As a stubborn Scot, sense had never been Macrae’s strong point. “What is a man without loyalty? She was my queen, and Elizabeth had no right to execute her. Did you come here to taunt me for my foolish tongue?”
“No, Sir Adam.” Dee’s gaze was steady. “I’ve come to ask if you would like to earn your freedom.”
Freedom? A vision of Glen Rath washed over Macrae. The most beautiful place on God’s green earth, with wild clear air where a man could breathe…
He clamped down on his longing, knowing it would weaken him. “Of course I want to be free, but it’s possible for freedom to come at too high a price.”
“’Tis said you are the finest weather mage in Britain, Sir Adam.” The shrewd eyes glinted. “I want you to conjure me a tempest.”
So Dee knew of his powers. That would explain why Macrae’s jailers had known to keep him bound with the iron that curbed his magic. He had wondered about that, since rarely were prisoners of rank manacled. The fact that the queen’s soldiers had burst into his lodgings at night and slapped irons on him before he could fight back had made him wonder if he had been betrayed by another Guardian, but apparently not. The formidable Dee had his own ways of learning. “Perhaps I could, but why should I?”
“To save Britain from a great evil.” Dee moved stiffly to one of the chairs, shadowed by his attendant. “Do you mind if I sit, Sir Adam? My old bones ache from the journey across Europe.”
Reminded of his duties as host, Macrae took wine from a well-stocked cabinet and filled three goblets. Dee accepted readily, but his companion hesitated before taking a goblet and withdrawing to the darkest corner of the room. He moved with the suppleness of youth. An apprentice sorcerer or a body servant? Whichever, he had Dee’s trust. Macrae must hope the boy also had discretion.
Macrae took the chair opposite Dee, stretching his long legs out before him, a portrait of ease despite his chains. “You say you want a tempest.”
“Spain and England have been at each other’s throats since the death of Mary Tudor. Now Spain is gathering an Armada, the greatest fleet ever seen—more than one hundred thirty ships and thirty thousand men. Far more than England can muster.” Dee stared into his wine. “I want you to call up a storm that will destroy the Spanish ships and save England from invasion.”
Macrae gasped. “Have you any idea what you’re asking? The greatest weather mage who ever lived could not conjure such a storm. Particularly not at this season. Magic must build on what exists in nature, and the light airs of summer offer little of the power I would need to spin a small storm into a great one.”
“I know it will not be easy, but if any man can, it is you.”
Macrae let the metal links slide between his fingers, the weight of the chain crushing his mind. “After more than a year of cold iron, I don’t know if I still have power. Even if I do, I’ll fry in hell before using it on Elizabeth’s behalf.”
“This is not about Elizabeth, but about Britain. That means Scotland as well as England. Do you really want the harsh hand of Spain to fall over this island?”
Macrae shrugged. “They may plunder London, but I doubt they’ll touch my people in the wilds of Scotland. Let them come. It matters not to me whether English Elizabeth or Spanish Philip rules here.”
“Not even if refusing my offer costs your life?”
His mouth twisted. “I’ve lived in daily expectation of my death for fifteen long months, Master Dee. How is this day any different?”
With a muffled oath, Dee’s hooded companion swirled from the shadowed corner. “If you think a Spanish invasion doesn’t matter, you are as ignorant as you are foolish, Macrae. Put aside your prejudices and think.”
The whiskey-rich voice was female. Sweeping back her hood, the woman revealed blazing black eyes in a narrow, Byzantine face of fearsome intelligence. In her late twenties, she was not pretty. Instead, she was beautiful in the manner of a glittering, deadly sword.
“Sir Adam, meet my associate, Isabel de Cortes,” Dee said dryly. “If you need persuasion or assistance, she can provide it.”
Macrae studied the woman. Even his iron-crippled inner vision could see that she burned with a mage’s power now that she was no longer masking her abilities. “Isabel de Cortes,” he said musingly. “A Spanish name, and a Spanish face. Do you hate your own country so much, Mistress?”
“Spain birthed my ancestors, but it is not my country. England has my loyalty.” Isabel’s dark eyes narrowed. “You think a Spanish invasion will not affect Scotland, but you are wrong. When Mary Tudor reigned, Philip of Spain was her husband, and the burning flesh of Protestant martyrs fouled the air of Smithfield. That was nothing compared to what will happen if the Inquisition comes to Britain.”
“That will never happen.”
“You think not? Your Queen of Scots bequeathed Philip her claims to the English throne, and his soldiers are coming to seize that bequest by fire and steel. Even your northern wilderness will not be distant enough to protect you.”
“You do not know Scotland or the Scots.”
She made a sound that reminded him of a wildcat. “As a mage, you must have some scrying ability. Take a long, true look into this, and then tell me it doesn’t matter if the Spanish come.” Delving into a pocket of her robe, she brought out a disk of polished obsidian perhaps four inches in diameter.
He refused to take the scrying glass. “You forget that iron chains bind me.”
“The touch of iron curbs all your powers, even the smallest?” Isabel looked shocked. Worse, pitying. “Most mages are not so sensitive.”
“I am.” His voice was flat. For fifteen endless months, his inner senses had been blind and deaf and dumb, leaving aching emptiness that might never be filled again.
“Master Dee, you have the key to the shackles,” Isabel said. “Give it to me so I can free Macrae.”
Dee produced the key. “Sir Adam must swear not to use his power to harm.”
“If you know anything of the Guardians, you must know that we are pledged to protect, not destroy.” To be free of the chains…Macrae eyed the key longingly. The conjuror was old, and it would be easy to take the key from him—no. He had not yet fallen so far as to attack an old man.
Deciding that Macrae had tacitly agreed to Dee’s condition, Isabel collected the key and came to unlock the shackles. Heart pounding with impatience, he held out his wrists, trying to keep his hands from trembling. She bent her head over the chains as she wrestled with the crude locks, which had not been opened in more than a year. Her fingertips brushed his wrists, searing the chaffed, tender flesh with her mage’s energy.
One hand released. He had to exert all his control to hold steady while she twisted the key in the other lock. Her hair had the dark glossiness of a raven’s wing.
The lock opened, and the shackles fell across his lap. He lifted the murderous chain that had imprisoned his mind even more thoroughly than his body—then hurled it into the cold fireplace with crashing rage. As he rubbed his wrists, he was painfully aware that his numbed mind felt no different. Had fifteen months of paralysis hammered his power to uselessness?
He stalked to his single barred window and stared out at the sky. Through his long captivity, he had envied the gulls that soared over the Thames. If he were a shape-shifter, he would have transformed himself and flown home to Scotland. But he had no such power, so he had remained earth-bound, deprived of his deepest self.
Invoking the discipline of his training, he visualized light pouring through his body, burning away poisons of fear and frustration. Deep within stirred a small flex of power, like a firefly sparking in the night. Torn between wanting to seize and wanting to savor, he nurtured that spark, delicately reviving what had been frozen so long.
Like the spring ice break in a Highland burn, power surged through him. Giddy with the rush of magic, he threw the rage of his captivity into a cloud drifting across the sun. Swiftly it grew and darkened until a storm struck the Tower of London with a fury
that rattled the rooftops. Slanting rain swept between the bars, cold and refreshing. He laughed aloud at the heady joy of once again shaping the wind.
“A good use of anger,” Isabel remarked. “Now you must learn to hate the Spanish fleet.”
Macrae had half forgotten his visitors, who had been waiting in silence. Releasing the cloud, he turned back to the room. The rain began to diminish. In five minutes, the squall would be gone.
“Look now.” Once more Isabel offered her scrying glass. She had removed her cloak, revealing a strong, sensual body. He had not been in the same room with a woman since his imprisonment, and he found himself shamefully aware of her femaleness. Her scent sparked thoughts of starlight and desert spices.
He accepted the glass with reluctance. A gifted scryer could see in any reflective surface—water, wine, glass, a gemstone—but this smoky obsidian pulsed with its owner’s energy as if it were a living creature.
During his captivity he had been darkly glad the iron had blocked his vision, for surely scrying would show his doom. But even though he feared it would reveal more than he wanted to see, the time had come to look beyond his cell. He closed his eyes, clearing his mind as he formulated a question. What might a Spanish invasion bring? Then he gazed through the glass with unfocused eyes so images might appear.
Dunrath was burning. His fingers spasmed around the disk. Dear God, his mother was leaping from the tower window, choosing a swift death to the slow horror of burning alive! Why would Spaniards attack his home?
The answer formed in his mind as easily as the image had formed in the obsidian: because his younger brother was another stubborn Macrae who would refuse to foreswear his faith or bend his knee to foreigners. Dunrath would be razed as a lesson to other clans.
Macrae had accepted the imminence of his own death, but he had believed his home was safe. His brother would become laird, the girl Macrae was to wed would find another husband, and his family would continue in health and prosperity. But this…
Could Isabel de Cortes have planted false images in the glass? He rejected the idea instantly. True as the blade she resembled, she would not spin lies to make her case even if such a thing were possible.
Temples throbbing, he looked at the scrying glass again, hoping to see some mitigation of the horror of his first vision.
Sweet Jesus, no! The image that formed was of Edinburgh Castle looming majestically over the city—a city that looked as if the wrath of God had struck. No, not God, but men of hatred who would force others into their own mold and destroy when they could not persuade. Smoke began pouring from the castle itself. The pride and history of Scotland were being put to the torch while Spanish soldiers ran wild, raping and pillaging.
He didn’t need Dee or Isabel de Cortes to tell him that scrying was not Truth, but rather Possibility. Grimly, he forced himself to watch as other horrors shimmered before his eyes. A group of martyrs singing to God as flames consumed them. The Virgin Queen on the scaffold, going to her death with steely courage. Armed soldiers breaking in on Protestants who worshipped in secret, the flash of blades contrasting with gouts of crimson blood.
How long Macrae watched the glass he did not know, but when he looked up his body was chilled and the room was darkening. Isabel rose to light candles against the approaching night. “It is not a good future,” she said quietly.
“No.” Though he disliked the idea of working with these Sassenach, he could not stand by while wolves prepared to ravage Britain. “I’ll do what I can to thwart the Armada, but I warn you that conjuring such a tempest may be beyond my abilities.” His lips thinned as he returned the scrying glass. “It will be bitter to harm so many men when I am oath-sworn to protect.”
“I have no more desire to take life than you, Sir Adam.” Dee looked old and very tired. “The intent is to disperse the ships, destroy their fighting effectiveness, not to kill. A storm in the Narrow Seas would drive the ships onto the Flemish coast, and God willing, most of the sailors and soldiers will survive.”
It was a lawyer’s quibble—even if the intent wasn’t to kill, a tempest powerful enough to scatter so many ships would surely cause the weakest to founder. Men would die—Macrae could not delude himself otherwise. But if he saw true, action on his part might save many more lives than it endangered.
Power was a chancy, dangerous gift. Guardians were trained in ethics and morality from childhood, but no teacher could anticipate all possibilities. When a situation was critical, the Guardian involved must decide what would be best—and may God send wisdom to choose the right. “I shall do what I can, but I will need help.”
“Whatever you wish, Sir Adam,” Dee said. “What are your requirements?”
“First, get me released from this poxy prison. I want a letter signed by Elizabeth herself saying that all charges against me have been dropped and I am a free man. Explain to her that on my oath I will do my best, but I cannot guarantee that I will be able to conjure a storm great enough to destroy the Armada.”
Dee nodded. “Understood. I am authorized to grant that. What else?”
Macrae rubbed his throbbing head, trying to imagine what he would need for an undertaking of this magnitude. “I must have a location within sight of the Channel, preferably in a place of power.”
Isabel said, “My family has a small manor in Kent that fits that requirement. What else?”
“I haven’t enough power to create such a tempest alone, so I will need your assistance in the working, Master Dee. If I can draw on your magic, there is a chance I may succeed.”
The old man exchanged a glance with the woman. “Isabel will be your assistant.”
Macrae’s gaze swung to her with dismay. He was to work with this dangerously alluring wildcat with her obsidian eyes? Keeping his voice level, he said, “I prefer to work with you. Our energies will blend better.”
The old man shook his head. “I am a noteworthy scholar, an astrologer, and a student of ancient wisdom, but my magical power is only moderate. Isabel is the best scryer and most powerful mage I’ve ever met—except for you, perhaps. She can contribute far more than I.”
Macrae wanted to protest but couldn’t. His inner senses told him that Dee spoke the truth: For a great magical working, Isabel de Cortes would be a far better partner. More powerful, and more dangerous.
He closed his eyes with weariness and once more saw Dunrath burn.
2
Kent, August 1588
It was midafternoon when the dusty party of travelers arrived at Leighton Manor. The sea wasn’t visible, but the scent of it was borne on the wind.
As soon as the half dozen horses pulled up by the Leighton stables, the Scotsman vaulted from his mount, tossed his reins to one of the servants who accompanied them, and strode off toward the shoreline. As his long legs carried him swiftly away, Isabel dismounted and crossed to Master Dee. “Do you think he’ll try to escape?”
The old man came off his horse with a groan of fatigue. “No, he’s given his word, and Guardians never break their word. They believe it compromises their powers.”
“I would like to know more of the Guardians.”
Dee gestured in the direction Macrae had vanished. “There’s the man who can tell you.”
“He could, but he won’t,” she said dryly. “Macrae has done his best to avoid talking or looking at me ever since we started this journey.”
“He is not comfortable knowing how closely he must work with you. Sharing power is a very intimate process, and you are a stranger.”
“And like to remain so.”
“Go after him.”
“Perhaps I shall, after you are properly settled.” She beckoned to the housekeeper, Mistress Heath, who had emerged from the house to greet the guests.
Dee smiled a little. “Don’t worry about your hostess duties—the servants will see to my comfort. It is more important that you weave a bond with our weather mage.”
Isabel let herself be persuaded because she wanted to f
ollow Macrae. The man intrigued her. He moved like a panther, barely tamed. And though he might dislike her, he was a mage himself so didn’t fear her as most men did. She could learn much from him.
Lifting her skirts clear of the tangled wildflowers, she left the cluster of buildings and followed the lane Macrae had taken. The manor house was set in a fold of hills to shelter it from the scouring winds, but the sea was only a short walk away.
She located her quarry in the ancient stone circle set on a bluff that rose a hundred feet above the crashing waves. Local legend said the circle had been built by Druids. For those with the vision to see, three faintly glowing ley lines crossed at the site, creating a starburst of earth energy. As Isabel had promised, it was a place of great power.
Sunlight glowing on his dark red hair, the Scotsman walked the circle, touching each of the irregularly shaped stones in turn. “It didn’t take you long to find me, Mistress de Cortes.”
“I knew the circle would draw you. It burns with power.” She had spent endless hours in this place, meditating, studying, experimenting to find the shape and limits of her talent. Though it was disturbing to see her sanctuary invaded by such restless male energy, the circle was the logical place to hold the ritual. She could cleanse it of his presence when their work was done.
“You said your family owns this manor?” While his tone was brusque, at least he was speaking to her.
“Yes, but I’m the only one who comes here.” Leighton was her home, far more than the grand London house where her parents and brothers resided. Here she could be her prickly, stubborn self. “What does it mean to be a Guardian? Is it a secret society?”
He hesitated, then shrugged, as if deciding that her abilities gave her a right to know. “We are not so organized—merely a collection of families in which power runs strongly. We know one another and often intermarry, but usually we go our separate ways. Our homes are in the fringes of Britain, where the ancient magic is strongest. Scotland, Wales, Cornwall, the Isle of Man, Ireland—you will find us in all those places. We are sworn not only to protect but to keep our powers hidden for safety’s sake.”