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Perhaps it was as clear-cut as pointless embarrassment.

He watched closely as Wil struggled to decide what he wanted to say, too-obviously choosing then discarding words before finally electing to speak.

“It would appear,” Wil said slowly, “that I more-orless walked a straight line down the country from Old Bridge to Putnam, with several zigs and zags along the way.” He shrugged, scanned the hills. “I didn’t know it until you said it, and I didn’t do it on purpose. It just happened that way.”

Dallin waited for more, but Wil just kept flicking his 74

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glance about the terrain, shifting now and then in the saddle, and looking everywhere but at Dallin. Something was there, more than discomfiture, something that bothered Wil—either about his journey itself or things that had happened along it—but whatever it was, he’d rather eat fire than tell Dallin about it.

Dallin held back a sigh and shook his head. “C’mon, we’re losing light. Why don’t we give the horses a run while we’ve clear—?”

“I went where my feet took me,” Wil cut in, voice low with a peculiar note of challenge beneath it. “Most of the time, I had no idea where I was heading, nor did I usually know the name of the town I was in. And neither did I care. Putnam is the only place I ever went to intentionally.”

He slid his gaze sideways, that same rebellion Dallin had seen for the first time in the cellars of the Constabulary settling in Wil’s eyes, the clench of his jaw. “Does that seem strange to you?”

Whatever he was getting at, or expecting Dallin to grasp from the cryptic information, it was flitting right past him.
Does that seem strange to you?
Yes. Yes, it did. Almost every damned thing Wil said when he was in this sort of mood was strange, and for someone who took what others said annoyingly literally, he could be
the
most enigmatic pain in the arse when he wanted to be. With more effort than should probably have been necessary, Dallin kept his breathing normal and his mien bland. It had been bloody
small talk
, for pity’s sake.

“The horses need a run,” he repeated, nudging his heels into the chestnut’s barrel. “Come on, it’s getting dark.”

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The Aisling Book Two Dream

Camp was quiet and routine. Dallin took second watch again, snatching at restless sleep, as it seemed restful sleep was a thing of the past. They camped atop a butte, looking down over a valley that, according to the map and if Dallin had his bearings right, was known as Green Basin. Dallin had rolled his eyes a little—whatever the Ancients may have had going for them, creativity in the naming of their environs wasn’t one of them.

He’d chosen the spot mostly because it afforded him an almost complete view of the surrounding landscape but for a small stretch to the north where a swath of conifers still occluded the line of sight. Since anyone following would likely be coming from the south or east, Dallin didn’t spare it much worry. Their perch gave him a clear view of the thin distant ribbon of road that would eventually lead into Chester. Vague blurry figures resolved themselves into the shapes of stray riders in ones and twos, interspersed with the occasional lone wagon tramping at travelers’ paces, from what Dallin could make out. Once the sun fell and night closed around them, he spent several hours scanning the surrounding area, looking for the telltale spark of a campfire, listening for the neigh of a horse, the shout of a man, the report of a gun. He saw and heard nothing but the quiet sounds of the sleeping countryside. Another three days to cross the valley, perhaps, and then they’d be closing on Chester’s city limits. Satisfied for the moment, Dallin dubiously climbed into his bedroll, leaving instructions with Wil to wake him in three hours. It was unnecessary, of course: he woke well before, just barely managing to keep the swearing behind his teeth.

This time, he’d been back in the Army, on one of the many Border campaigns for which he’d volunteered, the one that had earned him his Captain’s rank in only his second year.
I swear, that one won’t be happy ’til he hacks
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through the Dominion and over the ramparts of the Guild
itself
, Colonel Mancy had told Dallin’s commander back then. Except in the dream, Mancy kept asking Dallin the words to the songs of the old gods. And every time Dallin couldn’t answer, Mancy would turn into Manning, amiable Librarian-now-tutor to an adolescent once-Linder, sliding a book with no pictures at Dallin, telling him if he didn’t decode it his father would die. Dallin kept trying to explain that he didn’t have the key to the code, and anyway, his father was already dead, but then Manning would turn into a tiny burnt skeleton, Clan-marks glowing phosphorescent on the flesh of a cheek that wasn’t there, point a small bony finger at him like it was his fault, and tell him he’d forgotten his name.

The other, the one he was coming to think of the Watcher Dream, had come again after, just as vivid and violent as it had been the night before. And, as it had been the night before, it left him just as angry as shaken.

So, after he’d grumbled awake, relieved Wil from watch and made sure he was safely asleep, Dallin dug out the book Manning had loaned him, and waited for a faint tint of dawn so he could make out the words.

He hadn’t read much past the Aisling legend, but he remembered a mention of the old gods and their fates in there somewhere, and since they seemed to be the point of the damned dreams, he likely wasn’t going to be able to set them aside until he figured out why. Even if the dreams were just nonsensical rubbish—which dreams generally were and precisely why Dallin hadn’t missed his—perhaps forcing some reason into their crevices would at least take away some of their power. And let him get some bloody
sleep
.

The book didn’t have much more than a few passing references. Apparently, the old gods were still about but spellbound and trapped inside of evergreens somewhere.

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The Aisling Book Two Dream

Uh-huh. Likely some kind of metaphor for something a lot less poetic, and really not helpful.

Luckily—not only for Dallin’s mood, but he suspected for his sanity—Wil had woken in a more pleasant mood; seemed, in fact, to have made up his mind to forget his pique altogether. He was back to his semi-amiable self, though perhaps somewhat subdued this morning when Dallin told him they’d likely reach Chester in a another two or three days. Dallin occupied himself with drawing Wil out further to get his mind off the horses again, and Dallin’s own mind off of darker matters. He finally succeeded when he happened to mention the
Kymberly
and Sunny Ramsford in passing. Wil perked right up.

“You know the Ramsfords?”

Dallin had been flailing a little up ’til then, so he latched onto the common thread. “I do, and very well,”

he answered as he re-packed his kit. “For years, in fact. I stood Second at their wedding.”

“
Get
on,” Wil said, boggled.

“Ramsford had some very nice things to say about you, y’know,” Dallin ventured.

“About me?” Blinking now, with a bemused lift of black eyebrows.

Dallin nodded, slanting a look at Wil from his crouch near the saddles. “He’s the one asked for me on the case.

Told my chief he was worried about you and wanted me to see no harm came to you.”

Wil’s mouth worked. Dallin waited for the sarcastic retorts about what had actually come of that first night, wondering if he should bring up Wil’s own dodging and then running in his own defense, if he found himself accused. Again. Instead, Wil whiffed a small, surprised laugh, said, “That was very kind of him.”

Dallin’s own eyebrows rose. He nodded. “It was. But not surprising. He’s a very kind man.”

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“Mm,” Wil agreed readily enough. “And Mistress Sunny, too.” Dallin nearly laughed out loud when Wil’s expression went nearly dreamy. Dallin couldn’t exactly blame him. Sunny Ramsford was sweet and beautiful, and had certainly beaten Dallin out in the ‘ideal companion’

category, bless her, and she hadn’t even been trying. “And she’s the most amazing cook,” Wil went on. “Have you ever had her venison sausage?”

“Ha,” retorted Dallin. “It’s my recipe. She
stole
it.”

Wil’s mouth dropped open. “
Really
? You know how to make that?”

Ah-
ha
. Dallin hadn’t thought about it in such plain terms before, but now that he considered Wil’s obvious regard for Miri, the way he’d chatted amiably with Miss Jillian, how he’d been as close to charming as Dallin had ever seen him when Mistress Elli had brought them breakfast the other day, it clicked into place like a key in an oiled lock. He’d noticed it on their first day on the road, but now all of the accumulated evidence rose to support it: all one had to do to win Wil’s regard was feed him.

Dallin snorted, flipped his pack closed and cinched the fastenings. “No,” he replied with a smirk. “But you should see your face.”

Too bad he didn’t know how to make it and couldn’t whip a plate of it from thin air to offer. He could certainly do with some of that open favor. He sighed it away and settled for the provisional congeniality.

They spent another several days plodding through admittedly beautiful countryside, dotted here and there with the rare lone cottage or farmstead, and wending their way slowly back to the road and the almost-comfortable rapport they’d achieved in the days previous. Wil’s smirky smile came back, and so did the questions and the sardonic comments to Dallin’s answers. Dallin was not 79

The Aisling Book Two Dream

the least bit embarrassed or chagrined to admit to himself that he’d missed them.

The dreams were still on his mind.Though not constantly at the fore of his thoughts like before, they still lingered in the back, just waiting for a lapse in conversation, or the wrong turn of phrase. Or when it came time to attempt sleep. Dallin wasn’t getting much of that these days. He thought several times to ask Wil if he knew anything about the old gods—Wil sometimes knew odd things, after all—but was reluctant to inject anything of possible import into the casual and pleasant conversation and the tentative balance they’d once again managed to strike between them. He’d quite thoroughly had it with serious talk for a while, and had no doubt Wil had, too. He kept it all locked behind the agreeable conversation and easy smiles.

They made better time than Dallin had anticipated, reaching Chester late in the morning of the seventh day since they’d left Dudley. They’d been passing travelers much more frequently this morning, both coming and going, startling the knickers off an old man and his wife traveling by ox-cart as Wil and Dallin led their horses out of a thicket and onto the road right behind them. Dallin had waved a friendly greeting, conscious of his no doubt intimidating appearance and fully prepared for the couple to either cower and ignore them or pull a weapon on them; they did neither. After the initial distressed alarm, they both slanted annoyed glances over their shoulders, tipped grudging waves, and ambled on.

“Rugged and fierce, eh?” Wil drawled.

Dallin shot him an acerbic smirk, mounted up. “It’s you and your waifish charm,” he retorted. “It’s counteracting my carefully cultivated air of danger.” More likely the fact that they were only a few days out of Lind and people Dallin’s size weren’t as uncommon here as they 80

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were farther south, but he saw no need to let Wil in on the logic. “Given another thirty seconds, she’d’ve been cooing all over you, trying to feed you up on her ‘famous pork pies’ or some other such specialty.”

“Waifish,” was all Wil snorted as he swung himself up into the saddle and fell in after Dallin.

They both made it a point to smile brightly and tip their heads politely as they passed the couple again.

The sun was bright but the day cold, a harsh wind cutting right through their coats and whining in their ears. Chester stretched over the wide, flat summit of a broad knoll, sloping slow and gradual up from the belly of the open valley of Green Basin.

Dallin stopped them just as they started up the incline that led to the gates, dug his hat out of the saddlebags and handed Wil’s to him. Dallin himself likely wouldn’t stand out here as much as he did in Putnam, but Wil’s dark hair would. “Keep it pulled down, if you can,” Dallin told him as Wil donned his hat. “Try not to let anyone get a look at your eyes.”

Wil merely nodded, pulled the hat low over his brow and slanted Dallin a grim, edgy tic of a smile. “Head down, eyes to the ground,” he muttered, blew a breath between his teeth and set his shoulders.

The gates of the small city were open, the days of battles and skirmishes in this part of the country over ten years past, and life—as was its wont—picked up like they had never been. A fortress once, the walls were thick stone, cut from the cliffs Dallin knew dressed the step-like formations where the Flównysse carved its way through the countryside. Still strong and kept, but Dallin couldn’t help but note and curl his lip at the fact that the watchtowers were all unmanned. With unrest at the Border simmering once again, strongholds like this one were all the more important, and he didn’t like that his 81

The Aisling Book Two Dream

countrymen had got so lax lately—not when it had only been a little more than a decade since he himself had been defending that Border. Guards stood posts at the entrance, but they seemed mostly for show. Dallin didn’t see them stop a single soul, either going in or coming out.

“Looks like Market Day,” Wil mumbled as they dismounted, and he craned his neck to have a look ’round the guard. He was already hunching in on himself, face set and eyes hardening, wary.

It made Dallin understand fully just how much Wil had opened up on their journey. Even the discomfort of a few days ago didn’t compare to this near-complete reversal. Now, he was the narrow-eyed creature made of strung nerves who’d pulped an enemy’s head; he was the hard-faced man who’d tried to throw himself through iron bars to get at a prisoner. The earnest young man who’d shown Dallin a prized find in the woods, holding out his hand and offering ingenuous discovery, was gone entirely, tucked away in the amount of time it took him to slide from his saddle.