched him—no warnings in his eyes, no threats; just a cool interest in what Wil would do. Wil was pretty interested himself. If he shot the innkeep a desperate glance, whispered to the man— help, I’m afraid, he’s kidnapped me, anything—

  the man would be an instant ally. Wil could run, and no one would try to stop him but Brayden—maybe not even Brayden—and if Brayden did try to stop him, he’d be so occupied with explaining the situation and trying not to get himself arrested that Wil would be long-gone before the tangle was sorted.

  Brayden just kept staring, no blame in those dark eyes, no condemnation. Wil stared back, not a coherent thought in his head. He turned slowly back to the innkeep.

  Unaccountably, Wil found himself nodding. “Thank you, everything’s fine. I’m afraid I was dreaming and woke with a nosebleed, and I rather…” A warm flush flooded his cheeks, and he swiped at his face, embarrassed, in case there was any residual moisture to tip his would-be rescuer off that he’d been blubbering like a five-year-old only two minutes ago. “I rather went to pieces for a little while, until I finally realized I was awake, and…”

  The man was still eyeing Brayden dubiously over Wil’s shoulder. Damn it, he wasn’t going to go away unless he was convinced someone wasn’t going to get murdered in one of his rooms, and right now he seemed fairly 19

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  convinc
ed that Brayden was the one who’d done the damage to Wil. If the situation weren’t so surreal, Wil might’ve laughed. Hahaha, look at this, me coming to the defense of big, scary Constable Brayden, oh the irony…

  Wil cleared his throat and looked down with an uneasy shrug. “I had a…. I was accosted several days ago by brigands,” he waved vaguely at his face, “and I’m afraid some of the effects… linger. I’m very sorry to have disturbed the peace of your establishment.”

  The innkeep’s tense stance softened immediately—he even looked a little abashed. “It’s quite all right, there, Mister…?”

  “Wil.” He gestured over his shoulder. “And this is my companion, Constable Brayden from Putnam.” He shot another glance back in time to see Brayden lift a bemused eyebrow.

  The innkeep bobbed a little nod. “Jarvis,” he offered.

  He stuck out his hand to Wil, then smiled apologetically when Wil glanced ruefully at the bandage. The hand withdrew. “Are you well, then, Wil? I can send for a healer, if you need—”

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary,” Wil assured him quickly. “I’ve already embarrassed myself enough. I’d just as soon forget any of it happened, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.” Jarvis was frowning concern. He hovered at the door.

  Perhaps Wil had chosen the wrong course of action.

  Perhaps he should have just barked at the man and got them thrown out; it likely would’ve been quicker.

  “My Elli brews a brilliant headache remedy,” Jarvis said with a decisive nod. “I’ll have some sent up, shall I?

  And I don’t expect you’ll want to come down to breakfast soon, what with…” He cleared his throat. “A tray, yes?

  Eggs and toast and beans and whatnot, Elli will handle it.

  I’ll send her along.”

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  “Coffee?” Brayden piped in.

  Jarvis spared him a wry smile. “Indeed,” was all he said.

  Absurdly touched, Wil thanked Jarvis warmly, then slowly shut the door on his smiling face. He leaned his forehead to the jamb, closed his eyes and sighed.

  “Um…” Brayden said from behind. “Companion?”

  A droopy little half-snort whiffed out of Wil’s chest, and he shook his head. “Ah, Cynewísan,” he muttered,

  “where the women wear trousers, the men love men, and the sheep are bored.” He turned. “I’d never have got away with that in Ríocht—they’d already have us out on the gibbets.” A shrug. “It was either companion or…

  something else I couldn’t think of in the moment.”

  “It’s fine.” Brayden waved his hand. “It’ll just confirm what he already suspected last night, I expect, and it did rather take care of… other suspicions.” He tilted his head, regarding Wil thoughtfully. “You could’ve got away.”

  Wil looked down, chewed his lip. “According to you,” he said slowly, “I don’t need to get away. I’m not a prisoner.”

  Brayden sighed, slipped the gun out from beneath the bedding and re-holstered it. “Can I ask you something?”

  he said quietly, eyes on his fingers as he re-secured the weapon.

  “You can ask,” was Wil’s cautious reply.

  Brayden didn’t acknowledge the ambiguity, just nodded a little. “Last night… well, this morning, I guess—the coffee, the rain…” He stopped fiddling, set his jaw and looked at Wil straight. “Did I hurt you?”

  Wil frowned. “Hurt me?”

  Brayden opened his hand, held it palm-up. “You said it hurt when Siofra… did the things he did.”

  “Oh.” Wil’s frown deepened. He hadn’t thought about it until now, what with the blur of… everything that had 21

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  happened since Brayden had shaken him awake. And now that he did, he wasn’t sure if it was a relief or a new worry. He shook his head. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”

  Brayden looked so relieved, Wil found himself feeling an odd sort of sympathy for him. “Then again,” Wil ventured pensively, “you didn’t… or rather I didn’t—”

  Frustrated that he couldn’t seem to find the right words, he scowled at the floor. “There was no push,” he muttered quietly, almost to himself, thinking, then he peered up with narrowed eyes. “You wanted something, and I chose to give it to you. And it didn’t hurt.” It was as simple as he could make it, as close to sense as he could come.

  “Huh.” Brayden deliberated over it for a moment.

  “Has it ever happened that way before?”

  Wil shook his head.

  “Then why the bloody nose?”

  Wil’s mouth twisted sourly. “You keep asking me these things like I know. No one told me either, y’know.”

  A slow nod and another thoughtful pause. Brayden opened his mouth, closed it, rubbed at his stubbly chin.

  “You chose to give me something.” He just left it there, kept looking at Wil, like Wil was supposed to know what he was saying or asking.

  Wil shrugged and looked down. He could feel that embarrassing flush rising to his cheeks again, and he gritted his teeth, annoyed. It wasn’t as though the dreams always made sense. In fact, sense was rather a rare thing, in his experience. It had just seemed like something he wanted to do at the time. All right, so he’d felt sort of bad about the things he’d said last night, the way he’d accused Brayden, and coffee had seemed such a small thing. Now, it was taking on significance all out of proportion.

  “It hasn’t rained in this part of the country for a long time,” Wil mumbled fractiously. “If I’d known… if I’d thought of it myself—”

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  “Right,” Brayden agreed quickly. “Rain. That makes sense.”

  Apparently, they both agreed to forget about the coffee entirely. Well, at least Brayden was as uncomfortable about it all as Wil was. It was small consolation, but consolation it was.

  Brayden shifted, cleared his throat and moved on to more neutral subjects: “Listen, I’ve not even had a piss yet.” He stood. “I’m going down the hall to take advantage of plumbing while we have it, and then you can have your turn.”

  Wil had to keep himself from blinking in surprise that Brayden was going to leave him in the room by himself.

  It was… strange, this new bit of tentative trust. And he didn’t even know yet if it was real or merited. He tried not to show his confusion, just shrugged a little and made himself busy with retrieving his pack from the floor and rummaging in it for nothing in particular.

  Brayden watched him for a moment then walked to the door, stopped. He looked at Wil over his shoulder.

  Wil didn’t look up. “I’ll be here when you get back,”

  he said quietly.

  Brayden only nodded and quit the room.

  “You still want to travel today?” Wil angled his gaze to the window. It was still pouring, and what with his new enlightenment on saddle-soreness, he realized he’d been assuming—or hoping—that they’d linger here at the inn until the rain let up.

  It was cozy, once the fire was rebuilt and stoked. Wil had got used to sharing the small space with Brayden.

  Once Wil had let go of the tension, at least, and made a concerted effort to view Brayden in the new, non-lethal 23

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  light in which he insisted upon standing. Brayden sat across from Wil on the bed, the tray between them, each of them shoveling down the generous breakfast Mistress Elli had provided, along with an unexpected but very welcome basin of hot water. Brayden wasn’t lunging at Wil, he wasn’t trying to stab him with a spoon—not that he’d need to, what with the arsenal strapped all over him—and he wasn’t trying to knock Wil unconscious so he could practice his newly learned skills at following.

  In fact, Brayden seemed even more uncomfortable with the whole idea than Wil was, and Wil wouldn’t’ve ever believed that possible. Although, he might change his mind when it came time to sleep again.


  He shuddered a little, took a bite of sausage and chewed it slowly.

  Brayden plopped a great glob of runny scrambled eggs onto his toast and chomped it down, chased it with a slurp of coffee, and shrugged. “Provided it stays nice and heavy like this, it’ll wash away our tracks. With any luck, anyone coming after us will spend days on the road north before they realize their mistake, while we’re safely detouring west, then on over to…” He paused, looked down into his coffee. “Um…” he said slowly. “We need to discuss our plan again.”

  Wil raised an eyebrow, curious. He didn’t particularly like the idea of drudging through the rain, but he hadn’t intended to argue about it.

  “I don’t think we should go to Putnam,” Brayden said.

  He looked up at Wil, somber. “I think we should go to Lind.”

  Wil’s breakfast took a slow, rolling tour around his stomach. Automatically, he shook his head, opened his mouth to protest.

  Brayden held up his hand. “Whatever else is there, they’ve got answers. They know things we don’t, things 24

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  we need to know so we can figure out what the hell we’re supposed to do. In case it’s escaped you, besides all of this…” He waved his hand about. “…this Aisling stuff, you’ve made quite a nasty political mess, and if we make a move before we know what we’re doing, we could cause a war—a real war, like The Fifty Years war, not these little Border skirmishes of the last ten years.”

  “I didn’t choose the mess, y’know,” Wil muttered, slightly sullen and fractious.

  Brayden just shook his head. “Well, it’s made, so it hardly matters.”

  “Then why d’you have to say it?” Wil snapped. He caught the lift of Brayden’s eyebrow, the sardonic tilt to his gaze, and flushed some, but clenched his teeth with a stubborn shake of his head. “I haven’t missed the obvious, I’m not slow. But the way you say it…” He spread his hands, caught between anger and bewilderment. “I never asked for this—I only wanted a life. I never intended to hurt anyone, or cause any political messes, I only ever wanted… I only want to be let to live. And not drugged