First Of Her Kind (Book 1) (19 page)

"Devil's be damned!" Haracht roared, and Bolin felt the slack in the chain a moment too late to save himself a fall.

He rolled as soon as he hit the ground, but even as he regained his feet the big man lunged forward with the knife at the ready. Bolin sidestepped the attack and slammed his elbow into Haracht's side as the man barreled past. Haracht grunted and staggered into the wall.

"Ho, ho!" he bellowed, as he turned to face Bolin, still spitting blood from his gushing tongue. "You want to make a sport of it!  I knew I liked you. I haven't had this much fun since the imperial guard. He wanted to fight, too. Had him for desert, and made myself some new boots when I was done."

Haracht flicked a gesture at the chain but this time Bolin saw it coming. He snatched at the bit of magic meant to jerk him off his feet again and used it instead to break the shackles on his wrists. Before the iron bonds hit the ground, Bolin caught the chain and spun the restraints over his head. He sailed them toward Haracht. They hit him in the throat, and he dropped the knife to put both hands to his neck as he fought for air. He stumbled forward, his face a twisted mask of rage and desperation. Bolin skittered past Haracht's grab, ducking down to scoop up the discarded knife.

Haracht whirled, then turned back when the door flew open behind him. Bolin didn't hesitate. He lunged forward and drove the knife through Haracht's back, twisting it straight up into his heart. The big man arched back with no sound but the gurgle of blood in his throat. Bolin shoved him forward and Haracht took two steps before he collapsed at Ciara's feet.

* * *

Blood pooled around the head of the man at her feet, and covered Bolin's torso and arms. The sharp scent of it hit Ciara's nostrils and she gagged and looked away. She closed her eyes and fought for calm, breathing through her mouth to keep the rancid smells of the room from overcoming her.

"Ciara."

She'd seen blood often enough, but this-

"Ciara!"

She opened her eyes and looked at Bolin. Silver strands of magic swirled around him like a willow wisp. The magic of her pendant had drawn her here and now she knew why. "What did you do?"

"What I needed to," he said, his voice hard.

She furrowed her brow. "You took my magic. You said you'd never do that." Her short nails bit into her palms as she curled her hands into fists at her sides. "My aunt gave it to me. I'm sure she didn't intend it to be used to kill someone."

"Actually, the knife killed him," Bolin pointed out. "And he intended far worse for me."

Ciara let her eyes travel over him. She couldn't tell if all the blood was his. Some of it came from the long, shallow cut above his navel, but she guessed the rest belonged to the dead man.

"We need to go," Bolin said. "Now."

He looked around the room, and then walked slowly to a corner where his boots and tunic had been discarded next to a bucket of water. Ciara said nothing as he hunkered down beside the bucket and doused his face and arms, trying to scrub some of the blood off.

She glanced at the body sprawled between them. "Did you have to kill him?"

"Yes."

Bolin slipped his tunic over his head, wincing as he did so, and pulled his boots on before using the wall to help him get to his feet. Ciara hadn't moved. She still stood in the doorway, uncertain what to do next.

"We need to go," Bolin said again.

He bent and yanked the knife from the man's back, wiping it clean on the his tunic. He stepped over the corpse without a second look, took Ciara by the shoulders and guided her out into the hall. When Bolin pulled the door closed behind them, and laid a simple locking ward on it, Ciara bridled.

"You should've asked," she said.

Bolin took a breath, and even in the dim light Ciara could see the pain etched across his face. "Would you prefer to stay here, then?"

"I would prefer-" Ciara broke off. Bolin looked as though he wanted to slap her. "No. I don't want to stay here."

"Then you need to trust me," he said, his voice low. "I told you if a time came to escape, it would come without warning. I don't know where Donovan went, or when he'll be back, and I can't fight both of you at the same time."

He stood with one shoulder against the wall for support. Ciara could feel the pendant's magic all around him, pulsing like her own heart. It had to be the only thing keeping him on his feet. On an impulse she reached up and laid a gentle hand on his chest before she remembered Donovan had warded her earth magic.

"I can't-" She swallowed.

He covered her hand with his. "You don't need to. Can we go now?"

Ciara nodded and Bolin pushed off the wall and turned away. He kept Ciara's hand locked in his as he led her down the dank hallway. Oil lamps affixed to the walls spilled pale light in scattered puddles that became less and less frequent until Bolin made a turn and they started down a corridor with no light of any sort.

The pendant warmed against her breast as Bolin drew from it to call up a dim witch light. Ciara bit her lip but said nothing, and followed quietly behind as he moved through the maze of tunnels with a surety that suggested familiarity. But when the passageway they followed opened onto an alcove, he stopped at its edge and Ciara wondered if he'd lost his way. He let go of her hand and leaned against the wall, his head bowed, and she realized there were other reasons.

"Bolin?"

"Give me a moment," he said, his voice strained.

Ciara moved to stand in front of him. The pendant’s magic glimmered around him in the darkness, and she could see he had closed his eyes. She reached up a hand and laid it against the side of his face. "You're feverish." Even though she kept her voice low it sent eerie echoes tumbling through the darkness.

"We have to keep moving." But he made no effort to put actions to words.

"And how far do you thing you're going to get?"

His jaw tightened but he didn't answer.

"Stop being so stubborn and let me help you. Or would you prefer to stay here, then?" she said, mimicking what he'd said to her earlier.

He lifted his head and looked at her from under his brows, his light eyes glittering in the pale blue glow of the witch light.

"I need to use this," Ciara touched the pendant. "But I'm not sure how. I've never used anything but my own magic."

"Just call it to you," he said. "Same as your earth magic."

Ciara pursed he lips. Same as Andrakaos. She placed her hand lightly on Bolin's chest above his heart and tried to recall the words to a simple healing spell Meriol had taught her. It would dull his pain, and help ease the fever, but she could do little else without more time. The irregular flutter of Bolin's heart steadied under her palm, as Ciara silently recited the incantation. He drew a deeper breath.

"Enough."

"You need more than that."

"It will have to suffice." He straightened, and took her hand in his once again. "Let's go."

He angled across the alcove and plunged them into another narrow corridor, no different than any of the others. They hadn't gone far when fresh air washed over them. A little way further the darkness lightened and Bolin let the witch light fade to nothing as he came to a halt once again. Ciara stopped short behind him and leaned to peer past his shoulder. They stood in the deep shadows of a colonnade that encircled a vast, cobbled courtyard streaked with lengthening evening shadows. Servants went about their chores, and Ciara shrank back, but not one of them even glanced in their direction.

"Where are we?" Ciara whispered.

"The main courtyard. The stables are across the way." Bolin nodded a gesture in the general direction, his voice as hushed as hers. "There's a back way out if no one's discovered it."

"And if they have?"

He glanced sidelong at her, and his mouth twisted. "Then I suppose we'll use the front gate. Stay close."

The pendant hummed against Ciara’s skin all the while as Bolin eased them past the fortress's wards without the slightest disruption. Spider-light fingers skittered over Ciara’s skin as they passed through them, and she shivered. Twice, servants walked directly in front of them, and Bolin stopped to let them go by. Ciara’s heart thumped so loudly she feared someone would hear but Bolin’s fingers tightened around her hand in either warning or reassurance, and the servants passed by, oblivious.

The magic, and the manner in which Bolin used it, were achingly pure and simple. It seemed to take no thought or obvious effort on his part. No carefully exercised control for fear of losing a tenuous grip. He wove the strands of the pendant’s magic through the air in an intricate pattern, visible only if you knew where and how to look. For Ciara, she could see little else. So unlike her clumsy attempts at any type of working, his enveloped them in filaments so gossamer fine she almost dared not breathe. Whatever wards Donovan had set; whatever guard the fortress had laid about itself, they didn't even quiver at their passing.

Ciara realized, with a mix of awe and jealousy, she could never have done this. And if she thought Bolin needed more healing to get them free of the fortress, she'd been mistaken. Where the use of magic drained those born to it, it seemed to fortify Bolin. He moved light and quick, without any pain or stiffness, and when he turned to look behind them his eyes were unnaturally bright.

They cleared the courtyard, and slipped through the half open stable doors. Just inside them Ciara froze. A groom looked their way, cued by Sandeen’s sudden whicker of greeting.

Keep moving
, silently, from Bolin. She could feel the firm tug of the spell he wove around them, shielding them from the groom’s vision. Then the subtle nudge, the silent suggestion the groom had business elsewhere.

"There’s no one about, ya daft nag," the groom quipped at Sandeen as he strolled past. "I’ve work to do. You’ll get fed when I’m done, like all the rest."

Ciara shied sideways like a startled foal as the groom walked past, but like the servants in the courtyard, he never noticed them or the shimmer of magic encircling them. Sandeen did though. He pawed at the stall door, and Bolin hushed him with a quiet word.

"Find his tack," he said to Ciara, quietly, without turning.

She nodded. A quick glance around led her to the tack room near the front stalls. By the time she returned, Bolin had Sandeen waiting in the aisle. Ciara slipped the bridle over the stallion's head while Bolin saddled him. When she turned back toward Fane’s stall Bolin stopped her.

"You'll have to leave him," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "It will be enough to get the three of us out."

Ciara hesitated, frowning, but after one quick look over the stall door, Fane had gone back to sleep. So much for being missed. Well, he’d a nice stall, plenty to eat, and the companionship of at least four other horses. He'd be no worse off here than with Findley.

Bolin handed Sandeen’s reins to Ciara, and walked to the wall at the rear of the aisle. He ran a hand across its surface, his face a mask of concentration. Voices rose outside the stable, and Ciara looked over her shoulder. Her stomach turned at the thought of getting caught and dragged back before Dononvan, but Bolin didn't seem to be paying attention. He muttered something under his breath as he moved further down the wall, his hands feeling along the stone as though he were a blind man searching for a doorway.

The voices outside grew closer.

"Bolin."

He spared her a quick glance, and went back to exploring the wall. Something moved behind her and Ciara turned in time to see a hound trot into the stable. It came up short when it spotted her, then threw its head back and bayed an alarm. Sandeen shied sideways as the hound charged, and Ciara stumbled back. She lost the reins as she came up hard against a feed barrel and sent the bucket on top of it flying. It landed with a clatter and bounced against a stall. The horse inside startled and slammed both hooves into the stall door.

"What's going on in there?" someone yelled. "Cafyl!"

A shadow crossed the doorway. Ciara lurched to her feet, Bolin's fingers tight around her wrist. He propelled her forward, directly toward the wall. She gasped, and put her free hand up to stop the collision, but it passed right through the stone and Ciara tumbled headlong into darkness.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

The air in the cedar swamp hung thick and close. The soft ground, carpeted with leaves and intertwined with a tangle of roots, tugged relentlessly at the hooves of Donovan's horse. To make matters worse, the midges were out in full force and they were hungry.

The crone’s messenger seemed unbothered by either the footing or the biting insects, and darted ahead of Donovan as soon as they reached the borders of the great fen. Donovan allowed his horse to choose its own path as they followed behind. As often as Donovan had been to this place he had never been able to mark a trail. The cedar swamp changed like the weather. Large trees lay toppled; their shallow roots unable to hold them firm in the face of strong winds. Their roots, yanked whole and in tact from the ground, rose up in blackened, tangled masses, covered with moss and vines, creating shelters for whatever creatures dared called this place home.

It took Donovan the better part of the day to reach the swamp and even that put it far too close to the fortress for his liking. It did have the benefit of providing a natural barrier from the north, its only saving grace. If few travelers dared the Nethers, even fewer risked crossing the vast, fetid marsh. Those who succeeded were never the same afterward. Donovan escaped unscathed only because of what he had to offer the crone in exchange for his freedom. He snorted. If an ever-shortening chain could be called freedom.

Darkness settled in early beneath the thick canopy of interlaced boughs. Donovan sniffed, and wrinkled his nose at the dank, musky odors stirred up out of the muck by their passing. No wonder the crone wanted out of this place. Even for one such as her the cedar swamp had to be unbearable. How many centuries had she been confined here?

But then, what other choice did she have?

"Soon I will have many choices."

Donovan's horse threw its weight back to its haunches, and jerked to a halt with a toss of its head in a move that would have unseated a lesser rider. The beast gave a wide, white-rimmed glare to the bent old woman who stood suddenly before it.

Donovan made no effort to keep the distaste from his face. "Crone."

Oddly flecked grey eyes, framed by eons of wrinkles and hooded by heavy brows, surveyed him with the sharp intensity of a hungry predator. "How goes your tutelage?"

"This is hardly the place to discuss such things."

"No?" The old woman waved a staff, as bent and twisted as her body, to indicate the whole of the swamp. "Do you think anything moves within these borders I'm not aware of?"

"There are many ears in the world, Crone."

"Something you'd do well to remember. Leave your horse. My door is there." She gestured with the staff, even as she turned and shuffled away.

Donovan dismounted and followed her, stepping cautiously amid the gnarled roots and sucking mud that seemed not to slow her one bit. He saw no door where she indicated but that meant little. The crone always hid her doors in plain view. This time she had situated it between two trees. It opened on a corridor so low Donovan had to dip his head to keep from hitting the ceiling. By the time he reached the cavern at the corridor’s end, his neck ached from holding it at such an odd angle. This room, unlike the swamp in which it sat, seemed unchangeable.

Like the crone herself.

"So?" Growling, rasping, the creak of tree limbs bending in the wind, demand and question rolled into one syllable. "Tell me what you think to hide from me?"

"What makes you think I am hiding anything from you?" Donovan knew the danger in playing games with this one, here, of all places. "Our bargain remains intact?"

"You don't trust me?"

Donovan strolled about the chamber, circumventing the central fire pit. He trailed a gloved finger through the dust on the edge of one of the many tables that lined the room. "As always." He paused by a collection of vials and earthenware jars with lids askew. They reeked of folk magic, and he wrinkled his nose. "Surely you don’t dabble in such mundane craft as this?"

She shrugged. "It passes time. As you are wasting it now. Tell me what you've found? Or shall I guess?"

He suppressed a shiver at the collection of bottled oddities, and wiped the dust from his gloves. "Time is something you have plenty of, thanks to your sister Goddess."

The vehemence in her hissing spit almost caused him to turn and face her. Almost. But then she would have seen the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth as his barb hit home, and that would have gotten him more than spit.

"Don't push me!  Our bargain stands. You will turn your offspring, and the two of you will stand with me against my beloved sister. In exchange, this decrepit excuse for a world is yours to do with as you see fit. Or do you wish to alter our agreement?"

"Not at all." He stood opposite her with the fire pit between them. The low flames licked hungrily upward if he drew too close, but they lacked heat. No normal fire, this. Nothing normal here, especially not the look in the crone's eyes, and the ease with which she stole into his thoughts and plucked out that one bit of information he had desperately wanted to keep from her.

For a moment that stretched an eternity not a thing moved in the chamber. Not a breath or a whisper, even the candle flames froze in their erratic dance.

Sciath na Duinne.

The words slid through that moment like a blade drawn against stone, echoing across the chamber and down Donovan's spine. The crone’s eyes went wide, and her face twisted into a snarl. Flames roared from the fire pit and shattered that frozen moment with a force that sent Donovan sprawling back against a table. Jars and scrolls scattered across the floor. With speed no crone should posses, she had him by the throat. Donovan choked as her fingers constricted, and her nails dug into his flesh.

"You thought to keep this from me."

Donovan grabbed at her wrists, but her grip only tightened. The blood pounded behind his eyes as he strained against her.

"Did you plan to use him against me?"

"No," Donovan gasped.

She leaned into him, her face a hairsbreadth from his. The only breath he could manage came tainted with the scent of decay. "You lie."

I am no good to you dead.

Her face contorted. She hissed at him, and spittle flecked his face. Her grip loosened but she didn't move away. Donovan gasped. At any other time -- when his life didn't hang in the balance -- the proximity of such power and darkness would have excited and enticed him, regardless of its outward form.

"Who is it?" she demanded.

Donovan rubbed his throat. "Your sister’s very own." His voice no more than a pained whisper. He kept very still -- as would be prudent when facing a coiled serpent.

"Ah." So many things in one, stinking breath of a word. Hunger, triumph, a tinge of fear, because they were both fools if they had none. "What do you plan to do with him?"

Donovan shrugged and fought the unsettling urge to run. She stood far too close, keeping him trapped against the table. He would die in an instant if he didn't choose his words with caution, or allowed a careless thought too close to the surface. "I am . . . undecided."

"Then let me decide for you. You will bring him to me."

Donovan bit back a retort that most certainly would have caused him more harm than good. He had no power here, he needed to remember that.

"You would do otherwise?" And when he hesitated an instant too long her fingers wrapped once more around his throat. "You don't trust my judgment in this matter?"

"Impeccable" he croaked. "As always."

She picked through his thoughts, then released him and backed away. Donovan straightened, but stayed against the table, his legs too weak to trust. He licked his lips and fought to regain his composure.

"I am sure," the crone said, "you've gone to considerable lengths to ensure the Sciath na Duinne is harmless?"

"He is currently incapacitated."

"Ha!  I'd wager he could still kill you."

"Then he is as much a threat to you as to me."

"You liken your power to mine?" she asked scornfully, but it lacked venom.

She shuffled to the edge of the fire pit, musing. The flames, which so closely mirrored her temper, had subsided. Donovan would have shoved her in if he thought it would kill her. With the girl and the General he would not need her.

"Careful," she said. Undercurrents of age beyond reckoning weighted every word with a force that here, within this place, he had no power to stand against. He would be a fool to try. "Your thoughts are careless. I trust you tread more lightly around the Sciath na Duinne."

"He is nearly broken." Donovan could not keep her out of his head. "At which point, he shall work only in our best interests. In
your
best interest."

"Bring him to me."

"And what will you do with him?"

She awarded him a sharp look over one bony shoulder, the hint of a smile on her thin lips. "He'll protect me against you and your offspring, of course, and serve as a tool against my pathetic sister."

Donovan couldn't suppress a short, barking laugh. "Against his own mother Goddess? You’ve spent too much time in the swamp. Possible to break him? Yes. Possible to turn him? To an extent. To openly use him as a tool against her?" He shook his head. "Madness. He holds far too much fondness for her and her hags."

This time the crone laughed. Not a sound Donovan cared to hear more than once. "All our ventures dwell on the edge of madness. A fine line:  Madness or genius. Only the end result will decide which. Do you honestly think you can hold him?" Her ancient eyes glazed over as she drew her sight inward. "Do you know where he is now?"

Instinct said the fortress, enjoying Haracht's hospitality, but something in her asking hinted otherwise. Donovan reached out, beyond the swamp, and touched the outer wards that surrounded the fortress. They remained strong and in tact, pulsing with a familiar rhythm only partially his. "Safely behind my walls."

"Hmm. I wonder."

"When I have broken him he will be yours."

"You've lost him," she snapped. "He and your offspring have left your fortress by paths long hidden."

"Impossible." But even as he said it, he knew she spoke the truth. He moved toward the chamber door without thought and came up short, rooted in place against all force of will. "Let me pass, Crone."

"It's too late. They're well away." She seemed nonplussed. "Where do you think they will go, hmm?"

Donovan strained against the force that held him, even knowing she would release him in her own good time. He grit his teeth. "The sisterhood, I would imagine."

"They would never make it that far. He's not the fool you are. You have underestimated him greatly. Break him? Ha!  You could sooner break the stone under the mountains than break this one."

"Then let me go. I can do nothing held here."

"And what could you do if I release you?" She spat into the fire, and the flames danced in glee, rising up as though her spit were fuel. "What will you do without knowing where he'll go?"

He turned his head to look at her, the only bit of movement he could make. "I suppose you know where he will go?"

"Without a doubt." The fire flickered under her outstretched hand. Her eyes widened as she saw within the element all she desired. Imprisoned within the swamp for eternity, her power to see beyond its borders had not diminished. "He has friends among those who dwell in the old woods. There is ancient magic there. Deep magic. As old as the swamp, but less dark. It will heal him as nothing else can, and all will be lost to us."

"Then let. Me. Go." Donovan practically screamed it. Wrinkled, gnarled old bag of a woman, if woman she had ever truly been. He clenched his jaw, and struggled to keep his voice level. "I can do nothing here. He is weakened. I took him before, I can take him again."

"Can you?"

Donovan suppressed a growl. If he wanted to die, wanted to call an end to this game, he could make one quick, final draw of all power at his command and launch it directly into her. It might kill her. It would certainly kill him, if she didn't do it first. But he had no desire for death; other ambitions were far more enticing.

She stared at him, her grey eyes bright with some secret. Or some challenge.

Swallowing became an exercise in self control. It meant taking a steadying breath, forcing the bile collected in his mouth to slide down his throat, and then controlling the muscles to see it all the way down without gagging. Then another deep breath, in and out.

"I can," he said firmly. "And I will."

"And then?"

"I will bring both of them here, of course."

She smiled, though calling it that mutilated the word as much as her expression did. "And I should trust you will do just that?"

He said nothing because she wanted him to.

"You will bring me the girl," she said. "The Sciath na Duinne will follow."

"And I will lure her away from him -- how? He will assuredly not allow her out of his sight again."

The crone waved a hand in dismissal, and loosed Donovan from her grip. It provided him only minor relief. He rolled his shoulders back to ease the tension, and attempted to calm himself before frustration got the better of him.