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, the hooded figure of Dee’s 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, Madame?”
“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 over 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 which had imprisoned his mind even more thoroughly than his body—then hurled it into the cold fireplace with crashing rage. As he rubbed his chaffed 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 earthbound, 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 like 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 Castle 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 and the girl Macrae was to wed would find another husband and his family would continue in health and prosperity. But this….
