asked quietly, 'What happened, child? Why didn't you save him from such a disaster?'
'I tried!' Tried desperately, and had been seared by the backlash when his power and concentration failed. 'He tried also, but we could not fully connect. Our energies are too unlike. Too clashing.'
'That clashing can be a source of strength, not conflict.'
She rubbed her temples, too drained to understand. 'What do you mean?'
'Think of your astrological studies — opposite signs are both natural enemies and natural complements. Men and women are opposites, and sometimes conflict between them is attraction that will not admit itself. Yet if opposites find balance in each other, they can create a whole greater than the sum of their individual powers.'
She thought back to Dee's lessons, when he had poured rivers of information into her eager mind. 'Is this the alchemical marriage you once spoke of?'
'The alchemical marriage is a philosophical principle, and it can be seen on many levels. One is male and female.' He eyed her speculatively, then shook his head. 'The point is moot. Macrae may be out of his senses for days. Or… worse. Do you know what has happened with the Armada?'
She had been too upset to even wonder. Wearily, she drew out her scrying glass and conjured the scene. 'The Spanish ships are escaping the Zeeland shoals and heading north. The English pursue, but they are still outnumbered. Once the Spaniards regroup, they will be able to resume their plans for invasion.'
Dee's face tightened, adding ten years to his age. 'I must go to London and report to the queen.'
'Perhaps Macrae will recover and try again,' she suggested without much hope.
'He will be lucky to escape with his life and his sanity,' Dee said bluntly. 'Even if he survives, today's work may have destroyed his magic forever.'
Having felt the cataclysmic collapse of Macrae's power, she knew that Dee spoke no less than the truth. 'I will stay here and care for him. My housekeeper is experienced at nursing. God willing, we will save at least his life.'
'He may not thank you for it if he survives deprived of his deepest self.' Dee raised his gaze to the restless sea, where Spanish ships were sailing north around Britain. 'I once had great power. Not so much as you, but enough to make me a true sorcerer. In my arrogance and lust for knowledge, I pushed my abilities too far and nearly died of it. Since then, I have had to content myself with small magics and scholarship.'
The naked longing in his face made Isabel look away uneasily. What would it be like to lose her power? Though her abilities made a normal woman's life impossible for her, the exercise of magic was also the purest delight and satisfaction she had ever known. To be deprived of it would be like losing her limbs. Macrae had been bound in iron for more than a year. Now, after only a few days restored to his full self, he had risked his life and his power to stave off the Spaniards.
Though she had scarcely noticed at the time, she had a sharp flash of memory of how his lips had felt under hers when she had breathed for him. Embarrassed, she said, 'If the body is saved, perhaps the spirit will also heal. We will do what we can.' The world needed Adam Macrae.
And she needed to know that somewhere he would be living under the same sun as she.
4
He had been lost for so long among the cinders of his mind that at first he didn't recognize returning awareness. All he knew was cool darkness, a soft night breeze redolent of country flowers, a gentle hand on his forehead.
A woman's hand? He forced his eyes open. He was in his bedroom at Leighton Manor, the canopy above him barely visible in the dim light. Isabel de Cortes was perched on a stool beside him, her eyes narrow with concern.
'So… I did not die,' he said in a rasping voice.
'Not for lack of trying.' Despite her acerbic words, she gave him a smile that softened the austere beauty of her narrow face.
He closed his eyes again. 'How long has it been since I conjured the winds?'
'Eight days. Master Dee has returned to London to confer with the queen.'
Seeing her expression brought back the last disastrous memories that preceded his collapse. He exhaled roughly. 'I failed.'
'Perhaps not.' Her gaze slid away. 'Your efforts have given more time to improve the coastal defenses. Surely that will help if — when — the Spanish invade.'
Absurd. Britain's coastline was far too long for defenses to be adequate everywhere, and they both knew it. As his vision cleared, he realized that she looked different tonight. Defeated. Unbowed, but preparing for the worst. 'Give me your scrying glass.'
She looked doubtful. Guessing she thought him too weak, he repeated, 'Give it to me! I must know.'
She reluctantly produced the obsidian disk and laid it on his right palm. He was so weak he could barely raise the glass high enough to see the surface, and he couldn't sense the glow of her energy as he had before. As the surface remained blank, he recognized that the center of his spirit was numb, devoid of power.
Sweating, he closed his eyes and tried to shape the slight breeze that fitfully stirred the curtains. It pulsed, then faded. Had he done that, or was the movement only the normal volatility of the night airs?
He tried again. This time he was almost sure that he had briefly strengthened the wind. His power was only strained, not dead. He refused to believe otherwise.
Opening his eyes, he tried the scrying glass again.
Grimly, he tried to conjure a vision of Dunrath, but the glass would show him no more. Trembling, he let his head fall back against the pillows.
'I won't tell you not to overexert yourself, for it would be a waste of breath,' Mistress de Cortes said dryly. 'But you might consider the fact that you have been out of your head with fever for days. It is normal to be weak as a newborn kitten.'
'I have no time for weakness. We must act before it is too late.' He struggled for more breath.
'You think it still possible to change the course of events?'
'Aye. Not easy, but… possible.' Throwing back the covers, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was garbed in a coarse nightgown, borrowed from a servant perhaps. He leaned forward to stand— and his knees buckled beneath him.
She swiftly moved forward and caught him around the waist. For an instant they were pressed together as she struggled to prevent his sagging body from falling to the floor. Her breasts were soft and womanly against his chest. Desire blazed through him like storm lightning, and with it came a shadow of renewed energy.
Before he could gather his wits, she managed to shift him back onto the edge of the bed. 'You're a damned fool, Macrae,' she said a little breathlessly. 'Content yourself with talking for tonight.'
She expertly lifted his legs onto the bed, which pushed him back against the pillows. His brief energy faded again, but not his memory of it. Angels above, she was enticing. An embrace with her would make a stone saint dance. 'We must learn to work together on all levels, Isabel. You must be able to use my gifts as a weather mage, and I must be able to draw fully on your strength.' It was the first time he had used her Christian name when speaking to her.
Acknowledging the intimacy, she said, 'Does that mean I should call you Adam?'
He smiled a little. 'I like the way you growl 'Macrae.' '
'I'm gifted at growling. How are we to accomplish such closeness?'
If she had been raised a Guardian, she would know such things. Groping for the right words, he said, 'To share energy fully, there must be absolute trust and a willingness to reveal oneself with naked honesty, flaws as well as virtues. Earlier, time was short and neither of us wished to drop all our defenses, so we did not delve so deeply. If we had' — his mouth twisted—'perhaps I could have maintained the wind long enough to force the Spanish fleet onto the Zee-land shoals. I was so close…'
The silence was long and painful before she said, 'I have never done what you are describing. Is it even
