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“I should hate you for this,” Dallin seethed. “Did you have no thought for me once your corpse dangled at the ends of my hands?”

And what of that? When had this man gone from a pain-in-the-arse renegade to someone Dallin would sincerely mourn if he were suddenly not here anymore?

Damn it, had he gone and got attached to a man who suffered no attachments?

Fucking sentiment. It really was going to be the end of him one day.

Wil was silent for a long time, then: “No,” he answered faintly. “I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

Dallin sucked in a long breath, took hold of Wil’s arms, and shook lightly. “I’ve seen you give up before,”

he told Wil forcefully. “But you only give up until you realize you
can’t
give up, and then the badger shows its teeth. Whatever this is… Wil, I understand what you’re saying, I do, but it isn’t the time for this. You haven’t even lived a real life yet.”

“I’m not even sure I want a life anymore,” Wil answered tiredly, that exhausted defeat Dallin had seen back in Putnam creeping into his dull gaze. “I can’t stand the… it
hurts
, I can’t… it’s all full of knives, knives 198

Carole Cummings

everywhere, and they’ll never let me live it.”

Dallin had to blink to keep the sudden flare of emotion from leaking out his eyes. “A month ago,” he said softly,

“you said you had a life wish as deep as the sea.”

“A month, a year, a thousand years…” A snort, hollow and humorless. “Well… I may have changed my mind.” Wil sagged. “Is it so cowardly?” The misery and pleading in his gaze made Dallin want to look away, but he kept his own gaze steady. “I can’t go back, and I can’t go on to something that might be just as… I
can’t
…” Wil puffed out a small gasp through throttled tears, dazed and hopeless. “Save me, I can’t take
more
.”

He meant it; Dallin heard it in the threads of his ragged voice, saw it in the tears that pushed past the stubborn resistance and leaked from eyes gone desolate. Saw the despair, the misery, plain and so real it thumped in his chest. Damn it, Wil had been so confident when he’d walked in with those packs, so proud. He’d actually been almost bloody
shining
, and now…

A silent, hollow cry of loss moved through Dallin, that image of Wil’s lifeless eyes staring at him from above his own wide hands. Then the betrayed, agonized shrieks of one trapped in endless torment.

The treacherous knowledge of which would be worse.

“You’re not going back,” Dallin vowed, quietly fierce.

“And if you want my word so badly, I’ll give it—I won’t see you caged. I won’t let it happen, and if it comes to it…”

He stopped, clenched his teeth. Wil looked at him, the quiet hope in his eyes almost more than Dallin could stand.

“If it comes to it…?”

Dallin closed his eyes, pushed Wil back a little and let go of his arms. “A bullet is faster,” he managed. “And less painful for us both.”

199

The Aisling Book Two Dream

Long silence, thick and nearly choking, then a cold hand reached for Dallin’s, squeezed.

“Look at me,” Wil said softly, “and say it again.”

Mother save or damn him, Dallin did.

He hadn’t thought he’d sleep, almost thinks he didn’t,
but there’s the river, and there’s Wil, staring down into
its rushing depths. Dallin wonders what Wil sees down
there, wonders if he can hear the reflections of the stars
as well as the stars themselves, and wonders if their songs
are any different.

He remembers thinking Wil beautiful once, as he’d
stared, shock-still, into green eyes for the first time. He
allows himself to think it again now as he watches the
breeze lift dark silk from a clear brow, watches peace
spread over the face that had looked at Dallin before with
misery and asking. Wil should always wear that smile.

Dallin wishes he could give it to him, wrap it up in a bow,
offer it in the palm of his hand like a promise.

‘You can’t give smiles,’ someone had told him once;
he thinks it was Corliss, ‘you can only give reasons for
them.’

Dallin smiles a little himself.

He used to be surprised by how tall Wil is, but he
isn’t anymore. Now he thinks Wil’s not nearly as tall as
he ought to be, ought to tower over the world, though
Dallin knows the strength and beauty on the inside
doesn’t always manifest in the physical. Still, though…

Dallin can’t really imagine Wil looking any other way.

Can’t imagine he’d want him to.

The smile slips from Dallin’s face and he rubs at his
eyes.

He sighs, shakes his head. Fucking sentiment.

200

Carole Cummings

“Weft and Warp.” A whisper in a low tenor.

It might have startled him, coming from directly
behind him like that, but the tone is dulcet and musical,
soothing all by itself, like its own song, so Dallin only
turns, curious. Several things at once occur to him:
He knows exactly before whom he stands. Knows
exactly where Wil got his dark hair and fair skin, and
that sad, tilted smile. Knows exactly where he got those
eyes and the burning life inside them.

Huh
, he thinks abstractly, as his glance takes in the
smooth cheek,
so that’s why he never has to shave. You made him in Your own image.

He is Wil refined, polished. Tall enough to touch the
moon, and yet somehow, Dallin looks Him in the eye.

He is elegant twilight personified, with all the power and
majesty of the stars. He is perfect complement to His
Beloved—night to Her day; star to Her sun.

Only somehow, for all His beauty, Dallin thinks the
bit of the Mother in Wil—that earthy humor in his eyes,
the occasional winsome artlessness—is more beguiling.

He wonders without guilt if that’s sacrilegious.

He dips his head; bowing and kneeling hadn’t seemed
the way of it with the Mother, and it doesn’t seem to be
the way of it now, either. Still, respect is the way of it with
Dallin, so he settles for the low nod.

“You’re dying.” He hadn’t meant to say that—certainly
not by way of greeting—hadn’t even really been aware he
owned the knowledge until it tripped out his mouth, but
now that he’s said it, he doesn’t really need confirmation.

He knows it, he can smell it.

The Father merely sighs. He waves a pale, long-fingered hand at the sky. “They begin the Weave of my
shroud,” He says, “but they do not yet Sing my dirge.”

Dallin frowns, turns to look at Wil; Wil looks back
now, shifts his glance between them, but he doesn’t move
201

The Aisling Book Two Dream

from beside the water. “You should tell him,” Dallin
murmurs, turns back. “He thinks You sleep. He thinks
You won’t help him.”

The Father’s eyes drift to Wil, turn just as sad as the
Mother’s had done. “And would you have me tell him
that my hope lies in his hands?” He shakes His head.

“Too many burdens.”

“Yes,” Dallin answers boldly, “I would tell him. His
strength is nearly bottomless, but he grieves for the wrong
reasons. Do You think he wouldn’t help You if he knew?”

“On the contrary, I have no doubt that he would.”

The Father sighs again. “Apples and potatoes. He accepts
a cage like he belongs in one.” Dallin blinks a little to
hear his own words come out someone else’s mouth—
this

Someone Else.

His image flickers for a moment before Dallin’s eyes,
winks out for the briefest of seconds then flickers back
into focus again. “Time is short,” He tells Dallin, a little
lower than before, the smooth tenor going slightly weak
and tinny. “Hear me, my brave Gift: your heart is true;
do not second-guess it. You have the soul of a Guardian
and the mind of a Constable—follow them both. No fate
is unchanging; no destiny is set.”

He flickers again, dwindling to a glint of intense eyes,
before sparking back into focus.

Dallin frowns, thinks about it, brow drawing down.

“It’s Your brother, isn’t it? He’s doing something to You,
taking Your strength, and it’s killing You. You’re not even
here.”

He’s a dream within a dream. What was that Wil had
said?

‘Have you noticed that Aisling means Dream and not
Dreamer? Isn’t that strange?’

‘And how d’you know
you’re
real?’

Dallin stops thinking about it before his mind trips
202

Carole Cummings

and falls down. He doesn’t know what it’s costing Him
to do this, but it must be a lot—to sap the strength of a
god…

The Father smiles—delighted and open—so very much
like Wil that Dallin almost smiles back, but it seems
wrong to him somehow, so he doesn’t.

“There,” He says. “You feared She had not chosen
well. You would doubt even the Word of your Makers.”

His smile is approving. “Your own convictions disprove
your doubt.” He nods toward Wil. “His choice is what
matters.” He fades, almost transparent, then regains His
substance. “He chooses you. I would have you see to it
that he continues to choose himself, as well. Our fates are
joined, but mine is not his to save. You’ve more than one
Calling. Shaman.”

And then He’s gone, winks out without so much as a
faint gleam to mark that He’d been there. Dallin blinks,
shakes his head. Not quite as cryptic as Wil’s experience,
apparently, but still, Dallin wonders why They seem
loath to just come right out and say things clearly. If he
ever gets hold of one of Them again, he’s going to ask.

He puts it away to ponder later, turns and walks
through tall, frosted grass, fetches up beside Wil. Wil
doesn’t look up as Dallin approaches, just tilts his head
back, peers up at the stars.

It’s strange how natural it’s become, Dallin muses.

He doesn’t groan and gripe when he finds himself here
anymore; Wil doesn’t flinch and back away from him.

Dallin doesn’t speak first; he’s not sure why, but it
seems wrong to him. Intrusive. If Wil wants Dallin’s
input, he’ll surely ask for it. Demand it, more likely Dallin
thinks with a small smile. And if he doesn’t, well… Dallin
will simply Watch. The most basic right a person should
have, Dallin believes, is solitude inside one’s own head, so
he gives Wil the choice to reach for it.

203

The Aisling Book Two Dream

“We are their children,” Wil murmurs, flicks a look
at Dallin, then jerks his chin at the sky. “We’re all made
of stardust, you know—forged in the crucible of their
hearts. Our world is not the only one. Sometimes I can
see the shadows of others inside their songs.”

Dallin’s mouth twists. He considers that silently for
a long while then decides it’s just a little too big for him.

Wil, with his open mind and vast belief—things like that
are for him to know and see. Dallin will just let Wil know
it for both of them.

“He’s sick,” he tells Wil quietly. “He’s not sleeping,
and He’s not disregarding you. There’s something wrong
with Him.”

Wil snaps his glance at Dallin, frowns.

“He didn’t want me to tell you,” Dallin goes on. “He
said you’ve enough burdens, and I agree, but I thought
you deserve to know.”

Wil is silent, drags a hand through his hair, pushes
it from his eyes. He stares down into the water. Dallin
catches a faint glimmer at the corner of his eye.

“Thank you,” Wil whispers, choked and watery.

Dallin’s arm slips about Wil’s shoulders, relaxed and
natural, like he does it all the time. Wil doesn’t pull back,
so Dallin leaves it there. So often, he’s wanted to offer
comfort, and now… well, it’s a dream, innit?

“Too much has been kept from you.” Dallin tightens
his grip. “This grief is a clean one, and yours if you choose
to hold it. It’s not His right to keep it.”

Dallin cringes a little at the boldness, but it’s nothing
he wouldn’t’ve said to Him directly, if he’d been given the
chance. Even gods can be fallible, Dallin knows that now,
and he really doesn’t think this one at least would strike
him down for knowing it.

“I never…” Wil shakes his head, quickly swipes his
sleeve across his eyes. “It keeps… sneaking up on me.”

204

Carole Cummings

He peers up at Dallin, eyes luminous like they always are
here, but somber, the burning somewhat muted. “You
see

me.”

Dallin raises an eyebrow. “Well, of course,” he replies,
somewhat bemused. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“That isn’t what I mean.” Wil looks away again.

Slowly, like he doesn’t really know how to do it, his head
tilts to rest on Dallin’s shoulder. “It doesn’t matter,” he
furthers softly. “I’m just… glad.”

That’s all the sense Dallin needs. He smiles, sighs,
turns his gaze out over the river. He hopes it still looks
the same, hopes Wil has a chance to stand beside it and
watch it like this.