Conscious that Lis was clasping his injured arm, Murdoch gritted his teeth and maintained a breeze instead of creating a tornado. Dead branches flew through the yard, assaulting anyone foolish enough to approach him. Overlong limbs brushed at the inn’s shingles. Stone walls did not shake so well, but the roof . . . Ah, there was an easy target, if he could keep it from flying away completely. The prisoners were being kept in those upper rooms.
He heard more shouts as the wind steadily increased, and he debated how to free the farmers. He couldn’t use fire. Not again. He could try cracking the earth, but falling walls might injure the innocent.
Murdoch felt his temper rising as the guards pushed against the wind and kept coming, but he continued to aim his rapier at the tavern. Summoned by his instincts, a wind howled through the trees, gathering a swirling force across the town.
Lis gripped his elbow. “Think of good things, not death,” she demanded.
Had it been anyone but Lis, his temper would have escalated. Instead, rather than lash out at her, he focused his ire along the rapier’s edge, and directed the wind to spiral across the rafters.
Ancient shingles and boards were ripped from their nails, causing screams from all beneath the inn’s roof. The wind shattered windows and blew open shutters. He almost gawked in astonishment at his own accuracy as interior doors blew off their hinges, allowing men to spill from every nook and cranny. Even the soldiers halted their advance to stare in disbelief.
Lis’s fingers bit into his upper arm, whether in fear or awe he didn’t bother to ascertain. She kept his sword arm steady. Clinging to his phenomenal restraint, he held his rapier as if he were shooting targets and blew down one soldier after another, even though he could only feel their panic and not see them through the tall hedge.
The freed prisoners scattered like ants from their nest.
Amused by this result, Murdoch narrowed his gaze, sighted along his rapier, and aimed at a uniformed figure crawling through the hedge. The wind blew the fool backward into the privy.
“You’re enjoying this!” Lis hissed in protest.
“There is nothing wrong with enjoying one’s work,” he retorted. If he’d had this kind of restraint all along, he would have enjoyed it sooner. The unusual exertion would have a price, he knew, but he couldn’t stop now.
Ignoring the pain shooting up and down his arm, concentrating on the miraculous touch of Lis’s hand, he aimed his rapier once more—at the troop of soldiers advancing from the street. A blast of stormy wind and a lightning bolt scattered them like bowling pins.
One side of Murdoch’s skull felt the throb of a punishing headache, but his task wasn’t done yet.
“Truly brilliant,” Lis murmured. “I have never seen you at work, but that was amazing. You held your temper and harmed only one man.”
At a cost, but he wouldn’t confide his weakness to an infallible Olympus. “The Aelynner fled outside. I want a glimpse of him.” Ignoring the pulsing beat at his temple and the aura of color ringing his vision that always followed intense concentration, Murdoch edged toward the street, hoping to discern his enemy among the people who were spilling from the tavern.
She caught his arm. “No, you have done what you set out to do. We must leave now.”
“I have only freed a priest and a few farmers,” he argued. “The monsters are still there.”
“You can do no more. It’s up to the men and their families now.”
It hardly seemed sufficient, but her words fought past the pain in his head and brought him back to reality. He must think of Lis first. Her importance to Aelynn was far greater than his insane desire to save the world.
“Will it be safe to take the cart and horse?” she asked. “Or should we just run before the soldiers re-form and come after us? I’m not as fast as you.”
“It would be faster to steal horses and ride. Or . . .” Wincing at having to concentrate again, he opened his mind to the few animals in and around the village. Another burst of energy, and the headache from his exertions became excruciating, to the extent that he scarcely noticed his throbbing shoulder.
Grabbing Lis’s arm, for support as much as to lead her, he fought waves of pain. As they ran toward the waiting cart, Murdoch reassured their mare while he sent every other possible animal that could be ridden racing for distant fields. It would be noon before the horses and mules could be rounded up, if at all. That should delay anyone from following them.
They reached the cart, and Murdoch collapsed into a moaning ball on the seat, leaned over, and threw up the contents of his stomach onto the ground as he hadn’t done since youth. With effort, he held his throbbing temples in hopes of preventing his skull from exploding. He lost his grip on his rapier, letting it clatter to the floor of the cart.
“Overexertion,” Lis whispered, touching his hunched shoulders after climbing up beside him. “I wish we could go home.”
So did he.
Instead, he clung to his pounding head like a weak child, forced down the nausea, and allowed Lis to whip the cart into motion.
The jarring movement nearly split his head wide-open.
There was a reason his gifts were erratic. The intense concentration needed to control them debilitated him to the point of helplessness.
Eleven
In triumphant joy at having finally seen the warrior at his best, Lissandra sent the pony racing down the lane. She disliked the sword-rattling contests that Aelynn men relished, but Murdoch had displayed both restraint and strength in saving the priest and the farmers—the ideal gallantry of his trade.
She wished they could return to the Healing pool of the cottage, where she could lay her hands on Murdoch and ease his suffering. His big body had collapsed into a semiconscious heap in the cart after emitting a groan of agony that seemed ripped from his soul.
She had never seen him in such torment.
Or maybe she had, and she’d wiped the memory from her mind, preferring to think of her hero as invincible. She’d been a little girl when she’d last watched an adolescent Murdoch suffer. He’d yelled and chased her away that day, and she had never seen him like that since.
He had deliberately never let her—or anyone—see him weak again, she wagered. She had known he lacked control—but no one had realized that the cause might be physical.
If there was something physically wrong with the gods-appointed Oracle, what would happen if Murdoch exceeded his limits and his own energy killed him? She stifled the horror welling in her soul and considered the thought from a different perspective.
Did she dare believe that the gods had sent her to Heal the suffering that could be causing his inability to contain his energies? She had never encountered such a problem before. He must have learned at an early age that focusing his energies resulted in pain, which made him vulnerable, so instead, he simply sent his excess energies into the universe.
She didn’t know if she could limit herself to just Healing him. Even seeing Murdoch defenseless, she craved the physical connection between them. Her lips still throbbed with the passion of his earlier kiss. She threw him a surreptitious look, but his wide shoulders were hunched. Blood seeped through his shirt. She needed to bandage his wounds. In frustration, she forced herself to think of him as her patient, not the lover she couldn’t have.
Finding some way that he could control his dangerous gifts without suffering crippling pain had to be her first priority—before he inadvertently killed himself or her.
In any event, their idyll had ended. Whoever the other Aelynner was, he wasn’t their friend, and she wouldn’t worry about him while Murdoch lay in agony.
Heading west, in the direction from which she’d arrived, she sent mental farewells to the village. It had been lovely having no real responsibility for a few days. She would have liked to have seen her herbs grow, experimented with this world’s healing medicines, taken more time to observe the differences between Other Worlders and Aelynners. . . .
“Keep going,
” Murdoch said, lolling his head backward. “As long as the mare is able, keep going.”
“You’re in pain,” she argued. “I need to touch you.”
“I’d rather suffer the pain,” he countered.
His words knocked the breath out of her, and tears rimmed her eyes. Usually, he couldn’t hurt her with his ugly moods, but this uncalled-for remark hit a tender spot. She’d done what he’d asked and stayed out of his way. Had she been wrong to do so?
She whipped the horse to an even faster pace and didn’t cringe when he groaned. She’d already wept entirely too many tears over the surly bastard.
The mare had grown weary by the time they traversed the hills out of the wilderness near the coast. The stars revealed an abandoned cowshed Lissandra remembered from her earlier journey.
“It’s too dark to go farther.” She used her best tone of authority at Murdoch’s grunt of protest. “I don’t know where I’m going, and the horse needs water and rest. Lie there and suffer if you like, but I won’t mistreat an animal.”
She let Murdoch stay collapsed on the seat while she unhitched the horse and led it to a small spring. Oddly, she felt as comfortable on this land as she did on the ground of Aelynn. She felt the holy spirits lingering in the spring, and she said prayers of gratitude just as she would have done at home. Her strength might be less this far from Aelynn, but her faith remained strong.
Even though her faith had led her to rescue an ungrateful wretch of a man. Maybe she’d pound his head with her anger for a change.
Except it was hard to be angry with a man who had controlled his wind-raising abilities with the expertise of a true Weathermaker to save innocents from harm, even knowing he would suffer excruciating agony as a result. The Murdoch she’d known had never possessed that much control or concern. Or that much power.
He’d changed.
True, he was still an irascible bastard, but then, her father had never been the most considerate of men either. Men of power had much on their minds, and it was difficult for them to set aside the problems of an entire world to consider the feelings of individuals.
Or so her mother had always told her.
Lissandra had her doubts. Her brother had never been harsh, and Ian’s mind roamed far freer than that of most men.
Pondering the mysteries of the universe was exhausting. She tethered the mare in the spring-fed grass, and made her way back up the hill to the cowshed.
Murdoch had managed to exit the cart on his own. He slept now in the shed on a mound of rotting hay he’d apparently gathered from remnants scattered across the earthen floor.
In a protected corner well hidden in the back of the shed, he’d built a similar mound for her, added grass, and laid his shirt over it.
Her heart softened at the considerate gesture. Had any other man done this for her at home, she would have taken it as her due and thought nothing of it. For Murdoch to offer this kindness when he was in debilitating pain . . .
Sadness seeped through her protective frost as she realized that because of her unwise attraction to a man who could not or would not return to Aelynn, she might never have the home and children that came so easily to others. She could choose to take a husband from among the other men at home, but how could she ask a man to be content with a woman who neither loved nor needed him?
Even as a child, she had known that Murdoch was the only man who could possibly be her equal. She’d never found another to compare, no matter how hard she tried. It seemed cruel of the gods to match her with a man who despised all she loved, but it was probably her own stubborn perversity that made her yearn for what she couldn’t have.
She cut through his blood-soaked shirt and cleaned his wound. The bullet had gone straight through, and even in his weakened state, the injury had begun to Heal. After applying a bandage, she threw her cloak over Murdoch’s hunched shoulders and brushed his forehead with Healing energy. His tensed muscles relaxed, and he slipped into a deeper sleep, rolling more comfortably onto his back.
She smoothed his brow and caressed the thick length of his dark hair, sending Healing thoughts and prayers. He sighed and groped for her hand, and she retreated. She longed to touch him as woman to man, curl up next to him and let the heat of his big body melt the cold shell of her resistance, but the physical connection between them was much too dangerous. Neither of them was prepared for the results. If he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—go home, she had to leave him free to find a woman in this world.
France’s spies and soldiers posed a threat uncondu cive to her Healing whatever ailed Murdoch. She’d have to take him to England, where Ian and his wife, Chantal, had a home, where Trystan, the island’s Guardian, had taken his Crossbreed wife, Mariel, and their children to escape the bloodshed Ian Saw in France’s future.
She had no choice. Murdoch may have been chosen by the gods, but he’d made it obvious that he was too dangerous to take to Aelynn until he was cured of whatever crippled his concentration.
Remnants of his dream lingered when Murdoch woke. Pressing his eyes closed against the painful light, he tried to retrieve the whole—Lis stroking his forehead, touching his hair. . . .
His already-aroused body didn’t need encouragement. He rubbed his crotch to ease the throbbing and returned his thoughts to more practical matters. What had happened last night?
He’d overexerted himself—by controlling the wind. Instead of unleashing destruction, he had deliberately called up a wind, given it direction and speed, and saved the farmers. He’d channeled his rage through his sword before, but never with such precision.
He’d revealed his sickening weakness to Lissandra.
A low thud of pain took up residence in the back of his head, but he forced his mind to examine everything that had brought about his miracle of restraint—and his incapacitation.
Instead, he found himself recalling Aelynn, the home he’d banished from his mind as thoroughly as he’d been banished. He remembered Lissandra’s mother, the all-powerful Oracle of Aelynn, the woman who had raised him.
Fury buzzed along the edges of his memory, but he kept probing at it like a sore tooth. Dylys had tried to train him as she had her own son and daughter, but he’d never taken orders well. She would tell him to concentrate on his task, and he would focus on a bird in the sky instead—because concentrating his energies hurt. Besides, he’d felt a child’s resentment for having been taken from his real mother, which had manifested itself in disobedience. Resentment had eventually built to anger and then into a festering fury in adolescence. By that time, he and Dylys had gone head-to-head over his recalcitrance in refusing to follow her training. He’d quit his lessons and taken up sailing for profit the day Dylys had informed him that she would never allow an insolent devil like him to court Lissandra.
Those were distant memories, old pains from childhood, bitterness from adolescence. He’d grown cocky and arrogant once he realized he didn’t need Dylys to have what he wanted. By then he’d learned that, despite his handicap, he was stronger than everyone else he knew.
And then he’d killed Luther, and in her grief and fury, Dylys had done her best to divest him of his strengths. He’d been banished from paradise and left to survive on his own. No one—not his friends, not Lis, no one—had come after him to hear his side of the story, to share his anguish. Not that explaining would have changed what he had done.
Time had not healed his emotional wounds, but the futility of war had eventually stripped him of much of his arrogance. Last night . . . miraculously, he’d almost been his old powerful self, only . . . better. Not a lot better, but just enough to make him crave that kind of accuracy and control again. If there was any hope that he could learn to direct the power as he had not been able to before his banishment . . .
He still wouldn’t . . . couldn’t . . . return to an entire island of people who despised him. He heard Lissandra moving about and contemplated lying here, waiting to see if she’d touch him again, but that was the arrogant ass t
hinking. Or his reproductive organs.
Just the memory of their kiss last night had him rising up on his elbow. He searched for a glimpse of her through the stripes of morning light shining through the drafty walls of the shed.
She was already dressed—in a garment that wasn’t quite what he recalled. He rubbed his temple and tried to gather his scattered wits. He distinctly remembered her wearing the loose white tunic gown of Aelynn last night. And she’d packed a less-than-stylish gray gown, the kind that required corsets and petticoats and lengths of muslin or lace to fill the bodice.
What she wore now seemed to combine the two in some unfathomable manner that flattered her high breasts and slender figure. He recognized the gray fabric from the French gown, but unlike the earlier version, it displayed the sway of her hips beneath the cloth, and he had to rub his breeches to push his unruly organ out of sight.
“How did you do that?” he mumbled, rising into a sitting position. Amazingly, although his shoulder still ached, last night’s headache had dissipated. He could remember spending days of his childhood curled up in agony after a particularly difficult feat. His Healing abilities had never extended to his head.
Startled, Lis stopped whatever infernal puttering she was about and turned to stare at him. “Do what?”
He gestured vaguely at her gown. “Create a gown from nothing.”
She glanced down at the high bodice snugly outlining the shape of her breasts and shrugged. “This is similar to gowns that Chantal wears. I thought it might be more comfortable than that bulky mass of fabric, while being less distinctive than my tunic.”
Murdoch snorted. “You will have men crawling on their hands and knees with their tongues dragging the ground should you walk about in that. It’s little more than underwear.”
He thought he caught her startled reaction before she dismissed his comment with the imperial authority she wielded so well.
Mystic Warrior Page 12
