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
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
'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
