Mystic Warrior (18 page)

He shot her a dark look. “What kind of miracle?”

How could she phrase it? It wasn't as if the island's problems were within her ability to comprehend, much less correct. “Ian must have told you that we have been effectively leaderless for years. When the chalice departed after Luther's death, people decided that we'd been abandoned by the gods. Lacking the benediction of the Chalice of Plenty, our weather has deteriorated. We go from scorching droughts to floods to freezing frosts. Ian and Chantal ended the drought, but the heat still bakes the fields. And then our Oracle died, and the spirits flew away. Now rebellion simmers in Aelynn much as it does in France.”

“And you thought I could fix it?” he asked in derision.

She shrugged. “It does seem far-fetched, I admit.”

He snorted at her bluntness. “You just wanted someone else to deal with it.”

“The moment my mother died, the blue spirit ball circled Ian and me, rejected us both, and departed. We
saw
the gods leave,” she retorted, “and now they're there, in your ring. What else am I to think?”

“That the only path to finding a suitable Oracle is to kill me so the gods are free to look elsewhere?”

She gave him a scorching look. “That is one way of looking at it, but killing a chosen Oracle to see if we receive a better one in your place is probably not the wis est alternative. My spirit guide insists you are the Oracle the gods want.”

“Spirit guide?” he scoffed. “They are good for naught but mischief.”

“Perhaps you have not tried to animate your Sight.” There was a topic that she could confidently discuss without conflict or anger. “I've animated my mental picture of my spirit, given her a character and image that reflect my desires. That may be why I'm limited to Seeing only the paths individuals are destined to take. Your vision has always been broader, not directly affecting Aelynn, possibly because you sailed beyond our borders.”

“In your less-than-direct way, you are saying that even though my vision may run true, it's not useful, and my gifts were never reliable.”

She gave that some thought. “You must admit, it would be difficult to accept that killing my father was the right thing to do.”

He scowled. “Because killing Luther wasn't my intent.”

“Had you honed your Healing skills instead of your violent tendencies, you might have saved him,” she countered, wondering how they'd returned so quickly to an even more volatile subject than Aelynn's lack of leadership.

“Would you have let me near him after I blew him off the rocks?” He snorted without waiting for her reply. “You told me to get out of your sight. So I did.”

Lissandra rubbed her eyes to hold back the tears. “And so you offered no argument in your own defense before my mother blasted you with her energy, nearly killed you, and sent you away.”

She understood, or she'd tried. She'd spent years trying to hate him, and had succeeded only in shutting herself behind an icy shield of righteousness. Had he just once attempted to send word, offer an apology . . . but he'd left her without a farewell, forgotten her, forgotten Aelynn, forgotten all that she'd hoped they shared, and he hadn't looked back.

“Even if killing Luther was not your intent, the result was the same,” she continued. “Your unpredictable gifts and temper cannot be allowed on Aelynn.” And she could not let them destroy her.

He sank into a black study. She was accustomed to caring for the weak, not the stubborn. Murdoch must accept his flaws before she could even try to improve upon them.

Lissandra turned her attention to their current predicament and the oddity of an Aelynner turning against them. It bothered her that the man had been in the room with the bound priest last night. She would like to believe that he'd been caught in something he could not avoid, but although she couldn't sense the Aelynner's emotions, somehow, it had not felt as if he were innocent.

It did not bode at all well if Aelynners lost sight of their mission and struck out on their own—as Murdoch had done. Had Murdoch's disturbing presence in the Other World disrupted some invisible barrier that had held Aelynners back all these years?

Such questions were well beyond her scope.

She knew only that after last night she was even more frightened of the future than she'd been before.

 

Murdoch's wounded arm and shoulder ached from guiding the horse over rough terrain, but they didn't hurt nearly as much as what felt like cannonballs of revelation exploding against his skull. Directing his energy last night had crippled him with more than pain; it had sent his emotions spiraling crazily out of control.

He wished he could empty his brainpan of all but simple needs—food, rest, desire for the woman beside him.

The desire burned hotter now, fed by the memories her presence unleashed. He'd had women before, many of them. None of them stood out in his mind as Lissy did. He might recall a woman's laugh, the flash of passionate eyes, or the roundness of a breast, but nowhere in his mind did an entire woman come to life like Lis, and not just because she sat next to him—but because of who she was.

The proud woman sitting stiff and cold was
Lissandra
, the Oracle's obedient daughter, who would always do what duty required, the woman who could not take him as a lover because her loyalties lay with a country that had rejected him.

Lis
was the tenderhearted girl who once danced on hillsides, the nurturing Healer who loved to learn and wanted a home and family and the freedom to care for all who hurt, without thought to politics, class, or authority—the woman who wanted him as he wanted her.

Unfortunately, no matter what she might or might not want, Lis was too intelligent to have anything to do with a man who would tear her from her home and her people. He might be an undisciplined half-wit, but even in his rash youth, he'd known that Lis lived for the people of Aelynn. And he didn't.

No wonder he fought any belief in gods that would create such injustice.

The light of his damnable ring began to glow brighter, and he stifled his anger before he alarmed his all-too-observant companion. He turned his thoughts to more practical matters. “The English have blockaded the Channel. Sailing there will not be so easy.”

“I know very little of the Other World,” she acknowledged, “but I assume you can think of a way around that. If it helps, I'm fairly certain that somewhere beyond the blockade our ships are waiting for us.”

Of course. Every man on Aelynn would be trying to find Lissandra and haul her home. And willing to kill him in the process. That wasn't an outcome he was prepared to risk. He wanted time with Lis, and an opportunity to learn how to maintain the cool concentration he'd applied last night. He would avoid Aelynn ships, by all means.

Allowing himself to
feel
meant recognizing with awe that Lis had actually left Aelynn for him. He couldn't see his way around the breadth of such a cataclysmal occurrence. It
felt
like a miracle. Of course, if he believed in miracles, he'd have to believe in her cursed gods.

Worse yet,
feeling
meant recognizing the trauma Lis must have suffered to force her to do something so out of character as to defy all Aelynn precepts—

For days, he'd deliberately avoided thinking about the woman who had banished him. But sorrow welled up in him now, and anguish for Lis, who had been her mother's shadow all her life. He knew Lis had to be here in defiance of her late mother's wishes—to prove, even in her grief, that her mother was wrong about him.

He and Dylys had ever been at odds, but she had done her best to teach him. The loss of her brilliance left a hollow place inside him. He had so many memories of her, if he allowed them in—of her patiently teaching his dirty childhood self to find the center from whence came his gifts, of her holding him as a frustrated lad when he'd overexerted his abilities, of her scolding him when he'd nearly killed himself trying to fly.

But the agony of her refusal to believe him after Luther's death, followed by her furious judgment resulting in his banishment, stood in the way of his mourning. That, and her rejection of his birth mother, although that was an ancient argument, one that proved they'd never truly understood each other. He'd always been no more than another responsibility for the Oracle.

But Dylys had at least recognized his abilities and tried to teach him, and for that, he was grateful. He said a prayer to the gods for the Oracle's soul and hoped Dylys had found a happier place—and more grateful students—in the next world. Her absence left a void in his world as well as Aelynn's. He was starting to grasp Lis's desperation.

And if he acknowledged Lis's faith in her gods, and him, then he had to consider the compelling beliefs that came with her: the meaning of the blue spirit flame's presence, the truth of his powers, and his responsibility to channel them . . .
responsibly
.

He shuddered at the enormity of what she asked.

“Swat me again,” he muttered. “Swat me a half dozen times and clear the cobwebs from my wretched brain.”

She cast him a startled look, deservedly so. Wrapped in defiance, he'd denied the full import of Lis's arrival until now. She had come here to see if he could replace
her mother
.

He handed her the reins so he could drive his fingers into his hair.

“Your head hurts again?” she asked cautiously.

“A headache would be easier,” he countered. “Believe me, right now, I'd rather you just chopped off my head than Heal it.”

“The opportunity might yet arrive,” she said with a careless shrug.

He snorted. “You never had any delusions of my grandeur.”

But hearing the confident Lis he remembered, Murdoch couldn't resist reassuring her with a hug as he used to do.

She sat stiffly and didn't relent when he squeezed her shoulders. “No, I never had any delusions about you,” she agreed. “Don't think anything has changed.”

But she was wrong. Things had changed drastically. He just didn't know what to make of them yet.

Her clothing prevented him from feeling the heat of her flesh, but the simple touch eased his isolation, and he rubbed her arm just for the solace of her softness. For four years he'd been without her. Knowing she wanted him and not taking advantage of it was the hardest task he'd ever been set.

Rather than disclose all the shattered, confusing emotions he'd let in, Murdoch changed the subject. “Do you know anything about the port where you landed?” He hadn't considered their destination, but it made sense that she had disembarked where she had friends, and this road led to Pouchay, where Trystan had once lived.

“Very little. I was limited in my movements when I finally escaped the ship. I know Trystan and his wife have a house nearby, but I have not seen it.”

“I know the village.” He and Trystan had not parted as friends, but Trystan hadn't rejected the refugees Murdoch had sent to him, even though helping them escape France went against the Aelynn dictate of not interfering. He wondered how Trystan had justified his actions. “If I'm correct, his house is distant enough from town that we shouldn't be noticed immediately.”

“Trystan is no longer there,” she reminded him. “If he had servants, they could report our presence.”

“And persuading servants to stay silent is a problem for you?” He lifted his eyebrows and gazed at her quizzically.

“No, it's not a problem,” she agreed. “I simply don't like playing with the minds of Others.” Coolly, she handed him back the reins.

“It's better than hacking off their heads,” he informed her.

And he regretted the sarcasm as soon as it left his tongue.

He remembered the horror of the king's head rolling in Paris. Hacking off heads had become the popular new sport in France. Anyone without documentation—as they were—was considered a threat to the new republic.

And now he was taking Lis to the very town from which Trystan and his family had fled to avoid capture by the Tribunal's spies.

Twilight settled over the coast as Lissandra guided the mare down the path that Murdoch had indicated led to Trystan's home—right before he'd abruptly drawn his sword, leapt from the cart, and disappeared to scout the area.

She took in great lungfuls of sea air and longed for the warm shores of home, where one had no reason to suspect danger around every bush.

As one of Aelynn's leading citizens, Trystan would have a heated bath even in his Other World home. That was all she required right now. A bath and a bed. She was no warrior, prepared to trek across the countryside night and day, living on the edge of terror.

Like Murdoch.

If nothing else proved the differences between them, his appearance as he emerged from the hedgerow did. Now that he had his weapons, his dangerous energies were no longer banked. He even looked larger and more superhuman, although all he wore was a muslin shirt, cotton trousers, and makeshift sandals. He'd be formidable in the full dress she'd seen on other men here. He showed no sign of the stress she felt.

Wordlessly, he took the horse's bridle and led the cart into the yard. “The house is empty. Trystan has left it guarded by an Aelynn barrier. We should be safe enough.” He began unbuckling the horse's harness.

“Trystan shouldn't be able to keep up a barrier for any length of time, this far from home,” she protested, climbing down from the cart without his aid.