Mystic Rider

by Patricia Rice

  She sighed in relief at the sound of Pauline’s voice coming from inside. Maybe she wouldn’t have to explain after all.

  * * *

  Still captivated by the thrilling image of his mate in filmy white, her golden hair tumbling down her back while marching across stones with pistol raised, singing triumphant war songs like a Valkyrie of old, Ian stepped into her father’s mahogany-paneled chamber and hastily returned to the present.

  With curiosity, he regarded the large, distinguished man reclining in a large leather chair with his injured leg propped up on a matching stool. The man was leaning his gray wig wearily against the seat’s high back, but he abruptly sat up at Ian’s entrance.

  Interestingly, Ian couldn’t read him at all. This must be where Chantal had learned to mask her thoughts. Since they did not have Aelynn eyes — and he had yet to find an Aelynn mark on Chantal — he had to err on the side of caution and assume Alain and his daughter were Other Worlders, not Crossbreeds. So their stillness was a phenomenon that he appreciated.

  Chantal dropped to her knees at her father’s side and examined his bandaged leg, but her father continued gazing at Ian with — fear? suspicion?

  “I have been told, monsieur, that I have you to thank for Pauline’s release,” the older man said. “I would stand and offer my hand, but I fear my daughter would cut me down should I try.” Humor and affection laced his words.

  “I’m sorry, Papa, I’ve been rude. This is Monsieur Ian d’Olympe. He is trying to locate a stolen chalice. Ian, my father, Alain Orateur,” Chantal said from her position on the floor.

  Ian’s gaze lingered admiringly on her slender form draped in the silk robe. When he lifted his head to greet his host, he encountered resignation in the other man’s eyes.

  He knew. Somehow, Alain Orateur knew who Ian was. That was inconceivable. The Other World knew nothing of the Mystic Isle. Only an Aelynner…

  Immediately, he glanced at Orateur’s left hand, but her father had already discreetly dropped it to the side Ian couldn’t see.

  Ian suspected what he hid — Aelynn’s ring of silence!

  That would explain the ability to shut off his mind as Other Worlders did not, and the name Orateur as well. Once upon a time, Aelynn had had a family of orators. Alain could be a descendant, and if he wore a ring —

  He had to have come from the island.

  It wasn’t entirely unusual for an Aelynner to leave and not return. Many died in foreign parts. Some refused to leave their Other World mates and children. The reasons for leaving paradise and not returning were as varied as the individuals.

  Ian thought it might be unusual for an expatriate not to acknowledge a fellow countryman, especially one of Ian’s rank, but he was new to this world. Perhaps the ring of silence prevented acknowledgment of his origins.

  Ian was certain that Orateur recognized him — perhaps more by name and purpose than by presence, since they’d never met. Orateur must have left the island in his youth.

  But if he did not have Aelynn eyes, which Aelynn god would mark an orator? The god of peace? War? Chaos? Ian shuddered at the possibility of the latter two. They’d been bred from Aelynners long ago.

  That Alain Orateur was an Aelynner explained a great deal about Chantal. For a few minutes, Ian had begun to wonder if Other Worlders had an amazing form of power of which he’d known nothing. Singing a rioting mob into peace was not a skill he recognized. It was no wonder that Chantal thought her chaotic world was a pleasant place. She created her own small bubble of peace with her voice.

  Music was a disappointingly useless gift on Aelynn since the island was already peaceful, which ought to make him anxious about his future with her, but he had more immediate concerns.

  “It is an honor to meet you, monsieur,” Ian stated, as was proper. There was no reason to reveal his knowledge of the man’s origin, and it was impossible to speak of it with others present. “Please do not stand on my account. If you do not need my aid, I would like to retire so I might bathe.” He was accustomed to bathing regularly in the hot springs of his home. The difficulty of doing so in his travels had been distressing.

  “We have a heated bath in the cellar,” Chantal offered. “Papa had it built, and it’s the most marvelous place. The Romans could have none better.”

  Ian let his appreciation show in his expression as he glanced at her father. Resigned, Alain Orateur caressed his daughter’s fair hair and nodded. As an Aelynner, Alain would appreciate a heated bath far more than Other Worlders who knew little of such conveniences.

  “My house is at your service,” his host said. “If there is anything we can do to aid your search, we are at your disposal. These are uncertain times, and I would not have you harmed.”

  Ian accepted his offer as an oblique acknowledgment that Alain would not challenge him. This was good. He was always prepared for battle, but he preferred peace. “I would like to understand more of your country,” he agreed. “The more I know, the easier it will be for me to complete my task.”

  “Tonight was not a fair example of our ways,” the other man protested. “I have a habit of saying more than I should, which angers instead of heals. I addressed the Assembly on behalf of the king today, and the more radical elements objected. There are those who would extract justice from the innocent for past wrongs, but once people see the wisdom of allowing the Assembly to counsel the king, the monarchy will survive in some form.”

  Ian approved of this insight, but to his surprise, he sensed anger, fear, and disagreement from elsewhere in the room. Trying not to look too startled, he bowed and turned for the door. His eyes met Pauline’s defiant ones.

  A flare of intense loyalty to the king and queen briefly eclipsed rational thought, and he sensed that this loyalty was in opposition to that of Chantal and her father. Loyalty to leaders was a positive attribute as far as he understood, since he was a leader. That there could be different forms of loyalty was puzzling but, again, not his concern.

  He nodded in farewell and departed.

  In the morning, after he had bathed and everyone was rested, would be time enough to ask for Chantal in marriage.

  Of course, if Alain Orateur knew who Ian was, he also knew that Other World vows were meaningless on Aelynn. Ian hoped that wouldn’t create a complication.

  Nine

  Chantal tried not to hurry down to the breakfast parlor the next morning, but her step was light and eager on the stairs.

  Ian had not come to her chamber last night. She assumed it was out of courtesy to her father. She had thought that was what she wanted — to protect her father from unseemly behavior. But this morning, she felt otherwise. She wanted Ian in her bed again for whatever brief time he could be here. She didn’t wish to miss a minute of the pleasure they could have together. If a child came of it, so be it. She’d never conceived in the early years of her marriage, before Jean became ill, so considering the possibility was mostly an intellectual exercise.

  She had not realized she’d been living as if half-dead for so long. She wanted to feel truly alive again, and Ian did that for her.

  She walked into the parlor to find Ian and Pauline with their heads cozily together over cups of coffee, and her spirits dropped to her feet.

  What had she been thinking?

  He was a strikingly exotic stranger, a traveler who took his pleasure where he found it. She knew that, had acknowledged that by assuming they didn’t have much time together. So why was she so disappointed that she wasn’t the only woman he had his eye on?

  She supposed she shouldn’t be so old-fashioned as to believe men and women should have only one partner at a time, but she’d just discovered a strong streak of jealousy she had not known she possessed — for a man who had not even acknowledged her entrance.

  Apparently caught up in his conversation with Pauline, Ian didn’t rise from the table as he should have. After Chantal poured coffee from the silver pot on the sideboard and sing-songed her good mornings with false gaiet
y, he slowly rose to tower over the table, wearing a quizzical expression, as if he’d been kicked into doing the proper thing and didn’t understand why. Perhaps her song had been a little too false.

  He wore his monk’s robes open over crisp linen and lace that someone must have laundered for him overnight, but he exuded a raw maleness that was far from saintly.

  She had to wonder whether Ian had gone to Pauline’s bed last night instead of hers, if he preferred her friend’s more experienced lovemaking. She couldn’t bear to look at Pauline to see if she wore a satisfied expression.

  She could barely unclench her teeth as she took a seat while Ian returned to his chair. “I see you have learned more of our etiquette, monsieur,” she said politely.

  Did she sense amusement beneath his serious exterior? Was her jealousy that evident? Maybe she ought to kick him into rising again.

  “I do not fully grasp this word etiquette,” he acknowledged, “or the reasons for bobbing up and down like a puppet on a string.”

  “Etiquette is how one shows respect, another word you do not seem to fully grasp,” she replied sweetly.

  His amusement seemed to heighten, and he regarded her as if she were a particularly ripe plum on his plate. “Your voice is an enchanting song in my ear, even though your intention is to drive nails into my flesh. I am to show respect for this fascinating talent?”

  Chantal tore off a bite of croissant with more force than the flaky pastry deserved. She did not recall anyone ever laughing at her. Perhaps she did not want this stranger here so much after all. She’d forgotten that the pleasures of sex came accompanied by the nuisance of submitting to the annoying notions of men.

  “Monsieur d’Olympe believes the chalice has been taken to the king,” Pauline interrupted Chantal’s snit with excitement. “I am to go to the Tuileries this morning and see what I can learn. Isn’t this fascinating? He rescues me, and then it turns out that I can be of help to him!”

  Chantal feigned a bright smile as she examined the monk over the top of her cup. He’d let his cowl fall back, and his inky hair gleamed. Fine curls sprang from the tight queue. His high bronzed brow spoke of wisdom and intelligence, and his eyes…

  She shook her head. They were so changeable that she could never tell if they were brown or black or just a very deep blue. They had the power to enthrall her, so she dipped her gaze back to the table rather than let him heat her blood.

  “The king might appreciate coins rather than a bell that doesn’t ring or a chalice too clumsy to drink from,” Chantal responded, trying to think clearly when her soul was crying ridiculous protests. “But he is so tightly guarded, I cannot see how such a thing would be smuggled out, or even how we might get in to see His Majesty.”

  “I do not understand why the leader of your country is not free to do as he pleases. I understand it might be difficult to see a busy man, but that is not what you’re saying, is it?”

  Pauline’s pointed chin lifted while she waited for Chantal to answer this very complicated question. They’d argued over it before, without coming to any good conclusion.

  “Our kings held the power of gods for too long,” Chantal responded carefully. “It is never wise to give any one person that much influence. People are human, not gods, and they have weaknesses. So it has become necessary to take some authority away from the king and queen and give it to the Assembly. There are some who disagree with this change.” She cast a glance at her friend. “But that is mostly because it takes away the authority of the nobility as well as the king’s. Since all of France is bankrupt, power is our strongest currency.”

  “Ah, I think I begin to see,” he said. His eyes flashed with understanding. “Those who wish to return to the old ways guard your leaders in hopes of retaining what they once had.”

  “And those who wish to change the world overnight would lock our rightful leaders in cells and never let them out,” Pauline finished for him.

  “Without a leader, there will be chaos,” Ian predicted.

  “We are not trying to be rid of the king!” Chantal protested. “But he must put the needs of his own people above those of foreign popes and corrupt aristocrats. It is all much too complex to argue now. We should make some plan of retrieving the chalice once Pauline discovers if it is truly at the palace.”

  She would like to ask why Ian thought it was there, but instinct told her there were some things about this man that she’d rather not know. “Where is Papa? Perhaps he can help us.”

  “He has gone to find Pierre,” Pauline said with a return of her worried frown.

  “He should be resting his injured knee! No judge will be about to set bail at this hour.” Chantal glanced at Ian. Had he spoken with her father?

  He returned her gaze enigmatically.

  She’d like to smack him.

  That was not like her. She seldom let her impulses overcome her to the point of acting on them — but Ian seemed to have broken the barrier she’d built around her passions. Humming under her breath to pacify her turbulent emotions, she tapped her fingers on the table and wished for the bell back. If wishes were horses…

  Understanding Pauline’s concern for her brother, Chantal shoved aside her selfishness. “I cannot think it is safe for you to leave the house until Papa has settled this matter.”

  “I can always take sanctuary with the queen,” Pauline said stiffly.

  “The queen can’t provide sanctuary for herself these days. I am terrified every day you return to her.”

  Ian intruded upon the argument. “Perhaps, while Madame Racine attends the queen, you might show me about your city?”

  Did she imagine it, or did she detect a strong desire behind his words, one that could not be translated easily? Just because she heard harmonies in the breeze didn’t mean she heard things that weren’t being said. Ian d’Olympe was simply a very… forceful… man. She would say intense except she sensed no tension about him.

  “Usually, Papa leaves me a speech or pamphlet to edit and take to the printers. If he has not done so today, I’m at your disposal this morning. My students arrive in the afternoon.”

  Insanely, she was already squirming in her seat beneath Ian’s penetrating gaze, wondering what he intended, if they could find a way to steal off somewhere private…

  She had to stop this.

  “If it would not be too much trouble, I would enjoy a tour. Perhaps you could show me this palace of your king. Are there other places I should see while I am here?”

  “If Papa is looking for Pierre and arranging for his release,” Chantal said with an assurance she didn’t feel, “perhaps we could look for them while we’re out and about.”

  “Would you?” Pauline asked. “I’d be forever grateful.” She still looked anxious.

  As she had every right to be. Pierre must leave Paris if he still refused to take the oath of loyalty. What would Pauline do then? Little by little, all the royalists were fleeing France. If Pauline took the children…

  Chantal would be deprived of all her family except her father. Already her heart cried in loneliness.

  * * *

  Ian was now thoroughly convinced the gods meant to teach him the humility of living without the power of his position.

  On Aelynn, his rank and abilities gave him almost complete control over his environment. If he wanted a woman, a woman came to him. If he wanted the Council’s support, he could call on Aelynn to smoke and rumble. He could ignite fires if he was cold.

  That he generally chose to do none of these things was irrelevant to his current frustration.

  On Aelynn, he would have the status to order Chantal’s father to a meeting of the Council where he could negotiate the terms of marriage or amacara. That was a power he would use now, if he could. But Alain’s deliberate disappearance prevented it.

  On Aelynn, Chantal would be delighted to grace his bed without question. Instead, he was forced to woo her with subterfuge and promises, and even then, she remained frustratingly elu
sive. He had no idea why she had vibrated so strongly with what felt like jealousy this morning, then looked at him as if he were the dirt beneath her feet.

  Despite her attempts to conceal it, the emotion in her voice had been so strong that he’d actually sensed her desire for him to stand up and had done so. He’d never acquiesced to the command of another in his life, not even for his powerful sister, and it irked him immensely that he had now. Still, although he had no certainty of how he could bind her to him, he was determined to have this maddening female.

  Of course, the one thing he had not been able to control on Aelynn was Murdoch, and that remained unchanged here in the Other World.

  Strolling through the garden of the Tuileries Palace, Ian glared at the medieval stone buildings housing the king and his guards and knew Murdoch was not inside. Ian was just realizing that France had many soldiers, but they did not all share the same loyalty. He didn’t know which side Murdoch was on. Although Ian had Seen Murdoch leading troops, he had sensed that his nemesis did so outside of Paris. Last night’s efforts to Find him had been as unsuccessful as earlier attempts.

  He didn’t know if that meant Trystan was wrong and Murdoch was now completely powerless, or if Murdoch was simply beyond the range of Ian’s abilities in this world.

  “Isn’t the garden lovely?” Chantal asked, strolling along the riverbank and admiring the imposing view of gnarled old trees against ancient stone.

  She wore another confection of a hat today, one that concealed her eyes but exposed the curve of her nape beneath her heavy chignon. Ian wished she would let her hair loose, but he could tell from the people around him that only the lowest of slatterns did so in public. Another pointless custom he must adjust to.

  He disliked the palace immensely. The very stones reeked of terror. The crowd in the park seethed with resentment, hostility, and fear. Only the children chasing a rolling ball and a few heedless lovers enjoying a summer’s day seemed content with the beauty of the greenery.