A Distant Magic

by Mary Jo Putney

  Jean finished her farewells, needing to conceal a few tears. She had never traveled outside of Britain before, nor been away from family for months at a time.

  Yet when she stood on the afterdeck and waved good-bye while the Mercury eased down the Thames, excitement triumphed over regrets. Except for the Rising seven years earlier, when Bonnie Prince Charlie had upended the lives of her and much of Scotland, she had lived a quiet life. She was ready to taste a wider world.

  Her companion and maid, Annie Macrae, was weeping copiously beside her. A little concerned, Jean asked, "Are you regretting this trip to Marseilles? You can be put off at Greenwich if you'd really rather stay."

  Annie shook her head vigorously. She was a distant cousin of Jean's; there was a family resemblance, but she was taller, more roundly built, and her hair was more auburn than red. In the valley of Dunrath, she was known as a braw fine lassie. "Oh, no, Miss Jean, it's glad I am to be going! Every lass in Dunrath envies me. But a leave-taking for such a grand journey deserves a good cry."

  "No doubt you're right," Jean said as she passed her handkerchief to Annie. "I simply haven't a proper sensibility."

  "That's because you're a heroine, Miss Jean. Heroines don't have sensibility."

  Jean blushed and turned her gaze back to the river, watching London slip away. Ever since the Rising, the people of Dunrath had regarded her with ridiculous awe. She was no heroine. She'd been wrong-headed and terrified and desperate, and it had taken Gwynne and Duncan to save them all from disaster.

  Annie's remark was a good reminder that adventures were not only frightening but devilish uncomfortable. She would leave them for the young and foolhardy.

  The voyage was peaceful and a little boring, though it was pleasant to sail into warmer weather. Jean could hardly contain her excitement when they passed Gibraltar and entered the Mediterranean. The Middle Sea, the center of the world. Even the light was different from Britain, warmer and more luminous.

  Jean read and chatted with the handful of other passengers and slept well, until the night she was shocked awake by the numbing clamor of an alarm bell. In these waters, it could only mean one thing. "Pirates!"

  She swung out of her bunk bed, grabbed the cloak hanging on the back of the door, then scooped her pistols from her small trunk. She spent a few moments loading while Annie rolled over and peered down from the upper berth, her face pale in the moonlight that came through the porthole. "What's happening, Miss Jean?"

  "There's a chance Barbary pirates have been sighted. Probably it's a false alarm, but you stay here while I find out." As Annie gasped and ducked under her covers, Jean raced from the small cabin and up the stairs. Armed crew members were taking stations, and the two swivel-mounted cannon were now manned.

  Pistol in hand, Jean found a quiet spot by the wheelhouse where she wouldn't be in the way. For a tense quarter hour, she waited along with the crew.

  Then the lookout high on the forward mast called out, "'Tis a Venetian trading ship, not a corsair!"

  "Are you sure?" Captain Gordon called back. His spyglass was sweeping the horizon.

  "Aye, sir, 'tis no pirate galley."

  After more long moments, the craggy captain lowered his spyglass. "Very well. Off-watch crew can return to your berths."

  With chatter and sighs of relief, most of the crew members headed below. Captain Gordon was walking toward the stern of the ship when he saw Jean in the wheelhouse shadows. "Good God, Miss Macrae! What are you doing up here?"

  Jean gestured with her downward-pointing pistol. "I was preparing to defend my virtue if necessary."

  Gordon looked startled. "Do you know how to use that?"

  "I'd demonstrate, but a shot would just alarm everyone again."

  He nodded approval. "You were in the Highlands during the Rising, weren't you? That would encourage alertness and knowledge of weapons."

  "So it did." She lowered the pistol to her side, her fingers trembling in reaction now that the danger was past. "Also, my father was on a ship attacked in these waters. He and Sir Jasper Polmarric were traveling together."

  "Your father was on that voyage? That attack is why Sir Jasper takes such precautions on all his ships. All Polmarric vessels have extra cannon, and we're required to train our crews how to react in an emergency. We'll have more drills now that we've entered into the Mediterranean. In fact, I planned on holding one tomorrow, but then I'd have warned you and the other passengers not to worry."

  "That would have been pleasant," she said wryly. "After waking up to the alarm bell, I'll not get to sleep again soon."

  "Walk with me," he suggested. "After any alarm, I like to check that all is well." As she fell into step beside him, he added, "Mind you, only a nervous young lookout would mistake a Venetian galley for a corsair, but the men are extra careful now that we're in the Mediterranean. I'd rather have false alarms than miss a real pirate."

  "Have you ever been on a ship attacked by corsairs, Captain?"

  "Once, when I was a lad." He frowned. "It's a bad business, and worse if Englishmen are captured. The Catholic countries have religious orders like the Trinitarians, who devote themselves to ransoming slaves, but the Protestant countries are not so well organized."

  "I didn't know that." She remembered back to her father's tale of the attack on the Hermes. "Even if one is ransomed, there would be unpleasant years in slavery." Unpleasant, and quite possibly fatal.

  "And worse for a woman." He glanced at her. "A pretty young lass like you, with that red hair, would bring a high price in the Barbary slave markets."

  She laughed and brushed back her windswept hair. She hadn't powdered it or worn a wig since leaving London. Much easier to leave it natural and simply tie it back. The sailors and other passengers had become used to the blazing color by now. "It's nice to know that red hair is good for something."

  "You'd be purchased for a sultan's harem for sure," he said with a chuckle. "Rarity value, you know."

  "I shall take that as a compliment." They had reached the bow of the Mercury, so she continued, "I think I'll stay here for a while, if you don't mind. I love the feel of the wind in my face."

  "We'll make a sailor of you yet, Miss Macrae." Captain Gordon continued on his inspection of the schooner. Jean had enjoyed the captain's company, but now she was ready to be alone. The best thing about this voyage had been long hours with nothing to do but observe the weather. The Macrae family produced the best weather mages in Britain—her brother was merely the latest of a long, distinguished line.

  But controlling the weather was almost exclusively a masculine talent. A Macrae female might have a modest talent for managing the elements, but the great weather mages were always men. It was most unfair.

  Not that Jean had ever been a magical prodigy. Plenty of established mages had told her that she had substantial power, but she'd never learned how to use it fully. Except in really desperate circumstances, which was an alarming and uncertain business.

  As a girl coming into womanhood, she had believed that she would get past her problems and learn to use power as easily as most Guardians did. But that had never happened, and she'd largely stopped trying. In a family of mages, someone needed to be practical, and at Dunrath, that person had been Jean. She'd become a capable estate manager during her brother's years of traveling. After Duncan's marriage, his wife, Gwynne, had encouraged Jean to study magic more deeply, and that had been useful for scrying and small spells. But a great sorceress she'd never be.

  She'd never be a wife, either. She had always sensed that she wouldn't marry a Guardian. She had pledged herself to her childhood sweetheart, Robbie Mackenzie, and had even followed him to war.

  Ah, he'd been a bonnie lad, the only man she'd ever loved. Robbie had been a mundane, and she'd never told him about the Guardians, thinking her own power wasn't great enough for it to matter to their marriage. But he'd died at Culloden, and, despite the best efforts of her family and friends, she'd met no one yet to take his place.
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  No matter. She was a good teacher and an excellent shot, and too much a Macrae not to enjoy weather. To her great satisfaction, on this voyage she had discovered that she had a dash of the family magic. She could reach beyond the visible sky to sense distant winds and storms. She had influenced weather patterns a little as well. It was not entirely luck that had granted the Mercury such a smooth voyage.

  Closing her eyes, she absorbed the south wind and imagined the dry, mysterious African deserts from whence it came. Strange places with strange names…

  She really should have started traveling sooner.

  Chapter

  FOUR

  ADIA, WEST AFRICA

  1752

  Adia straightened up from hoeing yams, her back aching. Her family grew the best yams in the village, but much work was required. "I'll be glad when Abeje finishes her initiation and is back here doing her share!"

  Her mother laughed. "You'll be even more glad when you are initiated yourself, little one, but you must wait a few years for that." She glanced up at the sun. "Why don't you and Chike play while I feed the baby?"

  The fatigue of hoeing vanished instantly. While her mother took the baby to the side of the field, Adia and Chike began a game of tag among the yam plants, running for the pure fun of it. Sometimes Adia let her little brother catch her even though he was only four and had short legs.

  In later years, Adia would wonder if their squeals of delight were what brought the slavers to them, but probably not. Slavers were very good at finding victims.

  The first warning came when she glanced up to see a party of large, menacing men emerge from the forest, spears ready and mouths silent. They were not Iske like her, but some other tribe she didn't recognize. As she stared, frightened, her mother cried out, "Run, Adia! Help your brother!"

  Her mother gestured with both hands and sent a blast of magic across the field, raising a cloud of thick, eye-stinging dust between Adia and Chike and the men. Then she scooped up the baby and raced into the forest, unable to do more for her children.

  Slavers! Adia heard them swearing and coughing from the dust. Her mother had given her children a little time. Adia ran to her brother and grabbed his hand. "Come!" she gasped. "The bad men will steal us!"

  Chike ran as fast as he could, aided by Adia's tugging hand. If only she had been initiated! She came from a family of priests and priestesses, and someday she would have power enough to fight evil men, but all she had now was her speed and her stubbornness.

  They were not enough. With a shout of satisfaction, the slavers burst through the dust cloud and caught Adia and Chike before they could escape into the forest. Brutal hands knocked Adia to the ground and tied her wrists behind her. The same was done to Chike, who was crying frantically.

  One of the slavers said, "These brats won't be worth much." The language he spoke was not Iske, but it was similar enough to the dialect of a neighboring tribe that Adia could understand.

  Another said, "They're worth a bar or two of iron if they survive, so we might as well take them."

  He yanked Chike to his feet while the first slaver did the same to Adia. Her knees and arms were bleeding from her fall. For as long as anyone could remember, slavers had preyed on the Iske and other tribes. No one who was taken ever returned. Her favorite cousin and his best friend had vanished one day, taken by slavers.

  As the raiders dragged Adia and Chike away, she thought of her father's slaves, warriors who had been taken in tribal warfare, but that was different from kidnapping children. Help me, Grandmother, she prayed silently. She had been close to her mother's mother, Monifa, who had died only a year ago. As she prayed, she felt the spirit touch of her grandmother's hands. Survive, little one. There is hope for the future.

  Adia closed her eyes, thanking the ancestors for helping her mother and the baby escape. Then she prayed that her father and the other hunters would come after the slavers and rescue Adia and Chike.

  Hope faded as they joined with a larger band of slavers and were marched out of the fruitful valley of the Iske. The group headed west, toward the great sea. There were dozens of other captives manacled together in long lines that made it impossible for anyone to escape. The first time Adia saw a skeleton lying forgotten in the bush, she shuddered at the knowledge that some poor captive had died on a march like this one.

  Soon she had seen enough skeletons to barely notice them. As more weeks passed, she began to envy those who had died and no longer had to walk or drink stagnant water or try to survive on a handful of cooked grain a day.

  There were a few brighter moments. A tall, strongly built youth named Mazi was shackled behind Chike, and he carried the child for long hours every day. He and Adia spoke different languages, but he made it clear that he considered her brother no burden. Then the slavers met with another group. Sales were made, captives were swapped, and Mazi was taken off by the others. Adia missed him. Only a few years older than she, he had been nearly a man, not a child, and she had felt safer with him near.

  Chike died a week before they reached the coast. Adia prayed over his thin body, asking the ancestors to take special care of his spirit because he was only small. Then a slaver jerked her to her feet, and she had to start marching again.

  But she would not die, no, not her. Adia of the Iske would survive, and someday she would find a way to make the slavers pay.

  Chapter

  FIVE

  The Mercury's leisurely progress through the crowded harbor at Marseilles gave Jean ample time to go mad with excitement. She managed to control herself enough that she didn't jump up and down, but she and Annie hung over the railing by the bow, drinking in the sights and smells of France.

  "They'll never believe this back in Dunrath," Annie said happily. "I'll be telling tales to my grandchildren about my trip to Marseilles."

  "So will I," Jean said, though she was less certain about grandchildren in her case.

  The sun reflected brilliantly from the sea, and even with her broad-brimmed hat, she had to use her hand to shade her eyes as she studied the people waiting on the shore. Had the schooner been identified early enough so that her friends would be waiting?

  "Try this, Miss Macrae." Captain Gordon appeared and handed her his spyglass. "Perhaps you'll be able to see your friends."

  "Thank you." Jean put the spyglass to her right eye and slowly scanned the waterfront. "There they are!"

  The thralls had changed so much that she might have missed the group if not for the tall, dark presence of Moses Fontaine. With skin like ebony and a gentleman's elegance, his presence and his African heritage made him unmistakable.

  Holding his arm was his blond bride-to-be, Lily Winters. She had been frail to the point of collapse when she and her friends had been freed from thralldom. Now she was graceful and healthy, with an elegance to match that of Moses. Born the daughter of a village apothecary, now she was every inch a lady.

  Moving about more restlessly were Jemmy and Breeda, the other betrothed couple. Of the four thralls, Jemmy had been in the direst straits. He had been a chimney sweep, a starved and pallid boy who looked unlikely to survive to adulthood. Now he was fit and strong and tanned. Never having had a surname, he'd decided to call himself James King once he gained his freedom. "Jemmy" to his friends.

  Last was Bridget O'Malley, the Irish serving girl whose carrot-red hair rivaled Jean's bright locks. After being freed, Breeda's greatest ambition had been to learn how to read and write. Jean had taught her and Jemmy, and the letters they'd written over the years were a testament to how well the two had learned. Jean thought the pair were living proof that breeding meant much less than opportunity. Breeda and Jemmy had always had intelligence. Once they were freed and given the chance to grow, that potential had blossomed.

  "Would you like to look?" She passed the spyglass to Annie.

  "I never knew there were so many kinds of people in the world!" her companion exclaimed as she examined the port. "Black skin, white, brown, and ever
y shade between. And the way they dress! It's not like Dunrath, Miss Jean."

  "Indeed, it's not." Jean studied the buildings and hills around the harbor hungrily, thinking that an advantage of being a maiden aunt was the freedom to travel. She took off her bonnet and waved, at the same time trying to send a mental message to her friends. Either the hat or the mind touch worked, because Breeda saw her and waved excitedly, quickly followed by the others.

  Docking seemed to take forever, but soon enough Jean was able to skip down the gangplank to the shore while Annie stayed behind to supervise removal of their baggage. Breeda reached Jean first and they hugged, laughing and crying at once. The circumstances under which they'd met had created a bond that went deep. As she embraced Lily, Jean said, "You all look wonderful! Marseilles has been good to you."

  "Marseilles and Moses's family." An orphan when she was enthralled, Lily had gone gladly to her betrothed's warm, accepting household.

  "You've become smaller, Miss Jean," Jemmy said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "You're just a little bit of a thing."

  "You're not so very tall yourself, Mr. King," she retorted. "But Breeda wrote that you're the most sought-after jockey in the south of France."

  "I am that," he said with great satisfaction. "And turning into a fair trainer, too."

  Moses, always the leader of the quartet, gestured toward the two carriages waiting behind them. "Come, Miss Jean, we will take you home."

  His lanky frame had filled out into the solid muscles of a man. Moses had been born in Zanzibar as the eldest son of a shrewd merchant who had moved his family and the headquarters of his trading empire to France when Moses was six.

  As acknowledged heir to the business, Moses had been given a first-class education and spoke several languages. Then he had been kidnapped into thralldom. After Moses's release, he and his family had taken in the other thralls, who had nowhere else to go. The four young people had flourished, recovering from their enslavement as they matured to full adulthood.