First Of Her Kind (Book 1) (13 page)

He had a good point.

"Do you honestly think gratitude kept bringing him back to your aunt's farm?" Donovan laughed. "He stayed because he knows what you possess and he wants it. His dear mother Goddess led him to your doorstep because she fears you. I believe she sent him to kill you, though he chose not to for reasons he has yet to share. I do believe he considered it, however."

Bolin shifted, and the guard behind him drew his sword. Ciara took the swallow of wine she had bypassed earlier, and coughed as she choked on it.

"He has no desire for the Goddess’ earth magic," Donovan said, and wrinkled his nose. "That is fodder for the likes of him. What he wants is what saved you on the road and drew me to you. He desires my gift to you."

"Your gift?" Ciara darted a look at Bolin. "What do you mean?"

"Your mother did a fine job of hiding you from me," Donovan said. "For a time I was not even sure you existed. Not until your awakening."

Bolin started out of his chair, and the guard forced him back into it and held him there with a hand gripping his shoulder. Ciara’s goblet hit the floor as she lurched out of the chair and whipped around it, putting the furniture between herself and Donovan, his meaning suddenly clear.

"Is that why you asked if I knew who my father was?" she said to Bolin, and flung a gesture at Donovan. "Because it's him? Why didn't you just tell me?"

"You didn't need to know," Bolin said. He shrugged off the hand on his shoulder and got to his feet. The three guards hemmed him in, weapons drawn, a barrier between him and Donovan.

"I didn't need to know? Why? Because you have plans for me? Because you know what's best for me?" Ciara clenched her hands into fists and glared at Bolin. "You don't own me. Neither of you."

"Ciara," Bolin said, "listen to me."

"No!"

She lifted her skirts to keep from tripping, and ran towards the door. She wanted out of this room. Out of Donovan’s reach. Out of Bolin's reach.

"And where would you go?" Donovan asked.

The handle turned, but the door didn’t budge. Ciara threw her weight behind it to no avail. She truly hated this place.

"Come and sit, daughter, we have much to discuss."

Ciara pulled on the handle again with a frustrated growl. "Let me out."

She felt Donovan come up behind her, and she stiffened. He sighed, and his breath, hot on the back of her neck, sent a shiver chattering down her spine. "This charade makes me weary. I have been nothing but patient up until now, ever so indulgent of your youth and inexperience. Your aunt and your mother spent years nurturing your earth magic," he twisted the words. "All I ask is the chance to teach you how to control your real power."

"And then?" She turned to face him, her back against the door. She tilted her head to look him in the face, and fought to slow her raging pulse.

"Ciara, don't listen to him," Bolin said.

"I have never lied to you," Donovan said. "The General has. Keep that in mind."

Keeping her palms flat against the smooth wood of the door to help steady her and support legs gone weak in the knees, Ciara tried to see past Donovan to Bolin. "And what will you do with him?"

"I am undecided."

"You told me you didn’t want him dead." Her voice sounded small and uncertain, and her chin quivered despite her best efforts to keep it still. Donovan terrified her, standing this close, the depths of his power shimmering around him. She tried not to move, afraid if she did it would engulf her.

"I leave that in your hands." He leaned in and spoke the next for her ears only. "You, in exchange for the General's life."

"You'll let him go?"

Lightening flashed in the depths of his eyes, and Ciara jumped at the force of Donovan's hand slamming against the door next to her head. "My patience draws thin."

Someone grunted and Donovan spun as a body hit the floor. One of the guards lay on the ground, blood pooling beneath his still form. The others flanked Bolin, keeping him at sword's length. Ciara cried out as Donovan's fingers bit into the flesh of her arm and he yanked her away from the door.

"General!"

Bolin swiveled.

"You know I won't hesitate to do what you did not."

Bolin's laugh chilled Ciara straight through. "You'd be doing us both a favor then."

Ciara twisted back against Donovan's hold.

"Don't trust him, Ciara," Bolin said, a snarl disfiguring his face. "No matter what he claims, he'd sooner kill you than let you go."

Donovan's laugh echoed Bolin's. "You play the game well. It is he who cannot be trusted, daughter. He who should have killed you by command of the Emperor. Isn't that so, General?"

This time Donovan released Ciara when she pulled her arm back. She put as much space between them as she could, gripping the back of a chair to steady herself as questions swirled in her head. Magic -- Donovan's or the fortress's -- moved around the room in ghostly waves clouding her thoughts.

Ciara, trust me.

She jerked her head up. Trust who? She caught Bolin's eye, and the miniscule flick of something beyond the ever-guarded expression. The air rippled, and Bolin twisted, a grimace crossed his face as he jerked violently and collapsed.

She spun on Donovan. "What have you done?"

One of the guards nudged Bolin's prone form with his foot, and nodded to his companion. They sheathed their weapons and pulled him off the floor, one on either arm, and dragged him out of the room.

"I have spent a great many years searching for you." Donovan had his back to her, straight and unyielding. "It will go better for you if you cooperate. As I’m sure you are aware, I will not hesitate to use force to get what I want. Am I understood?"

The expression he turned on her held no pretense. Ciara took an involuntary step back, and her hand strayed to her throat. The pendant warmed at her touch. Donovan’s eyes flashed.

Ciara kept her gaze on him, but focused on the pendant's intertwined sigils as she traced them with her finger. Silver -- the metal of the mother Goddess, the tie to her earth magic, the simple, powerful magic that flowed through all of life. The very thing she turned her back on at every opportunity. She could feel it, could see it within herself, spinning and dancing like silver moonlight reflected on rippling water. If she called it softly, drew it towards her strand by precious strand, and spun it together, she could give it form.

And then what? Earth magic existed to heal.

Unlike the wilding.

Ciara closed her eyes. The image of Scar-face rose up behind her lids but this time she felt no fear. Instead, the cold rage that had put an end to his miserable existence flooded through her -- a rush of excitement that set her pulse racing. Her mouth watered as though faced with a delectable meal. The wilding did not exist to heal.

She yelped, and jerked her hand from her throat where the pendant blazed hot enough to burn. Her earth magic surged up protectively, and forced the wilding back.

Ciara met Donovan's gaze, and this time, she held it.

CHAPTER
NINE

Focus and discipline made it possible to live strictly in the moment. In which case, pain could be acknowledged and then dismissed as something that would pass. It couldn't be totally avoided, not unless one were dead. Bolin wasn’t dead -- yet. The burn of a leather strap across his bare back reminded him of that fact. He cried out, twisting on the chains that held him suspended from the ceiling.

"I want him broken, Haracht," Donovan said. "Not dead."

Bolin glared at him from under his brows, blinking sweat from his eyes. "You're a coward."

"We all have our weaknesses."

Donovan nodded, and the strap sliced across Bolin's shoulders. He turned the cry into a snarl as he wrenched himself toward Donovan. The shackles bit into his wrists as the chains stopped him short of his goal. "You'd better let him kill me or, by the Goddess, I'll gut you myself."

"Such spirit!" Donovan grabbed Bolin's face and forced his head to the side to give him a glimpse of the brute of a man behind him. Dark, angular tattoos sliced across the man's bald head and down along the side of his face. He gave Bolin a toothy grin. "Haracht, here, enjoys a challenge. I acquired him from a slaver in Zarwiene who, unfortunately, failed to survive the negotiations."

A deep chuckle rippled out of Haracht's throat. "I had him for dinner." He wrapped a beefy arm, covered in more tattoos, around Bolin's chest. "I've yet to meet anyone I couldn't break."

He slid his tongue up Bolin's neck, and Bolin curled a lip in revulsion. "Then I'll be the first." He snapped his head back, the impact to Haracht's face not enough to do anything other than anger him.

Haracht roared, and Donovan stepped aside as he shoved Bolin forward. The slick, stone floor made it impossible for Bolin to find purchase with his bare feet and he spun on the chains. His shoulders wrenched with the weight of his body as he completely lost his footing, and he clenched his jaw to keep from screaming as the room went black.

Ice cold water hit his face before he lost consciousness. He sucked in a sharp breath as the water cascaded down his bare torso, and his muscles convulsed in a pain-laden shiver. Bolin tried to wrap his fingers around the chains and pull himself up to relieve the strain in his shoulders, but he couldn't get a grip -- his hands slick with either blood or sweat.

"I didn't like that," Haracht said. He circled around in front of Bolin, his right foot dragging as he walked. "I think I'm going to have to teach you some manners."

"Be gentle, Haracht," Donovan said from the doorway. "I have plans for this one."

Haracht grunted.

"Donovan," Bolin called out. "You won't keep her."

Donovan smiled. "We shall see."

He pulled the door closed behind him, and Haracht laughed. "I like you." He spun Bolin again, catching him in a bear hug and lifting him off the ground. "You’re a tough one, but I'll have you begging for mercy before long."

"I’ll beg you for nothing," Bolin said, and spit in the man's face.

"Bastard whelp!" Haracht locked his hands behind Bolin's back and squeezed hard enough to push Bolin's ribs into his lungs. Breathing became impossible, and the room began to fade again. Just before he blacked out, Haracht relaxed his grip but didn't release him. "I’ll wager before I’m done with you, you’ll be whimpering like a virgin at the whore market."

The man's breath reeked of salted fish, and the odor made Bolin’s stomach churn. "Before you’re done with me, you’ll be dead."

Haracht erupted in laughter and pushed Bolin away with a rough shove. This time a fist to the gut stopped his momentum -- and the small amount of breath he'd found. The chains released without warning. Bolin's knees buckled, and he hit the ground about the same time Haracht's booted foot connected with his side. Bolin curled into a ball to protect himself from further kicks, but they didn't come. Instead, Haracht knelt beside him and stroked the side of his face like a lover's caress and Bolin flinched.

"You know what I’d really like to do?" Haracht's voice became as soft as his fingers. "I’d like to slice your pretty skin off, piece by piece, maybe have some of it with my eggs in the morning."

He stood then, and Bolin watched from the floor as Haracht turned his back and limped to a nearby table against the far wall. Though he didn't stand much taller than Bolin, he had a blacksmith's build and easily outweighed him -- probably by half again as much, all of it muscle. The angular tattoos across his skull traveled down his neck and both arms, disappearing beneath the tight grey tunic that strained to cover his bulk.

"Get up," he said, without turning. "I'll even let you have a go at me if you'd like. Good sport is always welcome."

As tempting as that sounded, Bolin had a hard enough time just sitting up. He flexed his shoulders back to try and ease the pain in them and almost passed out in the process. The left one felt like it had come out of the socket. He glanced up the length of rusted chain attached to the wrist shackles. It had been threaded through a ring pounded into the rough stone of the ceiling, across to a pulley, and from there down to another ring on the floor against the opposite wall. Bolin saw no mechanism for raising and lowering it.

He swung his gaze back to Haracht and found the torturer watching him with a sly grin. "Pays to have a little bit of magic in my line of work."

He flicked his hand, and the chain jerked upwards. This time Bolin got his hands around the links in time to spare his shoulders any further abuse as he shot to his feet. Before the chain tightened, however, the slack returned, and Bolin scrambled to keep his balance. A lost cause when Haracht's foot shot out and caught him in the back of the legs, whipping them out from under him. Bolin landed hard on his back with Haracht straddling his chest.

The man's fingers trailed lightly across Bolin's skin, and he couldn't suppress the shudder the delicate stroke elicited.

"How's such a hard man have such soft skin, hmm? Maybe his lordship will let me have you when he's done. Bet you'd make a fine pair of britches." Haracht chuckled and hooked his thumbs through the wide belt around his waist. "See this? Came from a poacher. Scrawny bit of a thing he was. Hide wasn’t good for much, too tough, but it made a good enough belt."

He threw his head back in laugher and Bolin lurched upwards. He slammed the heels of his hands up under Haracht's chin. The blow had little force, but it knocked the man off balance, and when Bolin bucked up with his hips Haracht tumbled to the side. Bolin rolled, jerked his leg up and snapped his foot out. But for all his bulk Haracht moved incredibly quickly. He caught Bolin's leg and twisted, flipping Bolin onto his stomach.

"Ungrateful pig."

Haracht sprawled across Bolin’s back, pinning him to the ground and trapping his arms painfully beneath him. A hand as large as his head ground the side of Bolin’s face into the stone.

"Do you know what I’ve discovered about men like you?" Haracht whispered into his ear.

Bolin worked at forming words. "You like us better than women?"

Haracht reached under Bolin with his free hand, and rubbed him between the legs. "Oh, that I do. Women are far too delicate."

Shock, followed by a wave of revulsion, ripped through Bolin, and he tried to jerk away from the groping.

"I’ve found," Haracht brushed his lips against Bolin's neck, "that once a man like you starts to crack, it’s like the shattering of glass, and then you’re no different than any other man. In fact, often, you’re even more pathetic. At my hands you'll feel exquisite pleasure, as well as extreme pain. You will beg me for release before the end, General, they all do."

With Haracht's weight on him Bolin couldn't even beg for air. The room faded around him and again, before he passed out, Haracht released the pressure and stood.

"Enough for now."

Bolin could do no more than gasp as the man yanked him to his feet by his waist, turned him around and then shoved him away. Bolin staggered backwards into the wall, but his legs couldn't hold him, and the rough stone tore at his raw back as he slid to the floor. He crumpled onto the dirty straw that served as a bed, and tried to breathe his way around the pain.

"Pleasant dreams, General," Haracht said, and closed the door behind him as he left.

* * *

"I’m disappointed," Bolin told Donovan.

They were sitting before a fire in a study. Bolin didn’t recognize the room. It most likely existed only in his head. But he enjoyed the illusion of warmth, a glass of good wine, and the comfort of a padded chair -- all of which were far better than lying half naked on a damp, stone floor.

"Disappointed?" Donovan asked. "How so?"

Bolin swirled the wine in his glass, and watched the blood red whorls dance in the firelight. "I expected you to break me yourself."

Donovan laughed at that. "Ah, General, I am."

* * *

Food came in the form of lukewarm gruel that smelled of horse urine and vomit. When Bolin refused it, Haracht forced it down his throat -- three times -- until it stayed there.

"There, now, not so bad." He wiped Bolin's chin with a rag. "You'll learn to like it before too long."

The gruel rose in Bolin's throat, and he choked it back. He'd have rather spit it in Haracht's face, but suspected the man would have merely wiped it off and fed it to him again.

"Stop sulking like a little girl." Haracht slid his hand up Bolin's thigh, and Bolin kicked at him. Haracht laughed. "You and I are going to have some fun later. But right now I'm working on a new jerkin down the hall."

He slapped Bolin's face hard enough to make his eyes water then stood and left him, taking the lantern and plunging the cell into complete darkness. As soon as the sliver of light along the bottom edge of the door flickered and went out, Bolin rolled to the side and threw up. He wiped his mouth on his arm and shifted on the pile of straw to avoid the freshly soiled bits. He wanted to close his eyes and rest because Haracht would be back all too soon. But sleep meant dreaming, and that seemed to thrust him directly into Donovan's waiting arms. Or down paths of memory he cared not to travel.

Something scrambled up his leg, and he kicked. The creature squealed when it hit the opposite wall, landing with a thud and a scrambling of feet. Haracht's table stood somewhere against that far wall, littered with the tools of his trade.

Bolin drew in as deep a breath as he could and forced his legs to push him upwards. The chain rattled through the ring, and he tensed. He waited until he could be certain Haracht wouldn’t come to investigate the noise before he took a hesitant step away from the wall. His legs wobbled and he didn't get very far before they gave out and he dropped to his knees with a curse. He crawled as far as his restraints allowed, then stood and reached out blindly, pulling the chain taut. His shoulders ached with the effort, and his fingers touched only air. Moving first to the right, then the left, put nothing within his grasp yet he could sense the table -- so close.

He grunted and stretched further, muscles screaming in agony. His fingertips brushed wood and he strained against the chains, pushing forward on the balls of his feet. But the stones gave no purchase to his bare feet and his legs kicked back behind him. Bolin managed to pull his arms in before he hit the ground. His elbows and forearms took the brunt of the fall, but the momentum slammed his forehead into the floor. Lights erupted behind his eyes, accompanied by a shock of pain that rivaled anything Haracht had recently caused. The torturer wouldn't be pleased if Bolin did his job for him.

Bolin rolled, his head spinning, a warm trickle of blood sliding down the side of his face, and crawled back to the relative comfort of spoiled hay.

The dregs of the Buckthorn still trickled through him, making rational thought as hard to hold onto as a fistful of sand. Reality and imagination blurred. Truth became lies, and Bolin had a hard time deciphering one from the other. Then there were the figures that moved at the fringes of his vision even when he closed his eyes -- Meriol, Ciara, men he had known, ghosts of men he had killed. There were many of those. War was an ugly endeavor. Being the sword of the Emperor was even uglier, but Bolin knew no other life.

He drifted toward sleep, and this time didn't fight it. He had built himself a sanctuary where the pain became a dull throb and nothing Haracht would do to him could matter.

Ciara's face swam into view behind his closed eyelids. Her wild brown hair flowed around her face, accentuating her soft features and deep hazel eyes -- eyes that betrayed every emotion. Eyes Bolin could get lost in. He needed to be much more careful around her. Not only did her body call to him in ways he found increasingly hard to ignore, but her magic called to him as well. Donovan had not lied in that regard. The dark coil of power she kept hidden deep inside sang to him like cool water in the summer's heat. That kind of magic was rare indeed, and Ciara had no idea how to guard it. Meriol had warded it, but only from Ciara herself. She trusted Bolin.

But around Ciara, and the power she possessed, Bolin didn't trust himself.

Like Donovan, he had been searching for Ciara since her birth, though he had only guessed at her existence then. He knew of it as a certainty the same moment Donovan, the Imperial Mages, and anyone else of substantial power had:  The moment Ciara's mother died, and her grief and anger manifested itself in the destruction of half their house and the near death of the unfortunate healer.