First Of Her Kind (Book 1) (11 page)

They mounted without further discourse. Two riders went ahead, Donovan next leading Sandeen, Ciara behind them with riders flanking her on either side. The rest of Donovan’s men, those who hadn’t stayed to tend the wounded and deal with their dead, were strung out behind.

The late morning sun climbing into a brilliant, cloudless sky seemed wasted on this day. Donovan took them on a little used path through country that became progressively rough and rocky. If not for the narrow trail -- barely wide enough for one horse in some places -- it would have been impassable on horseback. Deep crevices fell away between jagged chunks of stone that jutted up out of the ground like shattered pieces of a great, broken mountain. It would have made even foot travel a risky venture. To one side the land stretched flat to the horizon. To the other it rose up in undulating hills of rock, dotted with scraggly growth that clung to its sides from sheer determination alone. Ciara wondered why anyone would want to make their home in such a desolate place.

She looked past Fane's head. Bolin had not moved since being tossed across Sandeen’s back. Ciara closed her eyes and tried to reach him across the horse lengths separating them, but found darkness surrounding him. Not the darkness of the vale. This solid, impenetrable wall had Donovan’s feel about it.

Ciara chewed at her bottom lip. She didn't know much about wards -- protective spells meant to keep something hidden, or sound an alarm if someone drew too close. They hadn't been included in her healer training, though Meriol knew how to use them and had even warded the wilding for a time. Ciara didn’t know if she could slip around Donovan’s ward, but had little else to occupy herself with as Fane faithfully followed the tail in front of his nose. The terrain had forced the horses to a single-file walk, so Ciara settled as comfortably as she could into the saddle and turned her focus inward.

The world around her faded; colors and shapes melted together until they were nothing more than a grey shroud. Ciara called up her earth magic, being as unobtrusive as she could, and reached out until she could feel the very edge of Donovan's wall of magic. If she pushed too hard he would know it. But if she kept her distance, kept herself quiet and moved with great care, she might be able to find a way past. There were chinks in even the most carefully constructed walls.

She just needed to be patient and stay focused.

A cool breeze that brought with it the scent of some distant body of water, kept the heat of the day from becoming intolerable. There were still riders around her, Fane remained a solid form beneath her, and scattered clouds raced before the sun, but all of it existed outside of the place where Donovan had imprisoned Bolin.

The ward rose up to an unseen height, the smooth surface shimmering blackly. Not a black devoid of light and substance, but one which pulsed with power and an uncanny awareness. It stretched out of view in either direction, blending into the gloom that surrounded it. Ciara itched to touch it, but knew that doing so would alert Donovan, so she made her way along its base, and scoured the surface for imperfections. Her heart leapt when she spotted a narrow fissure barely above ground level.

Ciara hunkered down and studied the opening for a long while. She didn't need to rush. Time here did not keep pace with the horses and the world passing by as they rode. Around her the terrain had changed, the jagged rock giving way to flat barren stretches of scrub with very little brush and no trees, but the sun still rode high.

Ciara's resolve wavered. She would have to make herself as small as she could, and stay that way until she made it through to the other side. But if the fissure didn't go all the way through, if Donovan sensed her attempt, all would be lost.

None of Meriol's training had prepared her for this. Ciara worked by feel and instinct alone. What she did now had nothing to do with healing. But her aunt had told her if she knew the words, knew the essence of something, she could control it. Ciara knew smallness. She held in her mind’s eye the tiniest things she had ever seen; imagined the hugeness of the world around her, how even a pebble would tower over her like a mountain if she were no more than a speck. She held her breath when the wall became all her sight could take in, and the fissure grew to become the size of a cave.

What, by all the unholies, did she think she was doing? She could lose everything here. She could become trapped in the veil between worlds and live the rest of her life as nothing but a shell and a wisp of thought. She remembered the fireside tales of young mages getting lost in the realms between, when their curiosity overrode their lack of training.

But Ciara couldn’t turn back now, not when she had the chance to help Bolin. He'd risked his life for her. She owed him the same. Not to mention, it was because of her they were in this predicament.

Ciara held that thought as tight as she could and moved toward the gaping hole. She lingered just a moment at the edge, and wished for light of some sort. A glimmer of witch light would have been helpful, but she didn’t dare try to hold her spell and conjure light as well so she took a deep breath and stepped into the void.

And it was black. She couldn't even see her hand when she held it in front of her face. Something slithered past her, trailed across her skin with the feather-light touch of a breeze and Ciara shivered. Voices reached past the sound of her pulse thudding in her ears. The language they spoke sounded vaguely familiar, and she strained to make out the words because they vibrated down her spine with the force of a hammer blow. They wanted something from her -- no, demanded something. A growing awareness surrounded her. The ward's, or more precisely, the magic that formed it.

Ciara couldn't breath. She thrust her hands out, and clawed at the darkness around her, as she felt a scream well up inside her-

-and then Fane's ears took solid shape in front of her. The waning sunlight scattered long shadows across the jagged landscape. Ciara couldn't even work up enough spit to swallow, and her heart beat fast and shallow. Donovan looked at her over his shoulder, and his eyes glittered brightly.

Ciara shuddered and looked away.

CHAPTER S
EVEN

Bolin had been on this hillock before. It overlooked a battlefield littered with the bodies of horses and men. The morning sun streaked the sky blood red as it rose above the smoke, and a light breeze played with the stained and tattered standards of both sides. Figures moved on the field, looking to ease the suffering of some, or put a quick end to misery for others. And in the skies above, the Valkyrie circled, their voices calling to the dying.

"They sing your praises, you know," Donovan said from beside him.

But Donovan hadn’t been there, which made this a vision.

"You are favored among the Valkyrie," he continued. "Where the General goes many souls are forfeit. How does it feel to have all that blood on your hands? However do you manage to sleep at night?"

Bolin had no answer to give. He chose not to look at Donovan either. He watched the field as he had done that morning, sending a silent prayer to the Goddess to watch over the fallen.

But Donovan refused to let him be. "How many mother’s sons have died at your hands? How many widows mourn the husband that will never return? And for what? What good and righteous cause was this battle for? What did you win?"

"We won nothing this day," Bolin replied, a touch of bitterness in the words. "This day, we lost."

"Ah. Then all these deaths," Donovan gestured at the field, "all were in vain."

"No!" Bolin turned to him then, but Donovan had left; he stood alone, the stench of death creeping up the hill and filling his nostrils. The song of the Valkyrie echoing through his soul.

* * *

Bolin catapulted into consciousness against his will, gasping for air and instantly regretting it.

"You nearly killed my healer." A simple statement of fact from Donovan from where he stood gazing out the window, hands clasped behind his back.

Bolin acknowledged him in the same instant he took in the rest of his surroundings, an instant before he sucked in another ragged breath and collapsed back onto the bed. He couldn’t bring himself to care overmuch about the healer.

He closed his eyes, tried to force his racing pulse to quiet, and clear the fog in his head. Buckthorn was a nasty poison. It ravaged both mind and body, and there had been enough on that blade to fell a man three times Bolin’s size. He should have been dead. He could taste it, just as he could taste the magic that had saved him. He hated healing magic of that intensity. Forcing a body to knit and mend in such a short time span exacted a great cost not only from the healer, but from the patient as well. The stronger the magic, the higher the price, and Donovan had a very strong healer.

"I find it interesting," Donovan mused, "as much as you proclaim your loyalty to the Goddess you have yet to call for her aid."

"She wouldn't hear me within these walls." Bolin's voice cracked, his tongue thick in a dry mouth. Goddess’ light, he couldn’t focus. He needed another breath, then another as he slowly came back to himself. Far too slowly.

"Come now, General. You, among all her creations, are her most favored. I doubt very much she is not acutely aware of every breath you take."

At the moment, there wasn’t a breath Bolin took that he wasn’t acutely aware. Each one came through searing lungs and a raw throat. He forced his eyes open and stared at the beamed ceiling and the play of light across its rough surface. The remnants of the Buckthorn moved like sludge through his veins.

He rolled to swing his legs over the side of the bed, and the room spun around him as he slowly, very slowly, sat up. It might not have been the wisest thing he could have done, but he couldn’t tolerate lying helpless while Donovan prattled on. He closed his eyes again in an attempt to make the room stop, and held himself propped with his hands gripping the edge of the bed. Pain throbbed dully throughout his body.

"I admit to some indecision regarding your future," Donovan said.

Bolin winced as he swallowed and took another breath, this one deeper. The fog in his head began to clear. "If you were smart," his voice came out as little more than a hoarse whisper, "you'd kill me now."

"That had been considered," Donovan admitted. "But I've tried that in the past, haven’t I? You have an uncanny ability to come back from the dead." The window no longer held his interest, and he turned to face Bolin, hands still clasped behind his back. "Tell me, when did you realize who the girl was? Or did you know right from the start?"

The girl? Bolin sorted through jumbled memories. Ah, Ciara. His thoughts weren't following Donovan's words. That would be dangerous. He needed to be more careful, forget his discomfort, and pay attention to what Donovan said.

"You cannot honestly expect me to believe it was mere chance that landed you on the healer woman's stoop after our last encounter. It would appear your precious mother Goddess doesn’t make a good example of practicing what she preaches. Non-interference is her dogma, is it not?"

Bolin drew in another quivering breath and opened his eyes. He focused at a spot on the rug between his feet in an attempt to keep the room still. He had built a place inside himself where the pain and confusion had become a non-issue. Donovan had walled him in there, whether to keep Bolin in or others out made little difference. At one point Boling thought he had felt Ciara on the other side of that wall, trying to gain passage. It had been an incredibly brave, if reckless, attempt that could have killed them both.

"If you had been smart," Donovan mimicked Bolin's earlier statement, "you would have killed her as soon as you knew."

That had been considered.

"What stayed your hand, I wonder?" He paused as though waiting for an answer, continuing when none came. "Your mistake, my gain. So, did you know?"

Bolin lifted his head and met Donovan’s gaze from under his brows, unable to keep the scowl off his face. "What difference does it make?"

Donovan shrugged. "It would satisfy my curiosity."

Donovan didn't partake in idle chatter. He had a point. He wanted information. And Bolin needed to be far more cautious. Something he found increasingly difficult as his thoughts slid in and out like fog on the ocean shore.

Or like smoke across a battlefield in the early morning sun, blood red across the grass. What had they been fighting for that day?

"Where’s Ciara?" he asked. He needed a diversion, something simple he couldn't make a mess of.

Donovan cocked his head, and his expression became distant. "Testing the boundaries of this place, it would seem. With certain exceptions, of course."

"You don’t think that's dangerous?"

Donovan waved a hand at air, dismissing both the question and the threat. "It still amazes me that you did not interfere in the girl’s training. You had it all right there, in the palm of your hand, and yet you did nothing. Why? Love of your blessed mother hag?" He snorted. "She, of the two of you, should have been wise enough to kill the girl. It was dangerous letting her live. Dangerous having her so close to you for all this time. And now," he smiled. "Now I have you both."

"You have nothing."

Bolin growled, the last of his temper driving him upwards. He pushed himself off the bed with everything he had left, and threw himself at Donovan. Wrapping himself around the other man’s waist, Bolin drove them both to the ground. He couldn't do anything else by way of follow through. They fell in a tangle of limbs, and then other hands were on his arms, dragging him roughly to his feet. Two guards held him, one on either side. Bolin had nothing left to argue the point, and hung limply between them. Donovan straightened his clothing as he stood, fastidiously brushing dirt off his sleeve. His eyes were bright with something that could have been anger, but could just as easily have been amusement.

What little breath Bolin had left exploded from his lungs as he slammed back against the wall, Donovan’s fingers tight around his throat.

Definitely anger then.

"I have made a decision, General," Donovan whispered into his ear, his face close to Bolin's. "I have decided to keep you alive. I am going to break you, and when I'm finished, I am going to remake you. You will serve me then, and not your blessed Goddess."

"Rot in hell."

Donovan laughed -- a short, brutal bark. "How do you think to stop me? You have turned your back on everything you were. Everything you could have been. You have lost more through neglect than most people of power possess from birth. Among all the Goddess’ sundry creations you were to be envied most. And now?"

Donovan tightened his grip, and then just as quickly released it, and Bolin struggled to keep his legs under him. The edges of his vision closed in, and the floor tilted beneath him. He kept his eyes locked on Donovan's face, and his palms braced against the rough stone wall behind him.

"There are many ways to cause a man excruciating pain without killing him. Even a man such as you will give way to it. Eventually." Donovan turned in the doorway, the cold smile back on his face. "You will be mine, General. Just as the girl will be."

* * *

"I want to see Bolin."

The servant smiled politely. With his thin build, hooked nose and small, bright eyes, he reminded Ciara of a lanky water bird. "I'm afraid that isn't possible, lady."

"But I’m a healer. Bolin needs me."

"His lordship's healer is extremely skilled."

Ciara let out an exasperated sigh. "Then I want to see Donovan."

The smile never wavered. "I shall relay your desire to his lordship. If that is all?"

"No, that's not all." Ciara glared at him. He stood resolutely in the doorway of the room he had led her to, blocking the exit. "You can't hold me here against my will."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Then take me to Donovan."

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

Ciara wondered if the man's mouth naturally curved up, or if the condescending expression had become habit. "Can't or won't?"

"Both. You are to remain here until sent for."

She sucked in a deep breath to keep from screaming, and held it in while she fought for calm. "And when will that be?"

"I'm not entirely certain. In the meantime, his lordship asks that you enjoy the comforts of a bath and some clean clothing." He backed out of the room, pulling the heavy wooden door shut as he went. "The maids will be up shortly to assist you."

The hollow click of the lock being thrown echoed around the room, followed by a frustrated snarl from Ciara. She kicked at the door in impotent rage before turning to survey her prison.

Across from her a set of tapestries had been pushed aside, allowing access to a balcony. Ciara ran to it, and leaned over the low, stone wall. She could barely make out the ground in the gathering darkness, a lone lantern far below her only indication of the height. She frowned. No chance of escape this way without a rope, or some broken bones in the attempt.

And where would she go, anyhow? She couldn't leave without Bolin.

She sighed and wandered back into the room. The huge bed called to her, but she resisted the urge to bury herself beneath the overstuffed quilt. She turned and tugged the tapestries closed as a breeze slid past her, trickling its chill fingers down her spine.

Goddess's light, what a fool she'd been to believe Donovan had wanted to help her. He wanted Bolin. That much he'd made clear. But he'd wanted Ciara to go with him before Bolin even got there. Had he known Bolin would follow her?

The shiver that ran through her had nothing to do with the cold, and Ciara went to stand by the recently tended fire. She'd never met anyone like Donovan. His magic -- the little he had shown her -- felt similar to the wilding, yet vastly less chaotic and more controlled. It surrounded him, and smoldered in the depths of his dark eyes. Ciara wondered if others could see the wilding reflected in her eyes. If they could, the two men on the road may not have attacked her. In which case, they'd still be alive.

That memory no longer brought the horror it had. Instead, Ciara felt only numb, as though she had watched it all from the outside.

A knock jerked her back from the edge of emptiness and she started for the door. It opened before she got there. The bird-like servant entered, and stood off to one side as a troupe of servants carrying buckets of steaming water filed past him. Ciara scowled at him. She had hoped it would be Donovan.

The servants emptied their buckets into the polished wooden tub that stood close enough to the fire to benefit from its warmth. None of them spoke to her or even glanced up from their duties, and Ciara saved her irritation for the bird man.

"Dora will see to your needs," he said to her as he took the empty bucket from a short, round woman who studiously avoided meeting Ciara’s eyes. "Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"I think you know the answer to that question," Ciara said, and then silently added,
you can take me to Bolin
, with a not-so-subtle mental push to do as she said.

His smile twitched. "You will find Dora as warded against magic as I am, lady. My lord Donovan is most wise in these matters."