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
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.
, 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 deeply 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
