Edge of Darkness ~ A Darkness & Light Novel Book Three (34 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Donovan had been threatened many times over the course of his years. It seemed a failsafe for those aware of their inferiority, yet unwilling to admit it, to promise him a slow and lingering death, a quick death, or perhaps an eternity of untold torture. He paid such proclamations all the attention they deserved, which was to say, none at all.

Andrakaos had not so much threatened him as made him a promise. One which the entity could make good on. More importantly, one he would follow through on if the general did not survive the coming maelstrom. Something not entirely within Donovan's control. Something the general himself might not chose, given the condition of his mind.

It left Donovan in a precarious position. One course pitted him against the priestess, another against the united power of the empire, a third against Andrakaos and, by default, his own daughter. Her display in Erret Maw had been far more impressive than Donovan let on. As carelessly as she had gone into it, the working should have killed her. She had not prepared herself mentally or physically. In fact, she had not done one thing correctly. Not to say the end result had not been spectacular, raw talent often was, even if the methodology lacked finesse and forethought.

Donovan could have aided her efforts, and very nearly did. But such a display on his behalf would have drawn the priestess's attention, and that was something he most certainly did not want. She knew Donovan would betray her. How and when were what he attempted to keep from her as long as possible. The game may have been of her making, however, that did not mean she would win. Her certainty she could not lose, would ultimately be her downfall. Though the prospect of siding with those who considered him their enemy left a sour taste in his mouth, Donovan could not allow the priestess to rule, even if such actions led to his death. That sounded far too noble for his own tastes, far too much like something the general would avow.

True, the priestess had offered Donovan the Goddess's head, obtaining it, however, required the great Sciath na Duinne be turned. Even if that transpired, Donovan did not believe the general would ever betray his beloved mother. His devotion to the Goddess rivalled only his hatred of Donovan.

No, Donovan would not benefit from the priestess's victory. Only in her defeat would he be able to secure his place.

His eyes narrowed on the Sciath riding a horse length ahead of him. The man would be a hindrance. A pity the wyvern had not done more damage than it had, though Donovan would much prefer that pleasure for himself.

Kensing Tor rose into view with the setting of the sun. A huge, jagged piece of rock jutting out of the landscape like the skeletal finger of some long dead giant. It marked what had once been a thriving village, but now existed as little more than strewn rubble. What disaster had befallen the people who had lived there, no one knew. No one living even remembered the village's actual name. The Sciath turned toward his horse to the south and slowed to a walk. He looked back, waving Donovan up alongside him.

"We'll need to camp for the night," he said, his voice low.

Donovan scowled. "The ruins are no more than a league or so distant."

"And the lady is out. Has been for half the ride."

"Then it will matter little to her if we continue."

"I'll not venture into the village in the deep of night on your word. We'll make camp. Before dawn, I'll go alone to scout. I like to know what I'm walking into."

"If you are caught without me--"

"I'll not be caught at all."

"Can you two ever have a conversation without sounding like little boys squabbling over a toy?" Ciara asked, her voice no more than a murmur. She did not open her eyes or lift her head from where it rested against the Sciath's shoulder.

She would be of little use to Donovan in such a state. He reached outward with his power to assess the extent of her condition, and found his efforts thwarted by the Sciath, though the man had turned his horse off to the side and appeared to be paying no attention to Donovan whatsoever. Ferris leaned in to say something to Ciara and she straightened. She waited for him to dismount before allowing him to help her from the saddle, then stood swaying beside the horse, blinking wearily as the Sciath removed a bedroll from his things and found a suitable place to spread it out. He guided her to it, and covered her with a cloak. As he started to rise, she reached for his arm to draw him back, and whatever she said drew a low chuckle from him. No trace of mirth remained when he returned to the horses.

He reached for the mare's reins. "I'll take the horse. Why not make yourself useful for once and start a fire?"

Donovan obliged, only because a chill breeze had picked up, blowing down from the north with enough persistence to be annoying. He watched through the dancing flames as the Sciath stripped the horses of their tack and gave them both a thorough rub down. Ferris checked on Ciara one more time before lowering himself to the ground not far from where she slept.

"Your concern for my daughter's wellbeing is… commendable," Donovan said.

The Sciath raised a brow. "Thinking to read something into it, then?"

"Not at all. Though it would not surprise me in the least. My daughter seems to attract a certain manner of man."

"Oh? And what manner would that be?"

"Those of a ruthless, violent nature, who have a tendency to employ steel, as opposed to wits. They fawn at her feet and cling to her, as loyal and fierce as dogs. The general is the worst of the lot. He is many times her senior, she just a babe by comparison, and yet she quickly became his greatest weakness. The guardsman she has shown favor to would sacrifice all he had at the breath of a word from her lips. And now… well, I mean merely to express my appreciation for your vigilance in her continued safety."

Ferris snorted. "As if you feel anything for her beyond desire for her power."

"You do not know me, Sciath. You only know
of
me, your opinion shaped by the tales of those who would seek to discredit me. As such, your hostility is unwarranted and, I admit, I find it rather wearisome. We are on the same side in this venture."

"For vastly different reasons."

"Does that matter?" Donovan asked. "I want the general to survive this, as, I surmise, do you."

"You care as much for his survival as you do the lady's. Your only concern is that he doesn't succumb to the priestess's plans. An outcome that would be served quite well by his death."

"Not entirely. If he dies and the priestess survives, we will still be faced with a common enemy of incredible power."

Ciara stirred, drawing the Sciath's attention. She mumbled something and rolled onto her side, curling into a ball beneath the cloak, but not waking. Ferris returned his gaze to the fire, tugging his own cloak closer about his shoulders. The action drew a grimace which only deepened when he slid his hand to his back where the wyvern had marked him. A pained breath ghosted in the air before him and he arched against the obvious discomfort. A moment later, the faint brush of magic tickled Donovan's senses, and his scrutiny of the Sciath sharpened. The man visibly relaxed, his next breath coming easier.

"It's a handy trick," he said, meeting Donovan's gaze across the flames, a smirk twisting his mouth. "Can't replace a healer's touch, but helps in the short-term. Now it's got you even more curious about me, doesn't it?"

"You are not the first to claim a polluted bloodline," Donovan said. "In truth, I am surprised any of the Sciathian blood still exists, adulterated or not. Then again, it makes sense, I suppose. Hunted, driven to ground, they were undoubtedly desperate to preserve what little of their race remained, so took whatever partner would have them. One parent with a dribble of Sciathian blood and one… a hedge witch perhaps? A piddling caster? You are older than you would seem, so you must possess some speck of true power, but even a base mage will see double the lifespan of a normal man."

Ferris's smirk only deepened and Donovan once again found himself fighting the desire to peel the expression from the Sciath's face. Something about him, some physical aspect or character trait Donovan could not precisely name, invoked his ire in a manner very few people could.

"It'll come to you," Ferris said.

There it was, at least in part. The Sciath possessed an uncanny ability to sense the path Donovan's thoughts wandered. More annoyingly, he did so without the use of magic. That sort of intrusion, however subtle, Donovan would have sensed.

"So tell me," the Sciath said. "Since we're on the same side and all. Exactly who, or what, am I likely to find in that village?"

"No one you need be concerned about, so long as you are in my company."

"If they pose a threat to the Lady or Lord Bolin, then they concern me."

"After her display in Erret Maw, do you really think there is much that poses a threat to my daughter?"

The Sciath angled his head her way and Donovan followed his gaze. The flames streaked Ciara's disheveled hair with copper, and highlighted the planes of her face. She looked far older than her years, though not in an aged manner. The full acceptance of her power had served to erase the youthful softness and the ever-lingering appearance of naivety that had clung to her like a tattered dress. Asleep, and unaffected, that same power shrouded her in simple and unassuming beauty. The qualities Donovan had noticed the first time he laid eyes on her had come surging to the fore, and created an unpretentious creature of unbelievable power.

That, perhaps, is what the general saw in her from the start.

If Donovan were the praying kind, he would call fervently on the Goddess to blind the priestess's eyes. If she saw what Donovan did and turned Ciara to her side, she would have no need of the general. Yet, in the priestess's hands or not, the Goddess would do well to keep careful watch on this woman. She had become something no one would be wise to make their enemy. 

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Bolin leaned against a tree and squinted across the open, grassy field before him, trying not to think. He had come to discover living in the moment to be the only way to avoid causing himself pain, both physically and mentally. To focus on the fact there should have been glimmers of magic in his vision, little pockets of it everywhere, and yet he saw none, only caused his chest to tighten. Funny how something so disregarded, could become so blatantly obvious when stripped away.

He tried to force his thoughts back to the mundane, but it was too late. His mouth went dry, the moisture in his body seeing fit to leach out through his palms and down the back of his neck instead. Bolin blinked furiously, concentrated on the waving grass laid out before him, watched the way the blades danced against one another in the slightest breeze. There were butterflies flitting from one stalk to another. Blue. Yellow. Wings flapping furiously. As furiously as Bolin now clawed his way back from the precipice of panic opening wide beneath him.

He swept a hand over his head, knotting his fingers in his hair as though yanking it from his scalp would stem the surge of terror threatening to overtake him. Goddess's blood, he'd rather face a hundred armed foes than this.

Voices picked at the edge of his hearing, and a touch on his shoulder sent him skittering away like a frightened foal.

Not again.
He dropped to his knees, gasping, unable to stop the trembling that wracked him hard enough to make his teeth chatter.

"Kill me," he pleaded, folding in on himself.

Yet, how would his death serve any purpose, other than to ease his torment? If he gave up, the witch would go for Ciara, and the empire would fall. If the Goddess was right, if this
Darkness
was as powerful as she feared, then Bolin needed to see this through. He had no choice. He wasn't without resources, even if he couldn't reach them. He knew the pendant dangled against his chest. Knew the power of the Greensward nestled within him. She couldn't take those things. She had only robbed him of his ability to sense them. She would have to undo the blinding and, when she did, Bolin would strike.

An anguished moan escaped him. Damn the Goddess. Damn her to every unimaginable hell. The same hell he found himself in. Where was she now? He needed her more than any other time in his life, and yet she offered him nothing. Bolin often rebuked Ciara for her intense dislike of the Goddess, but perhaps she had the right of it. His own devotion to the Goddess had brought him little in return.

"General?"

Bolin jerked his head up. He still stood against the tree, the sun warm on his face. He dragged his attention to Berk, standing beside him, a hand on his shoulder.

"They're still behind us," Berk said. "We need to skirt this field. There's no way to hide a trail through that. The ground looks rockier to the west. There aren't as many trees, but if we keep moving, I think we can be around to the other side before they're within sight."

"You needn't be so diplomatic." Bolin cleared his throat to rid his voice of the rough burr. "You'd do better taking a page from Garek's book and being a bit more blunt about telling me I need to pick up the pace."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Bolin studied the man. Berk's eyes were dark, hidden in shadow. The growth of rough stubble covering his jaw, and the new lines around his eyes and mouth, made him look older than Bolin guessed him to be. Too many days with little sleep, less food, and minimal water were starting to take a toll on them both.

"You think it was a mistake not returning to the Emperor, but it wasn't."

Berk's mouth pulled into a tight line. "I'm not going to argue that with you again."

"So, we have?"

"Several times."

"I'm guessing you could have found opportunities to turn back. Why haven't you?"

"Goddess be damned if I know," Berk snapped.

He caught himself then and paced away, scrubbing a hand along the nape of his neck. He stood with his back to Bolin for a long while, his fingers furiously tapping the grip of his sword, his shoulders rising and falling in quick bursts. The anger still lit his eyes when he turned around, but he appeared to have gotten control of it.

"Truthfully, if I had a horse, I'd knock you out, throw you over its back and head east as fast as it could carry us." Maybe not so in control of his anger, then. "But I don't. And I can't carry you all that way, or for the love of all that's holy, I swear I would. We've got no clear idea what we're heading into, no supplies, and Goddess alone knows how many marauders--undoubtedly well-armed, angry marauders--trailing us. I'm good in a fight. Taught by men I consider to be the best. But I'm exhausted, and really not sure I can handle more than a few of them by myself. And aye, it was my choice to come with you, my choice not to abandon you, like as not I'd make the same choice over and over again, but damn the unholies, sir, it's starting to wear."

Bolin stared. He couldn't seem to convince himself to do much else. He'd never been one to tolerate a dressing down, and certainly never by someone without the rank or privilege to do so. Garek managed to get away with it due to the years between them, and the fact Bolin viewed him as a brother. Still, he couldn't fault a word of Berk's outburst. He'd put the man in a bad position, and Goddess alone knew why Berk didn't leave him wandering the wilds and head back to the Emperor.

"I believe I may have just done Commander Garek proud," Berk said into the prolonged silence, sounding not the least bit chagrined. "Now, unless you'd like to request the return of your sword for that execution you passed on back in Nisair, we should really get moving."

He didn't wait for a response but started off, leaving Bolin to follow along.

They walked in silence after that. Berk looked back every now and again, being very careful to avoid direct eye contact, his expression guarded.

Rocky soil, dotted by large, flat-topped rocks and dense copses of short, thick shrubs claimed their route. Occasional stands of trees broke up the landscape, and Berk took advantage of each one to keep them out of the open as much as he could. With the fading daylight, that became less of an issue, but Berk continued seeking their shelter nonetheless. He called a halt as the first stars made an appearance in a clear, cold sky.

"We can't stay here very long," Bolin said.

Berk gave him a quick look. "How far do you guess we are from Kensing Tor?"

Bolin tipped his head toward a shadowy shape jutting out of the landscape ahead of them. "That's it there. The ruins are no more than a few leagues east of the base. If we press on, we can be there before midnight."

Berk shifted, and Bolin followed his gaze back the way they had come, expecting to see marauders charging them. He saw nothing but lengthening shadows turning the landscape into a collection of hulking shapes. When he looked back he found Berk studying him.

"Guess we'll push on, then," Berk said, but made no move to suit actions to words. He frowned, his focus elsewhere until he rolled a look at Bolin from under his brows. "If it comes to a fight, we're on the same side, right?"

The question shook Bolin to the core. That he had fallen far enough for Berk to distrust him so completely… he fought hard to keep the shock from registering on his face. "I've done something to make you doubt that?"

"Nothing specific. I just need to be sure. You don't seem all that concerned about the marauders catching up to us."

Bolin growled a string of curses under his breath, and spun away with the sudden desire to punch something. He strode off several paces, boot heels pounding the earth, teeth clenched so tightly his jaw hurt. These truly lucid moments were beginning to be more of a curse than anything. They served only to fuel the sense of helplessness looming dark and raw, threatening to smother him. Even during the lowest of times, he had always been able to exercise at least a tiny fraction of control over himself and the events around him. The last thread of that ability now trailed through his fingers, a quickly fraying rope he had no way of holding together.

He wet his lips, and sucked in a deep breath as he turned. Every episode, every irrational move, gave Berk just one more reason to mistrust him. The witch had managed to chip away at the unquestioning loyalty of the man. Had managed to plant seeds of doubt where none existed before.

"I can't make this right," Bolin said, the words as bleak and lost as he felt. "I've no way to fix this. All I can do is see it through to its conclusion. I've lost your trust and respect, I can see that."

Berk shook his head. "No, sir, you haven't. I will admit, the trust is a little shaky at the moment, but you haven't lost me. Not in any manner."

"Then you're a great fool."

"Maybe, but I know what it's like to not be in control of your actions. When the marauders had me--" He glanced quickly away, his breath hitching. Those wounds were obviously still raw, or had been rubbed open by the very real threat of falling into their hands again. "When I took Ciara to that wall and attacked you there wasn't anything I could do to stop myself, though Goddess knows I tried. Half of it I honestly don't remember. Not that I really want to, but I think I need to. Not remembering…" He ran his fingers through his hair. "In any case, I swore an oath to protect the empire."

"To the Emperor."

"And to you, as Lord General. Last I knew, you still held the title."

"Then I'm releasing you of your oath."

"You can do that, but I'm still bound to the Emperor. If you're as much a threat to the empire as you claim, then it's my duty to see no harm comes of it."

Bolin jutted his chin to indicate Berk's sword. "Then you best draw that and run me through while you have the chance."

Berk huffed out a breath. "So you know, we've had this discussion as well."

"Of course we have." At least Bolin had the sense left not to try and find the memory of it. He rubbed a hand across his chest. His heartbeat fluttered erratically beneath his palm. "I'm slipping again." A short, bitter laugh broke from him. "At least this time I've warning. Or I'm just getting better at recognizing it."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Bolin shook his head. "The only thing you can do, you won't. I'm sorry, Berk, I shouldn't have allowed it come to this. None of it. I don't even know how it got so out of hand. Truthfully? I'm starting to question what's real and what's not. For all I know, you're a figment of my imagination."

"Trust me, there are times I wish I was. Right now, I'd just like to move on and put more space between us and the marauders. If that's acceptable to you."

He didn't make it a question. Bolin would have to see Berk promoted once they returned to Nisair. Though, in all actuality, the likelihood of either of them surviving grew increasingly dim with each moment.

***

A narrow creek bordered the south side of the ruined village, and Bolin stretched out on his stomach along the bank to duck his head under the surface, hoping the frigidness of the water would clear his head. He swiped his hair from his face as he rolled onto his back and blinked water out of his eyes.

Stars littered the bits of sky he could see through the gently swaying branches of the single tree growing amidst the rubble. Bolin wondered what truly made their light. No one knew for certain, except maybe the Goddess. For some reason that struck Bolin as funny and he chuckled.

"Still with me, General?"

Bolin waved a hand to dismiss the incident. "Aye." He rolled his head to look where Berk hunkered down a few strides away, wiping his own dripping hair back over his skull. "Did you lose me on the way here?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"I didn't think so, but there's precious little I'm certain of at the moment."

He pushed himself onto his elbows and studied the crumbling remains before them. According to legend, the spirits of those who once lived here still lingered. Bolin should have been able to sense them.

He cleared his throat and got hastily to his feet. "We need to take a look around. If the witch is already here there won't be much you can do save watch for your opening and take it when it comes."

"General--"

"Not going back on your word, are you?"

Berk's jaw tightened and he shook his head.

"I need you to promise me one more thing," Bolin said. "I don't see myself coming through this. Ciara will need someone she can trust by her side."

"Getting through isn't going to be easy, that's for certain," Berk said. "But I'm going to do everything I can to make it happen. Ciara needs you, sir. Not me."

"You'd prefer it otherwise wouldn't you?" Bolin didn't mean to ask the question. He couldn't even say what prompted it. He asked it mildly enough, but Berk froze partway through a stretch and a flush of jealousy twisted in Bolin. "I'm not blind. You've had your eyes on her since the first time you saw her."

"General, if I've given you reason to believe that Ciara and I are anything more than friends--"

"Are you?"

"No."

Bolin smirked. "Of course not. You're far too honorable for that, aren't you?"