She hadn’t a clue of what he spoke. Now that she was free of the dismaying lethargy of the bed, she realized he was not actually speaking words she knew, yet she understood him. Well, she recognized the words. They just didn’t make sense.
“I can speak,” she answered in her native tongue. “You do not want to hear what I have to say.” Truth, she had no idea what to say. She walked as if in a dream. The man—if he was a man and not a god or a dream or a monster—was overwhelming. There were few men in the village as tall as she. He was not only taller, but twice her breadth. He strode with the muscular grace of an Olympian. It was a wonder the ground did not tremble beneath his feet.
The ground itself was strange, crunchy and yet resilient. And the vegetation… Mariel gazed in wonder at slender trees with fronds unlike any she had known and shrubs that bloomed in glorious colors and scents. Were there no houses? Fields? People? Accustomed to her crowded stone village bustling with inhabitants she’d known since birth, she could not help but be frightened by the isolation…and herself…and him.
She wore next to nothing, yet she was amazingly warm.
He wore little more than she did. In the strapped soles, his bronzed feet were as bare as his muscular calves. A ripple of what she’d felt on the altar returned, and she dragged her gaze away from his legs.
“On the contrary, I’m exceedingly interested in what you have to say,” he corrected her. “Can you tell me how you arrived here?”
“Where is here?” she asked. “And what was that…that thing back there?”
“The altar? Or Dylys?” he asked, with a wry chuckle.
Before she could answer, they entered an area that almost reminded her of home except for the width of the road and the glowing white of the buildings lining it.
A herd of goats gamboled around a towering menhir on a patch of ordinary grass. The houses were constructed of what she assumed was the same crushed shell she walked upon. As at home, the two-story buildings shared side walls, although each door displayed the owner’s individuality in color, size, and shape. Sand crystals sparkled in their walls. Brightly painted storm shutters, many of them faded from the bright sun, adorned unglazed windows.
Smoke rose from a stone chimney in one of the wider houses, and the scent of roasting meat made Mariel’s mouth water. If she was any judge of time, it had been noon yesterday since she’d eaten, and that had been the leftovers from the spring greens she’d given Francine.
Francine. She had to return to her sister. There was no one to look after her.
First, she must talk to the god and explain their problem. How?
The formidable stranger led her into the house with the chimney and called out in a language that was both strange and familiar to her ears. A number of men almost as big as her companion sat at tables in the front room. They all frankly stared at her.
She tried to tug her chemise over her breasts, but it was little more than a tattered rag after its sojourn in the water. Not that it had been much more before then.
She stepped behind the god in his indecently thin linen and let his bulk conceal her until she heard a woman’s voice and dared peer around his brawny shoulders.
A perfectly normal woman stared back. This woman was shorter than Mariel, pleasantly plump, and wearing little more than pearls and a piece of flowered cloth wrapped around her breasts and hips.
How did she keep the cloth on? It was the most immodest garment Mariel had ever seen, just barely concealing the swell of the woman’s breasts, and showing almost all of her legs. One side of the cloth parted to reveal one plump, smooth thigh.
And still the men stared at Mariel.
At a brief explanation from her captor, the woman exclaimed, took another curious peek at Mariel, then hurried off.
“You’d think you’ve never seen a woman before! Turn your gawking eyes back to your food and leave the lass alone,” the golden pirate roared into the silence in that strange manner in which he made himself understood to her.
Most of the men obeyed. An elegantly lean gentleman with hair the color of sunset, the one Mariel thought had stood beside the golden god on the ship, rose and offered her his high-necked blue frock coat trimmed in gold braid. His handsome eyes danced with laughter.
She knew better than to trust laughing eyes. Turtle-like, she pulled her head behind the pirate god again.
“Laugh, if you will,” the god growled, seizing the coat from his friend. “But the law says one of us must bond with her, and you look as likely a candidate as any.”
Well, she’d thought she understood him, but she must be interpreting some word wrong. She certainly had no intention of bonding with anyone. She tried to guess what he really meant by judging the man’s reactions.
No longer laughing, the auburn-haired man spoke hotly before returning to his seat. Once there, he exchanged words with a formidably scarred sailor, who tried to see her better.
When the god half turned to look for her, Mariel hastily grabbed the coat from his hand, pulled it on, and was immediately engulfed in masculine scents. The coat was wool, and much too warm, but she wrapped it tightly anyway. She noticed most of the men here wore garments similar to her captor’s—sleeveless linen shirts and linen trousers or trews in varied colors, some embroidered, some trimmed in braid, a few pinned or belted. Their simplicity of dress emphasized their masculine muscles, and she tried not to gape.
Her guide shoved her down on a bench at an empty table. If he meant to feed her, she wouldn’t object. She was utterly famished and needed to build up her strength for the return trip home. Her undersea journeys burned the flesh off of her unless she replenished adequately. She had a suspicion the pirate wouldn’t offer to sail her home.
The woman returned with a steaming bowl of fish stew in her hands and a lovely flowered fabric in reds and blues over her arm. Chattering, she set the bowl on the table in front of Mariel and held out the garment, gesturing for her to stand up.
Buttoned, the coat covered Mariel from neck to mid-thigh, but the scarf would be useful. She snatched it and wrapped it around her waist, forming a skirt that fell almost to her ankles, much to the surprise of her benefactor. Combined with the bulky coat, she was covered modestly enough. She returned to the table and her food.
Regarding her new garb with lifted eyebrow, the annoying god took a place across from her, blocking her view of the room—and her from their audience, she assumed. She had seen possessive men mark their women as their territory in such a way, but as the mayor’s daughter, she’d never expected to be on the receiving end of such crude behavior.
Nevertheless, she actually seemed to be enjoying his medieval idea of protection. She’d read her father’s history books of gallant knights and dazzling damsels. She’d always thought the knights had the more exciting life—until now. It seemed being a sheltered female had titillating rewards she hadn’t recognized.
He waited until she’d finished her first bowl of the delicious stew before he questioned her again. “How did you come here?”
Mariel broke a loaf of freshly baked bread, and she almost expired of happiness sniffing the yeasty aroma. How long had it been since she’d eaten fresh bread?
“I swam,” she answered before nibbling a warm morsel. She’d like to stuff the whole piece into her mouth, but she feared he would snatch the food away if she couldn’t speak.
“You swam? From where?” He sounded perplexed. “The ship?”
She knew this was where the plow hit the manure. At home, they’d burn her for a witch if she spoke such heresy. But here… She already seemed under a sentence of a fate worse than death, and she had no better way to explain her presence. “From the bluffs. You would not wait to hear me out, so I dived in after you.”
“The bluffs? From the village? In Brittany?”
He hadn’t called her liar, made a sign of the cross, or thrown her up against the wall yet. Mariel smiled gratefully as the woman placed another bowl of excellent stew in front of her.
She ignored her hostess’s anxious glance at the angry god and remembered to say grace before she dug in this time.
“Yes,” she finally said into the telling silence. “Had you waited, we could have saved ourselves a great deal of trouble, but I must admit, I have enjoyed this odd visit. I had no notion there was such a lovely country so close or I might have tried this sooner.”
She knew when she pushed a man’s temper. She did it frequently, since men tended to push hers. Antagonizing a god was probably reckless, even for her. She was strong and could hold her own in a fight, but most men in the village didn’t dare lay a hand on her. Her mother had been highly respected for her reliable predictions, and her father had been a minor aristocrat as well as the mayor. Her brother-in-law was a lawyer who had been elected to the Assembly as deputy for the district. She was protected by all the powers of her small home.
She wasn’t at home any longer, but she had never known fear and wouldn’t start now.
The god curled his fingers into fists but kept them on the table. “The island is not close by. It cannot be accessed by any man unless we allow it. You have done what no man has done before.” His voice was taut with fury.
“That explains it then.” Mariel pushed back her empty bowl and sighed with satisfaction. “No woman has ever tried it.”
Four
As the island’s diplomat, Trystan could have sworn he didn’t have a temper.
The urge to murder the slender woman across the table disproved that notion.
And the Oracle thought he ought to couple with this madness-inspiring wench? If so, it really was time for the island’s most powerful leader to step down and pass her duties on to a more sensible head.
Like the one approaching. At a hasty scraping of benches, Trystan looked up to see Lissandra glide through the doorway. She nodded regally at the men standing to greet her, but she did not stop to welcome them home and ask the results of their unpleasant search for Murdoch. Being Lissandra, with her gift of Sight, she no doubt already knew.
Garbed resplendently in a sky-blue silk sari, her flowing white-blond hair wrapped in delicate circlets of silver, she advanced on Trystan’s table—and not with delight in her eyes.
The Oracle’s daughter seldom lost her temper. She was like him in that. But she had a way of cutting a man into pieces even so.
Trystan sighed and rose from his seat. His stowaway did not. Garbed in her ridiculous attire of oversized coat and ankle-length sarong, her jet black curls drying into a luxurious mop, she remained seated while studying Lissandra as if she were a curiosity in a museum, instead of the other way around.
He was torn between his duty to Lissandra and his fascination with what the mermaiden would do next.
“I am Lissandra, daughter of the Oracle.” Adapting her language to Breton as Trystan had done, she held out her long, thin-boned hand for the traditional kiss.
“I am Mariel St. Just, daughter of the mayor of Pouchay,” the black-haired wench replied, eyeing Lissandra’s outstretched hand with skepticism. “Pleased to meet you. Does the god have a name?”
“The god?” Thoroughly taken aback, Lissandra retrieved her hand and glanced around as if she expected part of the pantheon to step forward.
Trystan enjoyed her shock too much to acknowledge his own at this perspective of him. He and Lissandra had grown up together and were aware of each other’s flaws. She had never looked at him as the man of accomplishment that he knew himself to be. It soothed his frayed temper to know that, for whatever inane reason, the mermaid considered him some form of god.
“The god beside you. I have never seen a man with such hair. The two of you look like brother and sister, except your hair is lighter.” Mariel, daughter of the mayor of Pouchay, returned to consuming her meal.
Trystan tried not to snicker, but the expression on Lissandra’s face was priceless. He’d never seen the all-knowing woman so thunderstruck.
She shot him the malevolent glare he remembered from their childhood when she was about to pull a truly wicked stunt on him, and his grin grew wider in anticipation.
“The golden thug is far from a god. He is usually called Trystan the Enforcer, but after this morning, perhaps he will be reduced to Trystan the Translator. Since he is to be your lover, you ought to know he spends only a day or two a month here and has a penchant for goats.”
Trystan winced. Mariel, the mayor’s daughter, spluttered in her soup.
Lissandra’s eyes lit with malicious glee as she patted Trystan’s arm. “Congratulations, a slippery mermaid is the perfect mate for a man who thinks he owns everything he sees. She even knows how to milk your goats.”
She swept away, leaving stunned silence in her wake. Everyone knew they had teased each other unmercifully since childhood. Trystan only hoped she was teasing now.
Still, the proud Lissandra he knew would never accept a husband who had a mistress.
Those who would compete with him for Lissandra’s hand hastily rose from their seats, hoping her pronouncement was a prophecy, and she had just rejected his suit. Trystan contemplated running after her and shaking her, or challenging the asses who followed her out, but he refused to encourage Lissandra’s mercurial humors. He would defend his position later, when she could not gloat over the trouble she had caused. After all, he was the only one on the island who knew how to handle the haughty princess.
“How does she know I can milk a goat?” Mariel asked with interest. “It’s not a common skill. My sister can’t.”
Trystan sat down heavily. Lissandra was angry, yes, but that did not make their marriage an impossibility. He could still kill the mayor’s daughter.
He glared at her. “Lissandra knows everything. That is why she’s destined to be the next Oracle. I cannot begin to explain the extent of her abilities.”
“My mother knew things. She knew of you.” His stowaway studied him, tracing the line of his jaw, before brazenly dipping her gaze to follow the breadth of his shoulder and chest.
Trystan shifted uncomfortably as his body responded to the almost physical touch of her stare, while puzzlement clogged his thoughts.
An Outsider should not know of the peculiar abilities of Aelynn’s inhabitants. That was the reason for the vows of silence. The island hid many secrets, among them the Chalice of Plenty and the Sword of Justice, objects so powerful the gods had seen fit to give the island’s inhabitants skills and abilities beyond that of mere humans in order to protect them. Mariel was already in danger for learning of the island’s existence, yet she showed little fear, much less surprise at what she saw. Still, as Guardian, he could not risk her learning more.
“All you can do is speak my language?” she finally asked. “Lots of people can do that. Not many people can swim under the sea as I do.”
She was teasing him, just as Lissandra did. It was evident in the way her eyes turned a laughing aqua, indicating her shifting mood, marking her indelibly as the descendant of an Aelynner. She usually hid the beauty of her eyes behind lowered lashes, probably in the habit of disguising their capricious colors.
Trystan tried to relax and put himself in her place, but it was impossible. Descendant or not, she didn’t belong here. For the first time since he could remember, he had his purposes confused, and he replied with the first words to reach his tongue. “I can speak and understand any language, but that is a minor talent. Do you turn into a fish when you swim under the sea?”
She had a captivating, wide-lipped smile when she chose to use it.
“I don’t think so, although there must be some similarity to a fish to allow me to breathe. My mother did not have sufficient knowledge to explain.”
“You’re a Crossbreed,” he said with infinite weariness. “And I assume one of your parents was a Crossbreed or from Aelynn. Did you know your parents?”
“That is insulting.” She dipped her spoon to scrape the soup bowl clean. “My mother had the second sight. Are there more like her?”
“Not many,
but that’s not what I mean.” He rubbed his hand over his brow and sought words to explain. For someone to whom words came easily, this was more difficult than he had anticipated. “Perhaps we should leave this to another time, when you are more rested.”
Swinging her spoon in the air, she considered that. “We need to talk, but I suppose I should rest before going back. The sea invigorates me, but it’s a very long swim.”
“You will not be going back,” he said firmly. “The Oracle has decreed it. You will die here unless you exchange vows with me or with one of the other men on the island , vow never to speak of Aelynn again, and wear the ring of silence.” He brandished the ring he wore on his right hand.
“Very pretty. Black opal?” She set down her spoon and stood up. “If it takes a ring for you to believe I’ll remain silent about this place, I’ll happily take one, but I must go home. My sister is in her ninth month of pregnancy, and she’ll starve without me.”
Francine would starve in any case since the goats had been sold last winter, the greens made her ill, and the fish had yet to return with any quantity.
With her belly pleasantly full, Mariel tried to act nonchalant as she strode out of the dining area into the lane. At some other time, she might enjoy exploring this incredible place, but not now, not while Francine needed her.
The god—Trystan—followed her. She had expected nothing less.
“So you will take the vow and the ring of silence?” he asked warily.
“I said as much,” she snapped, impatient more with her own responses to this man than at his barely concealed anger and frustration. Better to concentrate on the price the opal would bring. She could buy bread, even if the baker charged a hundred times what it cost last year.
She had a feeling that this man’s idea of vows had much to do with the very odd bed and little to do with promising to be silent. As curious as she might be about coupling and many other things, her responsibilities lay elsewhere, and she vowed to act cautiously until she could escape. “Did you say there was somewhere I could rest a while?”
Mystic Guardian Page 4