A Distant Magic (15 page)

Chapter
SEVENTEEN

N
ikolai wondered what Jean Macrae thought of his house, with its cool tile, white walls, and colorful fabrics. He found the simplicity soothing, but the style was that of peasants, not aristocrats.

Telling himself it didn't matter what she thought, he ushered her outside onto the cobbled street. She studied everything with interested eyes as they strolled down the hill.

The villagers studied her in return. Though Santola had a wide range of nationalities, red hair was rare so everyone recognized her as the stranger who had not been a slave. As they neared the docks, Nikolai made a mental note to get her a hat so her face wouldn't burn. Then he remembered that she would be gone in a matter of days.

She would leave, taking with her that fierce independence, winsome figure—and her knowledge of magic.

As they halted on the terrace above the ship repair dock, he said harshly,
"Don't go, Jean. Not yet. I want to learn more about magic. My education has
been erratic. I must learn how to fully use my power. It will make me more
effective in my work."

"Surely you also want to learn for your own sake." She glanced up at him thoughtfully.
"Talent usually brings a powerful need to use it. You need training, but I doubt
I am the best teacher. There is too much between us."

"You are the best because you're the only one available," he said bluntly. A string of pack donkeys was passing, so he pulled the straw hat off one and dropped it on her head.
"If you aren't careful, your fine white skin will be bright red."

She laughed and adjusted the hat back so it didn't fall over her eyes.
"I will smell of donkey. But I suppose that's better than burning."

"I want you healthy to answer my questions, not perishing of
sun-stroke."

"Speaking of which, I'm tired. I'd like to return now."

Reminded that she had been unconscious for several days, he turned to guide her back up the hill.
"When you struggled with the tempest—what was happening then?"

She looked thoughtful. "I'm not entirely sure, but the storm proved that I inherited a good share of the Macrae sensitivity to weather patterns. I've become more aware of weather since sailing from London. Perhaps my talent works best now that I'm farther south.

"But while I can feel the patterns, I haven't the raw power needed to control great storm systems. That's why I needed to draw on you." Her brows furrowed.
"I'm sorry there wasn't more time to prepare you. I'm told that having one's
power seized so abruptly is disturbing and often painful. Usually power sharing
is done only after careful discussion and gradual preparation. And only between
friends."

Though it had been painful, he brushed her words away. "Your
actions were needful. But at the end, I felt another energy as well, as if
another person was present. Did I imagine that?"

"You're perceptive," she said with a nod of approval. "I
was about to lose control of the storm's center, and I knew I didn't have the
strength to master it again. So in sheer desperation, I reached out to see if I
could get help from my brother, who is the most powerful weather mage in
Britain."

"Your brother was joined to us?" he said, revolted by the thought. He had to some extent made peace with Jean Macrae, but her brother was another matter.

"Without him, the ship would have sunk and all of us drowned," she pointed out.
"I would not have been able to reach him over such a great distance if not for
the bond between us. So he, too, was essential in saving us from the storm.
Surely that means you should give up your desire to revenge yourself against
him."

"Damnation, Jean Macrae, is no one in your family to pay for your father's crime?" he exploded, furious at her brazen request.

"If my father were alive, I would put the two of you in a room to talk about what happened that day you were captured. You might find the truth different from your memories. But even if my father betrayed you…" Her eyes narrowed.
"Duncan and I have done nothing to harm you.
Nothing.
In the storm, we
saved your ship, your crew, and all your future battles against slavery, not to
mention your precious neck. That cancels any blood debt you feel you are owed."

Rage blazed through him. He wanted to slam his fists into the stucco walls of the nearest house or kill a slaver with his bare hands. Anything to release the violence of his long-held fury.

He had lived for revenge, clinging to it as a lifeline when he lay bleeding from the lash on a galley, or perishing of thirst in the desert. He wanted to kill Macrae, who had promised him a home and safety, then casually broken that promise. At least as much, he wanted to destroy Duncan Macrae, the favored child, the true son, who had effortlessly possessed what Nikolai had wanted with such frantic need.

But he could not deny the truth of the witch's words. She and her brother had not harmed him directly, and together, they had saved the
Justice
and her crew. All three of them had been needed—he and Jean Macrae together had not been enough.

He forced himself to remember the touch of her brother's mind at the end of the struggle with the storm. What kind of man was Duncan Macrae? Bleakly he admitted to himself that there had been nothing in the man's energy to hate. Under other circumstances, they might have met and become friends.

Though Nikolai burned for justice, he also valued honor. Bitterly he accepted that Macrae, the true betrayer, was beyond reach. Any justice the Scottish lord received would have to be at God's hands, if there was such a creature and He believed in justice.

Hating every word, he said, "Very well. I will not pursue my
vendetta against your brother or his family. But I will neither forgive nor
forget."

"As you wish. Hate us if you must, as long as you don't hurt my family." She halted, swaying, and reached out to a wall to support herself.
"I...I need to rest."

The damned woman looked on the verge of collapse. Why had he suggested she walk through the village when she had just woken from a three-day collapse? He scooped her up, thinking that she must have burned off weight when using her magic, for she weighed almost nothing.

She struggled feebly. "Let go of me!"

She was right, he shouldn't have touched her—the contact between them was profoundly disquieting. He shouldn't be feeling raw lust for a woman who was so feeble. A woman for whom his feelings were so complicated. But the longer they were together, the harder it was to regard her with detachment.

If he set her down, she'd probably crumple up on the street. An unloaded donkey was heading down the hill, so he signaled the driver. The fellow obligingly brought the donkey over so Nikolai could set the witch on the beast's back.

Her fingers locked onto the donkey's scraggly mane. "Thank you." She smiled warmly at the driver, ignoring Nikolai. The driver, a usually cantankerous Berber from North Africa, stared at her with dazed pleasure. The woman was definitely a witch.

By the time the small group reached Nikolai's house, she was able to slip off the donkey and thank its owner with another smile. When they entered the building, she looked at the steps to her room with some dismay.

"Can you climb the steps? Or should I carry you?"

She scowled and began to climb, relying heavily on the railing. He stayed a quiet two steps behind her until she made it to the top. Once sure she was safe, he said,
"You need more to eat. And perhaps a cup of tea. That is a very British remedy,
I think?"

She turned and smiled crookedly over her shoulder. "I'd like
that."

As he headed down to the kitchen, he thought that the sooner she sailed from his island, the better.

He could not bear the thought of her leaving.

Scalding hot tea sweetened with honey and served with bread and cheese went a long way to restoring Jean. By the third cup, she was able to regard Gregorio with equanimity. He had agreed to drop his vendetta against Duncan, so she and her family were safe. Soon she would be back in Marseilles, able to tell her friends about her adventure before sailing for home. For now, she sat on one of the chairs in her room rather than the bed, since that would be far too suggestive.

Of course, there was the matter of the captain wanting to be tutored in magic.
"I could find you a Guardian who will teach you how to use your power. There are
surely men in Marseilles who would be willing to do so."

"It would be easier to work with a man than a woman." He frowned over his tea.
"But you are here now."

Jean toyed with her dagger. Interestingly, while she had shown some Macrae weather talent, she didn't seem to have sensitivity to iron that male Macrae weather mages did. Magic was so complex no one could ever truly understand it.

But—one could try. "Would you like me to attempt to evaluate your abilities?" she asked.
"I need your permission to enter your mind, though it wouldn't be painful. Not
like the night of the storm."

His frown deepened as he weighed her offer. "Will you be able to
read my thoughts or see the events of my past?"

"Rarely can thoughts be read, though I will certainly be aware of your emotions." She finished her tea.
"Details of events are also unlikely, especially since I won't look for them. My
only goal would be to map the dimensions of your power. If I'm successful, we
will have a better idea of your potential."

"I want to be able to use the power I suppressed to survive." His dark brows drew together. He hated admitting that he needed anyone.
"And I can't do it alone."

"I'm not sure I can be the teacher you need, but I can at least evaluate your power." She extended her hands to him.
"Are you willing?"

He hesitated. "It is not easy to trust you."

But he wanted whatever information she could give him. "Do you think it's any easier for me to trust you?" she retorted.
"You kidnapped me, threatened me with assault and slavery, threatened the lives
of my family. I am willing to help because your mission is a noble one, but if
you don't trust me, leave now and let me be."

"Witch," he said, mouth tight, but he clasped her hands.

Once more energy blazed between them. Instead of resisting it, this time she dove into that stream of power, letting it sweep her into the labyrinth of his mind.

Despite his complexities, his inner blaze of passion and anger and idealism were easy to read, to a point.
"You're a natural finder. The ability to locate things such as corsair ships can
be strengthened. There are great reserves of power in your nature, including
your ability to knock others unconscious by pure mental energy, but much of this
potential is...I suppose walled off is the best way to describe it."

She probed further, without success. "This goes beyond the way you
suppressed your power to protect yourself as you grew. There is another factor
at work, one I'm unfamiliar with. I can sense power on the other side of the
barrier. I even tapped into that energy during the storm, when I was desperate.
But I can't evaluate it now."

"How does one break down the wall?"

"I don't know. I've never seen anything like this." She let her mind flow around the mysterious well of energy.
"I believe the barrier is related to your African heritage. The nature of
African magic is somewhat different from the Guardian magic I know. You would be
best served by finding an African mage."

"How the devil does one do that?" he muttered.

"One of my friends in Marseilles is African. His family also runs
a shipping business, so he set the captains to finding an African priest. The
priest visited Marseilles and stayed long enough to teach Moses what he needed
to know. Perhaps Sekou would be willing to visit you here. Moses probably knows
how to find him."

"Assuming your friend Moses would help a man who had kidnapped you." Nikolai released her hands, frowning.
"Tales of slavery made you violently ill. Do you hate the idea enough to help me
fight it?"

Her brows arched. "You might not be able to end slavery by
yourself, but you've proven that you can make a difference to some people. I
can't even do that. While you have my sympathies for your cause, I'm of no
practical use."

"Your teaching can make a difference. I will seek an African mage,
but that could take years. Anything I learn now will make me more effective
while I wait for the right training."

He blazed with passion for his cause, and she envied that. She had never been happier than when she was part of the fight for Scotland's freedom. A burning need for freedom was part of every Scot's soul, and that passion made Gregorio's quest echo within her. Yet there were limits to what she could do.
"I'm not African, and I wish to go home. But for what time I have before
leaving, I'll teach what I can."

His eyes burned. "Will you swear a blood oath to do that?"

"Is that necessary? If my plain word is not good enough, swearing in blood will not change anything." A vague memory surfaced.
"Unless there is a magic in blood that I am not aware of?"

"There is magic in ritual, though you northern Protestants don't seem to recognize that." He drew his dagger and cut across his left palm, then offered the weapon to her hilt first.
"And yes, I feel this is necessary, though I cannot explain why."

Jean knew better than to argue with the intuition of a mage, even an underdeveloped one.
"I should use my own blade." She turned away from him and bent to lift her hem, then turned back with her knife.

Schooling herself not to flinch, she made a small, neat cut on her left palm. She extended her left hand. The left side, closer to the heart. She wondered if Gregorio was conscious of why he'd chosen the left hand.

As she began to speak, energy rushed through her, pure and transcendent.
"I swear that I will always oppose slavery in any way I can, even if the cost would be my life." She wasn't sure where those words came from, but the source was higher than her conscious mind. She caught Gregorio's gaze.
"I also pledge to share with you any knowledge I possess that can aid you in
your just crusade."