A Kiss Of Fate Part 18

TWENTY-FOUR.

T he wind blew harshly from the Irish sea as Duncan rode north into the hills. He let his horse find the best path while he pondered the rising. After he and Gwynne had witnessed the clash of opposing forces, he had been unable to deny that the conflict was on his doorstep. Not only did he have the usual concerns for survival of anyone in a potential war zone, but he also carried the burden of discerning where the best interests of his nation lay. If his opinion differed from the council, he would be forced to make a terrible choice.

The night before he had woken shaking from a nightmare about turning renegade. By birth and training, Guardians were generally more objective and selfless than most people. But Guardians were human, and p.r.o.ne to the same weaknesses. Occasionally a mage would fall in love with power and defy his oath, using magic for selfish, even destructive, purposes.

Such renegades were wickedly dangerous, and the council wasted no time in dealing with them. If Duncan felt called to oppose the council on behalf of Scotland, would he be declared renegade? Though any such action on his part would not be from personal selfishness, he still risked exile from the Families, which was the first level of punishment. All members would be ordered to have nothing to do with him.

Not everyone would obey, given that Guardians were an independent lot. But the safety of the Families lay in unity, and most would comply with the council's edict. He would be cut off emotionally and spiritually from the only people who truly understood what it was like to hold power.

Jean would probably stand by him, but what about Gwynne? He could hardly bear to consider that she might leave him. Despite her sometimes maddening reserve, she was at least half in love with him, and loyalty was at the core of her nature. But what if she had to choose between her husband and her Guardian oath? He had no idea what she would choose-and he feared the worst.

There was a second level of punishment if the council thought a mage was a threat to others: suppressing a mage's power by magical force. Enforcing the council's edicts was traditionally a job for the most powerful mages in Britain-and this council's enforcer was Simon, Lord Falconer.

Despite their many years of friendship, Simon would be pitiless in doing his duty as he saw it. If there was a conflict of power between them, who would win? Duncan wasn't sure-but at least one of them would end up dead.

Telling himself not to borrow trouble, he wrenched his thoughts back to the simpler topic of whirlwinds. He now understood why weather mages were warned not to meddle with them, for they were fiendishly difficult and destructive phenomena. But might it be possible to create a small, more easily controlled version?

In the past week he had read what information the Dunrath library contained on the subject, and he had developed a theory of how to create and handle whirlwinds. Today he intended to put theory into practice, which was why he was on his way to Glen Creag, an area so rocky and desolate that even sheep disdained it. For his purpose it was perfect: flat, hidden among hills, and with scant chance of witnesses.

He tethered Zeus outside Glen Creag, hiking over the last steep hill alone with a knapsack of food to refresh himself in case of exhaustion. If his theory was correct, this attempt should be less draining than his emergency conjuration the week before. The trick was to balance the heat and cold, dry and moist, cloud and wind. How much of each was required to create the vicious updraft needed? How slowly could the winds spin before a funnel collapsed?

For that first frantic conjuration, he had worked from instinct and desperation. The result was a double miracle: first, that he had managed to create a tornado. The even greater miracle was that he hadn't killed anyone. Today he would approach the task in a more orderly fashion.

He worked with the elements of a whirlwind one at a time until he could control each precisely. Then he experimented with finding the best balance of elements. Periodically he paused for food to keep his strength up; this was the most challenging work he'd ever done. Britain's climate and terrain were not well suited to whirlwinds, which meant he had to use large amounts of his own energy to create even a small one.

Despite his fatigue, the afternoon was exhilarating. Developing new magic always was. His practice culminated when he carefully conjured a tornado. Though weak by the standards of its kind, it was still powerful enough to disrupt a small battle. He even managed a fair degree of control, though the blasted bundle of wind still showed an alarming tendency to escape.

After dissolving his creation, he headed back to Dunrath tired but satisfied. He needed more practice to attain real mastery, and it was hard to imagine wielding such a destructive force for anything less than ending a ma.s.sacre. But since there was a war in progress, the more tools he had available, the better.

Gwynne gasped at the image that suddenly appeared in her scrying gla.s.s: Duncan and a whirlwind. Her husband stood in a barren, rocky landscape, his fierce concentration palpable as he struggled to control his creation.

Though she'd had no intention of looking for him, energy followed thought, and she thought of her husband often. For that reason, it wasn't uncommon for an image of him to appear when she practiced scrying and her focus was uncertain. Like most scrying gla.s.ses, hers was spelled so it wouldn't casually pick up scenes that would invade the privacy of others, so usually she would see an image of Duncan riding or talking with people in the glen. She would smile at him fondly, then return to her practice.

This time, the scene had significance. She bit her lip, wondering if he would tell her about his experimentation. If he didn't mention the subject voluntarily, she shouldn't raise it herself, since she didn't want to be accused of spying.

Why was he doing this? For the pure joy of magic? A perfectionist's desire to master a new skill? Intellectual curiosity? All of those things could be true. But it was also true that a tornado was a weapon without equal. If he chose to use his power in the service of the rebellion . . .

With a low rumble, Lionel flowed from the library table onto her lap, then stood on his hind legs and nuzzled her with his whiskery cheek. She stroked him gratefully. His ability to sense her moods was uncanny; maybe he really was her familiar. She had sometimes wondered if he could walk through walls, though there must be a mundane explanation for his ability to appear when she wanted company.

She rubbed her face against soft feline fur as she reminded herself that Duncan had given her no reason to doubt his loyalty. Yes, he had some sympathy with the rebel cause, but that was a long way from treason. She must hope that it was far enough.

The door to the arcane library swung open and Jean bounced in. Gwynne blinked and Lionel left her lap for shelter under the table. "This is the first time I've seen you in here. I wasn't sure you knew the way."

"I had to come here to find you," Jean said with irrefutable logic. She dropped into a chair. "I've heard the Jacobite army is marching south to Carlisle. Is it true?"

Gwynne opened her hand, which still held the scrying gla.s.s. She felt uncomfortable tracking the rebellion to satisfy Jean's curiosity, but couldn't think of a good reason to refuse. She inhaled and exhaled slowly, then concentrated on Jean's question. "Yes, the army is on the move south. They've met no opposition so far, and I don't think any is imminent."

"Splendid!" Jean rose and began pacing the room. "I've had the feeling that they will continue into England without opposition, but I wasn't sure of my own prediction, so I hoped you could confirm it. You have."

Gwynne sighed. "For the immediate future, there will be no battles, but many lives will be lost before this rebellion is done. I guarantee it." The images of violence she had been seeing since she'd met-and kissed-Duncan were utterly convincing.

"War happens," Jean said flatly. "I don't like it, either, but some causes are worth fighting and dying for. Men who become soldiers know the risks they are taking. Men die every day, of disease and accident and drunken brawls. Isn't it better to pledge one's life to something n.o.ble?"

Duncan was right, Gwynne decided. There really was a Highland madness when it came to war. " Fine words, Jean, but war sends ripples in all directions, affecting not only n.o.ble soldiers but wives and children, and fields neglected because their owners are dead. Which is why Guardians almost always support the cause of peace."

"The Families support what is good for the most people over time," Jean retorted. "But disagreement over the long-term good isn't uncommon. Even Duncan, who has done his best to accept conservative council thinking, isn't convinced that the Hanoverians are good for the country. There will be war. There will be deaths. We must hope that the blood that is shed is for the right reasons."

"On that, at least, we can agree." Gwynne tilted her head to one side. "I'm surprised that you didn't go to Edinburgh, as you considered doing."

"I liked the idea of being with other Jacobites," Jean admitted, "but I knew the army would be leaving the area soon. With your scrying ability, I'll know more here about what's happening than I would in Edinburgh." Her face sobered. "Is Robbie going to die in the rebellion?"

A wave of profound sorrow engulfed Gwynne. It took her a moment to reply. "I'm better at seeing what is happening elsewhere at this moment than I am at predicting the future."

Jean's mobile face became still. "You think he's going to die."

"I truly don't know. He is in great danger," Gwynne said truthfully. "I fear for him, but I don't think that dying in battle is inevitable."

"I wish I was a man so I could go to war!" her sister-in-law said pa.s.sionately. "Better yet, I should have developed my powers to the point where I could aid the prince's cause."

Gwynne gasped, truly shocked. "You would risk being ostracized by the Families?"

"For this, yes!" Jean glared at her sister-in-law, her green eyes as feral as a cat's. "We swear oaths, but we are also trained to listen to our hearts and souls. The House of Hanover is weak, unfit to rule England, much less Scotland. I will do my duty as I see it-and I only wish I had more power to use in the prince's service!"

For the first time, Gwynne was glad that the younger woman had shirked her powers. Though Guardian studies tended to steady one's character, and Jean would have benefited by that. "Why not work on your scrying? Because you are deeply concerned with the rebellion, you might find that you can tune in on events effectively."

Jean stopped her pacing and made a comical face. "You're using this as an attempt to make me study, aren't you? But it's not a bad idea."

Wordlessly Gwynne offered Isabel's gla.s.s.

"This has never worked for me." Jean held it in her palm, her eyes narrowing. "Interesting. I see nothing, yet the stone feels alive now. Before it didn't. You've restored it to life after a long sleep." She handed it back.

Gwynne chuckled as she accepted the gla.s.s. "I never thought I'd be glad that a stone likes me. You must have received a scrying gla.s.s when you came of age." When Jean nodded, Gwynne continued, "Do you want to get it so we can practice together? Since I'm so new at this and still learning, I might remember some useful tidbits for improving technique that experienced scryers have long since forgotten. "

"I'll get my stone and come back. And bring a tea tray with some fresh scones and marmalade." One hand on the doork.n.o.b, she added, "I do hope that we can stay friends even if we are on opposing sides, Gwynne."

"I'm on the side of peace, Jean. I think that few women are on the side of war." Jean hesitated, then gave a brief nod before she left the library.

The world would be a better place, Gwynne decided, if women were in charge.

TWENTY-FIVE.

G wynne made a hasty attempt to straighten her hair as she rushed from the library to the main hall. A good thing the Friday night dinners weren't formal. She and Jean had become so absorbed in scrying that they had lost track of the time. Jean had done very well. She claimed it was because she had a good teacher, but Gwynne suspected that now that the girl had a compelling reason, she was working harder than in her unwanted lessons when she was younger. She certainly didn't lack talent.

At the base of the stairs, Gwynne paused to take a slow breath. She had quickly developed a deep fondness for the weekly gathering. The warm, relaxed atmosphere made her feel that she was part of this extended family in a way she had never quite managed at Harlowe. There she had been the old earl's child bride, indulged but not very important in the life of the household. Here she felt safe and accepted- the latter particularly welcome given her English origins.

She circulated through the hall, chatting with people who were becoming friends and wondering where Duncan was. Surely he hadn't been so careless as to allow himself to be carried off by his own whirlwind. As she debated whether to ring the dinner gong in spite of his absence, she noticed an apparent argument between Maggie Macrae and her son. As she watched, Diarmid stalked off, leaving his mother frowning.

Gwynne would have joined the housekeeper to offer any comfort required, but Duncan chose that moment to stride in the front doors, drawing the attention of everyone present with his dramatic, windswept energy. She moved toward him with a smile. "You look as if you've been rushing, my dear. Did you lose track of the time?"

"I'm afraid so, mo caran." He kissed her cheek, his lips warm with promise. "A farmer's work is never done."

He wasn't going to tell her about his whirlwind practice, she realized. Not now, and not later. Reminding herself that his silence on the subject didn't necessarily mean sinister intent, she said quietly, " The prince's army is marching south to Carlisle."

Brows furrowed, Duncan evaluated the news. "With November on us, it's a poor season for campaigning, but that might work to the rebels' advantage. I wonder . . ." He stopped. "We can speculate later. Now it's time to break bread with friends and family."

Silently she took his arm and they moved to the small table where the dinner gong sat. Like most men, Duncan liked making noise, so he ceremoniously lifted the wooden hammer and struck a pure, quivering note.

Talking and laughing, guests found places at the table. Duncan and Gwynne had the only a.s.signed seats; now that she was in charge of the ritual, she sat at the head of the table. As the head of the household, Duncan took the foot. No more sitting next to each other.

She lit her taper at the nearest fireplace, then solemnly touched the candles in the ma.s.sive candelabra to flickering life. As always, the ritual produced peaceful silence. Taking her place at the head of the table, she performed the first beckoning gesture. "Welcome, family and friends."

After finishing the welcome ritual, she lifted her fork to signal the beginning of the meal. Before people could start eating, a young man near the center of the table rose to his feet. Trouble! Gwynne recognized him as Fergus Macrae. In his early twenties, he had a vibrant energy that made him charming, but now made her feel deeply uneasy.

Like William Montague, Fergus raised his gla.s.s and called out, "A toast to the king over the water!"

It was an invitation and a challenge. Gwynne was acutely aware of Duncan's indecision as to how to handle this. Then three more young men stood and lifted their gla.s.ses. One was Diarmid Macrae, who was sitting at Gwynne's left hand. "To the king over the water!" they chorused.

As tension swirled through the hall, Duncan rose, his presence dominating the company. "These are difficult times. I wish good health to the House of Stuart, which led Scotland for centuries, but my toast is to King George, ruler of all Great Britain."

A babel of voices broke out. Half the men present stood and drank toasts, though the conflicting words made it clear that they were divided between Jacobite and Hanoverian sympathies. Fergus raised his voice to cut through the clamor. "Duncan Macrae, 'tis time for you to act as Laird of Dunrath and lead us out in support of our true king. I hear that the prince is marching for England, and all Scots belong at his side!"

"I will do no such thing," Duncan said, his deep voice filling the room effortlessly. "The Stuarts had their chances and they failed. Every attempt to reclaim the throne has cost Scottish lives. I will not lead the Macraes of Glen Rath to certain defeat."

Diarmid said hotly, "If all Scots support the prince, he will not fail!"

"But all Scots do not support the Stuart cause, and even fewer Englishmen do. The government has the soldiers, the training, the weapons, the materials." The faintest of tremors sounded in Duncan's voice. "What do the Jacobites have but the courage and loyalty of too few brave men?"

Gwynne gave him credit for holding his ground, yet she could sense his deep ambivalence on the subject. Could others detect that also?

Jean leaped to her feet, her red hair blazing in the candlelight. "If you will not lead the men of Glen Rath to the prince, Duncan, then I will!"

A collective gasp echoed through the chamber. Gwynne was suddenly struck by the sheer barbarism of the scene: the harsh stone walls, the high-ceilinged, drafty hall, flickering torches and candleight playing off the ma.s.sed displays of swords and dirks. Earlier she had felt a part of this place. Now, as the heirs of Dunrath fought about war, she was an outlander.

"Jeannie, no," Duncan said, his voice anguished.

"I must, Duncan. I am not the first Scotswoman to lead warriors, and I will surely not be the last." Jean's gaze swept the room, lingering on those who had expressed support for the prince. "We shall march out at mid-morning tomorrow. Bring supplies and what weapons you have, and pa.s.s the word to others who would join us."

A cheer rose from the Jacobites, most of them young, not all of them male. Gwynne estimated that the rebel sympathizers were about a third of the total group. Virtually all of the older people present looked grim or horrified, except for one old shepherd who had lost his leg in the Fifteen. He had been waiting for another Stuart uprising ever since, and now he cackled with toothless glee.

"I will follow you, Mistress!" Diarmid called.

"And I!" cried Fergus. At least half a dozen other voices joined in.

"Well done!" Jean smiled at her small troop. "If you will excuse me, I must prepare for departure.

Unless you propose to lock me and the rest of our rebels in the dungeon, Duncan Macrae?"

His hands clenched, but his voice was steady. "'Tis not my place to imprison my sister, or others who truly believe in this cause. Dunrath is the castle of grace, and all who dwell in the glen are always welcome under my roof. I shall pray for your safety."

Gwynne stood. "As shall I. We are friends and family here. Never forget that."

Jean flushed a little. "You are both gracious. I will not disgrace the name of Macrae, I promise you."

"I know you won't," Duncan said quietly. "Don't leave yet, Jeannie, nor any of the rest of you. If you begin a long journey tomorrow, you should eat well tonight."

Jean nodded and sat down. The painful knowledge that this might be the last time all these people would gather together hung heavy in the air. A woman sobbed quietly, unable to suppress her tears.

Gwynne thought of the spell of protection she had studied. Perhaps that would be useful here? "Let us all join hands and pray for safety, and for the good of the lands and people we love."

She reached out to her neighbors, taking the hands of Diarmid on her left-dear G.o.d, he was so young!-and Annie Mackenzie, an older woman, on her right. At first uncertain, all of the guests followed her example.

With everyone around the long table connected, Gwynne could feel a powerful current of energy flowing around the circle. With time, she could identify each individual thread. With no effort at all, she could identify Diarmid's exultation, his mother's fear, Fergus's fierce, b.l.o.o.d.y determination.

As Gwynne prayed aloud, she also sent the spell of protection pulsing through the circle of joined hands. She envisioned each person present sheathed in light so that neither sword nor bullet could cause harm.

A moment later the light blazed brighter as Duncan added his deep, powerful energy to her working. A surprised note could be felt from Auld Donald, who had enough Guardian blood to sense magic in use.

Then Jean joined in, her power a little ragged but intensely felt. Perhaps with three mages joining in, the rebels of Glen Rath would survive to come home.

As Gwynne whispered, "So be it," at the end of her prayer, she thought that she felt another Guardian nearby, one who was contributing to the protection spell. But surely that couldn't be. . . .

Though everyone stayed through the dinner, the mood was somber and guests left as quickly as possible. When Jean rose, Duncan stood and followed her, his long legs overtaking her before she reached the stairs. Knowing he must keep his temper under control, he said, "Jean, it's not too late to change your mind."

Her brows arched. "The moment I said publicly that I'd lead our men to the prince, there was no turning back. A Scotswoman has as much pride as a Scotsman, Duncan."

"You won't be allowed to lead our men into battle. Charles Edward is very conventional in his thinking. If you appear before him in breeches, he'll be horrified."

She made a face. "I suppose that means I must use my sidesaddle. I want to stay with the army as long as I can, but I don't expect to be allowed in battle. Which is just as well-I don't think I would much enjoy it. My plan is to take our men to Robbie, who can be trusted to look after them."

"It's a good plan." He thought of the clash he and Gwynne had witnessed. "But for G.o.d's sake, be careful! When two armies stalk each other, there are many skirmishes that can kill even though they aren't true battles."

"I'll be safe. Gwynne casts a powerful spell of protection." She laid a hand on his arm. "Don't try to deny that you aren't tempted to do what I'm doing, Duncan. But you're too responsible to follow your heart in this matter."