Mystic Warrior (31 page)

“You must be mad to bring Lissandra here,” Trystan stated, holding his saber in both hands and prepared to strike the instant Murdoch did. “Did you think to hold her for ransom?”

Aware of the farm cart rapidly approaching with Other Worlders who did not understand Aelynn ways, Lissandra sighed with impatience. Trystan was too arrogant to entirely close his mind to her. She'd never taken advantage of his insolence in the past, but this time, she mentally swatted him.
Hard.

“Stop that,” she demanded so he knew with whom he was dealing.

Startled, the golden giant almost dropped his sword but didn't dare swerve to face her while he had Murdoch in his sights. “You do not understand his menace,” Trystan protested. “He is safe only when bound in chains.”

At ease in billowing shirtsleeves and loose trousers, Murdoch snorted and produced his rapier. With a weapon in each hand, he was beyond formidable. Broader and taller than Murdoch,Trystan was hampered by his formal frock coat and tight doeskin breeches. As usual, Murdoch did not speak his thoughts, but began circling his opponent, searching for a weak spot.

Which meant Lissandra had to speak for him. She ought to swat him as well, but she knew she'd only distract him into a mocking smile, which would no doubt infuriate Trystan further.
Men!

“There is a reason I dislike being a leader,” she complained, searching for a bench or something of equal height to help her dismount. “I cannot reason with male absurdity. You know perfectly well that if I wanted Murdoch in chains, he would be in chains. It would be so much simpler if I could just pull a sword and give each of you a sample of your own foolishness.”

With a nod, Mariel indicated a stepping block. “It's equally easy and more amusing to watch them hack off each other's heads, as Chantal so politely says. Will they have the sense to stop before then?”

“In this case, most likely, no.” Lissandra unwrapped the skirt of her island attire from the saddle and stepped down just as the farm cart pulled up to the gate. The driver hastily halted his mule at sight of the confrontation in the garden.

Now that Lissandra had moved out of their path, the two men began testing each other. Their weapons flashed in the sunlight with each graceful movement. In moments, they would spin them faster than the Other World eye could see—and their audience would faint dead away.

“Trystan may be larger, but he is a diplomat, not a warrior, so he will most likely fare worst,” Lissandra reminded her hostess. “I recommend that you call him off while I take Murdoch down.”

At her cool assessment and improbable solution, Lissandra sensed the startlement of everyone from Mariel and their onlookers to the two combatants. With the advantage of surprise, and for the benefit of their non-Aelynn guests, she strode with regal authority and no hesitation between the two large oafs and their swinging swords.

When they had no choice except to stop, she kicked Murdoch's shin, mentally swatted him, then gave him a shove backward into the yews. Caught unprepared, he yelped in surprise—but not for long. From the depths of the greenery, he grinned back at her so widely that Lissandra had to stop herself from swiping his sword and pounding him into the ground with it.

Behind her, Mariel sensibly launched her clumsy weight into her husband's long arms, forcing Trystan to drop his weapon to catch her.

“I like this diversion,” Mariel cried, clinging to her husband's neck so he couldn't set her aside. “Can we do it again?”

Murdoch set his tiny teacup on the delicate table beside his equally frail chair and glared at his empty palms, trying to figure out what to do with them while the women chatted and the chalice awaited. He needed to be doing something—like challenging a still-simmering Trystan.

He was fully confident that he could defeat Trystan in battle. He had done so before and had more experience now; meanwhile Trystan had been living the peaceful life of diplomacy.

What Murdoch doubted was his own patience to deal with the protocol of forcing Trystan to see that—impossible as it might seem—the Oracle's daughter had chosen him for a mate, even though he was the most unsuitable man in the known universe.

Life was much simpler when its challenges were met with the sharp edge of a blade.

Crushing china didn't seem practical, but if he let his tension build, he might shatter the entire table. Or set fire to the draperies. He needed
action
. Although the confounded tight breeches and frock coat he'd been forced to wear for this charade didn't allow for much movement.

Following Lis's example, he'd left the subject of the chalice unspoken. Trystan and Mariel possessed few Finding abilities. Their gifts for protecting the island were too valuable to risk either of them on what could easily be a dangerous mission. So everyone sat about sipping tea as if he and Lis were here for a mere social call. Murdoch clenched his teeth, nearly crushed the delicate cup in his big hand, and tried to ignore Trystan's glare.

“Your Parisian shoemaker would fare better in London where the crazed
ton
are desperate for the latest French fashions,” Mariel said over the tea table.

Even Murdoch could see that pregnancy suited his hostess. She possessed the complacent beauty of a Madonna, which made him even more uncomfortable. Would Lis look like that in another few months? Would he even be by her side to watch her grow round with his child? He didn't know whether to look proudly at Lis the way Trystan looked at his wife, or pretend he was his usual surly self. Hell, he didn't know himself at all these days.

Pauline, Chantal's sister-in-law and their émigré hostess in the absence of Ian and Chantal, had taken their guests in hand, showing them to bedchambers where they could freshen or change their clothing, and had introduced Amelie to the nursery crowd. As an Other Worlder, Pauline had no interest in this discussion. Or nondiscussion. She'd not returned to entertain them but apparently joined Mariel's Other World sister, Francine, in more prosaic household tasks.

Lis sipped from her cup as if she'd done so all her life. “Pierre's lungs need to fully heal before he travels again. I don't think he will accept our charity much longer, however. He would prefer to be useful. Is there a town nearby?”

“Glastonbury is not far. It's little more than a village, though.” Refusing to sit, Trystan paced the far end of the room in front of the cold fireplace.

Lissandra outranked all of them. If she chose to discuss her Other World patient rather than why they had come here, they must all natter aimlessly. Murdoch thought he might explode.

Perhaps he could focus on shattering the crystal candelabra. If he narrowed his eyes, placed his hands on his knees, and pointed his fingers in the direction of the dangling crystal . . .

The prisms started to chatter. Across the room, Lissandra cast him a mocking look. The damned woman was daring him to behave and keep his excess energy under control.

Murdoch rose abruptly from the bent-legged chair. “Why don't I take our shoemaker and Minutor into town while the three of you catch up on your gossip?” He didn't bother hiding his sarcasm. They all knew he had no more place in this proper drawing room than he did on Aelynn. He belonged on a battlefield, where killing was necessary. His borrowed cravat was about to choke him.

“I don't think you'll find the chalice without me,” Lissandra said complacently, returning her gaze to a book Mariel had been showing her.

Trystan stopped pacing. Mariel nearly dropped the book in surprise at this casual mention of the holy relic that had been lost years ago—and the suggestion that the renegade and the Oracle's daughter would be working together to retrieve it.

Murdoch almost laughed. His Lis had blasted the conversation wide-open without need of his assistance. Their hosts stared at her as if she'd lost her mind; then they turned warily to him.

Trystan's eyes narrowed first as he brilliantly recognized the unnatural affinity between the outcast and the Oracle's daughter. Murdoch offered a sardonic smile, daring the Guardian to ask if he and Lis were sharing a bed. He could not brag, “The lady is mine,” since he had no legal claim to her. But men understood these things.

Trystan's big hands balled into fists.

“Prepare to fling yourself at your husband, please,” Lis warned Mariel, still without looking up. “Even if I am not anointed Oracle, I'm free to do as I please. It's difficult enough to teach that to Murdoch. I'd rather not have to force our arrogant Guardian to accept it as well.”

Murdoch did not relax his defenses until Mariel considered all that had not been said, then smiled up at her giant of a husband. “I don't think Ian would appreciate having his lovely home wrecked by two territorial curs with no homes of their own. Sit down. I'm sure Lissandra will explain in her own time, in her own way.”

Since the Oracle's daughter wasn't accustomed to explaining herself at all, and was currently displaying the unruffled detachment she'd learned at her mother's knee, Murdoch doubted that, but he wouldn't be the one to correct his hostess. “It will be easier for all if I am not here while you talk. Let me take our guests into town.”

He couldn't believe he was even asking. He ought to simply walk out and do as he thought best, as he'd always done.

But what he'd always done hadn't worked out well. So he stood there stupidly waiting for approval. The crystals still chattered, but at least he hadn't rumbled the foundations. Yet.

Lis's lips turned up and her eyes sparkled as she finally regarded him over the top of the book. “It will get easier, I promise,” she said, as if she'd read his mind.

Or his emotions. His Lissy was astonishingly good at that, even when she seemed not to notice anything at all. She understood him too well, as he did her. The knowledge that others didn't recognize the passionate nature beneath Lis's apparent indifference eased his irascible temper.

Trystan and Mariel glanced back and forth between them with the appalled fascination with which one watches a shipwreck. The unpredictable warrior banished from Aelynn and the dutiful daughter who would never desert her home did not appear to be the best of matches.

“I am trying to be civilized,” Murdoch reminded his gloating mate. “I have yet to punch Trystan in the nose, although he's crying out for it.”

“And I appreciate how hard you are trying,” Lis conceded. “But you do it for my sake and not for anyone else. So if you take our guests into town without me, I fear you'll revert to your normal behavior and thwack Guillaume against a tree.”

“What if Trystan and I both take our guests into town and thwack our Minutor against a tree?” Murdoch suggested hopefully.

Mariel burst out laughing.

Even Trystan's mouth twitched.

For a very brief moment, Murdoch almost enjoyed himself. If he didn't think of the burdens being heaped on his head, he might conceivably learn some form of polite behavior.

“Did you consider that the gods may have sent us an Aelynner with earth skills, who is knowledgeable in tunnels and mines, for a purpose?” Lis suggested before Murdoch could raise another objection.

He glared at her. “You are too damned perceptive and willing to be reasonable.” He grabbed a tiny sandwich off the tray and began pacing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“I appreciate your prevention of brawls in the salon and thwacking of guests against trees,” Mariel said to Lissandra with a giggle, “but I think you need to explain what this is about. You have evidently harnessed a wild stallion, but I fear he will rip through your bridle soon.”

“Murdoch has somehow convinced Lissandra that they can find the Chalice of Plenty,” Trystan surmised, stopping his pacing to take a seat next to his wife on the silk settee.

Mariel's giggles dissolved into a worried frown. It was she who had first set the chalice free upon the world, and her guilt fretted her. At the time, she had thought it no more than an ugly bauble she could sell to feed her family. Since then, Ian had decided the chalice had chosen Mariel, and not the other way around, but the deterioration of Aelynn since the chalice's loss could not be easily dismissed.

Murdoch hastened to reassure her. “The Chalice of Plenty has its own purpose here. It has provided for Aelynn for centuries, and we must trust it continues to do so now, although not in the normal manner, since these times are not normal.”

Lis's eyes widened. “That's true. It last escaped during the plague in Europe, well over a hundred years ago. At the time, our sailors chased it through ports that had no disease, thus preventing them from bringing the epidemic home.”

“If we had annals of that time, we might also note that the chalice found amacara matches with Healers or others who helped stem the disease in some manner.” Murdoch shrugged in response to their stares. “It seems to bring unusual people together, does it not?”

Since Trystan and Mariel had been brought together because of the cup, and two people with more different backgrounds could not be found, they had to agree. The same was true of Ian and Chantal. Murdoch and Lis had similar backgrounds, perhaps, but they were still oceans apart in everything else. Yet they were finally together, at least partly because of the chalice.

“Ian lived here for two years, searching for the blasted thing,” Trystan reminded them. “If he couldn't find it, what makes you think you can?”

Murdoch waited for Lis to explain. Provokingly, she watched him in anticipation, as if he had the words to clarify without revealing the lovemaking that had produced their mutual vision. Fine Oracle he'd make when he couldn't explain something so elemental.