Mystic Guardian

by Patricia Rice

  “It is too dangerous for you to traverse the forest alone!” her self-appointed guardian roared.

  She shot him an arched look and patted his arm to alleviate his fury. Then she stepped back, the better to hurl his words in his face. “I will be fine. After all, Crossbreeds survive if it’s meant to be.”

  Swirling around, she lost herself in the crowd.

  Leaving Trystan staring after her, torn right down the middle between two conflicting responsibilities.

  For a man who had never veered from the one constant goal in his life, the conflict was akin to an earthquake shattering and cracking his foundation. Aelynn was All to him. He was the island’s shield. His life was devoted to his home’s protection.

  The chalice was a sacred part of the island, his home. He had to retrieve it.

  But Mariel was his future, and he hated to part from her for even a minute. How could he protect both Mariel and Aelynn at once?

  This was why he should never have taken a Crossbreed amacara. He didn’t know what madness had inspired him to believe he could do what others could not. Arrogance, she’d said. Stupidity, more like. And now he must pay the price.

  He had to retrieve the sacred chalice first and rely on Aelynn for the rest. His own personal needs did not enter the equation.

  He had to trust that Mariel would be safe.

  With despair ripping out his insides, he strode for the castle gates and the nearest horse or carriage he could steal. He might seriously dislike riding, but he couldn’t run through crowded streets without drawing undue attention, and even his stamina wouldn’t last until Versailles. Perhaps if he moved swiftly enough, he could meet the messenger and be back before nightfall.

  An irritating voice in his head kept repeating—Mariel would not be waiting.

  He disliked abandoning young Nick as well, but for whatever reason, Murdoch had given the boy an opportunity for freedom and a home. Trystan hoped the baroness was as strong-minded as Mariel and would defend the boy as fiercely as Mariel guarded her sister.

  The image of babies appearing in the world without the wisdom of an Aelynn midwife haunted the back of Trystan’s mind as he raced down the castle steps. He had promised Mariel she could remain in her home. He had really not thought that through at all. His child had to be cared for by women who understood the needs of an Aelynner.

  His child. He was losing his mind. The child had yet to be conceived, might never be, if Mariel had anything to say about it. He might pass on to the next world without leaving an heir. Except if he died, there was none ready to take his place.

  And if he died while not on Aelynn, his soul and his power would be lost.

  He’d have to arrange it so he didn’t die, then.

  Locating a horse saddled and ready as if waiting for him, Trystan awkwardly grasped the leather and gained the seat. He despised being inept at anything, but he nudged the huge beast into motion and hung on for dear life as it broke through the crowd of people in the market and headed down the road toward Versailles.

  ***

  From the shadow of the castle stairs, Mariel watched Trystan go. A piece of her heart must have splintered and lodged in her lungs, so sharp was the pain of watching his departure. He looked the part of grand gentleman riding off on the expensive steed, even though he had little training on how to ride the animal. He would learn through sheer strength of will, she was certain. Never had she met such a complex, intriguing man, and now, he was going away. She clenched her hand in a fist and held it between her breasts, taking short breaths to keep from crying out, but tears filled her eyes.

  She had hoped he would stay for her.

  She should have known better. He’d done what every man did, pursued his duty and his ambition, leaving behind family to muddle through as they could. She understood the inevitability of it. In this case, she even accepted the necessity of it.

  Trystan was as much a part of his dratted island as the rocks and trees. Her heart broke knowing he could never be completely hers. Better that she learn this now.

  She needed to reassure Nick. Then she must find the pony cart and head home. She knew better than to believe in golden gods now. And she’d learned a few things about herself, so all was not hopelessly lost.

  She wasn’t a virgin any longer, but she had never expected to marry, so that was no concern. She was better for the experience, and she would not mourn the loss of a man she’d learned to trust and respect. It wasn’t as if he were the love of her life, even if tears foolishly dripped down her cheeks.

  Rather than fight the mob and guards and the dank cold of the castle corridors, she sent a footman to her cousin and remained outside in the sun. Perhaps part of her weakening had to do with lack of sunlight. She was always less healthy in winter.

  She eventually recovered some of her composure, enough to realize she would need food for her journey. She returned to the hall and wrapped any crumbs she could find in a tablecloth. The musicians and most of the guests had gone home.

  The tables had been fairly well stripped, but a smashed cake here, and an orange rolling about there, and a few other scraps found their way into her pack. She had eaten well these last days. She would save as much food as she could for Francine.

  Nick finally arrived looking appropriately wealthy in a new satin suit with bright white linen. His hair had been trimmed and tied back in a satin sacque, and he even wore shiny silver buckles on his shoes. How Celeste had performed this miracle of transformation was beyond Mariel’s ability to comprehend. The wealthy lived in another world entirely.

  Which started her thinking about other worlds, when she preferred to forget such things.

  She hauled Nick into her arms and hugged him until his ears turned red, then let him go. “You look very lordly, young man. My cousin is a good woman, but her husband courts dangerous politicians. If you wish to come with me, the offer is still open. But I cannot afford what my cousin can.”

  He stared at the tips of his shoes. “She has promised to send me to school in Paris. I would very much like to be a great swordsman, like Monsieur Trystan.”

  Trystan was a frighteningly amazing swordsman. He had far too many exciting facets that she wished she could have explored. But for the sake of her future, she had to believe that he was a man like any other, and he was gone from her life.

  On a deep breath of determination, she smiled at Nick. “Then you shall be a wonderful swordsman. Just try not to get yourself killed in the process,” she warned. “Your guardian might enjoy that too much.”

  Nick grinned. “The baroness has already assigned her lawyers to tie up my inheritance so it cannot be used for anything except my schooling until I am twenty-five. I think I have met a whirlwind.” He lifted the basket he carried on his arm. “She sends you this and wishes you safety on your journey.”

  “Good. I think she means well, and the rich carry their own shield of invulnerability that will serve you well. But you are to come to Pouchay should you ever have need of anything. Is the pony where we left it?”

  He nodded vigorously. “I gave him more feed and there is water. But he could eat his way through the bushes and be seen if he is not rescued soon.” He looked about with curiosity. “I would say farewell to the monsieur. Where is he?”

  “He has gone after a chalice. He will be back, no doubt, bellowing and shouting. Tell him I have gone home. I cannot wait.”

  Nick looked doubtful. “On your own, madame? Is that wise? There are villains all through the forest.”

  “I think they have all come to the wedding and are now lying blissfully under the tables. If I hurry, I will be fine,” she assured him, although she was not nearly so sure herself.

  It didn’t matter. She must go. She kissed the boy’s head, waved him off, and determinedly made her way back through Pontivy to her cart. This might be the last time she strayed outside her own village, but she did not have time to admire the sights any longer. She was going home, where she belonged.

&nbs
p; Twenty-three

  Market day was the worst possible time to ride a distractible horse, Trystan discovered, tugging the reins of the animal as it tried to eat the hat of a peasant trundling hens into town.

  He’d fare better walking, except it appeared in this region, a man on horseback received far more deference than men on foot. And he needed all the help he could get to track down the lady’s messenger.

  He’d been told the messenger wore red, white, and blue, but then, so did half the gentlemen on the road. He could overlook the farmers in their homespun browns, and the soldiers in their epaulets and hats, which narrowed the search somewhat. He knew the messenger traveled by horse, so he eliminated anyone in a carriage.

  But there were still far too many people to be certain he hadn’t overlooked someone. The servant had half a day’s start over him. Trystan prayed that meant by now the man was returning from his task of recovering the chalice, so he studied all men carrying sacks as well.

  By late afternoon the horde of travelers had thinned out, and Trystan was doubting his wisdom in chasing after the impossible. Had Murdoch thrown down the challenge of the chalice to distract him from some other scheme?

  Once upon a time, they’d been friends. Admittedly, Trystan had been at sea and not home often enough to experience his friend’s unpredictable behavior as others had, but he’d seen no meanness in him.

  According to all who had witnessed the event, Murdoch had killed the Oracle’s husband with a collapsing platform after calling down lightning to ignite fireworks. A trained weathermaker would never have made the mistake of calling lightning into a crowd, much less near a platform loaded with gunpowder. As the ill-bred descendant of a hearthwitch and a farmer, Murdoch should have no weathermaking abilities, but from youth, he’d possessed wild powers that rivaled Trystan’s strength. Perhaps he hadn’t meant to call lightning.

  But Murdoch had said he’d seen the future. A cold chill of dread washed through Trystan. Only the Oracle and her progeny should have the power to deliberately call up the future. Had Murdoch stolen powers from the gods, or did he simply lie about his visions?

  For years, Murdoch had been Trystan’s greatest rival for Lissandra’s hand. Despite his unreliable behavior, Murdoch was undoubtedly the smartest man on the island, perhaps the only one who could understand Lissandra’s visions.

  Trystan didn’t feel competent enough to sort out whether the all-knowing Oracle had been wrong to banish Murdoch. He simply knew all Aelynners had been taught from birth that their gifts were to be used in service to the island, and not for their own selfish purposes.

  Murdoch’s discouraging Trystan from seeking the sacred chalice did not sound as if he had the island’s best interest in mind—unless the warning was a diversion. How much could the outcast possibly know? Did Murdoch plan to win back the Oracle’s favor by killing Mariel once he had Trystan out of the way?

  Murdoch had known Mariel could understand their language.

  How had that happened anyway? Trystan knew amacaras shared their strengths, but Mariel hadn’t agreed to the vows. Could she really understand all languages as he did?

  Alarm knifing through him, Trystan pulled his horse under the shade of a beech tree, ignoring the mare’s dancing and prancing.

  He had to protect Mariel. Somehow, she had become as important to him as Aelynn, and the two were irrevocably tied in his mind, and in his heart. Terror slid just beneath his skin.

  Before he could rush after Mariel, he had to care for the horse. He knew nothing of the animal, except that Mariel had insisted the pony be fed and watered and rested regularly. Unlike ships, animals could not sail on indefinitely.

  With the care he gave to his own pets, Trystan turned the creature back toward an inn he’d passed earlier. Abandoning his search for the chalice went against every precept ingrained in him, but he saw no choice.

  He didn’t know when Mariel had become more important to him than duty. Perhaps from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. She complicated every damned thing.

  And still, he had the urgent need to see that she was safe. He wanted to discuss this new development with her and hear her insights. He’d never been interested in brainless women, but he’d not realized he had a penchant for contrary ones.

  While a groom fed and watered the horse, Trystan stalked into the inn for some liquid refreshment and to ease his confused anger. Considering the long ride ahead, he ordered bread and cheese and a flask of wine. He knew Mariel wouldn’t be waiting. She was in that cursed pony cart, heading back to her sister, alone.

  Someone should have warned him of the dangers of amacara bonds. He’d simply thought in terms of sex any time he liked and a child to carry on his inheritance. He’d not understood that it also meant he gave his heart and soul to a woman who did not want them.

  Mariel had to be even more confused and torn than he, with more questions than answers. Morosely, he took a seat in a corner of the tavern and tipped it back on two legs as he sipped his ale and studied the room’s occupants. Most were farmers and tradesmen apparently intent on drinking up their profits…

  The front legs of his chair slammed back to the floor. With accelerating heartbeat, Trystan blindly slid his tankard onto the table.

  In a far corner, a frivolous fellow in a blue satin coat with a red embroidered waistcoat and finicky white linen glanced at his pocket watch. Apparently deciding it was time to leave, he arranged a fringed blue tricorne on his powdered hair and rose from the table.

  Not until the fribble lifted a black velvet sack from his seat did Trystan rise, his chair banging against the wall. Perhaps Aelynn had blessed him after all.

  Striding quickly toward the door, he intercepted the gentleman before he could depart. “Are you from Lady Beloit—de Berrier?”

  The messenger was hardly more than a boy, one who grew pale beneath his powdered curls at being confronted. His gloved hand curled around the hilt of his sword.

  “No cause for that, boy.” Trystan held both his hands away from his weapons. “The lady asked me to catch up with her servant, if that is you.”

  The boy nodded warily, and his tricorne slipped askew.

  It was all Trystan could do to keep from rolling his eyes. He was stuck with a lad probably in his first post, wearing his first livery, and anxious to please. At least he’d reached the servant before Murdoch had.

  “The lady is in a hurry to return the chalice to Pouchay. I am to speed it on its way.” He reached for the sack.

  The boy backed away.

  “May I see the chalice and verify that you have it?”

  Warily, the lad held the sack open for inspection. From the shadows of the interior, the glitter of silver and blue winked reassuringly, and Trystan breathed in relief. Perhaps all would be well after all.

  Before he could savor relief or triumph, a familiar twinge twisted in Trystan’s gut. He winced and almost bent double as a rush of heat surged to his groin. Mariel.

  Lust clouded his mind and crippled his thinking. He could scarcely stand straight for the need surging through him. With only one part of his anatomy working, Trystan yanked the pouch of gold from his inside pocket and shoved it at the startled lad. “See that the baroness receives this.” Grabbing the velvet sack, he yanked it free of the boy’s grip, and ran for the horse.

  The boy’s panicked shouts couldn’t begin to deter him.

  With the sun dipping into the western horizon, Trystan caught the reins of his stolen horse, swung into the saddle, and raced toward the forest and Mariel.

  ***

  Knowing the late June sun was close to setting, Mariel led the pony off the path toward a stream she sensed in the distance.

  She unharnessed the pony and hobbled him near new grass and the burbling brook. The baroness’s basket included a large cellar of salt, for which Mariel was grateful.

  Filling her cup with water and adding the condiment, she drank of it as if it were a nourishing broth. While she nibbled her cheese an
d bread, she tried to clear her mind of regrets and wishes and all things she was powerless to direct.

  But she could not deny the river of desire flowing strongly through her, flooding her with needs she’d never known or wanted.

  Damn the man, she did not even have to be with him to desire him.

  Which, admittedly, he’d warned her about, but she had not heeded the warning. Mariel wondered what Trystan would do if she attempted to summon him as he had her? Would he drop the chalice or whatever maid he entertained now and rush to her side?

  Would he drop Lissandra and sail the Channel to reach her?

  Not likely, Mariel thought sourly. He would lose his precious seat on the Council.

  It shouldn’t matter. She had no intention of marrying any man, so she had no right to be jealous of Trystan’s future. She was tired and being petty. She was awash with lust and needed satisfaction.

  She had sinned, and now she was paying the price. At least the village had bread and Francine did not go hungry. They would live to see another day.

  She lingered over her supper, then stripped and washed in the stream. But water streaming over her naked breasts only evoked the glide of Trystan’s fingers over her skin.

  She was exhausted and ought to be able to sleep. Perhaps if she were warm…

  She dressed and wrapped in her cloak, then lay down in the back of the cart and tried hard to be responsible and not call Trystan to ease her needs. But she longed for the comfort of his big body beside her, even wished she could hear his sarcasm as he joined her. She trusted his mockery more than his flattery.

  Closing her eyes, Mariel recognized her real sacrifice—her independence. She was no longer content to be alone.

  This wasn’t just lust churning her insides. This was a need to dance with Trystan, to laugh and talk and hold hands. To exchange ideas and worries with a companion who shared her concerns. To amend her plans for the future just as he must. She not only wanted to know if he’d found the chalice, but she desperately cared about the answer. She wanted to know more about his world. About him. She had so many questions…