Mystic Warrior (9 page)

“I have nothing on you in pigheadedness, if you think you can change my mind.” Murdoch leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb and watched her. She'd almost swear his penetrating stare could see through cloth, and she shivered a little despite the heat. “Is Waylan waiting for you at the coast?” he asked. “I can take you back tomorrow.”

Lissandra unfastened a tie holding together her skirt and bodice. “Waylan should be halfway to England by now. Something called a surveillance committee has been hunting for spies to torture and kill, and it seemed safest for all concerned if Trystan and everyone else left France.”

“I am glad they escaped, but why on earth would Trystan allow you to stay behind?” Murdoch asked in genuine surprise. “Has he lost what few wits he possessed?”

“Do you think me so weak as to let Trystan stand in my way when the survival of my home is at stake? The gods have designated you as our next Oracle. The volcano threatens our existence. Bad weather is ruining our crops. The Council is paralyzed by bickering over what we should do, while our
Oracle
hides in rural anonymity. Either the whole world is mad, or I am.”

He snorted. “I am no more an Oracle than the priest in the village, so it must be you who is mad. I have work to do. You can stay here until I am done, and then I'll take you back to the coast and look for someone to escort you home.” Turning his back on her disrobing, ignoring her pleas, he walked out.

“I did not risk my life so you can send me home like a lost child!” Beyond aggravated by this day's events, not knowing how to deal with all the agitation Murdoch aroused in her, Lissandra removed her hated shoe and flung it after her oblivious host. The shoe flew through the curtain and swerved harmlessly away.

Nothing touched Murdoch unless he wanted it to.

The next morning, Lissandra stirred the simmering cauldron of root vegetables Murdoch had prepared the night before. At home, a hearth witch would have fixed his meals, or he would have eaten with his friends. Wasn't he lonely living in isolation like this, hiding what he was?

This strange attempt at domesticity would never last. Inevitably, Murdoch would grow restless and incite trouble by demanding that wrongs be righted. And since he made no pretense at diplomacy, his methods of accomplishing what he wanted were always inflammatory. She'd yet to see evidence that he'd learned better in the years since he'd been banished.

Last night, he'd insisted she take the bed while he'd strung a hammock across the room for himself. Sometime after she'd fallen asleep, he'd departed and he hadn't returned. She had wanted to use her Healing powers to relax him, so they could have a rational discussion this morning. Stupid of her. He was a bundle of nerves and muscle so tense that it was a wonder he did not explode like the Roman candles that had killed her father. Oracles were men and women of peace. What on earth were the gods thinking to choose a man who was more likely to erupt like a volcano than call a quiet convocation?

Lissandra knew she didn't qualify either. An Oracle needed the wisdom and strength to calm a volcano, return their tropical weather patterns, and heal whatever was wrong with their crops. She came into her own only when she could lay her hands on people and feel the blood move beneath their skin, feel their pain and surround it with her energy. Healing was her true gift. Then, she felt useful.

Yet Aelynn had other Healers. They needed leaders, and by birth she should be one. By birth, Murdoch should not. The blue glow of the spirit flame contradicted everything she knew about how things
should
work.

After covering the cooking pot and banking the fire, she donned her sandals rather than wear the painful heeled shoes. She didn't dare revert to her simple tunics, but last night she'd cleaned her French gown, taken up the hem, and reduced the width of the skirt so she did not need billows of petticoats to hold it off the ground. She'd used some of the excess material to create inserts at the bodice waist so she did not need the restrictive corset, and covered the neckline with lace scraps from her petticoat to hide her unfettered breasts so she could be comfortable in this world.

If Murdoch would not stay with her, she must go after him. As irritating as it was to be ignored, she saw no other means of understanding what the gods intended.

He'd left the horse and cart, but now that she was rested, she didn't need an animal any more than he did. They would require transportation to reach the coast, but otherwise, she was accustomed to walking miles of Aelynn's roads each day, Healing the sick and delivering babies. Although, admittedly, she usually walked at a speed much greater than Other Worlders. Sensing that no one was about, she set off quickly, and slowed down as she approached the village.

Lowering her shield slightly, she sensed Murdoch in the fields beyond the village. She glanced warily at the tavern, but it was closed and dark at this hour of the morning.

The roof of the priest's humble cottage had been replaced overnight. Père Antoine stood outside, gazing upward in awe. Lissandra knew very little of roof construction, but the rough-hewn timbers looked more solid to her than the thatch she saw elsewhere.

“Good morning, Père Antoine,” she said courteously, refraining from asking all the questions that were on the tip of her tongue. She was too new to this world to understand its customs, or how the people built their houses. She hoped that what Murdoch had done—for no one else could have repaired the roof so quickly—was satisfactory.

“It would take five men weeks to build that,” the priest murmured in an amazed tone. “There is never enough time or materials. I had despaired of ever having a roof again.” His voice broke with emotion.

She pretended to understand. “It is how we do things at home. Is it not done right?”

He finally looked from his roof to her. “The former thatch was so old, it leaked in a fine mist. A roof like this . . .” He looked as if he would cry. “It will last for decades. It will hold tile if we can buy it. He has reinforced the inside so we can add another floor for a loft.”

She nodded as if that were to be expected, and handed him a bag made from a scrap of her petticoat. She'd filled it with an herbal remedy that she thought might be useful to these people. “I would thank you for being so kind to my husband while he was recovering.”

She had decided last night not to let Murdoch's perversity stand in the way of her duty. Let him pretend to be a simpleminded laborer. She would stay and haunt him until she could convince him to come home. She would have to learn how to live here—although it did seem a trifle awkward having to hide their unusual skills.

“Mix a pinch of these herbs with a cup of water, and drink it down to ease the aches of a hard day's work. My husband swears by it,” she said crisply, not asking for gratitude but expecting to be obeyed.

The priest looked at her gift as if it contained the Holy Grail. “If this is what keeps him going, we should be able to restore half the town on our own.”

“It takes practice,” she warned. “He is driven by near madness, so do not try to keep up with him.”

“I will help him, whatever it takes,” the priest said fervently. “His traveling companions said he was skilled with swords as well, but weapons are dangerous in these times.”

Ah, finally, some glimpse into what had happened here. “He seldom lets his weapons out of his sight,” she said carefully. “I am surprised that he does not wear them.”

“He gave them to me in atonement for what he calls his sins. They are well hidden,” Père Antoine assured her. “Far better that he apply his energies to constructive work, especially if his mind is injured.”

The priest had hidden Murdoch's sword, and Murdoch had let him? Wasn't it Euripides who first said, “Those whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad”? Surely the ancients did not mean that literally! Had they brought her here to kill a madman? Or . . . to Heal him? “And his traveling companions?” she asked, hiding her uneasiness.

“Once they ascertained his injuries were not fatal, they went on without him. It wasn't safe here for them.” He tilted his head meaningfully toward the tavern where the soldiers stayed.

Lissandra would have liked to know more, but the priest did not seem inclined toward explanation, and she was anxious to see what Murdoch was up to today.

“I give you good day, Father.” She hurried off, leaving the priest to his roof gazing. It did not take much to make an Other Worlder happy, it seemed.

Following her Finding instinct, Lissandra wandered down a back lane until she reached a field sprouting new green wheat. She frowned and calculated how long it took for wheat seed to germinate. Recovery from the fire seemed extraordinarily quick, unless the wheat here was different from what they used at home.

Wandering farther into the field, she found Murdoch plowing the furrows with a primitive farm implement that he pushed with both hands. Today, he wore a pair of crudely made sandals. As before, his chest was bare, and his impressive shoulders strained at the plow. Only, this time, she saw him in full sunlight without a thick layer of soot. She gasped at the many scars marring his once-smooth skin. Ian had mentioned wounding him when he was here, but how many injuries could one body take? The healing scab of a wicked graze still tarnished one broad shoulder.

Murdoch turned as if he'd heard her thoughts, and bestowed a black gaze on her. “I told you, I have work to do. If you keep interfering, it will take longer.”

The furrows he'd just plowed had no green seedlings, but they appeared moist, as if he'd planted the seed and watered it as he worked. A hint of steam or mist rose from the furrows, and she crouched down to feel heat rising from the fertile soil. She watched and thought she saw green pushing through the dirt in a recently plowed row farther down the field. She'd never actually
seen
plants grow
.
“What are you doing?” she asked in fascination.

“Planting.” He returned to pushing the blade into the ground. A sack tied to his waist dropped a thin line of seed as he walked.

“You're not an Agrarian,” she called after him. “How did you learn to do this?”

He didn't reply. Frustrated, she wanted to beat her fists upon his back until she had answers, but even if she hit him with all her strength, Murdoch had the power to fling her away as if she were no more than an irritating insect.

All right, if he insisted on repairing the village before he would listen to reason, then she must help speed his efforts. What could she do? She knew how to plant herbs but had few Agrarian gifts as spectacular as Murdoch's for tending them. She had no knowledge of construction. She enjoyed working with fine fabric, and could sew and mend, but that required materials she didn't possess. She could predict the future, but telling people their future was usually more depressing than useful. Her gifts were exceedingly impractical in this world.

Which made her feel more inadequate than ever.

Sensing a muffled cry and the mental anguish of pain from some creature nearby, she glared at Murdoch's naked back, hoped she scorched a hole in it, then deliberately worked her way across the field toward the forest and whoever had been injured. She could still Heal.

 

Murdoch knew the instant Lis turned away. Since her action immediately followed a cry of pain, it didn't take much logic to know where she was going. The damned woman simply didn't understand that this wasn't safe, peaceful Aelynn, and there were monsters everywhere.

He threw down his plow, found the homespun shirt he'd tossed onto a branch, and jerked it over his head. The fire had destroyed the fine clothing he'd once carried with him. He'd been reduced to the crude hand-me-downs the villagers provided, and he tried to take care of them.

He stalked after Lis, cursing under his breath. Until her arrival, he'd been coping. He'd even convinced himself to quit pretending he could ever change the world. He'd hoped if he could make himself useful, he might be welcome here long enough to make a difference. Fixing one small village, repairing some of his mistake, was all he'd asked.

And then Lissandra had arrived, shattering his illusion.

He stifled his inappropriate temper and caught up with her where he'd expected she'd go—the encampment of local men who were hiding from conscription. He knew they watched him from the shadows during the day, then came out and hoed the fields at night after he had gone, aiding him as best they could when the committee wasn't looking. Torn between wanting to lower his mental shields in order to know who was around him, and fearing the barrage of grief and anger that would assault him when he did, Murdoch had refrained from getting too close. Lissandra, of course, waded right into the emotional tempest.

“The wound requires stitching. If you'll hold this pad tight over it, I'll fetch my bag.” Crouching beside a young lad with a bandage wrapped around his hand, Lissandra straightened, observed Murdoch's arrival, and, ignoring him, strode off toward the village.

He stepped in front of her. “If you go parading back and forth from a supposedly empty forest, carrying a medicine bag, and anyone sees you, they will be suspicious. The committee doesn't know these men are here.”

“Shall I turn invisible?” she inquired with the cool demeanor she'd apparently chosen to keep him in line.“The wound needs tending or it will become gangrenous.”

Murdoch glanced over her shoulder at the small band of men. “Take the lad to the woodcutter's cottage,” he ordered them. “My wife and I will meet you there.”

He grabbed Lis's arm and hauled her out of the forest, toward the field where he'd been working. “You are wasting your efforts,” he muttered for her ears alone. “There is an entire world of people who need Healing and only one of you. You may as well try to eradicate the world population of flies by swatting them one at a time.”