Mystic Rider

by Patricia Rice

  She wrinkled her nose in thought. “I’m no angel. I get angry. I just usually find some way of diverting my temper into music. I like the tone of your bell. Chalice.” Remembering who had held it last, she narrowed her gaze. “You helped arrange the king’s freedom in exchange for this, didn’t you? Do you have any inkling of what you’ve done?”

  “Your queen lives in dire fear of poisoning, and your king is a prisoner, unable to even worship with his own priests. Their children are under constant threat of maniacs who despise the monarchy. I doubt that I have exposed them to more risk by offering them a choice.”

  “You have made it impossible for my father and me to return home.” Cradling the chalice, she stared out the window to the street below. “Paris is not so large that our departure wasn’t noticed. Two and two will add up eventually. We’ll be arrested as soon as we return.”

  “You will go home with me,” he assured her. “You will like it there.”

  She threw a pillow from the window seat at him. “I like my home!”

  He caught the pillow. “You will not like it so well a year from now, when the streets run with blood. Think on what you would like most in this world, and I will provide it for you.”

  “I want my home and my life back!” she said angrily, before stopping to think of what he’d just said. Her eyes grew wide and apprehensive. “You did this deliberately so I could not go back. Who are you and where are you taking us? And more importantly, why?”

  “I did not mean to permanently separate you from your home.” Actually, he’d given it no thought at all. He’d simply done what needed to be done. But he assumed she was in no humor to hear that. “And I am taking you north, to the Netherlands, as you asked. We will discuss what you wish to do after that. I still must find my countryman before we can head in that direction. Will you kiss me before I leave?”

  She shot him a glare. “In these last few years, I have lost my husband, my mother, and my grandparents. Now you separate me from what little family I have left, and you expect me to be grateful?”

  “I brought your family with us,” he reminded her. “And your father’s horses. I cannot move houses, but I can provide any house you desire.”

  She stared at him. “Do you really think I will follow you anywhere simply because of what we’ve done in bed?”

  “Yes,” he said simply. “That is how it is with amacara matches. The current circumstances are unfortunate, but we will adapt over time.”

  “Never! You cannot kidnap me and expect me to be grateful.”

  “I don’t ask for your gratitude. Right now, all I ask is a kiss.” And he didn’t know why he was adamant about that. Reason said she was angry and would not comply.

  His newly discovered desires insisted that she feel the same as he. Foolish, even he must admit.

  “Maybe I will kiss you if you come back alive,” she said with a shrug. “I have lost all I’ve ever loved, so it’s much simpler if I hate you.”

  Her words flayed Ian as sharply as any whip. This wasn’t how he wanted it to be between them. But for the sake of his people, he must bear her scorn and anguish. And possibly, her hatred. Amacara matches were physical for the sake of heirs, so he held no illusion beyond that — although there was an odd longing in his chest for her understanding, at least.

  “I am trusting you with my chalice,” he said without inflection, hiding how her words hurt. “In your hands, it is invisible to me, so I trust it will be invisible to others like me. Guard it well. I cannot begin to describe what might happen if it should fall into the hands of the wrong people.”

  “Others like you? Are there others like you? How extraordinary.”

  “You have no idea,” he said, grateful that she listened to reason, however sarcastically. “Perhaps all happens for a purpose. You will be safer here than with me. Rest. I hope to return in a few hours.”

  “And if you don’t? What do we do then?”

  An excellent question, one he wasn’t equipped to answer. He had been prepared to die fighting Murdoch, but he could no longer afford that luxury.

  Shaking his head at that conundrum, Ian bowed out of the room.

  The Chalice of Plenty was now invisible and safe in his mate’s keeping. He had only to conquer a man who once had the unique ability to affect all four of the earth’s powers, with strengths equal to Ian’s own or better.

  Perhaps he should test how much strength Murdoch still retained before he attempted to truss him like a pig and bring him back to Aelynn.

  If excitement was what he craved, the journey home with an unwilling mate and a dangerous hostage ought to be the highlight of his life.

  Eighteen

  Even before Ian reached Rapscallion, he sensed troubled vibrations.

  He would have to hope the heavens showed him the way. Thanking Aelynn for the gift of the horse’s motion to focus his energies, he climbed back in the saddle and struck out for the road the king’s berlin had taken.

  He had met the royal party long enough to recognize their thought threads among the hundreds of others around him. Letting the stallion have his head on the open road, Ian collected the threads carried on the winds. He recognized the queen’s unease but not the reason for it.

  More disturbing was the fury building in the minds of thousands in Paris — a cloud of rage so enormous that he could sense it even from a day’s journey away.

  It was late afternoon. The palace guards would have had time to discover the royal family’s escape. The alarm would have been sounded. The Assembly would be forced to send out their National Guard, if only to stop the rioting, but more to the point — to prevent the king and his loyal troops from raising arms against them. There would be messengers racing down every road. The overloaded berlin barely covered a few miles an hour. Horses under saddle could travel three or four times that speed.

  If the duc’s loyal soldiers were in place…the berlin might reach safety before the National Guard learned their direction and sent an army to stop them.

  Where was Murdoch as the world teetered at a cosmic crossroads?

  Ian knew he had no more excuses to interfere in the Other World by saving the royal party. He had the chalice. Chantal was safe. Fate would have to deal the cards of the royals.

  His only purpose now could be to stop Murdoch from interfering. Murdoch would not be so close to such momentous events if he did not have a scheme in mind to further his ambition. Whether the chalice was part of that scheme, Ian couldn’t discern.

  Knowing that Murdoch, with his Olympian strengths, had once hoped to be Aelynn’s leader, Ian couldn’t help fearing that his banished countryman had deliberately found a country on the brink of self-destruction so he could use the turmoil to his own advantage. To conquer an entire nation would require taming armies with terror, easily done should Murdoch unleash earthquakes or hurricanes or fire. Except — even if he meant well — Murdoch had never been able to reliably control these forces. People would die by the thousands.

  As Ian drew closer to the village where the duc’s forty hussars were to meet the royal party, he sensed as much confusion as anger ahead. The populace seemed to be puzzled and resentful about the duc’s soldiers lingering where they didn’t belong. Their greatest fear seemed to be that the soldiers meant to collect the rents that hadn’t been, and couldn’t be, paid. And there was relief that the hussars had abruptly departed.

  Yet Ian still sensed the presence of soldiers somewhere in the distance. The days were at their longest now, and even past the dinner hour, there was sufficient daylight to see no sign of the berlin or the troops along the road as planned. The berlin had been scheduled to arrive hours ago, but the broken wheel had delayed them. Had the duc’s troops not waited?

  Opening his mind to accept all the energy generated in the area, Ian urged Rapscallion faster and let his surroundings flow through him, capturing the thought threads and analyzing them as best he could in his haste.

  There, some miles from the road, a m
ass of men and horses wandered in confusion in the shadows of a forest — the duc’s hussars. Retreating from the angry villagers after hours of waiting for a royal coach that hadn’t arrived as promised, they’d become lost looking for a route through the trees to the next outpost. There was concern that the king had failed to escape.

  Some miles farther down the road toward the border, Ian sensed a few familiar threads from the royal party exhibiting fear and bewilderment at the failure of their escort to appear. They’d decided to drive on to the next outpost, where more soldiers should be waiting.

  Not far ahead of Ian, weary from long travel, scared, and excited, was the messenger from Paris, riding to notify the countryside of the king’s escape, carrying an order to the National Guard in each town to halt the berlin and arrest the occupants on sight.

  And there, right before the village where the hussars were supposed to be waiting, before Ian could act on the disaster in the making — Murdoch. Ian grasped Rapscallion’s reins and tugged him to a prancing, protesting halt.

  If he could sense Murdoch, then Murdoch knew Ian was here.

  It had been more than two years since he’d seen his old friend. More than two years since Murdoch had called down lightning, exploded a barrel of fireworks, and killed Ian’s father, Aelynn’s Chosen Leader.

  Ian had nothing but mixed feelings about the man Murdoch had become. As youngsters, they’d been raised together — Ian, the heir to the most powerful family on Aelynn, and Murdoch, the baseborn child of a mere hearth witch, a woman who was little more than a housekeeper.

  Normally, a child of Murdoch’s background would be left to find his place among the island’s laborers, but Murdoch had exhibited such astounding abilities that his talents couldn’t be wasted. Ian’s parents had taken Murdoch in and tutored him along with their own offspring.

  Except Murdoch’s erratic abilities had resisted training. If the lesson was in moving rock, he would shatter hillsides. If asked to fill a well, he would flood a town. He had a rage inside him that drove all his energies beyond the limits of others.

  Most Aelynners had one strong ability that they cultivated and, if they were lucky, a minor one to complement it. As the son of an Oracle and Council Leader, Ian had many abilities. He’d been expected to develop his gift for Seeing, but even as a child, Murdoch had been competitive in the same area. He and Murdoch had inevitably foreseen different outcomes for every event. At best, they’d each been half right in their interpretations.

  They’d shared long philosophical discussions over the reasons for this and many other things, including Murdoch’s inability to direct his gifts — which was why Ian doubted that Murdoch was guilty of more than accident by rage. Though, for all anyone knew, in the heat of anger Murdoch could very well have wished his leader dead, and the gods had answered.

  Ian missed the friend Murdoch had been. He did not know the man who had killed the Council Leader or used Greek fire in an attempt to kill the island’s Guardian — or the man who waited somewhere in the shadows on the outskirts of the village just ahead.

  Ian saw no sign of the king’s berlin or the duc’s troops as he approached the village. More people than was normal roamed the street, whispering and arguing. He scarcely needed his extra senses to know that the messenger with the news of the king’s escape had just arrived.

  One lone officer in royal blue and scarlet waited, hidden from the setting sun by a pergola outside a rose garden filled with vibrant blooms. The rich scent engulfed Ian as he swung down from his mount. If there was to be combat, he wanted the horse clear of it. The tension of challenge shimmered in the air as he approached on foot.

  “You have grown wiser since I saw you last,” the soldier said without inflection. “Up until an hour ago, I felt the chalice, and now I can’t. Concealing it from me is a gift worthy of an Oracle. Did you bring the old crone with you?”

  “Dylys is your mother as well as mine, in all ways but one,” Ian replied. If Murdoch meant to insult him into losing control, he’d forgotten the differences between them. “You owe her respect, if naught else.”

  “She nearly killed me,” Murdoch replied conversationally. “She tried to steal my soul and turn me into a husk.”

  “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.

&
nbsp; 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.