"If you had been smart," Donovan mimicked Bolin's earlier statement, "you would have killed her as soon as you knew."
That had been considered.
"What stayed your hand, I wonder?" He paused as though waiting for an answer, continuing when none came. "Your mistake, my gain. So, did you know?"
Bolin lifted his head and met Donovan’s gaze from under his brows, unable to keep the scowl off his face. "What difference does it make?"
Donovan shrugged. "It would satisfy my curiosity."
Donovan didn't partake in idle chatter. He had a point. He wanted information. And Bolin needed to be far more cautious. Something he found increasingly difficult as his thoughts slid in and out like fog on the ocean shore.
Or like smoke across a battlefield in the early morning sun, blood red across the grass. What had they been fighting for that day?
"Where’s Ciara?" he asked. He needed a diversion, something simple he couldn't make a mess of.
Donovan cocked his head, and his expression became distant. "Testing the boundaries of this place, it would seem. With certain exceptions, of course."
"You don’t think that's dangerous?"
Donovan waved a hand at air, dismissing both the question and the threat. "It still amazes me that you did not interfere in the girl’s training. You had it all right there, in the palm of your hand, and yet you did nothing. Why? Love of your blessed mother hag?" He snorted. "She, of the two of you, should have been wise enough to kill the girl. It was dangerous letting her live. Dangerous having her so close to you for all this time. And now," he smiled. "Now I have you both."
"You have nothing."
Bolin growled, the last of his temper driving him upwards. He pushed himself off the bed with everything he had left, and threw himself at Donovan. Wrapping himself around the other man’s waist, Bolin drove them both to the ground. He couldn't do anything else by way of follow through. They fell in a tangle of limbs, and then other hands were on his arms, dragging him roughly to his feet. Two guards held him, one on either side. Bolin had nothing left to argue the point, and hung limply between them. Donovan straightened his clothing as he stood, fastidiously brushing dirt off his sleeve. His eyes were bright with something that could have been anger, but could just as easily have been amusement.
What little breath Bolin had left exploded from his lungs as he slammed back against the wall, Donovan’s fingers tight around his throat.
Definitely anger then.
"I have made a decision, General," Donovan whispered into his ear, his face close to Bolin's. "I have decided to keep you alive. I am going to break you, and when I'm finished, I am going to remake you. You will serve me then, and not your blessed Goddess."
"Rot in hell."
Donovan laughed -- a short, brutal bark. "How do you think to stop me? You have turned your back on everything you were. Everything you could have been. You have lost more through neglect than most people of power possess from birth. Among all the Goddess’ sundry creations you were to be envied most. And now?"
Donovan tightened his grip, and then just as quickly released it, and Bolin struggled to keep his legs under him. The edges of his vision closed in, and the floor tilted beneath him. He kept his eyes locked on Donovan's face, and his palms braced against the rough stone wall behind him.
"There are many ways to cause a man excruciating pain without killing him. Even a man such as you will give way to it. Eventually." Donovan turned in the doorway, the cold smile back on his face. "You will be mine, General. Just as the girl will be."
* * *
"I want to see Bolin."
The servant smiled politely. With his thin build, hooked nose and small, bright eyes, he reminded Ciara of a lanky water bird. "I'm afraid that isn't possible, lady."
"But I’m a healer. Bolin needs me."
"His lordship's healer is extremely skilled."
Ciara let out an exasperated sigh. "Then I want to see Donovan."
The smile never wavered. "I shall relay your desire to his lordship. If that is all?"
"No, that's not all." Ciara glared at him. He stood resolutely in the doorway of the room he had led her to, blocking the exit. "You can't hold me here against my will."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"Then take me to Donovan."
"I'm afraid I can't do that."
Ciara wondered if the man's mouth naturally curved up, or if the condescending expression had become habit. "Can't or won't?"
"Both. You are to remain here until sent for."
She sucked in a deep breath to keep from screaming, and held it in while she fought for calm. "And when will that be?"
"I'm not entirely certain. In the meantime, his lordship asks that you enjoy the comforts of a bath and some clean clothing." He backed out of the room, pulling the heavy wooden door shut as he went. "The maids will be up shortly to assist you."
The hollow click of the lock being thrown echoed around the room, followed by a frustrated snarl from Ciara. She kicked at the door in impotent rage before turning to survey her prison.
Across from her a set of tapestries had been pushed aside, allowing access to a balcony. Ciara ran to it, and leaned over the low, stone wall. She could barely make out the ground in the gathering darkness, a lone lantern far below her only indication of the height. She frowned. No chance of escape this way without a rope, or some broken bones in the attempt.
And where would she go, anyhow? She couldn't leave without Bolin.
She sighed and wandered back into the room. The huge bed called to her, but she resisted the urge to bury herself beneath the overstuffed quilt. She turned and tugged the tapestries closed as a breeze slid past her, trickling its chill fingers down her spine.
Goddess's light, what a fool she'd been to believe Donovan had wanted to help her. He wanted Bolin. That much he'd made clear. But he'd wanted Ciara to go with him before Bolin even got there. Had he known Bolin would follow her?
The shiver that ran through her had nothing to do with the cold, and Ciara went to stand by the recently tended fire. She'd never met anyone like Donovan. His magic -- the little he had shown her -- felt similar to the wilding, yet vastly less chaotic and more controlled. It surrounded him, and smoldered in the depths of his dark eyes. Ciara wondered if others could see the wilding reflected in her eyes. If they could, the two men on the road may not have attacked her. In which case, they'd still be alive.
That memory no longer brought the horror it had. Instead, Ciara felt only numb, as though she had watched it all from the outside.
A knock jerked her back from the edge of emptiness and she started for the door. It opened before she got there. The bird-like servant entered, and stood off to one side as a troupe of servants carrying buckets of steaming water filed past him. Ciara scowled at him. She had hoped it would be Donovan.
The servants emptied their buckets into the polished wooden tub that stood close enough to the fire to benefit from its warmth. None of them spoke to her or even glanced up from their duties, and Ciara saved her irritation for the bird man.
"Dora will see to your needs," he said to her as he took the empty bucket from a short, round woman who studiously avoided meeting Ciara’s eyes. "Is there anything else I can get for you?"
"I think you know the answer to that question," Ciara said, and then silently added, you can take me to Bolin, with a not-so-subtle mental push to do as she said.
His smile twitched. "You will find Dora as warded against magic as I am, lady. My lord Donovan is most wise in these matters."
He bowed and left, the lock clicking behind him. Ciara sucked in a breath. She thought of letting it out in a blood curdling scream until her gaze fell on Dora. The woman's brown eyes were nearly as round as her face, and her brows had disappeared into her hairline. Ciara released the breath in an exasperated sigh.
"Is he like that to everyone?" she asked.
"Colm? Yes, mistress." Dora averted her eyes, the imminent danger past,
and bobbed her head at the tub. "The water's getting cold. Shall I help you undress?"
"Help me-" Ciara felt her cheeks color, and she shook her head. "No. Thank you. I can manage."
Dora curtsied and politely turned her back, busying herself with fluffing the pillows. Ciara bit the inside of her lip. A large part of her -- the childish, petulant part -- wanted to refuse the bath and stubbornly hold out until Donovan allowed her to see Bolin. But the lavender scented steam tickled her senses, and promised relief to aching muscles. She gave in; shivering as she stripped off her travel stained clothing, and eased into the water's warm embrace. She slid down until the water rose to her chin, rested her head against the side of the tub, and closed her eyes.
As soon as she did the fortress's awareness swarmed around her -- curious and enticing. Odd currents of magic, some of which felt older than the stones themselves, flowed through the maze of rooms and passages. Ciara allowed her mind to drift and followed them, tracing their paths. She could sense Dora moving around the room, a vague presence of no immediate consequence. The magic of the fortress called, and Ciara followed.
An image of Bolin flashed behind her eyes, and Ciara reached for the strand of magic that had brought it. The oily thread slid from her grasp, coiled back and twisted around her waist. It tugged her along -- down one stairway, up another, through long halls with few windows and little light. Bolin, pale and in pain, lingered at the fringes of her vision, luring her deeper and deeper into the fortress's embrace. She'd find him here, first, then retrace her steps later. She'd find a way to get them out of Donovan's hands. She had to. But then the magic released her suddenly and flitted away. Ciara tried to call it back, but it answered her summons with cold laughter that echoed in the vastness of the space around them leaving her shivering and cold.
Ciara opened her eyes. The cold remained and she realized her bath water had lost all warmth. She sat up and Dora came at once, holding up a large, soft towel warmed by the fire. She turned her back as Ciara stepped from the tub and dried herself. The water had worked the makeshift bandage off the gash below Ciara's knee, and her scrubbing had re-opened the wound. She needed some of Bolin's salve and a clean wrap.
Dora made a noise and Ciara looked up to see she held a small crock and a strip of cloth bandage. "Would you like me to dress that for you?"
"No thank you," Ciara said. "I can do it myself."
"Your neck as well, lady," Dora pointed out, and looked quickly away.
Ciara crossed to the low vanity against the wall and looked into the mirror. Her hand went to the bruise across her cheek, and her stomach knotted. "I-" Ciara met Dora's eyes through the mirror. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "I killed two men."
The woman's mouth turned down and her soft features hardened. "If they did that you, then they deserved what they got."
Ciara shook her head. "But I didn't mean to."
"Best put it out of your mind, lady. It can't be undone, now, can it?" The color rose in Dora's cheeks and she looked away. Her hands disappeared behind her back, and she shifted from one foot to another, not looking up again until Ciara said her name.
"Dora?"
"Yes'm?"
"My clothes?"
Dora's eyes widened, and the flush in her cheeks deepened as she snatched a folded piece of parchment from one of her capacious pockets and handed it to Ciara. "I all but forgot! His lordship instructed me to give you this, and the gown."
The note she handed Ciara contained two lines, written in flowing script:
The servants will show you to the hall for dinner.
I trust you will enjoy my gifts. D.
Ciara turned to question Dora, but found her answer in the gown the woman held up. The silken fabric shimmered in the flickering light from the fire; silver rippling into subtle rainbows of color. Ciara ran the fabric through her fingers, wide-eyed at the gown's simplistic elegance.
"This is far too fine," she said. "I couldn't possibly wear such a thing."
"My lordship insists."
Dora helped her slip the gown over her head and turned her to do up the laces, then stood back as Ciara surveyed her reflection in the full-length mirror. The gown's neckline swooped low across her chest, and Ciara gave it a tug to try and bring it higher. The sleeves hugged her arms as far as the elbows before they flared out, only to gather again in a cuff at the wrist. The bodice fit tight to her hips, where an embroidered line of gold and green met in a 'v' above the flowing skirt. Even after she slipped on the shoes Dora handed her, the hem of the gown brushed the floor.
"I've never worn anything even half so elegant," Ciara said.
"It suits you well." Dora beamed at her as she guided Ciara back to the stool in front of the vanity.
Before Ciara could raise an objection, the woman grabbed a brush and began to pull it through the tangled mess of her hair. Ciara's head jerked back and she let out a yelp. Dora muttered an apology, her round face screwed up in an expression of intense concentration as she continued to tug at the snarls. There were a lot, and Ciara grit her teeth against Dora's thorough grooming. She watched in the mirror as Dora wrestled the unruly locks under control, wincing when the brush caught on yet another knot.
"Is there a mistress here?" Ciara asked.
Dora startled and darted a quick look at Ciara's reflection. "Lady?"
"Does Donovan have a wife?"
Dora’s forehead wrinkled. "No."
"Has there ever been a woman here?"
The wrinkles took on a new layer. "There's the servants. Is that what you mean?"
Ciara shook her head. "Where did this gown come from?"
"I don’t rightly know, lady. There now." Dora gestured at the mirror. "Does that please you?"
Ciara put her hands to her mouth. Dora had transformed her wild hair into an ornately braided crown on her head, secured with a pair of jeweled pins.
"You don't like it?" Dora looked concerned.
"Oh, yes! It's beautiful."
A quiet knock interrupted her gawking, and before she could respond the door swung open and the bird-like servant, Colm, stepped into the room. His eyes rounded when they landed on Ciara, and he bowed low. "Lady."
Dora bobbed a curtsy at Ciara, a huge smile lighting up her eyes, then scampered out the door.
Colm straightened. "His lordship awaits your presence in the dining hall. If you would be so kind as to come with me."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Guldarech’s guild hall had the dubious honor of being the largest building Ciara had ever seen the inside of. Donovan’s fortress far surpassed it in both size and splendor. The corridors -- some wide enough to drive a carriage through -- boasted walls of smooth stone that rose up to meet high, beamed ceilings of polished wood. The glass windows set deep within those walls shattered the last rays of the sun’s light into glistening fragments and scattered it across the tiled floors. And everywhere, the rippling undercurrent of strong, ancient magic coursed like a silent river.
Ciara tried to pay attention to what turns they made, how many doors they passed, and whether they went left or right at a certain sculpture or staircase. It proved more difficult than she thought it should have been.
Colm walked ahead of her, his hands clasped casually behind his back. He gave her a smile over his shoulder. "The builders of this fortress imbued it with not only a consciousness, but the ability to create illusion out of space as well."
"Which means?"
"Which means, it doesn't always look the same. The halls and passageways shift. Doors once there, become hidden."
"Then how does anyone ever find their way around?"
He shrugged. "If you know where you want to go, and you're meant to go there, the fortress will see you arrive."
"And if you're not meant to go there?"
They stopped in front of a pair of carved wooden doors, easily wide enough for five men walking abreast, and taller still than that. "I wouldn't suggest it."
The doors swung silently ope
n without as much as a touch from either of them. Colm bowed Ciara through and retreated, and the doors closed behind her. Their size had suggested a larger room than she found herself in, but that didn't make it small by any standards. An immense fireplace, nearly as tall as Ciara and easily as long, occupied one wall, tapestries adorned the others, and in the center of the room, a table that could have seated thirty, but had been set for only three.
Donovan rose out of his chair on her arrival, resplendent in a shimmering black tunic edged in silver and decorated with a subtle design across the chest. He watched her with that slight upturn of thin lips she had begun to hate. The expression held no warmth, and meant something altogether different than it suggested.
"Lady." Donovan glided around the table. He extended his arm for her as he drew close, then stilled, and his gaze went to her throat. Ciara put her hand to her neck, suddenly very conscious of the marks there. But those weren't what drew Donovan's attention. "An interesting adornment."
Her fingers touched the smooth surface of the pendant her aunt had given her. She had forgotten she still wore it. It surprised her Scar-face hadn't taken it. But then he'd been interested in other things.
Donovan's eyes came back to hers. "Do you like the gown?"
"Yes," Ciara said. "But it's far too nice."
"Too nice? Such finery is more suitable than your previous rags." Ciara bristled at the insult, but Donovan either didn't notice, or more likely didn't care. He extended his arm for her again. "Shall we sit?"
Ciara lifted her hand then hesitated.
"Is there a problem?"
More than one, Ciara thought, but shook her head and lowered her hand, barely touching the fabric of his sleeve, and Donovan guided her to a chair to the right of his.
She glanced around expectantly as she took the chair he held for her. "Where's Bolin?"
"The General will be joining us shortly." His seat reclaimed, Donovan signaled a servant out of the shadows, lifted the wine decanter from the proffered tray, and filled their goblets himself. "I think you will find he is a man of remarkable resilience."
First Of Her Kind (Book 1) Page 10