Mystic Warrior (2 page)

But she had become a woman while he was gone, one who knew her own worth.

He admired the way his princess held her ground, forcing him to step back, knowing he had not yet earned the right to touch her. He respected her ability to resist temptation, although life would be much simpler if she could accept his wisdom and let go of her inhibitions.

His mouth quirked as he imagined the uninhibited Lis he'd once known. At his half smile, she retreated cautiously, increasing the gulf between them, depriving him of the fragile floral scent that belonged only to her.

She wore her ethereally lovely silver-blond hair stacked high and caught up in a coronet of island pearls. A tropical breeze molded her white cotton sarong to her curves and long legs. The twilight shadows hid her eyes, but he'd seen the liquid blue of longing in them after he'd sailed his ship into port. Their desire was a tangible thing, but until tonight, he'd not been in a position to act upon it.

Tonight, he meant to change their relationship.

“I'm the only man who
can
touch you, Lis,” he reminded her with a laugh. “Your sharp tongue is no match for my rapier wit. My fire melts your frost. I've watched you weep when you've Seen a child's impending death, and I know your suffering when you See that a man's destiny lies beyond Aelynn. You are not your unfeeling mother, no matter how hard you try.”

“Then I must keep trying, mustn't I?” she answered coolly. “Your destiny remains as black as your heart. I will not doom Aelynn for your ambition.”

It was an old argument, a verbal sword that had held him at bay since adolescence. They were adults now. The argument had lost its usefulness.

“It is not ambition that makes me See that our world is limited and a new leader must change it. If I don't act now, you will become as narrow-minded as our Oracle.” His voice softened. “You're better than her, Lissy.”

Without waiting for her defensive retort, Murdoch walked away. He didn't want to take out his frustration on the woman who least deserved it, a woman as trapped by circumstances as he was. Tonight, by all the gods, that would change.

Purpose pulsed beneath his skin as his instinct for Finding led him to the man he needed to confront—Luther Olympus, Lis's father and the only father Murdoch had ever known. His own father had died before his birth. Murdoch's lack of powerful parentage had created a barrier between him and Lissandra so immense that it would take a wizard of great genius to surmount it. He intended to be that genius.

Luther stood on a rocky outcropping overlooking the black sand of Aelynn's port, where Murdoch's crew was preparing a feast to celebrate the success of their sailing venture into the Other World. Normally, Lis's mother, their Oracle, would have blessed his ship's safe return, but Dylys Olympus had found duties on the other side of the island.

Lis's mother knew what Murdoch was going to ask, and she did not approve.

He respected the Oracle for her experience and knowledge, but though she had raised him, Dylys could never be his mother. He had a mother, one he'd been forced to abandon so he might learn from the mighty Olympians. But tonight . . .

He was a free man, and he would have the prize promised by the gods.

The Council Leader acknowledged his approach with a nod. “I hear you have already purchased land from Waylan's father.”

“Waylan isn't interested in land, and his father has no other offspring. You know why I have purchased it, don't you?”

Years of responsibility had etched lines upon Luther's face. He did not smile as he nodded. “I fear you expect more than you can command. It would be far better if you waited for my son, Ian, to choose a wife who can lead the Council. You and Lissandra are too young for the responsibility that comes with authority.”

“You and Dylys have decades in the future to teach us. And it may come to pass that Ian is chosen by the gods, so you worry overmuch. I have worked hard to earn Lis's hand. I have land now. I can join the Council. The only obstacle that remains is you. She will not go against your wishes.”

Luther looked out over the waves lapping against the shore. “The only obstacle is you,” he said gently. “Your skills lie in war, not peace. This is a peaceful island. Instead of seeking compromise, you demand your own way, and your anger scorches the ground you walk.”

“It is the anger of frustration. You know I would harm no one here. Would you have us wait until we are old and gray? There would be no chance of children to lead us into our future then.” Murdoch clenched his fingers into fists, and despite the ever-simmering turmoil beneath his skin, he forced himself to remain outwardly composed.

“It is for the sake of those children that I go against my instincts.” Luther studied the crowd gathering around the bonfire. “Take your seat on the Council, prove you can act responsibly, and I will allow you to court Lissandra.”

Shocked at such an easy surrender, Murdoch staggered backward, nearly falling from his precarious perch on the rocks. Then, as joy washed over him, he pumped his fists into the air, safely dispersing the electricity of his angry frustration into the atmosphere.

Worried glances turned their way. It was not unusual to see Murdoch and Luther arguing, or to see lightning sizzle in their vicinity. Aelynn's inhabitants had learned the wisdom of staying a safe distance from the habitual explosion.

“I would hug you, but it would be most unseemly.” Murdoch held back his laugh of relief as Luther regarded him with the dry fondness of approval.

“You have not won her yet,” Luther warned. “Casting your lightning to the sky is a wise ploy, but it is still not proper control. You must practice restraining your powers when in the grip of strong emotion.”

“Practice, I can do! Thank you, sir. I must oversee the celebrations. You will speak to my crew?”

“As always,” Luther agreed.

In afterthought, Murdoch realized asking Luther to speak was his first mistake.

Purchasing fireworks in anticipation of his victory was his second.

Underestimating Luther was his third, but not his most fatal one.

His arrogance in believing he had learned to control his tempestuous gifts was Murdoch's undoing.

Focusing all his joy on Luther's promise, knowing Lis was watching nearby, Murdoch located the fireworks he'd placed behind the speaking platform and concentrated. He could channel his fire better if he had his sword in hand, but swords were weapons of war, and he must act in peace. Giddy delight probably wasn't the best conduit for channeling energy, but it was less erratic than fury, and Lis adored the colorful jewels of light he brought back from his travels. He would gift her with fireworks nightly, if she would let him.

Perhaps Luther would grant his public blessing to their courtship tonight, along with his formal acknowledgment of the success of the voyage. In expectation of defeating his competition for Lis's hand, Murdoch stood with his bare legs apart, arms crossed, waiting for the right moment to express his elation.

He hardly heard the greetings and congratulations for a safe journey. At Luther's words “I would like to announce . . . ,” Murdoch's spirits rose, and he concentrated on the celebratory Roman candles stored behind the platform.

With his extra perceptions, he studied the winds and verified that the fireworks would be safe among the rocks, away from the crowd. Even if he accidentally shot off three at a time, he'd harm no one. He raised his hand to focus on his target.

“. . . that I have accepted Trystan the Guardian's desire to court my daughter. . . .”

Red-hot anger burst behind Murdoch's eyes. Even if Luther meant this as a test, Murdoch couldn't dampen his shock, rage, and disappointment fast enough. The fiery lightning that was his greatest gift shot from his hand as surely as cannonballs ignited by gunpowder.

The entire box of fireworks erupted in one brilliant blast of red and blue. Colored fire burst across the midnight sky, setting their world ablaze.

Unholy wails and screams of terror almost drowned out the rapid percussion of exploding skyrockets. The platform on which Luther stood above the rocks tilted, cracked, then collapsed. Luther was already crumpling to the ground, a hand over his heart.

Frozen, Murdoch could only watch the horrified expression bloom on Lissandra's face as her father landed in a bundle of fine clothes on the sand. Unable to move, Murdoch continued to watch as Healers ran to the Council Leader's aid.

Even before Lis shoved through the crowd to kneel beside her father, Murdoch knew what she would find. Luther was dead. Appalled at the atrocity he'd unintentionally committed, Murdoch couldn't even pray that Lis would understand.

And when she looked up with condemnation darkening her eyes, he deserved the words she flung at him.

“Damn you into eternity, Murdoch LeDroit,” she cried in heartbroken ferocity. “If you don't leave my sight now, I will kill you myself!”

 

“Your documents,
mes frères
.” Three soldiers, muskets raised, blocked the road to the village.

From the back of his stallion, Murdoch LeDroit regarded with disgust the rogues aiming sword and musket at him and signaled the driver of the wagon to rein in his mule. He had places to be, messages to deliver, a life of sorts to get on with. He didn't have the time or patience for fools.

Despite their pretense, the soldiers weren't protecting the village from traitors by asking for documents proving the cart's passengers were loyal citizens. They were intent on robbing Murdoch's weary charges of purse and life.

This was what France's glorious Revolution had come to—highway robbery. For four long years Murdoch had ridden as an officer in support of the noble ideal of taking wealth from greedy aristocrats to feed the starving and downtrodden masses. Four long years of penance for his sins had deteriorated to a farce in the face of France's monetary and moral bankruptcy. Without wealth, power always fell into the hands of the best-armed bullies.

Two of the cart's more elegantly garbed passengers, helpless despite their once-great riches and prestige, cursed the thieves and began hunting for the few gold coins sewn into the hems of their fashionable attire—their only fare for passage to a safer life.

The youngest traveler, a small girl in a bonnet spilling golden curls, fell into the arms of her shoemaker father, who was driving the cart, and buried her face in terror. Wearing a moth-eaten frock coat, the driver hugged his child and stared defiantly through sunken eyes at the thieves. He had no money to bribe anyone, but the shoemaker had once given Murdoch a home and a helping hand when he'd needed them most. He would not desert the man.

Wearing the coat of the Revolutionary army, Murdoch had been using his disguise to lead escaped prisoners to safety. His charges were idealistic political leaders and innocents who had been unjustly incarcerated by power-hungry officials little better than the lawless miscreants who were confronting them now. Murdoch worked to see justice prevail—if only because he knew what it was to be denied an impartial trial.

Ever since the French king's execution at the beginning of the year, Murdoch had been unable to reconcile the Tribunal's penchant for blood and revenge with the principles of equality, fraternity, and liberty for which the original revolutionaries had fought. He'd envisioned Aelynn's leaders crippled and brought low in the same manner as France had assaulted theirs, and he could no longer stomach the bloodshed.

Saving refugees from the methodical madness of Madame Guillotine was his only means of holding the tattered remains of his soul together these days. That, and the message he meant to carry to his former friend Trystan, warning him of the latest outrage that would endanger his fellow Aelynners. He hoped Trystan wouldn't hold the past against him and would listen to his warning.

Aware of his own unpredictable gifts, debating his choices in this all-too-public venue, Murdoch held his temper and did nothing in haste. Still wearing his officer's braid, he insolently slouched on his horse while considering his prey. The angry fire of his youth had been diluted by experience—the people outside his island home were no challenge except to his imagination. His caped greatcoat hid his weapons and disguised his tensing muscles. He'd learned to conceal his taut, angry jaw behind a week-old beard, just as he hid the burning flare of his Aelynn eyes in his hat's shadow.

“I carry their documents,” he informed the soldier with cool scorn that hid his fury. “What right have you to demand them from your superiors?”

“We demand equality!” the heavyset rogue shouted. “They're naught but a bunch of filthy aristos. Why should you or Paris share their wealth when we starve out here?”

“Justice demands they be tried fairly,” Murdoch replied with insulting insouciance, slapping the reins of the stallion so that it pranced nervously.

The younger soldier dropped back a step to avoid the huge beast's hooves. “What care we?” he called in contempt. “They're naught but fodder for Madame Guillotine.”

“So you choose to terrorize them for fun and profit. How industrious of you.” Murdoch had spent these last months pretending he was one of these soldiers while he helped prisoners flee, but he lacked the patience for further charades. Making his choice, he departed his saddle in a leap so swift as to be invisible. His polished Hessian boots landed a full length in front of his horse, in the dry brush at the side of the road, beside the trio of lackwits. Sweeping back his greatcoat, he revealed the braid on the red and white officer's uniform he wore.