And she’d left her brother trapped by duty on the island, unable to take solace in the open space of his new home. Ian was a saint among men who would look after Aelynn even better than she, but he needed freedom to enhance his gifts. She was being shamelessly selfish to stay here.
“Riding does not help you concentrate on your vision as it does Ian?” she inquired.
“No. My sword is the best element for focus I have found.”
She understood his curtness. People avoided madmen waving swords in the streets. It made sense to live in a country at war, where his gifts could be better employed.
And it followed that he would never fit in on an island at peace. Was she horribly wrong about the gods’ intent? “I have often wished I could point a sword at the Council and raise the roof over their heads to get their attention,” she mused.
He sent her a look of disbelief at the path of her wayward thoughts. “They would probably run for their lives should you produce a sword.” He returned her to more pragmatic matters. “That’s the estate, up ahead.” He nodded toward a rise of land.
They’d left the farm cart carrying their guests some distance behind. Lissandra had lost track of the miles from the coast to this inland country. She knew only that it took longer to arrive here than it did to traverse Aelynn from one side of the island to the other on foot. Horses made it possible to travel much longer distances.
She studied Ian’s new home with equal parts wariness and eagerness. That her brother had found a place to live far from the shores of paradise was a matter of much wonder to her.
At first sight, she thought it a larger version of their island cottages. Whitewashed walls sprawled along the ridge, glistening in the sun. Instead of thatch, the roof had slate tiles, but that seemed sensible in this less tropical weather, as were the windows. At home, shutters were all they needed.
“Will Chantal’s family be overwhelmed by so many guests when they are already entertaining Trystan and his family?” Lissandra asked.
“Chantal’s sister-in-law, Pauline, is a Parisian who loves company. Her children and Trystan and Mariel’s offspring will be delighted to have a new playmate. I believe Pauline’s brother, the priest, remained in Ireland after the chalice escaped him. Mariel’s family . . .” Murdoch shrugged eloquently. “They are plainspoken Bretons. The political arguments are intense.”
“It’s hard to imagine my brother living in such worldly company as Chantal’s family, or in any company at all. He has ever preferred solitude.”
“He has not been here since the arrival of Trystan and his in-laws,” Murdoch reminded her. “You will understand better why Ian chose this home once you know more of this area.”
“It is a sacred place,” she acknowledged. “I realized that as soon as we arrived. It was once an island, much as Aelynn is. The water is all around, even when it cannot be seen. The gods live here, although they have not been worshipped for a long time.”
He shot her a look of appreciation. “I should never underestimate you. And I always do. Why is that?”
“Because I am female, and you are accustomed to thinking brute strength is all that matters. It was the same when we were children. I wanted to play with babies. You wanted to play with ships and swords. But without babies, there would be no ships or swords.”
He let that sink in while they rode closer.
“I hope you do not resent that you must play with my baby,” Murdoch said, intruding on her study of the house.
She heard his concern—for her. She wanted to wilt in relief that he understood her apprehension. “It is not what I anticipated,” she murmured. “I’m both overjoyed and frightened. I must trust the gods’ wisdom in believing I’m strong enough to bear the responsibility of a gifted child conceived without the altar, one with parents as willful as we are.”
“I begin to think the gods are mad old goats who meddle where they shouldn’t,” he complained. His ring glowed brighter, and he turned the stone around to hide the light. “You have only just learned what it is to be on your own. Now you are weighed down with responsibility once again.”
“My parents are dead. Ian wishes to live here.” She gestured at the enormous manor. The gabled front had looked welcoming, but extending behind the modest front were long wings on either side. She was grateful the house had only two floors, but its size was still daunting. “That leaves the safekeeping of an entire island to me. I don’t think one babe will add significantly to that burden. In fact, having a child to love will give me more to live for.”
The knowledge that she needed a spouse with whom to share her burdens loomed between them. Murdoch still had insufficient control of his destructive gifts to be confined to a peaceful island—a dilemma neither of them had yet solved.
“The garden is lovely,” Lissandra exclaimed in surprise as a glimpse of a rose-strewn wall came into view, diverting her attention.
And that was where they left the matter, because along with the garden, the couple occupying it appeared.
Despite her awareness of the simmering animosity between Trystan and Murdoch, Lissandra wasn’t prepared for the swiftness of their reactions. Within seconds of seeing each other, they were standing in the rose garden, weapons drawn, muscles flexing. And she hadn’t even figured out how to dismount! Trystan seemed bent on cutting her off from Murdoch, and Murdoch seemed intent on cutting Trystan off at the knees in self-defense.
Surely Trystan did not think Murdoch had harmed her? She ought to clout him for his presumption.
She glanced at Mariel for aid, but the Breton mermaid merely rested her hand on her expanded waistline and watched the impending battle with interest. Since Lissandra had always fostered an Olympic attitude of omnipotence, Mariel had no idea that a would-be Oracle couldn’t do anything that she wanted. Perhaps that omnipotent image was another facet of her life that must change now that she was not expected to be Oracle.
“You must be mad to bring Lissandra here,” Trystan stated, holding his saber in both hands and prepared to strike the instant Murdoch did. “Did you think to hold her for ransom?”
Aware of the farm cart rapidly approaching with Other Worlders who did not understand Aelynn ways, Lissandra sighed with impatience. Trystan was too arrogant to entirely close his mind to her. She’d never taken advantage of his insolence in the past, but this time, she mentally swatted him. Hard.
“Stop that,” she demanded so he knew with whom he was dealing.
Startled, the golden giant almost dropped his sword but didn’t dare swerve to face her while he had Murdoch in his sights. “You do not understand his menace,” Trystan protested. “He is safe only when bound in chains.”
At ease in billowing shirtsleeves and loose trousers, Murdoch snorted and produced his rapier. With a weapon in each hand, he was beyond formidable. Broader and taller than Murdoch,Trystan was hampered by his formal frock coat and tight doeskin breeches. As usual, Murdoch did not speak his thoughts, but began circling his opponent, searching for a weak spot.
Which meant Lissandra had to speak for him. She ought to swat him as well, but she knew she’d only distract him into a mocking smile, which would no doubt infuriate Trystan further. Men!
“There is a reason I dislike being a leader,” she complained, searching for a bench or something of equal height to help her dismount. “I cannot reason with male absurdity. You know perfectly well that if I wanted Murdoch in chains, he would be in chains. It would be so much simpler if I could just pull a sword and give each of you a sample of your own foolishness.”
With a nod, Mariel indicated a stepping block. “It’s equally easy and more amusing to watch them hack off each other’s heads, as Chantal so politely says. Will they have the sense to stop before then?”
“In this case, most likely, no.” Lissandra unwrapped the skirt of her island attire from the saddle and stepped down just as the farm cart pulled up to the gate. The driver hastily halted his mule at sight of the confrontation in the garden.
Now that Lissandra had moved out of their path, the two men began testing each other. Their weapons flashed in the sunlight with each graceful movement. In moments, they would spin them faster than the Other World eye could see—and their audience would faint dead away.
“Trystan may be larger, but he is a diplomat, not a warrior, so he will most likely fare worst,” Lissandra reminded her hostess. “I recommend that you call him off while I take Murdoch down.”
At her cool assessment and improbable solution, Lissandra sensed the startlement of everyone from Mariel and their onlookers to the two combatants. With the advantage of surprise, and for the benefit of their non-Aelynn guests, she strode with regal authority and no hesitation between the two large oafs and their swinging swords.
When they had no choice except to stop, she kicked Murdoch’s shin, mentally swatted him, then gave him a shove backward into the yews. Caught unprepared, he yelped in surprise—but not for long. From the depths of the greenery, he grinned back at her so widely that Lissandra had to stop herself from swiping his sword and pounding him into the ground with it.
Behind her, Mariel sensibly launched her clumsy weight into her husband’s long arms, forcing Trystan to drop his weapon to catch her.
“I like this diversion,” Mariel cried, clinging to her husband’s neck so he couldn’t set her aside. “Can we do it again?”
Twenty-five
Murdoch set his tiny teacup on the delicate table beside his equally frail chair and glared at his empty palms, trying to figure out what to do with them while the women chatted and the chalice awaited. He needed to be doing something—like challenging a still-simmering Trystan.
He was fully confident that he could defeat Trystan in battle. He had done so before and had more experience now; meanwhile Trystan had been living the peaceful life of diplomacy.
What Murdoch doubted was his own patience to deal with the protocol of forcing Trystan to see that—impossible as it might seem—the Oracle’s daughter had chosen him for a mate, even though he was the most unsuitable man in the known universe.
Life was much simpler when its challenges were met with the sharp edge of a blade.
Crushing china didn’t seem practical, but if he let his tension build, he might shatter the entire table. Or set fire to the draperies. He needed action. Although the confounded tight breeches and frock coat he’d been forced to wear for this charade didn’t allow for much movement.
Following Lis’s example, he’d left the subject of the chalice unspoken. Trystan and Mariel possessed few Finding abilities. Their gifts for protecting the island were too valuable to risk either of them on what could easily be a dangerous mission. So everyone sat about sipping tea as if he and Lis were here for a mere social call. Murdoch clenched his teeth, nearly crushed the delicate cup in his big hand, and tried to ignore Trystan’s glare.
“Your Parisian shoemaker would fare better in London where the crazed ton are desperate for the latest French fashions,” Mariel said over the tea table.
Even Murdoch could see that pregnancy suited his hostess. She possessed the complacent beauty of a Madonna, which made him even more uncomfortable. Would Lis look like that in another few months? Would he even be by her side to watch her grow round with his child? He didn’t know whether to look proudly at Lis the way Trystan looked at his wife, or pretend he was his usual surly self. Hell, he didn’t know himself at all these days.
Pauline, Chantal’s sister-in-law and their émigré hostess in the absence of Ian and Chantal, had taken their guests in hand, showing them to bedchambers where they could freshen or change their clothing, and had introduced Amelie to the nursery crowd. As an Other Worlder, Pauline had no interest in this discussion. Or nondiscussion. She’d not returned to entertain them but apparently joined Mariel’s Other World sister, Francine, in more prosaic household tasks.
Lis sipped from her cup as if she’d done so all her life. “Pierre’s lungs need to fully heal before he travels again. I don’t think he will accept our charity much longer, however. He would prefer to be useful. Is there a town nearby?”
“Glastonbury is not far. It’s little more than a village, though.” Refusing to sit, Trystan paced the far end of the room in front of the cold fireplace.
Lissandra outranked all of them. If she chose to discuss her Other World patient rather than why they had come here, they must all natter aimlessly. Murdoch thought he might explode.
Perhaps he could focus on shattering the crystal candelabra. If he narrowed his eyes, placed his hands on his knees, and pointed his fingers in the direction of the dangling crystal . . .
The prisms started to chatter. Across the room, Lissandra cast him a mocking look. The damned woman was daring him to behave and keep his excess energy under control.
Murdoch rose abruptly from the bent-legged chair. “Why don’t I take our shoemaker and Minutor into town while the three of you catch up on your gossip?” He didn’t bother hiding his sarcasm. They all knew he had no more place in this proper drawing room than he did on Aelynn. He belonged on a battlefield, where killing was necessary. His borrowed cravat was about to choke him.
“I don’t think you’ll find the chalice without me,” Lissandra said complacently, returning her gaze to a book Mariel had been showing her.
Trystan stopped pacing. Mariel nearly dropped the book in surprise at this casual mention of the holy relic that had been lost years ago—and the suggestion that the renegade and the Oracle’s daughter would be working together to retrieve it.
Murdoch almost laughed. His Lis had blasted the conversation wide-open without need of his assistance. Their hosts stared at her as if she’d lost her mind; then they turned warily to him.
Trystan’s eyes narrowed first as he brilliantly recognized the unnatural affinity between the outcast and the Oracle’s daughter. Murdoch offered a sardonic smile, daring the Guardian to ask if he and Lis were sharing a bed. He could not brag, “The lady is mine,” since he had no legal claim to her. But men understood these things.
Trystan’s big hands balled into fists.
“Prepare to fling yourself at your husband, please,” Lis warned Mariel, still without looking up. “Even if I am not anointed Oracle, I’m free to do as I please. It’s difficult enough to teach that to Murdoch. I’d rather not have to force our arrogant Guardian to accept it as well.”
Murdoch did not relax his defenses until Mariel considered all that had not been said, then smiled up at her giant of a husband. “I don’t think Ian would appreciate having his lovely home wrecked by two territorial curs with no homes of their own. Sit down. I’m sure Lissandra will explain in her own time, in her own way.”
Since the Oracle’s daughter wasn’t accustomed to explaining herself at all, and was currently displaying the unruffled detachment she’d learned at her mother’s knee, Murdoch doubted that, but he wouldn’t be the one to correct his hostess. “It will be easier for all if I am not here while you talk. Let me take our guests into town.”
He couldn’t believe he was even asking. He ought to simply walk out and do as he thought best, as he’d always done.
But what he’d always done hadn’t worked out well. So he stood there stupidly waiting for approval. The crystals still chattered, but at least he hadn’t rumbled the foundations. Yet.
Lis’s lips turned up and her eyes sparkled as she finally regarded him over the top of the book. “It will get easier, I promise,” she said, as if she’d read his mind.
Or his emotions. His Lissy was astonishingly good at that, even when she seemed not to notice anything at all. She understood him too well, as he did her. The knowledge that others didn’t recognize the passionate nature beneath Lis’s apparent indifference eased his irascible temper.
Trystan and Mariel glanced back and forth between them with the appalled fascination with which one watches a shipwreck. The unpredictable warrior banished from Aelynn and the dutiful daughter who would never desert her home did not appear
to be the best of matches.
“I am trying to be civilized,” Murdoch reminded his gloating mate. “I have yet to punch Trystan in the nose, although he’s crying out for it.”
“And I appreciate how hard you are trying,” Lis conceded. “But you do it for my sake and not for anyone else. So if you take our guests into town without me, I fear you’ll revert to your normal behavior and thwack Guillaume against a tree.”
“What if Trystan and I both take our guests into town and thwack our Minutor against a tree?” Murdoch suggested hopefully.
Mariel burst out laughing.
Even Trystan’s mouth twitched.
For a very brief moment, Murdoch almost enjoyed himself. If he didn’t think of the burdens being heaped on his head, he might conceivably learn some form of polite behavior.
“Did you consider that the gods may have sent us an Aelynner with earth skills, who is knowledgeable in tunnels and mines, for a purpose?” Lis suggested before Murdoch could raise another objection.
He glared at her. “You are too damned perceptive and willing to be reasonable.” He grabbed a tiny sandwich off the tray and began pacing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“I appreciate your prevention of brawls in the salon and thwacking of guests against trees,” Mariel said to Lissandra with a giggle, “but I think you need to explain what this is about. You have evidently harnessed a wild stallion, but I fear he will rip through your bridle soon.”
“Murdoch has somehow convinced Lissandra that they can find the Chalice of Plenty,” Trystan surmised, stopping his pacing to take a seat next to his wife on the silk settee.
Mariel’s giggles dissolved into a worried frown. It was she who had first set the chalice free upon the world, and her guilt fretted her. At the time, she had thought it no more than an ugly bauble she could sell to feed her family. Since then, Ian had decided the chalice had chosen Mariel, and not the other way around, but the deterioration of Aelynn since the chalice’s loss could not be easily dismissed.
Mystic Warrior Page 23