years. Your little temper tantrum when your mother died-" He shook his head. "You could’ve found no better way of announcing your existence. He's been searching for you ever since. That’s why you were secreted away to Meriol's. Not because you were a threat to your step-father or anyone else. And Meriol did what she thought was right, Goddess love her. She warned you off using anything but your earth magic and kept you hidden on the farm, out of anyone's eye, and close to the Goddess. It was a mistake. She should have taught you control and discipline."
"How do you know all this?"
He shook his head. "That doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
He stared up at her. "Have I ever given you cause to mistrust me?"
No was on her lips, because he never had. "How do you know all this?"
"Ciara-"
He didn’t finish.
The breeze stilled, and everything froze as though the woods themselves had taken a breath. In the next instant Sandeen launched into motion, Bolin grabbed a fistful of mane and swung into the saddle a hairsbreadth before Ciara felt it herself -- Donovan's presence, somewhere very near at hand.
Sandeen lunged forward, dragging a hapless Fane with him. Ciara whipped backwards, caught unprepared, and nearly lost her seat. By the time she got herself righted, Sandeen veered off to the side and Fane stumbled in an effort to keep up, almost going down. Ciara pitched forward and catapulted over the gelding's neck with no way to stop her momentum. Something the ground took care of for her -- abruptly -- and the air burst from her lungs.
A voice yelled at her over the ringing in her ears; ordered her to find her feet and move. Ciara would have been more than happy to oblige, but at the moment, breathing required all her attention. She shifted to relieve the sharp pain hampering her efforts at the simple task. Other sounds filtered through to her. A horse screamed a challenge, followed swiftly by a startled curse and a sickening thud, then the clash of steel on steel. Another loud whinny, this time full of rage and indignation, and Ciara felt, rather than heard, Bolin's soft command to Sandeen to be still. Stark silence followed, punctuated only by the jingle of harness and shuffling of feet.
A face hovered into Ciara's view; clean shaven, jet black hair, and eyes like starless nights.
"Lady." Donovan extended a gloved hand and pulled Ciara, willing or no, to her feet. "Are you injured?"
Ciara shook her head. Her pride, perhaps, and her backside. "I don't think so." She brushed leaves and dirt from her clothes, and reached up to pick twigs out of the tangle of her hair.
Past Donovan she caught a glimpse of Sandeen; a shimmer of magic held him in place. Bolin stood apart from him, ringed by five armed brigands. A sixth crouched off to one side, blood seeping between the fingers he held pressed to his side. The tip of Bolin's sword glittered wetly. Another man sprawled an arm’s length from Sandeen's hooves, his skull a mangled wreck. Ciara put a hand to her mouth, and looked away.
The men Bolin faced were armed with short swords and wore leather jerkins over plain, dark shirts. Their dirty faces and stringy hair reminded Ciara of the two men on the road, but their eyes had a glazed, dull look as though they were half asleep. Or spell bound.
Ciara started forward but Donovan laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. "You must have known we would meet again. It is unfortunate the General has decided it must be on these terms."
"What do you want from us?" Ciara asked.
"Only that which is rightfully mine."
"We don’t have anything of yours."
The corners of Donovan’s mouth lifted in an expression that, on anyone else, would have been a smile. "No? I believe you do."
He turned and signaled his men. The circle tightened around Bolin, and the dance began. It couldn't be called anything else. Bolin moved with far too much grace and fluidity to call it fighting. Even the Imperial swordsmen sparring at the summer
"How do you know all this?"
He shook his head. "That doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
He stared up at her. "Have I ever given you cause to mistrust me?"
No was on her lips, because he never had. "How do you know all this?"
"Ciara-"
He didn’t finish.
The breeze stilled, and everything froze as though the woods themselves had taken a breath. In the next instant Sandeen launched into motion, Bolin grabbed a fistful of mane and swung into the saddle a hairsbreadth before Ciara felt it herself -- Donovan's presence, somewhere very near at hand.
Sandeen lunged forward, dragging a hapless Fane with him. Ciara whipped backwards, caught unprepared, and nearly lost her seat. By the time she got herself righted, Sandeen veered off to the side and Fane stumbled in an effort to keep up, almost going down. Ciara pitched forward and catapulted over the gelding's neck with no way to stop her momentum. Something the ground took care of for her -- abruptly -- and the air burst from her lungs.
A voice yelled at her over the ringing in her ears; ordered her to find her feet and move. Ciara would have been more than happy to oblige, but at the moment, breathing required all her attention. She shifted to relieve the sharp pain hampering her efforts at the simple task. Other sounds filtered through to her. A horse screamed a challenge, followed swiftly by a startled curse and a sickening thud, then the clash of steel on steel. Another loud whinny, this time full of rage and indignation, and Ciara felt, rather than heard, Bolin's soft command to Sandeen to be still. Stark silence followed, punctuated only by the jingle of harness and shuffling of feet.
A face hovered into Ciara's view; clean shaven, jet black hair, and eyes like starless nights.
"Lady." Donovan extended a gloved hand and pulled Ciara, willing or no, to her feet. "Are you injured?"
Ciara shook her head. Her pride, perhaps, and her backside. "I don't think so." She brushed leaves and dirt from her clothes, and reached up to pick twigs out of the tangle of her hair.
Past Donovan she caught a glimpse of Sandeen; a shimmer of magic held him in place. Bolin stood apart from him, ringed by five armed brigands. A sixth crouched off to one side, blood seeping between the fingers he held pressed to his side. The tip of Bolin's sword glittered wetly. Another man sprawled an arm’s length from Sandeen's hooves, his skull a mangled wreck. Ciara put a hand to her mouth, and looked away.
The men Bolin faced were armed with short swords and wore leather jerkins over plain, dark shirts. Their dirty faces and stringy hair reminded Ciara of the two men on the road, but their eyes had a glazed, dull look as though they were half asleep. Or spell bound.
Ciara started forward but Donovan laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. "You must have known we would meet again. It is unfortunate the General has decided it must be on these terms."
"What do you want from us?" Ciara asked.
"Only that which is rightfully mine."
"We don’t have anything of yours."
The corners of Donovan’s mouth lifted in an expression that, on anyone else, would have been a smile. "No? I believe you do."
He turned and signaled his men. The circle tightened around Bolin, and the dance began. It couldn't be called anything else. Bolin moved with far too much grace and fluidity to call it fighting. Even the Imperial swordsmen sparring at the summer
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