Mystic Rider (10 page)

“I’m fine,” Alain Orateur said, waving his hand
dismissively as Chantal raced into his study. “I’ve just hit my bad knee. Have
Girard arm the servants and send them into the yard. That should suffice to
turn the rabble away.”

Her father’s face was white beneath the sweat-streaked dust
of the road, and Chantal’s heart lurched with fear. But understanding the
wisdom of his order, she hurried back to the corridor. She nearly bumped into
Girard hastily tugging on his coat, his shirt half outside his breeches. She
repeated her father’s command, sending him back to the kitchen to find help.
She was much more accustomed to telling servants what to do than acting on her own,
but she couldn’t leave Ian out there alone. Retrieving the loaded pistol her
father always kept in the foyer armoire, she bit her lip and approached the
front door.

It was unlatched. She’d heard no one but her father enter.
It was hard to believe that anyone in her beloved Paris would attack her
generous father. It would be akin to attacking the beloved revolutionary
soldier Lafayette. But the mood of the city swung with the tides these days.

She tugged the handle, and the door swung in effortlessly.
Still barefoot and in her robe, she couldn’t venture far without knowing her
purpose. Attempting to stand behind the door and peer around, she scanned the
darkened drive.

A mob still jeered and struck weapons against the iron bars
of the closed gate. She winced at the thuds coming from the graveled drive and
smelled the stench of spilled blood.

Now that her eyes had adapted to the dark, she could see Ian
more clearly, and she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming.

Ian’s staff held his opponents at bay, but despite their
bruises, the swordsmen were quick on their feet. If one feinted to draw Ian’s
blow, the other rushed in on his undefended side. Ian was deftly transferring
the staff from hand to hand, holding them back, swinging surely and soundly,
landing quick blows, but he did not have eyes in the back of his head. A man
wearing the Phrygian cap of a radical, with hair straggling to his uncollared
shirt, crept up from behind him.

With no time to think, Chantal shouted, “Behind you!” and
hurried down the drive with pistol raised. She nearly slipped on a wet patch on
the bricks, and fought back an urge to gag when she realized it was blood.

Without turning his head, Ian spun his staff behind his
back, slamming his unseen assailant in the ribs, before swinging the stout oak
low to the ground, forcing the other two to leap out of its way.

From the other side of the gate, the mob shouted as if they
were watching gladiators.

Chantal was struck with the sudden impression that now that
Ian had locked the mob out, he was toying with the invaders for his own
amusement.

She had seen him spin his staff in a blur so quick that the
human eye couldn’t follow. He could have brought all three men to their knees
in a heartbeat. For some reason, he chose not to.

Men!
She could
easily smack them all. The mob had deteriorated into a bunch of drunken louts
looking for entertainment. A cockfight would do just as well, as long as blood
was spilled.

Let Ian play his game with the swordsmen. She needed to
return to her father, and she couldn’t do that until the mob dispersed. She
donned a smile for her own sake since it was unlikely that anyone could see it.
Waving the pistol above her head, she began to sing “
Ca ira
!”

Thud.
A sword
clattered across the stones, and one thug went down. The mob jeered.

She sang louder, using the tenor of her voice in a manner
she’d learned to encourage others to join in. Someone in the back of the crowd
took up the refrain. This was why she loved Paris. Even in abject misery, the
people remained proud and defiant. She poured her love for her home into her
song, and the crowd responded.

The ruffian with the cracked ribs staggered in retreat
toward the narrow arch of the pedestrian gate. Hands reached over the wrought
iron to haul him across to the other side.

More voices sang in triumph, as if they were winning this
battle.

Oomph.
Ian’s third
opponent doubled up from a blow to the midsection.

Chantal switched to a laughing child’s song and marched
forward, gaily swinging her pistol. Ian grabbed his crippled adversary by the
back of his shirt and flung him across the low pedestrian gate with his
companion.

The mob cheered, apparently transferring its allegiance to
the winner.

The man who’d lost his sword had finally retrieved it.
Instead of rushing at Ian, he raised the weapon in salute and sauntered toward
the exit, happily singing Chantal’s tune.

Ian let him through, then slammed the gate shut and shot the
bolt in place.

Chantal gleefully called out, “Farewell, my friends. We will
see you when our flag flies in freedom and equality!”

The mob began to disperse, singing drinking songs and
shouting rebellious verses.

Staff in hand, Ian approached her. She felt his
disconcerting gaze piercing her as if he could see into her head. “You have a
remarkable voice,” he said dryly, dropping an arm over her shoulder and
steering her back toward the house.

“People like to sing. I learned long ago that it’s hard for
people to be angry if they’re singing.” Taking in Ian’s male musk and sweat as
if they were fine wine, she was nearly dizzy from his proximity. She caught up
her robe and hurried beside him.

“And this is the usual result when you sing?” he inquired
off-handedly, as if they hadn’t just confronted a mob and won.

“I don’t usually sing in public, and turning away rabble is
scarcely a habit, but, yes, whenever I have the opportunity to join others in
song, I do feel better.”

“I would hate to see you truly angry, then.” He nodded at
the servants gathering up their brooms and axes while humming under their
breaths. “They act as if they’re preparing for a party.”

“You saved us from being terrorized by thugs. They have
every reason to be happy. Ask them for anything you like, and they will most
likely hug your neck.” In a more seductive undertone, she added, “I would like
to hug your neck. Thank you.”

He squeezed her shoulders but didn’t offer flattery in
return, as a normal gentleman might. He still seemed remarkably calm about the
evening’s events. He exhibited more interest in her singing than in a radical
mob crazed with bloodlust.

“We have much to learn about each other,” was all her
suggestive gratitude elicited before they stepped into the hustle and bustle
inside.

Girard handed Ian his discarded monk’s robe, and he shrugged
it on, enveloping his admirable shoulders, to Chantal’s disappointment. But it
was time to return to reality. She hurried in the direction of her father’s
study with Ian at her heels. She had no idea how she would explain his
presence.

She sighed in relief at the sound of Pauline’s voice coming
from inside. Maybe she wouldn’t have to explain after all.

* * *

Still captivated by the thrilling image of his mate in
filmy white, her golden hair tumbling down her back while marching across
stones with pistol raised, singing triumphant war songs like a Valkyrie of old,
Ian stepped into her father’s mahogany-paneled chamber and hastily returned to
the present.

With curiosity, he regarded the large, distinguished man
reclining in a large leather chair with his injured leg propped up on a
matching stool. The man was leaning his gray wig wearily against the seat’s
high back, but he abruptly sat up at Ian’s entrance.

Interestingly, Ian couldn’t read him at all. This must be
where Chantal had learned to mask her thoughts. Since they did not have Aelynn
eyes — and he had yet to find an Aelynn mark on Chantal — he had to err on the side
of caution and assume Alain and his daughter were Other Worlders, not
Crossbreeds. So their stillness was a phenomenon that he appreciated.

Chantal dropped to her knees at her father’s side and
examined his bandaged leg, but her father continued gazing at Ian with — fear?
suspicion?

“I have been told, monsieur, that I have you to thank for
Pauline’s release,” the older man said. “I would stand and offer my hand, but I
fear my daughter would cut me down should I try.” Humor and affection laced his
words.

“I’m sorry, Papa, I’ve been rude. This is Monsieur Ian
d’Olympe. He is trying to locate a stolen chalice. Ian, my father, Alain
Orateur,” Chantal said from her position on the floor.

Ian’s gaze lingered admiringly on her slender form draped in
the silk robe. When he lifted his head to greet his host, he encountered
resignation in the other man’s eyes.

He knew
. Somehow,
Alain Orateur knew who Ian was. That was inconceivable. The Other World knew
nothing of the Mystic Isle. Only an Aelynner…

Immediately, he glanced at Orateur’s left hand, but her
father had already discreetly dropped it to the side Ian couldn’t see.

Ian suspected what he hid — Aelynn’s ring of silence!

That would explain the ability to shut off his mind as Other
Worlders did not, and the name
Orateur
as well. Once upon a time, Aelynn had had a family of orators. Alain could be a
descendant, and if he wore a ring —

He had to have come
from the island.

It wasn’t entirely unusual for an Aelynner to leave and not
return. Many died in foreign parts. Some refused to leave their Other World
mates and children. The reasons for leaving paradise and not returning were as
varied as the individuals.

Ian thought it might be unusual for an expatriate not to
acknowledge a fellow countryman, especially one of Ian’s rank, but he was new
to this world. Perhaps the ring of silence prevented acknowledgment of his
origins.

Ian was certain that Orateur recognized him — perhaps more by
name and purpose than by presence, since they’d never met. Orateur must have
left the island in his youth.

But if he did not have Aelynn eyes, which Aelynn god would
mark an orator? The god of peace? War?
Chaos
?
Ian shuddered at the possibility of the latter two. They’d been bred from
Aelynners long ago.

That Alain Orateur was an Aelynner explained a great deal
about Chantal. For a few minutes, Ian had begun to wonder if Other Worlders had
an amazing form of power of which he’d known nothing. Singing a rioting mob
into peace was not a skill he recognized. It was no wonder that Chantal thought
her chaotic world was a pleasant place. She created her own small bubble of
peace with her voice.

Music was a disappointingly useless gift on Aelynn since the
island was already peaceful, which ought to make him anxious about his future
with her, but he had more immediate concerns.

“It is an honor to meet you, monsieur,” Ian stated, as was
proper. There was no reason to reveal his knowledge of the man’s origin, and it
was impossible to speak of it with others present. “Please do not stand on my
account. If you do not need my aid, I would like to retire so I might bathe.”
He was accustomed to bathing regularly in the hot springs of his home. The
difficulty of doing so in his travels had been distressing.

“We have a heated bath in the cellar,” Chantal offered.
“Papa had it built, and it’s the most marvelous place. The Romans could have
none better.”

Ian let his appreciation show in his expression as he
glanced at her father. Resigned, Alain Orateur caressed his daughter’s fair
hair and nodded. As an Aelynner, Alain would appreciate a heated bath far more
than Other Worlders who knew little of such conveniences.

“My house is at your service,” his host said. “If there is
anything we can do to aid your search, we are at your disposal. These are
uncertain times, and I would not have you harmed.”

Ian accepted his offer as an oblique acknowledgment that
Alain would not challenge him. This was good. He was always prepared for
battle, but he preferred peace. “I would like to understand more of your
country,” he agreed. “The more I know, the easier it will be for me to complete
my task.”

“Tonight was not a fair example of our ways,” the other man
protested. “I have a habit of saying more than I should, which angers instead
of heals. I addressed the Assembly on behalf of the king today, and the more
radical elements objected. There are those who would extract justice from the
innocent for past wrongs, but once people see the wisdom of allowing the
Assembly to counsel the king, the monarchy will survive in some form.”

Ian approved of this insight, but to his surprise, he sensed
anger, fear, and disagreement from elsewhere in the room. Trying not to look
too startled, he bowed and turned for the door. His eyes met Pauline’s defiant
ones.

A flare of intense loyalty to the king and queen briefly
eclipsed rational thought, and he sensed that this loyalty was in opposition to
that of Chantal and her father. Loyalty to leaders was a positive attribute as
far as he understood, since he was a leader. That there could be different
forms of loyalty was puzzling but, again, not his concern.

He nodded in farewell and departed.

In the morning, after he had bathed and everyone was rested,
would be time enough to ask for Chantal in marriage.

Of course, if Alain Orateur knew who Ian was, he also knew
that Other World vows were meaningless on Aelynn. Ian hoped that wouldn’t
create a complication.

Chantal tried not to hurry down to the breakfast parlor the
next morning, but her step was light and eager on the stairs.

Ian had not come to her chamber last night. She assumed it
was out of courtesy to her father. She had thought that was what she wanted — to
protect her father from unseemly behavior. But this morning, she felt otherwise.
She wanted Ian in her bed again for whatever brief time he could be here. She
didn’t wish to miss a minute of the pleasure they could have together. If a
child came of it, so be it. She’d never conceived in the early years of her
marriage, before Jean became ill, so considering the possibility was mostly an
intellectual exercise.