The heat of the posset curled through her, easing the tension that had knotted her ever since that shattering kiss. She drank more deeply, trying not to remember the food and drink she had shared with her deceiver. "I don't understand why I didn't recognize Ballister. Do you think he cast a confusion spell over me?"

The older woman's gaze became unfocused as she studied the question in ways Gwynne could only imagine. "If he had, I would be able to see traces of it around you. I think he might have used a mild attraction spell-just strong enough to overcome any reluctance you might feel about dancing with a stranger. Since you've felt attraction and wariness since you met him, he merely cloaked that part of his nature that alarmed you, then disguised his physical appearance with simple tricks of costume and accent. "

Whatever combination of spells and artifice he'd used, it had been very effective. Gwynne remembered the first rapturous instant of their kiss and felt a wave of heat that was followed immediately by icy rage. "Using his power to deceive me was wicked."

"I doubt he needed even that small spell. You were ripe and ready, my girl. All you needed was an excuse not to recognize him." Bethany's voice held a shade of tartness as she turned down the bedcovers. "Finish the posset and lie down. When you're comfortable, I'll see how much you remember. "

Gwynne obeyed, grateful to sink into her feather mattress. Bethany pulled the covers over her and extinguished the lamps until only a single one burned. Then she sat beside the bed and began asking soft questions about the evening.

Arm curled around Athena, Gwynne elaborated on how she met Ballister, the dancing, their conversation, the refreshments. Her peaceful state removed much of the anger and embarra.s.sment. She felt detached, as if standing outside her body and watching the actions of a besotted stranger.

Deftly Bethany coaxed Gwynne along to the moment of the kiss. "When you saw your vision of disaster, did you witness Ballister committing violence?"

Even the posset could not eliminate the memory of horror, but at least Gwynne could now view the images calmly. "I . . . I see him with a sword. The hilt is bra.s.s or gold, I think. But he's only holding it in readiness, I don't see him striking anyone."

"Very good," Bethany murmured. "You saw fire. What was burning?"

"First a cottage. It was crude and solitary-rough stones and a thatch roof. I . . . I think it was in Scotland. Then there were villages burning, and finally a great city. There was a particular woman fleeing with her child in her arms." Panic flared again, and she clenched the edge of the coverlet. "The woman stumbles and falls, and her child begins to scream. The flames are closing in and she can't escape. Embers fall on her gown. . . ."

Bethany's hand gripped hers, pulling her from the vision. "The images didn't necessarily show real fires. I think they were symbols of increasing catastrophe, going from small to large. What other images did you see?"

Gwynne inhaled deeply and forced herself to relax again. "There was-I think it must have been a battlefield. There are bodies everywhere. Some are wearing scarlet coats, others in . . . in Highland dress, I think. It's dusk and very quiet except for . . . for the buzzards and-oh, G.o.d, that dog has a severed arm in its mouth!" Her stomach heaved.

Once more Bethany's touch drew her back to her safe, clean bedroom. "The fact that you had visions when you and Ballister kissed suggests that he is involved in some way. Do you have any idea how?"

Stilling her mind so that it was like a silver pool, Gwynne waited to see if an answer would come. " He is not the instigator, but rather is like . . . like a spark to tinder. He changes the balance." She turned her head toward Lady Bethany. "He has so much power that it overflowed into my mind. For the first time, I'm glad that I have no power of my own. Do you think I'm seeing true visions?"

Bethany frowned. "I think that you're seeing possible futures. Those horrors may not all come to pa.s.s."

Gwynne thought of the fire consuming that frantic mother and child, and shuddered. "But some will?"

"You saw a battlefield. You've heard the rumors of another Jacobite rising. If that happens-and I fear it will-the rebellion could lead to another civil war. Certainly there would be fierce fighting." The older woman sighed, her age evident. "But the outcome is uncertain. Some of the possible paths are . . . very dark. I feel that you're right-Ballister is critical to how the rebellion will unfold. But in what way?"

"Is Ballister a Jacobite? I thought all Guardians support the Hanoverians because of the peace and prosperity they have brought."

"We do, for exactly those reasons. Ballister is no Jacobite, but he is a Scot. In the forge of war, who knows what might happen? He is a man of great power, which means he has the potential to cause great harm."

"Then I am right to avoid him."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps not. This is not a simple matter." Bethany stood and kissed Gwynne's brow. " Sleep, my dear. We can discuss this more in the morning."

Gwynne hesitated, then asked a wistful question. "Do you think that the visions mean that I am developing power?"

Bethany's gaze became vague as she considered the matter. "I wish I could say yes, but I simply don't know. Though it's possible that a latent talent is finally manifesting, the most likely explanation is that Ballister's power and the intensity of your connection caused images related to him to spill into you."

Gwynne sighed. "I rather thought that it was too much to hope that I'm finally turning into a mage." After Bethany left, Gwynne turned onto her side and curled around Athena, promising herself that she would not dream of the sensuality and excitement of the time she spent with the man in the black domino before she learned his ident.i.ty.

But dream she did, and in the night she burned for her loss.

Wearily Bethany considered her own bed before she turned and made her way to her workroom. She had chosen the large, airy chamber because its southern exposure allowed sunshine to warm her aging bones. There would be no warmth there now.

She turned the k.n.o.b and entered. The door was never locked. There was no need for locks because the door was spelled and would open only for Bethany, Gwynne, or the lady's maid who had been Bethany's friend and companion since they were both girls. It would have opened for her brother or husband if they still lived. Now only women came to this chamber of mysteries.

A draft caused the light of her lamp to flicker eerily over the books and equipment of her private magical laboratory. Scented bunches of drying herbs hung in one corner, and a large cabinet contained the gla.s.sware and tools she used for compounding potions. She liked to think that over the years, she had produced original work that would be of value to future Guardians.

A fire was laid, so she snapped her fingers to start the coals burning. Simple heat would not eliminate the deep chill that had come over her when she listened to Gwynne's visions, but it would help her tired body.

Settling at her desk, she removed an ebony box from the lower drawer. The dense wood had been chosen to protect the treasure within. She lifted the lid, revealing a velvet-lined interior and a quartz sphere about three inches in diameter.

There were nine such spheres, one for each member of the Guardian Council. To be on the council required maturity, wisdom, and the ability to use a sphere. Not everyone had the gift. Her brother, Emery, had possessed as much power as she, but he didn't have the knack for communicating clearly through the sphere, and communication was vital for keeping the Families in harmony.

Absently she contemplated the planes and occlusions inside the translucent stone as she warmed it between her palms to wake the energy. The talking spheres had been made by Lady Sybil Harlowe, an ancestress of Bethany and one of the greatest mages of the sixteenth century. Bethany could feel Lady Sybil's power even now, as well as traces of every council member who had used it since.

The last before Bethany had been her father. Family legend described how at the age of three, Bethany had found the ball and engaged in an earnest conversation with the bemused head of the council, who had been in Newcastle at the time.

Tonight she craved a discussion with another council member, but most would be sleeping at this hour, and the matter wasn't quite urgent enough to disturb them. Who might be awake? Ah, Jasper Polmarric, the eldest mage of the Cornish Families. He was a creature of the night, as was she.

The sphere was pulsing with power now, so she visualized seven of the other eight council members, then sent her message. I summon the council on a matter of great urgency. Noon today. She framed the request so that it wouldn't be noticed until the recipients awoke the next morning. The summons would tell them to go to their sphere. When they touched it, they would receive the full message.

There was no need to use her name. Each member of the council had an energy imprint as distinct as a voice. Those who lived in the London area would come to her home. More distant members would contribute by means of their spheres.

To Jasper Polmarric, she sent a different and more immediate call. Are you available to talk? If he was awake, she would hear from him soon.

Within minutes, she felt words forming in her mind with the dry humor that was characteristic of Jasper. Up to some mischief, my dear Bethany? Or having trouble sleeping?

She let him feel her fatigue and anxiety. If only that were true, Jasper. You know how every mage in Britain has been sensing an approaching cataclysm? It's almost here, and when it breaks, the whole nation will be rocked to its foundations.

Gwynne awoke feeling surprisingly rested. She wondered if Bethany would part with the recipe for the sleeping potion. If no magic was required in the preparation, she could make it herself.

She yawned and swung her feet from the bed, feeling a guilty twinge when she saw the position of the sun. It must be midday. No wonder she felt rested.

After washing up, she rang for her maid, Molly, who appeared with a breakfast tray. Lady Bethany's household always ran like clockwork. Gwynne poured herself a cup of hot chocolate. "Do you know if Lady Bethany is available to join me? I'd like to speak with her."

Molly shook her head. "Her ladyship has company and can't be disturbed."

Gwynne's brows arched. When Bethany said she couldn't be disturbed, it usually meant Guardian business of some sort. No matter. They could speak later.

After Molly left, Gwynne poured more chocolate and settled at her desk to work at deciphering a two-hundred-year-old journal that included numerous spells and recipes. It was written in a code that had taken time to solve. Codes were so much simpler to understand than men. . . .

Absorbed in her work, she was startled when Molly returned and said, "Lady Bethany wishes you to join her in the small salon, my lady."

Gwynne blinked at the mantel clock and realized that over three hours had pa.s.sed since she breakfasted. What an odd day this was.

She stood and stretched her tight muscles, glad for a break. "Thank you, Molly, I'll go right down."

When Gwynne reached the salon, she knocked lightly to warn Bethany that she had arrived, then entered. Surprise jolted through her. She had just walked into a full Guardian Council meeting, and the energy was so powerful that a rock would take notice.

All council members maintained homes in the London area, and at any given moment at least four or five of them were in residence. That was not an accident; they took care to ensure that everyone didn't go to the country at the same time. If important events transpired, London was the crossroads of Britain, which meant that if Guardian intervention was required, no time would be wasted.

Today's meeting included Bethany and four others. They sat around the circular table which was usually used for cards. Guessing that this gathering involved Ballister and perhaps her as well, Gwynne curtsied deeply. "Good afternoon. How may I serve you?"

Perhaps they wanted her to take notes or write a letter, since she had a fine hand and could be trusted with Family business. But she doubted it would be so simple.

"Please, sit down," Bethany said gravely. "You know all of my colleagues, don't you?"

Gwynne sat, taking a chair several feet from the table. To sit with the great mages as an equal would be presumptuous.

Small, bald Jasper Polmarric, who was a particular friend of Bethany's, turned his wheeled chair so that he faced Gwynne. "You know that this meeting was called because of you and Ballister."

Gwynne nodded. She would not have been invited otherwise. "He did nothing that requires censure, sir. It was I who lacked propriety."

Polmarric made an impatient gesture. "We are not concerned about young people stealing kisses in a pleasure garden. But sometimes an event that seems small on the surface is like the thread that will unravel a tapestry once it is pulled. That kiss was more than just a kiss."

Gwynne could feel the heat in her cheeks, and wished that her private life had not become so public. But Polmarric was right; more was involved than flirtation.

"As I said last night, all of the senior mages have been concerned about gathering events, but the shape of the future has proved maddeningly elusive." Bethany touched her fingertips to her scrying gla.s.s, which lay on the table before her "Until now. I described your visions. Then we had a meeting of the minds."

Lady Sterling, a tall woman whose blond hair was shading into silver, asked, "Are you familiar with the process, Lady Brecon?"

Gwynne noticed how Lady Sterling's palm was firmly cupped over her talking sphere. That contact was how the absent members "heard" Gwynne-whatever she said was channeled through Lady Sterling, who was the strongest communicator on the council. "As I understand it, a question is posed and everyone is encouraged to share ideas and insights. Several strong mages working together will spark one another's ideas, and it's usually possible to develop a much clearer picture of the matter at hand."

Bethany nodded. "Often such sessions lead to places most unexpected. The political situation is rapidly becoming critical. If we are to have any effect on the outcome, we must act immediately." She caught Gwynne's gaze, her eyes blazing with Guardian power. "Which is why we want you to marry Lord Ballister."

SEVEN.

I t was fortunate that Gwynne was sitting down. "You want me to do what?" Her voice made an undignified squeak. "I'm not going to marry a barbarian Scot!"

"Not such barbarians as all that," Sir Ian Macleod said dryly. The dean of Scottish Guardians, among the Families he was called the Lord of the Isles.

"Forgive me, Sir Ian. I meant no insult." Gwynne's gaze skipped from face to face. This was no joke -they watched her like cats eyeing a mouse. "Duncan Macrae is a powerful mage. Someday he might sit on this very council. If he represents a danger to the nation's stability, what can I do about it? a.s.sa.s.sinate him if he goes awry?"

Bethany clicked her tongue. "Don't say such a thing even in jest, Gwynne! Duncan has talent, integrity, and a deep respect for our traditions, but circ.u.mstances might lead any of us astray."

"It's difficult for a Scot to resist a call to freedom," Sir Ian observed. "If not for my age and the fact that I remember the Rising of 1715 too well, I'd be tempted to fight for Scottish independence myself. Those Acts of Union . . ." He shook his head dourly. "They're bitter unfair."

His words startled Gwynne, but also gave her greater insight into how a Jacobite rebellion would cause Scottish Guardians to feel the pull of divided loyalties. If even Sir Ian was tempted by the siren call of freedom, Duncan was vulnerable, too.

"Remember what I said last night?" Lady Bethany asked. "Ballister has a potential for harm, but an even greater potential for good. Our people are few in number, Gwynne-we cannot afford to lose one of the best men of your generation. We think that you might be able to prevent him from causing harm. You two are profoundly connected. If you marry him, you will have great influence over his actions." The older woman's eyes twinkled. "It's not as if doing so would be unrelieved misery."

Hugh Owens, a distant relative of Gwynne's, gestured and a small set of silver scales appeared on the table. Gwynne caught her breath. The scales must be an illusion, not a physical object, but it was still an impressive trick.

"Imagine these scales are Britain today," Owens said. "Though many forces are in play, overall the nation is reasonably peaceful. In equilibrium. Then imagine Ballister as throwing his considerable weight onto one side of the scales."

He snapped his fingers and a red spark appeared in one pan. The scales tipped violently, causing the whole mechanism to shake. "You and he have a fated relationship, which means that only you have the power to balance him." Another finger snap and a white spark appeared in the opposite pan. Slowly the scales returned to equilibrium.

A fated relationship. She had half forgotten Emery's words about destiny the afternoon he had asked her to marry him. Was this what he had foreseen that day?

Trying to sort her whirling thoughts, she said, "You are asking me to leave everything and everyone I love and go among strangers."

"Do not think that we ask this lightly." Bethany sighed. "You are dearer to me than my own granddaughters, and I had thought I would have the pleasure of your company through my last years. But apparently that is not to be."

Gwynne shivered when she thought of Ballister's power. She would be intimidated by any suitor with such strong magic, she guessed, but Ballister was particularly fearsome. "You can't force me to marry him."

"No, we can't," Lady Sterling said coolly. "We request, not compel. Yes, it's difficult to go to a new land among strangers, but women have done that from time immemorial. You are too young to settle into the rut of the familiar. More important, you have a duty as a Guardian. Though you are no mage, when you reached womanhood you swore a solemn oath to serve and protect. You have enjoyed the privileges of being one of us. Now it is time for you to fulfill your responsibilities."

The words were like a splash of icy water. Lady Sterling was right; Gwynne had been cared for and protected her entire life, and this was the first time she had been asked to put aside her own desires for the greater good. An oath to serve was also a promise to sacrifice oneself if necessary.

Strangely, she didn't resent the council's coercion. Instead she felt pride that finally she had something to contribute: her life.

More gently, Bethany said, "We are not asking you to cast yourself from a cliff, my dear. Think of our request as a good excuse to give in to the part of yourself that has been yearning for Ballister."

That surprised a laugh from Gwynne. "It's true that I find him . . . very attractive. But how can I be his balance-mate if I am overwhelmed by his power and become a docile wife with no will of my own?"

Jasper Polmarric snorted. "I guarantee that you'll never be a docile wife. Your aura pulses with strength."

Easy for him to say-he had lived with great power most of his life. "If I marry Ballister, what will I do? Am I to be a spy reporting on his activities? How am I to know when he is going to cause this great harm you fear?" Her stomach clenched at the magnitude of the task she was being given, and how ill-qualified she was to perform it.

"Simply be yourself," Bethany said soothingly. "You are an archivist and keeper of the lore, which gives you an objective mind. You will always be capable of judging his actions. And if some great deed is required of you, you will recognize it, I think."

Gwynne didn't want to think what kind of great deed might be necessary. Though Bethany had said that the council would not want to move against one of their own, such things did happen when a mage turned renegade and used his power in menacing ways. Since she could never destroy another living being, much less her husband, she must pray that she really would be equal to the task she was accepting.

She stared down at the hands locked tightly in her lap. If she married Ballister, her entire life would change. Yet what choice did she have? Her Guardian oath had been invoked, and she could not in honor refuse. It was characteristic of the Families that a woman's honor was considered as vital as a man's; she did not want to prove unworthy.

If she was to survive, she must concentrate on the good of the situation. She would be marrying a man who doted on her, at least for now. He'd said that Dunrath had a good library and that she could add to it. There might, please G.o.d, be children.

And he was the most wickedly attractive man she had ever met.

"Very well," she said in a low voice. "If Duncan Macrae of Dunrath will have me, I will marry him."

She could feel the council members relax as clearly as if they were exhaling with relief. Looking up, she blurted out, "And I hope that you are all as wise as your reputations say you are!"

Duncan faced Simon in the front hall of Falconer House, neither of them quite ready to say good-bye even though Duncan's carriage was waiting.

Simon said, "I had hoped you would stay longer."

Duncan shook his friend's hand, hard. "If all h.e.l.l is about to break loose in Scotland, I need to be home and taking up my responsibilities." He tried to suppress the images of Gwynne at Dunrath that persisted in haunting his imagination. "You should come visit me. Some fresh Scottish air would be good for you."

"If all h.e.l.l breaks loose, perhaps I shall. Disaster is my business, after all." Simon stopped suddenly, his attention wrenched away from the present.

"Has something happened?" Duncan asked quickly.