Mystic Rider (20 page)

His innards roared in rage when he finally heard Chantal.
Her voice was not the ladylike melody he knew so well, but more that of a
shrieking fishwife. Goosebumps covered his flesh, and irritation shredded his
eardrums. He smacked a soldier’s sword with his bare hand, sending it
skittering beneath the feet of the crowd.

He never got angry. He had no experience with explosive
fury. Yet, he wanted to rip the crowd apart — and he had no idea why.

Realizing that, he still didn’t stop and reconsider. Chantal
was angry, so he must be, too.

With the strength of ten men, Ian lifted a soldier and flung
him out of his way, grabbed a burly farmer and twisted him around so he’d take
his curses elsewhere. He shoved aside men and women alike until he reached the
whirling eye of the storm — Chantal.

Holding a… chicken?

His peaceful, enchanting, melodic-voiced Chantal was
screaming hysterically at a skinny boy in tattered military garments.

The whole town
screamed with her.
Never again would he doubt the power of her voice.

Ian strode into the circle, wrapped one arm around Chantal’s
waist, slapped his other hand over her mouth, and hauled her off her feet.

She kicked furiously, hitting his shins with unfailing
accuracy. The chicken squawked and flapped its wings. Men cheered. Women
railed. The skinny boy just looked dazed.

Ian paid no heed to anyone except the woman in his arms. The
stiffness was draining from her backbone, and she hugged the miserable chicken
like a child, sniffing back tears.

Hands full, Ian could only glare at anyone in his way and
send them scurrying from his path. Once free of the crowd, he was able to see
the inn and the carriage.

“Do you wish to take the chicken to the kitchen or a
henhouse?” he asked in his calmest tones, when, in fact, his head shrieked with
a thousand damnable emotions — hers
and
his.

Carefully, he lifted his hand from her mouth, prepared to
cover it again should she emit another scalp-raising screech.

“Kitchen,” she whispered. “Put me down, please.”

He didn’t want to. He wanted to fling the chicken to the
cook and carry Chantal straight upstairs to a chamber where he could close the
door on the world. Barring that, he needed to take his staff to an empty yard
and work through his serenity exercises.

Instead, he had to figure out what had just happened here.

He returned Chantal to her feet. Not meeting his eyes, she
cradled the stunned chicken as if it were a long-lost friend.

“Are you sure you want to take it to the kitchen?” he asked.

“Papa loves chicken soup.” Straightening her shoulders, she
marched toward the inn, back ramrod straight. Golden ringlets had escaped their
pins and fallen flat in the heat and humidity. Her skirt was covered in dust
and adorned with chicken droppings.

Ian’s mouth twitched and his insides softened at the sight
of her vulnerable nape and swaying hips. Whatever she’d done, she’d scared
herself, and he itched to reassure her. He would make a rotten leader if he
couldn’t handle one small woman.

“I don’t think we have time for soup,” he informed her,
following her to the back of the inn.

“We will make time. Papa collapsed in the stable. He’s
barely conscious. I’ll stay here with him,” she said boldly.

That did not bode well for any of his carefully laid plans.

Apparently having circumnavigated the crowd, Pierre hurried
to catch up with them. “Chantal, I think you’re possessed,” he muttered
angrily. “Or bewitched. How can anyone start a riot over a chicken?”

Ian sensed the young priest’s confusion but didn’t trespass
further into his mind.

“I think your entire country is possessed and bedeviled,” he
said to distract the priest from thinking of Chantal in such offensive terms.
“Do people have nothing better to do than riot in the streets here?”

“Not any longer,” Chantal said, shoving the chicken at a
startled cook.

Apparently deciding this was an argument he couldn’t win,
Pierre dropped out of the fray to sample a sweet roll a maid offered him. Now
that they were free of Paris, he’d returned to his clergyman’s attire. A
priest’s collar had some benefits, like free sweet rolls.

Lifting her bedraggled skirt, Chantal walked past staring
scullery maids and into the inn’s hall. “The nobility has all run away,” she
said scornfully, continuing her tirade. “What is left for people to do if they
have no employment? Priests are in hiding. Artisans have left for other
countries where people actually pay for their talents. Shall I continue?”

“No. I can read a pamphlet if I want a political diatribe. I
just want to know what set off this particular mob.”

“I yelled.” She said it simply and coldly, as if it
explained all.

Ian feared it might.

Her father was an Aelynner with a gift for oration. Chantal
was a Crossbreed, born outside the aegis of his gods. For all he knew, her
gifted voice could cause emotional discord and incite violence. It certainly
seemed to have done so here.

He followed her upstairs in hopes  — and fear  — of learning
more.

As hard as it was to do, Chantal ignored Ian and opened
the door to her father’s chamber in the inn. She was too shaken by her unusual
behavior over the chicken to accept any more upsetting arguments. She needed
her father’s calm understanding.

“Chantal!” he called as they entered. “I heard the
commotion. What happened?”

That he hadn’t left his bed to find out spoke more than a
volume of words. Without his wig, he was nearly bald and looked shrunken
against the pillow. Escaping Ian’s presence, she hurried to her father’s
bedside to stroke his brow. He felt too warm for her liking, but the room had
little air, and the sun baked the roof. It could be just the heat, and perhaps
his extreme anxiety, that caused his collapse, but his breathing wasn’t normal,
and his color looked unhealthy.

“I purchased a chicken for your soup, and some foolish
soldier tried to take it from me. I boxed his ears,” she said with a bright
smile. Actually, she’d screeched. Helpless against her fear for her father and
their situation, confronted by a boy with a gun, she’d screeched like an Irish
banshee  — and the entire town had started yelling with her, rushing out in the
street to take sides for no discernible reason. Perhaps everyone’s nerves were
as on edge as hers.

Her state of anxiety ever since Ian had ridden off had no
doubt added to her hysteria. She really didn’t want to know what he’d been
doing. She was coming apart at the seams just fine without also knowing he was involved
in sedition.

“You can usually sweet-talk an apple into falling into your
hand,” her father chided, not understanding the extent of the damage she’d
done. “You did not sleep well last night. Go rest, and I’ll be ready to ride by
dinnertime.”

She was grateful he had not seen the near riot, but her
father was not a man who hid from reality. Alain turned his sharp eye to Ian. “I
would speak with you, young man.”

Chantal assumed that meant she was dismissed. She preferred
not to hear Ian explain himself.
If
he could.

She needed to settle her nerves. She didn’t need to know if
the king and queen were escaping. That would surely be the end of the world as
she knew it — and not conducive to serenity.

The flute wasn’t sufficient. She needed her piano. Or the
bell —

Ian hadn’t brought Rapscallion with him when he’d raced in
to save her from herself. Had he retrieved his chalice? Was it still tied to
the saddle? Nothing else could calm her so well.

On that hopeful thought, she ran down the stairs in search
of the horse and her lovely bell.

* * *

“Tell me you didn’t help the royal family to escape in
exchange for the chalice,” Alain Orateur demanded the moment the bedroom door
closed behind Chantal.

“I’m not in the habit of lying,” Ian said, taking a seat in
a barrel-backed chair, folding his hands over his chest and stretching his
legs. He might as well relax while being interrogated. He seldom found it
necessary to explain his actions, but this was Chantal’s father. “I did what
was necessary to save the chalice and my amacara. That I abetted a deed that
was already underway, preventing possible harm to valuable lives, should meet
with your approval.”

Alain paled at the word
amacara
.
“She would never agree to those vows,” he whispered in horror, dismissing the
political argument for the personal one. “What have you done?”

“What I told you I would do. I’m an Olympus. Did you expect
any less? I must still put a halt to a wayward rogue named Murdoch. I don’t
have much time. Do you know the nature of your illness?”

Shocked, Orateur ran a hand over his balding pate, not
looking at Ian. “She’s all I have left. I cannot believe…” His voice trailed
off on a note of grief.

“Have you even attempted to assess her talents?” Ian asked,
diverting the topic away from any question of how he’d persuaded Chantal to
take vows she did not understand. “The altercation outside just now wasn’t
quite as simple as she made it seem.”

Alain shook his head. “She is extraordinarily gifted
musically, a talent your people do not appreciate.”

“They’re your people, too,” Ian reminded him. “Where else
but Aelynn would you go when war breaks out here? Or do you plan to keep
Chantal exposed to violence and danger?”

“She creates her own safety,” Alain argued, glaring at Ian.
“Have you not noticed? When she smiles, the whole world smiles with her. Or at
least the portion who can see her.”

“Hear her,” Ian corrected. Until now, he’d almost convinced
himself that Chantal had no Aelynn gift, but he’d been fooling himself. Since
she did not have the changeable eyes of most Aelynners and gifted Crossbreeds,
she must possess an unusual gift from the gods. He needed to find her mark and
see what he had done by binding himself to her. He knew of no god of music.

“She charms with her voice,” Ian continued. “And perhaps
with her song, although that is less easy to ascertain. And since we all have a
flaw in our gifts, she may also cause havoc when she is angry. I’d rather not
test that last bit if the episode I just witnessed is any example.”

Ian hid his shudder at an image of an angry Chantal on
Aelynn, an island filled with trained warriors and highly sensitive people.
Could he possibly keep her happy enough to avoid causing mayhem? Had musicians
been bred out of the island for their ability to arouse strong emotion?

“I have never seen her angry,” Alain protested. “She is like
a ray of sunshine, always humming and singing.”

Apparently, Alain had kept her happy. Somewhat. “I do not
have time for this.” Ian rose in irritation. “Did she hum with happiness after
her husband died? Will she do so if you die?” he asked pointedly. “I have some
healing talent, if you are willing to submit to it.”

Alain’s lips tightened. “I’ll be fine, for a man who can
never go home again. Go about your treason.”

Ian winced. As a leader, he’d done what he’d had to do to
protect his home. But Alain was right — they could not return to Paris. He
regretted that for Chantal’s sake, but on Aelynn, he could provide a better
life for her than she would have in this brutal world. He had to believe this
was what the gods wanted.

But at his next realization, alarm streaked through him, and
he nearly raced for the door.
The chalice
had just disappeared!

“I have no allegiance to France and therefore cannot be a
traitor to it,” Ian corrected, speaking hurriedly. “Your true home is on
Aelynn, and you are always welcome there.” He held up his hand to stay Alain’s
retort. “Saving a king is not treason. I would certainly hope I’d have people
loyal enough to do the same for me, were I in such a position.” Without arguing
further, Ian stalked out.

Throughout these various altercations, his limited Finding
ability had remained aware of the chalice’s presence safely in his saddlebag. But
within the last few minutes, the damned object had disappeared from his consciousness.
The chalice might be sentient, but he doubted that it had feet. He hurried down
the hall, toward the stable.

The only time he’d known the chalice to disappear from his
awareness was when it was far away —
or
with Chantal
. Since there hadn’t been time for a thief to go far…

He reversed direction and hurried back down the hall,
picking up traces of thoughts and physical sensations behind each door. He
recognized Pierre and Pauline tucking the children in for a nap. Turning a
corner, he felt the absence of thought or emotion behind the closed door on the
end. The room could be empty. In which case, it wouldn’t hurt to look.

He approached the door with a degree of caution. If this
blank hole was Chantal, thankfully her grief and fear had subsided. But feeling
no vibrations from her at all was unnatural. He’d been aware of her in some
manner since the sky had revealed her to him more than a year ago. Since they’d
exchanged vows, her presence had been like a second part of him. Her absence
now was palpable.

This is what it would
be like if he lost her.
Ian stood still, trying to assimilate all his
rioting reactions to the empty space where his mate should be. Bleakness.
Despair.
Loneliness
.

He had never realized how alone he’d been. How
empty.
He was a busy man, of course, and
he had his mother and sister, friends.… But he’d always stood outside their
lives, acting on his own, shouldering his responsibilities without help. He’d
never needed anyone.

He shouldn’t need Chantal. She was an emotional woman with
no ability to lighten his weighty duties. But in some manner he couldn’t grasp,
she provided what he was missing.