First Of Her Kind (Book 1) (23 page)

Wild, stray magic lurked everywhere, though most people couldn’t have found it if they landed in it face first. Bolin not only could find it, he could use it. But not all magic suited all purposes, and what Bolin needed was twofold. He needed enough bits and pieces of the oldest, strongest magic he could find to hold in store for what awaited him in the swamp because he refused to walk into a trap unprepared.

Second, as much as he hated to admit it, he needed some for himself. Ciara's healing spell had helped, but it had also begun to fade. Without it there wasn't a part of him that didn't hurt. And the wound in his shoulder, courtesy of the hounds, refused to give him peace. It throbbed incessantly, the heat of the poison from the hound’s fangs seeping slowly through him. It wouldn't kill him, or he'd be dead already. She wanted him alive, for now. That might be a different story if her plans went awry, and what those plans were Bolin could only guess.

His other wounds -- those not physical -- he pushed into the depths of his soul and ignored. Donovan had proven very effective at finding and exploiting Bolin’s weaknesses. He had systematically broken down a lifetime of carefully nurtured discipline and self control, planting the seeds of self doubt in their place.

Sandeen stumbled and jerked Bolin from his reverie. The sun sat directly overhead, its stark light accentuating the bleakness of the landscape. Bolin reined in, and slid to the ground. He leaned against Sandeen, his arms draped across the stallion's back, as he rested his forehead against the saddle.

He would have stood there all day if Sandeen hadn't swung his head around and nudged him. Bolin sighed and straightened. "All right, old man." He rubbed the stallion's thick neck. "Let's find some water."

Bolin shaded his eyes and scanned the landscape until he spotted a small grouping of shrubs. He'd find no better indication of water in this land. He gathered the reins and lead Sandeen toward the splash of green. It took longer than he'd hoped, but the uneven ground coupled with his own exhaustion made the walk hell. He thanked the Goddess when he finally reached the cluster of vegetation, and found not only a pool of clear water, but a patch of grass as well.

An underground spring burbled into a hollow where the rocks were pushed up. Sandeen slurped noisily from it as Bolin pulled the saddle from him and gave him a rub down with twisted bits of grass. When Sandeen had his fill and turned to nibble at whatever forage he could find, Bolin dipped his hand into the cool water and drank, then stretched out beside the pool and plunged his head under the water's surface. The cold shocked his senses and took the edge off his fatigue.

He rolled over and sat up, running a hand through his wet hair. He grimaced as he flexed his shoulder. That wound needed a true healer’s touch. Bolin swore under his breath. Whether he wanted to or not, he needed to spend some of the pendant's magic to deal with his injuries, or he'd not last very long against Donovan.

With the sun warm on his face, Bolin leaned back against the flat of a rock and closed his eyes. Donovan's ambitions were subtle and long reaching, but it surprised Bolin he'd form an alliance with anyone, let alone the crone. In truth, Bolin had thought the crone long dead. Bound in her swamp and held there by the Goddess, she had never posed a threat. Now, if she managed to break free-

Better to deal with what was and not what might be. The crone would know as soon as Bolin crossed into the swamp. He'd find no unguarded magic there to lay claim to, none he could trust at least. Her power, inside those borders, would be immense. Centuries of refining it, fueled by anger and bitterness, made her a threat of untold strength. Unlike Ciara, this one knew exactly how to handle all the power at her command.

Success in this venture only meant removing Ciara from their hands. Alive wasn't a given, but a faint prayer tossed to the Goddess.

No one Bolin knew of, living or dead, possessed what that girl did. Two forms of magic, each extremely powerful in their own right, and each so totally different than the other. He marveled they hadn't pulled her apart -- though that possibility still existed, especially as Andrakaos gained strength. Donovan could have been right. It may have been a mistake allowing her to live.

Bolin sighed and forced relaxation through his body. The warmth of the sun helped ease his stiff muscles. He traced the lines of the sigils on the pendant in his mind's eye. The magic there held the nurturing, tender touch of the healers who had created it. Bolin didn't know any healing spells, but he could direct the magic to the greatest of his aches and numb the pain. That would have to suffice.

An image swam unbidden into the orange sunglow behind his closed eyelids as he dozed:  A carefree, happy Ciara, with the sunlight glinting off the copper highlights in her wild, tangle of hair. Her eyes were bright with laughter as she helped Findley with the yearlings.

A much different image shattered the first. The spark and glimmer gone, Ciara stood in the center of a darkened ring of stone. Her arms hung limply at her sides and black flames danced around her. As Bolin watched, her knees gave out and she collapsed into a heap.

Bolin opened his eyes. That vision had been sent, not conjured by the wanderings of his mind. Donovan no doubt meant to shock and anger him into hasty action by taunting him. The man's arrogance would one day be his undoing.

The sun had edged past its height, and angled toward the horizon where the barren rock at last gave way to moss-covered ground. Bolin had slept longer than he intended. He climbed to his feet, roused Sandeen, and struck off.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"It's dangerous to toy with that one."

The crone’s voice grated along Donovan’s nerves in a whole new way now, as though she were inside him, clawing to get out. As though she were still a part of him. The hoarse laughter following that thought made his blood run colder still.

"I will always be a part of you, Lordling." She caught his gaze across the dimly lit chamber, and her ancient eyes glimmered with unnatural fire. "There is no corner of you I cannot see. Every stray thought. Every plan. Every betrayal. You're as naked to me now as you were to my sister at your birth."

"Then there is no further need for discourse with you." Donovan turned and paced to the far edge of the chamber. By allowing himself to be used to carry out her working, he had laid himself bare to her. Putting the breadth of the chamber between them would not change that fact. It only made it easier to ignore her, or at least pretend to ignore her. Another illusion.

Though it tasted sour to admit it, the working had nearly done him in -- as it had the crone, even if she refused to acknowledge the fact. Donovan could feel her exhaustion twisting in the back of his skull. They were very much a part of one another now. Donovan doubted he could see as deeply into the crone as she could into him, but he would forever sense her mood. Only death would separate them now.

That proved to be the most annoying and unexpected side affect of what they had done. More precisely, what he had done. He had brought Ciara to them over leagues of land, blending the crone’s power with his own, using the ancient magic of this place to extend his power far beyond what he had thought possible. The feat exhilarated him. The depths of the power the crone wielded were unlike anything he had ever imagined, and he had just touched the surface. The Goddess would be wise to fear this one loose in her world.

Just as Donovan feared losing himself out of something as base as lust. What he had tasted of the crone’s power had enticed him beyond anything else he could name. He wanted more. Even if it cost whatever he had left for a soul.

"Go and rest. I'll need you at your very best when the Sciathe na Duinne arrives."

Donovan nodded uncharacteristic acquiescence and moved with detached obedience toward the doorway the crone indicated. Almost there he stopped, and looked back at the crumpled figure lying in the midst of the fire pit. "What of her?" His voice cracked and for once he couldn't find it in himself to care.

"She is beyond us at the moment," the crone replied. "I don’t believe your offspring appreciated the manner of her journey. She'll not wake in a pleasant mood. You'll need to ensure she knows who her allies are."

He snorted, and swung his attention back to her. "There are no allies in this room. We are all enemies."

"Common purpose and necessity have formed the basis of more alliances than any other factor. Take your rest and ponder on how your fortunes will alter should you align yourself with someone not currently within these walls."

"My choice has been made, hag," he snarled. "As you well know. I will play our game out to its end."

"And then?"

He bared his teeth in all he could muster of a smile. "And then we shall see who is left standing."

He turned and took his leave. Yes, he still possessed enough of himself to hold onto some semblance of the pride and arrogance that defined his life. Rest would do him good. He would be facing three enemies in that chamber when events played out. A fool would think otherwise. The crone would come for him as quickly as the General if she thought it would benefit her. Games within games, and only time and the fates knew what the outcome would be.

* * *

The squat figure, no taller than a child, climbed onto a boulder and sat. He passed a wriggling toad from one hand to the other. Every now and again he raised his gnarled face and sniffed the air like a questing hound.

Bolin left Sandeen hidden among the trees and approached from downwind, moving quietly. He covered the last two strides swiftly, and slid his arm around the man's thick neck, cutting off his air as he hoisted him off the boulder. The man let out a garbled cry, followed by a sickening squish from the toad as his hands tightened reflexively. He kicked his feet, and clawed at Bolin's arm with gore covered fingers.

"Let go!  Let go!"

"Be still or die, Grumnlin," Bolin said, his mouth close to the man's ear. "Who're you waiting for?"

"No wait!" Grumnlin kicked harder and Bolin squeezed until the man could only gasp. When he stopped thrashing, Bolin lowered him back to the boulder and loosened his grip. "Watch." Grumnlin sobbed loudly. "Lady say watch."

"For me?"

Grumnlin twisted his head to get a look at Bolin's face. His own, dirt smeared face -- the bits not covered by hair -- showed streaks of tears, and flecks of toad innards.

"You," he said.

"And what were you to do when you saw me?"

Grumnlin folded his arms across his chest. Bolin spun him around and wrapped his fingers around the man's throat to keep him there. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you."

Grumnlin's eyes bulged and he pushed at Bolin's fingers. "Need me."

Bolin curled his lip. "For?"

"Can't . . . talk."

"If you try to run, I'll kill you," Bolin warned. He took his hands off the man and wiped the grime from them. "Well?"

"Where you go?" he asked. "You know way?"

"I'll find it."

"You no find." Grumnlin shook his head. "Way always hidden. But I know."

Bolin glared at him. Unfortunately, Grumnlin probably spoke the truth. Bolin could spend days looking for the crone's hideaway and never come close; or walk right past it and not even know.

Grumnlin looked at his hands. "Aw, toady," he murmured, and licked the gore off his palms.

Bolin's stomach turned. "Grumnlin."

He looked up, his tongue extended. "I lead." He nodded and hopped off the boulder. "We go."

* * *

Rest came easily, though not peacefully. Donovan had not bothered with eating. A glass of brandy and the comfort of an over-stuffed chair before an actual fire held more appeal than food. He had no idea how long he slept, dreams and visions riddled his slumber. Some no more than that. Some sent by the crone herself. Reminders he no longer enjoyed solitude, no matter how much he wished otherwise. She allowed him to see the General through Grumnlin's eyes, and Donovan wondered at the crone’s attachment to such creatures.

"They serve their purposes."

Donovan jerked upright, hastily putting his thoughts in order.

"As do you." The crone shuffled across the room without looking at him. "And when they cease to serve, they cease to live."

Donovan glared at her, clearing mental cobwebs and the frayed remnants of his slumber. "As do I?"

She chuckled, a low, throaty noise. "As do you, Lordling. I expect, however, you'll last longer than some. Your appetites are much stronger. You'll need all your resources in the time to come. The Sciath na Duinne is nearly here, and he's gathered a great deal of magic. Your wards are in tact?"

"If you doubt me, Crone, check them yourself." Somewhere along the way Donovan had lost all pretense with the hag.

"You have grown in wisdom. I wouldn't have believed it possible for someone of your character."

"I suppose I should take that as a compliment?"

She shrugged. "Take it how you will. The girl is rousing." She turned and strode toward the doorway. "It's time to begin."

* * *

Ciara felt as though every part of her had been ripped apart, and then smashed back together before being slammed into the ground. Repeatedly. She sat up slowly, and waited until the room stopped spinning before she slid her feet under her and attempted to stand. Her legs wobbled, but she got herself upright, swaying, and staring at the ground until her balance steadied.

A low ring of blackened stones surrounded her. The corners of the huge chamber it occupied were lost in shadow. Tables overflowing with dust-covered scrolls and jars cluttered the room, and Ciara wrinkled her nose at the overpowering smell of must and damp decay.

"I've been waiting to meet you, child," came a creaking, scratchy voice, as two figures emerged from the depth of the shadows.

It shouldn't have surprised her that Donovan walked beside the old woman whose shuffling step, and bent back, belied the power that radiated from her. Her eyes were bright, an eager light in them that put Ciara in mind of a hungry cat watching a mouse. A mouse with no hole to run to.

"There are more polite ways to go about meeting someone," Ciara said. She turned slowly to keep the woman in sight as she shuffled around the chamber, Donovan at her heel.

"I suppose there are. But I doubt you would have accepted even the most courteous invitation. Nor would your father have allowed you to come to me."

Ciara shot a dark look at Donovan, but he conveniently avoided her gaze. "What did you do to me?"

"Something you could do yourself if you were so inclined."

The thought terrified her. "What do you want?"

The old woman’s smile deepened. "The same thing your father wants, my dear. The reason you were created in the first place. I want your power. Nothing more. Nothing less."

Ciara shook her head. "I won’t give it to you."

"I expect not." The woman stopped at the rim of the stone ring. She faced Ciara. "Tell me, girl, how much do you love the Goddess?"

Ciara snorted. Donovan had asked her that same question not long ago. Her answer then had been the same as now, but she stopped before saying it as a silent warning reached her.

Careful, daughter.

Ciara darted a look over the old woman’s shoulder where Donovan stood.

"Would it delight you," the old woman went on, "to see the blessed mother Goddess destroyed?"

"On some days?" Ciara shrugged. "More than anything. Most days it doesn't matter at all. I think very little of the Goddess."

"And I think of nothing else." The old woman took a step in Ciara's direction, and Ciara instinctively backed up. "Do you believe in destiny, child?"

Another step.

"Yours was set long before you came to be. So little in this world depends on chance, and you're no exception." She lifted her skirts and stepped over the stones. Flames licked at her hems. "Would you be surprised to know that once your father adored the Goddess? That he wanted nothing more than to be one of her chosen? One of those special few she showered her favors upon? You doubt me, I know, but ask him to deny it."

Ciara spared another glance past the old woman. Donovan’s brow furrowed, and his lips formed a thin, tight line.

"He longed for the Goddess," the old woman continued. "Honored her even. And she refused him. She disdains the darkness above all else, you see, and he
is
dark. Almost as dark as me. As you are."

Ciara’s heel caught against a stone at the edge of the pit as the woman came to stand directly in front of her. The scent of wet earth assaulted Ciara’s nostrils, along with the tickle of strong, ancient power. The old woman's skin may have been weathered and creased like the bark of some twisted cedar, but her eyes were young and bright.

"Does it bother you to know you weren't created out of love? That your entire purpose in being born was part of some grand plan? His plan, child," a finger, as thin and twisted as a twig, jutted in Donovan’s direction, "is the same as mine, but with different purpose."

Ciara flinched back when the old woman raised her hands, and though the gnarled fingers didn’t touch Ciara’s skin she could feel them as surely as if they had. She swallowed hard against the lump lodged in her throat. Her heart pounded in her ears. The woman smiled, and her hands stilled but did not drop.

"Truly, I marvel the Goddess has allowed you to live. There's no doubt she knew what you were at the moment of your conception. What you were to become. It's why, I suppose, she kept you hidden. I wonder at her plans from time to time. To allow you to live, and then take from you the two women who could have sheltered you, and kept you from the truth of yourself? But then again, she gave you a much more powerful protector in their place, didn't she? One who would give his life for yours?"

Ciara couldn’t back any further, the low ring of stones acted like a wall. Fingers closed around her upper arms from behind, and she startled. Donovan stepped into the blackened ring and guided Ciara back into the center, closer to the old woman.

"Do not fight us," he said. "It is as it should be."

Black flame leapt suddenly off the embers around them and Ciara gave a yelp, but this fire, like the one that had held Sandeen and brought her here, gave off no heat.

"It's almost time," the old woman said. "The Sciath na Duinne will soon be here, and we must be prepared."

Ciara shook her head and tried to twist out of Donovan’s grip. "Let go of me."

"Or what?" The old woman laughed, a sound like dry leaves in the wind. "Do you think to stand against me in my own home? By yourself?"