Music and revelry rang out in the street ahead, and Pauline huddled her children closer under her cloak. Chantal could not see her face, but she sensed her tension. What was the world coming to that they should fear a party? Paris was known for its gaiety, was it not?
And sadly, she realized, the city had not been gay for a very long time. There had been many triumphs, yes, and there was hope for the future, but years of bankruptcy had taken their toll. People were angry.
She tried a few soft notes on her new flute to play away her unease, but she could not find the right tune. She should have asked Ian if he had his chalice yet, so she could hold it awhile longer. If she could just tap it one more time —
Music played outside, abruptly interrupted by sharp voices as the carriage attempted to traverse a street filled with revelers. She dug her nails into her palms as she listened to Ian’s deep voice reply in a soothing manner that almost reassured her. He had a magical way of making people do what he wanted. Something in his voice must produce such excellent results. Except, she remembered, he’d said nothing at the Conciergerie, and people had still moved out of his way.
Her father called jovially to some of the merrymakers, asking the reason for the celebration. Lewd jokes about weddings followed, with her father and Ian explaining they were attending one also. The party in the street shouted their good wishes, and the carriage rolled on under the harbor of false pleasantries. Chantal breathed deeply when she realized she’d been holding her breath.
“I believe your lover has as persuasive a tongue as your father,” Pauline whispered. “He could make pigs fly with his silver words.”
“And stallions behave and women make fools of themselves,” Chantal agreed grimly.
“All very worthy attributes,” Pauline agreed with a chuckle, trying to ease the tension.
“A pity we will never see him again once he has what he wants. Did you help him trade his coins for the chalice?” Chantal tried to keep her tone neutral, but she knew what the king would do with the money. In some manner or another, she feared Pauline was helping him escape. She stroked the flute and tried not to believe that Ian was a spy or worse.
“There were messages exchanged,” Pauline agreed quietly. “After he rescued us, it would not be fair to keep him here by concealing what he came for, would it?”
“No, I suppose not.” She stared out the window as they approached the first customs post. Ian rode one of her father’s carriage horses and not the stallion. He still looked as if he were one with the animal, controlling its nervous sidesteps with his powerful thighs while speaking with authority to the guards to whom he handed their documents.
Ian was in all ways a stronghold of influence, a veritable prince among men. Even she could see it now that he’d discarded his robes and donned a fashionable costume. Before, his deep eyes and grave expression had fooled her into thinking him a spiritual man, but she knew better now.
As if he sensed her desire, he turned his head and saluted the carriage with a touch of his whip to his hat. Just the acknowledgment thrilled her as if she were a lovesick adolescent.
Once they were past customs, the full moon lit an easy road through the countryside. On any other occasion, she might have thrilled to the beauty of trees thrown into silver silhouettes. A song would have appeared in her throat, and she would have had everyone singing along with her.
Tonight, her songs were silent. Perhaps that was a good thing. They most likely would have been dirges.
Drums rolled and a small band of local militia drunkenly paraded through the single street of the village where her father kept his stable. Only a few days ago, the drums would have reassured Chantal that all was well. Now she waited tensely as her father greeted the militia leader and exchanged pleasantries. Alain tipped his hat as the guard let them pass. Just one wrong word, and all could end badly.
In silence, they stopped at the stable to exchange horses. Rather than ride one of the nervous thoroughbreds, Pierre retained his seat beside the coachman. Chantal was not surprised when Ian emerged riding the stallion, but the string of brood mares her father led out shocked her. They’d not been bred this winter, so there were no foals, but these horses were not trained for traces.
She opened the carriage door and leapt down. She didn’t dare approach the stallion, although the animal seemed calm in Ian’s hands. Instead, she confronted her father.
“Where are you taking the mares?” she demanded.
“I’m selling them,” her father said with a trace of sadness. “The military would only confiscate them otherwise. It is time to admit that our racing days are over.”
Pierced by the sharp arrow of truth, Chantal crumpled, and her tears fell in a deluge. The horses were her father’s pride and joy, representing decades of careful breeding. Sobbing, she rested her wet cheek against the neck of the old mare he rode. Her world was tumbling rapidly out of its orbit.
Wordlessly, she wiped her eyes and returned to her seat, not glancing toward Ian. Her father would not sell his horses to just anyone, so she knew he had a buyer already. And that buyer must be Ian. He was far richer — and more ruthless — than his monk’s robes revealed.
* * *
Ian deliberately shut his mind to the sorrow emanating from the carriage. Chantal had the ability to close off her thoughts, but the new bond between them opened channels he’d just as soon not yet explore, not while he had harsh duties to accomplish.
He’d not met the royal household and could not differentiate their thoughts or emotions from hundreds of others in the countryside through which they traveled. But he’d learned the thought patterns of the Swedish diplomat. He kept his inner ear attuned to von Fersen’s mind, as well as to the chalice’s presence in the king’s trunk. It was finally within his reach.
He had caught a whiff of the count’s concern when his coach ran into the wedding festivities at the Paris gate. But Ian hadn’t sensed the horror of capture, so he assumed the royal party had passed safely. They were to exchange von Fersen’s carriage for the royal berlin in a village not far from Orateur’s stables, where Ian’s chosen guards would meet them, dressed in the baroness’s livery.
Hours later, as the moon sank toward the western horizon, Ian dropped the stallion behind Chantal’s carriage, hoping to catch some sense of von Fersen’s whereabouts. Dawn brought new dangers, and he would feel better if the chalice were closer, especially since the count would part company with the royal household once the switch was made.
Ian knew when Chantal finally fell victim to the carriage’s rocking and slept. An entire layer of awareness fell away, opening his mind more clearly to the stars. He frowned at the realization that his attachment to Chantal caused an interference with his abilities. His parents had never told him of that handicap.
With the stallion walking smoothly beneath him, Ian connected with the sky and let his mind float over the moonlit landscape. He found the chalice first, carefully wrapped and concealed in the royal luggage. He offered a prayer of thanks to the gods, then sought von Fersen.
He read the count’s impatience at the slowness of the royal couple, their children, and the servants as they switched from his speedy carriage to the cumbersome berlin. Haste was not a familiar attribute for a court bogged down by ceremony. This did not bode well for their ability to act with swiftness under pressure. The royals would have done far better to have taken horses and flown like the wind to the border — as Ian planned to do once he had the chalice in hand.
He was tempted to ride the ten miles or so back to the royal berlin and ask for the chalice now. All his instincts urged him to hurry west toward the sea with Chantal and her father before Murdoch could arrive.
But he had promised to deliver Chantal’s in-laws to the Austrian border, in the wrong direction for the sea, and Murdoch must be returned to Aelynn, so Ian’s hands were tied. The royal party traveled east as the Russian passports allowed. The duc de Choiseul’s loyal hussars would meet the royal berlin on the
road after noon. Once Ian was relieved of that burden, he could claim the chalice and lead Chantal’s family on the faster road north. From there, if all went as planned, he would take Chantal west toward the sea and Aelynn.
Murdoch was the unpredictable element in this plan.
The stars told Ian that Murdoch was with the duc’s troops on the road ahead, waiting for the arrival of the king — and the chalice. Murdoch could read the stars as easily as Ian. Or once, he could have. Once, Murdoch could have moved the earth, stopped the wind, and raised the sea, although never predictably. Even before his banishment, Murdoch’s gifts had been dangerously erratic. Now, for all Ian knew, he could cause earthquakes and destroy villages if angered or distracted.
Ian gnashed his teeth at the slowness of the royal parade on the road behind him. But his own party appreciated the extra time for breakfasting at an inn while they exchanged the carriage horses again. And the train of mares appreciated a chance to rest before moving on.
A ragged brigade in the striped trousers of local militia stopped to study them with distrust and question the innkeeper. Suspicion and wariness marked all the roads of France. Ian mentally nudged this motley troop along its way after providing coins to buy their breakfast, but he could not do the same for the royal party.
As Orateur’s carriage pulled away from the inn in the coolness of a sunny summer morning, Chantal’s lovely voice broke into a children’s song that had even the horses trotting to a happy beat. Other voices chimed in, and Ian allowed himself a brief moment to relax and enjoy their merry mood.
In that moment, on a cloudless June day, the blast of a northerly gale rocked the carriage, terrified the horses, and shattered Ian’s tranquility.
Murdoch!
No one else could harness the wind in such a remarkable manner — and from such a distance, for Ian hadn’t sensed him nearby.
The frail carriage tilted sideways, flinging its precious human cargo to one side. The driver screamed and clung to his perch, barely controlling the reins.
Shoving his fear deep down inside him, Ian drew on the center of his power and sent his reassurances to the bolting animals. In moments, the brush with death subsided, the carriage’s wheels rested properly on the ground, and the animals pranced under control.
As the children wept, and the women’s pale faces appeared in the windows, Ian leapt from his steed to examine the axles while Alain finished calming the horses and sent him a questioning look.
To Ian’s chagrin, he finally recognized the danger of placing innocents in the path of Murdoch’s superhuman powers and ambition. He’d trusted too much in the friend Murdoch had once been.
He must correct that error instantly. If Murdoch could raise a wind from miles ahead, he had evidently not lost as much of his unpredictable abilities as the Aelynners had hoped.
Sixteen
The wild rocking of the carriage cut off Chantal’s song in midnote.
She grabbed the strap hanging from the ceiling to steady herself. The children screamed, then scrambled to look out the windows along with the adults. White-faced, Pauline clutched Marie as the carriage miraculously settled back to its normal roll.
At the sound of pounding hooves behind them, Chantal pushed open the sash and leaned out. The sky contained only a few puffy white clouds against the clear blue. Alarm shot through her at the sight of Ian’s stallion raising dust, riding back the way they had just come.
She tried not to reveal her fear to the children as she waited for her father to ride up and explain what was happening. But when he arrived, he looked as puzzled as she was.
“Ian said he would meet us at the next stop,” he said, leaning down to speak through the window. “He has some idea that there is trouble behind us.”
Pauline drew in a quick breath, and Chantal glanced back to note her sister-in-law’s eyes widening with fear. There was no reason for alarm as far as she knew.
Which meant Pauline knew something she didn’t. “What?” Chantal demanded. “What is back there?”
Pauline could only shake her head and bite her lip.
Chantal clicked her fingernails against the flute in her pocket and tried not to let her nervousness get the best of her. “You know something,” she insisted, even though Pauline shook her head. “Fine, don’t tell us, but can you say if it’s safe to go on?”
Pauline bobbed her head. “Yes, and hurry, please.”
Chantal exchanged glances with her father, who suddenly looked as troubled as she felt. So he, too, was unaware of whatever Ian and Pauline had plotted.
Her instincts cried to turn around, but reason told her that was foolish. Ian was a grown man, and skilled in the use of weapons. He could take care of himself.
“If there’s treason afoot,” she murmured to her father, “then it’s best we hasten away.”
“Treason?” Her father looked astonished at this suggestion, but narrowing his eyes and glancing in at Pauline and up to Pierre, he nodded and ordered the carriage to roll on.
“It is not treason,” Pauline said in a hushed voice beneath the children’s chatter.
“The king has the chalice Ian wants, doesn’t he?” Chantal asked calmly, while her mind added up possibilities and reached a horrible conclusion. “And instead of going directly north, we’re heading for the duc de Choiseul’s holdings, where the duc has loyal troops who can escort the royals out of France.”
Pauline stiffened and stared straight ahead. That was all the admission Chantal needed.
“Ian is a stranger here,” Chantal chided in a whisper. “He does not know our customs or the danger he faces. Surely there was a better way for him to obtain his sacred vessel.”
Pauline didn’t deny the accusation.
Ian was a man on a mission that he would never abandon. Guilt ate at Chantal’s heart as she realized how thoroughly she had embroiled Ian in her family’s troubles. Had she waited only a few hours to trade the chalice for Pauline’s freedom…
But it was too late.
Had she been on her own, she might have attempted to ride after Ian in hopes of saving him from whatever treason Pauline had plotted. But even her father seemed to acknowledge that the children must come first. With a grave expression, he rode beside the carriage as it raced to the next inn. Helpless, Chantal played the flute to quiet her inner turmoil.
The tension, or the music, eventually silenced even the children. Pauline kept her petite nose determinedly in the air as she watched the passing landscape. Chantal tried to forgive her for endangering everyone for a weak king, but Pauline’s actions had created a rift between them that she couldn’t easily bridge.
If the king escaped to another country, it would mean civil war — or worse.
If the king were caught escaping…the streets would fill with irate mobs, and Paris would burn with their rage.
If Pauline and Ian were responsible for the escape, everyone traveling with them would be implicated, including Chantal and her father.
Her fury with Pauline and Ian knew no bounds. She couldn’t even excuse Ian for his ignorance. He knew what he was doing, and he chose to do it anyway. She couldn’t call him a traitor to the cause, because France’s politics had nothing to do with him. He had just high-handedly decided to act without any consideration of the consequences.
Stretched thin, the bubble of illusion she’d lived in finally popped. The pretty iridescent colors disappeared, and dread took over.
Her flute began an angry tune, and she put it away, only to rap out a harsh beat with her fingernails on the door.
Anton tugged Marie’s golden curls, and she began to cry.
The strain inside the carriage escalated to reflect the pressures building in the larger world.
* * *
It had taken tense, hot hours, but Ian now galloped on the wings of joy down the road the Orateur carriage was taking.
Murdoch’s cruel gale had frightened the royal party’s horses and toppled the heavy berlin into the stone edge of
a rural bridge. If the intent had been to stop the carriage entirely, it had failed. Murdoch had never perfected control of his gifts, so Ian still did not know how dangerous he was, but he knew now that Murdoch retained his ability to harness the wind — and that he could Find the chalice as easily as Ian could.
Emptying the terrified royals, their crying children, and the servants onto the roadside had taken all of Ian’s empathic skills. Helping mend the broken wheel of the berlin without revealing his superhuman strength had required even more talent. He hadn’t sensed Murdoch’s presence, but the delay would cause trouble with von Fersen’s rigid schedule, placing the royals in even graver danger of capture. Ian had done all he could to speed them on their way.
For his efforts, and his purse, of course, he’d been rewarded with praise and promises — and the chalice.
Wrapped in purple velvet, the sacred object rested in his saddlebag. Ian’s relief at the ease of acquiring it was infinite. Aelynn’s future was ensured! If he had Chantal’s gift, he’d burst into song — an unusual reaction for a man who’d spent his life mastering serenity.
He was far from accomplishing all his goals, but he rejoiced in achieving one. The peaceful life he led seldom offered serious challenges, so until now, he’d been deprived of the experience of triumph. He relished its sweetness while he could.
He might despise the turbulence of his mate’s world, and fear the dangerous effect on his abilities, but this thrill of triumph could be addictive.
With the acquisition of the chalice, he was free to take Chantal and her family directly to the northern border. Chantal’s presence pleased him far more than praise and promises.
He patted the stallion’s neck. “Ready for lunch, old friend? Shall I call you Rapscallion as your master does?” The horse threw its head up and down in response to his name. “Excellent. Rapscallion it is. We’ll let you cool off while the royal party toddles on to meet their escort. Perhaps my lady would like to rest through the afternoon heat. Rooms for us and a nice stable full of oats for you.”
Mystic Rider Page 14