Chapter 2
Chapter Two
It was mid-afternoon 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 follow Macrae. The man intrigued her. He moved like a panther, barely tamed. And though he might dislike her, because he was a mage himself he 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 about 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 each other 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. ”
“Are you all weather mages?”
“Power comes in many forms, and weather mastery is rare.” He smiled wryly. “Specific abilities don’t manifest until a child approaches maturity. My first sign of weather work was blowing the roof off a cowshed. My father was not pleased.”
She hadn’t seen him smile before, and was surprised at how attractive his craggy, bearded face was when he wasn’t scowling. “How long have the Guardians existed?”
“No one really knows—certainly since before the Romans came to Britain. In ancient times the great mages engaged in a struggle for power that nearly destroyed us all. The survivors met in council and agreed that we must use our abilities for peace and protection.” He gazed out to sea, expression haunted.
“We do our best, but the struggle is unending.”
So the name Guardian was literal. How strange and beautiful that these people of power pledged themselves to serve and protect. What would it be like to come from such a family? “You must all be saints if you can agree on what is best.”
“I didn’t say we always agreed, but we try to do the right thing. We…don’t always succeed.” He bent to pick a wildflower. “I wish my mother was here so I could discuss this undertaking with her. She has the clearest mind of any mage I know.”
“Women are accepted as equals in your councils?” she said, startled.
“Of course—some of the most powerful mages in Britain are female.”
“What a wonder!”
“Your family is not like that?”
“A few of my de Cortes ancestors had minor gifts, but there has never been one like me.” Her parents despaired of her.
They had wanted a pleasant, submissive daughter who would marry within their circle.
Instead they had birthed a child too strange, too independent, for normal life.
“When I began showing signs of unusual power, my father engaged Master Dee to be my teacher so I would learn to control my abilities. He has been my salvation. I never once heard of your Guardians.”
“Master Dee has suffered because of his public reputation as a conjuror and astrologer. The abuse heaped on him illustrates why we prefer to stay in the background.” He raised his head and gazed out to sea, as if scenting the wind.
“The fleets are skirmishing near the Dutch shore. Men are dying just out of sight and sound.”
The reminder of their mission destroyed her pleasure in the perfect summer day. “You can see that without scrying?”
“I hear their cries on the wind.”
She pulled out her scrying glass, which was always with her.
In the smoky depths, she watched the vicious recoil of cannon as two ships blasted silently away at each other, sending smoke and flames billowing.
It was a scene from hell. “The English squadron is well-commanded and seaworthy, but vastly outnumbered. The danger is great. We must act quickly.”
“No doubt you are right, yet it is hard to undertake a working that will cost so many lives if I am successful.”
Her lips thinned. “You do not seem wholly committed to our cause, Macrae. Has your detestation for the English blinded you to the probability that the Spanish will murder your own mother?”
His head whipped around, his eyes sparking dangerously. “How do you know what I saw in your glass?”
“As your gift is weather, mine is clear-seeing. After you looked into your future, I was able to see the images you had invoked.” She shook her head.
“Passion fuels power. You need more anger, Macrae. This is not a game, but a life and death struggle. What will make you truly wish to destroy our enemies?”
“If I have too little anger, you have too much, Mistress. Your loathing of the Spanish is like a burning brand. Surely Master Dee taught you that hatred is dangerous for those with power. You run the risk of destroying not only your enemies, but yourself. In this case you are hating those of your own blood.”
“These Spaniards are not my blood!” Her anger flared, not only at the Spanish but at Macrae, for reading her so easily.
“It has been almost a hundred years since my people left Spain. We were tortured, murdered, robbed, and exiled forever from the land which we had served loyally. They called us Marranos, swine. I care nothing for what happens to me, as long as we prevent those Spanish beasts from invading England.”
He studied her face, his hazel eyes golden in the afternoon sun.
“So you are a Jew. I have heard that a few Jewish families took refuge in England after they were expelled from Spain and Portugal. Did your family forswear the Catholicism they were forced to embrace and return to the faith of their fathers?”
“We are good Protestants now, but our memories are long.” And if some Jewish practices lingered still in the privacy of their homes—well, that was no one else’s business.
They did what was necessary to survive, and to keep the Covenant in their hearts.
“You accuse me of hating, yet you hate Elizabeth. Why? She is a just and fair-minded ruler. Her wisdom in balancing Catholics and Protestants has kept Englishmen from spilling each other’s blood. Why do you despise her?”
“She executed my queen. For that, I cannot forgive her.”
“Mary Stuart, a Scot raised at the French court, who spun plots from her prison and sought to have Elizabeth assassinated,” Isabel snapped. “Even a Scotsman as loyal as you cannot deny Mary’s treachery.”
His jaw tightened. Stubborn man. Knowing they would never agree about politics, she said, “Master Dee tells me you have given your word to conjure a tempest, so let us begin. There is no time to waste.” She started to turn back to the house.
He caught her wrist. They both froze as energy surged between them. She felt as if all her breath had been blasted from her body. So this was passion—uncomfortable, inappropriate, undeniable. He felt the same, she could see it in his eyes.
He released her wrist, his breath roughened. “The preparations are complex, and Dee must cast a chart for the best time to proceed. If we don’t harness every available wisp of power, there will be no chance of success.”
She retreated a step, not wanting to meet his gaze. “Very well, do what you must, but be quick about it, before it’s too late.”
“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 as he chanted 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.