A Distant Magic Page 10

  He scowled at the closed door, exasperated at how effortlessly she angered him with her remarks about him enslaving her. But her comments wouldn't sting so if there wasn't some truth in what she said.

  What the devil was he going to do with the damned woman? He would have been better off kidnapping a tiger.

  Back in her cabin, Jean locked the door behind her with the key that had been delivered to her room earlier. Then she folded onto the bed and wrapped her arms around her stomach as she shivered with reaction to the horrors she had just been forced to face.

  Gradually she recognized that she was feeling not only the effect of his stories, brought to chilling life by her imagination, but she was also experiencing his emotions as well. His outrage was a living flame within him, and he had used it to kindle her. This strange link between them was…not convenient.

  Nikolai Gregorio might have the soul and fighting skills of a pirate, but he lived up to his ideals in ways that would do credit to a Presbyterian minister. She remembered the stunned joy of the galley slaves who had been freed. Gregorio had given them the greatest gift imaginable, and at no small risk to himself and his crew.

  She envied him that passionate yet practical idealism. When she had ridden off to join the army of Bonnie Prince Charlie, she had felt equally passionate. The dream of freeing Scotland from English oppression had been a prize worth any risk.

  Freedom was still precious, but by the time she returned to Dunrath, she would have slit the Young Pretender's throat if she'd been given the chance. Her idealism had died in fury and ashes with Robbie's death and the prince's stubborn stupidity. After Culloden, he'd slipped away and left his Scottish followers to the devastation triggered by their loyalty to the Stuart cause. They'd fought for freedom and been betrayed.

  The fight against slavery was also about freedom. It shamed her how little she had thought about the subject. The evil of men claiming ownership over others was as far from her experience as the wild beasts that roamed the plains of Africa.

  In her ignorance, she'd enjoyed the fruits of slavery. She thought of the loaves of sugar she'd ground up when baking cakes and tarts. She was reckoned to be a fine baker. How many men and women had suffered to produce the sugar that sweetened those tarts?

  Ironic how that sweetness was the product of unspeakable evil. Gregorio might not be able to change the world, but he was doing as much as one man could, and far more than most men dreamed of. Over the course of his lifetime, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of slaves would be freed.

  She wished that she could say that her own life had as much meaning.

  Chapter

  THIRTEEN

  Jean had changed into her loose sailor tunic and trousers and was preparing to sleep when the door to her cabin opened and Gregorio entered. He took up so much space. He moved in a cloud of energy that was a blend of natural authority and intimidating magical power. She scowled. "I thought you had granted me privacy."

  "I gave you the freedom of the ship. I didn't say that your key to this cabin was the only one. As captain, I must be able to go anywhere. No one else will trouble you."

  "You're quite enough trouble all by yourself," she said drily.

  "You need to eat something." He handed her a mug of steaming broth and a chunk of bread. "I was...concerned for you."

  Since he didn't leave, she perched on the bunk and kept a wary eye on him as she sipped at the broth. The hot chicken stock soothed and strengthened. "Be careful, Captain, you're showing signs of softness. Or are you fattening me up for sale? I've heard that in the Barbary states, they prefer women with more meat on their bones."

  "Stay as scrawny as you want." He leaned against the closed door, arms crossed on his chest and his expression severe. "The main reason I came here was to discuss magic."

  "Always an interesting topic." She sipped more broth, guessing that he wanted to learn about Guardian powers while she wanted to learn about his abilities. "Your magic has a different quality than what I'm used to. The only other person I've known who could knock people out as well as you was an African."

  He looked intrigued. "My grandmother was African. Perhaps that's where that particular ability comes from."

  "Could you teach someone else to do that?"

  "I doubt it." He frowned. "Even if I could, I certainly wouldn't teach you."

  She grinned, enjoying her ability to irritate him. "You needn't worry. I don't have enough power to lay out a great ox like you, or I would have done so by now."

  "I presume you have power in other areas, and not only the ability to keep your clothing clean. Surely you inherited some of the famous Macrae weather magic."

  "The great weather mages are invariably male. There have been a few Macrae wives who worked with their husbands and together they were more powerful than the man alone, but very rarely do women become strong weather workers in their own right." And she was not one of the chosen few.

  She dipped a corner of the bread in her broth and chewed it slowly. Her stomach seemed willing to accept solid food. "I can sense weather patterns a little better than the average Guardian, but that's all. A really powerful Macrae weather mage can feel a storm over Russia or gather the winds of the western seas."

  He cocked his head to one side. "What do you sense now?"

  "If you really want to know…" She placed the mug in the washbasin and closed her eyes. The weather had been pleasant and sunny today, but that was about to change. "There's a storm coming. A considerable storm, actually. It will arrive before morning."

  "The weather is changing," he agreed. "Most sailors develop a feel for that. But I would have guessed only a bit of rain rather than a major storm."

  She shrugged and retrieved her mug. "I could be wrong. I'm no great credit to the Macrae family. But if I'm right, you should think about doing whatever it is that sea captains do when hit by a storm."

  "I'll bear that in mind." He studied her intently. "Forecasting weather would be a great benefit at sea if you're any good."

  "I never claimed to be good." Her many magical shortcomings had spared her from vanity. "I was trained well, so I have a basic competence in wielding power, but my aptitude wasn't great. My brother was the prodigy."

  When she saw Gregorio's expression change, she wished she hadn't mentioned Duncan. The captain seemed ambivalent about wreaking vengeance on a female, but he would have no such qualms about Duncan. Her brother could handle himself well under any circumstances, but Gregorio would be a formidable opponent.

  Maybe it would help if Gregorio started thinking of Duncan as a real person, not a faceless target for revenge. "When Duncan first met his wife, he was so captivated that he attracted thunderstorms. On their wedding night, he almost destroyed a small village by accident. Magic is dangerous when uncontrolled. What kind of training did you receive?"

  Another frown. "None, after your father's betrayal. Anything I've learned since I've had to puzzle out on my own."

  Her interest quickened. It was difficult to learn to use power well without guidance. "Did you have problems teaching yourself?"

  "There were…awkward moments. Luckily, I didn't do any serious damage." He hesitated before continuing. "To be honest, I had to suppress my power for safety's sake. I may have destroyed much of my potential that way."

  "To the best of my knowledge, it is impossible to destroy magical potential, at least among the Guardians," she said. "My guess is that you still have all your magical ability, even if you've locked it away."

  Painful yearning flashed briefly across his face before he regained his control. "Can you teach me more, Jean Macrae?"

  "You've discovered my weakness. I enjoy teaching." Teaching had led to her closeness with the former thralls, and she had established schools in every area of her brother's property, even the most remote. If she could help Gregorio, it should help her in dealing with him. "Would tutoring help pay the debt you feel my family owes you?"

  "Nothing can pay off that debt." He pivoted and s
lammed from the cabin.

  What a moody lad he was. She locked the door, for what good that would do if he wanted to come back.

  What would she do if he decided he wished to seduce her? The cabin had been swirling with lust, and it had been mutual. They might be antagonists, but there was also intense attraction. Troubled, she slid into her bunk. Might he drop his vendetta against her family if she became his mistress? Possibly, but she had a dark feeling that saving her family in such a way would cost her soul.

  Nikolai made his way up to the deck, needing to cool off. Talking with the Scottish witch always scrambled his wits. They would be having a reasonably pleasant conversation until he was reminded that she was a Macrae, his sworn enemy. He craved the teaching she might be able to give him, yet becoming her student would give her a kind of power over him, and that was unacceptable.

  From what she said about her limited power, she probably wouldn't be much of a teacher. He braced his hands on the railing and inhaled the sea air. But she was right that cooler, wetter weather was moving in. He could feel the change in the moist, silky texture of the air.

  Would it be a major storm? The Middle Sea didn't suffer the furious tempests of the Atlantic, but its storms were deadly enough. Was this a bad one, or merely an average rainstorm?

  She had mentioned sensing weather patterns. He reached out with his perception and tried to feel the approaching winds and rain, without success. In this area, he had no more talent than any experienced sailor. So despite the Scottish witch's disclaimer, she did have some weather power.

  He gave orders to prepare for a storm, then headed down to his cabin. By morning, he would know how accurate her weather sensing was.

  The tempest struck with a force that heeled the ship over and almost threw Jean from her bunk. The violence of the movement shocked her awake. She'd experienced two storms on the voyage to Marseilles, but they were nothing compared to this one.

  Using her improved weather sensitivity, she reached out to study the internal forces of the storm. It was as strong as any she'd ever felt, but she might be feeling that power only because she'd become better at reading weather.

  The ship rose, then dropped so abruptly that for an instant she was left floating above the bunk. Dear God, she wished Duncan was here! He could disperse these winds, but she couldn't.

  She grabbed the bed rail as she and the mattress connected again. Something in the cabin crashed and broke.

  Though she was a good sailor, her stomach roiled with distress. Fresh air would help steady her, but with water crashing against the hull, opening the porthole would surely flood the cabin. For her stomach's sake, she sat up in the bunk and wedged herself into a corner, clinging to what handholds she could find. The ship's violent pitching made her wonder how the Justice stayed afloat.

  Maybe this storm wasn't as bad as she thought. She was a landlubber. Surely she misjudged the power of this tempest. Pray God she was wrong.

  She created a globe of mage light and placed it on the wall beside her. Light made everything seem more normal. The water pitcher on the washstand had broken when it was thrown from the well that held it. The washbasin was lower and still safely in its well. At least she hoped it was safe—she wasn't about to cross the cabin to move it.

  As the wind and waves battered the ship, she prayed with the greatest sincerity since the Rising. Then she had asked for divine aid in getting herself and her men home safely. Tonight she prayed that Gregorio was as good a seaman as she thought, and that he and his crew could keep them afloat through this storm.

  KA-BOOM! The whole ship shuddered and lurched to port. One of the masts had given way, she guessed. So much for hoping that her fears were unjustified.

  With cold fear, she heard rushing water within the ship. A few moments later, pumps began banging away ominously. The falling mast must have damaged the hull, for the ship still listed to port, shaking under the hammer of wind and waves.

  She struggled from the bunk and across the tilted floor to unlock the cabin door. The idea of drowning in a locked cabin terrified her even though she knew that running up to the deck wouldn't save her life if the ship was sinking. She'd probably be blown overboard before she took three steps. But that seemed a better death than drowning like a rat in a rain barrel.

  She found her slippers, which had been tossed across the cabin, and put them on to protect her feet from the broken pitcher. Then she returned to her bunk corner and held on for dear life.

  She must put her faith in God or Gregorio. Either one would do.

  The door crashed open, and Gregorio burst into the cabin. He was saturated and hatless, water streaming from his cloak. He roared, "Damn you, woman, you were right! This is as bad a storm as I've ever sailed in. You're a Macrae, so end it!"

  "I can't!" she gasped. "I'm no weather mage!"

  "You're the closest we have to one." He grabbed her arm and yanked her from the bunk. "If you don't act, we'll all die, so by God, you will act!"

  She drew a deep breath, wondering what the devil she could do. Though she knew the theory, that didn't mean she had the power to control the tempest. "I'll try. But I'll need your help, and I'll need to see the storm."

  "As you wish." He towed her toward the door. "And dowse that lantern! What kind of madwoman has fire in her cabin in the middle of a storm?"

  "It's mage light, not a lantern," she snapped.

  For an instant he focused on the light with sharp interest. "You can teach me how to do that later, if we survive the night."

  She acquired more bruises as he hauled her along a tilted corridor too narrow for them both. He climbed the ladder first, grabbing her when she stepped onto the deck and the howling wind nearly knocked her over. She was soaked to the skin in an instant.

  The world was a chaos of wind and water, the elements slamming the ship and the sailors who struggled to save it. An officer shouted orders that could barely be heard, while high above men scrambled to reef the sails. Several had already split, but most had been taken in.

  As she watched, one of the sailors aloft lost his grip and fell. He managed to catch a line. For an instant his body waved in the wind like a banner. Then two other sailors grabbed him and pulled him to safety. One of the rescuers was nearly naked. A freed galley slave, she guessed, working alongside the Justice's regular crew.

  As she'd thought, the ship had lost a mast. The mainmast had crushed a small section of the port hull, and its wreckage dragging in the sea was responsible for the ship's dangerous tilt. Men were chopping at the lines that held the mast to the ship, the sails acting as a giant anchor. As she watched, they severed the last of the lines and the ship returned to a more upright position, though it still bucked and rolled with the waves.

  Gregorio wrapped an arm around her and pulled to the wheelhouse, which offered a modicum of shelter. Inside, two men fought with the wheel as they struggled to hold the ship steady into the wind. "Can you work here?"

  She nodded and turned to face the open side of the wheelhouse. "I'm not strong enough to do this alone. I'll need to use some of your power."

  "Take whatever you need." His dark eyes were haunted. Not fear for himself, she realized, but for his men and his cause.

  He saw her shiver with cold, so he pulled off his cloak and wrapped it around her. The wet, heavy fabric dragged on the deck, but it protected her some from the wind.

  She braced her left hand on the frame of the wheelhouse and clamped her right hand onto his wrist. Energy always crackled between them when they touched, and this time she followed that into his spirit to explore his power.

  He was deep and convoluted, like a labyrinth at the center of the earth. She couldn't begin to guess how much power he had—the roots ran all the way to Africa. Though he might not be able to use that power, it was still there, dark and pulsing. "This won't be comfortable," she warned, "but don't fight me. It's the only way."

  Ruthlessly she stabbed into his magic. He gasped as the connection was made but man
aged to control his instinctive defenses. Forcing herself not to waste time exploring his fascinating depths further, she turned her attention to the storm. Huge and wild, she felt that it had been born in the far north. "The storm stretches in all directions. It must be destroyed, for we cannot outlast it."

  His teeth were a dangerous white flash in the dark. "Then destroy it!"

  Though she hadn't the weather mage gift, she'd learned in the nursery the technique of controlling weather. First she tuned in to the whirling energy that carried the wind and rain. If it could be unbalanced, perhaps that spiraling power would unravel or twist away on a new course.

  As she grasped the full pattern, she realized that she might be able to make a difference. The process was profoundly dangerous—but less so than wringing her hands and hoping the ship survived.

  After three deep, slow breaths, she closed her eyes and arrowed her awareness from her body out into the storm. The power of the whirling energy nearly tore her to shreds. She grabbed frantically for Gregorio's power, hanging on to him as a lifeline while she stabilized herself. Thank God he had the strength to hold her together, though she felt him shudder as she drew on his resources.

  Feeling stronger, she tumbled with the storm, seeking a weakness. She found an area where the air had different pressure. She dived into it with the combined strength of her and Gregorio.

  Dear Lord, but this was exhilarating! She felt like a soaring eagle. No wonder Duncan had never had words to describe weather working. There were no words to describe this wild oneness with nature in its rawest form.

  She reached outside the storm for warm, dry air over the Sahara. When she found it, she pulled the strong stillness into the chink she'd created in the whirling tempest. When she had the Saharan air in place, she began to expand it.

  The work was bitterly hard, and she felt the strain in every fiber of her body. But she was succeeding, she was succeeding. The storm had been feeding on itself, and now it lost its fuel. Like a child's top, it wavered as the center ceased to hold.