Mystic Rider (6 page)

“This way, I think,” he said when the stick slowly came to
rest. Taking her elbow — more to steer her than out of politeness — he led her
toward the gatekeeper who stared at them with his jaw hanging open.

Before she could ask the servant to hire a cart, Monsieur
d’Olympe escorted her into the bustling street and turned in the correct
direction, toward the main road that would lead them across the bridge.

He strode rapidly. She had to lift her skirts to follow him.
He slowed with a frown.

“Perhaps you should not accompany me, after all. The degree
of hostility around us indicates a high probability of danger. I did not
realize I would jeopardize your safety out here.”

He turned to lead her back, but Chantal dug in her heels.
She had given up attempting a normal conversation with this man.
Degree of hostility
, indeed. “I walk
these streets every day. You might wish to engage a cart and driver, though.
The distance is great and you are already weary.” She added the last with the
same patronizing tone he had used.

He eyed her warily, apparently sensing her displeasure. “You
would engage one of these men who appear to despise you?”

Truly offended now, she propped her hands on her hips and
glared. “If you have just arrived here, how can you presume to know how people
think of me? I have known them for years. Admittedly, there is a great deal of
resentment for my father’s wealth, but I cannot believe that they actually
despise me.”

Although she often sensed simmering anger beneath the resentment,
she assumed that was because poverty ate at the soul. Once people understood
how hard her father worked for their benefit, once times improved, the hatred
and resentment would dissipate.

“Perhaps I am overtired and do not yet understand how your
people think,” he agreed with hesitation. “I have no desire to strike anyone
for imagined insults. Show me which carts are for hire, and I will acquire one
for you.”

Chantal rubbed the place on her brow that had begun to
throb. It was apparent he did not have complete command of her language. One
did not
strike
others for
thinking
insults, did one? So she had
obviously misunderstood, or he’d misspoken. She glanced up and down the street,
saw old Jacques meandering in their direction with his cart empty of produce,
and signaled him.

The old man nodded his graying head and steered his ancient
mule toward the sloppy gutter, splashing passersby with the cart’s wooden
wheels. “Madame Deveau,” he murmured in greeting, not offering to step down
from his high seat. “You are out late this evening.” He eyed her companion with
disfavor.

The monk drew up straight in evident umbrage, offered
Chantal a look of disbelief, and rapped his solid staff against the cart’s big
wheel with such vigor that even the old donkey started and turned to look.

“Out of the cart, old man! Your filthy thoughts condemn you
as worse scum than those who have abused you. Get down, and I will take the
lady myself. I will pay you for the animal’s freedom.”

Before Chantal could so much as gasp in shock, Monsieur
d’Olympe threw a coin at the driver’s boots, then bodily lifted Jacques to the
street when the old man bent to grab it. Jacques spit at their feet, but
thoroughly cowed by the encounter, he did not argue.

Without so much as a by-your-leave, her companion lifted her
to the cart’s high seat. Chantal stared in astonishment as all semblance of his
tantrum dissipated, and he stopped to stroke the nose of the cantankerous old
mule and apparently murmur pleasantries to it as she might her kitten.

After seeing to the mule, he swung effortlessly up to join
her. His cuffed boots did not bear a single splatter of mud beneath his long
robe.

“You’re not really a monk, are you?” she said as he studied
the mule’s reins and called softly to the animal. Without need of a tug of the
leather, the animal turned its head in the right direction.

“A monk?” he asked without inflection as he concentrated on
steering the cart into the busy street. “That means a man of your church, am I
correct? No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

Chantal rolled her eyes and began to hum beneath her breath.
Perhaps she would let him buy back the bell — the chalice — then hit him over the
head with it. That might produce a calming effect.

“You are wearing a monk’s robes,” she pointed out.

“Clothing does not make the man,” he informed her as if she
were the crazy one. Safely in the main stream of traffic, he clicked the mule
down the street as if he knew precisely where he meant to go.

Ian frowned at the defiant tune his amacara hummed, but he
chose to study her moods as time went on rather than question, since his
queries seemed to disconcert her. He had learned from his friend Trystan’s wife
that Other Worlders did not know how to conceal their emotions and thoughts as
Aelynners did, though his mate seemed able to conceal hers with music. Even
when she was silent, she vibrated with sound. It was a pleasant new experience
that he would enjoy exploring, once he had the chalice and Murdoch secured.

He was obviously out of harmony with her world. That the
vile old man could even think of Chantal in such viciously carnal terms had
shocked him beyond reason — so much so that even the poor animal’s neglect had
not registered as it ought. He could not remove his mate from this unpleasant
environment quickly enough for his tastes. Once he obtained the chalice, he
would speak with her father and settle the marriage arrangements.

He had learned about Other World marital customs from
Trystan, who had taken a Crossbreed for his wife. Mariel had already borne
Trystan a pair of healthy, delightful twins, so perhaps the gods knew what they
were doing by matching Ian with Chantal. If a mere Guardian like Trystan could
overcome the conflict of cultures, then Ian was confident he could. Twins would
be more than he could expect. He’d settle for a single heir, male or female.

Once he had presented the proper marriage gift and said the
required words, he could take his amacara with him and protect her from the
hostility of this appalling city. Trystan was fortunate he could live on the
peaceful coast of Brittany when he and his wife weren’t on Aelynn.

“You bullied an old man,” Chantal said abruptly, intruding
on his thoughts, reminding him that he might have a few hurdles to overcome
before she understood his actions.

“I scared a bestial coward,” he replied. “Never go near that
man again. I should have tied him up and turned him in to your authorities. If
a creature like that is allowed to roam the streets unhindered, I must ask why
your family has been incarcerated. Surely they cannot be worse.”

“Would you quit talking in circles?” She stamped her kid
shoe, and the ancient floorboard cracked ominously. “You are giving me a
headache. I cannot fathom how a man of such candor can be so impulsive,
bigoted, and” — she hunted for a word — “And so lacking in understanding!”

“I would learn more of the nuances of your speech if I could
read your thoughts, but I cannot, so you must bear with my clumsiness until I
understand where I have erred.”

“And quit being so reasonable!” she cried. “You make me want
to believe you, when I have just seen you intimidate a poor old man. You have
stolen his cart, his livelihood! I have known Jacques for years, yet you call
him a bestial coward simply because he is cross-eyed and grumpy. Then you insult
my family, and you do not even know them!”

“Go back to humming, please,” he requested. “It is more
pleasing and less confusing.”

Trying to concentrate on his faint Finding ability, Ian
steered the cart into the crowded throngs of a broader thoroughfare. The
chalice lay straight ahead. He was almost there. Perhaps Kiernan had been right
and the gods had wanted his personal attention in seeking the sacred vessel and
his amacara.

A troop of soldiers in striped trousers marched past
carrying a strange assortment of weapons, and Chantal broke into a song that
Ian loosely translated as “We will win!” He didn’t see the relevance, but
people in the street waved their caps and smiled in response. She had a truly
amazing voice. Aelynners did not have a tradition of music, and he rather
regretted that. Over the generations, the gods had denied Aelynners less useful
abilities and encouraged more practical ones. An island could hold only a
limited number of people, so Ian could understand their purpose. But relaxation
had a purpose as well.

“What do you intend to win?” he asked once she’d stopped singing,
having vented her apparent frustration.

“Victory over those who would oppress us,” she rejoined
tartly. “You will have to show your passport at the bridge guardhouse.”

Trystan had provided the necessary paperwork when Ian had
arrived in Brittany. So far, no one had questioned his papers, but Chantal
seemed nervous. “Those buildings ahead are where your council meets?” He sought
a better translation. “Your court of law?”

“Yes.” She nodded and began humming again, keeping time by
tapping her fingers against her pretty skirt.

He might wish to delay sealing the
unpredictable — irreversible — bond of amacara until he’d achieved his objectives.
His intended mate was distracting enough without that visceral connection
binding them.

He halted the cart at the end of the bridge. Blue-uniformed
soldiers bristling with swords and muskets stepped forward and demanded their
paperwork, as Chantal had predicted.

She continued humming as she handed over her passport, and
the guard on her side smiled and tipped his cap, murmuring pleasantries.

The guard on Ian’s side frowned at his papers. “You are not
from Rome?” he demanded.

“I do not even know where Rome is,” Ian replied truthfully.
“Is it a place I should visit?”

Chantal elbowed him. He didn’t know what that meant but
decided it would be wise not to offer any additional information.

“Swiss,” the guard said in disgust, examining the passport’s
writing with difficulty. “Why are you here?”

Ian didn’t know what Swiss meant either, but Trystan had
assured him that such papers would pass easily through this country. “The lady
wishes it,” he said pleasantly, not desiring to go into complicated
explanations when he did not comprehend the necessity. On Aelynn, he was the
authority who did the questioning, so this was a relatively new and irritating
experience.

His reply was apparently acceptable. The guard nodded,
handed back the papers, and stepped aside. Chantal waved gaily at the other
handsome soldier, and Ian started the cart with a jerk that threw them both
against the seat back.

To his utter astonishment, he had a strong urge to strangle
the young man she’d favored with her smile. This could not be a good thing. A
Sky Rider must be objective and dispassionate to effectively comprehend his
visions.

His companion took a deep breath of relief, and his gaze
dropped to the plump mounds pushing above the neckline of her tight bodice.
Fortunately for both of them, she’d covered herself with a long cloth that
molded to her curves but did not reveal tempting flesh.

The air coming off the river was sticky and windless, but
the setting sun had fallen behind a cloud and brought with it a drop in
temperature. He noted her shiver. “I will try to be quick so you do not catch a
chill.”

“You are going the wrong way.” She pointed toward a menacing
gray stone wall on the left side of the street. “You will need to ask at the
Palais where Pauline is being kept.”

“The chalice is this way,” he insisted. “I would speak with
whomever holds it. If you sent it for your family’s release, then the possessor
of the chalice should know where they are, am I correct?”

She shot him a mystified look. “How can you know where the
chalice is?”

He shrugged. “Your language does not have the necessary
words to explain. When we have time, I will try to answer your questions, but
there are many things I cannot tell you without showing you. There will be time
for that once I have done what I’ve come to do.”

“I wonder if this is a form of madness,” she muttered, “or
if you are a magician like Mesmer who has stolen my mind, for I am surely out
of it.”

Since he could not read her thoughts, Ian had to put himself
in her place and attempt to understand her unease. He did not need to stretch
far to grasp that Other Worlders walked about in a world of psychic silence,
unable to communicate in any way except verbally.

Not too different from his home, really, where everyone had
learned to keep their thoughts to themselves and politely avoided prying into
others if they had that ability.

Although Ian could not always read their minds, he
understood his fellow Aelynners sufficiently to comprehend and manipulate their
behavior as needed. It was just that here, he was so bombarded with every
violent thought and emotion that he assumed everyone felt and heard what he
did. Sadly, Chantal did not seem to possess his empathic talents. Since she did
not have Aelynn eyes, chances were good that she was not even a Crossbreed.
That could cause grave difficulty in the future. He didn’t want to believe the
gods would bring him such grief.

“We have only just met,” he assured her, and himself. “It
takes time to understand each other. You must question me, or I may take your
silence for comprehension.”

As he brought the mule to a halt in front of the imposing
edifice that contained the chalice, he added, “But save your questions for
later. There are far too many people here for me to think clearly.”

He refrained from adding that he dared not swing his staff
to enhance his concentration in crowds. That was another of those details he
must explain later. He’d thought learning the ways of the Outside World would
be his largest difficulty, but it seemed that explaining himself was even
harder.