Mystic Rider (19 page)

He was tempted to ride the ten miles or so back to the royal
berlin and ask for the chalice now. All his instincts urged him to hurry west
toward the sea with Chantal and her father before Murdoch could arrive.

But he had promised to deliver Chantal’s in-laws to the Austrian
border, in the wrong direction for the sea, and Murdoch must be returned to
Aelynn, so Ian’s hands were tied. The royal party traveled east as the Russian
passports allowed. The duc de Choiseul’s loyal hussars would meet the royal berlin
on the road after noon. Once Ian was relieved of that burden, he could claim
the chalice and lead Chantal’s family on the faster road north. From there, if
all went as planned, he would take Chantal west toward the sea and Aelynn.

Murdoch was the unpredictable element in this plan.

The stars told Ian that Murdoch was with the duc’s troops on
the road ahead, waiting for the arrival of the king — and the chalice. Murdoch
could read the stars as easily as Ian. Or once, he could have. Once, Murdoch
could have moved the earth, stopped the wind, and raised the sea, although
never predictably. Even before his banishment, Murdoch’s gifts had been
dangerously erratic. Now, for all Ian knew, he could cause earthquakes and
destroy villages if angered or distracted.

Ian gnashed his teeth at the slowness of the royal parade on
the road behind him. But his own party appreciated the extra time for
breakfasting at an inn while they exchanged the carriage horses again. And the
train of mares appreciated a chance to rest before moving on.

A ragged brigade in the striped trousers of local militia
stopped to study them with distrust and question the innkeeper. Suspicion and
wariness marked all the roads of France. Ian mentally nudged this motley troop
along its way after providing coins to buy their breakfast, but he could not do
the same for the royal party.

As Orateur’s carriage pulled away from the inn in the
coolness of a sunny summer morning, Chantal’s lovely voice broke into a
children’s song that had even the horses trotting to a happy beat. Other voices
chimed in, and Ian allowed himself a brief moment to relax and enjoy their
merry mood.

In that moment, on a cloudless June day, the blast of a
northerly gale rocked the carriage, terrified the horses, and shattered Ian’s
tranquility.

Murdoch
!

No one else could harness the wind in such a remarkable manner — and
from such a distance, for Ian hadn’t sensed him nearby.

The frail carriage tilted sideways, flinging its precious
human cargo to one side. The driver screamed and clung to his perch, barely
controlling the reins.

Shoving his fear deep down inside him, Ian drew on the
center of his power and sent his reassurances to the bolting animals. In
moments, the brush with death subsided, the carriage’s wheels rested properly
on the ground, and the animals pranced under control.

As the children wept, and the women’s pale faces appeared in
the windows, Ian leapt from his steed to examine the axles while Alain finished
calming the horses and sent him a questioning look.

To Ian’s chagrin, he finally recognized the danger of
placing innocents in the path of Murdoch’s superhuman powers and ambition. He’d
trusted too much in the friend Murdoch had once been.

He must correct that error instantly. If Murdoch could raise
a wind from miles ahead, he had evidently not lost as much of his unpredictable
abilities as the Aelynners had hoped.

The wild rocking of the carriage cut off Chantal’s song in
midnote.

She grabbed the strap hanging from the ceiling to steady
herself. The children screamed, then scrambled to look out the windows along
with the adults. White-faced, Pauline clutched Marie as the carriage
miraculously settled back to its normal roll.

At the sound of pounding hooves behind them, Chantal pushed
open the sash and leaned out. The sky contained only a few puffy white clouds
against the clear blue. Alarm shot through her at the sight of Ian’s stallion
raising dust, riding back the way they had just come.

She tried not to reveal her fear to the children as she
waited for her father to ride up and explain what was happening. But when he
arrived, he looked as puzzled as she was.

“Ian said he would meet us at the next stop,” he said,
leaning down to speak through the window. “He has some idea that there is
trouble behind us.”

Pauline drew in a quick breath, and Chantal glanced back to
note her sister-in-law’s eyes widening with fear. There was no reason for alarm
as far as she knew.

Which meant Pauline knew something she didn’t. “What?”
Chantal demanded. “What is back there?”

Pauline could only shake her head and bite her lip.

Chantal clicked her fingernails against the flute in her
pocket and tried not to let her nervousness get the best of her. “You know
something,” she insisted, even though Pauline shook her head. “Fine, don’t tell
us, but can you say if it’s safe to go on?”

Pauline bobbed her head. “Yes, and hurry, please.”

Chantal exchanged glances with her father, who suddenly
looked as troubled as she felt. So he, too, was unaware of whatever Ian and
Pauline had plotted.

Her instincts cried to turn around, but reason told her that
was foolish. Ian was a grown man, and skilled in the use of weapons. He could
take care of himself.

“If there’s treason afoot,” she murmured to her father,
“then it’s best we hasten away.”

“Treason?” Her father looked astonished at this suggestion,
but narrowing his eyes and glancing in at Pauline and up to Pierre, he nodded
and ordered the carriage to roll on.

“It is not treason,” Pauline said in a hushed voice beneath
the children’s chatter.

“The king has the chalice Ian wants, doesn’t he?” Chantal
asked calmly, while her mind added up possibilities and reached a horrible
conclusion. “And instead of going directly north, we’re heading for the duc de
Choiseul’s holdings, where the duc has loyal troops who can escort the royals out
of France.”

Pauline stiffened and stared straight ahead. That was all
the admission Chantal needed.

“Ian is a stranger here,” Chantal chided in a whisper. “He
does not know our customs or the danger he faces. Surely there was a better way
for him to obtain his sacred vessel.”

Pauline didn’t deny the accusation.

Ian was a man on a mission that he would never abandon.
Guilt ate at Chantal’s heart as she realized how thoroughly she had embroiled
Ian in her family’s troubles. Had she waited only a few hours to trade the
chalice for Pauline’s freedom…

But it was too late.

Had she been on her own, she might have attempted to ride
after Ian in hopes of saving him from whatever treason Pauline had plotted. But
even her father seemed to acknowledge that the children must come first. With a
grave expression, he rode beside the carriage as it raced to the next inn.
Helpless, Chantal played the flute to quiet her inner turmoil.

The tension, or the music, eventually silenced even the
children. Pauline kept her petite nose determinedly in the air as she watched
the passing landscape. Chantal tried to forgive her for endangering everyone
for a weak king, but Pauline’s actions had created a rift between them that she
couldn’t easily bridge.

If the king escaped to another country, it would mean civil
war — or worse.

If the king were
caught
escaping…the streets would fill with irate mobs, and Paris would burn with
their rage.

If Pauline and Ian were responsible for the escape, everyone
traveling with them would be implicated, including Chantal and her father.

Her fury with Pauline and Ian knew no bounds. She couldn’t
even excuse Ian for his ignorance. He knew what he was doing, and he chose to
do it anyway. She couldn’t call him a traitor to the cause, because France’s
politics had nothing to do with him. He had just high-handedly decided to act
without any consideration of the consequences.

Stretched thin, the bubble of illusion she’d lived in
finally popped. The pretty iridescent colors disappeared, and dread took over.

Her flute began an angry tune, and she put it away, only to
rap out a harsh beat with her fingernails on the door.

Anton tugged Marie’s golden curls, and she began to cry.

The strain inside the carriage escalated to reflect the
pressures building in the larger world.

* * *

It had taken tense, hot hours, but Ian now galloped on the
wings of joy down the road the Orateur carriage was taking.

Murdoch’s cruel gale had frightened the royal party’s horses
and toppled the heavy berlin into the stone edge of a rural bridge. If the
intent had been to stop the carriage entirely, it had failed. Murdoch had never
perfected control of his gifts, so Ian still did not know how dangerous he was,
but he knew now that Murdoch retained his ability to harness the wind — and that
he could Find the chalice as easily as Ian could.

Emptying the terrified royals, their crying children, and
the servants onto the roadside had taken all of Ian’s empathic skills. Helping
mend the broken wheel of the berlin without revealing his superhuman strength
had required even more talent. He hadn’t sensed Murdoch’s presence, but the
delay would cause trouble with von Fersen’s rigid schedule, placing the royals
in even graver danger of capture. Ian had done all he could to speed them on
their way.

For his efforts, and his purse, of course, he’d been
rewarded with praise and promises — and the chalice.

Wrapped in purple velvet, the sacred object rested in his
saddlebag. Ian’s relief at the ease of acquiring it was infinite. Aelynn’s
future was ensured! If he had Chantal’s gift, he’d burst into song — an unusual
reaction for a man who’d spent his life mastering serenity.

He was far from accomplishing all his goals, but he rejoiced
in achieving one. The peaceful life he led seldom offered serious challenges,
so until now, he’d been deprived of the experience of triumph. He relished its
sweetness while he could.

He might despise the turbulence of his mate’s world, and
fear the dangerous effect on his abilities, but this thrill of triumph could be
addictive.

With the acquisition of the chalice, he was free to take
Chantal and her family directly to the northern border. Chantal’s presence
pleased him far more than praise and promises.

He patted the stallion’s neck. “Ready for lunch, old friend?
Shall I call you Rapscallion as your master does?” The horse threw its head up
and down in response to his name. “Excellent. Rapscallion it is. We’ll let you
cool off while the royal party toddles on to meet their escort. Perhaps my lady
would like to rest through the afternoon heat. Rooms for us and a nice stable
full of oats for you.”

The horse whinnied his approval of this plan. Eager for the
reward of Chantal’s bed, Ian spurred the horse on. After the hard physical
labor of removing a wheel from a heavy carriage, he’d like a bath, but he was
unlikely to find one in these rural surroundings. If he weren’t in such haste
to return to his party, he might take the time to find a stream or pond, but
with one duty done, he was ready to complete them all. He wanted to take his
prizes and go home.

Murdoch still endangered his goals, but Ian preferred to
hope Murdoch would be too caught up in his schemes to easily follow the
chalice. If they could stay a few days ahead of him… Chantal and the chalice
would be on a ship to Aelynn and safety.

He rode into the town where von Fersen had said they might
take luncheon.

Still savoring his victory at finally possessing both
chalice and amacara, Ian hadn’t paid close attention to the whispers on the
wind until he rode into town and sought Chantal. He was immediately struck with
a wave of rage and fear and grief.

He reached for the oak staff he’d tied to his saddle and
eased it from the loop. Unable to read his amacara’s mind, he reminded himself
that she’d already been considerably upset, so he couldn’t know whether she’d
stubbed her little toe or was in serious danger. He had to resist panic.

Steeling his heart, he dismounted and cautiously walked the
stallion toward the town square, examining the winds and trying to focus on
separating thoughts from fears. He cursed his visionary skill for being so weak
that he could not use it except when he was physically occupied and mentally
open. His skills did not fit drawing rooms, of a certainty.

Reaching the top of the hill leading down to the posting
inn, Ian inhaled sharply. In the town square below, ill-dressed militia clashed
with furious farmers and shrieking housewives. Rakes and brooms swung
dangerously at swords and muskets, and a shot was fired into the air.

Ian searched frantically for Chantal’s fair hair. He picked
up Pierre’s confused thoughts as the riot swirled around him. The young priest
had little experience in dealing with mobs, but he apparently knew Chantal was
in the midst of this one.

Straining to hold back his superhuman ability to run, Ian
hurried down the hill, wishing for a better link with Chantal, one that reached
beyond her emotions. Even their strong sexual bond would not let him invade her
thoughts. But racing down the hillside faster than a galloping horse would
terrorize the villagers. Better that he study the situation than act in haste.

That rationality lasted until he recognized Chantal’s straw
bonnet rolling through the dust.

“Find the inn and your master,” he told the stallion,
looping the reins over the saddle, forming the image the stallion would
understand better than words. With only that admonishment, Ian broke into a run
down the hill, staff firmly in hand.

At the edge of the mob, he caught a housewife’s flailing
broom and parried it with his staff into an opening between two thick farmers.
Judiciously using the oak and his mental nudges, he poked his elbows into stout
ribs and shoved a path through shouting, angry villagers. He couldn’t tell whether
the militia held them off or urged them on or were simply shouting like all the
rest.