Mystic Rider (23 page)

How could he see through the darkness to know the chalice
wasn’t in her arms?

In the street outside the inn yard, a pipe picked up the
notes of the “Carmagnole,” and a drummer pounded the beat as the local militia
began their nightly parade. She shivered in fear at what would happen should
they suspect that the inn’s guests were not heading to a wedding party.

She would have to disturb everyone to kneel on the floor and
lift her father’s seat to gain the chalice. It was much safer where it was. But
because she thought it best to keep the children happy, she began singing while
the men tethered the string of horses.

Once that task was completed, she expected Pierre to roll
the carriage out of the yard. Instead, Ian returned, yanked open the door, and
bodily lifted her father to the ground, propping him against the side of the
carriage. When he reached for her, she smacked his hand.

“I am not a piece of luggage,” she hissed. “What is wrong
with you?”

“You must
hold
the
chalice,” he insisted. “I ask no more of you than that.”

He asked a great deal more, and they both knew it. “You are
mad! It’s a lump of silver and not a child that needs coddling.”

Ian growled and reached for her again. Hastily, Chantal
kneeled on the floor and opened the seat. Pauline leaned over to help her hold
the velvet cushions while Chantal dug around to find the chalice among the
carriage blankets and children’s toys.

“Thank you,” Ian said stiffly once they’d located the object
and returned the cushion to its place. “Think of it as an infant you must care
for.” He assisted her father back in and strode off.

“Honestly, who does he think he is?” Chantal muttered, but
she’d already unwrapped the cloth and stroked the chalice to calm herself, so
her anger had no edge to it.

“You brought this on yourself,” her father replied tiredly.
“Do you have any idea what you did by promising yourself to him?”

“I did no such thing,” she murmured while Pauline sang to
the children and the carriage lurched into motion.

“He thinks you have, and he’s not the kind of man who would
make a mistake in that.”

“You would take his word over mine? I barely know the man.”
The chalice grew warm, and she snuggled it beneath her breasts. The warmth
seeped through her skin and radiated through her blood. She suffered an
embarrassing desire to share her body with Ian again.

What was wrong with her? She never felt such strong urges,
and now she couldn’t think of anything else. But she was no longer angry with
Ian. Instead, she sensed the genuine concern beneath his curt orders, and a
loneliness in him so strong that she longed to comfort him.

“Then he tricked you into doing his will,” her father said
wearily. “I don’t have the knowledge to unbind that kind of vow. You will have
to go with him to find out more.”

Chantal tested her father’s forehead to see if fever had
addled his brains, but out of the inn’s heat, he felt cooler. “I don’t know
what you mean. I go with
you
. Do you
think there is any chance that the servants will not mention our absence? We
could go home, if so.”

“No, damn his blasted foresight, Ian is right, and I have
been a fool. All hell will break loose now, and the streets of Paris will run
with blood. Maybe someday we can return, if you still wish to do so, but not
now.”

With that, he fell silent, leaving Chantal cold and afraid.
How would they survive without their work? Their homes? Her father lived for
his duties in the Assembly. The piano she had left behind was her life.
Stunned, she sat back against the seat as her heart slowly turned to stone.

It might be some consolation that she was free to stay with
Pauline and the children, but she could not picture such a future. She’d never
been one to plan ahead, because it was too impossible to predict the disasters
that inevitably occurred.

Ian seemed to think he could predict the future, but he was
wrong. He had to be. Seeing the deaths of loved ones would be too devastating
to endure. She would far rather embrace the moment.

Which was how she’d ended up in this position in the first
place.

“We are not following the Châlons road,” Pauline whispered
over the head of the sleeping child in her arms.

“If that is the route the royal party took, it would be too
dangerous,” Chantal whispered back. “Pierre must have decided to go straight
north.”

Pauline wiped her tears on the shoulder of her gown rather
than disturb Marie. “I hate this,” she whispered vehemently.

Chantal nodded her agreement, but there was nothing she
could say that would ease her friend. Beside her, her father snored lightly.

The moon was visible out their western window, and Chantal
had nodded off when she heard Ian’s stallion take off at a great gallop. She
was riding on the rear-facing seat next to the eastern window. Ian had been
trotting nearby just a moment ago, but when she looked out, he and his horse
were merely a speck disappearing over a hill to the south.

The carriage faltered and lurched in a rut, then continued,
more slowly than before. Pierre was not an experienced driver. What was
happening?

She stroked the chalice to ease her anxiety, but it did not
seem to calm her as well as usual. Oddly, she could sense Ian’s fury and his
fear for her and their party. Most likely, she was dreaming. Groggy from lack
of sleep, she shivered and wished for her cozy bed.

She nodded off, dreaming of what she and Ian had done in
that bed. Aroused, she squirmed in her seat while desire rose like a heated
arrow into her midsection.

She could almost hear Ian’s soft murmurs of assurance, feel
his fingers where she needed his touch. And if she concentrated hard enough —

She quivered as her inner muscles spasmed with release.
Briefly, she almost sensed Ian’s sorrow at parting, but the lethargy carried
her back to sleep.

In the distance, lightning flared and thunder boomed, even
though not a cloud blocked the stars’ light.

Crushing the stallion’s reins, Ian closed his eyes and
cast a mental shield against the psychic blow vibrating the universe —
the royal party had been captured
.
Despite the shield, his mind suffered terror and despair as grim soldiers in
the unadorned blue uniforms of National Guardsmen surrounded the king’s berlin.

Emotions he’d contained for decades abruptly tore through
the newly opened crack in his heart. How could he hope to lead Aelynn into a
safe future if he could not manage even a small part of this chaotic Other
World? The anguish of loss and failure reduced him to a spill of ash.

Into this momentary weakness, a bolt of lightning exploded,
splintering an oak tree not a hundred yards in front of him. Rapscallion
reared, nearly unseating Ian, startling him from despair.

Murdoch
. No
thundercloud darkened the stars. No other bolts lit the sky. Only Murdoch could
produce lightning from the blue.

Murdoch was the reason Ian had put a distance between
himself and the carriage. The renegade had left the company of the duc’s guards
and abandoned the royal party to their fate. If it was Murdoch’s desire to end
France’s monarchy, as he’d insinuated, he’d all but sealed the death warrant.

Ian set aside his anguish and lowered his shield to search
his surroundings. He found his nemesis approaching, no doubt intent on gaining
the chalice. Now that the royal party was captured, Murdoch was free to take
the next step to further his ambitions. That he meant to aid the
revolutionaries was evident. That his resentment of the Olympus leadership of
Aelynn had led him to his choice was equally evident, and right now, Ian
blocked Murdoch’s access to the chalice.

Rapscallion pawed the ground, refusing to proceed further.
Reluctantly, Ian acquiesced. He had no bloodlust for the duel Murdoch demanded,
and the horse should not be made to suffer for the decisions of mankind — or of
Aelynners.

Apparently Murdoch had been so attuned to the chalice that
he’d sensed the brief moment when Chantal had let it out of her arms. Now that
he knew where it was and how easily it could be obtained, there would be no
stopping him.

With Chantal as his incentive, Ian could no longer afford to
fail in this final task.

With heavy heart, he dismounted. He removed his staff, tied
the reins to the saddle, then smacked the creature into following the mares.
Rapscallion willingly departed without his rider.

Shrugging out of his coat, Ian studied the battlefield
Murdoch had selected. Tall trees surrounded the narrow deer path leading away from
any form of civilization. No eyes but those of the forest would see them. They
could use their gifts more freely here. For now, Murdoch was some distance
away. Ian had time to choose the best position.

Unfastening the scabbard he’d borrowed from Chantal’s
father, he worked his way to the top of the nearest hill, regretting his
amacara vows. Chantal’s desire coursed through him, and his own body mindlessly
responded. Desire was a powerful inspiration to avoid warfare. He wanted to be
breeding heirs, not fighting with a man who’d been like a brother to him.

Finding a clearing beneath the stars, Ian clenched his staff
in both fists and slowly began to twirl it. Chantal’s desire flooded through
him, destroying any hope of concentration. With his mind, he sought hers,
touching it briefly, thinking of her lovely breasts, the downy patch between
her slender legs, probing with his mind until he felt her clench on the brink
of orgasm, then gently pushing her over.

Her release flowed through him, easing some of the ache in
his own loins. He hoped she slept now. He did not want her to feel his pain.
He’d known the amacara connection was strong, but he had not realized how
strong. Chantal was already learning to recognize the sensations of his body
that he could not block from his mind — and he, hers. In an ideal world, that
would guarantee open communication between a couple, but this world was far
from ideal.

He spun his staff in front of him, hoping to return his
focus to the stars and Murdoch. If anything happened to him tonight, Chantal
and the chalice should be safe — as long as she held it so Murdoch did not know
where they were.

Those were not thoughts conducive to concentration. Ian
worked harder, spinning the staff around his waist, lifting it higher,
straining his muscles to carry the stout oak above him so he might find the
future in the stars.

Blood stained the constellations. Death shuddered along the
heavens. A barrage of heavy artillery exploded in the night sky. Through it all
rode Murdoch, his uniform untouched, at one with his horse.

Ian reached higher, shoving aside regret and focusing on
Murdoch, trying to see what drove him, but the barrier of pain Murdoch had
erected prevented any deeper probing. Murdoch was a man in agony, tortured by
his past and his dreams, with a mind so complex, even the Oracle had not been
able to penetrate its depths.

Without knowing what motivated his opponent, Ian was at a
loss as to how to fight him. He could nudge people in the directions they
wanted to go, but he could not nudge them to do what went against their
natures. Murdoch had seldom been susceptible to Ian’s mental shoves, but
sometimes, if his desire was strong enough…

As with Chantal this evening, Ian could manipulate minds
through desires, whether for sex, wealth, pride, or ambition; there was always
a means to use those insights. He seldom needed to, though, except when healing
the ill. With Murdoch, he needed every weapon in his arsenal.

Blindly spinning his staff, visions whirling as he reached
deep down inside himself where knowledge lurked, Ian could see the death of his
father more clearly now. Luther had opposed Murdoch’s marriage to Lissandra for
good reason. Lissandra’s spouse could someday become Council Leader, and
Murdoch was far too unstable to lead the island. Murdoch’s desires were such
that he would have rebelled against Luther’s opposition, if Lissandra had
agreed to take vows at the altar. Rightfully, she had refused. No wonder they
had argued.

Were they amacaras? Appalled, Ian had no way of knowing. Surely
Aelynn would not be so cruel as to match Lissandra to Murdoch for eternity.

Stunned by his insight, Ian was unprepared for the bolt of
lightning that struck a tree on the slope below him. The tree cracked and began
to fall. Its branches swept toward Ian’s position at the top of the hill. He
leapt aside with the speed and agility of his kind, but even so, some of the
outer branches struck him, tearing his clothes and slicing his cheek. He
remained on alert.

“Just give me the chalice,” Murdoch’s voice intoned on the
wind. “I do not want to kill you.”

Spinning his staff in figure eights, Ian located his
opponent climbing the hill behind a thicket of brambles. He still wore the
garish blue frock coat and scarlet breeches of a royal officer. “I don’t intend
to make it easy for you, you know that,” Ian called back.

“It’s foolish not to. You have a lovely amacara waiting. You
can breed many new Olympians to hunt for the sacred object. She promises nights
of pleasure and days of wonder. What does the chalice promise?”

“Survival of the home I love,” Ian replied without
hesitation. “You cannot manipulate me so easily. If we must do this, it will
have to be a battle of strength more than will.”

“You never fought fairly,” Murdoch said with disgust,
emerging from behind the brambles. “It would have been far simpler if you’d
just removed my head earlier.”

“Messier, you must admit,” Ian replied dryly, gauging the
extent of his opponent’s temper as well as the weapons he carried.

“There’s no escaping bloodshed this time, old friend,”
Murdoch replied with regret. “The fate of the world is greater than you are.”