hart blossoms colored the night air as the garlands draping the carriage swayed gently in the breeze, kept fresh by the shimmer of magic surrounding it.
White hart had been Nialyne's favorite flower since she first saw them on a trip to the southern province. Bolin had spent a sevenday tracking down a gardener who knew the proper care of them, and another two days convincing him to travel to Galys Auld to plant some in Nialyne's garden during her absence. Unfortunately, duty called Bolin back to Nisair before her return, so he missed Nialyne's reaction when she found the flowering shrubs along the pathway to her rooms, but she sent him a single, pressed blossom with a letter of appreciation. They were in the midst of the border wars then, and Bolin kept the delicate bloom tucked inside his tunic for a long time afterwards, close to his heart. A talisman of strength and hope for those days when both flagged.
It seemed somehow wrong that strength and hope should desert him now, in a time of relative peace. Bolin ran one of the soft, pale, cream-colored petals through his fingers. Allowing himself to wallow in his grief was nothing but selfish. A show of weakness he found intolerable. It would not change the past, nor could it bring Nialyne back. She had known full-well what she was doing when she ignored Bolin's pleas to remain safely in the castle with Thadeus during Donovan's attack. Still, it should have been Bolin's life or no one's lost on that wall. It had never been Nialyne's duty to risk her life for anyone.
He shook his head, a disgusted growl rising from his throat. Those thoughts served no purpose, and only diminished the purity of Nialyne's sacrifice. A sacrifice the Goddess had turned a blind eye to. Bolin's grief hardened to anger as quickly as hot steel doused in water.
"All I have given," he said softly, his voice a hard whisper. "A lifetime in your service, never once asking for anything more than your guidance and compassion, and I am repaid with cold indifference, and the life of one more dear to me than breath itself."
It did little good to rail against a goddess whose ears were closed to him. If, indeed, they had ever been open. Bolin scrubbed a hand across his face before laying it gently on the shroud. "You hold my heart until we meet again, Alyne."
He blinked the burgeoning tears away and turned. A figure stood in the shadows at the edge of the barrack's yard. At first Bolin thought Dain had come looking for him after all, but then it moved around the corner and he swore he caught a glimpse of multi-colored skirts in the torchlight. But the woman who had worn those had died on Nisair's wall by his hand and the power of the Greensward.
Still… Bolin drew his focus inward and sifted through the scattering of magic within his reach. Dain's power overshadowed all others. Beneath it ran the mage-magic surrounding the carriage, a few tendrils of earth magic from the local healers, and some low-level magery. Nothing that could have been Donovan, or his witch, for that matter.
A calming breath brought more of the white hart's fragrance to him and Bolin drank it in, trying to channel it into a balm rather than a blade. His grief had undoubtedly gotten the better of him. He needed to get that under control sooner, rather than later. Perhaps a drink and a good night's sleep would remedy the situation, at least in part.
He'd taken no more than two steps toward his quarters when a searing burn across his left bicep pulled a shocked cry from him. Several of the guards swung around, hands on weapons, but Bolin huffed out a breath and waved them off, despite the tendril of power that oozed across his awareness, oily slick and full of malice. Something in Bolin rose up in response to that touch, as eager as a hound catching its master's scent on the air. The power of the Greensward raged in response with a blinding flare that sent him staggering back. He thrust out an arm to steady himself, and found the cool
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