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Hunter wouldn’t have been told why Wilfred left the Bounds. He wouldn’t have been told why Barret had cut his Marks and followed later. And he obviously hadn’t yet been told that Barret had found, in a sense, what Wilfred had left looking for. Without even knowing exactly what he was looking for…

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It

still
set Dallin’s teeth on edge.

“No, we haven’t seen Wilfred,” Dallin put in, watching with a small pang as Hunter sagged and the earnest gaze dimmed. Dallin shot a quelling glance at Wil—
There,
are you happy now? You’re not the only one you hurt
when you insist on punishing yourself
—looked back at Hunter with a bit of a frown. He was so young, so full of illusions, as all young men were; his disappointment showed all too clearly, and Dallin was at a loss as to what to say to it.

Shaw saved him. “Here then, lad, did you manage to find some of that wood betony?” he asked kindly. He pointedly didn’t look at the former contents of the cup still lying spilt across the stone floor. Dallin didn’t even want to guess at which part of the previous half-hour or so the boy had walked in on that had startled him enough to drop it.

“Oh!” Hunter jumped to his feet. “My apologies, Wil from Ríocht,” he said with a small, diffident bow.

“I…” He looked over at the cup with obvious chagrin.

“It… When I…” He shook his head, flushed. “I’ll fetch another.” And then he was gone, snatching up the cup smoothly as he went, scattering the crowd that had gathered outside with a few sharp, imperious words and animated shooing gestures.

Dallin watched him go, sighed. He turned to Wil with a grimace.

Wil still had his head down, fingers working at his brow—more to hide his face now than a reaction to any lingering pain. “I know, I know,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”

“Brayden will perhaps forgive me for speaking for him,” Shaw ventured softly, “but I believe the point is rather that you’ve nothing for which to be sorry.”

Well, then. Not only did it put Dallin’s thoughts into 387

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concise words, but it rather answered the question as to how much Shaw knew.

“I know,” Wil said again, this time with a heavy sigh.

He finally lifted his head and looked up. “I know it with my head.” He turned his gaze on Dallin, apparently marking the skepticism there. “I
do
. I just…” He shook his head. “It feels… unfair that I should be here, in his country, among his people who loved and miss him, and using his name.”

Dallin was immediately sorry for any cross thoughts he’d had a moment ago. He propped his arm behind Wil and leaned back—not quite an arm about him, but hopefully just enough light contact for comfort.

“Perhaps,” Shaw said slowly, thoughtfully, “perhaps

‘using his name’ is not the proper way to think about it.”

He paused, peering sharply at Wil. “Perhaps ‘honoring it’

would sit better.”

Wil’s brow drew in, pensive, and he looked down again, fingers twitching at each other, but not yanking and twisting as before. Thinking about it, but seemingly not howling inside. Dallin had had plenty of cause over the last several days to be thankful Shaw had followed his impulse toward adventure that day in Chester; here was another. And the now-shaman’s former vocation—to which, granted, Dallin hadn’t twigged ’til he’d seen how Shaw sat a horse—might prove extraordinarily handy, if Shaw would ever open his mouth and own it.

“I’ve brought the kettle this time,” Hunter said as he ducked through the cave’s opening, kettle in one hand and cup in the other. He didn’t wait for instruction but crouched down in front of them, poured steaming tea into the cup and offered it to Wil before putting the kettle to the side.

Wil accepted the tea with a flimsy smile, but leaned in to mutter quietly to Dallin: “I don’t want to hurt his 388

Carole Cummings

feelings, since he’s gone to all the trouble—twice—but I really don’t need it anymore.”

“You will,” Dallin answered just as softly. “We’re not quite through yet.”

Wil still didn’t move to take a sip. Instead, he stared down into the cup for a long moment then lifted a tense, half-embarrassed look up at Dallin. “It’s… it smells…”

He looked down again, shook his head, dropped his voice so low Dallin had to lean in to hear him. “It’s flowery, and I…”

Dallin didn’t need for him to finish, which was good, because it was all too clear that he couldn’t. Dallin blamed Hunter for even mentioning bloody mæting in the first place. As casually as he could, he folded his hand over Wil’s, guided the cup to his own lips and took a sip himself, then pushed it back. Slightly bitter beneath the lavender and honey, but not bad. And definitely not laced with anything more sinister than wood betony and some spice. He pushed it back at Wil.

“It’s fine, no worries,” he said with no fuss and no judgement. “I’ll have a cup when you’re through.” He twitched his shoulders, shot Wil a small smirk and rubbed at his sore neck, deliberately dropping the subject of the tea. “Don’t know your own strength, you.”

Wil returned a rueful smile. “That’ll teach you to reprimand me when I’m being pummeled by…” The smile slanted into new uncertainty. “What
was
all that?”

“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.”

Dallin hadn’t known what answer he’d expected, 390

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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

The Aisling Book Two Dream

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

The Aisling Book Two Dream

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.”