Mystic Guardian

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Mystic Guardian Page 12

by Patricia Rice


  “There is no reason for nobility to stop taking what it wants if the people allow it.” He wasn’t a politician so much as a merchant, but he’d been to England and knew about the revolt of the colonies against the British king. As a future leader of his country, he had analyzed the factors involved. A lack of representation for the common man often led to a huge gap between rich and poor and from there, to revolution.

  “How would we fight?” she asked with a shrug, distracting his grim thoughts with the lift of her breasts. “We should stop muskets with our pitchforks? No, Eduard does the best thing by taking our petitions to Paris. Surely the voices of all France cannot be ignored.”

  Since it was not his fight, Trystan didn’t argue. He turned the conversation to Mariel’s childhood to learn more about the woman he’d been ordered to take as mate.

  “So, you think your mother’s father must be the Aelynner from whom you’re descended?” he asked after she’d explained her family history. “Do you know his name?”

  “My mother’s name before she married was Marie-Jeanne d’Orca. The Marie-Jeanne is from her mother. D’Orca is rather unusual.”

  “An orca is a killer whale. Our family names are descended from our long ago ancestors who settled Aelynn. Orca is not one of them, but we seldom use our family names off the island, so it’s not unusual. One of our fisherman could have landed here easily enough, but if your mother was a Seer, I would say her father had to have come from one of the great families.”

  “And had a real wife at home,” Mariel agreed wisely. “We always suspected that. But he took good care of my mother and grandmother. It seemed to be an affair of convenience.”

  “If that is what you wish for us, I will honor it,” he agreed, “but because you have seen Aelynn, the vows must be exchanged there.”

  “Then instead of your Oracle dropping me into a volcano, your intended would have to kill me,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t see a pleasant ending in this any way I look at it.”

  In horror, Trystan realized she was right. If Lissandra wished to take her position as Oracle immediately and chose him as husband in order to do so, she was quite capable of ordering Mariel’s death to avoid competition and conflict. An Oracle had responsibilities to her people that often required unpleasant commands.

  They had been taking turns driving the pony, and Mariel had the leathers. Mulling over the horrible prospect she’d presented, Trystan was not paying attention to his surroundings as he should. The journey had been safe thus far, and they appeared to be miles from the middle of nowhere, in a never ending forest where he occasionally noticed menhirs much like those of his home, a sign that his ancestors may once have inhabited the area.

  Perhaps it was the familiarity of his surroundings that lulled him into lowering his guard. He could blame no one but himself for not noticing the pony’s restiveness or the silence of the birds, or for his slowness to react when the bandit leaped from the bushes wielding a sword almost as large as he was.

  “Your money or your life!” the dwarfish fiend cried, slicing the pony’s leathers with one deft stroke and disabling the cart.

  Twelve

  Mariel barely had time to realize the reins in her hands no longer guided the pony before Trystan sprang from the high cart with the preternatural swiftness of a cat. Bereft of guidance, the pony halted of its own accord.

  Before Mariel could register her companion’s reaction, the thief’s weapon was already spinning end over end into the bushes in a shining silver arc. And Trystan stood, feet braced, his own sword at the dwarf’s throat. She didn’t fully realize what he’d done until the would-be thief stood there empty-handed, wide-eyed in stunned alarm.

  Recovering from her shock—more at Trystan’s uncanny quickness than at the thief’s appearance—Mariel realized their attacker was little more than a boy, albeit one so filthy that the black on his face could have been a full grown beard.

  Trystan must have realized the same thing since he didn’t take the child’s head off but tipped the boy’s chin up with his weapon. He’d doffed his coat earlier, and his golden queue hung down between broad shoulder blades. “Mariel, tell me what to do with him. I have dispensation to kill thieves in self-defense, but they’re seldom this young.”

  The boy seemed to pale beneath his filth, and his ice blue eyes widened in terror as he turned from Trystan to the cart. Mariel didn’t think she saw pleading in them, but she recognized fear. He was no hardened criminal.

  What in the world could they do with a half-grown bandit? Disarming him would almost certainly mean he’d be killed by the real bandits that inhabited the forest or starve to death without the meat his weapon provided. “Where did you get the sword?” she asked.

  “From the militia who murdered my father,” the boy said angrily, replacing some of his fear with defiance. “I can use a knife if I must, but I know how to wield a sword. I can act as your guard, madame.”

  Mariel raised her eyebrows and Trystan snorted, but he lowered his weapon so the boy could stand normally.

  “Why did the soldiers murder your father? Was he a thief, too?” she asked.

  “They called him so, but he was just a tariff collector!” the boy protested, near tears. “They tore our house apart, stole everything we owned, then killed him when he came home.”

  “And the rest of your family?” Trystan asked.

  “There was just us.” The boy sniffed but refused to wipe his face or show his tears. “Papa was the magistrate until maman died. I took lessons in fencing so I could be a soldier. They were the thieves. Not us.”

  “Are you from Pontivy?” Mariel reached for the basket with their meager provisions.

  “Quimper,” he replied sullenly, eyeing the basket.

  “You have traveled a long way.” Trystan returned his sword to its sheath, then fished the boy’s weapon from the bushes.

  The child shrugged. “I killed the soldier who killed my papa. I didn’t stay for them to arrest me.”

  A cold feeling cramped Mariel’s stomach, a portent of things to come—children killing in cold blood. She shook off the sensation. “Killing in self-defense is one thing, but murder is indefensible. Perhaps we should leave him.”

  “He stole my sword!” the boy shouted. “He left me there to die without it. I had no choice but to push him down the stairs and retrieve my weapon.”

  Trystan nodded as if he agreed. “A man does what he must to survive. Up in the cart, lad. We’ll take you into Pontivy with us. Perhaps you can make a better living there than stealing from the poor. Have you a name?”

  “Nick,” he replied grudgingly, easing toward the cart, one eye on the basket and the other on Trystan, who still held his weapon.

  “We don’t have much,” Mariel warned him. “But we will share what we have. Have you no family you can go to?”

  “My uncle is from Pontivy,” he admitted, climbing into the back of the cart when it became apparent Mariel would withhold the basket until he did.

  “Excellent. Then we will take you to him, and you won’t need to steal.” Sliding the boy’s weapon under the seat, Trystan took the reins as if he was always in charge of the horse. Not until the pony remained motionless did he realize the problem.

  “Do you know a sailor’s knot for leather?” Mariel murmured, keeping an eye on Nick as he tore hungrily into their food. Now that she wasn’t terrified, she could see the lad was practically gaunt. How long had he been surviving in the woods like this?

  And why had the peaceful world she knew suddenly gone mad?

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Trystan climbed down and grabbed both ends of the severed reins as if they were the rigging on his ship.

  The man could do almost anything he put his mind to, Mariel suspected. He claimed to mysteriously erect barriers around islands, but she couldn’t understand that skill. It wasn’t like her ability to swim beneath the waves. But earlier he had moved faster than her eye could follow. She was still stunned by that bl
ur of motion. Perhaps she had been so frightened she’d imagined his uncanny swiftness?

  “The knot might hold if we don’t have to jerk the reins too hard,” he said, climbing back to the seat. He glanced over his shoulder at the boy. “That was a good move, cutting the reins without hurting the pony. Who taught you that?”

  With bread crammed in his mouth, Nick only shook his head.

  “I think we’d better find somewhere he can bathe before we look for his family or they’ll not claim him,” Mariel decided, watching the lad over her shoulder. “What is your family’s name? Do you know where they live?”

  He shrugged and hunger somewhat assuaged, drank from the flask before replying. “I’ve never been to Pontivy. I haven’t seen anyone from there since my mother’s funeral. They’re court nobles who don’t like Bretons, my father says. Said.”

  “Their name?” she asked again.

  “De Berrier. I won’t go where I’m not wanted,” he insisted.

  “Give the lad a little food and he becomes a bull again.” Trystan chuckled. “He’s had training to wield a sword that large. Surely any decent family won’t turn him away.”

  There wasn’t much to be said about that. Mariel’s family had been decent, but they couldn’t afford to feed a growing boy who ate enough for two people. Unless the de Berriers were wealthy, they’d have to be very decent people to take him in.

  ***

  “There’s a river,” Trystan grumbled in disgust as they left the forest and entered open fields late that afternoon. “We could have sailed here instead of taking this forsaken route.”

  “The river Aulne does not go to Pouchay, and with all the twists and turns, it is probably four times the length of the road,” she explained. “Besides, rivers flow to the sea and it takes longer going against the current.”

  And his ocean-going vessel could not navigate shallow waters, even if he could steal it back. He was just irked at having to rely on anyone except himself.

  He cast Mariel a look of concern. The rose color had seeped from her cheeks again. Her once moist lips had dried and cracked, as if she were fevered. She’d not protested when he’d kept the reins. He’d learned enough of her character to recognize this for a sign that she wasn’t well.

  Much to Trystan’s relief, they reached the medieval village of Pontivy before sunset. Hampered by an ill woman, a surly child, and a pony that could not be made to go faster than a bone-jarring trot, he’d felt as if the day had been a week long. The chalice could have gone half way around the world in such a length of time.

  He’d left the island nearly three days ago. He now had seven days before the next full moon in which to find the chalice, buy back his ship, and carry Mariel home.

  At home, he could have run into town four times faster than the pony could trot, asked the Finder where the chalice was, grabbed it, and been back at sea by dawn. Here, he had to cloak his abilities, become an Other, and rely on people of lesser skill. It grated his fraying patience.

  He guided the cart down a narrow, winding street overhung by wooden buildings huddled in the shadow of the castle on the hill. He’d learned to appreciate the wisdom of his ancestors in choosing to limit the size of their houses. It not only saved the island’s resources, but prevented the intimidation of such flagrant displays of wealth as the castle. How could people hanging out their laundry behind drafty shacks not resent a mighty fortress that blocked even their fair share of the sun?

  “There’s an inn with a stable,” Mariel said, nodding toward a faded sign on the corner. “We could stable the pony and look for a bath house, then ask after Nick’s family before continuing on to the castle.”

  Simmering with resentment and irritation, Trystan steered the pony to the stable. He was not entirely helpless in this land that was not his own. He’d navigated many foreign countries and knew how to bargain in any language. Ignoring Mariel’s suggestion, he left the cart with a stableboy. While Mariel fussed over the pony and the would-be thief, he entered the inn and negotiated for a room for the night, a hot bath for Mariel, and a hot meal for all three of them.

  “We may need every sou to buy back the chalice,” Mariel hissed when he took her arm and steered her inside. “We cannot afford this. We still have a return journey and then must buy back your ship.”

  “I will bargain hard for the chalice,” he told her, disliking the grim set of his voice. He’d never been short of funds in his life.

  Or, the way things were looking, maybe he should start practicing life as a pauper. If he didn’t persuade Mariel to wear his ring or couldn’t find the chalice, he’d be banished, or worse. He’d have to surrender his guardian duties to his nephew. Should he survive the loss of his power as Murdoch had, could he earn a living as a landless foreigner in this mercurial country? The thought was too dreary to consider.

  The room they were assigned was narrow and dark, with a single small cot. Mariel stripped back the cot cover and, with a gesture of disgust, ordered the innkeeper to take away the sheets and flimsy mattress.

  “We would fare better in the barn,” she muttered. “I dislike sleeping with bugs.”

  “I’ll fetch hay,” Trystan said dryly. “I’m sure your thin skin will delight in it.”

  Apparently too weary to spar with him, she shrugged. “Give me a moment alone to tidy up, and I will go in search of the baroness,” she said, not looking at him. “If you wish to waste coins, you might find some clean clothes for Nick before foisting him on his uncle.”

  “You are going nowhere tonight. I’ll have food sent up to you before I take the boy out. Bathe, rest, and I’ll be back for you in the morning.”

  That wasn’t what he’d intended to say. He’d wanted to be rid of the boy and come back to sleep with her. He’d almost had her where he wanted her this morning, and every considerable inch of his body longed to find that happy place again. Maybe this time, she’d recognize that they couldn’t fight the desire between them.

  But she looked too ill to enjoy what he had in mind, and he’d been reared to respect those weaker than he. It would be far less frustrating to sleep away from temptation. He gave Nick a shove toward the door.

  “I’ll be down to join you,” she answered stubbornly.

  “This isn’t Pouchay. You’re not the mayor’s daughter here. Unless you carry a sword and know how to use it, you will stay here until I come back for you.” Trystan followed Nick out and slammed the door.

  “You don’t know a thing about women, do you?” the boy asked in disgust as they traversed the dark hall.

  “And you do?” Disregarding a child who had neither sister nor mother as models of female behavior, Trystan clattered down the narrow staircase and out to the street.

  “My father did,” Nick argued, following on his heels. “He said you never tell women what to do because they’ll always do the opposite.”

  “Mariel is not that stupid.” Trystan didn’t know why he’d said that. She’d certainly done some highly questionable things in their brief acquaintance. Of course, he wasn’t at all certain that he wouldn’t have done the same had he been in her place.

  He was an analytical man, but he didn’t know women. The boy was right.

  “Is she with child? She does not look well.” Undeterred by Trystan’s curtness, Nick trailed after him.

  That was knowing a little too much about women. “How old are you anyway?” Scanning the signs and shops they passed, he located the baths first.

  “Fifteen. I’m just slight for my age.”

  “Slight. Hmpf.” He would have guessed the boy to be twelve, at best, but then, he came from a land of big men. Flipping still another coin to the attendant, he shoved Nick toward the steamy public bath. “I’ll be back by the time the bells ring the half hour. Scrub until you shine.”

  Now that he’d disposed of the anchors weighing him down, Trystan hurried toward another sign he’d noted farther down the street. They didn’t have shops as such on Aelynn. When a ship arrived with
cargo from the Outside World, everyone gathered to admire the goods and bid on them. If someone wanted anything in particular, they placed an order with the captain of the next ship to sail. They bartered among themselves for wool or wheat or goat’s milk.

  But Trystan had strolled the streets of London and other ports. He knew what to look for, even if this village was meager in comparison—as was the selection in the second-hand shop.

  Beggars couldn’t be choosers for good reason, he decided. Making his selections, he slapped a generous coin on the counter and ordered the goods sent back to the inn. With garments for Nick under his arm, he hurried back to the baths.

  Trystan heard the furious shouts before he reached the door. Clothes under his left arm, he grabbed his sword hilt with his right hand and shouldered open the swinging panel.

  Naked, Nick swung a long wooden pole at a pair of robed clerics in priest’s collars, holding them off while other bathers in various states of undress urged him on.

  Trystan didn’t miss the look of relief in the lad’s eyes at his arrival.

  “Tell the buggers I’m no woman they can haul off for their perverted games,” Nick shouted in a fury so great it almost sounded like tears.

  Flinging clean clothes at the boy, then placing himself between Nick and the priests, Trystan substituted the tip of his sword for Nick’s pole. “Gentlemen, I suggest you move on. As far as I understand it, this is a free country where no still means no.”

  Undeterred, the taller of the two clergymen glared balefully at him. “A child of that age does not belong in a public bath with grown men. We sought only to provide shelter. You are not old enough to be his father. It is our duty to God to save children from the likes of you.”

  Struggling into his clothes, Nick yelled, “Don’t believe that! I know what I know.”

  Which didn’t make a lot of sense in any language Trystan recognized, but he understood what the boy meant. Celibates did not generally linger around bath houses. Priests belonged in churches. Unless they were looking for Nick in particular, they had no business interfering.

 

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