"Was it necessary to nearly kill him?"
Donovan ignored her question. He handed her a goblet, then sat back in his chair, chin resting on his fist as he watched her. "Tell me, how well do you know the General?"
Ciara shrugged. "Not very well, I suppose. His life is his own."
"Indeed."
Ciara took a hesitant sip of the dark, heady vintage.
"Normally I adhere to the philosophy of one’s life being one’s own concern," Donovan said. "In this case, however, his life is quite thoroughly entwined in yours. What the General is, could threaten your very existence."
Ciara frowned. "What he is?" She experienced a sudden wave of empathy for the mouse that found itself under the scrutiny of a well-fed, yet still dangerous, cat. She couldn’t be quite sure if the cat meant to eat her or just toy with her.
"I think I will leave that for the General to answer. Instead, you will tell me how he came to be in your life."
"There's not much to tell." She took another sip of wine, and tried not to fidget under Donovan's dark, unfaltering gaze. "He wandered in toward the end of winter some years ago, in the middle of a storm. He was nearly dead. My aunt healed him and he’s visited often ever since, sometimes staying for a time. A fondness for my aunt born of gratitude, I suppose."
Thin, black brows arched upwards. "Gratitude? I wonder. I believe there were other reasons altogether."
"And those would be?"
"Do you always cut straight to the heart of the matter?"
Ciara's cheeks warmed, and she took another drink. Donovan’s gaze shifted and Ciara turned in her chair to follow it to the doorway. Bolin stood there, flanked by two guards with a third behind him. His hair clung damply to his head, and he'd been given a change of clothing -- simple leather britches of soft brown and a tunic of dark green -- nothing as fine as Ciara's gown.
His eyes swept the room as the guards escorted him to his seat across from Ciara. The men moved back a discreet distance but didn't leave the hall, and kept their hands close to their weapons. Bolin sat stiffly. His eyes were shadowed, with deep creases at the corners. He raised a brow when his gaze landed on Ciara.
"You're unharmed?" he asked, his voice low and rough.
Ciara nodded, and opened her mouth to reply but never got the chance.
"I have nothing but the best intentions for her, General," Donovan interjected. "You should know that."
Bolin's lip curled as he slid a dark look in the other man’s direction. "Your intentions are never in anyone's best interests but your own."
"Where she is concerned, I think they are more honorable than yours."
Conversation paused, as servants glided in with platters of food. Ciara’s mouth watered at the aromas rising from the roast, fresh bread, cheese and fruit set on the table. It reminded her of the feasts at Guldarech's summer festival, and a sharp pang of homesickness and grief shot through her -- followed by a loud and embarrassing rumble from her stomach.
"Please, help yourself," Donovan said, and this time his expression showed honest amusement. "It has obviously been some time since you've eaten."
Ciara didn’t need any more prompting than that. She dove into the meal with un-ladylike gusto and had all but cleared her plate before she realized neither of the men had eaten a thing. She paused with the fork half way to her mouth. Bolin had pushed his unused plate away, though he kept the wine goblet. He rolled the stem idly between his fingers as he studied her from across the table, his expression unreadable. Ciara wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin, and put a reluctant end to her meal.
"So," she said to Donovan, "what are your intentions for me?"
The amusement didn't leave his face. "She is incurably blunt, is she not, General?"
Servants returned to remove plates and refill wine goblets, then just as quickly disappeared, melting back into the shadows as though a part of them. Given what Colm had told Ciara about the fortress, they very well could have been.
"Apparently her aunt’s tutelage did not extend to courtly manners."
"And why would it?" Ciara asked. "When would I ever need such things?"
"In a life of servitude to the Goddess? Never. But that is not the life you were meant for."
"Nor is the life you have in mind for her," Bolin said.
One of the guards stepped forward. He stopped when Donovan raised his hand, though he remained close to Bolin, his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. Bolin raised up slightly in his chair, every line of his body taught, and though Donovan's pose appeared casual by contrast, Ciara could see the tension in the hand he kept lifted.
"What does he mean," she asked Donovan, and her voice shook. "The life you have in mind for me?"
"In good time," Donovan answered. "First, I would like the General to explain to you what he is. It may help to answer some of your questions."
"What you are would answer more of them," Bolin said.
Ciara held her breath. The air swirled around the two men like the ripples of magic that trailed through the fortress. She could see it rise up between them like a heat shimmer. She glanced at the guards, but they either didn't notice or were used to such things. They had eyes for Bolin alone.
Donovan lowered his hand, and with that slight gesture broke the spell. The air cleared as he turned his attention back to Ciara. "Tell me, lady, you have heard of the Sciath, have you not?"
Ciara exhaled. "Of course. Every child learns the Sciathian tales." She darted a quick glance at Bolin. His narrowed gaze remained fixed on Donovan. "They're the stuff of myth and legend."
"Legend perhaps, but not myth," Donovan said. "The Sciath were quite real, though their origins, like the remains of their small race, are hidden in obscurity."
He took a drink, savoring the wine almost as much as the game he played. "Tell me what you know of them."
Ciara scrunched her face and dredged the stories out of her memory. "It was said they were born to people of power. They had no magic of their own, but could divert magic used against them or someone else close by. They protected the emperor in the Great Wars. After the wars, they disappeared."
"Interesting. And sparse."
"I suppose my tutelage in that regard is also lacking?"
Donovan's chin tipped up. "Quite. I shall attempt to expand upon it. You are correct, the Sciath served on the side of the good and righteous in the Great Wars. To them the victory, and no small bit of honor and glory." Donovan's words were bitter, and he raised his wine in mock salute and took a long, slow drink. "But, they hardly disappeared. When the glory faded, people began to see them as a threat. Something-" he glanced at Bolin "-to be destroyed. After all, once the war was won, what else was there for the Sciath to do? Mistrust and jealousy are powerful motivators, and fueled the hunt against them."
Bolin rolled his shoulders back. The guard moved closer.
"There are likely none to be found alive these days," Donovan went on, as though oblivious to the imminent threat seated to his left. "Although it is rumored the Emperor keeps one at his side. It would be a wise thing if true. You might know something of that, General?"
"The Emperor’s dealings are not my affair." Cold and clipped.
"Truly not?" Donovan leaned forward on his elbows, his fingers interlaced, and his dark eyes glittering with more than reflected firelight as he stared at Ciara. His voice took on a new level of intensity. "The Goddess -- meddling spinster that she is -- sought to save her beloved Sciath. Some believe she gathered the last remnants of their race, and whored her hags to them. The children they bore, a mere handful, were secreted away and hidden. And, oh, what children they were. Like the Sciath, they possessed the ability to divert magic. Unlike the Sciath, they could also refocus it, and direct it back on its source. More interesting yet, among them were a few who could tap into power of any kind and hold it within themselves until they had need of it. Channeling it through themselves they could increase its strength and scope, and they could do so withou
t the permission or knowledge of the possessor. These were known as the Sciath na Duinne.
"And among the Sciath na Duinne-" His eyes were alive with light now. "-were a few more powerful than any others. Quicker, more focused, more subtle in their theft of other's power, and rumored to be the children of the Goddess herself." He leaned back and folded his hands in his lap. Smug would have been an understatement. "Such, lady, is the General. You would do well to keep yourself warded in his presence, or he shall drain you like a leech."
Ciara's hastily eaten meal sat like a rock in the pit of her stomach. She looked a question at Bolin, but his attention remained centered on Donovan. "Is that true?"
"Donovan’s telling of the legend is skewed by his hatred of the Goddess," Bolin said, his voice soft in a way that sent a chill down Ciara’s spine. "Others would tell it differently."
"Perhaps," Donovan conceded. "But however it is told, what you are remains the same. Your threat to her, or anyone of power, is factual."
"Bolin's not a threat to me," Ciara said.
"No? He would draw your power from you now and strike at me if I had not warded it."
Ciara wanted a large swallow of wine, but her hands shook so badly she didn’t trust herself to lift the goblet without spilling. "I don't believe you."
"How is it he came upon you on the road yesterday without your knowing?" Donovan asked. "Your casting was superb -- a net so fine it defied detection. Yet he eluded it."
He had a good point.
"Do you honestly think gratitude kept bringing him back to your aunt's farm?" Donovan laughed. "He stayed because he knows what you possess and he wants it. His dear mother Goddess led him to your doorstep because she fears you. I believe she sent him to kill you, though he chose not to for reasons he has yet to share. I do believe he considered it, however."
Bolin shifted, and the guard behind him drew his sword. Ciara took the swallow of wine she had bypassed earlier, and coughed as she choked on it.
"He has no desire for the Goddess’ earth magic," Donovan said, and wrinkled his nose. "That is fodder for the likes of him. What he wants is what saved you on the road and drew me to you. He desires my gift to you."
"Your gift?" Ciara darted a look at Bolin. "What do you mean?"
"Your mother did a fine job of hiding you from me," Donovan said. "For a time I was not even sure you existed. Not until your awakening."
Bolin started out of his chair, and the guard forced him back into it and held him there with a hand gripping his shoulder. Ciara’s goblet hit the floor as she lurched out of the chair and whipped around it, putting the furniture between herself and Donovan, his meaning suddenly clear.
"Is that why you asked if I knew who my father was?" she said to Bolin, and flung a gesture at Donovan. "Because it's him? Why didn't you just tell me?"
"You didn't need to know," Bolin said. He shrugged off the hand on his shoulder and got to his feet. The three guards hemmed him in, weapons drawn, a barrier between him and Donovan.
"I didn't need to know? Why? Because you have plans for me? Because you know what's best for me?" Ciara clenched her hands into fists and glared at Bolin. "You don't own me. Neither of you."
"Ciara," Bolin said, "listen to me."
"No!"
She lifted her skirts to keep from tripping, and ran towards the door. She wanted out of this room. Out of Donovan’s reach. Out of Bolin's reach.
"And where would you go?" Donovan asked.
The handle turned, but the door didn’t budge. Ciara threw her weight behind it to no avail. She truly hated this place.
"Come and sit, daughter, we have much to discuss."
Ciara pulled on the handle again with a frustrated growl. "Let me out."
She felt Donovan come up behind her, and she stiffened. He sighed, and his breath, hot on the back of her neck, sent a shiver chattering down her spine. "This charade makes me weary. I have been nothing but patient up until now, ever so indulgent of your youth and inexperience. Your aunt and your mother spent years nurturing your earth magic," he twisted the words. "All I ask is the chance to teach you how to control your real power."
"And then?" She turned to face him, her back against the door. She tilted her head to look him in the face, and fought to slow her raging pulse.
"Ciara, don't listen to him," Bolin said.
"I have never lied to you," Donovan said. "The General has. Keep that in mind."
Keeping her palms flat against the smooth wood of the door to help steady her and support legs gone weak in the knees, Ciara tried to see past Donovan to Bolin. "And what will you do with him?"
"I am undecided."
"You told me you didn’t want him dead." Her voice sounded small and uncertain, and her chin quivered despite her best efforts to keep it still. Donovan terrified her, standing this close, the depths of his power shimmering around him. She tried not to move, afraid if she did it would engulf her.
"I leave that in your hands." He leaned in and spoke the next for her ears only. "You, in exchange for the General's life."
"You'll let him go?"
Lightening flashed in the depths of his eyes, and Ciara jumped at the force of Donovan's hand slamming against the door next to her head. "My patience draws thin."
Someone grunted and Donovan spun as a body hit the floor. One of the guards lay on the ground, blood pooling beneath his still form. The others flanked Bolin, keeping him at sword's length. Ciara cried out as Donovan's fingers bit into the flesh of her arm and he yanked her away from the door.
"General!"
Bolin swiveled.
"You know I won't hesitate to do what you did not."
Bolin's laugh chilled Ciara straight through. "You'd be doing us both a favor then."
Ciara twisted back against Donovan's hold.
"Don't trust him, Ciara," Bolin said, a snarl disfiguring his face. "No matter what he claims, he'd sooner kill you than let you go."
Donovan's laugh echoed Bolin's. "You play the game well. It is he who cannot be trusted, daughter. He who should have killed you by command of the Emperor. Isn't that so, General?"
This time Donovan released Ciara when she pulled her arm back. She put as much space between them as she could, gripping the back of a chair to steady herself as questions swirled in her head. Magic -- Donovan's or the fortress's -- moved around the room in ghostly waves clouding her thoughts.
Ciara, trust me.
She jerked her head up. Trust who? She caught Bolin's eye, and the miniscule flick of something beyond the ever-guarded expression. The air rippled, and Bolin twisted, a grimace crossed his face as he jerked violently and collapsed.
She spun on Donovan. "What have you done?"
One of the guards nudged Bolin's prone form with his foot, and nodded to his companion. They sheathed their weapons and pulled him off the floor, one on either arm, and dragged him out of the room.
"I have spent a great many years searching for you." Donovan had his back to her, straight and unyielding. "It will go better for you if you cooperate. As I’m sure you are aware, I will not hesitate to use force to get what I want. Am I understood?"
The expression he turned on her held no pretense. Ciara took an involuntary step back, and her hand strayed to her throat. The pendant warmed at her touch. Donovan’s eyes flashed.
Ciara kept her gaze on him, but focused on the pendant's intertwined sigils as she traced them with her finger. Silver -- the metal of the mother Goddess, the tie to her earth magic, the simple, powerful magic that flowed through all of life. The very thing she turned her back on at every opportunity. She could feel it, could see it within herself, spinning and dancing like silver moonlight reflected on rippling water. If she called it softly, drew it towards her strand by precious strand, and spun it together, she could give it form.
And then what? Earth magic existed to heal.
Unlike the wilding.
Ciara closed her eyes. The image of Scar-face rose up behind her lids but this ti
me she felt no fear. Instead, the cold rage that had put an end to his miserable existence flooded through her -- a rush of excitement that set her pulse racing. Her mouth watered as though faced with a delectable meal. The wilding did not exist to heal.
She yelped, and jerked her hand from her throat where the pendant blazed hot enough to burn. Her earth magic surged up protectively, and forced the wilding back.
Ciara met Donovan's gaze, and this time, she held it.
CHAPTER NINE
Focus and discipline made it possible to live strictly in the moment. In which case, pain could be acknowledged and then dismissed as something that would pass. It couldn't be totally avoided, not unless one were dead. Bolin wasn’t dead -- yet. The burn of a leather strap across his bare back reminded him of that fact. He cried out, twisting on the chains that held him suspended from the ceiling.
"I want him broken, Haracht," Donovan said. "Not dead."
Bolin glared at him from under his brows, blinking sweat from his eyes. "You're a coward."
"We all have our weaknesses."
Donovan nodded, and the strap sliced across Bolin's shoulders. He turned the cry into a snarl as he wrenched himself toward Donovan. The shackles bit into his wrists as the chains stopped him short of his goal. "You'd better let him kill me or, by the Goddess, I'll gut you myself."
"Such spirit!" Donovan grabbed Bolin's face and forced his head to the side to give him a glimpse of the brute of a man behind him. Dark, angular tattoos sliced across the man's bald head and down along the side of his face. He gave Bolin a toothy grin. "Haracht, here, enjoys a challenge. I acquired him from a slaver in Zarwiene who, unfortunately, failed to survive the negotiations."
A deep chuckle rippled out of Haracht's throat. "I had him for dinner." He wrapped a beefy arm, covered in more tattoos, around Bolin's chest. "I've yet to meet anyone I couldn't break."
He slid his tongue up Bolin's neck, and Bolin curled a lip in revulsion. "Then I'll be the first." He snapped his head back, the impact to Haracht's face not enough to do anything other than anger him.
First Of Her Kind (Book 1) Page 11