Sandeen’s shoulder, but the stallion didn't appear to be in a cooperative mood. "He was hovering at the gate and bolted away from Purt as soon as the boy opened it. Nearly ran the poor lad down, he did."
Bolin peered through half closed eyelids. Sandeen and Findley were blurs, one barely distinguishable from the other but for Sandeen's bulk and ceaseless pacing. Bolin blinked. He should have been doing something besides sitting on his arse in the sun, dozing and-
Ciara.
"Goddess’ light!"
She would be leagues ahead of him. He needed to be on Sandeen's back, hard after her. First, however, he needed to stand, which meant fully opening his eyes, and they seemed not the least bit willing to cooperate.
"Bolin?"
Findley sounded concerned. Bolin wanted to tell him not to be, wanted to tell him to get Sandeen tacked so he could be on his way, but he couldn't get his mouth to form the words. Quite frankly, he couldn't get any part of his body to do anything other than sit where Findley had plunked him.
"Damnation!" It came out as a low growl in the same moment Bolin heaved off the bench and stumbled into Sandeen. Findley grabbed his arm, but Bolin jerked away. He forced his eyes to stay open, and leaned against Sandeen's side, clinging to the stallion's neck while he tried to catch a decent breath, and keep the world from spinning out of control.
Findley started to turn away. "I'll fetch Tyra," he said over his shoulder.
"No," Bolin said. "I’ve no time for a healer. I need to go after Ciara."
"I’ll send Purt to fetch her back. I've no intention of letting you light out after her in your condition."
"And I've no intention-" Bolin clenched a handful of Sandeen's mane as his knees gave out. This time he didn't have the strength to object when Findley slid his arm around him, and saved him from landing on his backside.
"I don't rightly care what your intentions are, Bolin. Purt!"
They'd get him up to Tyra's hut between the two of them and she’d do what a non-magical healer did, drug him to sleep because she'd have no idea what ailed him. Bolin couldn’t spare the time for Findley's well-intentioned meddling. A sharp poke to Sandeen's ribs spun the stallion, knocking Findley back, and putting the horse between them.
"My tack," Bolin hissed over Sandeen's back.
Findley set his broad face into a stubborn frown. "I'll not get it for you. Nor will Purt. If you can't tack your own horse you're not fit to ride him." He stood back, arms crossed. "Your tack is in the barn where it normally is. Get it yourself. Tack him yourself. I'll not stand in your way."
Had Bolin been able to let go of Sandeen he would have punched the horse master in the face. Instead, he elbowed Sandeen and the stallion turned to walk toward the barn with Bolin trying to keep slow but steady pace with him. They were nearly there when the earth shifted beneath him, and everything went black.
CHAPTER F IVE
Donovan sniffed the damp, late morning air and drew his cloak tighter around his lean frame. His sleep had been abruptly shattered by the old woman’s passing. He couldn’t recall her name; she lived somewhere the other side of Guldarech. A healer, if he remembered right. A woman of substantial magic, considering it originated from the Goddess. The incident would have meant very little to him if her magic had dissipated when she died. Instead, when he traced its path, he found it had wound itself around a similar, less refined magic, and that held tightly to something totally different.
Sparks danced upward as Donovan kicked the last log to squelch the embers of his fire. The sky held the promise of a clear day, and he now had a new direction for his hunt.
He stiffened part way to his waiting horse and turned, scenting the air like a wolf -- someone summoned a great deal of power in a very reckless manner. It tingled along his nerves, riding the air like a familiar, tantalizing scent that made his mouth water. Ancient and full of promise,
Bolin peered through half closed eyelids. Sandeen and Findley were blurs, one barely distinguishable from the other but for Sandeen's bulk and ceaseless pacing. Bolin blinked. He should have been doing something besides sitting on his arse in the sun, dozing and-
Ciara.
"Goddess’ light!"
She would be leagues ahead of him. He needed to be on Sandeen's back, hard after her. First, however, he needed to stand, which meant fully opening his eyes, and they seemed not the least bit willing to cooperate.
"Bolin?"
Findley sounded concerned. Bolin wanted to tell him not to be, wanted to tell him to get Sandeen tacked so he could be on his way, but he couldn't get his mouth to form the words. Quite frankly, he couldn't get any part of his body to do anything other than sit where Findley had plunked him.
"Damnation!" It came out as a low growl in the same moment Bolin heaved off the bench and stumbled into Sandeen. Findley grabbed his arm, but Bolin jerked away. He forced his eyes to stay open, and leaned against Sandeen's side, clinging to the stallion's neck while he tried to catch a decent breath, and keep the world from spinning out of control.
Findley started to turn away. "I'll fetch Tyra," he said over his shoulder.
"No," Bolin said. "I’ve no time for a healer. I need to go after Ciara."
"I’ll send Purt to fetch her back. I've no intention of letting you light out after her in your condition."
"And I've no intention-" Bolin clenched a handful of Sandeen's mane as his knees gave out. This time he didn't have the strength to object when Findley slid his arm around him, and saved him from landing on his backside.
"I don't rightly care what your intentions are, Bolin. Purt!"
They'd get him up to Tyra's hut between the two of them and she’d do what a non-magical healer did, drug him to sleep because she'd have no idea what ailed him. Bolin couldn’t spare the time for Findley's well-intentioned meddling. A sharp poke to Sandeen's ribs spun the stallion, knocking Findley back, and putting the horse between them.
"My tack," Bolin hissed over Sandeen's back.
Findley set his broad face into a stubborn frown. "I'll not get it for you. Nor will Purt. If you can't tack your own horse you're not fit to ride him." He stood back, arms crossed. "Your tack is in the barn where it normally is. Get it yourself. Tack him yourself. I'll not stand in your way."
Had Bolin been able to let go of Sandeen he would have punched the horse master in the face. Instead, he elbowed Sandeen and the stallion turned to walk toward the barn with Bolin trying to keep slow but steady pace with him. They were nearly there when the earth shifted beneath him, and everything went black.
CHAPTER F IVE
Donovan sniffed the damp, late morning air and drew his cloak tighter around his lean frame. His sleep had been abruptly shattered by the old woman’s passing. He couldn’t recall her name; she lived somewhere the other side of Guldarech. A healer, if he remembered right. A woman of substantial magic, considering it originated from the Goddess. The incident would have meant very little to him if her magic had dissipated when she died. Instead, when he traced its path, he found it had wound itself around a similar, less refined magic, and that held tightly to something totally different.
Sparks danced upward as Donovan kicked the last log to squelch the embers of his fire. The sky held the promise of a clear day, and he now had a new direction for his hunt.
He stiffened part way to his waiting horse and turned, scenting the air like a wolf -- someone summoned a great deal of power in a very reckless manner. It tingled along his nerves, riding the air like a familiar, tantalizing scent that made his mouth water. Ancient and full of promise,
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