First Of Her Kind (Book 1)

by K. L. Schwengel

  "Bolin." Ciara's voice sounded hollow.

  He blinked, his attention locked on the fire. The fact he didn’t move stopped Ciara’s forward progression short of where he stood. Donovan hovered protectively at her side.

  "You shouldn’t have brought her here," Bolin said.

  "She insisted," Donovan replied, managing to convey his boredom with the whole event in those two words. "She needed to know you were still alive."

  "I’d prefer to be dead."

  "No doubt. But she feels otherwise. For myself? Alive, you will always be a threat, even when you are totally mine. Dead, you are no use to me, but no longer a threat."

  "It must be very difficult for you."

  Ciara shivered. Bolin didn’t need to look at her to know that. He could feel everything about her as though he were in her skin. "You should get her to your healer." He slid a glance Donovan’s way, being careful not to look at Ciara. "She’s about to keel over."

  "I doubt it."

  Bolin shrugged, and returned his attention to the fire. "Your choice."

  "Yes, it is. I wager the two of you have much to discuss, so I shall leave you to it."

  Bolin stiffened and panic swept over him like a winter wind. Donovan felt it, Bolin couldn't prevent that. He had become as deeply aware of Bolin, as Bolin had of Ciara.

  "That wouldn’t be wise." Bolin could barely get the words out, though he tried to make them sound indifferent. Goddess's light, he couldn't do this again.

  "Perhaps." The door closed behind Donovan, but his presence lingered in the corridor.

  Bolin hadn't felt such sheer terror since his first battle, and he fought the tremor that threatened to take hold. He rolled his shoulders back and drew in a short, hard breath. Even from across the room Ciara’s scent filled his senses, and his pulse quickened. He closed his eyes and forced himself to be calm. When the tension began to subside and he could relax his taut muscles, he turned a guarded glance Ciara's way. She stood rooted in place, trembling, her eyes glazed over and her face pale. As he watched she wavered unsteadily.

  His arms were around her before he even realized he had moved, and he caught her before she hit the ground. She made a half-hearted attempt to resist when he guided her to the edge of the bed and sat her down. He dropped to his haunches in front of her, and took her hands in his. They were frigid. He recognized the look on her face; he'd seen it far too often on the faces of injured men, not all of whom made it through the night.

  "Ciara?"

  Shock and exhaustion -- the battle she had fought shouldn't have been done by someone so young and untrained. Damn Donovan to a thousand and one hells. If he wanted her dead he should just kill her and be done with it. All she had been through in the last few days had come crashing down on her. And Donovan had warded her now as well, stronger than Bolin thought necessary. That couldn't be helping her any.

  "I’m an idiot," she said. Her teeth chattered, and she refused to meet his gaze.

  "Aye, you are," he agreed.

  She drew her hands from his and wrapped her arms around her body, then tucked her legs up, and curled onto the bed like a baby. "I should’ve listened."

  "That, too." He stood to pull the coverlet off the other half of the bed and fold it over her. The spark had left her. "You need rest."

  Her eyes had already closed. She had nothing left to fight with. "We need to get out of here," she whispered.

  Bolin sighed, and brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Later."

  Send your healer. Now, he said silently, knowing Donovan listened.

  Just as he knew Ciara would not see the morning without a healer’s touch.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ciara didn't much care for waking up with head-splitting pain, but it seemed to have become a habit. Worse, it seemed she never had anyone to blame but herself. This time, however, wards tingled all around her, and she'd been tended by a healer. And this time her entire body ached from the inside out. She lay in the soft embrace of a down comforter, lingering at the fringes of sleep and trying to decide whether or not she truly wanted to be awake.

  She opened one eye just wide enough to peek through the lashes. "You must hate me."

  Bolin sat in a chair next to the bed, his chin propped on his fist. He looked pale, with deep shadows around his eyes that made them look even lighter than normal, as though the color had drained from them as well. "I suppose I should," he said, but his words lacked the edge Ciara expected them to have.

  "I should have listened to you."

  "Regrets are a waste of time, Ciara," he sounded washed out, and on the edge of nothing. "How do you feel?"

  "I should be asking you that." She tried to sit up, tentatively at first, until she knew for sure she wouldn't throw up.

  "Do you need the healer?" Bolin asked.

  Ciara shook her head. "No."

  He looked doubtful, but didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled a pillow over to tuck behind her head, careful, she noticed, not to touch her. But he stopped on his way back into the chair, staring fixedly at her throat. His eyes narrowed. "Where did you get that?"

  Ciara's fingers went to the pendant. "My aunt. Why?"

  "When?"

  Ciara frowned. "What difference does it make?"

  "When did she give it to you?"

  And Ciara didn’t know if she should have been relieved or angry that he sounded more like himself. She settled somewhere in the middle. The pendant warmed. "About a fortnight before she died."

  Bolin muttered something under his breath. He pushed her hand aside and touched the face of the pendant, tracing the delicate, intertwining sigils with the tip of his finger. The caress may as well have been on her skin, and Ciara completely lost her ability to think. The ripple of pleasure it sent through her had more than the pulse of magic behind it. Her breath caught then held, and she stared at him, her eyes wide.

  "Has Donovan seen this?"

  Ciara nodded, unable to find her voice.

  His brow furrowed, his finger still traced the sigils over and over in mindless repetition, the reflection dancing in his eyes like water reflecting the moon. Desire made her mouth go dry, and she pushed Bolin's hand away and covered the pendant with her own. Bolin blinked as if coming out of a trance before the cold, hard mask dropped back in place. He lowered himself stiffly into the chair.

  "Don't let him have it," he said brusquely.

  "I've no intention of letting anyone have it."

  He raised a brow. "And if I were to ask for it, then?"

  Her hand tightened around the pendant. "Why all the interest in a simple piece of jewelry?"

  "I think you know it’s not just a simple piece of jewelry." He sat back, folded his arms across his chest, and changed the subject. "What is it Donovan promised you?"

  Ciara sighed. She would rather talk about the necklace. She winced as she settled more comfortably into the pillows, and thought she caught a fleeting look of concern on Bolin's face. She knew he cared for her, she could feel it even if he wouldn't admit it, and that realization caused a whole different set of pains. She could never have him, not if she wanted to keep him alive.

  "Ciara?"

  "I don't want to talk about it."

  "I do." He made it sound like an order. She wouldn't be changing the subject again. "I don't have much time. Donovan will be back soon. Tell me what he promised you."

  "I don't remember."

  "You're not a very good liar."

  "Funny, that's what he told me." Ciara tried looking anywhere but at Bolin, but it did no good. She could feel his eyes on her, steady and unyielding. "Is there any way to escape him?"

  Bolin's brow furrowed. "I don't know. But if there is, it will come without warning."

  "He wants to kill you."

  "The feeling is mutual. But if he truly wanted me dead I'd be in the Goddess’s arms already."

  She lowered her eyes and her voice. "I thought you were."

  "He wants to ensure I'm of no use to anyone
but him, and he's very close to doing just that," he said, in a moment of startling honesty. "So you'd better tell me what deal you’ve made with him. If I'm to keep you safe I need to know everything."

  Ciara took a deep shuddering breath and watched his face carefully. He wouldn't like her answer. "Your life, for me."

  His chin tipped up slightly. Nothing more.

  "Do me a favor," he said, after far too long a silence, and in a voice that chilled her blood. "Next time you think to enter into a bargain on my behalf, don’t."

  "I won’t let him kill you."

  "What happens to me isn’t your concern. Do you honestly think Donovan will honor your bargain?"

  "I-"

  Bolin leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees. "Donovan wants the wilding. Do you understand that? He doesn’t care what he has to do to get it."

  "I won’t give it to him."

  He bowed his head, and ran his fingers through the matted strings of his hair. "Goddess’s light, Ciara."

  Her temper flared. "It’s not my fault. Any of this. If you had told me about Donovan -- about the wilding -- we wouldn’t be here now. Did you always know? Is that why you came to my aunt's? Is that why you kept coming back?"

  "No."

  "To which question?"

  Bolin stood and pulled the blanket up around Ciara’s shoulders. "You need rest."

  "Don't do that. Don't avoid my question because you don’t want to answer. I deserve to know."

  "You're probably right."

  He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand and Ciara tried to resist closing her eyes. She felt suddenly exhausted and forgot what she'd even asked him. She burrowed into the pillows. "I won’t let him have it." She couldn't be sure Bolin heard her, but that no longer seemed to matter. The heaviness in her eyelids spread to the rest of her body and she felt herself slipping into sleep's welcome embrace. "Or you."

  * * *

  "The girl is of absolutely no use to us dead."

  Donovan frowned into the dark liquid of the gazing bowl. "She is not dead."

  "No?" The crone appeared to be in her usual delightful mood. "Maimed is little better."

  "The healer ensures me she will make a full recovery." He found it hard to muster the patience to deal with her today. "We are very close to our goal."

  "Bring her to me."

  Even over such a distance Donovan could feel the push to obey. Whatever her shortcomings, the crone had amazing power. Not that it served her well, confined to her swamp prison, unable to leave its borders thanks to her loving sister. And how powerful a working had that taken on behalf of the Goddess, to trap that one, and hold her for all these centuries? Their alliance would gain the crone her freedom, and her sister's death. The crone would rule as the goddess, and Donovan would rule the world.

  "Are you pondering our agreement, Lordling?"

  He pasted on as sweet a smile as he ever used with her. "Only its many merits, Crone."

  "Bring her to me," she said again.

  "It is too soon. She is not ready."

  "I'm not certain I trust your judgment in that regard."

  His smile deepened. "You're going to have to, are you not? Your options at this point are limited."

  The surface of the water rippled and Donovan felt himself brace for a blow. Even had one come, it would have been weak at best. The gazing bowl did not easily allow transference of magic -- no matter the strength of the one wielding it.

  "You're hiding something from me." A snarl disfigured the crone’s face. "You'd better hope it's something that will make me look more kindly on you than I currently do."

  "I’m sure that is not possible." She would make him pay for his insolence some day, though she may indeed look more kindly on him when he arrived in her swamp with not only the vessel they had searched for all these long years, but the Sciath na Duinne as well. "A fortnight, Crone."

  "Half that, Lordling. No more."

  The liquid shimmered and her image vanished.

  Donovan frowned into the blank bowl for a long while. There were consequences to not doing as she demanded. Then again, now that he had both the girl and the Sciath na Duinne, the question became, did he really need the crone? Donovan had always been an ambitious man, but he liked to believe he had never been a fool. Many other ambitious men, however, seemed to have had that weakness, and such a combination led to disaster more often than not.

  When he struck his bargain with the crone all those years past, he never anticipated the General falling into his lap. For that matter, striking any kind of bargain with the crone had never occurred to him, prior to fate or misfortune putting him within her grasp in that hell-hole of a swamp. She knew him, and what he searched for. An inability to leave the swamp did not equal ignorance as to what happened outside its borders. Their bargain, made of necessity, not desire, allowed Donovan to continue living. Something he enjoyed.

  In the years between, he and Bolin had crossed paths more than once. Inevitable, as they searched for the same thing. The last time, several years past in the deep of winter, Donovan thought he had left the General for dead. Thanks to the meddling Goddess for proving him wrong.

  Donovan frowned. He needed to exercise patience. He would soon break the Sciath na Duinne. A risky venture with many possible outcomes. Haracht, though a true master of his craft, sometimes took things too far. The Goddess could take her beloved son, snatching him from Donovan's hands as she had in the past, or the General could kill himself. Unlikely in his case, though not unheard of where honorable men were concerned. Many had sacrificed themselves rather than face a life of perceived dishonor.

  Or, the General could simply prove useless and ineffective once broken. But Donovan didn’t think any of those outcomes likely. And when he had the Sciath na Duinne to channel both his and the girl's power, he would be able to stand against the Goddess himself.

  Perhaps.

  The crone had unbelievable powers. It came with being the Goddess’ sister -- just as old, almost as powerful, but neither good nor righteous, traits which won out far too often for Donovan's tastes. Still, if he broke his bargain with the crone once they dealt with the Goddess, how long would the binding hold her within her prison? With the crone on his side, the Goddess would not survive. Poetic justice aside, keeping the Goddess alive and imprisoning her in the crone's swamp would be a great temptation.

  Without the crone . . . Donovan glanced sidelong at the gazing bowl and then moved away from it. Far too risky to be so free with his thoughts so close to the thing. Just because the bowl showed only his reflection at the moment, did not make it safe. If the crone knew he had the Sciath na Duinne she would be likely to attempt to force Donovan's hand. How? He had no idea. Nor did he care to find out. Her methods tended to be of an unpleasant variety. To use the General, Donovan would need to be able to control both him and the girl. Controlling them he could do. Controlling them and striking the Goddess could be a stretch, much as he hated to admit it. The chance of success increased significantly with the crone's support.

  And when they were done with the Goddess, who knew what casualties there might be.

  Battles were never tidy.

  * * *

  "How well do you love the Goddess?"

  Ciara jumped. She had allowed herself to relax with her breakfast in the warm, early morning sunlight bathing the balcony outside her room. It seemed like ages since she'd felt the sun on her face and smelled the clean breezes. Inside, darkness shrouded everything.

  Donovan strolled across the balcony and turned to face her, casually resting his backside against the stone rail as he watched her. "It is a certainty she does not love you. Do you know why she took your mother and your aunt?"

  Ciara had only her aunt's rote reply to answer that question: It is the will of the Goddess.

  Donovan had his own answer. "It is because she fears you, and knows it would be in her best interest if you were dead. A much easier task to accomplish outside the protect
ion of her hags."

  Ciara couldn't even feign interest in what remained of her breakfast, any more than she could keep the contempt from her voice. "My mother and aunt were not hags."

  He folded his arms across his chest. "The General was sent to kill you, did you know that?"

  "He wouldn't."

  "Not any longer, no," Donovan conceded. "In that you are correct. He may have, at one time. Now, however, you will be his undoing."

  "You promised me you wouldn’t kill him."

  "You have much to learn, Daughter."

  "I'm learning a lot," she replied bitterly. "Like the fact that, unlike me, you're very good at lying."

  "I think we will work on control first. I suggest you begin with your tongue."

  Ciara almost bit it off clamping her mouth shut on her next retort.

  Donovan tipped his head in approval. "You restore my faith in you."

  She kept her jaw firmly clenched and poured her anger into the glare she leveled at him.

  "The General will not die by my hand," he said. "Will he die within these walls? That, I cannot say. Fortune telling is a charlatan's game."

  "Don't you think," Ciara said slowly, choosing her words with care and keeping her tone as level as she could, "once I learn to control my magic, I may just use it against you?"

  "I would be disappointed if you did not try," he said. "But please, refrain from referring to it as magic. That is the fare of mages, priests and healers. What you possess has a form, and a name. Andrakaos is power, as ancient and deep as the roots of the Great Mountain itself, and perhaps even older still. Very few are ever given such a gift, and fewer still survive it. I am one. It would give me some amount of pride if you were to be another."

  "And if I don't survive it?"

  "I have no greater love for you as my child than you have for me as your father," he said bluntly. "I would be disappointed, of course. There is much we could do together you and I, with all the power between us. I do not think it will consume you. Unless, of course, you choose not to heed my guidance."