against his calf all day. It was bulkier than the little dirk had been—he was grateful all over again for the thicker stockings—and he had to wear it on the opposite side in consideration of his right hand, but he’d grown used to it almost immediately.
He held it slanted into the light, finger lightly tracing over the string of finely etched symbols engraved in its surface. “So, what does it say?” he asked Brayden.
“That?” Brayden moved in closer, smiling a little.
“That’s just my name. The thing I wanted to show you is on the other side.”
Wil’s eyebrows went up. He turned the knife over, examined the wider swath of glyphs on its opposite side, then turned it again. “That’s awfully long for just your short little name,” he observed.
“Well, it’s both my names.” Brayden leaned closer and pointed at one little group of runes. “Dallin.” And then the next. “Brayden.”
“Your name is Dallin?” Wil frowned. Why had he 53
The Aisling Book Two Dream
never even considered the fact that Brayden must have a given name before? Dallin. It was… nice. Not as harsh-sounding as Wil would’ve expected, considering Brayden’s build. Wil would’ve guessed Stone or Bear, or something equally descriptive. He peered over at Brayden, more interested than he would have thought. “What’s it mean?”
“Why d’you want to know?” Brayden’s voice had gone just slightly cagey; not unkind but just edging on suspicion.
Wil blinked, shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just interested.” Perhaps because he didn’t have one of his own, but he didn’t want to say that out loud, not now.
Blatantly shoving Brayden’s face in the fact that Wil had liberated the name he used now from a dead man could only take that edge of suspicion blooming in Brayden’s tone to a full blossom. “The people of the Commonwealth seem to put a lot of stock in what names mean,” Wil said instead, hesitated, then skirted around the point with, “I was very glad to learn what Wilfred Calder meant.”
“River of stones,” Brayden murmured, staring into the fire with a frown. “And much peace.”
“Peaceful River.” Wil nodded. “It’s nice, isn’t it? I want to live by one someday. I want to stare into the water all day long and then watch the stars dance over it all night. I want to listen to the music the current sings and nothing else until I get tired and hungry and can’t listen anymore.”
Brayden was looking at him now, gaze penetrating and eyebrows drawn slightly inward. “That’s a very good wish,” he said quietly. “And perhaps you’ll get it—there’s a river runs through Cildtrog, you know. That’s the valley below Lind.”
Wil hadn’t known, though with the amount of time he’d spent spying there, he wondered why. Perhaps it was 54
Carole Cummings
the very one for which Wilfred Calder had been named.
He frowned into the fire, unsure how that thought made him feel.
“Dallin,” Brayden said, “means pride’s people. It also means from the valley. Brayden means brave.” He shrugged, pensive. “My father told me that as long as I never forgot my name, I’d always know my way home.”
“Well, I expect forgetting your own name isn’t much of a danger,” Wil observed with a smile; he’d meant it lightly, but it made Brayden’s frown deepen.
“You’d think,” Brayden said, distant. “But She seemed to think I have done.”
Wil couldn’t help the way his stomach dropped a little.
He also couldn’t help the curiosity. “What did…?” He paused, chewed his lip. “What did She tell you?”
Brayden turned his gaze slowly from the fire and fixed Wil with it. “She said I’d forgotten my name.” And then he shook his head, troubled eyes flicking over Wil’s shoulder and taking an absent sweep about the camp. “I am Dallin Brayden from the valley of Cildtrog, Lind’s Cradle,” he told the darkness. “I am the twelfth Brayden, possibly the last of my line,
He held it slanted into the light, finger lightly tracing over the string of finely etched symbols engraved in its surface. “So, what does it say?” he asked Brayden.
“That?” Brayden moved in closer, smiling a little.
“That’s just my name. The thing I wanted to show you is on the other side.”
Wil’s eyebrows went up. He turned the knife over, examined the wider swath of glyphs on its opposite side, then turned it again. “That’s awfully long for just your short little name,” he observed.
“Well, it’s both my names.” Brayden leaned closer and pointed at one little group of runes. “Dallin.” And then the next. “Brayden.”
“Your name is Dallin?” Wil frowned. Why had he 53
The Aisling Book Two Dream
never even considered the fact that Brayden must have a given name before? Dallin. It was… nice. Not as harsh-sounding as Wil would’ve expected, considering Brayden’s build. Wil would’ve guessed Stone or Bear, or something equally descriptive. He peered over at Brayden, more interested than he would have thought. “What’s it mean?”
“Why d’you want to know?” Brayden’s voice had gone just slightly cagey; not unkind but just edging on suspicion.
Wil blinked, shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just interested.” Perhaps because he didn’t have one of his own, but he didn’t want to say that out loud, not now.
Blatantly shoving Brayden’s face in the fact that Wil had liberated the name he used now from a dead man could only take that edge of suspicion blooming in Brayden’s tone to a full blossom. “The people of the Commonwealth seem to put a lot of stock in what names mean,” Wil said instead, hesitated, then skirted around the point with, “I was very glad to learn what Wilfred Calder meant.”
“River of stones,” Brayden murmured, staring into the fire with a frown. “And much peace.”
“Peaceful River.” Wil nodded. “It’s nice, isn’t it? I want to live by one someday. I want to stare into the water all day long and then watch the stars dance over it all night. I want to listen to the music the current sings and nothing else until I get tired and hungry and can’t listen anymore.”
Brayden was looking at him now, gaze penetrating and eyebrows drawn slightly inward. “That’s a very good wish,” he said quietly. “And perhaps you’ll get it—there’s a river runs through Cildtrog, you know. That’s the valley below Lind.”
Wil hadn’t known, though with the amount of time he’d spent spying there, he wondered why. Perhaps it was 54
Carole Cummings
the very one for which Wilfred Calder had been named.
He frowned into the fire, unsure how that thought made him feel.
“Dallin,” Brayden said, “means pride’s people. It also means from the valley. Brayden means brave.” He shrugged, pensive. “My father told me that as long as I never forgot my name, I’d always know my way home.”
“Well, I expect forgetting your own name isn’t much of a danger,” Wil observed with a smile; he’d meant it lightly, but it made Brayden’s frown deepen.
“You’d think,” Brayden said, distant. “But She seemed to think I have done.”
Wil couldn’t help the way his stomach dropped a little.
He also couldn’t help the curiosity. “What did…?” He paused, chewed his lip. “What did She tell you?”
Brayden turned his gaze slowly from the fire and fixed Wil with it. “She said I’d forgotten my name.” And then he shook his head, troubled eyes flicking over Wil’s shoulder and taking an absent sweep about the camp. “I am Dallin Brayden from the valley of Cildtrog, Lind’s Cradle,” he told the darkness. “I am the twelfth Brayden, possibly the last of my line,
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