"As you wish, Mistress Witch," he said with heavy irony. "Perhaps I can conjure a swift squall to end the fighting for the moment, so the English will be able to regroup."
"If you can do that, why haven't you?" she asked with exasperation.
"Because I fear the cost to my soul. But you're right. I cannot hold back any longer, no matter how much I dislike this task." He turned and rested his hands on the largest stone, the one closest to the sea. As he concentrated his energies on the task, he became absolutely still except for the movement of his lips chanting soundlessly.
Keeping her distance from the vortex of power swirling around him, Isabel used her glass to monitor the battle. Skies darkened, vicious rain swept through the warring fleets, and the fighting broke up. The Spanish fell back, and one of their damaged warships foundered and sank.
While Isabel whispered a soft prayer of thanks, Macrae expelled a long, rattling breath and released his spell. His face was gaunt, drained of its usual vitality.
Knowing how demanding weather work was, she silently asked the obsidian what would become of Macrae. The battle images dissolved into swirling fog.
What about her fate? She cleared her mind and tried to draw her own image from the glass.
Still nothing.
She felt chilled, even though the inability to scry could mean many things. Most likely she couldn't see because she was too closely involved in what was about to happen to have the necessary clarity. But it was also possible that the demands of stopping the Armada would be so great that neither of them would survive.
Concealing her foreboding, Isabel said, "Well done. You succeeded in ending the battle before the English fleet could be badly damaged. I begin to believe you can produce the great storm we need."
His eyes opened, and he turned to lean against the stone, folding his arms across his chest. "I was fortunate. There was the beginning of a summer squall near the ships, so all I had to do was strengthen it. The spell required for that was to a great tempest as a barn cat is to a tiger." His mouth twisted. "Surely you know that magic always has a price, and the one I pay will be high. Are you also willing to pay the cost of this conjuring?"
She thought of the clouded obsidian. "I am willing."
Even if the price demanded all that she had.
3
Calling the winds…
The air tingled with power as Macrae and Mistress de Cortes took their places in the ancient stone circle. Man and woman, ever opposite but complementary. Dee was not present, since he would be unable to help and he feared his presence would be a distraction. The old man had cast a chart for the best time, but his face had been somber when he studied the planetary positions. It hadn't been necessary for him to say that the chart did not guarantee success.
But it was the best time available without waiting for days, so Macrae must make of it what he could. Despite his initial reluctance to undertake this task, the images of Dunrath and Edinburgh haunted him. Now he was as determined as the woman who faced him across the circle.
He inclined his head to his companion. "Mistress, let us begin."
"As you will, Macrae." Her demeanor was reserved, though nothing could diminish the snap of her black eyes or the allure of her lush female figure.
He began by casting a circle of protection, using the familiar ritual to focus his mind. As his concentration increased, his inner vision recognized the essences around him. Isabel de Cortes was the most vivid. Deep and intense, she was a beacon of power.
He reached out and touched her energy. Silently, she acknowledged his presence and granted him access. Another time he would have been tempted to explore the riches of her mind and spirit, at least until she clamped down her shields and expelled him, but now he had more important work.
Widening his perception, he felt Dee's energy in the manor house. The old man's pattern was a structure of immense complexity with a blazing mind at the core. The servants were sparks of light, each unique if one chose to study it closely. He did not so choose, not tonight.
He tuned himself to the earth and the ancient force that resided there. Isabel was right, this was a place of great magic. When he was fully oriented, he flung his consciousness high into the sky, soaring toward the sun like a giant hawk. The circle, the two human figures, the coast, and the rolling seas—all dropped away below at a dizzying speed. With Isabel's power to fuel his flight, he soared higher and higher until his awareness stretched east across the Channel, north to Scotland, south to France, west as far as Ireland.
The day before, Isabel had scryed the English sending fire ships into the Armada. Little damage was done, but only because the Spanish ships had cut their anchors to escape swiftly. Though doing so had saved them from burning, without good anchors the ships were vulnerable when close to shore.
Yes, that was the answer. The Armada was now boxed between the harrying English and the sandbanks off the Dutch province of Zeeland. If he could force the ships onto the shoals, many would break up, but the shallow waters and nearby mainland would minimize the cost in lives. He would find no better location to fulfill his mission.
He cast the net of his mind outward to gather the winds and discovered why Dee's chart had been equivocal about this time. Throughout the British Isles and the Narrow Seas the airs were light, giving him little to work with.
But there was always weather, even when times were mild. He narrowed his vision to identify wind patterns strong enough to shape to his purpose. Over Holland he found a choppy, gusting breeze. He gathered it in and added a series of light winds from Scotland and northern England. Then he captured an energetic sea breeze from the coast of Cornwall. On the edge of his awareness he sensed a storm over Bavaria, but it was too distant for summoning.
Each of the elements had its own essence, qualities that made him think of rainbows and musical notes, though in his mind there was neither sound nor color. Meticulously, he wove the winds together into a single powerful chord. Then he shaped them into a northwest wind that hammered inexorably against the ships of the Armada.
As he drove the ships eastward, he sensed sailors frantically trying to beat against the wind while priests knelt to invoke God's help in avoiding the waiting shoals. The water beneath the hulls changed color, and the waves turned choppy as the seas became shallower and shallower.
He dimly recognized pounding pain in his temples and trembling in his limbs. The first ships were minutes from striking, but could he maintain his control over the increasingly rebellious winds he had assembled? He reached for Isabel again. Maddeningly, he could channel only a small part of her power. But surely he was strong enough to finish the job he had begun.
The Cornish gust, the strongest and most rebellious element of his coalition, cracked its way loose, weakening the whole. Savagely, he worked to force it back into his pattern. He almost succeeded.
Then the Scottish winds, notoriously chancy, broke away. His painstakingly constructed northwest wind disintegrated like splintered glass. Desperately, he reached again for Isabel, but he couldn't find the key to unlock the deepest reservoirs of her power. It stayed tantalizingly beyond his grasp.
Gasping for breath, he tried again to exert his mastery over the winds bucking against his grasp. As he stretched his mind to keep them in line, his power thinned to the snapping point. Only a few moments more, only a few…
Clashing like silent thunder, the spell shattered with a violence that pulsed through his skull. He cried out in agony and fell to his knees.
The last thing he saw before falling into blackness was Spanish ships turning sharply to port as they sought the safety of deeper water.
Macrae's collapse slashed Isabel's mind as viciously as a sword lacerated flesh. After an instant of paralysis, she reached out mentally to steady his convulsing spirit even as she raced across the circle to his sprawling body.
She dropped on her knees beside him. His face was corpse-white, and he wasn't breathing. Moved by sheer instinct, she inhaled dee
ply and bent over to share her breath with him. Placing her mouth on his, she forced air into his lungs. He was a master of wind and air, surely all he needed was more breath.
Once, twice, thrice… She was growing dizzy with exertion when he coughed and twisted under her hands. Finally he was drawing great ragged breaths on his own, God be thanked.
Dee joined her, panting. "I felt the spell go awry. How is he?"
"Breathing now. Beyond that…" She shrugged helplessly.
Dee frowned as he rested his hand on Macrae's forehead. "He's burning with fever. Pray God he has not destroyed himself with his exertions."
Getting to his feet with effort, the old man signaled to the pair of male servants who had followed him from the house. Carefully, the servants lifted Macrae onto the battered pine door they had brought, struggling with the Scotsman's deadweight. Then they set off toward the house.
Isabel started to follow, but Dee stayed her with a gesture. When the servants were out of earshot, he asked quietly, "What happened, child? Why didn't you save him from such a disaster?"
"I tried!" Tried desperately, and had been seared by the backlash when his power and concentration failed. "He tried also, but we could not fully connect. Our energies are too unlike. Too clashing."
"That clashing can be a source of strength, not conflict."
She rubbed her temples, too drained to understand. "What do you mean?"
"Think of your astrological studies—opposite signs are both natural enemies and natural complements. Men and women are opposites, and sometimes conflict between them is attraction that will not admit itself. Yet if opposites find balance in each other, they can create a whole greater than the sum of their individual powers."
She thought back to Dee's lessons, when he had poured rivers of information into her eager mind. "Is this the alchemical marriage you once spoke of?"
"The alchemical marriage is a philosophical principle, and it can be seen on many levels. One is male and female." He eyed her speculatively, then shook his head. "The point is moot. Macrae may be out of his senses for days. Or… worse. Do you know what has happened with the Armada?"
She had been too upset to even wonder. Wearily, she drew out her scrying glass and conjured the scene. "The Spanish ships are escaping the Zeeland shoals and heading north. The English pursue, but they are still outnumbered. Once the Spaniards regroup, they will be able to resume their plans for invasion."
Dee's face tightened, adding ten years to his age. "I must go to London and report to the queen."
"Perhaps Macrae will recover and try again," she suggested without much hope.
"He will be lucky to escape with his life and his sanity," Dee said bluntly. "Even if he survives, today's work may have destroyed his magic forever."
Having felt the cataclysmic collapse of Macrae's power, she knew that Dee spoke no less than the truth. "I will stay here and care for him. My housekeeper is experienced at nursing. God willing, we will save at least his life."
"He may not thank you for it if he survives deprived of his deepest self." Dee raised his gaze to the restless sea, where Spanish ships were sailing north around Britain. "I once had great power. Not so much as you, but enough to make me a true sorcerer. In my arrogance and lust for knowledge, I pushed my abilities too far and nearly died of it. Since then, I have had to content myself with small magics and scholarship."
The naked longing in his face made Isabel look away uneasily. What would it be like to lose her power? Though her abilities made a normal woman's life impossible for her, the exercise of magic was also the purest delight and satisfaction she had ever known. To be deprived of it would be like losing her limbs. Macrae had been bound in iron for more than a year. Now, after only a few days restored to his full self, he had risked his life and his power to stave off the Spaniards.
Though she had scarcely noticed at the time, she had a sharp flash of memory of how his lips had felt under hers when she had breathed for him. Embarrassed, she said, "If the body is saved, perhaps the spirit will also heal. We will do what we can." The world needed Adam Macrae.
And she needed to know that somewhere he would be living under the same sun as she.
4
He had been lost for so long among the cinders of his mind that at first he didn't recognize returning awareness. All he knew was cool darkness, a soft night breeze redolent of country flowers, a gentle hand on his forehead.
A woman's hand? He forced his eyes open. He was in his bedroom at Leighton Manor, the canopy above him barely visible in the dim light. Isabel de Cortes was perched on a stool beside him, her eyes narrow with concern.
"So… I did not die," he said in a rasping voice.
"Not for lack of trying." Despite her acerbic words, she gave him a smile that softened the austere beauty of her narrow face.
He closed his eyes again. "How long has it been since I conjured the winds?"
"Eight days. Master Dee has returned to London to confer with the queen."
Seeing her expression brought back the last disastrous memories that preceded his collapse. He exhaled roughly. "I failed."
"Perhaps not." Her gaze slid away. "Your efforts have given more time to improve the coastal defenses. Surely that will help if—when—the Spanish invade."
Absurd. Britain's coastline was far too long for defenses to be adequate everywhere, and they both knew it. As his vision cleared, he realized that she looked different tonight. Defeated. Unbowed, but preparing for the worst. "Give me your scrying glass."
She looked doubtful. Guessing she thought him too weak, he repeated, "Give it to me! I must know."
She reluctantly produced the obsidian disk and laid it on his right palm. He was so weak he could barely raise the glass high enough to see the surface, and he couldn't sense the glow of her energy as he had before. As the surface remained blank, he recognized that the center of his spirit was numb, devoid of power.
Sweating, he closed his eyes and tried to shape the slight breeze that fitfully stirred the curtains. It pulsed, then faded. Had he done that, or was the movement only the normal volatility of the night airs?
He tried again. This time he was almost sure that he had briefly strengthened the wind. His power was only strained, not dead. He refused to believe otherwise.
Opening his eyes, he tried the scrying glass again. What might the Spanish bring? This time he saw a flickering image of Edinburgh Castle—burning. May God help Scotland, for the Spaniards would come with torch and steel.
Grimly, he tried to conjure a vision of Dunrath, but the glass would show him no more. Trembling, he let his head fall back against the pillows.
"I won't tell you not to overexert yourself, for it would be a waste of breath," Mistress de Cortes said dryly. "But you might consider the fact that you have been out of your head with fever for days. It is normal to be weak as a newborn kitten."
"I have no time for weakness. We must act before it is too late." He struggled for more breath.
"You think it still possible to change the course of events?"
"Aye. Not easy, but… possible." Throwing back the covers, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was garbed in a coarse nightgown, borrowed from a servant perhaps. He leaned forward to stand—and his knees buckled beneath him.
She swiftly moved forward and caught him around the waist. For an instant they were pressed together as she struggled to prevent his sagging body from falling to the floor. Her breasts were soft and womanly against his chest. Desire blazed through him like storm lightning, and with it came a shadow of renewed energy.
Before he could gather his wits, she managed to shift him back onto the edge of the bed. "You're a damned fool, Macrae," she said a little breathlessly. "Content yourself with talking for tonight."
She expertly lifted his legs onto the bed, which pushed him back against the pillows. His brief energy faded again, but not his memory of it. Angels above, she was enticing. An embrace with her would make a stone saint dance
. "We must learn to work together on all levels, Isabel. You must be able to use my gifts as a weather mage, and I must be able to draw fully on your strength." It was the first time he had used her Christian name when speaking to her.
Acknowledging the intimacy, she said, "Does that mean I should call you Adam?"
He smiled a little. "I like the way you growl 'Macrae.' "
"I'm gifted at growling. How are we to accomplish such closeness?"
If she had been raised a Guardian, she would know such things. Groping for the right words, he said, "To share energy fully, there must be absolute trust and a willingness to reveal oneself with naked honesty, flaws as well as virtues. Earlier, time was short and neither of us wished to drop all our defenses, so we did not delve so deeply. If we had"—his mouth twisted—"perhaps I could have maintained the wind long enough to force the Spanish fleet onto the Zee-land shoals. I was so close…"
The silence was long and painful before she said, "I have never done what you are describing. Is it even possible? We have little in common."
"We are both disciplined and know how to wield power." He caught her gaze. "And we will both pay any price to stop the Spanish. That should be enough."
She bit her lip. "The prospect of completely lowering my shields is… troubling, but it seems we have no choice but to try."
"This will be hard for you, since you have had little contact with other mages," he admitted. "Even among Guardians, complete openness is rare." Most often it was seen between husband and wife, but sometimes between mages who worked together closely.
"Master Dee spoke of the alchemical marriage, the mating of opposites to create strength and harmony," she said. "Is that what you are speaking of?"
"I am no alchemist, but, yes, that is the sort of closeness we must forge. Usually it takes a long time to develop, but we don't have time, so we must do the best we can."
"Let me try this, and tell me if you experience anything." She closed her eyes, and for the space of a hundred heartbeats there was silence. She gave a quick, frustrated shake of her head, then laid her hand on his.
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