First Of Her Kind (Book 1) (5 page)

None you can understand, child
, a voice whispered on the breeze -- or possibly just in her head.

"Try me," Ciara shot back.

Nothing remained of Meriol's pyre but a smoldering pile of ash. Someone had tended the fire to its bitter end, letting it burn in on itself until the flames could find nothing more to eat. Ciara paced the grove from end to end, her fingers curling and uncurling at her sides, like a cat springing its claws. Her breath came hard and fast, fury building within her. She stopped at the edge of the burn and stared at the ashes until the edges of her vision dimmed as her focus drew inward.

Ciara didn’t intend to reach past the quiet embrace of her earth magic to where the wilding lay coiled like some giant serpent. She never did mean to do it. It just happened. This time, however, it happened with surprising clarity.

She pulled in a long, deep breath and felt it flood her with calm. "I want to talk to my aunt." She sent the cold demand into the beyond, to the Goddess herself.

A breath of wind rippled through the grove.

"Now," Ciara demanded.

Ashes twisted upward in a sudden gust; laughter, or a taunt.

"I have the right."

Rights are to be earned.

"Why did you take her?" Branches rustled overhead and Ciara clenched her jaw against the urge to scream. "Why?"

Funnels of grey swirled around her as the ashes danced skyward, and tendrils of hair whipped across her face, stinging her eyes. Ciara stood fast. Her earth magic hummed through her veins; a natural thing, like the ground she stood on and the trees that surrounded her  Nothing at all like the wilding -- the magic Meriol forbade her from using.

The magic she reached for it now in grief edged with ice cold anger.

And the wilding came, a dark and eager specter, pushing against the circle of earth magic that held it bound.

The trees around the grove bent and swayed, fallen leaves mingled with the ash whorls that enveloped Ciara but did not touch her. Ciara didn't notice. The maelstrom couldn't compete with the internal battle. The wilding rose expectantly to her call, blackness shot through with shades of red and flashes of light. Longing and hunger drove it. A desire for freedom. Voices rode the raging wind, uttering words she didn't know, in a language that felt older than the Goddess herself.

A sense of completeness swept through Ciara. Here existed magic older than earth magic, more powerful, right in the ways of all things ancient. Right in the way the pale Mother Goddess had never made her feel. It flowed through her bones, through every fiber of her being, and called her to follow. She need only speak the words to bring it forth full strength, and set it free.

"I don't know them," she told it, her own longing making it a desperate plea.

She flinched from the light touch against her cheek. A vision from her childhood hovered before her, a woman with auburn hair, deep brown eyes and soft features.

Ciara gasped. "Mother!"

"Don’t listen to them, Ciara." The familiar voice wavered, as though it came over a great distance and with much effort. "Your grief drives you."

Ciara lifted a hand towards the vision, fingers outstretched. A roar unlike anything she’d ever heard ripped past her as the wilding slammed against the wall of earth magic that held it in, shattering the image of her mother. Again the wilding hit that wall, and again, like a fist against ice, trying to break through, and Ciara could neither help nor hinder it.

She started to shake. Another image appeared before her eyes, this one of more substance. Bolin’s visage, dark hair whipping in the wind, light eyes locked onto hers with a mixture of anger and fear. Not fear for himself, Ciara realized, but fear for her. His fingers dug into her arms as he shook her. His mouth moved but Ciara couldn't hear the words. Within her the wilding raged.
How dare he lay hands on us? Kill him.

But Ciara's earth magic tightened its hold, spinning around her to hem the wilding in. The brightness of it filled her vision. Ciara struggled to push through. The wilding urged her on, past the pounding of her heart and a growing terror. Her mother's image, Bolin's, the light of the Goddess -- whirled ceaselessly around her.

Closed in on her like a fist.

Or a noose.

Ciara cursed -- a guttural cry against the Goddess and the man who shook her by the shoulders until her teeth rattled. He meant to rip her free of the wilding’s hold, meant to control her. Why couldn't he just leave her be? Couldn't he see how right she felt in the wilding's embrace? Ciara focused on the dark power, grabbed a handful from its midst and flung it outwards. The spinning wall of light wavered, bowing with the force of the attack, but held firm. Ciara sucked in a desperate breath and choked on ash. A scream of frustration tore through her, and with it one more attempt to smash thru the earth magic. But it held fast. All save a slim crack through which a tiny bit of the wilding rushed out. Before Ciara could relish her victory, the rest bounced back and slammed into her, throwing her through the air. The air exploded from her lungs as she crashed into the ground.

Everything left her then, except the ringing in her ears and blackness -– not the roiling black of the wilding, but the quiet, emptiness of sleep.

* * *

Ciara didn't know how long she lay there. It could have been a moment, or a life time. Drawing in one deep breath and then another -- past the ache in her body -- became her sole focus. Keeping her head from splitting wide open ran a close second.

It took a while for her to realize her eyes were open, and even longer for the hazy shapes above her to coalesce into trees. They spun when she propped herself up on her elbows to look around. Her gaze swept the grove and she shuddered when her brain registered the figure sprawled on his back on the far side of the burn. Bolin!  He had been shaking her, trying to bring her back, protecting her as he had sworn to Meriol he would do. On his life.

By the Goddess, no!

The distance between them seemed like leagues and she crossed it on her hands and knees, shaking uncontrollably, because her legs refused to hold her. She had to stop more than once to close her eyes and rest her head against the ground to keep from retching. It spun counter to the spinning of the grove. Like her, counter to everything else.

Ciara tried to call Bolin but her tongue had become too large for her mouth, a mouth that tasted like ash. He couldn't be dead. Not because of her. By all that is holy, not dead. She winced as stones cut into her palms. By whatever else existed beyond the Goddess and her narrow-minded world, Bolin had to be alive.

But when she got to his side, his eyes reflected only sky, and his face had an unhealthy pallor. Ciara rested her palm over Bolin's his heart, and exhaled a shuddering breath when a slow, unsteady beat vibrated against her fingertips.

"Bolin." Her voice croaked, harsh and rasping, almost unrecognizable. She cleared her throat and tried again, louder. "Bolin!"

His eyelids fluttered shut then reopened slowly. He heard her, on some level. She took his limp, cold hand in hers, and forced herself to focus beyond the physical. Be still and open yourself, and you will always see them if they are still with us. Meriol had taught her that.

Goddess's blood, her head hurt. It spun like a child's top, taking her stomach along for the ride. She swallowed against the impulse to throw-up, and tried to force herself past the ache.

"Be still and open, still and open," she whispered. Easier said than done. "Bolin, please, help me."

He stirred, and took a deeper breath.

Ciara's eyes were as dry as her mouth and she squeezed them shut to help both her head and focus. She reached into the vale that existed between worlds, the place she would find Bolin if he weren't dead. She pictured him in her mind’s eye. Pictured the feel of him, and held that image as she drew on the strength of the earth, and the deep roots of the trees. Her own discomfort began to fade. Nothing existed beyond this place -- and Bolin.

The force of his anger hit Ciara like a physical slap, and she nearly lost her tenuous hold on him. She pushed past it. He’d be even angrier when he woke and found her gone again.

Ciara drew in a shaky lungful of air -- tainted with the smell of charred wood and damp foliage -- and drew Bolin closer to consciousness. It proved no easy task. He resisted her efforts, even when she wrapped a light blanket of earth magic around him. But Ciara persisted until she knew he could find the rest of the way on his own. Only then did she pull away from him and break the contact.

She climbed clumsily to her feet, and clutched at the nearest tree, leaning against the rough bark to keep from falling over. She glanced back at Bolin, still lying motionless. His eyes were closed, but his chest rose and fell in deep, regular breaths. Ciara didn’t have time to dawdle. She shoved off the tree and ran from the grove in staggering steps like a festival drunkard.

* * *

Bolin hovered on the edge of consciousness. He had a vague memory of Ciara leading him there, and then withdrawing. Pain throbbed through every bone in his body, pulsing to the beat of his heart, and it forced him past the haze of healing magic meant to keep him still. He lurched upwards like a drowning man, and sucked at a desperate gulp of air and then another, despite the fact each one ripped through him like fire. His eyes snapped open to survey his surroundings for potential enemies, fully realizing the only threat to his well-being had already left. He blinked to focus and scanned the grove before allowing himself to collapse back to the ground.

He'd been the target of magic attacks before, more than once. None had been nearly this  -- raw. He eased a hand across his ribs and groaned. It took much longer than he liked to gather enough strength to try propping himself up on his elbows. The grove tilted, and he rolled onto his side as he lost what little breakfast he had in him, an action that caused his ribs to scream in agony.

Bolin spit and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He forced himself to his knees with a frustrated growl, pausing before easing back onto his haunches, arms resting on his thighs, head down and eyes closed. Breathing came slow and shallow, around the pain instead of through it. He looked up and concentrated on a distant tree through the haze of his lashes, held it in his focus as he straightened his legs to stand. Something that proved easier than remaining upright and he grabbed for the nearest tree to steady himself. He moved achingly slow, as much to keep his spinning head under control as to assess the damage Ciara had inflicted.

She would be gone again, damn the unholies, no doubt about that. He could only guess what road she'd try this time. Goddess love her, why had Meriol done nothing to teach the girl how to use her magic? The wilding, as Meriol called it, had terrified her, and rightly so. She had stayed as far away from it as possible and encouraged Ciara to do the same. Not that Bolin had done anything different, but he hadn't been sure of the wilding’s exact nature.

And now? Now he needed to find Ciara and get her to safety. Because if the wrong someone found her instead . . .

Damn it to a thousand bloody hells!  The girl's outburst would be a beacon for anyone of power within a hundred leagues. She would be hunted.

Halting steps were the best Bolin could manage. It would be days before he felt well enough to move without discomfort, and he didn't have days.

The path from the grove to the barn had never seemed so long, nor so rough, and the air never so littered with new and inventive curses. Bolin would have done the infantry grunts proud with the litany. Each tree became a hand-hold to steady his wobbly legs and a point from which to shove off to reach the next.

The sun had long since passed its zenith when Bolin leaned his back against an aged oak for a moment's rest, forcing breath through clenched teeth. If not for Meriol’s binding him with an oath, he wouldn't give a fig for where Ciara had gone. Let the girl fall off the ends of the earth for all he cared.

He frowned. He'd have about as much luck convincing himself of that as he would of sprouting wings. It hardly mattered that Ciara posed a danger to more than herself, or that duty dictated he find her. He would have gone after her regardless for reasons he didn't care to admit even to himself.

* * *

"Bolin!"

Findley had already started his afternoon chores when Bolin staggered into the barnyard. From the shocked expression on the horse master’s face, Bolin guessed he looked like a visage of death itself. Despite his growling objection, Findley took him by the arm and helped him to a bench near the stable door.

"We'd thought you'd left again with Ciara," he said.

"Isn't Sandeen here?" Bolin's voice cracked.

Findley scratched his bald spot and frowned. "Guess we'd not thought to look. Purt!" He followed his voice into the barn and yelled again, a mighty bellow likely heard half way to Guldarech. "Purt!"

The stable boy's harried response seemed to come from a great distance. The sun had long since burned off the early morning chill. And how far along which road would Ciara be by now?

The air smelled of horses and fresh hay, and Bolin drank it in past his aching ribs. He had found an indent in the rough wall of the barn adequate to rest his head against, giving some semblance of comfort. His eyes refused to stay open, and though he should have been doing something other than sleeping, he finally had to give in. A figure crossed quietly in front of him, nothing more than a shadow behind Bolin's eyelids that hesitated a moment, then moved on.