A Distant Magic

by Mary Jo Putney

  Jean looked bemused. "Perhaps. I'm too small to be much good with a sword, though I'm not bad with firearms. My most useful talent during the Rising was my magic, which worked fairly well because I was desperate. There was another occasion only a few days ago. A great tempest struck Gregorio's ship, and she almost foundered. I found that I possessed some of the family weather ability. By borrowing power from the captain and my brother, I was able to dispel the storm."

  "So you can manage in disaster, and you have worked successfully with Gregorio. Both of those are good," Adia said, nodding. "Do any other magics come easily to you?"

  Jean shrugged. "I can scry a little, but mostly I only manage small domestic matters such as keeping my clothing and appearance neat. Very trivial magic that I really don't think about."

  "You can do that? I'd like to know the trick of it. With danger, necessity slices through the tangle to allow you to access your magic. With clothing and appearance"—Adia studied Jean's neat, stylish appearance with frank admiration—"you have the most wonderful hair, and you say you do this without thought. Surely that is significant."

  "You think that my problems come when I try to access magic consciously, but there is not enough danger to make me desperate?" Jean considered. "That fits. I wonder how I can use this knowledge to stop me from tangling up in myself?"

  "You say Guardians work through mental visualizations. Can you visualize clear, free-flowing channels between the depths of your power and your conscious mind?"

  Jean's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "It's worth trying. Thank you, Adia."

  "If you are successful, the result may send you to your death," Adia said softly.

  "It's possible," Jean said, and she did not look at all young and fragile. "But death comes to us all. Gregorio and I might have died at sea last week along with dozens of others, some of them newly released slaves who had barely had time to draw breath as free men. Death by drowning would have no meaning. Fighting slavery, that has meaning." She hesitated. "When I was leading my men away from Culloden, with thousands of English troops hunting rebels, I prayed to God to get us home safely. I even bargained with God, offering my life in return for the lives of my men. I promised I would make any sacrifice He demanded of me."

  The flat words outlined the desperation the girl must have felt. "I, too, have tried to make bargains with God. It never seems to work."

  Jean smiled faintly. "Perhaps it did this time. My men and I did make it home safely. For years, it appeared that nothing more would be asked of me. So I spent half my time in London drifting aimlessly from one ball to another. Those years taught me that I must have meaning in my life. I think that through you, God is taking me up on my offer to risk everything for a higher cause."

  So the Scottish girl's decision was made, and not done lightly. Quietly Adia said, "You're a brave woman, Jean Macrae."

  "Braver than you? I think not." She hesitated. "Before I go in search of Gregorio, would you be able to help me use mind touch to reach my brother and my friends in Marseilles? I want to let them know that I am well, but I don't have enough power to reach them since I'm not in dire straits."

  Adia thought wistfully how she would have liked to reassure her family in Africa that she was well. "Of course. What must I do?"

  "Let me hold your hands and borrow some of your power."

  Adia clasped Jean's hands and deliberately relaxed. She felt the light, swift touch of Jean's mind as the girl established an energy connection between them. There was a long silence during which she could feel a pull on her power. Then Jean gave a sigh of relief and released her hands. "Thank you. I was able to reach them clearly enough to give reassurance and tell them not to worry."

  "They will still worry, Miss Macrae."

  Jean smiled. "Yes, but not as much." She stood and bowed her head respectfully. "Call me Jean. I'm tired of hearing my full name all the time. Now to find Captain Gregorio. He and I must talk."

  After Jean left, Adia closed her eyes. Thank you, Grandmother, for bringing me to two such strong people. Will they be enough to achieve our goals?

  Over the years, as Adia's life had become smoother, Grandmother spoke less and less frequently, though Adia still sensed her presence. Today, Grandmother's reply was clear, but uncertain. I do not know, child. But I know that there are none better.

  Chapter

  TWENTY

  Nikolai's thoughts churned as he left his house. By rights, he should go to the docks and see how the repair work was proceeding on the Justice. Instead, he turned away and headed into the hills. His favorite walk was a goat path that led through a dip in the rim of the caldera, then down the steep opposite slope to the sea.

  A priestess had come through time to recruit him to fight against slavery on a scale far beyond anything he could ever do with his ships. And he must do it as Jean Macrae's mate. The idea gave him chills and fever both. The fever was easily understood, for sexual tension had burned between them from the start. If it were a matter of bodies only, he'd bed her in an instant.

  But even the most lustful people brought their minds to a bed, and matters between him and the Scottish witch could never be simple. Did he fear her? In some ways, yes. Not physical fear—he was twice her size, and his magic was equal to hers, though different. But she had an emotional power over him that kept him away for fear of…what? Adia had said that he'd left pieces of his soul in many places. Joining with Jean Macrae would take a very large piece of his soul, and he might never get it back.

  He picked his way down the slope to a sheltered cove, wondering how to become still enough to meditate. His mind jangled with thoughts of Adia, the antislavery movement, and Jean Macrae. There were too many questions, too many possibilities. What did an initiation involve? How could he prepare? Could he help end slavery?

  The cove was a favorite place of his, almost invisible from the sea but with a peaceful black sand beach. He settled on a rough stone wall that bounded the narrow strip of sand and watched the waves roll in while he tried to meditate.

  He was able to force his body to relax, muscle by muscle, but he had less success with his mind, and as the hours passed his concentration worsened. No sooner did he banish one thought than another dashed in. He tried to focus on the question of whether he should attempt initiation. His heart said yes, but was that his deepest self?

  The sun had passed the meridian when he heard, "Making any progress?"

  He flinched, angry with himself for not being aware that the Scottish witch was approaching. She moved as quietly as a cat.

  He glanced up as she perched on the wall several feet to his right. The wind blew around her, pressing the light fabric of her gown against her slim, elegantly female form. His painful physical awareness destroyed any shred of stillness he'd achieved.

  Wrenching his mind away from thoughts of bedding her, he said, "I am a long way from being adept at meditation, but I did complete Adia's assignment. I feel that I am meant to undertake her initiation despite the risk."

  From Jean's ironic glance, she was unsurprised by his conclusion. He gestured at the bag she carried. "Have you taken to carrying a medicine pouch like Adia?"

  "Adia informs me that I should stay with Guardian traditions," Jean said peaceably. "So being a practical Scot, I brought food, not magical implements."

  She pulled out a stone jug of wine and set it on the wall between them, then produced a lump of cheese wrapped in light cloth, and a small loaf of bread. She divided the bread and handed him the larger piece, then did the same with the cheese. "Fasting may be good for achieving spirituality, but most of the time, I prefer to be fed."

  He grinned and took a bite of the cheese. "You have your uses, Jean Macrae."

  "If the ancestors want us to be mates, you should call me Jean." She tilted the jug for a drink of wine, the muscles in her pale throat working as she swallowed. He was acutely conscious of every breath she drew, every muscle she moved. Of her scent, which was erotic and individual and made him thi
nk of Scottish heather, though he'd never seen or smelled real heather in his life.

  She handed him the jug. "While I was in Marseilles, I developed a fondness for these light French table wines. Better than ale. Do you get yours from France?"

  "Yes, but one of the island farmers is planting vines. In time, we'll make our own wine." Why was he talking about wine? Because it was easier than discussing anything important.

  She studied the wall between them more carefully. "Surely your people didn't build this here merely to make a nice place to sit."

  "No, the island was inhabited in the past. Many of the houses in the village are built on old foundations. Santola is scattered with ruins."

  "There is great age in these stones." She brushed her hand along the roughly dressed wall. "Do you know who those early people were?"

  "Greeks, perhaps. Or maybe Phoenicians. Or both. Quite possibly pirates of many races." He scooped up a handful of the black volcanic sand and let the grains sift through his fingers. "The many and varied people of the Mediterranean. Ancestors of mine, I suspect. Malta is the crossroads of the Middle Sea, and the blood of a hundred nations runs through Maltese veins."

  "Adia said that your grandmother was her kin. Did you know her?"

  "Oh, yes. My grandmother, Folami, had the largest share in raising me." He scooped up another handful of sand, gazing at the black glitter of the volcanic grains. "I can see a resemblance between her and Adia, in their faces and in their natures. Both are strong African women, loyal and a little mysterious."

  "How did your grandmother come to Malta?"

  "She never spoke much of her past, but I believe she was a slave in North Africa when my grandfather found her. He was Maltese, a sailor." Nikolai smiled a little. "Probably a bit of a smuggler as well. But not a slaver. He stole her away and married her in Malta. I never knew him; he died at sea when my mother was a child."

  "So your grandmother raised your mother, then you. A strong woman indeed."

  "She was. My mother was…less strong." She had been beautiful, though, and had enjoyed her life as a barmaid in a waterfront tavern. Sailors had complimented her, given her gifts. One gave her a son. Another had given her the fever that took her life.

  He closed his eyes, thinking that if African spirituality included a connection with the ancestors, he would like to feel that Folami was with him. But he felt no sense of her presence. He opened his eyes and took another swallow of wine, wiping the mouth of the jug before handing it back. "You are the Guardian. Do you believe Adia's story?"

  Jean smiled as tendrils of bright hair danced around her face from the breeze. "Her story is impossible, but yes, I do believe it because there is no other explanation that is less impossible. We were there when she appeared from nowhere, on an island where there are no strangers. I think it was the mingling of my blood with yours as I swore my vow that brought her here. Blood has great power. You and I created a beacon of antislavery energy that drew her through time. Impossible, yet here she is."

  He realized that he'd needed Jean to confirm what had happened. Now that she had, it was easier to allow himself to believe. "As much as I wanted to end slavery, I have always known that my efforts are trivial in the great pattern of life. I am chopping off one evil tentacle at a time, helping a few people, but no more.

  "Yet as soon as Adia said that slavery would end when the mass of people cried 'Enough,' I understood. You are typical of a decent person who never thought much about slavery since it took place at a distance. Yet now you are revolted by it."

  She nodded. "The little black boys kept as pages by London ladies never seemed like slaves. More like pampered pets. Seeing men chained to their oars, their backs a mass of scars, made slavery vividly real. I think most Britons would agree with me that slavery should be abolished if they understood its wickedness."

  "If Britain stands up against slavery, it will make a huge difference. The largest number of ships carrying slaves from Africa to the New World are British."

  She stared at him. "I didn't know that."

  He looked toward the horizon, wondering how many slave ships and corsair galleys were cruising the high seas. He sensed one just at the edge of his range of perception. Too far to go after, even if the Justice was repaired. "Much of the wealth of Liverpool and Bristol and even London is drawn from human flesh. If British ships stopped carrying slaves, it would be a start to ending slavery."

  He halted to allow the exhilaration of that prospect to rush through him. "It's possible to end slavery, Jean! It's possible, and I can help that happen."

  "Ending slavery would be right, but incredibly disruptive," she said, her face troubled. "The sugar trade is a huge economic force. If it collapses, the economy of Britain and the Indies will be badly damaged. Countless lives will be turned upside down, and many of the people affected will be average men and women who own no slaves. Nations might fall into civil war. Do we have the right to undertake something whose consequences might be even more evil than what we hope to end?"

  He wanted to explode with anger, but he reminded himself that her knowledge of slavery was mostly of the mind, not the flesh. She had never known the lash, the confinement, the breaking of the will.

  "I don't care if ending slavery produces catastrophic consequences! Slavery is wrong, and no amount of intellectual qualms will alter that. Yes, ending it will be disruptive, but the world has survived other disruptions. If people want sugar, plantation owners can pay wages and fire the overseers who carry whips. If decent wages are paid, there will be workers. Sugar will cost more, but it's a luxury, not a necessity of life.

  "If sailors lose work on slave ships, let them find other ships with more honest cargo. If European workers are injured by the change—they are still in better condition than most slaves. There is no excuse for allowing evil to thrive simply because we don't know what will happen if it ends."

  "It must be comforting to be so sure of what's right," Jean said drily.

  "There are few things I am sure of, but the evil of slavery is one of them," he said, voice edged. "If I could end it today, I would, and be damned to the consequences. I hope you can overcome your doubts, since if Adia is right, we must work together to be effective."

  "We're better at quarreling than working together." She finished her bread and cheese, not looking at him.

  Mates. Male and female energy joined together. Deciding honesty was called for, he said, "We have had much to disagree about, but from the beginning, I have desired you. I think the reverse is true. So why are we so wary of each other?"

  She laughed a little as she gave him a slanting glance. "Have you forgotten that at first you despised me as your enemy? You wanted me to suffer terribly for the sins of my father. Such an attitude is hardly romantic."

  When had she stopped being his enemy? Step by step, she had dismantled his anger, using courage and logic as her tools. "Somehow we have become friends."

  She turned to him, her hazel eyes burning. "Oh, no, Captain. We are not friends."

  She was right—friendship was of a different nature. But they could be—should be—lovers. So he leaned over and kissed her.

  She gasped. Annihilation. Perhaps she could have pulled away, but his dark gaze held her captive like a rabbit enthralled by a serpent. All his strength, his fierce will, were concentrated on her, and she wanted to absorb those qualities into herself. Yet she sensed that lying with this man would destroy the essence of what she was.

  But the stakes were high, involving far more than their two lives. As the familiar energy flared between them, she forced herself to accept it rather than retreat. Kissing Gregorio was like diving into a bonfire, becoming flame without being consumed. Without conscious thought, she raised her arms and locked them around his neck. He made a rough sound and embraced her, his muscled body both prison and protection.

  With Robbie, there had been the sweetness of first love. They'd known each other their whole lives, running the hills, getting into mischie
f together, always laughing. When he died, a part of her died with him.

  Gregorio filled her with scalding life that was both terrifying and exhilarating. His hand moved to her breast. She wanted to press into his palm, but doing so would be stepping into the abyss. She pulled away. "There is no doubt about the lust," she said shakily. "But I am not yet ready to act on that, Captain Gregorio. I don't know if I ever will be ready."

  He started to reach for her, then dropped his hands, the fingers clenching into fists. "I want you, yet I fear you would drive me mad, Jean. Though I'm not sure that would be entirely a bad thing."

  She smiled wryly. "That fear is mutual, Captain."

  "My name is Nikolai. If you wish me to call you Jean, you must use my name in turn." He looked away to the sea, his dark expression un-readable. "Few people have done so since I was a child."

  "Very well, Nikolai." She touched the back of his hand lightly. "Time to return to the village now?"

  As a vigorous wave splashed a yard from their feet, he turned and asked, "Will you marry me, Jean Macrae? That will force us to come to terms with each other."

  She jerked away from him. Surely he was joking! No, his dark eyes were utterly serious. "Good God, no! Adia said we needed to be mates, not married. I don't know you well enough to marry you."

  "Yet you contemplate lying with me?" His smile was edged. "Of course, well-bred ladies might bed mixed-blood bastards, but they won't wed them."

  She would have thought him impervious to insult, but she saw that her instant rejection of his proposal had hurt. She studied the strong-boned face, wondering if it was possible ever to know a man composed of so many layers.

  "I don't want to marry you, but not for those reasons." She concentrated on packing the empty jug and cheesecloth back into her shoulder bag. "We come from different worlds, Captain. Nikolai. I hope we will be successful in aiding the abolition movement. Succeed or fail, I think it likely we will die in the attempt. But if by some faint chance we both survive, I would like to be able to go home again. That will be difficult if I have a husband whose life lies elsewhere."