Mystic Rider

by Patricia Rice

  Chantal’s throat closed, and she didn’t know what to say to this casual narrative of incredible deeds. Mariel’s French was spoken in an unpolished Breton accent, a far different tongue from Chantal’s aristocratic, Parisian French. Perhaps she misunderstood.

  The shouts above became heated, and heavy heels pounded the planks. Canvas snapped as if caught in a strong wind, and Chantal half expected to hear a deluge of rain, although the skies had been clear. She glanced toward the stairs, instinctively starting to rise.

  Mariel caught her hand to the table. “Don’t. You won’t see anything, and the children will want to follow you.”

  “I really wish someone would explain,” Chantal complained, feeling her breath constrict in her lungs as the ship rocked with more force. At least she heard no musket fire.

  “They are allowed to cause no harm except in defense of themselves and their families. They have the ability to slaughter armies, but spilling blood tends to make one unwelcome, so it’s avoided. You never told me if you were the one who sent the message that we were needed. I’ve been told I’m impulsive, so I’ve been trying to be patient.”

  “I can’t send messages to ships,” Chantal murmured, still listening to the sounds above and marveling at the stillness of the two fierce toddlers. She didn’t understand the question well enough to do more than answer plainly. “Perhaps if I had a carrier pigeon…”

  “How odd. If you can’t talk to dolphins, then who can? Your father? He did not look well enough to swim in the channel.”

  The image of Ian dripping wet, standing over her bed, appeared in her mind’s eye. He’d been swimming in the middle of the night — in the sea.

  “Dolphins can’t talk,” she asserted, although she no longer had confidence in anything she once thought she knew.

  “Not the way we do, admittedly. They emit a series of squeals and high-pitched noises that would be difficult to learn if their vocabularies weren’t so limited.”

  Chantal swung her dazed gaze to the seemingly normal woman sitting across from her. Mariel appeared to be close to Chantal’s age, and wore an ordinary gown that might be outdated by Paris standards, but it wasn’t worn backward or fastened crazily like a madwoman’s.

  Only — Chantal hesitated as she met her hostess’s eyes. Hadn’t they been a lovely clear turquoise a moment ago? Now they darkened to changeable shades of midnight… just like Ian’s.

  “You received a message from a dolphin?” she asked faintly.

  Mariel studied her with uncertainty and didn’t reply as openly as before. “I thought you were Ian’s amacara. If I am wrong… Perhaps I ought to wait to explain until they return.”

  “Perhaps,” Chantal agreed quietly.

  * * *

  “You did not even allow me to draw my sword,” Trystan grumbled as they stood beneath canvas cracking in the stiff wind and watched the blue uniforms of the National Guard marching away. “It would have been in defense and perfectly legal.”

  Ian had been the one to wield his staff, and his mental abilities, to drive the soldiers back. There had been a few protests, a few swords drawn and fists thrown, but all in all, they’d escaped with little more than bruises and bad feelings.

  Yet Ian was still itching for a fight. And the reason waited below.

  “This land will see enough bloodshed in the years to come without our adding to it,” he replied. “Should we need to return here, it’s better that we leave the inhabitants confused rather than dead. I wish we all had Murdoch’s trick for invisibility.”

  “Invisibility!” Trystan’s golden brown eyebrows shot up. “You’ve seen Murdoch? Or should I say, not seen him, if he’s learned invisibility?”

  Ian glanced to Waylan’s ship in the distance, lifting sail, fighting the Channel’s tide. The Weathermaker would be working the wind to allow both ships to leave the harbor before the French soldiers changed their minds and came after them. “With any luck, Murdoch is aboard the Destiny, where Waylan can keep an eye on him.”

  Trystan stilled and watched Ian guardedly. “You let him go?”

  Turning away from the dock, Ian twirled his oak and watched the canvas unfurl. “Perhaps it is best if we do not mention this at home. Not yet, not until the future becomes more clear.”

  “He was once my friend, too,” Trystan reminded him. “That he’s still alive speaks well of your patience.”

  Ian laughed and took delight in doing so. How incredible that even in these trying circumstances, thanks to Chantal’s effect on him, he could laugh. “I think it speaks well of my amacara. When she is happy, she surrounds me with peace and joy. Come, you must meet her.” He started down the deck to the gangway.

  “What happens if she’s not happy?” Trystan asked with interest.

  “Given that she was weeping when I left her, you are about to find out.” And still, Ian didn’t hesitate in his eagerness to see how Chantal had fared. Even her tempers were endlessly fascinating to him. He supposed he ought to hope his enthrallment wore off soon or he would never accomplish anything, but the experience was far too new to surrender it easily.

  “Best let me go down first,” Trystan said apologetically, brushing Ian aside.

  As they climbed down the gangway, two fierce toddlers swarmed up the stairs to attack Trystan’s ankles. Barely able to balance on their feet, they shrieked as if their cries could topple him, and waved their swords in a manner destined to send them tumbling backward.

  Ian watched in amusement as Trystan laughingly conquered the toddlers, scooping up both children and carrying them into the cabin where the women waited.

  “They are certain to trip and break the necks of any pirate,” Trystan crowed, leaning over to kiss Mariel’s brow. “Do you think we might make the next one a docile sailmaker?”

  Ian noticed that neither woman was smiling with her eyes, although they both gazed fondly at the children. Children. That should be his purpose — creating a better world for the children. It would be easier to remember that if he had one of his own.

  Ian didn’t feel comfortable displaying his weakness by kissing Chantal in front of Trystan and Mariel. He and the Guardian had grown up together, but they’d always been aware of their unequal ranks and position. Since Trystan had once aspired to the hand of Ian’s sister, their relationship had often been more combative than comfortable.

  “Monsieur Orateur is with Hans,” Mariel said, taking Danaë from her husband but glaring at Ian. “Perhaps you would care to clarify what’s happening before I say anything else that I shouldn’t? Keep in mind that I’m new at keeping your secrets.”

  “Your ring will prevent your saying more than you should. I hope,” Ian added, since too many of his preconceived notions had been shattered lately. “What secrets were you revealing?”

  “Perhaps you would care to start by telling me where we are going?” Chantal asked in modulated tones, saving Mariel from having to reply.

  “I would rather show our friends your ability to spread cheer,” he said dryly. “Why not choose a subject less apt to create chaos?”

  “Chaos?” Trystan asked. For a block-headed Guardian, he was amazingly perceptive. “I thought Murdoch was our Lord of Misrule.”

  “There is no such thing as a Lord of Misrule, only harbingers of change.” Ian had spent the night trying to convince himself of this notion to justify bringing the Orateurs to Aelynn. “Chantal’s father is an Orator. Her abilities are different. We have yet to explore them fully.”

  “Who sent the porpoise message?” Mariel demanded, cutting through his obfuscations.

  “I did,” Ian admitted. “It seemed reasonable to believe that if I have some small part of everyone’s abilities, I should share yours as well. I have never been drawn to the sea, but it was an enlightening experience.”

  “You talk to dolphins?” Chantal asked, using her pleasant voice.

  Hearing the turbulence she hid from the others, Ian took her hand and lifted her from the bench. “We have sworn th
e vows of amacara to each other, but we have not yet done so before the gods. Until you wear my ring, it is difficult for us to speak of our home. You have said that you trust me. Will you take my word that all is well and will be explained shortly?”

  To his relief, she seemed to consider his promise without protest. Rising on her toes, she pressed a charming kiss to his cheek before releasing his hand and stepping away.

  “Of course, my love,” she said sweetly. “If you will understand that I sleep alone until all is explained to my satisfaction.”

  Sweeping back her bedraggled skirt as if it were the silk and lace of a princess, she sashayed to the cabin where her father rested and quietly but firmly shut the door between them.

  A moment later, she played a note on her flute, and the glass of the hanging lantern above Ian’s head shattered.

  Thirty-one

  “If you would come with me, I’d like to show you the passage to my home.” Ian stood diffidently outside the open door to the cabin where Chantal sat by her father’s bedside.

  She glanced up to see him in the garb he’d worn since they’d set sail. He’d discarded his robe, boots, and cravat, and now wore only breeches and an open-necked linen shirt. At least he had not cut the sleeves off his shirt like many of the sailors had. He looked so delectable just as he was that she wanted to lick the brown V of skin revealed by the open neckline. She did not dare look at his bare toes without thinking she could start there….

  Apparently the savages of his country thought nothing of going bare legged and barefoot. When she had joined the others for meals, Chantal had done her best not to stare at all the muscular masculinity barely concealed by thin linen, but she was feeling decidedly like a fish out of water. No wonder her elegant father had preferred the civilization of France and had not mentioned his barbarous background.

  Only the music of her flute had kept her calm. She blessed Ian for the thoughtful gift every time she played. And cursed him whenever she did not.

  In deference to the heat and humidity and the difficulty of navigating the narrow stairs of the companionway, she wore a frock without petticoats as Mariel did. But her stockings clung to her legs, and she wished she dared go barefoot, too.

  She swallowed the lump of fear that had been with her since the ship cast off, and followed Ian into the main cabin. “We are there?” she asked with some trepidation. At least they had not sailed an ocean away from France.

  “Almost. But you need to be at a distance to appreciate the full effect. Trystan is already pacing the bow. He feels it first.”

  She’d promised not to ask questions until he was free to explain. She didn’t understand, but despite her fears and worries, she vibrated with eagerness to see the world he called his own.

  “Try not to burst with impatience,” he said with laughter as she ran up the companionway. “I would try to answer all your questions now, but your fears may sink the ship before I’m done.”

  “I can’t sink ships.” On deck, she glanced around with disappointment. She could barely see the dawn through the fog drifting over the water. No land was in sight. “You exaggerate.”

  “Possibly,” he admitted. “Since you have no training, you do not truly understand what you’re capable of, but I think you have a natural capacity to keep your passion tightly reined. ’Tis a pity you were not around to teach Murdoch such control. But I know you have driven even me to actions I cannot explain, so your effect on others would be multiplied.”

  “As usual, you raise more questions than you answer,” she complained, leaning on the rail and watching the dolphins that followed the ship. Just standing alone beside Ian with her hair blowing free in the wind was exciting. If she did not have so many questions and concerns, she could learn to enjoy this adventure. “That we cannot stay in the same room without thinking of lovemaking may be obsessive, but I can swear I do not have that effect on anyone else.”

  “Thank the gods for that,” he said fervently. “Admittedly, it is difficult for me to know whether I made love to you the first time because your voice called me to you or because you’re my destined mate or if they are the same thing. But our physical attraction has nothing to do with my need to slay everyone in sight when you’re afraid, or my berserk behavior when I thought you were about to ride your horse over a cliff. I am a man of peace, but your war cries struck chords in me that could have led entire armies to battle.”

  “That’s still obsession,” she scoffed. “I loved your chalice as much or more than my piano. But I gave it up for Pauline because I loved her more. Sometimes, we act against our best interests for those we love. Since you don’t know me well enough to love me, you must be obsessed.”

  The fog thickened, but Chantal thought she saw black cliffs or tall boulders looming straight ahead. She prayed the ship’s captain knew what he was doing or they would wreck very messily on those craggy rocks. Any normal captain would be frantically ordering the sails reversed to escape this death trap.

  “I am not certain I grasp the concept of love,” Ian admitted. “I cannot separate it from my physical need to be with my amacara. But I think neither would affect an inanimate object like my staff. And yet it vibrated when I thought you were in trouble.”

  “People can accomplish extraordinary things when they are frightened for their loved ones,” she replied with careful nonchalance. He’d said he didn’t know if he loved her, which was somewhat better than saying he was certain he didn’t. He’d shattered her fledgling hopes days ago, but now Chantal heard notes in his voice that offered hope. “I knew a man once who lifted an overturned carriage to release his family inside. Once they were free, he could not ever lift it again, no matter how hard he tried.”

  “Your war cries stopped Murdoch in his tracks,” he reminded her with a hint of humor. “That alone saved lives, since he’d become so angry that he made the earth quake.”

  She slanted him a look of disbelief. “Men don’t make the earth quake. Your explanations are no better than the hallucinations of those who suffer from opium dreams.”

  His smile was so devastating that he made her earth quake, and she had to grab the rail to prevent herself from falling. She wanted to kiss him, but she was aware of Trystan in the bow not yards away. And sailors scurried through the rigging, no doubt watching their every move.

  “I do not need to artificially alter my mind,” Ian assured her. “My world already possesses more wonders than opium dreams, more than a man of science or blind faith can explain. The time has come for me to introduce you to my home. I hope that, in some way, you will help me understand those things that puzzle me.”

  “Like etiquette?” she asked tartly, unable to express her confusion elsewise.

  He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “That, too. Now, watch Trystan.” Standing behind her so that she could feel the length of him shielding her from the wind, he turned her chin so she faced Trystan in the bow and the ominous black rocks looming through the thick fog.

  “He is our island’s Guardian,” he explained. “The volcano we call Aelynn — after our most powerful god — heats the waters and raises the fog that renders our land invisible. Trystan creates the barrier that prevents all but the fish in the sea and the birds high in the sky from entering these straits. Only Aelynners may pass these waters. The vows we spoke bind you to me so that you can cross the barrier, but Pauline could not. She is not one of us. Your father is, and thus, so are you, almost.”

  None of this made sense to Chantal, so she remained quiet, watching for this oddity that would allow her in but keep Pauline out. She did not understand what vows she may have exchanged with Ian other than those they’d made with their bodies, but she was willing to believe those were strong enough to create miracles.

  The fog silenced even the cries of the gulls. They sailed so close to the walls of the narrow strait that Chantal thought she could reach out and scrape her knuckles. But Trystan remained in the bow, his fists clamped around the railing, his golden hair
blowing in the wind like that of some fierce god.

  Then he straightened and raised his bare arms, and a gleam of light struck the strange bands he wore on his upper arms. It was a primitive gesture that shook Chantal to her shoes. Ian wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back against him.

  The glow brightened, streaming down Trystan’s arms and chest, until in an instant, he gleamed like a golden statue. The fog parted with an oddly colorful shimmer, and the ship sailed out of the gloomy channel into a sunny bay that had been invisible just moments before.

  Chantal gasped as an emerald island spread across the horizon. A volcanic peak smoked lazily into a distant cloud. Gentle waves lapped against crystalline black sand beaches. Strange trees dipped their fronds in a soft breeze. The rich floral scents of exotic gardenias and jasmine perfumed the air. Not since she’d been invited to walk through the king’s orangerie had she inhaled such a marvelous fragrance.

  She leaned back in Ian’s embrace, and he hugged her tighter. If this was the world he’d brought her to, she heartily approved.

  “Quite a sight, isn’t it?” her father asked from behind them.

  Chantal whirled around. Ian stood broad and tall behind her, with one hand remaining at her waist, keeping her close. She was grateful for his steadying influence.

  Her father looked better already. Color had returned to his beard-stubbled cheeks. He had always kept what remained of his hair cropped short for comfort under his wigs, but the dark blond strands had turned an iron gray over the years. The brilliant sun revealed wrinkles and deep creases in his face that she’d not noticed until now. But his eyes gleamed in appreciation of the view.

  “We should have traveled more often,” she said softly. “The islands of the Caribbean are also said to be magical.”

  “In their own way,” her father agreed. “I saw them as a lonely youth, learned their music and customs, but they could not match Aelynn. I had not realized how very much I missed her.”