First Of Her Kind (Book 1)

by K. L. Schwengel

  Closed in on her like a fist.

  Or a noose.

  Ciara cursed -- a guttural cry against the Goddess and the man who shook her by the shoulders until her teeth rattled. He meant to rip her free of the wilding’s hold, meant to control her. Why couldn't he just leave her be? Couldn't he see how right she felt in the wilding's embrace? Ciara focused on the dark power, grabbed a handful from its midst and flung it outwards. The spinning wall of light wavered, bowing with the force of the attack, but held firm. Ciara sucked in a desperate breath and choked on ash. A scream of frustration tore through her, and with it one more attempt to smash thru the earth magic. But it held fast. All save a slim crack through which a tiny bit of the wilding rushed out. Before Ciara could relish her victory, the rest bounced back and slammed into her, throwing her through the air. The air exploded from her lungs as she crashed into the ground.

  Everything left her then, except the ringing in her ears and blackness -– not the roiling black of the wilding, but the quiet, emptiness of sleep.

  * * *

  Ciara didn't know how long she lay there. It could have been a moment, or a life time. Drawing in one deep breath and then another -- past the ache in her body -- became her sole focus. Keeping her head from splitting wide open ran a close second.

  It took a while for her to realize her eyes were open, and even longer for the hazy shapes above her to coalesce into trees. They spun when she propped herself up on her elbows to look around. Her gaze swept the grove and she shuddered when her brain registered the figure sprawled on his back on the far side of the burn. Bolin! He had been shaking her, trying to bring her back, protecting her as he had sworn to Meriol he would do. On his life.

  By the Goddess, no!

  The distance between them seemed like leagues and she crossed it on her hands and knees, shaking uncontrollably, because her legs refused to hold her. She had to stop more than once to close her eyes and rest her head against the ground to keep from retching. It spun counter to the spinning of the grove. Like her, counter to everything else.

  Ciara tried to call Bolin but her tongue had become too large for her mouth, a mouth that tasted like ash. He couldn't be dead. Not because of her. By all that is holy, not dead. She winced as stones cut into her palms. By whatever else existed beyond the Goddess and her narrow-minded world, Bolin had to be alive.

  But when she got to his side, his eyes reflected only sky, and his face had an unhealthy pallor. Ciara rested her palm over Bolin's his heart, and exhaled a shuddering breath when a slow, unsteady beat vibrated against her fingertips.

  "Bolin." Her voice croaked, harsh and rasping, almost unrecognizable. She cleared her throat and tried again, louder. "Bolin!"

  His eyelids fluttered shut then reopened slowly. He heard her, on some level. She took his limp, cold hand in hers, and forced herself to focus beyond the physical. Be still and open yourself, and you will always see them if they are still with us. Meriol had taught her that.

  Goddess's blood, her head hurt. It spun like a child's top, taking her stomach along for the ride. She swallowed against the impulse to throw-up, and tried to force herself past the ache.

  "Be still and open, still and open," she whispered. Easier said than done. "Bolin, please, help me."

  He stirred, and took a deeper breath.

  Ciara's eyes were as dry as her mouth and she squeezed them shut to help both her head and focus. She reached into the vale that existed between worlds, the place she would find Bolin if he weren't dead. She pictured him in her mind’s eye. Pictured the feel of him, and held that image as she drew on the strength of the earth, and the deep roots of the trees. Her own discomfort began to fade. Nothing existed beyond this place -- and Bolin.

  The force of his anger hit Ciara like a physical slap, and she nearly lost her tenuous hold on him. She pushed past it. He’d be even angrier when he woke and found her gone again.

  Ciara drew in a shaky lungful of air -- tainted with the smell of charred wood and damp foliage -- and drew Bolin closer to consciousness. It proved no easy task. He resisted her efforts, even when she wrapped a light blanket of earth magic around him. But Ciara persisted until she knew he could find the rest of the way on his own. Only then did she pull away from him and break the contact.

  She climbed clumsily to her feet, and clutched at the nearest tree, leaning against the rough bark to keep from falling over. She glanced back at Bolin, still lying motionless. His eyes were closed, but his chest rose and fell in deep, regular breaths. Ciara didn’t have time to dawdle. She shoved off the tree and ran from the grove in staggering steps like a festival drunkard.

  * * *

  Bolin hovered on the edge of consciousness. He had a vague memory of Ciara leading him there, and then withdrawing. Pain throbbed through every bone in his body, pulsing to the beat of his heart, and it forced him past the haze of healing magic meant to keep him still. He lurched upwards like a drowning man, and sucked at a desperate gulp of air and then another, despite the fact each one ripped through him like fire. His eyes snapped open to survey his surroundings for potential enemies, fully realizing the only threat to his well-being had already left. He blinked to focus and scanned the grove before allowing himself to collapse back to the ground.

  He'd been the target of magic attacks before, more than once. None had been nearly this -- raw. He eased a hand across his ribs and groaned. It took much longer than he liked to gather enough strength to try propping himself up on his elbows. The grove tilted, and he rolled onto his side as he lost what little breakfast he had in him, an action that caused his ribs to scream in agony.

  Bolin spit and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He forced himself to his knees with a frustrated growl, pausing before easing back onto his haunches, arms resting on his thighs, head down and eyes closed. Breathing came slow and shallow, around the pain instead of through it. He looked up and concentrated on a distant tree through the haze of his lashes, held it in his focus as he straightened his legs to stand. Something that proved easier than remaining upright and he grabbed for the nearest tree to steady himself. He moved achingly slow, as much to keep his spinning head under control as to assess the damage Ciara had inflicted.

  She would be gone again, damn the unholies, no doubt about that. He could only guess what road she'd try this time. Goddess love her, why had Meriol done nothing to teach the girl how to use her magic? The wilding, as Meriol called it, had terrified her, and rightly so. She had stayed as far away from it as possible and encouraged Ciara to do the same. Not that Bolin had done anything different, but he hadn't been sure of the wilding’s exact nature.

  And now? Now he needed to find Ciara and get her to safety. Because if the wrong someone found her instead . . .

  Damn it to a thousand bloody hells! The girl's outburst would be a beacon for anyone of power within a hundred leagues. She would be hunted.

  Halting steps were the best Bolin could manage. It would be days before he felt well enough to move without discomfort, and he didn't have days.

  The path from the grove to the barn had never seemed so long, nor so rough, and the air never so littered with new and inventive curses. Bolin would have done the infantry grunts proud with the litany. Each tree became a hand-hold to steady his wobbly legs and a point from which to shove off to reach the next.

  The sun had long since passed its zenith when Bolin leaned his back against an aged oak for a moment's rest, forcing breath through clenched teeth. If not for Meriol’s binding him with an oath, he wouldn't give a fig for where Ciara had gone. Let the girl fall off the ends of the earth for all he cared.

  He frowned. He'd have about as much luck convincing himself of that as he would of sprouting wings. It hardly mattered that Ciara posed a danger to more than herself, or that duty dictated he find her. He would have gone after her regardless for reasons he didn't care to admit even to himself.

  * * *

  "Bolin!"

  Findley had already started his
afternoon chores when Bolin staggered into the barnyard. From the shocked expression on the horse master’s face, Bolin guessed he looked like a visage of death itself. Despite his growling objection, Findley took him by the arm and helped him to a bench near the stable door.

  "We'd thought you'd left again with Ciara," he said.

  "Isn't Sandeen here?" Bolin's voice cracked.

  Findley scratched his bald spot and frowned. "Guess we'd not thought to look. Purt!" He followed his voice into the barn and yelled again, a mighty bellow likely heard half way to Guldarech. "Purt!"

  The stable boy's harried response seemed to come from a great distance. The sun had long since burned off the early morning chill. And how far along which road would Ciara be by now?

  The air smelled of horses and fresh hay, and Bolin drank it in past his aching ribs. He had found an indent in the rough wall of the barn adequate to rest his head against, giving some semblance of comfort. His eyes refused to stay open, and though he should have been doing something other than sleeping, he finally had to give in. A figure crossed quietly in front of him, nothing more than a shadow behind Bolin's eyelids that hesitated a moment, then moved on.

  Another shadow blocked the sun -- larger, more persistent, and smelling of warm horseflesh -- and anointed Bolin with a blast of wet air. Sandeen nudged his arm and Bolin slapped half-heartedly in the direction of the stallion's broad chest. He’d no desire to abandon his spot in the late afternoon sun where his aches had become more tolerable, and breathing didn't come with constant sharp pains. Sandeen nudged him again with more persistence, and the quiet place Bolin had carved out for himself crumbled.

  "Apologies, Bolin." Findley shoved against Sandeen’s shoulder, but the stallion didn't appear to be in a cooperative mood. "He was hovering at the gate and bolted away from Purt as soon as the boy opened it. Nearly ran the poor lad down, he did."

  Bolin peered through half closed eyelids. Sandeen and Findley were blurs, one barely distinguishable from the other but for Sandeen's bulk and ceaseless pacing. Bolin blinked. He should have been doing something besides sitting on his arse in the sun, dozing and-

  Ciara.

  "Goddess’ light!"

  She would be leagues ahead of him. He needed to be on Sandeen's back, hard after her. First, however, he needed to stand, which meant fully opening his eyes, and they seemed not the least bit willing to cooperate.

  "Bolin?"

  Findley sounded concerned. Bolin wanted to tell him not to be, wanted to tell him to get Sandeen tacked so he could be on his way, but he couldn't get his mouth to form the words. Quite frankly, he couldn't get any part of his body to do anything other than sit where Findley had plunked him.

  "Damnation!" It came out as a low growl in the same moment Bolin heaved off the bench and stumbled into Sandeen. Findley grabbed his arm, but Bolin jerked away. He forced his eyes to stay open, and leaned against Sandeen's side, clinging to the stallion's neck while he tried to catch a decent breath, and keep the world from spinning out of control.

  Findley started to turn away. "I'll fetch Tyra," he said over his shoulder.

  "No," Bolin said. "I’ve no time for a healer. I need to go after Ciara."

  "I’ll send Purt to fetch her back. I've no intention of letting you light out after her in your condition."

  "And I've no intention-" Bolin clenched a handful of Sandeen's mane as his knees gave out. This time he didn't have the strength to object when Findley slid his arm around him, and saved him from landing on his backside.

  "I don't rightly care what your intentions are, Bolin. Purt!"

  They'd get him up to Tyra's hut between the two of them and she’d do what a non-magical healer did, drug him to sleep because she'd have no idea what ailed him. Bolin couldn’t spare the time for Findley's well-intentioned meddling. A sharp poke to Sandeen's ribs spun the stallion, knocking Findley back, and putting the horse between them.

  "My tack," Bolin hissed over Sandeen's back.

  Findley set his broad face into a stubborn frown. "I'll not get it for you. Nor will Purt. If you can't tack your own horse you're not fit to ride him." He stood back, arms crossed. "Your tack is in the barn where it normally is. Get it yourself. Tack him yourself. I'll not stand in your way."

  Had Bolin been able to let go of Sandeen he would have punched the horse master in the face. Instead, he elbowed Sandeen and the stallion turned to walk toward the barn with Bolin trying to keep slow but steady pace with him. They were nearly there when the earth shifted beneath him, and everything went black.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Donovan sniffed the damp, late morning air and drew his cloak tighter around his lean frame. His sleep had been abruptly shattered by the old woman’s passing. He couldn’t recall her name; she lived somewhere the other side of Guldarech. A healer, if he remembered right. A woman of substantial magic, considering it originated from the Goddess. The incident would have meant very little to him if her magic had dissipated when she died. Instead, when he traced its path, he found it had wound itself around a similar, less refined magic, and that held tightly to something totally different.

  Sparks danced upward as Donovan kicked the last log to squelch the embers of his fire. The sky held the promise of a clear day, and he now had a new direction for his hunt.

  He stiffened part way to his waiting horse and turned, scenting the air like a wolf -- someone summoned a great deal of power in a very reckless manner. It tingled along his nerves, riding the air like a familiar, tantalizing scent that made his mouth water. Ancient and full of promise, with only the faintest whiff of the Goddess attached to it. It rose up through him in a sudden rush that sent his pulse racing.

  Donovan drew his focus inward and followed the surge across the leagues. Nearly to its source, his face contorted into a snarl. A wall of blinding light rose up around that fledgling power and hemmed it in. Damn the ever-meddling Goddess and her hags. This did not belong to her.

  Still, his blood sang at the discovery. This is what he had been searching for, and he would have it whether the Goddess obliged or not. He knew this power. More importantly, he knew how to call it. The ancient words, as much a part of him as his own bones, reached across the land as he spoke them. They beckoned to the burgeoning, childlike Andrakaos, and the Goddess' guard wavered. Donovan's lip curled upwards. Yes!

  The contact shattered abruptly and he staggered back into his horse,. His scowl turned into a cold smile.

  He had spent many years, and traveled many leagues in search of this, only to be disappointed at every turn. Not this time. The familiar call of this power -- raw and untrained -- could not be mistaken. Who would stand against him once he had it in his grasp? Certainly not the Goddess. She would be the first to go. And her hags? They would either turn or suffer the consequences. Their choice.

  Still, he needed to exercise patience, a virtue he had spent a great deal of time cultivating. He sniffed again, testing the air. No need to waste his time and talents within the stale walls of Guldarech. He laughed, the hard sound of victory, and swung into the saddle. It would be a long day’s travel south to the Eastern Road -- provided one followed the popular trails. Donovan, however, chose never to follow any trail but his own.

  His horse pulled against the reins, and danced beneath him. The beast had developed a finely tuned sense of when they were on the hunt and seemed to enjoy it. A strange characteristic for a creature normally on the back side of the hunter-prey coin. Perhaps it knew that without Donovan it stood a good chance of being something's meal.

  Everything -- everyone, shared that same risk. The wisest chose the company of someone able to offer them protection, or became strong enough to not need it. Failing to do either, they perished. Even the most holy, most beloved, Mother Goddess could not escape that possibility. A fact Donovan knew did not elude her. And, though the same held true for him, Donovan lived in complete awareness of it. The Goddess could entertain the idea of making Donovan her meal, but she preferred the moral
high ground.

  Donovan preferred to win.

  When he had the source of the awakening Andrakaos he would become something similar to the Goddess. Yet entirely different.

  His pleasure at the thought rippled through him like liquid fire, and brought with it an odd mix of total satisfaction and renewed energy. His horse leapt forward at the barest touch, and Donovan gave the best its head, losing himself for a moment in the coiling and uncoiling of muscle and the horse's own sure sense of physical power. They soon left the campsite far behind.

  * * *

  Ciara brought Fane to a heaving halt. In her desire to put as much distance between her and Bolin as possible, she had pushed the gelding to his limit. Neither of them could go on much longer without rest.

  The late afternoon sun slanted over her shoulder as she stood in the stirrups to take stock of her surroundings. She had purposely kept out from under the eaves of the quiet forest they were skirting so as to not lose her sense of direction. As long as she continued to bear to the southeast, she'd find the Eastern Road. She hoped she'd find an inn there as well, or a farm that would take her in for the night.

  She patted Fane's lathered neck, and let him dip his head to graze. Her own muscles were stiff, and the parts of her that hadn’t gone numb throbbed incessantly. Thankfully, somewhere along the way her head had stopped spinning.

  She looked over her shoulder and chewed at her bottom lip. The thought of facing Bolin's anger a second time in one day gave her something to worry about besides what had happened in the grove. Goddess's blood, couldn't he just ignore his blasted oath to Meriol? After what Ciara had done to him, there'd be no blame if he thought good riddance and went about his own business.