Mystic Rider by Patricia Rice Page A

chances were good that she was not even a Crossbreed.
That could cause grave difficulty in the future. He didn’t want to believe the
gods would bring him such grief.
    “We have only just met,” he assured her, and himself. “It
takes time to understand each other. You must question me, or I may take your
silence for comprehension.”
    As he brought the mule to a halt in front of the imposing
edifice that contained the chalice, he added, “But save your questions for
later. There are far too many people here for me to think clearly.”
    He refrained from adding that he dared not swing his staff
to enhance his concentration in crowds. That was another of those details he
must explain later. He’d thought learning the ways of the Outside World would
be his largest difficulty, but it seemed that explaining himself was even
harder.
    He couldn’t explain Aelynn at all, not unless they were
properly bound by vows. Taking an Other Worlder for wife was fraught with
difficulty. Most Aelynners left their Other World mates with their Other World
families rather than bring them to the island. Ian couldn’t afford that luxury.
He might never be able to return here again, and he had no intention of leaving
Chantal in this grim place.
    Climbing down, he stroked the donkey’s muzzle, soothed by its uncomplicated
affection. People might not completely understand him, but animals accepted him
without judgment. He hoped his rebellious, glorious amacara eventually would,
too.
    He almost laughed when she hummed louder. He was not a man
accustomed to laughing  — or expressing any other emotion — but he was starting to
grasp this peculiar reaction of hers.
    “I will learn to hum my frustration as you do,” he told her,
lifting her from the cart. “Just think how I must feel trying to understand
your strange ways.” He set her on the muddy street and strode briskly toward
the prison’s entrance.
    She remained where he’d left her, tapping her toe on the
cobblestones.
    Knowing he was close to the chalice, Ian was half inclined
to leave her there. She would only slow him down. But this was not peaceful
Aelynn, and he was beginning to understand mortality in this world where life
was so little valued. He refused to lose her now that he’d found her.
    So he returned and frowned down on the wide-brimmed hat that
prevented him from seeing her expression. “You do not wish to go inside?” he
asked.
    “I do not wish to follow at your heels like a lamb,” she
replied, frost dripping from her tongue. “Proper etiquette requires that a
gentleman offer his arm to a lady, especially in a place like this.”
    Ian studied her, studied his arm; then, shrugging, he stuck
the arm not burdened with his staff straight out so she could hang on to it.
    She tilted her head so even he could read her incredulity.
Humming a tune that resembled the rebellious ditty of earlier, she caught his
elbow, tugged it sharply downward, and lifted her skirt with her free hand.
“You must have been raised in a cave,” she concluded.
    Thinking of his mother’s safe haven at the foot of the
volcano, Ian nodded. “I was, until I was old enough to go out alone.”
    This time, he ignored the look of disbelief she cast upon him.

Five
    Located immediately next to the Palais de Justice, La
Conciergerie prison was part of the medieval palace of Philip IV. The hall’s
immense vaulted ceiling and rows of Gothic columns reflected its origin. Had
the marble floors been empty, the palatial space would have been awe inspiring.
    Instead, the dregs of humanity mixed with soldiers, lawyers,
and a host of visitors — elegant and otherwise — and the stench and the noise in
the echoing chamber were overpowering.
    Clinging to Monsieur d’Olympe’s arm, Chantal hurried to keep
up with his brisk stride. His robe swung around his boots like the cloak of a
general, and he behaved as if not another soul existed but himself. For the
most part, the mob aided his impression.