Mystic Rider (22 page)

“She left you alive. That’s more than you did for my
father.”

Ian was close enough to see now. Murdoch appeared taller and
more finely-honed than Ian remembered. The sharpness of his angular cheekbones
could have cut through his browned skin. He wore a sword and scabbard as
soldiers must, but he carried no musket. Given Murdoch’s explosive tendencies,
that might be for the safety of those around him.

“Killing Luther was an accident. You had to know it was an
accident.” Murdoch did not plead, simply repeated the same statement he’d
uttered before.

Ian believed him, but it was still no excuse. “A fatal
accident, one that could have been avoided had you refrained from showing off
after arguing with Lissandra. You are too dangerous to be allowed full use of
your powers.”

“How is your charming sister these days?” Murdoch asked.
“Married to tedious Trystan by now? Or has she killed him for taking an
amacara?”

Murdoch had aspired to Aelynn’s leadership by courting Ian’s
sister Lissandra. The relationship between the pair was close enough that LeDroit
would never be amiable on such a loaded subject. Ian steeled himself,
concentrating all his energies in hopes of predicting where Murdoch would
strike first. He did not fool himself into believing this was a genial talk
between old friends. Murdoch wanted the chalice, and Ian was in his way.
“Trystan married his amacara. He is one of the reasons I am here.”

Murdoch absorbed this information. “Lissy must have been in
a rage for my head to send you after me. I never expected you to leave your
mother’s apron strings.”

Ian smiled coolly. “You know insults will not bait me. I
offer you the opportunity to return in peace so you might make better
explanations to the Council now that the fury of the moment is past.”

A cynical expression marred Murdoch’s already harsh
features. “After Trystan has filed his complaint? In retrospect, the Greek fire
was a mistake, although admittedly intentional at the time. No, I think I’ll
pass on your offer to return for my own execution.”

“Then can you give your word that you will not use your
gifts to cause harm in this world?”

“I cause no harm here,” Murdoch insisted.

“It is your fault that the duc’s troops wander lost in yon
forest, is it not? You are pushing this country toward a bloody terror that
will scar this world for years and forever change the course of history. How
can I leave you here to wreak destruction?”

“We See things differently, as usual. The course of their
history needs changing. As does Aelynn’s. I can no longer change Aelynn,”
Murdoch continued, “but I can bring this country out of the dark ages of sloth
and greed and corruption. Inherited power is dangerous, especially when founded
on arrogance and not leadership. France will fare far better with strong
guidance.”

“Your guidance,” Ian said cynically.

Murdoch did not deny it.

They’d reached an impasse. They both knew it. Yet neither
man reached for his weapon. Neither was willing to be first to draw arms
against the other.

“I cannot let you interfere. I have no choice,” Ian said,
letting his sorrow show.

“Everyone has a choice,” Murdoch said scornfully. “You’ve
made yours.” His sword materialized in his hand faster than Ian’s eye could
follow.

Prepared, Ian balanced his staff in front of him, gripping
it with tense fingers. “We have ever been evenly matched in this. We know each
other’s moves before we can make them.”

“Then you know you cannot take me,” Murdoch replied. He
swung his sword first.

Ian brought up his staff in self-defense, yet Murdoch hacked
swiftly and brilliantly at the stout oak, no matter how quickly Ian moved.
Splinters flew where the blade whittled precise notches despite the staff’s
tremendous speed.

With all his mighty strength, Ian swung his staff at
Murdoch’s ankles. His opponent danced in place to avoid being crippled, then
slammed his boot against the swinging stick in an attempt to crack it at the
weak point he’d carved. Failing that, he leapt backward out of range and flung
fire circles at Ian’s feet.

Ian would give him credit for restraint, but he knew Murdoch
must hide his strange gifts here as much as Ian hid his, or risk death at the
hands of superstitious Other Worlders standing not yards away.

It was more difficult to bring down rain on a cloudless
evening than to throw fire in summer heat. Rather than waste his energy dousing
the fire rings, Ian simply strode across the flames. Heat seared his boots, but
his attention was focused elsewhere. Hoping to render his adversary
unconscious, he spun his staff in a blur, with Murdoch’s head for a target.

Ian was a man of Aelynn, of law and of science, not a
warrior by nature. He possessed no bloodlust or even a desire for revenge.

Murdoch had spent these last years training for war. He
easily parried Ian’s staff. The blow of metal against wood shuddered the ground
beneath their boots and strained muscles and nerves. The blade had come within
inches of severing the front of Ian’s despised coat. They were both hampered by
the clothing required in this world.

“You can’t win against me, Ian,” Murdoch warned. “I do not
want to kill you. Go home. Tell them I’m dead. Leave me alone before you cause
me to do more harm than I wish.”

Although they were on the edge of town, fighting in the
twilight shadows of a forest, Ian sensed they had attracted the attention of the
agitated inhabitants of the village. In moments, they would be surrounded. If
Murdoch called down lightning, people would die. It was Ian’s duty to prevent
that.

“I would leave you here,” Ian said, recovering his balance
and positioning himself for what he must do, “if I could believe you would
cause no harm, but I can’t. You must come with me or die.” Spinning in reverse
on his heels so fast that even Murdoch would have difficulty following him, Ian
came up on his challenger from his unguarded side. With staff extended fully,
Ian connected with Murdoch’s skull.

Murdoch flew face-first into the dusty road.

And immediately rolled upright, calling the wind in a blast
so powerful it threw Ian as well as half a dozen villagers backward. Even in
wrath, he concealed his gifts — an admirable restraint he must have learned
recently, Ian thought, rising and dusting himself off.

“The Chalice of Plenty is on my side,” Murdoch declared.
“Let it be, and all will be well. You have hoarded it for your own purposes for
too long.”

“We protect it,” Ian protested, erecting a barrier of
impermeable air between them. “Aelynn has no reason to exist if we cannot guard
it. We will all die.”

“Or emigrate,” Murdoch said scornfully, “like the royal
cowards. Leave, Ian. Go home.”

Without warning, Murdoch disappeared, leaving only a
rippling iridescence where he’d stood.

Ian blinked to clear his eyes but saw only a blurry mirage
where Murdoch had been. He shook his head in disbelief.

Invisibility was not an ability Aelynn bestowed upon the
island’s inhabitants. What had Murdoch done?

“I hope you are well rested. We must leave for the border
at once.”

Bathing her father’s brow with cool water, Chantal stared at
the disheveled man who barged into the room. The normally unflappable,
arrogantly assured man she’d come to know had metamorphosed into the equivalent
of unstable gunpowder. Ian’s boots were scorched and covered in dust. With his
queue undone and his thick curls windblown, he looked as if he’d fought an
army. Fear clawed her insides at the glitter of fury in his midnight eyes and
the rigidity of his unshaven jaw.

“What happened?” she demanded.

That her father let her speak for him revealed the extent of
his weakness.

“The king has lost his escort. It will take a miracle for him
to escape now. Messengers bearing the news from Paris have already reached
these outskirts. The bloody future I predicted is almost upon us.” For a
moment, regret etched lines about his mouth.

She might feel sympathy for him if the words
future I predicted
had not lodged in her
brain, preventing any immediate reply.

Instead, Pierre rose from his prayers beside the bed to
intrude upon the conversation. “I’ll ride alone to the border. There is no
sense in endangering everyone for my sake.”

Taller and broader than the younger man, Ian did not move
from the doorway. “Your sister and her children require your presence. We stay
together,” he ordered, as if he had a right to do so.

“I cannot go with you,” Chantal pointed out. “Papa is too
ill to travel. The border is not that distant. The rest of you should go and
leave us here.”

After the words she and Ian had exchanged earlier, she was
more determined than ever to be rid of him. He assumed too much if he thought
he had any claim on her, or that she would trail after him like a camp
follower — no matter how much she inexplicably desired him. He and Pauline had
endangered her entire world, and now it seemed they had brought it crashing
down. She could not forgive him.

And insanely, she still wanted him, clear down to the marrow
of her bones. She wanted to cleanse his sweat-caked face with her cloth, press
kisses to his bristled jaw, and comfort him with caresses. And much more.

The heated look he bestowed on her said he felt the same,
and she almost burst into flames. This adolescent lust was
impossible
.

“You do not understand,” Ian said patiently. “The roads will
soon be crawling with National Guards preventing anyone from crossing the
border. We must go
now
.” Tearing his
gaze from Chantal, he turned to Pierre. “Fetch your sister and the children,
have the carriage brought out. Chantal, help them gather their belongings. I
will tend to your father.”

He stepped aside to allow Pierre to pass. Chantal had
expected Pierre to protest again, but he abruptly clamped his lips closed and
hurried to obey Ian’s wishes — just as everyone else did.

Despite the terror Ian’s appearance struck in her heart, and
the authority of his commands, she would not be so easily ordered about. “I
have sent for a physician. We will not leave before he arrives. Take Pauline
and her family, and we will follow later.”

Not wasting his energy to argue, Ian strode to the bed and
tested her father’s pulse. “Orateur, tell your daughter she has no choice.”

“I suppose besides being monk and warrior, you are a
physician as well?” she asked cuttingly when her father failed to reply.

“I can work some healing,” Ian agreed without dispute. He
sent her a meaningful look that she felt in every place he’d ever touched her.
“I can do it better without your charms to distract me.”

Just when she was prepared to smack him for his temerity, he
offered flattery to rearrange her thinking. That he even hinted at such
vulnerability drained her of all her righteous anger.

“Go, Chantal,” her father said hoarsely. “Do as he says.
I’ll be fine.”

“You are not fine for traveling,” she argued, but neither
man listened. Tense and unsettled, she wanted a rousing quarrel, but upsetting
her father wouldn’t help anyone.

Channeling her irritation into a low hum, Chantal picked up
the chalice she’d hidden under her skirts beneath her foot, prepared to walk
out and not come back until Ian was gone.

“Take time to calm yourself,” Ian called after her. “We do
not want to stir the populace into another riot.”

Calm herself, indeed! His presumption knew no bounds. She
should heave the damned lump of silver at his inflated head. That would show
him what happened when she wasn’t calm.

She was not as good at persuasive argument as her father
was, one of the many reasons she buried her soul in music. Thinking rebellious
thoughts, hugging the chalice, she flounced out. Only after she slammed the
door did she feel Ian’s pain. Or was that her father? And why, by all that was
holy, would she think she felt anything except her own wounds?

At least the children had had a nice nap and did not
complain when they were loaded into the carriage again. Their driver had
decided to return to Paris, most likely to report their escape, Chantal thought
grimly. It was full dark as Pierre retied the baggage, and she harnessed the
horses. The moon was losing its plumpness, but it was still bright enough to
see.

As much as she enjoyed cradling the soothing chalice like an
infant, Chantal needed to tend to the real children. She stored the valuable
object under her seat and played games with them while they waited for the rest
of their party.

Pauline was too distraught to be useful. Tears flowed down
her cheeks, and she wrung her hands in her skirt. Pierre had evidently told her
that the escape plans were falling apart.

Chantal preferred not to think about it. A king so weak that
he would abandon his people was no king at all, in her opinion. She would
contemplate no further than that. Except, in her heart, she knew nothing would
ever be the same again.

No longer protected by her cozy bubble of security, she
recognized the danger of Paris erupting in flames, and a tear crept from her
eye. Her home was lost to her.

Ian arrived, acting as her father’s support until he settled
the older man on the seat beside her. She would curse Ian for dragging an ill
man into the night, except she sensed the urgency of the situation. She wanted
to be furious with him, but no matter how hard she tried, reason ruled her
head. Or maybe it was lust clouding her reasoning.

She tried to test her father’s forehead, but he shrugged her
off.

“I’m well enough. I have all eternity to rest. Let us be on
our way.”

Ian leaned through the doorway. “Hold the chalice, Chantal.
Do not let it go again. Sing songs, and all will be well.” He shut the door
without waiting for a reply.