He left her then, to brood over his words like a looming storm behind his back. There would come a time when turning his back on her would be unwise.
* * *
Bolin stood once again on the hillock overlooking the battlefield. This time he chose to be there, without Donovan's intervention. He needed a distraction from the physical abuse, and needed to understand why Donovan kept pulling up that particular memory to use against him.
They had lost the day. They had known they would. The Emperor had known, and his generals, and most of the hardened veterans. Yet not one of them had balked.
"A good day to die," Harlmin had told him, as he sucked in the early fall air. And he had died that day. Six of the nine generals had fallen on that field. Not Bolin, secluded on the hillock, watching the battle unfold below him. That had been a form of death all its own -- not being allowed to fight beside his men. But word had come there would be strong mages on the field. If there were, Bolin would be less able to deal with them from the midst of the melee.
"Come away, love," she said, and linked her arm through his, her voice soft as summer rain. Donovan hadn't known Ariadne found Bolin there that day. This memory he kept safely tucked away. "Your duty calls you elsewhere."
"Duty?" Bolin spat the word out bitterly, an emotion he would show only her. "It's duty binds me here, helpless, while my men die on the field. Duty that keeps us-"
She squeezed his arm to stop him from saying it, and to draw his attention from the field to her. The breeze played with loose strands of long, raven black hair. Eyes of crystal blue, like the clearest summer sky, and on level with his, glimmered with understanding and tenderness.
"Were we other than who we are, we would never have shared what we have." Ariadne faced him, and slipped her arms around his waist. "Do you regret our love?"
"You know I don't," he said, angry she even asked the question. He brushed the hair out of her eyes, and tucked the locks behind her ear, her skin silky smooth beneath his hand as he caressed her cheek. They had known from the start it couldn't be, but their hearts hadn't cared. Not until know. Not until it had to end.
"Let us both tend to what we must this day," she said quietly. "Tonight we shall tend to one another."
* * *
Bolin had kept a part of his awareness intertwined with the currents of the fortress. It helped him keep his focus on the maze he had built in his mind and off his body, which currently had the misfortune of being suspended once again from the ceiling. Even lost in the bittersweet tangle of memory, he felt the fortress wards waver as Donovan passed through them, and then renew with doubled intensity. He waited, just to be absolutely sure, because he would only get one chance to call the pendant's magic, and rushing it would mean failure.
Bolin regained consciousness just as Haracht's club thumped across his gut. "Motherless whore!"
Haracht grinned and the tattoos across his cheek wrinkled. "Glad to have you back, General. It's not nearly as much fun when you're not awake to appreciate my skill."
Bolin grunted through clenched teeth as the club -- padded to cause pain without breaking bones -- thudded against his chest. He sucked after a shattered breath.
"Enjoying yourself?" Bolin’s head snapped back, a fistful of his hair twined in Haracht's fingers. The man put his face close to Bolin’s. "Now that I have your attention, I've got something new for you."
Haracht limped to the table. When he turned back he held a slender, wickedly long knife instead of the club. "His lordship wants you alive. He never did say in one piece."
Haracht licked his lips as he circled around behind Bolin. He slid the flat of the blade down the raw skin of Bolin's back. Bolin jerked forward and tried to turn to face Haracht, but froze when the tip of the knife pricked him under his jaw.
"Don't." Haracht breathed the word into his ear. He moved the knife down, across Bolin's chest and stomach, reaching around with his free hand to pull Bolin tightly back against him. "Even fouled you smell good. By now, the others are usually crying. Fear stinks. I don't like it. But you aren't frightened, are you, General?"
Haracht turned the blade and drew it lightly across Bolin's stomach, just enough to break the skin. Bolin hissed and his muscles contracted.
"There has to be balance in everything," Haracht said, coming around in front of him again. "We can't have all pleasure and no pain."
He bent to lick the trail of blood from Bolin's stomach, and as he did Bolin tightened his grip on the chains above his head. In a single move he jerked himself up and drove his knee into Haracht's face. Blood spurted as the man's teeth sliced through his own tongue. He staggered back, screaming incoherently, and Bolin whispered the word to bring the magic of Ciara's pendant to him.
Haracht retrieved the knife from the floor, and drew his hand across his mouth to wipe the blood away. "Hard as you are," his words were garbled and punctuated with more blood, "I'm going to make you whimper."
Bolin bared his teeth in a wicked grin. "You had your chance."
In a torrent of quicksilver light the magic from Ciara's pendant raced through the fortress to Bolin's call. Haracht watched, wide eyed, as it filled the room and enveloped his captive. Strength returned, and pain dulled as Bolin drew the magic in like air.
"Devil's be damned!" Haracht roared, and Bolin felt the slack in the chain a moment too late to save himself a fall.
He rolled as soon as he hit the ground, but even as he regained his feet the big man lunged forward with the knife at the ready. Bolin sidestepped the attack and slammed his elbow into Haracht's side as the man barreled past. Haracht grunted and staggered into the wall.
"Ho, ho!" he bellowed, as he turned to face Bolin, still spitting blood from his gushing tongue. "You want to make a sport of it! I knew I liked you. I haven't had this much fun since the imperial guard. He wanted to fight, too. Had him for desert, and made myself some new boots when I was done."
Haracht flicked a gesture at the chain but this time Bolin saw it coming. He snatched at the bit of magic meant to jerk him off his feet again and used it instead to break the shackles on his wrists. Before the iron bonds hit the ground, Bolin caught the chain and spun the restraints over his head. He sailed them toward Haracht. They hit him in the throat, and he dropped the knife to put both hands to his neck as he fought for air. He stumbled forward, his face a twisted mask of rage and desperation. Bolin skittered past Haracht's grab, ducking down to scoop up the discarded knife.
Haracht whirled, then turned back when the door flew open behind him. Bolin didn't hesitate. He lunged forward and drove the knife through Haracht's back, twisting it straight up into his heart. The big man arched back with no sound but the gurgle of blood in his throat. Bolin shoved him forward and Haracht took two steps before he collapsed at Ciara's feet.
* * *
Blood pooled around the head of the man at her feet, and covered Bolin's torso and arms. The sharp scent of it hit Ciara's nostrils and she gagged and looked away. She closed her eyes and fought for calm, breathing through her mouth to keep the rancid smells of the room from overcoming her.
"Ciara."
She'd seen blood often enough, but this-
"Ciara!"
She opened her eyes and looked at Bolin. Silver strands of magic swirled around him like a willow wisp. The magic of her pendant had drawn her here and now she knew why. "What did you do?"
"What I needed to," he said, his voice hard.
She furrowed her brow. "You took my magic. You said you'd never do that." Her short nails bit into her palms as she curled her hands into fists at her sides. "My aunt gave it to me. I'm sure she didn't intend it to be used to kill someone."
"Actually, the knife killed him," Bolin pointed out. "And he intended far worse for me."
Ciara let her eyes travel over him. She couldn't tell if all the blood was his. Some of it came from the long, shallow cut above his navel, but she guessed the rest belonged to the dead man.
"We need to go," Bolin said. "
Now."
He looked around the room, and then walked slowly to a corner where his boots and tunic had been discarded next to a bucket of water. Ciara said nothing as he hunkered down beside the bucket and doused his face and arms, trying to scrub some of the blood off.
She glanced at the body sprawled between them. "Did you have to kill him?"
"Yes."
Bolin slipped his tunic over his head, wincing as he did so, and pulled his boots on before using the wall to help him get to his feet. Ciara hadn't moved. She still stood in the doorway, uncertain what to do next.
"We need to go," Bolin said again.
He bent and yanked the knife from the man's back, wiping it clean on the his tunic. He stepped over the corpse without a second look, took Ciara by the shoulders and guided her out into the hall. When Bolin pulled the door closed behind them, and laid a simple locking ward on it, Ciara bridled.
"You should've asked," she said.
Bolin took a breath, and even in the dim light Ciara could see the pain etched across his face. "Would you prefer to stay here, then?"
"I would prefer-" Ciara broke off. Bolin looked as though he wanted to slap her. "No. I don't want to stay here."
"Then you need to trust me," he said, his voice low. "I told you if a time came to escape, it would come without warning. I don't know where Donovan went, or when he'll be back, and I can't fight both of you at the same time."
He stood with one shoulder against the wall for support. Ciara could feel the pendant's magic all around him, pulsing like her own heart. It had to be the only thing keeping him on his feet. On an impulse she reached up and laid a gentle hand on his chest before she remembered Donovan had warded her earth magic.
"I can't-" She swallowed.
He covered her hand with his. "You don't need to. Can we go now?"
Ciara nodded and Bolin pushed off the wall and turned away. He kept Ciara's hand locked in his as he led her down the dank hallway. Oil lamps affixed to the walls spilled pale light in scattered puddles that became less and less frequent until Bolin made a turn and they started down a corridor with no light of any sort.
The pendant warmed against her breast as Bolin drew from it to call up a dim witch light. Ciara bit her lip but said nothing, and followed quietly behind as he moved through the maze of tunnels with a surety that suggested familiarity. But when the passageway they followed opened onto an alcove, he stopped at its edge and Ciara wondered if he'd lost his way. He let go of her hand and leaned against the wall, his head bowed, and she realized there were other reasons.
"Bolin?"
"Give me a moment," he said, his voice strained.
Ciara moved to stand in front of him. The pendant’s magic glimmered around him in the darkness, and she could see he had closed his eyes. She reached up a hand and laid it against the side of his face. "You're feverish." Even though she kept her voice low it sent eerie echoes tumbling through the darkness.
"We have to keep moving." But he made no effort to put actions to words.
"And how far do you thing you're going to get?"
His jaw tightened but he didn't answer.
"Stop being so stubborn and let me help you. Or would you prefer to stay here, then?" she said, mimicking what he'd said to her earlier.
He lifted his head and looked at her from under his brows, his light eyes glittering in the pale blue glow of the witch light.
"I need to use this," Ciara touched the pendant. "But I'm not sure how. I've never used anything but my own magic."
"Just call it to you," he said. "Same as your earth magic."
Ciara pursed he lips. Same as Andrakaos. She placed her hand lightly on Bolin's chest above his heart and tried to recall the words to a simple healing spell Meriol had taught her. It would dull his pain, and help ease the fever, but she could do little else without more time. The irregular flutter of Bolin's heart steadied under her palm, as Ciara silently recited the incantation. He drew a deeper breath.
"Enough."
"You need more than that."
"It will have to suffice." He straightened, and took her hand in his once again. "Let's go."
He angled across the alcove and plunged them into another narrow corridor, no different than any of the others. They hadn't gone far when fresh air washed over them. A little way further the darkness lightened and Bolin let the witch light fade to nothing as he came to a halt once again. Ciara stopped short behind him and leaned to peer past his shoulder. They stood in the deep shadows of a colonnade that encircled a vast, cobbled courtyard streaked with lengthening evening shadows. Servants went about their chores, and Ciara shrank back, but not one of them even glanced in their direction.
"Where are we?" Ciara whispered.
"The main courtyard. The stables are across the way." Bolin nodded a gesture in the general direction, his voice as hushed as hers. "There's a back way out if no one's discovered it."
"And if they have?"
He glanced sidelong at her, and his mouth twisted. "Then I suppose we'll use the front gate. Stay close."
The pendant hummed against Ciara’s skin all the while as Bolin eased them past the fortress's wards without the slightest disruption. Spider-light fingers skittered over Ciara’s skin as they passed through them, and she shivered. Twice, servants walked directly in front of them, and Bolin stopped to let them go by. Ciara’s heart thumped so loudly she feared someone would hear but Bolin’s fingers tightened around her hand in either warning or reassurance, and the servants passed by, oblivious.
The magic, and the manner in which Bolin used it, were achingly pure and simple. It seemed to take no thought or obvious effort on his part. No carefully exercised control for fear of losing a tenuous grip. He wove the strands of the pendant’s magic through the air in an intricate pattern, visible only if you knew where and how to look. For Ciara, she could see little else. So unlike her clumsy attempts at any type of working, his enveloped them in filaments so gossamer fine she almost dared not breathe. Whatever wards Donovan had set; whatever guard the fortress had laid about itself, they didn't even quiver at their passing.
Ciara realized, with a mix of awe and jealousy, she could never have done this. And if she thought Bolin needed more healing to get them free of the fortress, she'd been mistaken. Where the use of magic drained those born to it, it seemed to fortify Bolin. He moved light and quick, without any pain or stiffness, and when he turned to look behind them his eyes were unnaturally bright.
They cleared the courtyard, and slipped through the half open stable doors. Just inside them Ciara froze. A groom looked their way, cued by Sandeen’s sudden whicker of greeting.
Keep moving, silently, from Bolin. She could feel the firm tug of the spell he wove around them, shielding them from the groom’s vision. Then the subtle nudge, the silent suggestion the groom had business elsewhere.
"There’s no one about, ya daft nag," the groom quipped at Sandeen as he strolled past. "I’ve work to do. You’ll get fed when I’m done, like all the rest."
Ciara shied sideways like a startled foal as the groom walked past, but like the servants in the courtyard, he never noticed them or the shimmer of magic encircling them. Sandeen did though. He pawed at the stall door, and Bolin hushed him with a quiet word.
"Find his tack," he said to Ciara, quietly, without turning.
She nodded. A quick glance around led her to the tack room near the front stalls. By the time she returned, Bolin had Sandeen waiting in the aisle. Ciara slipped the bridle over the stallion's head while Bolin saddled him. When she turned back toward Fane’s stall Bolin stopped her.
"You'll have to leave him," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "It will be enough to get the three of us out."
Ciara hesitated, frowning, but after one quick look over the stall door, Fane had gone back to sleep. So much for being missed. Well, he’d a nice stall, plenty to eat, and the companionship of at least four other horses. He'd be no worse off here than with Findley.
&n
bsp; Bolin handed Sandeen’s reins to Ciara, and walked to the wall at the rear of the aisle. He ran a hand across its surface, his face a mask of concentration. Voices rose outside the stable, and Ciara looked over her shoulder. Her stomach turned at the thought of getting caught and dragged back before Dononvan, but Bolin didn't seem to be paying attention. He muttered something under his breath as he moved further down the wall, his hands feeling along the stone as though he were a blind man searching for a doorway.
The voices outside grew closer.
"Bolin."
He spared her a quick glance, and went back to exploring the wall. Something moved behind her and Ciara turned in time to see a hound trot into the stable. It came up short when it spotted her, then threw its head back and bayed an alarm. Sandeen shied sideways as the hound charged, and Ciara stumbled back. She lost the reins as she came up hard against a feed barrel and sent the bucket on top of it flying. It landed with a clatter and bounced against a stall. The horse inside startled and slammed both hooves into the stall door.
"What's going on in there?" someone yelled. "Cafyl!"
A shadow crossed the doorway. Ciara lurched to her feet, Bolin's fingers tight around her wrist. He propelled her forward, directly toward the wall. She gasped, and put her free hand up to stop the collision, but it passed right through the stone and Ciara tumbled headlong into darkness.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The air in the cedar swamp hung thick and close. The soft ground, carpeted with leaves and intertwined with a tangle of roots, tugged relentlessly at the hooves of Donovan's horse. To make matters worse, the midges were out in full force and they were hungry.
The crone’s messenger seemed unbothered by either the footing or the biting insects, and darted ahead of Donovan as soon as they reached the borders of the great fen. Donovan allowed his horse to choose its own path as they followed behind. As often as Donovan had been to this place he had never been able to mark a trail. The cedar swamp changed like the weather. Large trees lay toppled; their shallow roots unable to hold them firm in the face of strong winds. Their roots, yanked whole and in tact from the ground, rose up in blackened, tangled masses, covered with moss and vines, creating shelters for whatever creatures dared called this place home.
First Of Her Kind (Book 1) Page 17
