Chapter One
The Tower of London, July 1588
Though the chambers were spacious and furnished as befitted a prisoner of rank, the cold stone walls were saturated with pain and death. Sir Adam Macrae paced his prison, shackles rattling, wondering if he would be granted the formality of a trial before he was executed. Or would he be kept here forever, quietly rotting as his spirit and body withered away?
The heavy door squealed open. He turned warily, knowing it was not time for food to be delivered. His expression hardened at the entrance of two men in dark cowled cloaks. So the Virgin Queen and her counselors had chosen to silence him by assassination rather than risk beheading a prominent Scot.
Well, by God, he’d not be taken down without a fight. He gripped the length of chain that connected his manacles. Though the damnable iron curbed his power, the heavy links would make a fair weapon.
The taller of the men pushed back his hood, revealing a long white beard and piercing eyes. It was John Dee, the Queen’s own sorcerer.
Macrae caught his breath. Dee had true power as well as influence with the queen, but he would not be sent here to perform a simple assassination. “I thought you were living on the Continent, Master Dee. ‘Tis said that you might end your days in Bohemia, where your work is so much valued.”
Dee gave a dry little smile. “Officially I am in Bohemia still, but my queen has need of me, for a great crisis looms.”
“England is threatened? Splendid.” Macrae applauded, the manacles jangling. “I pray strength to her enemies.”
“Don’t be so swift to invoke destruction. There are worse fates than Elizabeth, no matter how little you like her.”
“She murdered the Queen of Scots,” Macrae said flatly. “She deserved everything I said, and more.”
“No one regretted Mary Stuart’s death more than Elizabeth. She stayed her hand for years—decades—despite all the evidence that your queen was involved in treasonous plots. The necessity of executing her own cousin and fellow sovereign drove Elizabeth half mad with grief.”
“Nonetheless, murder her cousin she did.”
“Couldn’t you have waited until you returned to Scotland before cursing Elizabeth’s name and predicting that the wrath of God would strike her? She had no choice but to imprison you.” The old sorcerer shook his head dourly. “You supported Mary at the risk of your own life even though she was Catholic, and you a Protestant. Though your loyalty is commendable, one must wonder about your sense.”
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 Dunrath 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—over 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?”
