Haracht roared, and Donovan stepped aside as he shoved Bolin forward. The slick, stone floor made it impossible for Bolin to find purchase with his bare feet and he spun on the chains. His shoulders wrenched with the weight of his body as he completely lost his footing, and he clenched his jaw to keep from screaming as the room went black.
Ice cold water hit his face before he lost consciousness. He sucked in a sharp breath as the water cascaded down his bare torso, and his muscles convulsed in a pain-laden shiver. Bolin tried to wrap his fingers around the chains and pull himself up to relieve the strain in his shoulders, but he couldn't get a grip -- his hands slick with either blood or sweat.
"I didn't like that," Haracht said. He circled around in front of Bolin, his right foot dragging as he walked. "I think I'm going to have to teach you some manners."
"Be gentle, Haracht," Donovan said from the doorway. "I have plans for this one."
Haracht grunted.
"Donovan," Bolin called out. "You won't keep her."
Donovan smiled. "We shall see."
He pulled the door closed behind him, and Haracht laughed. "I like you." He spun Bolin again, catching him in a bear hug and lifting him off the ground. "You’re a tough one, but I'll have you begging for mercy before long."
"I’ll beg you for nothing," Bolin said, and spit in the man's face.
"Bastard whelp!" Haracht locked his hands behind Bolin's back and squeezed hard enough to push Bolin's ribs into his lungs. Breathing became impossible, and the room began to fade again. Just before he blacked out, Haracht relaxed his grip but didn't release him. "I’ll wager before I’m done with you, you’ll be whimpering like a virgin at the whore market."
The man's breath reeked of salted fish, and the odor made Bolin’s stomach churn. "Before you’re done with me, you’ll be dead."
Haracht erupted in laughter and pushed Bolin away with a rough shove. This time a fist to the gut stopped his momentum -- and the small amount of breath he'd found. The chains released without warning. Bolin's knees buckled, and he hit the ground about the same time Haracht's booted foot connected with his side. Bolin curled into a ball to protect himself from further kicks, but they didn't come. Instead, Haracht knelt beside him and stroked the side of his face like a lover's caress and Bolin flinched.
"You know what I’d really like to do?" Haracht's voice became as soft as his fingers. "I’d like to slice your pretty skin off, piece by piece, maybe have some of it with my eggs in the morning."
He stood then, and Bolin watched from the floor as Haracht turned his back and limped to a nearby table against the far wall. Though he didn't stand much taller than Bolin, he had a blacksmith's build and easily outweighed him -- probably by half again as much, all of it muscle. The angular tattoos across his skull traveled down his neck and both arms, disappearing beneath the tight grey tunic that strained to cover his bulk.
"Get up," he said, without turning. "I'll even let you have a go at me if you'd like. Good sport is always welcome."
As tempting as that sounded, Bolin had a hard enough time just sitting up. He flexed his shoulders back to try and ease the pain in them and almost passed out in the process. The left one felt like it had come out of the socket. He glanced up the length of rusted chain attached to the wrist shackles. It had been threaded through a ring pounded into the rough stone of the ceiling, across to a pulley, and from there down to another ring on the floor against the opposite wall. Bolin saw no mechanism for raising and lowering it.
He swung his gaze back to Haracht and found the torturer watching him with a sly grin. "Pays to have a little bit of magic in my line of work."
He flicked his hand, and the chain jerked upwards. This time Bolin got his hands around the links in time to spare his shoulders any further abuse as he shot to his feet. Before the chain tightened, however, the slack returned, and Bolin scrambled to keep his balance. A lost cause when Haracht's foot shot out and caught him in the back of the legs, whipping them out from under him. Bolin landed hard on his back with Haracht straddling his chest.
The man's fingers trailed lightly across Bolin's skin, and he couldn't suppress the shudder the delicate stroke elicited.
"How's such a hard man have such soft skin, hmm? Maybe his lordship will let me have you when he's done. Bet you'd make a fine pair of britches." Haracht chuckled and hooked his thumbs through the wide belt around his waist. "See this? Came from a poacher. Scrawny bit of a thing he was. Hide wasn’t good for much, too tough, but it made a good enough belt."
He threw his head back in laugher and Bolin lurched upwards. He slammed the heels of his hands up under Haracht's chin. The blow had little force, but it knocked the man off balance, and when Bolin bucked up with his hips Haracht tumbled to the side. Bolin rolled, jerked his leg up and snapped his foot out. But for all his bulk Haracht moved incredibly quickly. He caught Bolin's leg and twisted, flipping Bolin onto his stomach.
"Ungrateful pig."
Haracht sprawled across Bolin’s back, pinning him to the ground and trapping his arms painfully beneath him. A hand as large as his head ground the side of Bolin’s face into the stone.
"Do you know what I’ve discovered about men like you?" Haracht whispered into his ear.
Bolin worked at forming words. "You like us better than women?"
Haracht reached under Bolin with his free hand, and rubbed him between the legs. "Oh, that I do. Women are far too delicate."
Shock, followed by a wave of revulsion, ripped through Bolin, and he tried to jerk away from the groping.
"I’ve found," Haracht brushed his lips against Bolin's neck, "that once a man like you starts to crack, it’s like the shattering of glass, and then you’re no different than any other man. In fact, often, you’re even more pathetic. At my hands you'll feel exquisite pleasure, as well as extreme pain. You will beg me for release before the end, General, they all do."
With Haracht's weight on him Bolin couldn't even beg for air. The room faded around him and again, before he passed out, Haracht released the pressure and stood.
"Enough for now."
Bolin could do no more than gasp as the man yanked him to his feet by his waist, turned him around and then shoved him away. Bolin staggered backwards into the wall, but his legs couldn't hold him, and the rough stone tore at his raw back as he slid to the floor. He crumpled onto the dirty straw that served as a bed, and tried to breathe his way around the pain.
"Pleasant dreams, General," Haracht said, and closed the door behind him as he left.
* * *
"I’m disappointed," Bolin told Donovan.
They were sitting before a fire in a study. Bolin didn’t recognize the room. It most likely existed only in his head. But he enjoyed the illusion of warmth, a glass of good wine, and the comfort of a padded chair -- all of which were far better than lying half naked on a damp, stone floor.
"Disappointed?" Donovan asked. "How so?"
Bolin swirled the wine in his glass, and watched the blood red whorls dance in the firelight. "I expected you to break me yourself."
Donovan laughed at that. "Ah, General, I am."
* * *
Food came in the form of lukewarm gruel that smelled of horse urine and vomit. When Bolin refused it, Haracht forced it down his throat -- three times -- until it stayed there.
"There, now, not so bad." He wiped Bolin's chin with a rag. "You'll learn to like it before too long."
The gruel rose in Bolin's throat, and he choked it back. He'd have rather spit it in Haracht's face, but suspected the man would have merely wiped it off and fed it to him again.
"Stop sulking like a little girl." Haracht slid his hand up Bolin's thigh, and Bolin kicked at him. Haracht laughed. "You and I are going to have some fun later. But right now I'm working on a new jerkin down the hall."
He slapped Bolin's face hard enough to make his eyes water then stood and left him, taking the lantern and plunging the cell into complete darkness. As soon as the sliver of ligh
t along the bottom edge of the door flickered and went out, Bolin rolled to the side and threw up. He wiped his mouth on his arm and shifted on the pile of straw to avoid the freshly soiled bits. He wanted to close his eyes and rest because Haracht would be back all too soon. But sleep meant dreaming, and that seemed to thrust him directly into Donovan's waiting arms. Or down paths of memory he cared not to travel.
Something scrambled up his leg, and he kicked. The creature squealed when it hit the opposite wall, landing with a thud and a scrambling of feet. Haracht's table stood somewhere against that far wall, littered with the tools of his trade.
Bolin drew in as deep a breath as he could and forced his legs to push him upwards. The chain rattled through the ring, and he tensed. He waited until he could be certain Haracht wouldn’t come to investigate the noise before he took a hesitant step away from the wall. His legs wobbled and he didn't get very far before they gave out and he dropped to his knees with a curse. He crawled as far as his restraints allowed, then stood and reached out blindly, pulling the chain taut. His shoulders ached with the effort, and his fingers touched only air. Moving first to the right, then the left, put nothing within his grasp yet he could sense the table -- so close.
He grunted and stretched further, muscles screaming in agony. His fingertips brushed wood and he strained against the chains, pushing forward on the balls of his feet. But the stones gave no purchase to his bare feet and his legs kicked back behind him. Bolin managed to pull his arms in before he hit the ground. His elbows and forearms took the brunt of the fall, but the momentum slammed his forehead into the floor. Lights erupted behind his eyes, accompanied by a shock of pain that rivaled anything Haracht had recently caused. The torturer wouldn't be pleased if Bolin did his job for him.
Bolin rolled, his head spinning, a warm trickle of blood sliding down the side of his face, and crawled back to the relative comfort of spoiled hay.
The dregs of the Buckthorn still trickled through him, making rational thought as hard to hold onto as a fistful of sand. Reality and imagination blurred. Truth became lies, and Bolin had a hard time deciphering one from the other. Then there were the figures that moved at the fringes of his vision even when he closed his eyes -- Meriol, Ciara, men he had known, ghosts of men he had killed. There were many of those. War was an ugly endeavor. Being the sword of the Emperor was even uglier, but Bolin knew no other life.
He drifted toward sleep, and this time didn't fight it. He had built himself a sanctuary where the pain became a dull throb and nothing Haracht would do to him could matter.
Ciara's face swam into view behind his closed eyelids. Her wild brown hair flowed around her face, accentuating her soft features and deep hazel eyes -- eyes that betrayed every emotion. Eyes Bolin could get lost in. He needed to be much more careful around her. Not only did her body call to him in ways he found increasingly hard to ignore, but her magic called to him as well. Donovan had not lied in that regard. The dark coil of power she kept hidden deep inside sang to him like cool water in the summer's heat. That kind of magic was rare indeed, and Ciara had no idea how to guard it. Meriol had warded it, but only from Ciara herself. She trusted Bolin.
But around Ciara, and the power she possessed, Bolin didn't trust himself.
Like Donovan, he had been searching for Ciara since her birth, though he had only guessed at her existence then. He knew of it as a certainty the same moment Donovan, the Imperial Mages, and anyone else of substantial power had: The moment Ciara's mother died, and her grief and anger manifested itself in the destruction of half their house and the near death of the unfortunate healer.
But it had been the Emperor, not the Goddess, who drove Bolin's search. The mages pushed him to it, reasoning that such power must be considered a threat to the empire. What better task for Bolin while the land remained blissfully at peace?
"Find the source of that power," the Emperor had instructed, "and bring it to me."
"And if I can't find it?" Bolin asked.
"The Goddess will guide your steps."
"Arnok believes it should be destroyed," Bolin pointed out. Of the seven Imperial Mages, Arnok remained the most inflexible and narrow-minded, and he had no love for Bolin.
The Emperor frowned. "He is not alone in that belief, but I'll leave the decision in your hands."
And when it came time for the decision to be made? Bolin could be called many things, but not a child killer. Even had the Emperor demanded it, Bolin would not have gone through with it. As long as he could remember he had lived bound by oath and duty. Never had he gone back on the one, nor shirked the other. He didn’t think he could.
Of course you can, Donovan's voice invaded his thoughts. You have already failed. The girl is lost to you. Give yourself over to me.
Another trick in the tormentor's bag: Self-induced torture. Effective.
* * *
Bolin opened his eyes and blinked at the beamed ceiling. The light of a fire threw wavering shadows across its surface. He lay in a soft bed, pillows beneath his head, and a heavy quilt snugged up to his shoulders. A harsh, medicinal taste lingered in his mouth, and bandaging wrapped his wrists and forehead. He frowned, trying to decide if he dwelled in reality or illusion when a familiar scent -- reminding him of sunshine and spice -- tickled his nostrils.
He rolled his head on the pillow. Ciara sat perched on a chair next to the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, the gown she had worn to dinner replaced by a much more practical, homespun, blue dress. He blinked again. This could be just another elaborate test of his sanity.
"How do you feel?" Ciara asked.
Bolin wet his lips. His throat felt raw, and his tongue took up too much space in his mouth which made forming words a challenge. "Where’s Donovan?"
Her brow furrowed. "I don’t know. His servant brought me here."
Bolin tried to process that. Donovan did nothing without purpose which meant, illusion or no, Bolin needed to be on his guard.
"Is it true?" Ciara asked, almost too quietly for him to hear.
It hurt to clear his throat enough to speak. He wanted water. "What?"
Ciara chewed at a hangnail as her gaze slid nervously past him, then back again. "What Donovan is. What you are. Is it true?"
"Which part?"
She waved a hand. "All of it."
Bolin grimaced as he shifted his weight and the pain of his time with Haracht shot through him. Ciara unfolded out of the chair, her face a mask of concern, and laid her hand lightly on his arm, then just as quickly drew back as though burned.
"What did he tell you?" For the life of him, Bolin couldn't remember. There had been too many conversations, imagined and otherwise.
Ciara reclaimed her chair. "Is he really my father?"
Bolin looked back at the ceiling and drew in a deep breath. It hurt clear through his bones. Whatever drugs he’d been given to dull the pain were wearing off. "Yes."
"How long have you known?"
He looked at her. "A while."
"And you didn't think it was something I should know?" Anger replaced the worry in her expression and her voice. "Why? Because you have some kind of plan for me?"
"No." It came out as a hoarse whisper. "It didn't matter before now, did it? You told me that."
Her mouth formed a thin line, but she let the argument pass. "Did my aunt know?"
"That Donovan is your father?" But as soon as he asked he knew she didn't mean that. Knew by the mistrust that radiated off her and hung thick between them, and he began to remember how Donovan had spun the tale.
"Not that," she said, clipping off the words.
"Then what, Ciara?"
She hesitated. "About you. Did my aunt know that?"
Goddess’ light. Bolin pushed himself up on his elbows and Ciara rose out of the chair. He frowned. "No."
He would have preferred the damp cell to this. He eased himself upright, his head throbbed in painful rhythm to the rest of his body as he slid his legs over the side of the bed op
posite Ciara. Only then did he realize that standing might not be such a good idea, and he tugged the blanket over his lap to cover himself.
Ciara sucked in a quick, shocked breath, and Bolin guessed his back looked as bad as it felt, no doubt giving the appearance of raw meat. "You need a healer."
Bolin felt her weight on the bed, the warmth of her hand above his skin, but for the second time she pulled back before touching him. "Regardless of what Donovan told you, I won't do you harm." It sounded as raw as he felt, inside and out. "I've sworn an oath to protect you, on my life. That's not changed."
"I may not have run off if I'd have known about Donovan."
She had a point. One Bolin had argued with himself.
"I need my clothes." He waited for her to reach a decision and then act on it. It gave him time to work around the pain, to breathe in a slow rhythm that helped steady and refocus his energy.
Breeches and a tunic landed on the quilt next to him. He hissed at the flexing of muscles to get the tunic over his head, then again as the fabric rubbed across the wounds on his back. The breeches were somewhat easier to manage until he had to stand. He tried once and failed. The second time Ciara came around the bed and took him by the elbow to lend support -- being careful, he noticed, not to look down.
He found that endearing, enough to salve the irritation he felt at the fact he needed her help.
When he'd done up the laces on the britches he turned to look down at her. She stared straight into his chest, no longer holding his elbow but not backing away like a frightened deer. He put a finger under her chin, and tipped her face up to force her to meet his gaze. She tried to avoid his eyes and failed. Her own were shadowed, and missing the usual spark. Its absence made her look older than her years, and Bolin's gut twisted.
"Ciara?"
She swallowed with effort, lowered her eyes, and took a step back. She looked up at him from under her brows. "Are you really what he said? Can you do what he says you can with other people's magic?"
First Of Her Kind (Book 1) Page 12