Emergence: The Darkness & Light Series, #2

By K. L. Schwengel

"Each time it becomes easier. Each time just a bit sweeter. Soon, it will not matter if it is friend or foe you face. Whoever stands in your way will perish."

Ciara is determined not to allow that to happen, but ensuring the safety of those around her seems an impossible task. Not only does she need to overcome her inability to control the increasingly tangible manifestation of her power, but there's Donovan to be reckoned with as well.

Not willing to abandon his plans, Donovan will use whatever means necessary to wrest Ciara's power from her, even if it means allying with those he considers beneath him. More than one obstacle stands between him and his goal, however, not the least of which are the lingering and unexpected effects of the crone's death.

As for Bolin, a chance encounter with one of Donovan's new allies leaves him with an even bigger problem: an ancient magic that literally gets under his skin. Worse, his struggle to prevent it from consuming him has drawn the attention of something even more sinister.

Loyalties will be tested, lives will be lost, and no one will emerge unchanged as they find things are not always so clear on the line dividing darkness and light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. L. Schwengel
• Release date: Jul 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781386247524

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

He stirred.

He had a name. If he searched the recesses of his memory he could recall it.

At the moment, however, a name possessed far less importance than the enormity of breathing. The crone lay nearby, less alive than he, and yet her presence twisted like a knife in the back of his skull. It surprised him she still lived. The brunt of the attack had been centered on her. He had suffered only the magical backlash, and the physical damage of being trapped under shattered stone and wood.

And now he lay on a low cot in a dark hovel with no recollection of how he had gotten there or who may have been responsible. He rolled his head on the pillow, and peered through his lashes to locate the source of the hushed voices that had woken him. He recognized the guttural snorts and cackling of one. The crone's pet, it seemed, had survived the ordeal as well. Pity, that. He hoped it had not been instrumental in saving him. To be in any way indebted to a creature of dubious genetics and minimal intelligence would be unthinkable.

The other voice belonged to a woman, but silhouetted against the fire Donovan could make out none of her features. She straightened as though feeling his gaze. Her eyes glittered in the dim light when she turned his way.

Lord Donovan, you are awake.

She moved to where he lay, and knelt beside him. Her hand brushed his forehead, and the unmistakable tingle of dark magic flowed from her touch. Donovan closed his eyes as it coursed through him.

Grumnlin, fetch the draught, she said.

She slipped her arm under Donovan's shoulders, lifting him easily to place a cup to his lips. He drank out of reflex and gagged on the warm, sour liquid. She forced him to choke down a few more pained swallows before lowering him back to the pillows, then wiped his chin with a warm cloth as though he were no more than a babe. He curled a lip at the attention, but did not have the energy to object. The scent of lavender and herbs tickled his nose as she drew the cloth across his chest. Coupled with whatever had been in the draught, it served to relieve numerous pains.

He licked his lips. Forming words took time. Actually speaking them took immense effort. How...  long...  have I been here?

The woman made a face. The better part of six days. A strange accent gave the simple sentence a musical quality. How long you laid within the runes, I think was perhaps half that.

Who are you? His voice, in stark contrast to hers, bore an annoying similarity to the crone's pet.

I am known here as Teeva.

He drew in a breath and with it more strength. And here would be... 

The northern reaches of the great fen. That one --she angled her head toward the crone's resting spot-- could not pass outside the borders even yet.

How is it...  she still lives?

By the hand of the unholies or nothing at all. Her physical wounds are more grievous than yours. I have tended them best I can. The rest are beyond my skill.

He watched her carefully. Is it within your skill to kill her?

An inhuman screech drowned her reply. Grumnlin darted protectively in front of the cot the crone occupied, close enough to the fire to push her in.

No do! Pretty witch, no do! He turned, sobbing, and threw himself across the prone form. No do, no do.

Donovan sneered at the display. The woman rose from his side and moved lightly across the tiny hovel. She put an arm around the creature's shoulders and guided him toward the doorway. Come now, Grumnlin, you've been too long within these walls. Wander your beloved swamp and catch yourself a nice, fat, toady for supper. That should cheer your mood.

The creature cast a narrow-eyed glare over his shoulder. Lor-del-ing no kill Lady or I eat him for supper. He pushed aside the hide covering the doorway and slipped into the night.

The threat would have been laughable if Donovan were confident he could fend the thing off if it did come for him. He drifted back to sleep, allowing the woman to see to his bodily injuries while he spent time in the ethereal realm tending to his battered power. That would be no quick or easy task. Power of the sort he wielded had no patience for weakness or frailty. Donovan had spent decades honing and shaping it, organizing it into a thing of brutal perfection and dark beauty. His alliance with the crone had changed it forever. It would take more strength than he currently had to explore the depths of that change. For now, it took all he had just to restore it to its previous, ordered form.

***

Daylight streamed through the open window when Donovan next woke, bathing the interior of the squalid hovel in dust streaked rays. The air carried the fresh scent of rain that, for the moment at least, masked the odor of rot and decay. The woman, Teeva, knelt beside the crone's cot, but she looked over her shoulder at Donovan when his eyes found her. She acknowledged him with a nod, and turned back to the crone.

Donovan propped himself up on his elbows. Why is it you insist on tending her?

Lor-del-ing. A round, gnarled face peered at him from over the foot of his bed. The creature wheezed, a tired, washed out sound like the death rattle of a wounded man. You not kill Lady.

Donovan explored a healing cut on his lip with his tongue. I would not dream of it.

Lady give see-crets. Grumnlin tapped the side of his head with a blunt-clawed finger.

Donovan could feel each of the crone's labored breaths as though they were his own. A disturbing fact. He turned his attention back to the woman. Is she conscious?

Teeva looked over her shoulder again. No, Lord. It would not be wise to allow at this point. Only by the grace of the unholies will she live another day.

Donovan raised a brow. He now understood what he had scented on the woman. Dark magic. How did you find us?

I do! The crone's creature thumped its chest, adding to the dust in the air. I know pretty witch. I bring to save Lady. He scrunched his face. Lady say save you.

She spoke to you?

Lady always speak to me. She no use voice. I hear all.

Teeva stood and once again shooed the creature out the door. Be gone, Grumnlin. You still look pale. Go. I don't need three patients.

The creature snorted, hopped off the stool it had been sitting on, and waddled out the door. The woman picked up a pitcher, and filled a wooden mug. Donovan wrinkled his nose at it.

Sweet water, she said. Nothing more.

He took the cup and leaned forward so she could prop pillows behind him. His aches were noticeably less than they had been. He could still feel the ripple of her healing running through him. The darkness of it would have physically aroused him had he not regained some of his discipline and self control. Teeva took the stool vacated by Grumnlin and pulled it next to the bed, watching Donovan study her in the half light filling the cottage.

She had sharp features, with high cheekbones and an angular face made even more so by the way she pulled her raven hair back in a tight knot at the base of her skull. Her eyes were narrow, and looked to be almost purple. That could have been a play of the light, but more likely it was due to the strength of her magic which Donovan studied without her permission. It bore similarities to his own power in the ordered and carefully cultivated manner of it. She had come by part of it naturally, as did most of any worth, but the rest had no basis in the natural world and had required sacrifices of the body and soul to bring it to fruition.

My father was a Priest of the Dominion, she said, returning his gaze unflinching. My mother a whore.

Dominion magic is a paternal line.

She smiled. Apparently there are exceptions.

Donovan inhaled past the twinge across his ribs, and drew her scent in through his nostrils; a tantalizing blend of earth, musk, and darkness. Healing is a rather mundane path for one Dominion born, is it not?

Her chin came up. I am a priestess, Lord. But it would have been sacrilege not to aid someone such as the Lady and yourself, using whatever means are at my disposal.

And those means are considerable. He mulled that over, never once taking his eyes from hers. He would guess he knew more about the history of Dominion magic than anyone alive. Most thought it lost, buried in the fog of the past. Are you bound, Priestess?

The fine nose wrinkled, and a light flashed in her eyes. The Dominion will not bind a woman.

He had known that, and now he also knew how much it ate at her. The strength of those emotions could prove valuable. In the proper hands, Dominion magic rivaled the darkest magic the world had to offer. He wondered he hadn't come across the woman before now.

Have you always lived here?

In this place? She shook her head and dark, silken tendrils of hair teased across her slender neck. It is but a way-station. I live among the nightshades and wraiths beyond Barrowdown.

And that one--Donovan slid a gaze the crone's way-- knew of you?

Does that surprise you?

I would have thought her to make use of you.

Teeva laughed short and hard. Even one such as her does not make use of the Dominion.

"But you are not of the Dominion. And you are unbound. You have no people. He felt the heat of her anger across the space between them, and the corners of his mouth lifted. Would you have allowed her to bind you?"

It was never offered. Her pulse beat fast and hard in the hollow of her throat. Her ample breasts, pushed up above a leather corset, rose and fell in rhythm. Firelight reflected on the slight sheen of her dusky skin. Donovan felt something within him stir.

And if I were to offer it?

She stilled, and he waited with hard won patience. Binding her meant her magic would, in essence, become his. He had phrased it as a question, but he did not intend to give her an option. He cared little if she took delight in the prospect or not. A priestess existed to serve, which meant to be bound, if not to her order, then to another who could hold her. Her order would never recognize her. Indeed she had likely been shunned as soon as she reached an age where her magic became apparent. It surprised him she had not been killed, sacrificed as an abomination.

Their loss.

For what purpose? she said, her voice tight.

Whatever purpose I should choose.

You ask me to surrender my freedom. What is it I will receive in return?

Your life, Donovan replied. And I am not asking.

You cannot bind me against my will.

Truly not?

Teeva's arms sucked to her sides. Her forehead creased as she looked down at the strands of Donovan's power wound about her like a rope. Donavan thrilled at the touch of her own dark magic when she tried to use it to slice through his. He flicked the blankets back and stood, the cool breeze riffling across his naked skin as he moved to stand behind the priestess. The scent of her intoxicated him. True darkness had a fragrance more potent than any drug, and Teeva reeked of it.

She trembled as he laid his hands on her bare shoulders and lowered his head to whisper in her ear. Tell me how you will stop me? Even weakened I am stronger than you.

What then would you have of me, Lord? Her hoarse whisper held only a trace of fear.

Donovan slid one hand under her jaw, tipping her head back against his chest so he could see her eyes. Anything I desire.

She swallowed, the movement of her throat caressing the palm of his hand. I live for you.

Yes, you do. He released her and took her hand, lifting her from the stool. She stood nearly his height and met his gaze squarely, hiding nothing, not even the contempt. She did not want to be bound. It is time we left this place. Have you horses?

One.

It will serve. Donovan would not perform the binding in a rat hole. We will leave with nightfall. Take only what you require and nothing more.

And what of the Lady?

Donovan smiled. Prove your worth and your devotion to me and kill her.

No! The inhuman wail preceded Grumnlin into the room. He threw himself at Donovan but Teeva intercepted him. No kill!

Donovan wrinkled his nose at the crone's pet before pulling his attention back to the priestess. Use whatever manner you see fit.

Not, Grumnlin screeched. Not, pretty witch.

If that thing interferes, send it with her to the veil. Donovan cupped her face and brought her eyes back to him. Do we need to discuss this further?

No, Lord.

Grumnlin growled, twisting in Teeva's grip, arms flailing in an attempt to break free and reach Donovan. Teeva held up her hand. The pulse of her magic slithered under Donovan's skin and his breath caught in pleasure. The crone's creature froze, unable to move, its round, dirt-smeared face twisted into a snarl.

Come, little man, Teeva said, and turned from Donovan to take Grumnlin's hand. Let us walk one last time among the trees, and I will show you wonders you have never seen.

His face smoothed as Teeva guided him out of the hut with a backwards glance at Donovan. She smiled. With the nightfall, Lord.

CHAPTER TWO

Memories returned like shards of glass swathed in swirls of red and black light. Sharp and painful, spinning around Ciara unbidden, they haunted her even when she tried to ignore them. Which she desperately wanted to do. Even here, sheltered in Galys Auld under the watchful eyes of the elders of the Greensward, the shadows on her heart threatened to overwhelm her. She had as little desire to remember what she had done, as she did to venture near her magic. Her earth magic felt bruised and battered, as fragmented as her memories. And her other power--

Ciara shuddered.

There had been a moment in the battle with the old woman when Ciara had tasted the exhilaration of omnipotence. She had come very close to losing herself to it, and becoming exactly what Donovan and the woman wanted. Without knowing how to control Andrakaos, Ciara would not have been able to stop them from using her to do their bidding.

Had it not been for Bolin's intervention they would have succeeded. Ciara didn't know what he had done, or how, only that he had stood against all of them at one point, and she had hated him for it. She had tried to kill him. Worse than anything else, she had wanted to.

Ciara stared at the water dancing in the fountain in the center of the square, watching the light sparkle across the drops as they cascaded down. Bolin would be smart not to come back to Galys Auld, to leave Ciara there and never lay eyes on her again. Twice she had turned against him without meaning to. Both times he had been doing nothing more than trying to protect her. Though he claimed to be hard to kill, Ciara didn't want to be the one to prove him wrong.

She reached absently to her throat. Her fingers brushed only the phantom warmth of her aunt's pendant: the only keepsake Ciara had left, and she had given it to Bolin for reasons she still couldn't fathom.

May I join you?

Ciara looked up, squinting against the late afternoon sun to find Nialyne standing there. The Galysian elder seemed ever near. In fact, for the first week of Ciara's recovery Nialyne never left her side. Not unless Master Healer Konly was available to take her spot. The two of them fussed over Ciara as though she were some fragile thing that might shatter in the slightest breeze.

Of course, Ciara said, scooting over to make room for Nialyne on the bench.

You look lost in thought, Nialyne said, lowering herself gracefully to sit beside Ciara.

I'm beginning to remember things, though I really wish I wouldn't. Ciara slid a guarded look the elder's way. They hadn't talked much about what had happened prior to Bolin bringing Ciara to the Greensward. All of their conversations had been the kind you have when you're dancing around a subject you want to avoid at all costs. Did Bolin tell you what happened?

Some, but not all.

Ciara looked down at her hands, fiddling with a loose string on the cuff of her dress.

Once upon a time her life had been simple. Her days had been spent practicing the healing arts with her aunt Meriol by her side. Or helping Findley with his horses. She had made a point of staying far away from the other power she possessed because it terrified everyone around her. Then, on a whim, the Goddess had snatched it all away.

Sometimes, talking about things helps us make sense of them, Nialyne said. But you needn't share anything with me that you would rather not.

I tried to kill him, Ciara said in a rush without looking up. Bolin, that is. Did you know that? It wasn't the first time either. I think he must truly hate me. How could he not when I've caused him nothing but trouble?

Nialyne reached over and took her hand. Bolin does not hate you, child. You must put such thoughts from your mind. He cares for you very deeply.

Ciara snorted and Nialyne raised a delicate brow.

I'm sorry. I just...  Ciara shook her head and stared at the fountain again. He made a promise to my aunt to see me safe, or I'm sure he would have long since gone his own way. I'm a duty to him. Nothing more.

He is a difficult man to know, Nialyne said. Even as a child he kept himself closed to all but a few, and those few had to work to get in.

You've known him a long time then?

Oh yes, Nialyne said, and smiled at the memory. He was raised here, brought to me as a babe-in-arms.

Oh. Ciara tugged at her lower lip with her teeth. Soooo...  She dragged the word out, debating the wisdom of asking the question that had been begging an answer she wouldn't get from Bolin. Is the Goddess really his mother?

It is rumored.

Ciara frowned. Now you sound just like him.

I didn't mean to, Nialyne said. Bolin was brought here by the sisters of the Isle. They never said who his parents were, though they never disputed the claims that the Sciath na Duinne were her children. I was asked to raise him, train him in the proper use of his gift, and prepare him for service to the Emperor.

The old woman we fought...  she called him nephew.

Did she? Nialyne appeared to consider that for a moment. Then I suppose that is our answer.

Ciara's face crinkled in thought. So you're saying that old woman is the Goddess's sister? How is any of that even possible? I mean, the Goddess is… you know. Ciara twirled a hand in the air. Out there somewhere.

The Goddess did not always reside in the ethereal. For many centuries she walked this earth as any of us do. Granted, that was ages past, long before even the days of the Elder Priests. Nialyne gave Ciara a curious look. I would have thought one of your calling would have been instructed in the lore of the Goddess.

I'm sure my mother and aunt tried to instruct me, Ciara said. But I was never a very good student. I probably heard the tales a hundred times but very little of it has stuck with me. I always had other things I wanted to be doing, like helping Findley with the horses.

And being angry at the Goddess?

Ciara bit the inside of her cheek. Did Bolin tell you that?

He did not need to. For the first several days you were in my care your thoughts wandered and you gave voice to them frequently, Nialyne said, and though she may have disapproved of what those thoughts were, it didn't come through in her tone. Konly and I spent some time guiding you from the veil. Much of what Bolin left unsaid in his telling of events, we found there. You were lost in such a tangle that for a time we feared we would not be able to bring you back.

I think there was a time I didn't want to come back, Ciara said, her voice soft.

We feared as much, Nialyne said. Bolin in particular. I do not think I have ever seen him so troubled. He had already pushed himself beyond his limits, and he doesn't make the best patient as it is. We worried we would lose you both.

I'm sorry I caused you so much trouble. I wish there was something I could do to make it up to you.

Heal, child. That is all we ask. Nialyne reached up and tucked a strand of Ciara's hair back into its wayward braid. If you feel up to it, you could give Konly a hand. She has missed having another healer to work beside her.

And then what? I mean, I don't know what I'm supposed to do now, or where I'm supposed to go. I don't even have a home to go back to. The words caught in Ciara's throat. Everything is such a mess.

You cannot undo what is done, Nialyne said. I do not know what the future holds for you, but I will do all I can to help you along your path. You have great power, child. These things we cannot always choose for ourselves, but we must be willing to face the responsibility they bring. When you are ready, I will teach you how to use your power wisely and not to fear it.

Ciara couldn't contain the shudder that ran through her at the thought.

Nialyne squeezed her hand. When you are ready. Not before.

***

Bolin wrinkled his nose and sniffed. Half a month had passed since their battle with the crone, and he doubted he would find much in the ruins of her cavern. He held onto a fool's hope of finding at least one body. The crone's or Donovan's, didn't much matter. Both would have made life almost wonderful. None kept it far too complicated.

How any of them had made it out of that chamber alive still remained a mystery. Granted, Ciara lacked the training and focus her power required, but they had all underestimated her. She could have killed them without much effort had she known how. Thank the Goddess Ciara had turned the bulk of her rage and frustration on the crone. If nothing else, that one should be greatly weakened. Which made Bolin's priority finding and killing her before she could regain her strength.

As for Donovan? Ciara had protected him. Well, in fairness, Ciara's power had protected him. Donovan, loose in the world, would be a bigger threat than the crone. He would never stop hunting Ciara. By now he had to know Bolin had taken her to the Greensward. Her safety there would last only until Donovan found a way to successfully breach the borders.

Good luck to him on that venture. The wards that protected Galys Auld were a natural thing. Rising up out of the earth, they defined the Greensward's borders and guarded it against intruders. No one could pass through them without their knowledge and consent, and the knowledge and consent of the Galysian elders as well. The elders of Galys Auld were born to their position, powerful mages all, their magic tied to the land. Bolin, having spent a great deal of his youth in the Greensward, had never once been challenged by the wards. Not until he had taken Ciara over the border.

He marveled they had allowed her to pass at all. Perhaps Nialyne had a hand in it. Or maybe the wards took pity on Ciara because, like Bolin, she had been one step away from death and in the company of a Galysian scouting party. Still, they had snapped shut around Ciara as soon as she crossed the border. It sent a ripple of dissent through the Galysian elders. Nialyne, bless her soul, had been able to calm them until Bolin regained enough strength to face the council himself. That took the better part of three days. Ciara had come closer to killing him than she would ever know.

Bolin shoved a leaning timber onto its side with his foot. The swamp had already begun to reclaim the skeleton of the crone's chamber. Some of the larger pieces had sunk into the soft ground, while clinging moss and vines began to work at the rest. There were no clues to be found among the piles of debris as to the fate of his enemies. He walked the circumference of the ruins one more time, opening himself to any stray currents of magic that still lingered. As he made for the remains of the archway leading out a strange sensation flitted past. A vague whiff of odd magic that tickled his subconscious like the odor of some foreign food he had tasted once but couldn't quite recall. It brought Bolin to a sudden halt. He tried focusing on it but found the more attention he paid it, the harder it became to pinpoint. As he moved forward down the short corridor leading out into the swamp, the trace reappeared, then faded.

Sandeen flicked an ear back to acknowledge his rider's approach, but something in the trees had the grey stallion's attention. Even when Bolin gathered up the reins, the horse didn't turn to look at him. Bolin stroked the deep chest as he followed Sandeen's gaze. The stallion radiated curiosity, not worry, but Bolin and Sandeen didn't always agree on what warranted concern.

Leaving the horse, Bolin skirted a tangled mass of blackened roots that had long ago failed to keep purchase in the soft ground. He slipped through the tall grass with barely a sound, making a wide circle out from his original position. Bolin eased a dagger out of its sheath, muscles tense, every sense alert. Grumbling and snorting reached his ears before he laid eyes on his quarry, perched on a rock, knees hugged to his chest.

Hello, Grumnlin, Bolin said softly from behind him.

The little man shrieked in surprise and tumbled off the rock. He spun to face Bolin, eyes narrowed, brandishing a short knife that looked more like a letter opener than a weapon. You.

Put that away before you hurt yourself, Bolin said.

Grumnlin gestured at the naked blade in Bolin's hand. You first.

Bolin obliged, and Grumnlin took advantage to dart away. He gave a strangled yelp as Bolin snagged him by the collar and hoisted him off his feet. Grumnlin flailed his legs in the air, and swung his arm around, the knife aimed at Bolin's chest. The fingers of Bolin's free hand snapped around Grumnlin's wrist, nails digging into flesh until the knife fell useless to the ground.

That wasn't very polite, Bolin said, teeth clenched.

Grumnlin kicked at him. Put me down! You don't hold me.

It appears I do. Bolin glanced around. Where's your mistress, Grumnlin?

Dead! He aimed a fist at Bolin, and missed. You kill Lady.

You're not a very good liar. The hair on Bolin's arm stood on end. The same vague magic sense he had gotten in the ruins trickled off Grumnlin. You found someone to help her, didn't you?

Grumnlin folded his arms across his barrel of a chest and stopped squirming. Put down.

Why shouldn't I just kill you?

Grumnlin's eyes went wide and he swallowed, hard, taking the threat to heart. Not run. Lord not kill. Not run.

Bolin contemplated his options. Grumnlin had been known to carry out tasks for the crone, to stretch her reach beyond the confines of her prison, reason enough to leave him for the worms. Still, he could lead Bolin to her if she lived.

He lowered Grumnlin back onto the rock, and released his hold. Even standing to his full height on his perch, the creature came no higher than Bolin's chest. He met Bolin's hard stare, thumbs stuck through his belt and his chest puffed out.

Some day, I kill you, he said, matter of fact, as though telling Bolin the swamp stunk.

Possibly. But not today. It's admirable to be so loyal to your mistress. I hope she rewards you well.

Lady make me.

I'm aware of your origins, little man. Tell me, who did you find to help your mistress? Grumnlin pursed his lips and glared defiantly. Bolin resisted the urge to back-hand him into the nearest tree. You can die here, or you can tell me what I want to know.

You no kill. Grumnlin squeaked when the tip of Bolin's dagger pricked his throat. It didn't quite break the skin. Yet. No do!

I've no more patience for you, or your mistress. It will mean less than nothing to me to give you back to the swamp that bore you. Who did you find?

He found me.

Bolin whipped around, flipping his dagger into his left hand as he drew his sword and faced the woman who had come silently up on them. She spread her arms to the sides and surveyed him coolly with eyes of deep lavender. Grumnlin shifted on his rock, but thought better of it when Bolin's dagger reclaimed its position against his throat.

And you would be? Bolin asked, not even glancing at Grumnlin.

A friend of Grumnlin's, she said. Tell me, what has he done to deserve threats of death from one such as you?

That is no business of yours.

Hmm. The woman studied him, her head tilted. It may be.

She lowered her arms, and Bolin brought the point of his sword up a fraction. The elusive magic he'd felt belonged to her, but even this close he couldn't get a true sense of it. It had a foulness that made his skin crawl. Most magic began neutral in its conception and turned whichever way the possessor guided it. Bolin curled a lip. This magic had never been anything other than evil.

Where is she, witch? he asked.

The woman smiled. Safely away from you, bastard son of a motherless whore.

Pleasant.

Bolin lowered the dagger and Grumnlin bolted to hide behind the woman's skirts. She gazed lovingly at him, and reached down a hand to stroke his head as though he were some wayward pup.

Do you have them both, then? Bolin said.

Are you going to try and take them from me? She slid her gaze back to Bolin, challenge glittering in her eyes. It should be fun. I've never met one of your kind.

She spread the fingers of her left hand, outstretched at her side. A black blob rested in her open palm as she raised it up. Slime oozed between her fingers, hissing when it hit the ground.

Bolin sheathed both his weapons. They'd do him little good against this one. His skin warmed where Ciara's pendant rested at his throat. The woman raised her hand and pinched off some of the blob, rolling it between her fingertips. With a sudden flick she sent it spinning toward Bolin. He twisted out of the way a breath too late, hissing at the searing pain that lashed across his arm. Before he could retaliate, the woman tossed the remainder of the blob straight up in the air. As it streamed down over her and Grumnlin they literally disappeared. Bolin made a desperate grab for the magic before it totally dissipated. He shuddered, immediately regretting his decision. The magic had a slick, oily feel and burned where it nestled inside him. He'd never felt anything like it, and he'd channeled more magic than he could name. He closed his eyes, and concentrated on isolating the sticky, black glob, but did not attempt to alter it. He needed to keep it only until he reached Galys Auld. There, the elders would hopefully be able to determine its origin and nature.

He looked down at his arm, lifting the tatters of his sleeve to reveal a jagged red welt just below his shoulder. The wound stung like something much worse. There'd be nothing in this place he'd trust to make into a poultice, so he tied the ends of the fabric around it and returned to where Sandeen stood, dozing.

He roused the horse and swung into the saddle. No sense lingering. His foray into the swamp hadn't been totally for naught. He hadn't found his quarry, but it seemed they had found themselves a new ally. Bad news all the way around.

Bolin turned Sandeen south, toward the Greensward, the bit of black magic roiling inside him like something he had eaten that wanted, instead, to eat him.

CHAPTER THREE

Bolin felt the Greensward's wards tremble as he approached, and Sandeen balked and tossed his head. The witch's black magic he carried hissed as the wards slid over it, and Bolin winced at the sharp stinging sensation it sent through him. He urged Sandeen forward, the wards crackling around them. They allowed him to pass but their presence followed. Bolin got the distinct impression had he not immediately made for Nialyne's chambers in the sprawling manor, they would have forced him there.

She met him in the doorway, the wind playing with the loose strands of her golden hair, her smooth brow furrowed as she watched him dismount. Eyes the deep green of lush summer leaves swept over him, and Nialyne shuddered. Without a word she turned and made for her private study. Bolin followed her in, closing the door behind them.

The wards have never announced you in such a manner, Nialyne said. Not even when you brought Danyala Ciara here. What is it you carry?

I'm hoping you can tell me.

Do I dare ask where you came by it?

Bolin wet his lips. The witch's magic made him sick. He'd barely eaten in the three days since leaving the swamp, and the wound on his arm burned like hell's own fire. It seems the crone has herself a new ally. I don't know that I've come across her kind before.

And so you took some of her magic? Without knowing what it is?

We need to find the nature of it to know our enemy.

Nialyne frowned. Are you always so careless in what magic you hold?

Not normally, Bolin replied.

Can you alter it?

He grimaced. I'd rather not. It's...  I need a crystal.

Nialyne's brows hit her hairline. Are you serious?

When have you known me not to be?

Bolin--

His knees gave way suddenly and he sat down, hard, relieved to land in a chair and not on the floor. He closed his eyes. Bile rose in his throat, and he forced it down, looking up at Nialyne from under his brows. I can't keep this much longer.

The door opened without preamble and two men and a woman rushed in, elders all, expressions showing concern and confusion. The oldest of the men, Maurar, confronted Nialyne, taking no notice of Bolin. The wards are screaming. The other man touched