First Of Her Kind (Book 1) (12 page)

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 open 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."

"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 without 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."