First Of Her Kind (Book 1) (14 page)

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 opposite 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?"

Bolin sighed. "Aye."

"Without them knowing?"

"Aye." He wavered unsteadily. It took a fair amount of determination to remain standing. But if he gave in and collapsed back onto the bed, he would loose what little ground he had gained with Ciara. Donovan had planted the seeds of distrust. Bolin needed to squash them before they took root.

"Did you do that to my aunt?"

He furrowed his brow and rubbed at his eyes to ease the gritty feeling in them. "Do what?"

She stood uncomfortably close, and he had lost the threads of their conversation again. He sucked in a breath and with it the heady, unmistakable spicy scent of her power. He licked his lips, and tried to drag his brain out of the fog. "Never."

"To me?"

Bolin took her hands and lifted them to curl her fingers against his chest. He shouldn't have. He didn't have the strength to keep his emotions in check. But he wanted to ease the hurt and confusion shadowing her expression.

"I've done things out of necessity and duty," he said softly, and reached up to brush a strand of hair off her face, careful to avoid the bruise across her cheek. "In the name of justice, on bequest of the Emperor -- does it matter why? But I've not done so to you, nor will I." If it can be at all prevented, remained unsaid.

She lifted her face, and met his gaze with an unblinking and far too intense one of her own. His hand warmed where it held hers, a sensation that spread up his arms and ran through his veins with the heady flush of a draught of brandy.

"I’ll give it to you," she whispered. Her eyes were wide, mistrust replaced by blind trust.

Bolin had seen that look before, in the faces of young warriors who never came home. Before he could question what she would give to him, Ciara's earth magic surged upwards and his breath caught then quickened as pain dissipated in its wake. Bolin traced that magic back to its source -- followed the slender, strong threads of it to where her other power lay. It rose up expectantly as Bolin drew near and he felt Ciara tremble. He held out a hand and the wilding approached, mutual curiosity driving them both. He'd touched on many kinds of power in his life, some of incredible strength, but none could compare to the lightning-like surge the wilding sent through him.

"No!" He shoved Ciara back with more force than he intended and they staggered apart. Bolin grunted as the wall came up hard behind him. "Don't."

"You can use it, better than I." Desperation colored Ciara's words. "You can get us away from here."

By the Goddess!  She reached for him and Bolin had nowhere to go. The room whirled in the peripheries of his vision. What little focus he had skittered away like clouds on the wind. He panted in an effort to catch his breath. Hells, he'd never need to breathe again with the power Ciara possessed -- stronger and more pure than anything he'd ever felt before. And she offered it to him willingly.

Take it then.
Donovan's voice. Bolin should have known.

He squeezed his eyes shut. "Leave me." He forced the words through clenched teeth.

It is what you desire, is it not? She is what you desire.

"Bolin-"

He flinched violently, and held up a hand to stop her from coming any closer. "Goddess’ light, Ciara, don't." His voice somewhere between a growl and a plea. "I don’t have the strength, don't you understand that? I wouldn’t be able to stop myself."

"I wouldn’t ask you to."

"You would try to stop me whether you chose to or not because you can't control it." He couldn't be sure he still spoke to Ciara, or if he had fallen into another of Donovan's fabrications meant to totally unhinge him.

And if the latter were the case, Donovan could count himself successful.

Ciara reached for him again, her touch whisper-light on his arm, and his doubt vanished. Bolin stared down into her wide, hazel eyes, and saw clear through every emotion that whirled behind them -- the pain and confusion, the uncertainty, the longing. He could have the wilding and her, both his desires fulfilled. Bolin reached out and drew her to him, bent his head and ever so lightly brushed his lips against hers.

* * *

Ciara should have slapped him. At the very least, she should have moved out of his embrace and stormed away, uttering curses to make the village whore blush. She should not have risen up into that soft kiss, aching for more.

But she'd never been good at doing what she should. Standing up on the balls of her feet she leaned into him, the full length of her body pressed against his. She felt him respond to that touch through the fabric of her dress. Even then she could have broken the contact. Right up until his arms encircled her and drew her even closer.

His hands moved across her back and he deepened the kiss. Ciara responded in kind, twining her fingers in his hair. A delicious shiver rippled through her, the rough hairs of his beard tickling her skin as he trailed his mouth down her neck. Fire centered in her belly before moving lower in a hunger she'd never known.

The image of Scar-face leering over her crashed through the desire and she tensed, a stab of panic clutching around her heart. She pushed her palms against Bolin's chest, prepared to back out of his embrace, but he held her firm, his hands gentle and reassuring. And Ciara wanted him. He could drive the other memories from her. He could heal the wounds no one else could see.

She slid her hands back up behind Bolin's head. She wanted to forget Scar-face, forget where they were and everything except this very moment. But Bolin pulled abruptly away from her and wiped a hand across his face.

"No," he whispered. "It's a vision."

"I'm no vision." Ciara moved toward him and he put a hand up to stop her. It had the same effect as walking into a wall.

"You have to be," he said, still in a hoarse whisper. His eyes were dark with emotion so raw it hurt. "Leave me."

He looked through her as though he were talking to someone else. A fine sheen of sweat beaded his forehead. Goddess’ light, didn't she have any sense at all? Ciara wanted to kick herself. Her earth magic still sang at the feel of Bolin's breath on her skin, and the wilding protested when she broke the contact between them.

Bolin braced himself against the wall. Ciara meant only to guide him back to the bed, but when she reached for him his shoulders snapped back, and his eyes narrowed. They focused on her, and he spoke two words in a language Ciara didn't recognize.

The ceiling came into view an instant before everything went black.

* * *