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.
Another shadow blocked the sun -- larger, more persistent, and smelling of warm horseflesh -- and anointed Bolin with a blast of wet air. Sandeen nudged his arm and Bolin slapped half-heartedly in the direction of the stallion's broad chest. He’d no desire to abandon his spot in the late afternoon sun where his aches had become more tolerable, and breathing didn't come with constant sharp pains. Sandeen nudged him again with more persistence, and the quiet place Bolin had carved out for himself crumbled.
"Apologies, Bolin." Findley shoved against
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.
Another shadow blocked the sun -- larger, more persistent, and smelling of warm horseflesh -- and anointed Bolin with a blast of wet air. Sandeen nudged his arm and Bolin slapped half-heartedly in the direction of the stallion's broad chest. He’d no desire to abandon his spot in the late afternoon sun where his aches had become more tolerable, and breathing didn't come with constant sharp pains. Sandeen nudged him again with more persistence, and the quiet place Bolin had carved out for himself crumbled.
"Apologies, Bolin." Findley shoved against
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