Mystic Warrior (37 page)

Trystan examined Murdoch with curiosity. “You look different.”

Lissandra had already seen the peace in Murdoch's eyes. With Amelie in his arms, he stood straight and tall, without the nausea and weakness that had followed his earlier use of his gifts. That his rage had not shattered the tor from within said it all.

The chalice—or the gods—had restored his ability to focus inward without pain.

Murdoch merely nodded at Trystan's observation, and carrying Amelie like a shepherd would his lamb, he set off down the path toward town. Looking at the world as if it were new again, Badeaux obediently followed.

“The gods have anointed Murdoch,” Lissandra explained. She didn't think he fully understood or accepted that yet, but the blue of his ring now glowed in his eyes. “He passed the chalice's test and has been ordained our new Oracle.”

The astounded reaction of their small audience of friends was sufficient to suggest the outrage that would inundate them when she made the same announcement to the Council that had once banished him.

Lissandra had insisted that they needed new garments for their arrival on Aelynn, and Murdoch had foolishly allowed her to choose the fabric and do the sewing. In the future, he would know better than to give her imagination free rein. He felt conspicuous in his elegance.

She'd chosen a finely woven navy blue cotton for him. The color was a shade brighter than his old uniform, and she'd adorned it with gold trim along the hem and V-neck. Thankfully, she'd left the matching trousers plain, although instead of drawstrings, she'd wickedly added a placket and garish gold buttons. But the Other World design was covered by the thigh-length top and belted with his scabbard.

For herself, she'd chosen vibrant red. Murdoch cast a sidelong glance at her as the ship docked, and they waited for the plank to be lowered. Except for the ugly gowns she'd appropriated in France, she'd always been her mother's shadow in shades of white and gray. He was certain she intended to make some statement with her bold choice of color, but a female's idea of sartorial elegance was a puzzle he would leave to the gods.

He simply appreciated the way the ridiculously fragile silk draped and clung across her breasts and over her hips. She'd fashioned a wide belt of gold braid. Even without the bone corset, her breasts were high and firm and her cleavage visible. He would be like a rutting stag until he had the garment off her.

Perhaps that was her intent—to distract him from the grim elders who were stalking through the jungle and lining up on the shore to meet them. Ian had learned enough of Mariel's ability to speak with dolphins for meager messages to be sent back and forth between England and Aelynn. The Council had been forewarned of their arrival.

Murdoch glanced over at Badeaux to see how the miner fared after the long hours at sea. He seemed rested and eager to return to his rightful home, where with luck his emotional wounds would someday Heal. He seemed to have little memory of events at the tor, and he now spoke of his lost family with love. The vengeful hatred that had driven him appeared to have dissipated.

They'd left the shoemaker and Amelie in Glastonbury, happily designing boots for Ian's stableboys.They'd already made friends and would fare well in time. If only Murdoch could See as much for himself.

Returning his attention to his homecoming reception, Murdoch located Ian and Chantal waiting on the beach, waving with genuine pleasure. At their feet, their young son dug in the black sand. A sturdy, dark-haired fellow, he'd exhibited no evidence of either his father's or his mother's gifts, or so Lis had told him. He'd missed a great deal during his absence.

Briefly, resentment flared and the longing for acceptance by his countrymen pierced Murdoch's soul. But he'd learned the hard way that life was too short to hold grudges. He would do what he must to remain a part of Lis's life—even if that meant enduring the interrogations of the Council.

Filling his lungs with the sea air of Aelynn for the first time in four years, Murdoch embraced the moment of homecoming. One of the disadvantages of Seeing the future was that he'd never learned to enjoy the moment or take pleasure in memories. He would no longer be so careless. Right here and now, he had his heart's desire at his side, the chalice in his arms, the approval of the gods, and friends to welcome him. He wanted to fall to his knees and weep in thanksgiving for these gifts. He hugged Lis and fought back tears instead.

Feeling fully at home inside himself, at last, Murdoch grasped Lis's elbow and led her down the plank to the dock. The earth didn't tremble and the sea didn't rise in rejection.

He was wary at recognizing the light of awe and gratitude in the eyes of several of the Council members as they regarded the chalice in his arms. The chalice was holy. He wasn't. He didn't want their adoration, just their cooperation.

Perceptive as ever, Ian had already studied them, no doubt gauged their actions, their appearances, their tempers, and come to a correct conclusion. When Murdoch attempted to hand him the chalice, Ian lifted his son in one arm, and placed the other around his wife, making it clear that he would not accept the holy relic.

“Murdoch LeDroit, you have the gratitude of everyone on the island for returning the Chalice of Plenty,” Ian said. “Welcome home.”

Retaining the chalice, Murdoch responded promptly, “While I have your gratitude, I will ask for your blessing and permission to take Lissandra for my wife.”

The last time he'd asked that, the day had ended in thunder and lightning and death.

Around them, the gathering Council members fell ominously silent.

Lissandra tilted her head and waited politely for her brother's reply. Murdoch was confident she would do as she liked in any case, but she would pretend to listen for permission for the sake of tradition.

“We have formalities that must be met before a marriage can take place,” Ian said carefully. “You have my permission to begin the proceedings.”

With deliberate mischief, Lis set the cat among the pigeons. “As you can see by the chalice, the gods have made their choice, and I choose to have our new Oracle anoint me for the altar.”

Gasps of shock traveled so swiftly, Murdoch was certain even those living on the other side of the volcano heard them. To announce him as Oracle in the same sentence as their marriage ought to blow the volcano sky-high. Sardonically, he eyed the peak for hot coals spewing in protest, but Aelynn remained cloaked in a smoky gloom that chilled the brisk breeze.

“I'll have you appointed High Priestess of Drama,” he murmured threateningly into his intended's shell-like ear, while maintaining his tranquil expression.

“If I must spend the rest of my life here,” she said lightly, smiling at the varied expressions of shock around them, “let me have my fun, please.”

Chantal whistled a merry tune and rolled her eyes to the heavens, perhaps in anticipation of fireworks or lightning.

Untangling his son's grip on his hair, Ian looked on them with wariness and appreciation, and addressed his sister with a touch of sarcasm. “Perhaps we should declare a week of celebration and festivities so the alleged Oracle's intended won't become bored and ask him to shatter the temple and build a new one.”

“That's my prerogative,” Murdoch declared, deciding the public display they'd created was sufficient homecoming. “See what happens if my claim is denied.”

Having used up all his restraint, he shifted the chalice to his shoulder and caught Lis's elbow to drag her down the path to . . .
where
? He had no home any longer.

Lis took care of that dilemma, striding deliberately toward the path leading to the temple and the cave where the chalice belonged.

The one the Oracles called their own.

 

Lissandra had known that establishing Murdoch as Oracle wouldn't be an easy matter of declaring it aloud and installing him in the cave with Aelynn's treasures. To her, the discussion of who was Oracle seemed a minor hurdle compared with the desperate need to solve the ills afflicting the island, but her brother's concern about her welfare deserved an audience.

Leaving their son with a nursemaid, Ian and Chantal hurried in Murdoch's footsteps, obviously intending to continue the discussion in private—and taking precautions in case their chat turned explosive.

Trystan the Guardian and Kiernan the Finder followed behind Ian, probably to act as guards. Lis prayed they also came as Murdoch's friends.

Behind them on the beach, Chantal's father wielded his oratorical skills to persuade the elders to let Ian deal with her shocking declaration about Murdoch as Oracle. Really, all the Council had to do was look at Murdoch and see the truth in the blue spirit light of his eyes, but people saw what they wanted to see. And in Murdoch's fine-honed edges, they saw something dark, dangerous, and deadly. For good reason, Lis had to admit. Not everyone would appreciate his decisiveness, and he wouldn't have patience with those who disagreed with him. He was not Dylys, and compromise would never come naturally to him. But he had the strength of the gods that they needed.

“They're right, you know,” Murdoch murmured as he strode beside her. “I am a warrior, not a man of peace.”

“As is every man on this island,” she replied without doubt, delighted that he followed her thoughts. “And probably most of the women if their loved ones are threatened. Who better than a warrior, who knows the horror of war, to guide a nation to peace?”

“May I humbly suggest a warrior who tempers his hunger to fight with the wisdom of knowing when to hold his fire?” Ian asked from behind them.

“That is what gods are for,” Lissandra retorted. “And Councils. Collective wisdom is necessary to shape our path. Why don't you take your brilliant insights to the Council and show them the light?”

“Because I know what each will say, and I'm not interested in hearing it again. Your story is far more intriguing,” Ian declared. “Do you really expect Murdoch to be content anointing bridegrooms, influencing the Council, and delivering edicts?”

He'd listed some of the administrative tasks of an Oracle that even Ian had no interest in performing.

They had arrived at the foot of the volcano, on a high cliff overlooking the sea not far from the sacred temple, where the private abode of the Oracle was located.

Lissandra waited for Murdoch to speak his thoughts, but he only smiled grimly and raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to open the door blocking the entrance to the cave. The magic seal securing the door required knowledge he didn't yet possess.

“You could break it open if you wanted,” she said crossly, not entirely understanding why she was irritated. “You don't have to pretend you're here at my request or Ian's.”

In the blue tunic she'd made to match his eyes, with his hair tightly bound and slicked back from his face, Murdoch looked as regal as any king. He needed only a thin gold crown upon his head for any who looked upon him to kneel before his power.

And he waited for her to open the confounded door—as if she were his subject.

Ian watched them with amusement. “Still uncertain about who rules whom?” he asked drily.

“No,” they both replied as Lissandra broke the seal and Murdoch opened the door.

“They're newlyweds,” Chantal said. “We had a few issues of our own when we started out.”

“A few?” This time it was Lissandra's turn to raise her eyebrows. “You nearly caused the Council to rise up in arms against your marriage, and the two of you had to live off the island until recently. I'm surprised no one has stoned you in these past weeks.”

As they entered the high-ceilinged front room of the Oracle's hideaway, Chantal's laugh filled the airy cave with warmth even before Murdoch lit the logs in the fireplace. “Ian keeps the Council busy by setting them to look for outdated laws he can throw out.” Chantal checked the larder and brought out cheese and dried grapes.

“And Chantal has been searching the island for music prodigies to add to her chorus. Watching Council members condescend to sing next to hearth witches has been entertaining.” Ian leaned against the doorway and watched the domestic scene with an affectionate gaze.

Trystan and Kiernan entered warily, crossing their arms and leaning on either side of the doorway. Murdoch scowled, the chalice still held in his embrace. When no one objected, he set the holy cup on the humble trestle table, then took up a stance next to Lissandra, fists at his waist and legs spread apart.

She knew his blue eyes gleamed brightly in the dim interior, and she watched as first Ian, then Chantal acknowledged that the darkness had left him. Over these past days, Trystan had already accepted the change.

“Murdoch hasn't made the earth quake or mountains topple since we found the chalice,” Lissandra said when no one spoke. “But I make no promises if you deny us what we want.”

“I would hear the words from LeDroit,” Ian said gravely, watching his old friend.

Lissandra had never done anything so undignified as to stick her tongue out at her older brother, but he tempted her greatly.

“There is nothing to be said,” Murdoch growled. “I am what I am. You can accept it or not. But you have no choice in what Lis and I decide between us.”

“She is my sister. I know her heart as well as my own. Unlike Mariel and Chantal, Lissandra belongs on Aelynn. If you say vows with her, then leave, she will waste away. I cannot let that happen.”

Lissandra gripped her hands. Leave it to Ian to reach the crux of the matter immediately.

She turned to watch the bronzed flesh over Murdoch's cheekbones pull taut and waited for a flare of anger that did not come. He no longer trampled lives to achieve his selfish goals, but he certainly didn't qualify for sainthood either.