First Of Her Kind (Book 1)

by K. L. Schwengel

  Unholy mother! That would have been enough to deal with, without adding Donovan to the mix. Because that one may have appeared to give in easily on the road, but Bolin knew better. One on one, Donovan would not be able to best him. He had tried in the past, and failed. He would gather some men, most likely paid mercenaries, and ambush them. At the most, Bolin had a day, provided he could avoid Donovan for that long. They were at the fringe of the Nethers, Donovan's home, and he knew these lands far better than Bolin.

  The lead jerked and Bolin pivoted. Sandeen tossed his head in agitation and skipped sideways toward Fane to put slack in the rope. The gelding's eyes went wide enough to show white. He backed hastily away from the stallion, and Ciara gave out a startled yelp.

  "He didn't mean it," she said. "He's tired. We're both tired."

  Bolin backed Sandeen, and Fane came along reluctantly, neck stretched out against the pull of the rope. He needed to find a place to stop, and soon. "There's a clearing just ahead, along the creek." Provided Bolin's memory served. "We'll stop there."

  * * *

  By the time they reached the clearing, Ciara had started to nod off. She sat with her head bowed and her hands limp on the reins, and didn't even stir when Bolin brought the horses to a halt. He pulled a blanket from his pack, spread it on the ground, and went to collect Ciara. She muttered something incoherent as she slid from Fane's back and into his arms.

  "I can walk," she mumbled into his shoulder, but made no further argument as he carried her to the blanket and laid her gently down.

  Bolin drew the other half of the blanket around her, and Ciara snuggled down into its relative warmth. He brushed a strand of hair off her face, picking it carefully from the smudge of salve across her cheek.

  Why couldn't anything with Ciara be easy? He had no one to blame but himself. Not Ciara's headstrong nature. Not Meriol's lack of training. After all, Bolin himself had done nothing for over three years. It had been far easier to convince himself she posed no threat. Isn't that what he'd relayed to the Emperor? Even when the Emperor pushed Bolin to bring Ciara to Nisair, he had clung to that uncertainty. When, in truth, the thought of Ciara in the hands of the Imperial Mages made his blood run cold.

  Damn it to the thousand hells! Bolin lurched to his feet and went to tend the horses. Those were the kind of thoughts that were going to make him careless at the wrong moment.

  * * *

  "I won't be led across the countryside against my will," Ciara said.

  She had woken after sunrise, cramped, stiff, and still tired. Her cheek throbbed, and her throat burned every time she swallowed. Even after their quiet breakfast of cheese and dried fruit, she couldn't work herself into a mood of quiescent obedience.

  Bolin finished tightening Fane's girth and ran the stirrup down. "You promised your aunt you’d go to Dryw Hrine. I promised to see you get there. A task, by the way, you’ve served to make exceedingly more difficult than it should've been."

  "Then you needn't continue." Ciara trailed after him as he moved between the horses. "I have other options, you know."

  He cocked a brow at her. "Oh?"

  Ciara tipped her chin up, and winced as the dried wound stretched painfully. It needed more salve. "I’m not going to Dryw Hrine."

  She didn't fail to notice he had run the lead between the horses again.

  He made a noise in his throat. "It's not up for debate. At the moment, it’s the safest option for you."

  "Safest?" Ciara skirted Fane's rump and put herself directly in Bolin's path. She balled her fists on her hips, and cocked her head back to catch his eye. "If I'm in so much danger don't you think I deserve to know from what, exactly?"

  Bolin looked down his nose at her. Ciara held that stony gaze. She tried to get past it, dared him to let her see behind the carefully constructed mask. Healers were taught early in their training how to read people, and Ciara had gotten quite good at it. Most people were easy. Bolin proved impossible.

  "Don't," he said.

  Ciara blinked. "Don't what?"

  He raised both brows this time. "This is getting tiresome, Ciara. Once you're safe at Dryw Hrine we can decide what to do with you."

  Ciara sucked a quick breath. "We? Who is we? And what makes you think you have the right to decide what to do with me?"

  For an answer he nodded toward Fane. "Get on. Or do you intend to walk?"

  Ciara folded her arms across her chest. "I'm free to go where I want. You've no right to stop me."

  She shouldn't have said it. She knew as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Knew it by the way he rolled his shoulders back and angled his head just so. Try me, that look said. "And where do you think you'll go, then?"

  Ciara shrugged in haughty indifference. "Wherever I chose. Perhaps to Glenlie to see my father."

  Bolin nodded. "I see. And that would be-" he looked around. "-which direction?"

  Ciara hesitated. She cast a quick glance at the sky, looking to the sun to get her bearings and gestured west.

  "Indeed?" Bolin stroked his beard, and surveyed the thick, impassable tangle of brambles in the direction Ciara had bobbed her head. "I wish you luck, then."

  But he didn’t untie the lead rope.

  "Fine." Ciara chewed her bottom lip. She looked back the way she thought they had come. "Then I’ll go back to the road and take that to the nearest town."

  "Luck again."

  Ciara let out an exasperated sigh. "Then I'll just go home."

  "No, you won’t."

  "Yes. I will." She made a quick grab for the lead attached to Sandeen's saddle, but Bolin stepped smoothly in front of her. He casually extracted his gloves from where they were tucked through his belt and pulled them on.

  "Have you so quickly forgotten what happened yesterday?" he said softly. "It's not safe for you to be on your own. And if you think Donovan can help, you're mistaken. He's not to be trusted."

  "He seems to think you're not to be trusted either."

  His mouth twitched. "You don't even know the man, and you put that much stock in what he says? You’re more foolish than I thought." Bolin took her by the elbow and led her toward Fane. "Get on your horse."

  Her skin tingled under his touch, a warm counterpart to the anger building in her. It trickled up her arm to her neck, and she felt her cheeks flush. Ciara jerked back, and Bolin let her go. "Why don't you just leave me alone?"

  He didn't answer. Never mind Ciara didn’t want the future her aunt had planned for her. Never mind Ciara didn't need Bolin's help or protection.

  You need no one's protection, lady.

  Her eyes widened at the whisper of a voice in her head. Donovan?

  Let me come to you. I will take you wherever you chose to go.

  "Ciara!" Bolin’s voice bore similarities to the warning growl of a wolf. "Do not call to him," he said, enunciating each word very clearly.

  She blinked. "I'm not. I-"

  "Get on your horse."

  He cannot hold you, lady. It is your choice.

  "No." Whether to Donovan or to Bolin Ciara couldn't say. She felt suddenly light-headed. Her vision swam, and her thoughts scattered in a swirl of images: Meriol, the funeral pyre, Scar-face. Her arm still tickled as though spiders raced across her skin, and Bolin now stood far too close. She backed a step. Her breath fought her, becoming as uncontrollable as her thoughts.

  Bolin reclaimed her arm and propelled her toward Fane. He swung her into the saddle before mounting Sandeen, and then they were heading back into the woods. Ciara sucked in a breath and then another. As her head cleared she felt a little less inclined than the previous evening to be nothing more than baggage. She sat deep in the saddle, shifting her weight back which caused Fane to plant his front feet and come to a sudden halt. Sandeen spun as the lead rope went taut, and Ciara couldn't decide who she'd irritated more -- the grey stallion, or the man on his back. Sandeen crowded forward, toward Fane, and the gelding side-stepped to get out of the way, ears flat, until he ran out of room. C
iara cried out, her leg trapped between horse and tree.

  "I've had enough," Bolin warned.

  Ciara tried pushing off the tree with her hand but Fane refused to budge. "You're hurting my leg."

  "Would you prefer to be hog-tied and slung over Fane’s back?"

  Ciara didn't answer fast enough, and Sandeen took another step forward.

  "Bolin, stop!"

  He hesitated, glowering at her over Sandeen’s head and Ciara held her breath. Without any visible cue, the grey swung around on his haunches. Fane lurched after them as the lead pulled tight, his ears still back and his gait stiff -- even less willing than Ciara to follow complacently after a horse that could easily kill him. But they went no more than a few paces before Bolin reined in. Ciara went as quiet and tense as Fane, both braced for another face-off neither wanted.

  It didn't come. Nothing did. Bolin sat rigid on Sandeen’s back until Ciara began to wonder if he had lost his way. When he turned the stallion, Fane leaned back against the rope, but Bolin didn’t advance on them again. He frowned, and his eyes narrowed as he studied her.

  "Do you know anything of your birth father?"

  Ciara blinked. "My what?"

  "Did your mother never tell you?" he persisted.

  Ciara shook her head. "It didn’t matter. Not to me. Marcus was the only father I have ever known."

  "It does matter." He looked away in disgust.

  "Bolin-"

  He looked back at her, a shadow playing across his face. "It matters a great deal."

  He dismounted and came toward her, and when Ciara inadvertently flinched his frown deepened. He stood at Fane's shoulder, one hand absently stroking the gelding's chest. Ciara could feel through the saddle the effect Bolin’s touch had on the horse. Felt as the tension flowed out of Fane's coiled muscles, how his pulse stopped racing, until he finally flicked his ears up and swung his head to nuzzle Bolin's shoulder. It quite nearly had the same effect on her -- without the nuzzling.

  "I’ll tell you this much." Bolin pitched his voice so low she had to lean toward him and strain her ears to catch the words. "That power you keep hidden inside -- the wilding? That is a gift of your birth father, and he wants nothing more than to have it for himself. Meriol and your mother did a fine job of keeping you hidden from him all these years. Your little temper tantrum when your mother died-" He shook his head. "You could’ve found no better way of announcing your existence. He's been searching for you ever since. That’s why you were secreted away to Meriol's. Not because you were a threat to your step-father or anyone else. And Meriol did what she thought was right, Goddess love her. She warned you off using anything but your earth magic and kept you hidden on the farm, out of anyone's eye, and close to the Goddess. It was a mistake. She should have taught you control and discipline."

  "How do you know all this?"

  He shook his head. "That doesn't matter."

  "It does to me."

  He stared up at her. "Have I ever given you cause to mistrust me?"

  No was on her lips, because he never had. "How do you know all this?"

  "Ciara-"

  He didn’t finish.

  The breeze stilled, and everything froze as though the woods themselves had taken a breath. In the next instant Sandeen launched into motion, Bolin grabbed a fistful of mane and swung into the saddle a hairsbreadth before Ciara felt it herself -- Donovan's presence, somewhere very near at hand.

  Sandeen lunged forward, dragging a hapless Fane with him. Ciara whipped backwards, caught unprepared, and nearly lost her seat. By the time she got herself righted, Sandeen veered off to the side and Fane stumbled in an effort to keep up, almost going down. Ciara pitched forward and catapulted over the gelding's neck with no way to stop her momentum. Something the ground took care of for her -- abruptly -- and the air burst from her lungs.

  A voice yelled at her over the ringing in her ears; ordered her to find her feet and move. Ciara would have been more than happy to oblige, but at the moment, breathing required all her attention. She shifted to relieve the sharp pain hampering her efforts at the simple task. Other sounds filtered through to her. A horse screamed a challenge, followed swiftly by a startled curse and a sickening thud, then the clash of steel on steel. Another loud whinny, this time full of rage and indignation, and Ciara felt, rather than heard, Bolin's soft command to Sandeen to be still. Stark silence followed, punctuated only by the jingle of harness and shuffling of feet.

  A face hovered into Ciara's view; clean shaven, jet black hair, and eyes like starless nights.

  "Lady." Donovan extended a gloved hand and pulled Ciara, willing or no, to her feet. "Are you injured?"

  Ciara shook her head. Her pride, perhaps, and her backside. "I don't think so." She brushed leaves and dirt from her clothes, and reached up to pick twigs out of the tangle of her hair.

  Past Donovan she caught a glimpse of Sandeen; a shimmer of magic held him in place. Bolin stood apart from him, ringed by five armed brigands. A sixth crouched off to one side, blood seeping between the fingers he held pressed to his side. The tip of Bolin's sword glittered wetly. Another man sprawled an arm’s length from Sandeen's hooves, his skull a mangled wreck. Ciara put a hand to her mouth, and looked away.

  The men Bolin faced were armed with short swords and wore leather jerkins over plain, dark shirts. Their dirty faces and stringy hair reminded Ciara of the two men on the road, but their eyes had a glazed, dull look as though they were half asleep. Or spell bound.

  Ciara started forward but Donovan laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. "You must have known we would meet again. It is unfortunate the General has decided it must be on these terms."

  "What do you want from us?" Ciara asked.

  "Only that which is rightfully mine."

  "We don’t have anything of yours."

  The corners of Donovan’s mouth lifted in an expression that, on anyone else, would have been a smile. "No? I believe you do."

  He turned and signaled his men. The circle tightened around Bolin, and the dance began. It couldn't be called anything else. Bolin moved with far too much grace and fluidity to call it fighting. Even the Imperial swordsmen sparring at the summer tournament in Guldarech couldn't compare to what Ciara watched now. With never a pause or even the slightest hesitation, Bolin parried and thrust with deadly accuracy. His sword twisted and crossed in a ceaseless spin of sharpened steel, tireless and unwavering, each move leading smoothly into the next.

  He didn’t let them rush him.

  Didn’t let them dictate his moves.

  Bolin set the pace and rhythm of the fight, as though he knew without looking exactly when and where to swing his sword. As though he had spent hours upon hours practicing the exact placement of his feet, the precise arc his blade would follow. Around him, under his sword, the brigands were little more than stumbling, awkward creatures.

  Stumbling, awkward creatures that still outnumbered him five to one, and there were others waiting among the trees to take the place of any that fell.

  "Amazing, is he not?" Donovan breathed the words into her ear.

  Ciara leaned away from him. "If you want him dead why don't you just kill him and be done with it."

  Donovan feigned innocence. "You misunderstand my intentions. The General is of little use to me dead. Besides which, he is not an easy man to kill. I have tried before. No, I have other plans for the General. I merely need him," he paused, for effect or to find the right word, "incapacitated."

  From the current head count of those on the ground, versus the one man central to it all, Bolin didn't give the impression of someone about to be incapacitated easily or soon. But each time a brigand fell, Donovan motioned another in to take his place. And each time Sandeen raged against the shimmer that kept him from joining the fight.

  No shimmer held Ciara, only Donovan's hand on her shoulder. But that seemed to be enough to keep her rooted in place. She sucked in a sharp breath as Bolin faltered just a step, and one of the blades sli
ced toward his stomach. He stepped back and twisted, transferring his sword to his left hand as he brought his arm around. The head of the nearest man left his body in a spray of blood, thudding to the ground as the rest of him crumpled. Ciara gagged and turned her face, unable to watch.

  She could stop this, just as she'd stopped the men on the road. She could help Bolin and put an end to it.

  Her hair moved against her neck with Donovan's words. "That would be most unwise."

  She suppressed a shiver and tried to pull away from him, but his grip remained firm. "I thought you wanted to help me."

  "And so I do."

  She glared at him. "How is this helping me?"

  "I cannot help you with the General thwarting my every move. He is unconvinced I am a friend."

  "And this is how you try convincing him?"

  Ciara risked a glance back at the battle. Two more of Donovan’s men had joined the circle around Bolin. They pushed their advantage as he missed a step, and though he recovered in time, his thrust went wide.

  "Stop it. Please," Ciara said. "We don’t have anything of yours, I swear."

  "It will be over soon."

  Bolin slipped on the blood-soaked ground. Sandeen struck out at the shimmer with his front hooves, again and again, his coat lathered. An ill-aimed swing sent Bolin spinning out of the center of the fray. Without turning, he flipped his sword so the blade pointed back, and caught the man charging up behind him in the gut. Another came at him from the side and Bolin wrenched his weapon free, bringing it back around in a gore-streaming arc. His attacker ducked under the swing, his short knife flicked out like an adder’s tongue and Ciara heard Bolin’s sharp hiss of breath as it found a mark.

  As if that were some sort of signal, Donovan's horde backed away, widening the circle. Their weapons remained at the ready but they no longer pressed the attack.

  Ciara looked a question at Donovan, and wished she hadn't. A light glimmered in his midnight eyes.

  Bolin's lip curled as his gaze swept past the men that surrounded him, and fixed on Donovan. The tip of his sword dipped toward the ground. He jerked it back up, and blinked like an owl against the light.