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The man shrugged, dipped his head. “I was not as careful in my seeking as I might have been,” he told Wil.

“Then you can fix your mistake,” Wil said tersely. “I assume you’re as skilled at healing as you are at… other things. Shaman.” He nodded toward Brayden. “Help him up.” He caught Brayden’s expression of anger and dismay, and looked at him straight. “Do I look like I don’t know what I’m doing?” he asked quietly.

Brayden was sucking air in through his teeth now, sweating, face twisted in a perplexed grimace of pain.

“Yeah,” he rasped, gave a slight jerky nod. “Yeah, you sorta do.”

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Wil almost twitched a smile. “Trust me.”

The other man pushed the woman away from him gently, murmuring something to her that turned her vacant smile nearly beatific. She glided back to her little alcove and crouched down in its corner, daintily adjusting her skirts. Waved at Wil.

Wil’s eyebrows rose a bit, but he didn’t wave back, just kept an eye on the man while he knelt, guided Brayden’s arm over his shoulders and levered them both up from the dirt. Once Brayden was up and the swaying subsided, Wil darted out to retrieve Brayden’s guns and sword. The guns Wil jammed into his own coat pockets, but he slid the sword carefully back into its sheath at Brayden’s hip.

“Where?” Wil asked the man.

“The Temple,” was the straightforward reply. “I’ll lead; you cover.”

Wil raised the gun again, gripped the forend, gave it a rough jerk to cock it then slipped it back beneath his arm.

“Don’t fuck with me,” was all he said.

The man’s eyebrows went up, skeptical. “You would kill me now?” he asked, more curious than surprised.

Brayden whiffled a hoarse little snort and shook his head. “Well, he’s only just met you, after all,” he told Wil.

Wil only smirked a little, shot his glance to one dead body then the other, and let the situation speak for him.

He turned his gaze hard upon the man. “What is your name?”

“Calder,” the man told him. “Barret Calder.”

Brayden shot Wil a keen, startled glance. Wil only sighed a little, wondering with some bit of surprise why he wasn’t the least bit surprised. “The Temple, then,” was all he said. “Hurry.”

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They didn’t venture out into the street, but hobbled along some of the same alleys and pathways Wil had traveled with Brayden mere moments ago, taking twists and turns that wound toward the more prosperous residences to the business district and on through the slums again. Several times they had to duck behind stray bushes or into a shadowed alcove to avoid a passerby, but by and large, the way was fairly clear, the majority of the city’s residents attending to their Market business. It only took a few minutes before Wil was completely lost and dependant upon the strange man who’d turned out to be surprisingly gentle as he dragged Brayden through the underbelly of Chester.

Wil watched their backs, turning frequently and scanning about behind them, going so far as to scrutinize the ground itself, scuffing out with the heel of his boot the occasional drops of blood that leaked slowly from Brayden’s wound. All the twists and turns in the world wouldn’t help them if they left a trail as clear as that behind them. As he’d watched Brayden do on many occasions, Wil flicked his glance to all points—even up to the roofs of the buildings through which they passed—

examining every shape and shadow for threat. Shouts and whistles still reached them, but they were far off, still concentrating the search on where they’d been, rather than where they might be now.

Brayden had gone notably silent, absorbed, Wil guessed, with keeping his feet moving and breathing through what was likely some terrifically acute pain. He lurched more clumsily than he’d done before, losing more blood the longer they wended about. Wil noted with dismay the spreading blotch darkening the back of his coat around the knife’s hilt.

The trek probably took perhaps ten minutes; it felt like forever.

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The Temple was smaller than the one Wil had seen in Putnam, though its architecture was otherwise identical in its plain, unadorned stateliness. The man—Calder, Wil made himself acknowledge—led them past several doors around back, helping Brayden carefully down a small stone stairway, hidden beneath a tangle of dead vine and bracken. It wound down below the level of the alley to a damp, moldy landing in a recess so dark and deep it was almost like stepping into night. A thick, squat wooden door slouched at the bottom. Wil kept alert, sweaty fingers twitching nervously around the trigger of the gun.

If betrayal was imminent, it would come quickly and from the other side of that door.

The cloying scent of incense was the first thing that hit Wil when the door creaked open. The suspicious look of the narrow man on the other side of it was the second. Wil almost smiled a little—now,
this
was what he’d imagined a shaman should look like: lean form backlit by a low torch sconced in the damp stone wall behind him; hair brown and longish, but combed back from his severe face and tied at the nape with a small length of plain leather; a very basic brown robe worn open and slung over simple woven tunic and trousers. The only thing remarkable about the man was the warmth that bloomed beneath the hard suspicion when he recognized his guest, and then the genuine concern he aimed directly and immediately at Brayden.

“Oh, save me, what’ve ye brought me this time?” he chided by way of welcome, swung the door open wide and gestured them anxiously through.

“Brother Shaw,” their ‘guide’ greeted the shaman, “I’ve brought you trouble as I’ve never done before.” Calder angled Brayden through the door first then gestured over his shoulder for Wil to follow. “It would do us all well if no one learned of our presence. You’d best get your kit.”

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The shaman didn’t argue or hesitate, merely headed toward a darkened doorway arched in stone. Along the way, he plucked a torch from its sconce on the wall, carried it before him, and gestured them all after. Calder nodded and made to conduct Brayden through, but Brayden jerked to as close to alertness as he’d been since they left the alley, pressed his hand to the wall to stop them.

“Wil,” he mumbled, concern and confusion both. He tried to turn his head, but the pain must have been lacing throughout his whole body, because his movements were stiff and clumsy.

Wil stepped around to save him the trouble. “Right here,” he told Brayden, calm and reassuring.

Brayden was drawn and pale, thick, clammy sweat greasing his fringe to his brow, dark eyes peering at Wil like chary little animals from the deeping of a stygian cave.

“My fault,” he wheezed. “I’m sorry. This isn’t what—”

“It’s my turn on watch,” Wil told him, pushing confidence and as much command as he could muster into his tone. “Trust me.”

“Watch the Watcher.” Brayden puffed a weak chuckle, gaze going fuzzy and trying not to. He nodded, swallowed thickly. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he muttered.

“Don’t do that,” Calder told him, serious beneath the small encouraging smile. “It’ll likely hurt like a bugger.”

Brayden blinked blearily at Wil. He let go the wall and dropped his hand to Wil’s, still wrapped about the rifle. “Keep it close,” he murmured, slightly slurred.

“Choose you. Understand?” He peered at Wil through layers of pain, trying to clear the murk that was blurring the intensity in his eyes. He leaned in. “
Wil
,” he said, through his teeth this time, “understand? Choose—”

“I understand,” Wil told him, pried Brayden’s great hand from about his own, flicked his glance over 125

The Aisling Book Two Dream

Brayden’s shoulder and met Calder’s sober gaze. Nodded.

Wil pulled up one more smile for Brayden, leaned up and in. “The hearts of mountains,” he said quietly. “Show me that contrary nature.” A slow, tired smirk. “Impress me.”

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—”