Mystic Warrior (32 page)

“We've both Seen the chalice,” he finally said. “In the same place, a tunnel beneath the earth, on a pagan altar.”

“Glastonbury Tor,” Trystan and Mariel guessed at once.

Lis looked questioningly at Murdoch.

“The tor is the site of several ancient temples,” he told her. “The hill beneath it is said to be riddled with tunnels, perhaps leading to more altars of the old gods.”

“And if Aelynn and the pure of heart like Chantal are able to shield the chalice's vibrations from our Finding senses, then a sacred altar might do the same?” Lis asked, comprehending immediately.

“Exactly, although how the chalice got there, we may never know,” Murdoch said, hoping she would let him escape this stifling parlor and ride to the tor to start the search.

Lis smiled in delight. “Then the chalice may be waiting for our next Oracle to take it home, rather like Arthur and the sword in the tales of old.”

For a conversation stopper, that had to rank right up there with “The world is on fire.”

“Oracle?” Trystan shouted. “You're saying
Murdoch
is the Oracle? Devil take it, Lissandra, I knew we should have bound and gagged you when you insisted on getting off the ship in France, but if I'd had any idea it was this renegade you were seeking . . .”

Murdoch sank down on a long sofa, swung his legs over the arm, covered his eyes with his coat sleeve, and waited for the roof to collapse and smother him. This argument could last well into the night, and he didn't think he had the patience to hold back his energy much longer.

 

Lissandra watched from the window of her darkened bedchamber as Murdoch and Trystan slashed at each other with rapiers in the lantern-lit courtyard. Dueling was the manner in which Aelynn men had released their irritation and settled their disputes for centuries.

She no longer sensed hostility from either man. Trystan and Mariel were highly doubtful but willing to consider her theory that Murdoch was the next Oracle. And their acceptance of what Murdoch couldn't believe had exacerbated his frustration. His energy simply needed to be released in some controlled activity.

Which was why he was out there now, attacking Trystan with great zeal. Trystan would no more harm a possible Oracle than he would harm her. Which must be frustrating Murdoch even more as Trystan defended himself but refused to fight back.

How could such a volatile man also be the steadfast, reasonable Oracle the island needed? Simply stifling his excess energy wasn't sufficient, which was what Murdoch was trying to tell her with this exhibition.

The men had stripped to loose trousers and fought in bare torsos and feet, as they often did at home. Blades whirled with uncanny speed, halting only when one caught the other and sought leverage. Trystan was a big man, heavily muscled through the chest and shoulders. Murdoch was lean and strong, like a fine-honed dirk. Both were deadly.

The combatants had worked up a glistening sweat, but Lissandra suspected most of their energy was consumed in not killing each other. A dozen times Murdoch had leapt backward to prevent his blade from slipping under Trystan's guard and nicking flesh. She hoped their Other World guests weren't watching.

Even though the shoemaker and his daughter weren't Aelynners, her concern for them was as strong as if they were. In some way, she understood that saving these two courageous innocents had redeemed Murdoch's soul. They deserved the best care she could provide. Badeaux, on the other hand—she glanced at far windows, sensing him nearby—could not be denied her aid simply because she didn't trust him.

Murdoch, of course, didn't agree that she should be here at all, much less tending Others. They would always disagree on many subjects. The puzzle was how to deal with their disagreements. She couldn't physically battle him as Trystan did now. She didn't have any authority that he would respect. The solution required patience and understanding and
communication
, not virtues either of them possessed in great quantity.

But they had other virtues that might work as well, if applied correctly. Smiling with mischief, Lissandra let her lusty admiration of Murdoch's physical grace flow into the universe. The connection between them was instantaneous.

Sculpted chest heaving, Murdoch focused his attention upward, causing Trystan's rapier to nearly pierce his ear. With an abrupt twist, Trystan withdrew his thrust, then followed Murdoch's gaze, and let his sword arm fall to his side.

Discovering where his opponent's attention had wandered, Trystan grinned, saluted Lissandra with his weapon, and sauntered off.

Heeding her desire, Murdoch lowered his weapons, strode across the courtyard, and took the steps two at a time. She had no illusion that he would come directly to her, though. He would find the bath first. He would always do what he thought best, regardless of her opinion. That was how the gods had made him, and she couldn't undo it, nor did she want to. The best she could hope to do was persuade him to see her side.

To that purpose, Lissandra left her room for the bathing chamber below.

They
communicated
much better when enthralled by lust, and possessed far more patience and understanding in the languor of satiation.

She could think of no better way of insisting that he take her down into the tunnels with him.

The next morning, Murdoch rode beside the open-air carriage carrying Lis and their guests. He still wasn't entirely certain how he'd been talked into this expedition, if
talked
was the correct word. He and Lis hadn't discussed much last night in the tub. He'd turn into a sybarite if she plied her wiles any more thoroughly, and right now, he was so physically satisfied that he might let her.

He could not afford such luxury, and neither could she. They were not ordinary people, and they could not expect ordinary lives. It was foolishness even to consider it, so he turned his attention back to the task at hand—riding into Glastonbury in hopes of finding the chalice.

Amelie bounced up and down in the carriage, pointing out cows and sheep and repeating the English words for everything she saw. Her time in the nursery with the other children had been well spent.

Guillaume the Minutor scanned the flat lowlands through narrowed eyes. The hill of Glastonbury Tor rising above the fields in the distance seemed to have caught his interest. Like all Aelynners, he could not speak of their home in front of Other Worlders, but the tor bore some resemblance to Aelynn's volcano. Except the volcano had never been terraced all the way to the top, as this hill must once have been, if the paths circling upward were any indication. And Aelynn possessed no imposing stone tower to cap the peak as this one did.

Murdoch studied the grassy ridges circling the tor's side, and felt the pull of the earth. The hill hid secrets.

Not as comfortable with horses as he was with ships, Trystan rode an older gelding on the far side of the carriage, acting as tour guide, although he'd been here for only a few weeks. Suffering morning sickness, Mariel had stayed home. Murdoch missed the comfortable barrier she provided between him and her Guardian husband.

But so far, despite his tension, he hadn't lost his temper, shaken any hills, or set any fires. He probably had Lis's calming effect to thank for that. She could easily set him to vibrating with rage, but in his desire to protect her, her presence always forced him to think first and act second. An interesting concept for a warrior who'd been trained otherwise.

“There are not many people here,” Pierre said in disappointment.

A fact for which Murdoch was grateful, but he could see the man's point. “Villagers need shoes as much as city dwellers do. If they have no shoemaker, then they need you more than a city filled with shoemakers.”

“Boots are important here,” Trystan said helpfully. “Can you make boots?”

“Of course, but it takes leather, and that is expensive.”

“They have a tannery,” Trystan informed him. “Perhaps a deal could be worked out.”

Murdoch left them to discuss the practicalities of commerce while he studied the fascinating tor looming hundreds of feet above the village. His earth skills could not compare with a Minutor's. He did not know one ore from another. But he sensed the limestone waterways channeling through the ground. He could not sense the chalice, but if the dream spoke truth, it sat on an altar that might conceal its vibrations.

If the chalice was there.

If the chalice wasn't there, then Murdoch's one feeble hope of keeping Lis was lost.

He'd have to return to France and hope he could find some means of leading the French out of their bloody pursuits before they destroyed half of Europe.

After four years, he no longer possessed the arrogance to think he could do so alone.

That should bother him, but he hoped it meant he'd gained some wisdom. Much to his chagrin, he was starting to realize he needed the aid of others like him to channel his energy.

He wouldn't have that aid if he lost Lissandra and his home.

With that burden eating at his heart, Murdoch scanned the village as they entered it, and looked for some means of discarding his traveling companions so he could explore the tor and learn its dangers before deciding on a course of action. If he'd learned anything from experience, it was that nothing worth having could be had easily. He did not delude himself into believing the chalice would fall miraculously into his hands.

The carriage halted in front of a tavern. Trystan politely dismounted to help Lis out of the vehicle while Murdoch let his horse prance in the street.

“I want to explore the land,” he said, backing the horse away from the company.

Guillaume the Minutor scowled. “There is no gold, or even coal, in yon hill. The land is worthless. But I'd like to see more of those hills to the north. The view would be better from the top of the tor.”

“Another time,” Trystan said smoothly. “Amelie is too young for such a walk. Perhaps you would be interested in the ancient abbey? The buildings are mostly destroyed, but the grounds are just down the street.”

Despite Lis's suggestion that the Minutor might be of help in their search, Murdoch preferred leaving him behind. He mentally tipped his hat to Trystan for keeping the scoundrel in hand. He couldn't physically tip it, since he'd not found a hat to suit him in Ian's meager wardrobe. After years of brightly colored uniforms and gold braid, he considered the dull brown frock coat he'd borrowed far too ascetic to alleviate the annoyance of its confinement.

Lissandra wore her Aelynn clothing under a cloak suitable for this cooler British climate. The morning mist saturated cloth and hair alike. Without the mantle, she'd be soaked and nearly naked. Murdoch hugged that image to himself.

Feeling the tug of his lust, she glowered at him, and he grinned back. He made a gesture to indicate that he was leaving. He threw up a mind shield to prevent her from knocking him from his horse with a mental blow of retaliation. Beneath her glacial exterior, his Lis had a temper as fiery as his.

He would not risk her health and well-being and that of his child.
His child.
May the heavens preserve him. He'd never once thought of himself as a father.

After bowing his farewell, he steered his horse down the street past the abbey, following the magnetic draw of the earth ahead. The power in this place was incredible, possibly even more so than on Aelynn. He and Ian had toured the tor with fascination when they'd first arrived here two years ago. He knew where to find the lane that would lead him to the top. He knew how to find the Chalice Well at the bottom. The old name rang prophetic.

He didn't know how the chalice could have arrived here. In his previous search, he'd learned that the priest who'd carried the chalice from France had donated it to a university in Ireland in exchange for a position on the staff, and the school had passed it on to a cathedral in Dublin, where it had disappeared. At that point, Murdoch had abandoned the fruitless search. It was evident to him that the sacred object had a will of its own, and that will was rejecting him. So he'd returned to France, assuming Ian or Chantal was more apt to locate a holy relic than he was. Shortly thereafter, the chalice had vanished from their Finding abilities entirely.

What, by all that was sane, made him think he could uncover it now?

He'd barely reached the Chalice Well at the foot of the tor when he heard the beat of horse's hooves behind him. He knew who followed without need of opening his mind.

Stoically, Murdoch turned his mount to wait for Lis to catch up. She'd bound her hair in ribbons and braids, and they streamed behind her, catching the mist with the ethereal sparkle of a fairy crown. Trystan had evidently surrendered his horse to her command. It was Murdoch's own fault for showing her how simple it was to ride the animals.

“You know the history here?” she demanded the moment she was within hearing.

“I do.” And he hadn't been about to inform her and excite her more. Curse Trystan or Mariel for relating the stories about Glastonbury and the Holy Grail. Some believed the Christian tales of Joseph of Arimathea burying the chalice from the Last Supper—the Holy Grail—in Glastonbury. Others believed that the Arthurian legends of Merlin and the king-making sword in the stone were connected to this primitive place of worship. And those were just the more recent tales.

Murdoch swung his horse back to look past the well to the mysterious hill rising above them. It was difficult to see the terracing through the trees and hedgerows from this angle, but he'd walked them. They resembled a giant labyrinth spiraling up the sides of the hill.