The rebels didn't even slow when some of their number fell. They continued their charge, waving broadswords and howling for blood. The few Hanoverians who had tried to hold their ground gave up and joined the panicky retreat.
Even high on Duncan and Gwynne's hill, the acrid scent of the black powder was sharply noticeable. Seeing that the horses were disturbed by the noise and smell, Duncan went to Zeus, using power to sooth his mount.
Gwynne did the same with Sheba. �Can the battle be stopped before there's a massacre?� she asked tensely. �The Jacobites are running wild. They'll chop the royal troops into bloody pieces.�
She was right�soldiers in retreat were at their most vulnerable, which was why experienced troops knew it was safer to stand and fight. Duncan could feel the Hanoverians' fear and terror as vividly as he could hear the cries of the inflamed, triumphant Highlanders.
A massive rainstorm would quench the muskets and spirits of the combatants. He reached into the sky for a swift inventory of clouds and winds. He was always subliminally aware of the weather for many miles around, and his search confirmed that there was no rain close enough to drown this battle.
But the wind was powerful over the hills. Enough to create a whirlwind? Perhaps. In Britain such storms were rare and weak, but he had seen a full-blown tornado in Spain and been awed by the majesty and power of weather at its most violent.
He had never tried to conjure a whirlwind�they were considered far too dangerous even for a seasoned weather mage. But if he could create a small one down in the glen, it might break up the fight before casualties became serious. �Gwynne, take the horses into the Druid circle and stay with them.�
Silently she took both sets of reins and led their mounts into the protection of the grove. With her safe, Duncan concentrated on the wind patterns. Pull together what clouds were available. Find cold dry air, then warmer moist currents above a loch. Spin them together until a violent updraft was created.
He poured his own energy into the developing vortex until the winds reached a savage speed. The sky took on a greenish hue and a menacing funnel formed�a roaring, raging beast that fought to escape his control. His power stretched to the breaking point as he tried to contain the whirlwind and move it in the right direction.
He had just forced the funnel to move toward the floor of the glen when he realized that Gwynne had returned to his side. The distraction caused him to lose focus, and the tornado exploded from his control. He fell to his knees, head pounding with pain. Howling like the damned, the vortex blasted across the glen, ripping up trees, smashing the distant stone cottage into jagged pieces, and causing shudders in the earth itself.
�Get down!� He grabbed Gwynne's hand and pulled her to the turf beside him. The whirlwind would first strike the government troops, then the Highlanders. Men on both sides were running away in the desperate hope of escaping the devastation. Several Highlanders slowed long enough to help their wounded fellows toward safety, while one Hanoverian dropped to his knees in terrified prayer.
With horror, Duncan recognized that his whirlwind might kill more men than the swords and muskets. Grimly he marshaled his remaining energy, then fought the lethal winds until they were under control again. Head pounding with strain, he wrenched the funnel into a new path that ran along the course of the river, between the warring groups.
The whirlwind swept over the river, sucking up water and howling ever louder. It struck the arched bridge and shattered it, stones flying in all directions. Mercifully the funnel passed between the two groups of soldiers without striking anyone. But now it was heading up the hill�straight at Duncan and Gwynne.
As a gale-force wind struck them, tearing at hair and clothing, Duncan threw himself across his wife to protect her. Too depleted to deflect the tornado himself, he reached into Gwynne's energy field, ruthlessly drawing on her power to bolster his fraying strength. He had only an instant, but how . . . ?
Whirlwinds had a very short life� Yes, that was the key to destroying it. He slammed the vortex, blocking the swirling pattern with brute strength. The winds fell apart and suddenly the glen was silent.
Duncan allowed himself to slide into dazed exhaustion. No wonder weather mages were taught never to conjure tornadoes. . . .
�
Shakily Gwynne pushed her husband's weight to one side and struggled to a sitting position. �Duncan, are you all right?�
�I'm . . . well enough.� His eyes opened. They were the color of ash. �You didn't stay with the horses.�
�Of course not. Hiding wasn't going to help anything.� She didn't feel much better than he looked. Rubbing her aching head, she asked, �What did you do?�
�I'm sorry.� He levered himself up and drew a shuddering breath. �I didn't have enough power left to dissolve the whirlwind before it struck us, so I drew on yours.�
Though it was a violation of Guardian rules to tap into someone else's power without permission, the Families were always reasonable about emergencies. His sudden assault on her energy body had been disturbing and very intrusive, almost a mind rape, but the situation had been dire. �If I hadn't distracted you at a critical moment, you wouldn't have had to do it.�
He grimaced. �It would have been easier if we'd had time to prepare. Transferring power needn't be painful if the connection is established gently.�
In an odd way, she was glad for the pain Duncan's energy tap had caused because it had made her part of his life-saving intervention. �It is written that when Adam and Isabel stopped the Armada, he borrowed her strength as you just borrowed mine. I had read about that, but I didn't really understand what it is like to share power.�
�I'm sorry,� he said again.
�If you hadn't done what was necessary,� she said wryly, �we'd have been blown to Glasgow. Probably in pieces.�
He brushed back his hair, which had been blown loose around his shoulders. �I feel like a spike has been driven through my head.�
�Given the huge amount of power you just burned, that's not surprising.� Moving slowly, she got to her feet. The ground swayed only a little. �I'll get your saddlebags. We both need something to eat.�
Burning large amounts of power created ravenous hunger. Gwynne could have eaten a loaf of fresh bread all by herself without even trying, so Duncan must feel as if he'd been starved for a month.
She found the horses peacefully cropping grass in the stone circle. Before tethering them earlier, she had used a calming spell similar to the one Duncan had tried on William Montague and his servant. The horses were better subjects than William, for they seemed unperturbed by the nearby battle and whirlwind.
She took the saddlebags back to Duncan, who had fortunately brought enough food to feed a family of six. Even before she spread the picnic cloth, she gave him two bannocks, the Scottish oatcake. He wolfed them down as she laid out more bannocks, cheese, smoked fish, and mutton pies. A jug of ale and two cups had been provided, so she poured drinks before falling on the meal as avidly as Duncan.
By the time he demolished two-thirds of the food, Duncan was looking almost normal. �It's amazing how food restores strength. I felt like I was ninety years old. If I'm tempted to conjure a whirlwind in the future, remind me how difficult it is.�
Gwynne gestured toward the glen below. The Hanoverian officer was forming up his demoralized men to resume their march north, while the Jacobites were clustered in small groups, patching up wounds and discussing their miraculous survival. �Though it was difficult, you succeeded. The forces have been separated and the bridge is gone. Even if the Highlanders want to ford the river, by the time they do the government troops will have had time to escape.�
�It appears that the fight has gone out of everyone.� He studied the remains of the bridge. Apart from a few stones marking the foundations on each bank, nothing was left. �I've never worked with such challenging weather. It's fortunate whirlwinds are so rare in Britain. Can you imagine the de
vastation if one struck Edinburgh or London? The damage would be horrific. I hope no one was in that cottage.�
Gwynne had wondered the same, so she visualized the vanished structure, then focused to see if there were recent signs of habitation. �The cottage was empty, thank God. You saved many lives and injured no one in the process, except yourself.�
�Are you surprised that I took so much effort to protect Hanoverian troops despite my Jacobite leanings?� he said with a touch of dryness.
�Not at all,� she said immediately. �The soldiers on both sides are mostly boys, some no older than Maggie's son, Diarmid. Of course you wanted to protect them.� She looked at Duncan quizzically. �Mages are trained to use their best judgment in critical situations, but this happened so quickly. How did you decide what to do, or whether to act at all? Did you worry about changing the course of the rebellion?�
�So many considerations raced through my mind that the final decision seemed more instinct than logic.� He frowned. �Interfering with events must not be done lightly, but a clash like this means nothing in terms of the overall rising. The only ones affected would be the boys who were killed and their families, so I couldn't stand by and not at least try to break up the skirmish.�
She thought of the fear she had felt radiating from the terrified young soldiers, and shuddered. �War is insanity, there is no other explanation. Most of the soldiers on both sides are Scots. They could even be brothers. Yet because some have red coats and others wear a white cockade, they tried to kill each other.�
�Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,� he murmured.
�Don't quote Horace at me!� she retorted. �There is nothing sweet and proper about young men dying for old men's ambitions. If battle is necessary, let the Old Pretender and King George settle the matter in single combat. And if they killed each other in the process, I wouldn't weep.�
�War isn't only about old men's ambition,� Duncan said seriously. �There are causes worth dying for. Freedom. Justice. To defend the vulnerable.�
�Show me the freedom and justice in that little battle!� She gestured at the glen. �Show me anyone other than you who was defending the vulnerable.�
�Some Highlanders are fighting because their chieftains command it, but others fight because they believe the prince's claim to the throne is just.� He hesitated. �There is also a . . . a kind of Highland madness that a sensible Englishwoman like you might not be able to understand. A fierce willingness to pay any price, even death, for one's principles and loyalties. We all die eventually. There is grandeur in dying for a cause that is noble.�
She shook her head vehemently. �That is a man's thinking.�
His mouth quirked wryly. �Guilty.�
She sighed. �Perhaps this is an unbreachable difference between men and women. Very well, I'll admit there are principles and people worth dying for. But what is worth killing for?�
�I would kill to protect you,� he said gravely. �Just as I would die for you.�
She felt the blood drain from her face at his blunt statement. You will betray him. That harsh mental voice was with her every day. How could she bear to betray a man who was willing to die for her? A man who held her heart in his hands? Yet she could feel a gulf widening between them, and she could dimly sense the kind of dilemma that would force her to make such an agonizing choice.
�I would like to think,� she said unevenly, �that I would have the courage to die for you, or for someone else I love, or for innocents in peril. But I would rather by far live with you than die for you.�
Desperate to bury all thoughts of betrayal, she leaned forward and kissed him fiercely, burying her hands in his hair. The passion between them was life and truth, the very opposite of what she feared. The future wasn't written yet. Perhaps, with love and loyalty, betrayal might never be necessary.
Duncan's fervent response to her kiss revealed his matching need to bury conflict in desire. But even as they mated with passion's fury, she could not convince herself that they were not on the road to calamity.
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 prone 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 kee
p 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 massacre. 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 glass: 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 glasses, 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.
A Kiss of Fate Page 20
