First Of Her Kind (Book 1)

by K. L. Schwengel

  Ciara pushed her plate away. She kept her thoughts buried deep, made herself aware of them, and concentrated on keeping Donovan out of them. "What, exactly, do you intend for us to do? Take over the empire?"

  "There are far worthier conquests."

  "The entire world?" Ciara meant it to be snide. Donovan's expression took the wind out of it. He was insane.

  "It is a fine line," he said. "Shall we begin?"

  Ciara glanced around the balcony. "Here?" For some reason she'd imagined her training taking place in something more like a mage's work room.

  "Andrakaos exists inside you. He inhabits the vale between realms. Your physical self is a mere shell.

  "I warn you, you will not be allowed to use your earth magic," Donovan twisted the name in his mouth, like something sour he wanted to spit out. "It has been warded, and will remain so until you can break them. At which point, you will likely see no further need for the Goddess's pitiful gift. Likewise, the General will not be able to help you again should you choose to defy me. Whatever store of magic he had was spent in the last attempt."

  Ciara wondered if Meriol would have passed this off as the will of the Goddess. And if so, why would the Goddess will such a thing? How did it serve her or her cause?

  "I can guarantee your coming to me was not the will of the Goddess," Donovan said.

  I wish you wouldn't do that, Ciara said silently.

  Then do not allow me to, came the smooth reply. "The choice has always been yours."

  * * *

  Ciara knew the vast chamber that opened before her existed only in the ethereal place between realms. Still, the suddenness with which they arrived made her stomach turn. It would have been polite of Donovan to give her some kind of warning.

  They stood side by side, she and Donovan, father and daughter. Torches cast smoky shadows up the rough stone walls, shadows that formed and reformed into bizarre creatures. A great beast, whose shape seemed to shift with the smoke, laid coiled in the center of the chamber. The wilding -- Andrakaos, as Donovan named it -- bathed in swirling mists of red and black, a menacing figure that watched them with keen awareness.

  Donovan stretched out a hand, and Ciara shivered as the dark shape lifted its massive head and reached out to lightly touch his fingertips. Shivered because part of her moved with it, felt what Andrakaos felt, and saw through the dark eyes everything it saw.

  "You see?" Donovan said. "He will easily do your bidding if you ask."

  He flicked a gesture, and the creature reared back, and twisted upwards toward the chamber heights, twining with the sooty smoke of the torches. It fractured like shattered glass that rained down around them before spiraling back to the ceiling. Though her feet remained firmly on the ground, Ciara felt herself rise up with the wilding, and she tried frantically to restrain it.

  "No!" Donovan snapped. "You cannot fear Andrakaos or you will never control him. Now, call him to you."

  Easier said than done. Ciara sucked in a deep breath, letting it out in a long sigh as she attempted to still the pounding of her heart. She lifted her hand, fingers spread, amazed she didn’t tremble. The creature turned eagerly towards her, flowing through the air as a fish through water, and came within reach but didn't touch her.

  "You must call him by name," Donovan said, his voice soft. "He will not be called by words like magic, or the wilding. Those titles are beneath him. He is more than any pathetic attempt at magic could ever be. Call him."

  Ciara hesitated. True names had meaning. They possessed power all their own. The word stumbled from her tongue and sounded timid in the face of the creature she called. "Andrakaos."

  It -- he -- settled in front of her, and stretched his neck out. Ciara resisted the urge to jerk her hand away, and could feel Donovan’s approval wash over her as she pushed aside her fear. This wild entity didn't exist because of her, she existed as part of it. Of him. She lived only because Andrakaos allowed it. That is what he told her.

  Ciara’s legs trembled. She wanted to run away. How could she master such a thing? He reminded her of one of Findley's young colts -- fierce and arrogant, not afraid to flaunt his muscle. Ciara had shown the colt how he could bend to her will without breaking. But no untamed range colt possessed the type of raw power the creature before her did. He desired freedom above all else, and would do whatever he needed to gain it -- even if that meant casting her aside.

  "Only because you have neglected him," Donovan told her. "Call him to you."

  Ciara pursed her lips. She recalled the image of that sleek, mahogany-coated colt. He had been full of fire and fury -- angry his freedom had been traded for a corral he couldn't escape. Findley hadn't wanted Ciara near him. He thought the colt too dangerous and unpredictable. But Ciara snuck down early one morning with a handful of carrots. She cooed nonsense to the colt, wished him well, and showed him he would have a new kind of freedom if he bent just enough to do as she asked.

  Ciara wavered. Carrots and earth magic had won over a colt, what would win over the creature before her?

  "Your own strength of will. Nothing less."

  She drew in another deep, quivering breath and reached out with her hand once more. Peace, she wished him, be still, my pretty one.

  Andrakaos touched the tips of her fingers in a gentle caress that slid across her knuckles. It tickled her open palm, and Ciara held fast against a desire to turn and run. The smooth, warm tendrils curled up her arm and around her neck, lightly touching her face as though seeing her for the first time. Curious and seeking, almost childlike, and Ciara laughed aloud at the image.

  She turned her arm this way and that, and watched as the shadow twisted to follow her motions. These weren’t the hot, slippery chords of power she had fought with before. Fear dissipated beneath the feather-light stroke. Andrakaos’s approval rippled along her skin, a sensation she felt inside and out, quiet and playful, with none of the anger he’d previously shown her.

  "Excellent. That is enough for now," Donovan said, and Andrakaos slipped away from Ciara, returning to his coiled mass. "Well done."

  Ciara barely heard him. The balcony regained solidity, and the sun warmed her face, but part of her remained within the chamber, reluctant to leave. She had never experienced anything like it.

  "You will not approach Andrakaos on your own until I give you leave to do so. Is that understood?"

  Ciara blinked and glanced up at him. "Why not?"

  "It will not go well for you to cross me." He watched her intently, his smooth brow furrowed. And then he turned and left.

  * * *

  Bolin found himself experiencing an incredibly lucid moment -- or one of complete delusion, sometimes they were hard to distinguish between. He took advantage of the clarity to weigh his options which were, sadly, quite limited. Five of Donovan's finest, heavily armed, had escorted him from the comfort of the upper rooms and returned him to the stark, damp bowels of the fortress. Bolin knew Haracht wouldn't be far behind them. The man enjoyed his craft far too much to delay an opportunity to practice it.

  Bolin understood why Donovan had allowed him to prevent Ciara from losing control, but he still couldn’t fathom Donovan's decision to allow her to keep the pendant. The keepsake gave him renewed hope. Donovan couldn't possibly have failed to notice it. Allowing Ciara to wear it around Bolin had to be another test. Maybe Donovan hoped Bolin would draw out the magic it contained and make a play against him, and though Bolin had been tempted, he hadn't become that much of a fool -- yet.

  Instead, he laid a sublimely subtle, twofold working upon the charm. So subtle, as a matter of fact, Ciara didn't even realize. The first part of the working made the pendant less obvious: Out of mind, out of sight.

  The other working, a much more intricate one, bound the magic stored in the intertwined sigils. When he needed it, a whispered word would waken it and bring it to him. Which would bring Ciara to him as well. Time would tell whether that proved a good idea or not.

  Bolin stretched and imme
diately regretted it. His body ached. No, it more than ached, it hurt worse than the aftermath of any battle he'd ever fought, and each breath became a torturous exercise all its own. The damp from the cell seeped into his bones and he shivered. He forced himself to stay on his feet and move, both for warmth, and to keep his muscles from getting tight. He had no intention of meekly submitting to whatever Haracht had planned with the assortment of steel oddities arranged neatly across the table, illuminated by the lantern the guards had left behind.

  No doubt Donovan hoped Bolin would give in to self-pity and despair by leaving him alone with his thoughts. Instead, the solitude gave Bolin time to explore the myriad of magical currents that drifted through the fortress. Very few of them were Donovan’s doing. They were all warded against him, but Bolin could still follow them, and trace their meandering paths. He searched out both their strengths and their weaknesses, studying them as he would an enemy, and being very careful not to draw notice.

  The fortress had once been a place of learning. The builders had been great mages in their own right, and Bolin had visited it many times before it became Donovan’s home. Older and stronger magic than any Donovan had conjured rose up through these stones. Bolin had no doubt, however, that the previous inhabitants died at Donovan's hands after he took from them what he could. Perhaps their bones lay deep within the bowels of the place, even now lending their magic to its powers.

  A familiar presence passed through the winding currents -- Haracht, on his way back to the cell. Bolin had seen evil in many forms, had stood toe to toe with it more times than he cared to remember, but this man -- he shuddered in revulsion, and wondered what event had turned Haracht into the sadistic creature he'd become. Haracht hadn't always been indentured, Bolin could tell by his speech, and the way he carried himself, limp or no. And he possessed a strong, if rudimentary magic that someone had trained him to use.

  The key turned in the cell door, and Bolin stopped his pacing and squared his stance. Haracht had his instructions: Break the Sciath na Duinne using any means. And maybe he would. But Bolin certainly wouldn't make it easy for him. He'd no desire to become the man's breakfast, or his next pair of britches.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "This is absurd," Donovan said. He glared down at Grumnlin, the crone's favorite messenger, and made no attempt to hide his disgust. The stocky, child-size, troll of a man dripped swamp slime -- complete with requisite slugs and at least one snail -- across the tile floor of Donovan's private study. "I am not some errand boy to be summoned at her whim."

  Grumnlin snorted, one of an assortment of guttural noises he had emitted in the short span of time since his arrival. "Tell her win you sees her," he said in a voice that went from gravely to squeaky all in the space of a handful of words.

  "No." Donovan found it almost as hard to control his temper with the crone's messenger, as he did to abide the fetid smell of him. "You may tell her when you return without me."

  The snort turned into a laugh. "Return without you? Funny."

  Donovan narrowed his gaze in a look which normally terrorized the recipient. Grumnlin, however, remained unaffected.

  "Lady say you to come back with me, I lead you. You come if Lady say."

  "Your mistress is as far removed from a lady, as you are from the High Prince," Donovan remarked sourly.

  This did not bode well. The crone had not sent an actual servant to him in over two years. All her contact came courtesy of the gazing bowl. This messenger would not leave without Donovan, he knew that for a certainty.

  He glowered. "There are things I must tend to before we leave. You will await me in the courtyard."

  The round, lumpy face contorted in mirth. "No wait, Lor-del-ing. We go hand in hand, skippidy skip. The Lady say I don’t take eyes of you."

  "Did the lady also teach you to speak?"

  "Lady make me," Grumnlin replied proudly, and puffed out his substantial barrel chest. "She say I bring Lor-del-ing back home, so I bring. No matter Lor-del-ing want go home or no. We go. Hand in hand-"

  "Yes," Donovan raised a hand. "Skippidy skip. So I heard. But there are certain things I must put in order before our departure. You will remain here until I am finished."

  Donovan allowed no time for argument. Grumnlin's eyes widened as a shimmer snapped around him, and held him where he stood. He reached out a stubby, blunt-clawed hand to feel the glowing strands of ethereal netting that surrounded him, then shrugged and plopped onto the floor. He drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

  "Not hold long. I wait for little time."

  Fortunately for the messenger, Donovan had mastered control of certain impulses, or he would have given in to the temptation to reduce the man to a pile of ash. Since it seemed obvious Grumnlin felt he could break the shimmer at some point, Donovan guessed the crone had empowered him with more than appeared on the surface. The fact she could not physically leave her prison did not mean she had no reach beyond its borders. Her minions could carry out simple -- and perhaps not so simple -- tasks for her.

  Donovan put a locking ward on the door as he left. If the messenger managed to break the shimmer, at least he would not be able to wander the fortress. It would not do for him to stumble across Donovan's secret.

  He had an idea why the crone wanted him, and it had little to do with the girl. He had been too careless with his thoughts. It would be even more difficult to keep the truth from her once they were face-to-face, although he would certainly try. Though it might actually be better if she learned of the Sciath na Duinne while he remained safely out of her reach.

  * * *

  Donovan settled himself in a chair on the balcony outside Ciara's room and sent Dora in to rouse her. The girl's first lesson in mastering her power had gone much better than he had expected. The fact she endured all that had happened over the past few days spoke well of her. Were he given to such things, Donovan would have felt a niggling of paternal pride. Instead he felt a rush of excitement at the prospect of bending her, and subsequently her power, to his will.

  He waited with more than his usual amount of patience because the longer she took, the longer it required the crone's messenger to wait and, thence, the crone. He enjoyed a dangerous sport in provoking that one. Donovan, however, had the upper hand in this game.

  He possessed something she wanted.

  More, he also possessed something she feared. Or would, if she still had the sense she had been born with.

  Donovan didn't turn when Ciara stepped out onto the balcony, nor did he rise. She looked bleary eyed and bewildered, and he frowned at her decision to appear before him wrapped in a quilt.

  She yawned. "Is it always going to be this hard?"

  "In the beginning," he replied flatly. "Yes."

  "We’re not doing more, are we? Not now?"

  "No. Not now."

  "Good." She plopped into the opposite chair, drew her knees up under the quilt and hugged them to her chest. It reminded Donovan of the crone's messenger. "Don’t sit like that."

  She uncoiled almost instantly and then frowned. "Why not?"

  "Because ladies do not," he said. "As much as you deign not to be one, you are, by virtue of your birth. It would behoove you to act as your station demands."

  She lifted her chin slightly, and the bedraggled, bed tousled look faded beneath smoldering indignation. She had fire. Easily provoked fire. A quality that would prove to be both a help and a hindrance. Unlike other times, however, she did not immediately snap off an ill thought retort.

  "I have been called away, Lady," he said, and emphasized the title, which caused her to pull her shoulders back and straighten her spine.

  A pity she would never see court. Cleaned up and properly tutored, she would make a stunning and dangerous courtier. Not one of the outrageous, pampered, and overly coifed beauties that frequented the Emperor's hall. No, the girl’s allure lay not only in her power but in the quiet, unobtrusive quality of her beauty. Even unwashed and unkempt s
he had charm, and no clue what she could do to normal men with a simple look -- what she had already done to the not so normal man locked in the bowels of the fortress.

  "Called away to where?" she asked, when waiting pushed her patience to the limit.

  "That is no concern of yours."

  "I suppose it’s no concern of mine to know how long you’ll be gone either."

  "Very astute. I have instructed Colm to bring whatever food you desire to your room. You will be dining alone this evening."

  Her face registered brief surprise before she schooled her expression into something less interested.

  "You are free to explore the halls and libraries at your leisure. You have already discovered there are areas of the fortress which are heavily warded, and which you are not allowed to enter. Should you try again, you may not survive." He had the satisfaction of watching her eyes widen, the memory of the door off the atrium still fresh in her mind.

  "What of Bolin?"

  Of course. The General remained first and foremost in her thoughts. Donovan’s anger flared. Not for the first time he questioned his decision to keep the General alive. Perhaps it would be best to kill him now, before he left.

  The girl’s eyes narrowed. "You gave your word."

  He tipped his head in surprise. So, she had listened to his thoughts for a change. He would have to ensure he kept them more private from this point forward.

  "I gave my word that I, personally, would not kill him. Regardless of what you believe, I have no taste for killing. That is the General’s forte."

  "But you would order him to be killed."

  Donovan raised a brow. "As you know, the thought has occurred to me."

  Color tinted her cheeks and she averted her eyes. Donovan rose. "Where the General is, you are not allowed. He will remain alive, at least until I return, unless you disobey me. Should you attempt to reach him, it will not be you who suffers. Remember that."