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along the roots and slippery deadfall carefully.
    Wil hadn’t noticed yesterday, since he’d ridden in the lead most of the trip—likely so Brayden could keep an eye on him—but since Brayden led today, Wil could now see that he watched constantly, every angle, eyes swiveling in regular wide sweeps about the perimeter. He even craned his neck frequently to stretch his gaze up into the trees.
    Wil did the same, but found his own eyes catching on the subtle change of colors from one tree to the next, the way the rain weighted the pine boughs and made them tremble, the slight bit of iridescence in the wet sworls of his horse’s mane. Probably not the same things Brayden was paying attention to. Oh well.
    Wil’s stomach was growling and his eyelids were drooping by the time night fell properly and Brayden 29

    The Aisling Book Two Dream
    finally called a halt. And his thighs were killing him. And his arse-bones hurt. He hadn’t even known he had arse-bones.
    He dismounted slowly, clinging to the saddle-bow until the ground stopped feeling like it was trying to sway out from under him. His right hand had been throbbing for hours and miles, probably from the wet and cold, and he’d been keeping it securely tucked to his chest beneath cloak and coat.
    “This is the densest we’ll find in the dark,” Brayden muttered as he led his horse over and pushed the reins into Wil’s hand. He dragged his pack from the saddlebag, freeing the hatchet and shovel from their little loops on the sides. “We’ll need a fire, or these cloaks will be no more than useless weight. I hate to do it. I might as well leave a sign that says, ‘We came this way,’ but I haven’t much choice. And the horses should have at least a small shelter.”
    A fire. It was a nice thought, but unless Brayden was a secret shaman, a fire was likely just wishful thinking. Still, it might be fun to watch him try. Shelter might be a more reasonable expectation, but for horses?
    Brayden paused, leaned in and squinted through the darkness at Wil. “Doing all right?”
    Wil’s first impulse was to growl, To hell with the horses, what about shelter for us? His second impulse was to snark that no, he wasn’t doing all right, he’d likely never get his knees back together again, and his arse-bones had gone from aching to really aching, and by the way, he was starving , what the fuck, did Brayden have a spare stomach or something? He ended up nodding, voicing a polite, “Fine,” then making himself busy with digging out then filling and strapping on the feedbags while Brayden chopped at pine boughs and cursed every time one of them dumped a bucket-load of water on his 30

    Carole Cummings
    head. Wil thought about telling Brayden that it might be easier without the rifle swinging about on its strap behind him, and he needn’t worry—Wil had no intention of nicking it and shooting him in the back—but the colorful outbursts were, after all, the most entertainment Wil had had all day.
    He kept quiet, smiling into the darkness as he stood with the horses and listened to their slow munching, to the sharp sounds of snapping branches, and the occasional irritated mutter in the otherwise silence of the thick forest.
    He was nearly in a state of half-sleep on his feet when the brilliant spark of a match nearly dazzled Wil’s eyes. And then the brighter flare of flames catching and spreading into a small but real campfire nearly dazzled his reason.
    “How did you do that?” he demanded, undecided if he was pleased or resentful.
    Brayden looked over in Wil’s general direction, blinking and squinting around the light. He frowned.
    “How did I do what?”
    Augh. Not only was the man able to start fires in the rain, but he had no idea why it would amaze someone who hadn’t guessed the possibility. Wil stared, still undecided if he should be backing away and signing charms or throwing himself at Brayden with a grateful embrace.
    Brayden had shed his hat somewhere and