Mystic Rider

by Patricia Rice

  “Would you quit talking in circles?” She stamped her kid shoe, and the ancient floorboard cracked ominously. “You are giving me a headache. I cannot fathom how a man of such candor can be so impulsive, bigoted, and” — she hunted for a word — “And so lacking in understanding!”

  “I would learn more of the nuances of your speech if I could read your thoughts, but I cannot, so you must bear with my clumsiness until I understand where I have erred.”

  “And quit being so reasonable!” she cried. “You make me want to believe you, when I have just seen you intimidate a poor old man. You have stolen his cart, his livelihood! I have known Jacques for years, yet you call him a bestial coward simply because he is cross-eyed and grumpy. Then you insult my family, and you do not even know them!”

  “Go back to humming, please,” he requested. “It is more pleasing and less confusing.”

  Trying to concentrate on his faint Finding ability, Ian steered the cart into the crowded throngs of a broader thoroughfare. The chalice lay straight ahead. He was almost there. Perhaps Kiernan had been right and the gods had wanted his personal attention in seeking the sacred vessel and his amacara.

  A troop of soldiers in striped trousers marched past carrying a strange assortment of weapons, and Chantal broke into a song that Ian loosely translated as “We will win!” He didn’t see the relevance, but people in the street waved their caps and smiled in response. She had a truly amazing voice. Aelynners did not have a tradition of music, and he rather regretted that. Over the generations, the gods had denied Aelynners less useful abilities and encouraged more practical ones. An island could hold only a limited number of people, so Ian could understand their purpose. But relaxation had a purpose as well.

  “What do you intend to win?” he asked once she’d stopped singing, having vented her apparent frustration.

  “Victory over those who would oppress us,” she rejoined tartly. “You will have to show your passport at the bridge guardhouse.”

  Trystan had provided the necessary paperwork when Ian had arrived in Brittany. So far, no one had questioned his papers, but Chantal seemed nervous. “Those buildings ahead are where your council meets?” He sought a better translation. “Your court of law?”

  “Yes.” She nodded and began humming again, keeping time by tapping her fingers against her pretty skirt.

  He might wish to delay sealing the unpredictable — irreversible — bond of amacara until he’d achieved his objectives. His intended mate was distracting enough without that visceral connection binding them.

  He halted the cart at the end of the bridge. Blue-uniformed soldiers bristling with swords and muskets stepped forward and demanded their paperwork, as Chantal had predicted.

  She continued humming as she handed over her passport, and the guard on her side smiled and tipped his cap, murmuring pleasantries.

  The guard on Ian’s side frowned at his papers. “You are not from Rome?” he demanded.

  “I do not even know where Rome is,” Ian replied truthfully. “Is it a place I should visit?”

  Chantal elbowed him. He didn’t know what that meant but decided it would be wise not to offer any additional information.

  “Swiss,” the guard said in disgust, examining the passport’s writing with difficulty. “Why are you here?”

  Ian didn’t know what Swiss meant either, but Trystan had assured him that such papers would pass easily through this country. “The lady wishes it,” he said pleasantly, not desiring to go into complicated explanations when he did not comprehend the necessity. On Aelynn, he was the authority who did the questioning, so this was a relatively new and irritating experience.

  His reply was apparently acceptable. The guard nodded, handed back the papers, and stepped aside. Chantal waved gaily at the other handsome soldier, and Ian started the cart with a jerk that threw them both against the seat back.

  To his utter astonishment, he had a strong urge to strangle the young man she’d favored with her smile. This could not be a good thing. A Sky Rider must be objective and dispassionate to effectively comprehend his visions.

  His companion took a deep breath of relief, and his gaze dropped to the plump mounds pushing above the neckline of her tight bodice. Fortunately for both of them, she’d covered herself with a long cloth that molded to her curves but did not reveal tempting flesh.

  The air coming off the river was sticky and windless, but the setting sun had fallen behind a cloud and brought with it a drop in temperature. He noted her shiver. “I will try to be quick so you do not catch a chill.”

  “You are going the wrong way.” She pointed toward a menacing gray stone wall on the left side of the street. “You will need to ask at the Palais where Pauline is being kept.”

  “The chalice is this way,” he insisted. “I would speak with whomever holds it. If you sent it for your family’s release, then the possessor of the chalice should know where they are, am I correct?”

  She shot him a mystified look. “How can you know where the chalice is?”

  He shrugged. “Your language does not have the necessary words to explain. When we have time, I will try to answer your questions, but there are many things I cannot tell you without showing you. There will be time for that once I have done what I’ve come to do.”

  “I wonder if this is a form of madness,” she muttered, “or if you are a magician like Mesmer who has stolen my mind, for I am surely out of it.”

  Since he could not read her thoughts, Ian had to put himself in her place and attempt to understand her unease. He did not need to stretch far to grasp that Other Worlders walked about in a world of psychic silence, unable to communicate in any way except verbally.

  Not too different from his home, really, where everyone had learned to keep their thoughts to themselves and politely avoided prying into others if they had that ability.

  Although Ian could not always read their minds, he understood his fellow Aelynners sufficiently to comprehend and manipulate their behavior as needed. It was just that here, he was so bombarded with every violent thought and emotion that he assumed everyone felt and heard what he did. Sadly, Chantal did not seem to possess his empathic talents. Since she did not have Aelynn eyes, chances were good that she was not even a Crossbreed. That could cause grave difficulty in the future. He didn’t want to believe the gods would bring him such grief.

  “We have only just met,” he assured her, and himself. “It takes time to understand each other. You must question me, or I may take your silence for comprehension.”

  As he brought the mule to a halt in front of the imposing edifice that contained the chalice, he added, “But save your questions for later. There are far too many people here for me to think clearly.”

  He refrained from adding that he dared not swing his staff to enhance his concentration in crowds. That was another of those details he must explain later. He’d thought learning the ways of the Outside World would be his largest difficulty, but it seemed that explaining himself was even harder.

  He couldn’t explain Aelynn at all, not unless they were properly bound by vows. Taking an Other Worlder for wife was fraught with difficulty. Most Aelynners left their Other World mates with their Other World families rather than bring them to the island. Ian couldn’t afford that luxury. He might never be able to return here again, and he had no intention of leaving Chantal in this grim place.

  Climbing down, he stroked the donkey’s muzzle, soothed by its uncomplicated affection. People might not completely understand him, but animals accepted him without judgment. He hoped his rebellious, glorious amacara eventually would, too.

  He almost laughed when she hummed louder. He was not a man accustomed to laughing — or expressing any other emotion — but he was starting to grasp this peculiar reaction of hers.

  “I will learn to hum my frustration as you do,” he told her, lifting her from the cart. “Just think how I must feel trying to understand your strange ways.” He set her on the muddy street
and strode briskly toward the prison’s entrance.

  She remained where he’d left her, tapping her toe on the cobblestones.

  Knowing he was close to the chalice, Ian was half inclined to leave her there. She would only slow him down. But this was not peaceful Aelynn, and he was beginning to understand mortality in this world where life was so little valued. He refused to lose her now that he’d found her.

  So he returned and frowned down on the wide-brimmed hat that prevented him from seeing her expression. “You do not wish to go inside?” he asked.

  “I do not wish to follow at your heels like a lamb,” she replied, frost dripping from her tongue. “Proper etiquette requires that a gentleman offer his arm to a lady, especially in a place like this.”

  Ian studied her, studied his arm; then, shrugging, he stuck the arm not burdened with his staff straight out so she could hang on to it.

  She tilted her head so even he could read her incredulity. Humming a tune that resembled the rebellious ditty of earlier, she caught his elbow, tugged it sharply downward, and lifted her skirt with her free hand. “You must have been raised in a cave,” she concluded.

  Thinking of his mother’s safe haven at the foot of the volcano, Ian nodded. “I was, until I was old enough to go out alone.”

  This time, he ignored the look of disbelief she cast upon him.

  Five

  Located immediately next to the Palais de Justice, La Conciergerie prison was part of the medieval palace of Philip IV. The hall’s immense vaulted ceiling and rows of Gothic columns reflected its origin. Had the marble floors been empty, the palatial space would have been awe inspiring.

  Instead, the dregs of humanity mixed with soldiers, lawyers, and a host of visitors — elegant and otherwise — and the stench and the noise in the echoing chamber were overpowering.

  Clinging to Monsieur d’Olympe’s arm, Chantal hurried to keep up with his brisk stride. His robe swung around his boots like the cloak of a general, and he behaved as if not another soul existed but himself. For the most part, the mob aided his impression. People drifted aside ahead of them, creating a wide path to the iron grille at the rear of the chamber that marked the prison’s boundary.

  Perhaps it was his monk’s robes that caused people to step aside, but Chantal doubted it. She assumed that if he had her following like a sheep despite her resistance, he might impose his wishes on others as well.

  Praying that Pauline and her children were close by prevented Chantal from thinking beyond that. There wouldn’t be time before dark to traipse about Paris to look elsewhere. The city was filled with prisons.

  Monsieur d’Olympe apparently intended to march right past the desk and guards and part the grille with his bare hands. Evidently her task was to remind him that he was not God. A cave, indeed! Perhaps his parents were wolves.

  A little shaken upon realizing that the man with whom she’d just had carnal relations — it certainly hadn’t been lovemaking, she had no illusion about that! — reminded her very much of a beautiful wolf stalking his prey, she tugged his arm and refused to walk farther.

  At his impatient glance, she nodded toward the uniformed man behind the desk. “You cannot enter without his permission. Pauline will be here under her married name of Racine.”

  She wanted to search for Pauline among the prisoners strolling about on the far side of the grille, but watching over her determined companion took all her attention. Fierce features scowling, he twirled his gnarled staff against the floor while he followed her gaze and took note of their surroundings.

  “I should have brought Kiernan,” he said in disgust. “I cannot sense anything in this confusion.”

  That made about as much sense as anything else he’d said so far. Taking a calming breath, Chantal tugged him into the line in front of the desk. She might think rebellious thoughts, but she disliked actual conflict.

  “I am not accustomed to waiting,” he practically growled at her.

  “We can’t go through without a pass,” she explained tightly.

  “We could be here all night.” He started to twirl his staff, realized what he was doing, and pounded it impatiently on the floor. “The chalice is more important than their petty concerns.”

  “Maybe so, but — ” Chantal gaped as the slovenly couple in front of her looked around nervously and abruptly walked off.

  She glanced at her companion to see if he might have threatened them in some way, but he was glaring at the next person in line — a black-coated, bewigged lawyer. The man suddenly checked his watch and apparently realized he needed to be somewhere else.

  “That’s better,” the monk muttered, studying the weeping young woman now blocking their progress. He twirled his staff, studied the vaulted ceiling for a minute, then shook his head. “I detest this place.”

  Abandoning Chantal, he left the line and stalked toward the desk. The burly soldier ignored his approach until her audacious companion removed a coin from a pouch in his robe, set it on the desk, and leaned over to whisper something in the man’s ear.

  Coins of any denomination were extremely scarce. He’d have a mob attacking him for his purse if he were not careful.

  Chantal held her breath as other soldiers inched closer. She shivered, uneasy at being left alone in this crowd. She had foolishly felt safe at Monsieur d’Olympe’s side. She ought to know better than to equate size with intellect. The idiot man could get himself thrown behind bars and never be seen again.

  She surveyed the throng, praying she might glimpse sturdy old Girard, but a shift in the line ahead caused her to swing back to see what was happening.

  A guard was opening the gate, gesturing for her escort to enter. Swearing under her breath, Chantal caught up her skirts and hurried to join him. To her surprise, all the others in line surged forward as well.

  Monsieur d’Olympe — Ian, since he scarcely seemed a gentleman — patiently waited for her before entering. But there was nothing patient about his grip on her arm as he pushed her past the rush of shouting, hugging couples and acquaintances abruptly meeting in the broad corridor.

  “The guards have no compassion,” he growled. “They think only of their bellies, like starving dogs in a manger.”

  “They have spent many years starving like dogs,” she said tersely. “We had no grain, no bread, no coal with which to warm ourselves, while the nobility danced to Austrian musicians and competed to see who could wear the most extravagant imported laces and silks. If people are reduced to surviving like animals, they will behave like animals.”

  He wore his cowl over his head, so she could not see his reaction to her lecture. She had acquired her zeal for equality at her father’s knee. She had no more respect for the monk’s church than she did for the court. The church had hoarded its wealth while the aristocracy had squandered theirs. Fools all. Neither extreme aided the masses.

  “How did you persuade them to let us all in at once?” she asked.

  While the guard led them to Pauline’s chamber, Ian responded, “The guards were bored. It was the end of their shift. The gates would close shortly. I offered them the opportunity to have a good time this evening.”

  He was a foreigner. How had he known the gates would close when she did not?

  “In here.” The soldier indicated one of the first-floor chambers, and Chantal sighed in relief. At least the children weren’t being housed in the dungeons.

  Choosing not to question this miraculous gift, she merely glanced at the monk’s enigmatic features beneath the cowl, then brushed past him to enter Pauline’s cell.

  The chamber was narrow and filthy, and Chantal suppressed her rage that her beautiful godchildren and her frail sister-in-law were confined in such squalor. She had to get them out of here, at once. Somehow. She would worry about Pierre later.

  Pauline cried out in surprise at her entrance, and the children raced to cling to her petticoats. Weeping at the sight of Pauline’s gamin features stained with dirt and tears, Chantal hugged
her. Wordlessly, she took comfort in her best friend’s strong return of affection and sob of relief, then crouched down to wrap the children in her embrace. She kissed them and hummed beneath her breath to ease their fears and her own.

  “We should leave now,” the monk intoned quietly.

  Chantal stared up at him in disbelief. “Leave? We have only just arrived.”

  “My supply of funds is not endless. I must still buy back the chalice and may not be able to pay our way in here again. Gather the children and hurry to the cart while you can.”

  Chantal almost bit through her tongue to keep from questioning this astounding order. Did he think they could invisibly walk past the guards at the gate? Had he bribed the guards not to see them? What manner of insanity inspired him?

  Leaning down to lift her youngest, Pauline whispered, “Who the devil is he?”

  “King Arthur?” Chantal suggested, taking the hand of five-year-old Anton. “But I am learning not to ask questions. Amazing things happen in his company.” Given the embarrassing details, she could scarcely explain how amazing.

  Without arguing, she hurried Anton past Ian’s motionless form into the crowded corridor filled with prisoners and their visitors. All were allowed to roam freely — until they reached the grille in the vaulted hall.

  “We cannot go past the gates without a pass,” she warned. “How can we reach the cart?”

  “Ask nicely,” he replied without inflection. “Or hum,” he added after a moment’s thought. “I enjoy the sound.”

  He confused her too much for her to know if he was being facetious. She had seen Ian move a line of people out of his way and fling open gates that were barred to most. That there had been no trial, no judge, and presumably no bail did not seem to deter him now.

  Singing lightly to amuse the toddlers, she swung Anton’s hand and hurried after Pauline, who was already halfway down the corridor, racing as if the hounds of hell were on her heels.

  Chantal’s heart was lodged too firmly in her throat to pound. That their party hurried toward the great room was not unusual enough for any to take notice. Passing the locked gate at the end, on the other hand —